Dear Jorge;

This is a letter which you will never read, because it should never have been written. I will not share it with you. You will never know I thought these things. I will never tell you. Maybe you will guess, and because you are bright, you will guess close. But you won�t know.

The reason it is so damned difficult for me the last period of every day is because you bring out the me in me. You are the kind of kid I LIKE. I try so hard to glare, stare you down with my evil teacher eye, and I find that I can�t do it. I need to put you in your place. Stop you from riding around on the only chair with wheels. Stop you from telling dirty jokes. Stop you from saying the blunt truth about everyone. Stop you from wasting an hour every day in a room you hate. Force you to learn music, when you don�t give a shit. And inside the whole time I am thinking, I like this kid. He�s a bright kid. He knows himself. He knows how to have fun. He knows what he likes. He knows he isn�t into this and he�s wasting his time HIS way, not mine.

I am thinking, "that was a good joke!" I am cracking up inside at your wise-ass, in-my-face remarks. I know you�re right. You, the 8th grade boy who should probably be in ninth at least. You who have witnessed a shooting first hand in your own neighborhood haunts. You who have probably already broken in half a dozen thirteen year old girls, and quite possibly knocked up at least one. You who have without a doubt already tried more drugs than I have in my 27 years. You who know just as many vulgar phrases as I do, though maybe not from first hand experience.

You are a fucked up kid. You are old for your age. You are so full of your personality, it doesn�t fit in you anymore and pours up out of you with every word you speak, every look you cast around the room, every cocky step you take. You hate school. You hate teachers. You probably hate me, too. You don�t respect your parents much, and they don�t care enough to make you. You defy the very idea of curfew. You walk the streets like a man, talk like a man, and think like a kid. You screw around in class. You say nasty things to girls and embarrass them. You dis other guys. You speak your mind constantly, much to the discomfort of practically everyone around you.

And I don�t blame you. I respect you. I enjoy you. Not in some sick romantic way, but in a really healthy "this is a NORMAL, healthy, cool teenager" way. In an "I remember feeling like that and being too chicken-shit to say it out loud," kind of way. In a "Long live the REBEL!" kind of way. In a "Fight conformity, be yourself!" way.

But I shoudln�t.

I am supposed to help you focus, find your learning style and tap into your interests and use them to inspire you to learn something valuable here in Middle School. I am supposed to keep you from disrupting the pattern of the day, from bugging other kids. I am supposed to teach you higher level thinking skills, analysis, synthesis, problem solving. I am supposed to magically make you care about oral presentations and research papers and playing the violin in a concert. I am supposed to help you develop and use a criteria chart and rubric to guide your own work. I am supposed to be structured and strict about my discipline so you will obey me, follow my directions, learn from my wisdom. So much pointless bullshit.

And all I keep thinking is, if I can�t learn to control Jorge, I need to quit this job and find something less pious, manipulative and fake to do with my life. Because it is fake, and if I can't do it... why am I still here? I am being this very straight-laced, controlling, angry-eyed woman for eight plus hours every day when I don�t feel like that at all inside. I am a passionate, spiritual, flirtacious, fun person. I like to talk alot, I love music and movies and dirty jokes and hanging out and drinking with my friends. I dress a little bit skanky on weekends, and I cuss all the time, I like getting laid, and I have friends and enemies like everyone... and I used to be a really good teacher. I wonder a lot lately if it was an act... an act I played well. An act I can�t play anymore. An act that melts every time Jorge winks at me quite inappropriately, says something horribly vulgar, sits in my forbidden chair and tries to be the man he isn�t yet. Defies me. Defies school policy. Defies punishment, structure, expectations, society. And makes me smile.