By InsidiousCynic

Thursday, September 17 – Davi Crisostomo

I looked up to my teachers when I was little. I revered them. They were the undisputed masters of the classroom, with the ability to give or take away life on a whim. They were prim and proper, punctual and pristine. They were always in control, always calm and collected. Of course, by the time I reached the ninth grade, my opinion of teachers had completely changed. I hated teachers and everything they stood for. But that original idea of teachers was stuck deep in the back of my mind when I chose education to be my life’s work. And no matter how life shook me, I tried to stay true to that image. Calm and collected, even as they cursed me, even when parents spat at me. Calm and collected.

“I can’t do it today,” I say, crying in front of the mirror. “I can’t do this again.”

How does a twenty-five-year-old teacher make sense of two of his students dying?

Prayer? Therapy? Support from family and friends?

But it never really goes away. It always comes back. And now, seven years later, this new class…

It’s all coming back.

“God, please help them.”

I get ready for work as I always do. I read my Bible, but my eyes glazed over the assigned text. I pray, but I can’t hear what I’m saying. I drag my feet as I walk to the garage, and make another small prayer before hopping on my bike. I make it half a block before the tears well up in my eyes again. I stop and dry my eyes. I feel weak, and a strong headache comes on.

“I can’t do it today. I really can’t.”

I ride back home, put the bike away, kick off my old shoes, and pull out my phone.

“Yeah, it’s really bad,” I sniffle. Then I fake a serious cough. “I’m really sorry.”

“No worries, we’ll have pastor take over for you. Take it easy.”

That’s good, I think. It gives the pastor time to talk with them.

“Thanks Carol, I appreciate it,” I say. “I really am so—”

“Don’t worry about it, Davi,” the principal cut me off. “We have it covered. Now go get some sleep. You work too hard. You work harder than me half the time. There should be a rule about not working harder than the principal…”

“Okay, okay. Thanks.”

“And stop thanking me!”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

I look around my cluttered house, and feel sort of kind of guilty.

“No,” I say. “I need this.”

Without bothering to change out of my work clothes, I kneel at my couch and pray uninterrupted for three hours. Then I read a bit from the Bible. I get out the old guitar and sing some old songs. I cry a lot. I mean a lot. My favorite hobby is to cry

Slowly, I feel the weight of the past grow lighter. I feel the drive to continue—to teach and inspire—return. I feel God directing me, pushing me forward. It would be hard, but I would stick by these students to the bitter end. That was my purpose, my mission, my life.

I’m a teacher.