Done teaching my last class of the day; my brain is fried (I use this phrase too much). Cliche or not — it’s accurate: most days my day does feel like that. Fried. Toast. Like garbage.
Teaching at an urban high-school in New York is hard. But so are the other things I could do with an M.A. in English.
(In bad faith) I tell myself: this job has nothing to do with who I am; it doesn’t reflect my real talents or ideas or vocation. (And it doesn’t — I don’t think; it’s not my telos — my endpoint). But I have no real proof to the contrary; no proof that the future will not resemble the…
