Inner city kids

When I tell people that I am originally from Kentucky, they always look amazed. They mindlessly blurt out, "But you don't have an accent." It is amazing how everyone seems to have a preconceived notion of what a person from Kentucky should be like. Apparently, I am supposed to be a hillbilly.

In reality, I grew up in a very urban environment. Crime, drugs, and poverty ran rampant in my hometown. My family was extremely poor. We never owned a house and we rarely had a running automobile. When we couldn't pay the rent, we left. Needless to say, my family frequently moved from one side of the town to the next. Life was hard, but I had never known anything else.

While growing up, I always wanted to be a teacher - even as a little girl. Knowing my family could not afford to send me to college, I applied for about 4 million scholarships. I ended up getting enough scholarship money to pay for my first three years of college.

After I graduated, I worked as a substitute teacher for a while. A few months later, I began working as a long term substitute for a special education teacher. I enjoyed this position, but it was a little overwhelming. I wasn't trained in special education and was confused by all of the paperwork.

After much debate, I decided that I really wanted to work in the inner city. I wanted to help the kids that really needed it - kids like me. By June, I had landed a position at an elementary school where 95% of the kids received free lunch (the poverty rates in this district were extremely high). Because I grew up in poverty, I felt like I could relate to these children. More than anything, I wanted to inspire these children to achieve more than their parents had achieved. I started the school year with many lofty dreams. By the time I left, most of these dreams were shattered.

Much to my despair, most of my students were awful. I know that this sounds mean, but they truly were terrible children. They were unruly, disrespectful, and rude. Have you ever been called a 'fucking bitch' by a third grader? Have you ever seen a student throw his desk across the room? Have you ever had a child destroy all of the posters on your walls because his mother failed to get his ADHD medication refilled? Have you ever seen children punch each other in the face on a daily basis? If not, then please don't judge me.

I tried my hardest with these children. I read book after book after book. I conferenced with older, wiser teachers. I did research online. I called parents (The parents did not care. Our school held an open house at the beginning of the year, and no parents from my class showed up. NONE. Not even one.). Still, nothing seemed to help.

There were many, many days when I cried on the way to work. There were many, many days when I cried during my lunch break. There were many, many days when I cried on other teachers' shoulders. There were many, many days when I cried on the drive home. The stress was overwhelming.

On top of the unruly behavior, each child in my class had serious issues to deal with at home - a mother in jail or a father on drugs or no place to live or developmental delays or ... There were just far too many problems for me to fix.

I tried to advocate for my students. I managed to get three of my students special education services. I managed to get one student on medication for ADHD. I finally taught one little boy how to tie his shoes (HE DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO TIE HIS SHOES IN THE THIRD GRADE!). I managed to piss off the administration with my discipline plan. But despite the various techniques I tired with these kids, I still feel like I did not succeed.

When I left my position to move to New Jersey, it was like a huge weight had been lifted off of me. I started to feel normal again. I started to feel happy again.

I often think about returning to teaching when Porgie gets bigger. I still have fantasies about making a difference in a child's life. But then reality slaps me in the face, and I remember my former students.

I have to admit, I am not sure that I'm cut out for teaching. That is a really hard pill to swallow.

Growing pains

Today Porgie is nine months old. When I look at her sweet little face, it is hard for me to even remember the newborn stage. I know that those first 3 months were unbelievably hard, but time as dulled my memory. As I think back, I can only vividly remember our happy times together. I remember the overwhelming sense of joy I felt when I heard her first cry. I remember the love that poured from my body when I held her in my arms. I remember the pride I felt when she learned to roll over. I remember the way my heart melted when she said "ma ma." I remember...

Although I often complain about her fussy behavior and horrible sleeping habits, Porgie really is a wonderful baby. She is my world. Without her, I am nothing.



.

.

Did you know that swim diapers cost a fortune?

Saturday was our first swimming class at the YMCA. That morning, I was running around the house like a mad woman. I neglected to get our bag ready the night before. So, I was racing around trying to find my bathing suit, beach towels, and our beach bag. I never found the beach bag, so I ended up putting everything into the tote bag I used when teaching.

When we got to the Y, it was packed with people. I couldn't even find a damn locker to put all of our crap in. Porgie was overwhelmed by all of the chaos. She started crying and clinging to my chest. I quickly got her undressed (she already had her bathing suit on) and handed her off to John, while I got ready.

I have to admit, I felt like a nervous school girl in that locker room. There were naked bodies everywhere. Being the shy person I am, I patiently waited for a dressing room. I felt like a fat ass walking to the pool. I NEED to lose weight people! I HAVE CELLULITE ON MY THIGHS!

The actual swim class was very fun. We sang songs, kicked our feet, and splashed! Porgie thought it was wonderful. She wildly slapped her hands in the water and laughed.





Sorry that I don't have more pictures of Porgie in the pool. John only took 2 pictures of her in the water. Yes, he is a jackass.