My biggest sense of dread occurs when I am in the position of sharing what I do for a living.
I was a teacher who was encouraged to ignore violence, disability, mental illness, neglect. I wouldn't.
work clothes
I couldn’t control what students or colleagues would say or how they would behave, but I could control how I felt about my presence in the classroom. I did that by embracing my personal style.
hair loss
In the shower I watched fistfuls of it block the drain. Long orange ropes hung between my fingers after a shampoo. I'd run a hand through my hair while talking, and dozens of strings of it would come loose, dangling from my fingers as I stared.
My psychiatrist told me to leave over and over, because no job was worth this price, and I said no.
vagina vagina vagina
No matter how many euphemisms he cloaked it in, it still would have been viewed as unacceptable for him to teach his students about reproductive anatomy, and worse, to talk about orgasms.
hate speech
This is not an overreaction by students and faculty, but taking action, engaging in open dialogue to not only prevent future acts of hate, but to have a space to articulate feelings of fear and anger -- sentiments that are completely understandable considering the situation.
When I was 15, I dropped out of high school. That time is a blur of sadness, of prayers for change, for mercy from a God I thought was punishing me for something I did not understand.
ihtm contest
I was single and not unattractive, so I kept my long red hair in a permanent bun with a sharp pencil stuck in the side. I never wore makeup and purchased a realistic wedding ring.
This is the story of how I stopped being a teacher.
Bonus: What Porn and teaching English have in common

Dec 7, 2011 at 1:00pm | 0 comments