I wrote my students a letter.  Today was the second day of school, and I thought old-fashioned correspondence, sans the stationery, would be nice.  It was a long letter - too long - but the tenth and eleventh graders eagerly dove into it, devouring each word like it was a delicacy. 

I watched their faces as they scanned the page.  A few laughed, more smiled.  Some remained stoic, not eager to give me any of their emotions - not just yet.

It was a fairly simple letter.  I told them about my upbringing - about eating pancakes for dinner too often and how the implementation of a Wal-Mart in my hometown was like the building of the Taj Mahal.  I shared with them dark parts of my life - depression, doubts, digressions.  I poured out my passions onto the page - my family, my friends, my feats.  I explained to them my personality, and how they could expect me to act inside the classroom.

They seemed, for the most part, to enjoy the letter.  But there was a catch, of course.  (Teachers always do this shit.)  They had to write a letter in return.  I told them I wanted to try and understand them as people, so that I could be a better teacher.  They could elucidate as much or as little as they felt comfortable with.

Their sparkling, blinking eyes glared up at me.  I have seen the twinkle in some of these orbs before - not in class but at other events.  But for the most part, these faces are brand new.

And they began.  Many of them fervently stabbed their writing utensils down, down into their loose leaf sheets of paper, drawing blood, and not abating in their violent shanking for a good twenty minutes.

When they were finished, shyly, they handed me their papers.  I stashed them quickly into their class folders, safe from any straying eyes.  A warm, comfortable breeze blew through each of my classes, as the students let out a collective breath of relief.

Later, I began to read them.  I read slowly, meticulously.  I am good at getting to know my students quickly, so immediately I began to match their nuances with names, handwriting with hair, feelings with faces.  Reading their writing, I couldn't help but smile and laugh.

These young adults can be incredibly insightful, funny, and inspirational.  I immensely enjoyed smiling and laughing at their writing.  But I also cried.  I cried even more.

Imagine:  Abandoned by your mother as an infant.  Watching your father shot seven times.  Seperated from your family in Haiti.  Dealing drugs to get by.  Raising your three younger brothers and sister.  Losing your mother to cancer.  Sentenced to 18 months in prison.  Having a miscarriage.  Being three months pregnant.  Forced into a world where you don't speak a word of "their" language.  Being told you're stupid over and over again.  Hating yourself.  Not trusting anyone.  Never knowing either of your parents.  Running away from home.  Being forced from home.  Watching your mother get abused.

It has been hours since I put down the last college-lined sheet of paper.  I am still extremely shaken.  It feels as if I have ripped my heart out, dipped it in hot butter, and offered it to a pit bull named Steve.  How am I supposed to go into school tomorrow?  What can I possibly provide for these teenagers who have already seen too much? 

And I realize that I am selfish.  How can I make this about me?  There are parts of my job that are certainly self-fulfilling.  I get to stand in front of classrooms every day and make them laugh, quenching my desperate need for attention.

But there are parts of my job that need to be completely selfless.  Some of them have deep, dark, daunting histories.  But they are there, aren't they?  They are there!  Every mother fucking day, they come back.  And they chose me as the one adult they would share their secrets with.  Some of them even thanked me for asking them about themselves.  I guess this is an oddity:  A teacher that wants to know who his or her students are.

I am crying now, because the realization of responsibility rips through my tear ducts.  However, I am no coward.  I asked for this, and I received.  The drops will dry, because they are not salty, selfish tears.  I will return tomorrow.  Their unbelievable strength gives me strength. I will smile, and I will laugh.  If needed, I will even cry, because the worst action I could take would be to pretend all is forgotten.  I wanted them to show me who they were, and they did:  Some of the most amazing people I have ever met.

Now I guess it's time to show them who I am:  Their teacher, Mr. Kus.