Blow Me

There's some cheesy poem that used to get passed around at yearbook signings that says something about how crying without the tears looks like laughing. There were definitely a lot of tears, but indeed humor was born of the sadness endured throughout the first few years of teaching in Brooklyn when I realized I didn't know shit. What started out as file hoarding in a union-supported effort to remove our administration for endangering student and teacher lives resulted in a book of all of the discipline referrals never addressed over the course of a few years. My colleagues during this time remain some of my favorite people on the earth. (Names have been covered to protect the images of the young people involved, most of whom are now amazing adults carving out lives in the big shitty.)