I’m a middle school teacher and have been on a walkout for three days so far. This is not easy. I love my students. I see them around town and am hit with a wave of emotion. I want to stop and tell them that I’m doing this for them and I miss them more than anything. I want to tell them that I love them so much I am willing to forfeit my paycheck, risk my reputation in my community, and continue the walkout.
My school district, in Cornville, has decided to reopen. The first comment made on its social media by a community member was asking if we “caved in.” Well, yes. We did cave in. We caved into community pressure and the fear of losing support. The community pays over $4,000 per pupil from overrides and bonds (compared to around $3,800 by the state) and without that support, we can’t run our schools.
If we walk out, we risk losing money for our schools. If we don’t walk out, we risk losing money for our schools. It’s one of those “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situations.
Since I’m damned either way, I decided to keep fighting.
A substitute will walk into my room and greet my class. They’ll give my class the lessons I created in between jobs (I work five), and make sure they get where they need to be.
In the meantime, I’ll be at the state Capitol proving to them how much I love them. I’ll stand in the sun, begging legislators to hear our stories.
I want our legislators to hear how many weapons violations I’ve had this year in my homeroom alone, with no resource officer.
I want them to hear how students who were abandoned by their parents, saw their siblings taken to jail or are abused at home ask us for help and are told to wait a few weeks to see our school counselor, because we can’t afford to hire one full time.
I want them to hear how students who need to go to the nurse are asked if it’s an emergency, because we don’t have a nurse at school today.
I want them to hear how it takes an hour to do a 10-minute activity because we have to pass the last five glue sticks around the room so everyone can share before we move on.
I want them to hear how I use what little money I earn to buy food for my students, so when their stomachs start rumbling in class, or they get a headache from not eating enough, they can eat.
I want them to hear how some of my students knock over desks and throw things because they are not emotionally prepared to be in a full classroom full of other kids, and I don’t have the support staff I need to handle the situation.
I want them to hear how many fist fights I’ve broken up because our students are so angry and don’t get the attention they need, at home or at school.
I want them to hear what is really happening inside Arizona classrooms.
It’s not greedy teachers, rubbing their hands together, wondering how we can use these kids to make a buck.
It’s teachers with their heads on their desks at 5 or 6 p.m., crying because they just want to help all their kids and they can’t — they can’t do it alone.
I want them to hear this isn’t about my raise.
This is about my students and the future of Arizona.
