The Females

The females. Where I work all you have to say is that and people nod knowingly, sympathetically. Admin spared me from them my first semester, but I’ve been trudging the quarter mile through fog, wind storms, snow, and the hottest summer on record to teach them ever since. I try very hard to be a good sport about it, but my journal sometimes tells the truth.

Last February I thought it would be a good idea to read love poetry. I struggled to maintain composure when these girls talked about their boyfriends. One said she “just knew” and that “he’s perfect.”

None of them could remember dreaming about Prince Charming. Before I could be sad, another exclaimed, “such a man doesn’t exist, so why bother?” They snorted when I said that a dream about their future “prince” was important (not to mention normal) in setting some standard for themselves.

We read about love anyway, a quiet, certain love and a quick, passionate love. They said they hated both. That’s typical.

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About hey miss

A teacher. A prison guard. I used to think that was like oil and water. Like lightening and metal. Some days it is. Some days it's magic.
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