Work

A friend was surprised to hear I worked where I worked. "You never mentioned anything about it on your blog." He's right. I haven't.

Just so you know, I spend two hours a week teaching art at a teen treatment center. It's a rewarding experience. The head of education often asks me if a particularly difficult student "just ruins my day." I'm surprised to hear it. "Is he your worst student?" she'll ask.

I'd never use that word in regards to real live people. "Oh, he's the worst." That's really only something you can say about a brand of microwave meals...because they really are terrible, and no one's going to be offended.

"I would call it high maintenance."

If he needs to spend three days laboring over a drawing of a werewolf cheerleader, than let that be his happy place. I can teach him the real live rules to creating something--even if it's tacky. The same rules apply to creating a masterpiece. You just choose which ones to break.

I've gotten off topic. Honestly, I don't know what it is that causes him to behave when I'm around. The minute class is over, he's getting into trouble in one way or another--generally spouting off-color sonnets in unexpected directions with words I never knew existed. I've seen it, so I believe it, but the other things I've been warned about I can't believe.

I think that's it. I can't understand what these kids are going through, because I've never even dreamed of seeing or doing or knowing of the the things they've faced. I think that's what gets me through. If I really knew what it meant to be a child born to an unwed alcoholic with an abusive boyfriend...then maybe I would choose a different line of work.

But, no, I'm blissfully unaware. And for some indescribable reason, that is what keeps me going.