It's Time to Cut the Shit About Trumpcare

As most of you know, I had a Craniotomy in 2014.

That means a really hot dude in his 40’s took a very fancy tool to the back of my noggin' and fixed some shit back there. I got a lot of fun drugs and a few weeks in an intensive therapy center where I spent a lot of time telling therapists that I didn’t need a wheelchair.

As you can see I’m super nonchalant about all this.

It’s easier that way.

I get to joke about my medical history all I want now.

And I can do that because I’m fucking alive.

You see, I had this thing. It’s called health care.

For those of you that don’t know what that is, it works like this:

Me: “Hey Dad, just curious, how much did my brain surgery cost?”

Dad: “About $285,000 dollars –”

Me: “I’M SORRY, WHAT?”

Dad: “Oh, yeah.”

Me: “Did you have to sell your body parts to pay that? DAD, DO YOU COOK METH.”

Dad: “No, I don’t cook Meth, dear. We had to pay about $14,000 or so to meet our maximum and our insurance paid for the rest.”

The number $285,000 dollars didn’t make sense to me. Even $14,000 was a high amount for my messed up brain to contemplate. How could it possibly be that these numbers added up?

Even scarier, what would have happened to me if I didn’t have health care?

The answer from my parents was a bit more complex.

“Remember in the E.R.?” My mom asked.

“I remember very little,” I said. “Except for being fucking terrified.”

The Emergency Room was a very scary place for me. It was like those scenes in movies in the hospitals where everyone is running around and people are screaming and dying. I didn’t close my eyes the entire time I was there.

“There was this guy in the hall outside your room,” Mom said. “He looked really messed up. It looked like Heroine or something else. They hooked him up to an IV and then once he was sober they threw him out on the sidewalk.”

“Did they give him a bill for thousands of dollars too?” I asked.

“They folded it up and stuck it in his back pocket,”

“What if he didn’t pay it? What if he was homeless or something?”

“The hospital pays it.”

“But what about me? What if you couldn’t afford to pay those hospital bills for my surgery?”

“They would have found a way to get our money.”

I don’t know a lot of things, but I do know this:

American health care is run like a business.

If you don’t believe me, ask my mother about the THREE times I was turned away at the ER without medical imaging or hospital care because I looked fine. I mean my brain was bleeding from the inside, but hey, I looked amazing. Then, anyway.

And this is with health care.

Listen, nothing in this world is perfect, okay?

Obamacare sought to keep insurance companies from denying people the right to apply for health insurance if they had pre-existing conditions.

This is great, you guys! That’s me! I have like five of those pre-existing conditions. Including being a woman, apparently.

The problem is people are the worst and some started abusing this system which hurt insurance companies. But here’s the thing too. The health care under Obamacare? It currently covers millions of people. And once that shit goes away?

Well, hang on. I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had to do some research. Because I was a little confused. Okay I was a lot confused.

What is Trumpcare anyway? According to trumpcare.org here are the 7 points of the proposed health care bill and my take on each of them.

1. Completely repeal Obamacare. Our elected representatives must eliminate the individual mandate. No person should be required to buy insurance unless he or she wants to.

Nobody wants to pay for insurance, obviously. Do you think I like having this shit taken out of my paycheck, you peasant? Oh, I forgot this is YOU we’re talking about. You’ve probably never had to pay for anything your whole damn life, my apologies.

Listen: you know what I do enjoy though? Knowing that if my fucking head explodes that I won’t DIE. So, you know what, give me the health care. Give me all the damn health care. I’ll take two beefy health cares with some health care sprinkled on top. With a pre-existing condition on the side.

If you're curious about how Obamacare compares to Trumpcare, I found this lovely graphic courtesy of trumpcare.com:

2. Modify existing law that inhibits the sale of health insurance across state lines. As long as the plan purchased complies with state requirements, any vendor ought to be able to offer insurance in any state. By allowing full competition in this market, insurance costs will go down and consumer satisfaction will go up.

Okay, I don’t truly know what to think about this one other than that the words “full competition in this market” don’t sound like they should be in the same sentence as my health insurance. Also “consumer satisfaction.” That’s funny to me for some reason. Do I get to buy a Snicker's Bar in the ER? That would make this consumer very satisfied. 

3. Allow individuals to fully deduct health insurance premium payments from their tax returns under the current tax system. Businesses are allowed to take these deductions so why wouldn’t Congress allow individuals the same exemptions? As we allow the free market to provide insurance coverage opportunities to companies and individuals, we must also make sure that no one slips through the cracks simply because they cannot afford insurance. We must review basic options for Medicaid and work with states to ensure that those who want healthcare coverage can have it.

You know, this part sounds great. If you do your taxes, that is. I guess when I think about people “slipping through the cracks” I think back to that dude on Heroine outside of my ER room. The truth of the matter is, the hospitals will not turn you away if you don’t have health insurance. They will treat you. I mean they won’t make you a banana split from the dining hall or anything, but they’ll try their best to keep you alive. As for Medicaid, I don’t personally have it, but I know people that do. And they’re all gonna be fucked.

4. Allow individuals to use Health Savings Accounts (HSAs). Contributions into HSAs should be tax-free and should be allowed to accumulate. These accounts would become part of the estate of the individual and could be passed on to heirs without fear of any death penalty. These plans should be particularly attractive to young people who are healthy and can afford high-deductible insurance plans. These funds can be used by any member of a family without penalty. The flexibility and security provided by HSAs will be of great benefit to all who participate.

I’m sorry. But do you know what I’ll be “passing on” to my “heirs?” A hot glue gun and a closet full of ripped clothing. Who the fuck even are you? Okay, so I did some research on this one. Health Savings Accounts were available under Obamacare too. HSA’s are high deductible health insurance plans with tax benefits. I’ve hit my deductible for the past couple of years, okay. Like, real quick. Do you know how expensive an MRI is? That’s beside the point, but anyway. HSA’s work in that once you hit that deductible, the insurance company starts paying. Then that money left in the HSA builds interest. And I’m asking myself…what LEFT OVER MONEY. What, you think there’s just left-over money hanging around after I pay for my Giant Metal Donut Exam (that’s what I call my MRI’s)?

Also: did you just say, “young people who are healthy who can afford…?” I SHOULD SMACK YOU. Okay, okay, so maybe it’s just me with the extensive list of medical problems and a net-worth of negative $76,000 dollars, but I mean are you serious? I know way too many young people who are not only in debt, but who are living without health care and just praying not to have anything wrong with them so that they don’t have to take out another loan or sell a kidney to take care (of that kidney).

That’s funny.

Selling a kidney to take care of a kidney.

Damn, I’m good.

And did someone say "death penalty?" Hey, man. Everyone's thinking it. You said it. 

All in favor of throwing our orange leader to the stocks say "I!"

5. Require price transparency from all healthcare providers, especially doctors and healthcare organizations like clinics and hospitals. Individuals should be able to shop to find the best prices for procedures, exams or any other medical-related procedure.

Hey, I like this one. I like shopping. Especially when it’s for shit that could keep me alive. I guess I just don’t see how this would really work.

Doctor: “Your next MRI is due. Here are your options, $25,000 from Images R Us, $23,500 from Donut Holes Inc, -”

Me: (checks wallet) “Nah, you know I think I’ll skip this year.”

6. Block-grant Medicaid to the states. Nearly every state already offers benefits beyond what is required in the current Medicaid structure. The state governments know their people best and can manage the administration of Medicaid far better without federal overhead. States will have the incentives to seek out and eliminate fraud, waste and abuse to preserve our precious resources.

This one? Oh, this one’s hilarious. You’d like to “seek out and eliminate fraud, waste and abuse” now, do yuh? Let’s start with you shall we- (rolls up sleeves, drags giant waste bin to White House).

Alright, alright. So I can’t throw the President of the United States in a trash can. But I really fucking want to.

I guess what scares me about this one is that states get to decide things. Isn’t this what leads to gay marriage being illegal just because a “state doesn’t want to?” States are kind of starting to sound like assholes to me. All I’m saying is, laws should be laws. I don’t like the idea of certain states opting out of something that’s right just because they feel like it.

And I’m sorry, but providing health care to people who need it is just the right thing to do.

7. Remove barriers to entry into free markets for drug providers that offer safe, reliable and cheaper products. Congress will need the courage to step away from the special interests and do what is right for America. Though the pharmaceutical industry is in the private sector, drug companies provide a public service. Allowing consumers access to imported, safe and dependable drugs from overseas will bring more options to consumers.

Hmm. This one’s interesting. Didn’t I just read in the paper this weekend that Mr. Trumpy thinks everyone is being a giant bully to U.S. trade? Didn’t I just read that Trump has already threatened to terminate NAFTA with Canada and Mexico and thinks that the World Trade Organization is biased? Isn’t he trying to get rid of all this foreign trade nonsense? But I mean hey, if I can get some sweet new brain pills from Singapore, let’s do this man. I’m all about it.

Listen, I don’t have the answers to this whole mess.

I’m just a brain damaged comedian looking for ways to survive in this world. And right now things are okay for me. My head isn’t bleeding anymore. I can see right-side up again. We’re all good over here.

But I’m scared.

I’m scared of what the Emergency Room will look like in the next few years. I’m scared of the fact that my own doctor didn’t want me to get medical imaging because it was too expensive. I’m scared that this triage method of care will kill thousands of people like me that look fine on the outside, but are in desperate need of a closer look.

Recently, Trump acknowledged that the requirement for all individuals to have insurance, or face a fine, is un-american. And while nobody likes being fined, this isn’t a business, okay? These are people’s fucking lives.

According to a press release by Senator Charles Schumer (D) today, “Trumpcare would be a cancer on the American health care system,” he says. “Unless you’re a healthy millionaire, Trumpcare is a nightmare.”

Our bodies are so supremely fragile. We need health care like we need breathing. This isn’t a choice to be left up to politicians anymore.

Please like, comment, and share this blog. Visit the links throughout this post. Start conversations with your colleagues. Call your Congressmen and women. Sign petitions. Riot. Kick and scream.

Fight for your own lives.

Because nobody else will.  

What I'll Miss About Teaching...And What I Won't

The cat’s out of the bag. Or more accurately, the pencils have scattered onto my carpet. The Cheetos have scrunched themselves all over my teaching desk. Whatever metaphor you choose, I’ve officially released the information:

I’m quitting my job as a high school teacher.

I decided this in September, a mere two months into the new school year. It was a painful realization.

I’d just ended a relationship and I was the biggest mess I’d ever been. I stumbled into the coffee shop to meet my best friend Kristen for our monthly writer’s group.

“I think I’m dying,” I said sobbing into a cup of coffee. “It’s over. My life is over. Everything is awful and I don’t know what to do,”

Kristen listened patiently as both of our coffees got cold. I explained to her my pain and anguish. I told her I choked on a muffin once on the way to work and thought I might die on the way to my shitty job.

That’s when it hit me.

Maybe I wasn’t just unhappy that I lost a loving relationship. Maybe I was also unhappy at my job.

It was the biggest light bulb to ever explode in my consciousness.

“But what am I supposed to do?” I asked her. “I can’t just quit,”

“Yes, you can,” she said. “You can quit.”

I don’t know why I needed her to say the words. But somehow I needed permission. I needed someone to tell me that it was okay if I didn’t want to be a teacher anymore.

I was becoming a martyr. Every single day I was losing more and more of myself to my career. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

And even scarier, I was good at hiding it.

When I told my students last week that I was leaving, they were shocked. Some gasped out loud. A few started tearing up. Many came to hug me at the end of class. One shouted from the back, “I bet she’s leaving because of us.”

Don’t flatter yourself, darling. This actually has nothing to do with you.

The news didn’t impact every kid. I still found a tiny penis made of clay on my computer keyboard. I still stepped in a wad of gum on my way out the door. The world hadn’t stopped existing because I’d said the words.

I have a lot of feelings about the past two and a half years of teaching. Some that make me laugh and many that keep me up at night. It’s hard to say right now if I’ll end up in a classroom again. I can’t say for sure where my life is taking me or what I’ll accomplish in this lifetime.

But I do know that there are a few things I’ll miss about this job. And a few things I won’t.

What I’ll Miss:

The look on a kid’s face when they finally get what I’ve been trying to teach them for the past hour.

What I Won’t Miss:

The fact that I’ve been repeating the directions to this assignment for the past hour and you just now are listening.

What I’ll Miss:

When a kid tells me that I am their favorite teacher.

What I Won’t Miss:

Realizing that I might be surrounded by some really incompetent teachers.

What I’ll Miss:

When a quiet kid in the back cracks a smile at that joke I just made.

What I Won’t Miss:

When half my class is on their cellphones and misses that joke I just made.

What I’ll Miss:

Finding surprise love notes from my children on my desk.

What I Won’t Miss:

Finding surprise hate emails from parents in my inbox.

What I’ll Miss:

My kids embracing my weirdness.

What I Won’t Miss:

Having to embrace the weirdness of telling a parent their kid can be kind of an asshole.

What I’ll Miss:

Seeing my sleepy 1st and 2nd period classes try to stay awake during a note taking day.

What I Won’t Miss:

Trying to stay awake during Profession Development meetings.

What I’ll Miss:

Wednesday’s after school with my Comedy Club.

What I Won’t Miss:

Not getting paid for all the cool shit I do after school.

What I’ll Miss:

Seeing my students participate in community building and volunteer work like a week to raise thousands of dollars to send a terminally ill 4-year-old to Disney World.

What I Won’t Miss:

Being told I have to buy my own paper to make copies for my students. And also that I’m not really allowed to use the copy machine in the first place.

What I’ll Miss:

When my students wave to me in the hallway, then whisper to their friends about how cool I am.

What I Won’t Miss:

When I get a pen from administration on Teacher Appreciation Day. Okay and some ice cream. That was nice I guess.

What I’ll Miss:

When my student’s remember to say “please” and “thank you” because I’ve taught them the value of being kind and respectful.

What I Won’t Miss:

When I tell people I’m a teacher and they treat me like I have cancer. Or when they tell me the education system is fucked up because of me.

What I’ll Miss:

When a kid writes something funny on their paper, or leaves me a cute drawing.

What I Won’t Miss:

The endless stream of grading papers that is so intense I have literally started grading papers in my dreams.

What I Won’t Miss:

Not having a social life for 10 months out of the year.

What I Won’t Miss:

Being told I don’t deserve to have Spring Break's, Christmas Break's, or Summer’s off.

What I Won’t Miss:

Spending thousands of dollars on school supplies for my students.

What I Won’t Miss:

Ripping literally EVERY nice article of clothing I have on a damn desk because my classroom is above capacity.

What I Won’t Miss:

People adding more and more students to my classes and then having to add more desks to my room for me to trip over.

What I Won’t Miss:

Spending several hours in a meeting that could have been an email.

What I Won’t Miss:

Passing out on the disgusting couch in the office throughout the school day because I am so tired.

What I Won’t Miss:

Other teachers telling me “not to be tired.”

What I Won’t Miss:

Bullshit tasks that measure my “effectiveness” as a teacher.

What I Won’t Miss:

STANDARDIZED TESTING, MOTHERFUCKERS.

What I Won’t Miss:

That one kid. That one motherfucking kid.

What I Will Miss:

The rest of my kids.

I could keep going. For ever and ever.

The truth of the matter is the only thing I’ve ever loved about this job is the kids. When I told them that, they gave me a round of applause. They supported me. They knew I would always love them. They asked if they could add me on Snapchat and Instagram at the end of the year. I said I would think about it.

It’s been the toughest choice of my life. After all, I’ve spent the past 20 years of my life thinking about and becoming a teacher. It’s hard to imagine my identity as anything else.

But I know that I have worth outside of my classroom.

As a writer, as a comedian, and as a creative force.

And I wouldn’t be any of those things without the experiences I’ve had as a teacher.

So maybe it’s not goodbye forever. Maybe I can simply close the door to my classroom and open a window and crawl in elsewhere.

And maybe in that place I won’t have to step in any more gum wads or Cheetos.

13 Reasons Why You Need to Talk to Teens About Suicide

Listen. I love Netflix binges.

On Saturdays and Sundays, and sometimes (if I’m really getting addicted) on a weeknight. I’m likely not unique this way. There’s simply nothing better than getting wrapped up in a good story.

I’m also aware that I live under a rock.

Aside from my Facebook news feed and my high school students, I’m pretty damn oblivious. And with the way things are these days, I generally like it that way. 14-year-old's, college buddies, and the occasional depressing dose of National Public Radio are my only connections to “the world.”

And don’t forget those Netflix documentaries.

After seeing My Beautiful Broken Brain I immediately emailed the producer demanding to meet her and the writer. After watching Black Fish I cried for one whole hour, called my best friend, and then watched Free Willy and cried some more.

The information we consume in the world and on the screen emotionally impacts us. These things have the power to take hold of us, consume hours of our time and make going to the bathroom in the middle of a binge seem like high treason.

“Miss,” my student piped up as I was about to change the slide on yet another thrilling lecture on The Cold War. “Have you seen 13 Reasons Why?”

“I haven’t,” I said. “What is it?”

“Oh, MISS. You’ve gotta see it. Netflix. This weekend. You’re welcome.”

And so I went home like any respectable and curious teacher and voila, there it was.

“The kids won’t shut up about this show,” I told my mom. “Want to try it?”

And so we sat. For hours. Binging one of the most emotionally compelling, depressing, and horrifying program I have ever seen.

I won’t spoil it for you. That’s just mean.

But what I will do is tell you how hard this show was to watch, not only as a human, but as a teacher who has lost a student to suicide and who interacts with children every day.

Here are 13 Reasons to talk to a teenager today about suicide:

1.     Suicide is the second leading cause of death for people ages 10-24 years old after motor vehicle and other related accidents.

2.     Four out of five teens who attempt suicide gave clear warning signs.

3.     As girls begin to enter puberty earlier and earlier, they encounter changes sooner. According to Arielle Sheftall at the Center for Suicide Prevention and Research at the Research Institute at Nationwide Children's Hospital in Columbus, Ohio “girls might be opening the door to anxiety, depression and other psychiatric disorders earlier on in life.” This in turn makes girls into women faster, leaving them vulnerable to sexual abuse, harassment, and cyber bullying.

4.     Teens are highly influenced by the media and news they consume daily. Things as small as a twitter post or a video can go viral in an instant, and so too can stories of teen suicide and the perceived and real attention it gathers. “When you talk about death, you be sure to talk about the resources that are available in that community for people who may be at risk,” says Jarrod Hindman of the state Office of Suicide in El Paso County, Colorado.

5.     Children are still developing the problem solving and reasoning areas of their brains. Many teenagers don’t know yet how to process their emotions or feel that they could be punished if they reveal them. This can make asking for help difficult.

6.      Since 1995, a new game among teens has developed called the "choking game" which involves the dangerous practice of strangling yourself (or being strangled by someone else) to get a quick high from the oxygen being cut off from the brain. In a report released in 2006 by the Williams County Youth Health Risk Behavioral Survey, 20% of the survey sample of 17 to 18-year old’s in the county had participated in this fatal game.

7.       Teen suicide often comes with what is refered to as a “cluster effect.” Madelyn Gould, of Columbia University and the New York State Psychiatric Institute in New York City's team of researchers “used state death data to find 48 teen suicide clusters that occurred across the United States between 1988 and 1996. Each cluster involved a community where between three and 11 teenagers killed themselves within a six-month period.”

8.     Our world can make it hard to catch warning signs in teens like loss of interest, over or under sleeping, small changes in appearance, and more. Classrooms are packed making it hard for teachers to talk to each student every day. Parents are busy. Friends can be flakes. We live in a society that is so fast paced and distracted that simple and preventative measures are not taken with children who may be struggling right in front of us.

9.     People can be really shitty sometimes. Adults, children, and elected government officials. Not everyone is taught to truly care about other humans around them. Not everyone learns that love is stronger than hate. If children are not shown love properly, it is no wonder they see the world as a cruel place, which sometimes it can be. Teens who attempt or succeed suicide try to escape bullying, humiliation, and harassment and often feel that they have no other choice.

10.  There are more resources surrounding suicide today than ever before. There are help groups, phone numbers, outreach programs, and start-ups. Survivor Dese’Rae L. Stage created the Live Through This project, inspiring hundreds of suicide survivors young and old to share their stories of struggle and survival openly to others in need.

11.  Luis. Luis is a 14-year-old. He’s in my Geography class. Over the past year I have developed a special soft spot for this kid. In the 8th grade Luis got hit in the head by a soccer ball by another student on purpose. He had a severe concussion and has recently been overcome with anxiety and depression over his new symptom of memory loss. Sometimes Luis tells me he feels “behind” his peers and takes longer to do assignments now. He has an A in my class and works his butt off for it.

The day after Donald Trump got elected Luis came to me crying. He was scared that the new president was going to take his mother away from him because she didn’t have papers. I let this sweet child cry on my shoulder that day, and many days since then.

This year Luis made the counseling department’s watch list after expressing to me and the counselor that he was depressed and that he’d thought about hurting himself. He felt alone and scared. He didn’t think his brain could heal or that he’d be able to keep up with school or have a social life.

When I was in Spain for Spring Break I worried about Luis a lot. I worried that for 10 whole days he’d be on his own without me to protect him. I found Luis’ last name on a little key chain with his family crest and brought it back to him.

He wouldn’t even take it out of the plastic wrapping. He told me it was his most cherished possession.

In the past few weeks I’ve convinced Luis to join my after school Comedy Club program. He’s a natural. He has a shy and sneaky comedic presence and the crew has taken him in as one of their own. The other boys invite him over to their houses to play video games and the girls in class even share their fun drama with him.

I monitor Luis closely. Because he’s more special to me that he will ever know.

12.  His name was Charles. Sometimes Chuck. He made me cry during my student teaching semester in the Spring of 2015 when he challenged my authority after an administrator from another school was observing me teach for a job interview. He was quiet, but social. He might have appeared broody, poetic even. His handwriting was messy. I think he had a girlfriend, or at least a girl he sat in the hall with during lunch. He wasn’t much for talking to me, but he was smart. Scary smart for a 14 year old.

One time he wrote something concerning on an assignment I graded. It was hard to make out because of his handwriting. But it was political, maybe even a little aggressive. I got the impression that he did not think that people were genuinely good. “Nobody actually cares.” I told my cooperating teacher and we took the assignment down to the Psychologist’s office. We talked to her about Chuck and our concerns, we were told to “keep an eye on him.”

I made an effort to ask him how his day was going. I think I asked to stand on his skateboard once. He thought it was funny to watch me goof around and lose my balance.

Maybe he smiled. Then again, maybe he didn’t.

My memories of this young man and our time together are as quick and fleeting as a startled bird in flight.

Chuck committed suicide in the Fall of 2015. I got the call from my friend and former cooperating teacher on my way home from school.

My new job. With new faces and new names. New stories of students who had the ability to make me want to drive my head through a wall and smother them in love all in the same 50 minute class period.

I hadn’t thought about Chuck in a long time. I hadn’t thought about all the small moments that could have lead to his decision to leave forever. In a sense I’d put it away. He was a tiny memento on my teacher desk. I could still teach my new students. I could love them without fear of losing them.

That’s when 13 Reason’s brought it all back.

It brought everything back like a painful collision with a 2 by 4 to my entire being. I couldn’t even measure what I was feeling. I couldn’t understand why my stomach felt like it had slowly fallen out of my belly button and onto the floor.

How many Chuck’s have to sacrifice themselves before we finally see the truth?

I know in my heart that I did everything that I could think of at the time to help Chuck. I know many others that did the same. I know the cruelty that the world can possess and the consequences of feeling alone. I know that Chuck’s story is one of millions.

And I need it to stop. Right here and right now. And I know what I have to do.

I have to keep loving my children. Big and small. Size 14 Shoe and Soon To Be Growth Spurts. Mexican, Muslim, and even that one kid that I’m pretty sure is a Nazi.

I have to love them. And love them. And love them some more.

And even when my time in the classroom ends I will still love them. I will dream of grading their papers in my sleep. I will write letters to each and every one of them before the school year ends.

I will cry a whole lot. Because I can’t save them all.

But I will love them anyway for as long as I can. Because the world does not need reasons to help a child in need.

Not a single one.

For more resources about how you can help combat teen suicide please click the bolded links in this blog or visit www.safe2tell.org for more information and share this post with friends and family.

Editor’s Note: Writing reason number 13 was interrupted by half an hour of sobbing, a teary eyed phone call, 6 hours of sleep, and a school day. It was not until the next day that I was able to compose myself enough to finish this.

What Having My Phone Stolen Taught Me About Myself

Look at me, I'm a nice new phone whose pictures haven't been backed up! Wanna take me for a field trip?

It’s 2:30pm and the florescent lights in my classroom are flickering ominously.

It’s been another long day and my patience dried up around 2nd period. I broke up a fight in 5th and spent the afternoon emailing a parent sending my condolences because one of my student’s grandmother had died.

Then there was the Inauguration.

My students were fidgety, the buzz of what would come in the next 4 years looming over our heads like a muddled storm cloud.

But I was optimistic. For a reason unknown to me I felt a surge of rebirth at the start of 7th period. It was a project work day. My upperclassmen Psychology class would be working on their “Build-A-Brain” projects today.

I unearthed an unusual amount of crafting supplies from my closet.

“Alright y’all,” I said enthusiastically. “I’ve got paint, I’ve got glue, I’ve got Popsicle sticks, string, a hot glue gun -about the glue gun please be careful, I’ve burned myself on this thing at least 5 times this year…”

I set them to work; my hope in humanity revived as they reached for paint brushes and rifled through old magazines for pictures.

“Miss, can we add a Cerebellum to our brain?” A student asked.

“A Cerebellum?” I said. “Well of COURSE you can add a Cerebellum, Christine! That’s my favorite part of the brain!”

As I watched their creative gears turning madly I began to feel hopeful. I loved these kids. And they loved me. It was now 3pm on a Friday and we were happily working to create visual representations of our own beautiful brains.

I turned around to see Michelle painting her hand purple.

“Michelle?”

“Yes, Miss?

“What are you doing, my little angel?”

“Oh, I’m painting my hand,” she smiled. “I like how the paint and brush feel on my hand.”

It was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen take place in my classroom. This was a room filled with 17 and 18 year olds yet she was as pure and innocent as a Kindergardener on the first day of school.

I wanted to capture her in this moment; so happy and messy like a child.

So I took my phone from my drawer. I opened Snapchat to videotape her and her purple hand.

“Whatcha doin’, Michelle?” I asked holding down the record button.

“Painting my hand,” she said.

“How good of a teacher is Ms. H?”

“She’s the best,”

“That’s right, she’s the best because she let you paint your hand. That’s right.”

I sent the video to my closest friends and put the phone back in my pocket. I laughed with her and the others at their adorable nature then handed them my Clorox wipes.

“Now don’t get any of that paint on your sweater or your mom’s going to kill me,” I fake scolded.

It was moments like these that I treasured more than anything; the tiny instances of a child’s kindness and innocence. It was all I ever wanted to hold onto that 10 seconds forever.

And now I could. I’d captured it on my cell phone.

I knew it wasn’t necessarily allowed to do these kinds of things in school, but it was for me. It was my own little record of how much I adored my students.

When thinking about the fact that I was not supposed to be using my cell phone in my own classroom I hastily took the phone out of my pocket and put it back in my desk drawer. I heard it hit the bottom of the drawer with a small thud.  

I circulated back through the room to check in on students. Many of them were now ripping paper, gluing, and making an altogether fuss about which flavor of frosting to use on their brain cake. I joined them in their excitement and helped them think of creative ways to show me the functions of each lobe of the brain.

I checked back at the clock. Time had accelerated at unknown intervals.

“Alright folks!” I shouted over their buzzing. “Time to clean up! Man, time really flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it? Just like that article we read on the first week of school about how the brain processes time –” I trailed off as we threw the craft supplies back into bins and I scoured the floor for trash.

“HEY, don’t you be leaving without your piece of trash and a smile, people! You owe me one piece of trash and a smile at the door and then you don’t even have to see me for 3 whole days!” I always tried to leave for the weekend with a spotless classroom. 7th period usually took one for the team and were tasked with finding every small scrap of paper on the floor before they were allowed to leave.

“…Piece of trash and a smile, thank you, Thomas. Piece of trash and a smile, Christine -and what a lovely smile, Christine! Thank you Jose, piece of trash and a smile, Clair have a lovely weekend –”

I probably sound like a fucking flight attendant.  

As they exited I noticed a student packing up slowly, reminding me that I needed to print him the notes that he’d asked for earlier.

“Oh, don’t go anywhere, let me go pick up those notes off the printer for you!” I hurried out of the room, leaving him unattended. None of this crossed my mind as dangerous territory because I was so happy that I’d ended the day on a high note.

Now I could go home and binge watch The OA and make some mac and cheese with extra cheese.

The printer needed more paper, so it hadn’t printed his notes. I filled the paper drawer and waited patiently as the pages printed. I’d forgotten to only print the few pages he needed so the document printing was quite long. It was taking a while so I thought I’d grab my student so that he wouldn’t think I’d left him high and dry.

“Hey, sorry it’s taking so long,” I said as I walked back into the room. “Why don’t you join me in the office and then you can grab them when they’re done?” I attempted small talk for a few minutes.

The notes finally finished printing and I handed them to him happily.

“Here you go! Have a great weekend!” As I handed them to him he was already on the phone with someone.

“Hey, where you at?” He said to his friend. He barely made eye contact and jutted out the office door and down the hallway. He seemed just as ready to go home on a Friday as I was. No matter.

It was 3:30pm now and I was slowly reorganizing my craft bins and getting ready to leave. A few students rolled in to say goodbye to me and I remembered that as tired as I was today, we’d survived another week together. 22 of them to be exact. And we’d still have another 20 some odd weeks ahead of us to get to summer. But we were in this together.

As I packed up my bag I reached into my drawer to grab my cell phone. It wasn’t there.

Hmm, that’s odd. I thought. I could have sworn I threw it in there after Michelle painted her hand.

I checked my bag. Nope.

Jacket pockets. Nope.

Floor. Nope.

Holy fucking shit where is my cell phone.

I’d done this sort of thing about a million times since my head injury. It’s normal for most people to misplace things, but for someone like me it’s a much larger problem.

If I don’t really focus on what I’m doing it wouldn’t be hard to put my keys in the freezer or leave my phone in the fridge.

I struggle with my memory on a minute to minute basis.

Okay, keep calm. I told myself. Walk backwards in a circle and retrace your steps.

I’d taken it out to record the painting incident. Put it in my pocket for a few minutes. And then put it…in my drawer right? Or was it in my bag? No, I already emptied my bag onto the floor five times already. Could I have hid it in the file cabinet? That’s insane. Yet I could see myself doing that...

I walked myself through all of the hypotheticals imaginable. All except the most obvious: theft.

A teacher friend walked by my room and I flagged her down.

“Hey, can you call my phone real quick?”

She called once and it rang through to voicemail. I crawled under my desk searching for the sound.

“I’ll call it again,” she said.

I waited anxiously for my phone to erupt from a pile of papers or fall from the ceiling tiles.

“Straight to voicemail this time,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means whoever stole your phone just shut it off,”

I sank to the carpet. I couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. How could my students steal from me? A teacher who let them paint their hands purple and printed them missing notes on demand?

I sat in disbelief for several minutes thinking of what to do. I turned back on my computer and typed “FIND MY PHONE” into the search bar. I downloaded a Samsung tracker. The only problem was that it needed to be turned on and connected to WiFi to be tracked. No dice.

I went to my classroom phone and dialed my dad. One of 3 numbers I have memorized.

“Hi Dad,” I cried. “My phone’s been stolen, what do I do?”

It had never occurred to me what to do in such a situation. Should I call the police? Just go home? How do I contact someone if I get hurt? Send them a carrier pigeon? Are pay phones still a viable option?

Dad called T-Mobile to shut off the device and I sat in traffic in agony for the next hour. The entire drive home I lamented over who it could possibly be. It felt horrible; sitting there in my misery trying to decide which student had betrayed me.

When I got home I opened my laptop and went directly to the Samsung Search App. Within seconds of logging in a tiny flag popped up on the screen.

YOUR PHONE IS HERE. At the intersection of Colfax and Fulton.

On Colfax? What the fuck?

I typed in the intersection on Google Maps and a pawn shop popped up on the corner.

OH HELL NO, I shouted at my screen.

It was true. My cell phone hadn’t sprouted legs and taken a leisurely stroll down Colfax. A student had taken it from my desk and had sold it to a pawn shop within the hour.

Now at this point in the story I became Liam Neeson.

I immediately pulled up my 7th period roster and began Google Mapping each of their addresses to see who was closest to the pawn shop. I even called my phone using Skype credits (that I had to pay for…most expensive voicemail of my life) and left a threatening message.

“This is Ms. Hayes speaking. The OWNER of this phone. Now listen up and listen good. I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE. BUT I WILL FIND YOU.”

I took out the murdering part of the monologue because it’s kind of frowned upon to threaten to kill a student. Nevertheless, my head was reeling with excitement at finding the phone.

After calling the pawn shop from Skype it was discovered that another teacher’s phone (a friend of mine down in the art department where several of my students visited during my class to “get paper”) had been taken that same time, and she’d tracked her phone to the same store. I asked them if a young high school kid had come in that evening and they described him as a young black male, but that was all they could say. I later learned he was caught on tape at the school in the other teacher’s classroom.

I knew who it was. It was the student that I’d printed notes for after school. The one who’s life was finally turning around after being in jail last year. The one that was finally starting to show up to class. The one that wanted his missing work so that he could be successful.

As my dad tried to rifle through old phone boxes over Skype looking for my phone’s serial number I began to cry.

Of course I was distraught about being without a phone, but more than anything I was upset that he had hurt me. The phone had been wiped clean. The past two years of my life in pictures and videos and contacts and he’d destroyed them in an instant.

And worst of all he’d destroyed me.

I cried until my tears filled my mouth. I choked on them and spat them back out again. Two years of teaching in this classroom and I’d never felt this hurt by another person.

Someone that I believed in, trusted, and wanted the very best for in the whole world.

By the time my roommate came home I was all dried up. I’d used up my tears and was now drinking wine to re-hydrate myself to cry some more.

But then something amazing happened.

I didn’t know what time it was.

I’d begun my mac and cheese binge on the couch. Time had passed. But how much? I had no idea.

I also didn’t know if anyone was trying to get a hold of me.

I’d sent some panicked Facebook messages to my mom and a few select friends. But other than that nobody was talking to me.

I also wasn’t anticipating anything.

No creepy Tinder messages or parent emails to pop up on my bright little screen.

When I decided to go to bed I had no idea how I was going to wake up in the morning.

“Do you have,” I hesitated. “An alarm clock?” I asked my roommate.

“I don’t,” she said. “But you can use my old broken phone as an alarm clock if you want to,”

It felt ridiculous. It was almost as if time didn’t exist without my phone. I was no longer aware of it or how I was to keep track of myself in time and space.

In the morning I didn’t know how cold it was outside. I walked to breakfast with my best friend without a heavy jacket because I hadn’t checked my phone for the temperature outside.

When I drove to the Women’s March in Denver after breakfast I wasn’t positive where I should park or which route was the best to get there. So I just got in the car and drove to where I thought I should go.

When I got to the rally I couldn’t take pictures. I couldn’t Snapchat or Instagram or Tweet. I couldn’t share with the world that I was there or show them the amazing protest signs I saw. I couldn’t text my friends to see where they were so that I could stand by them.

Amidst 200,000 people I was somehow all on my own. Until I realized that I didn’t need my phone to enjoy the incredible historic scene before me.

I didn’t even need my phone to find my friends. I ran into my friend Patty and my work buddy Corey in a crowd of thousands.

And although I wanted more than anything to take pictures and share my experience, it forced me to truly be present. As I stood in that crowd with no way to contact anyone I listened to the words, “Women move mountains” over and over again as my heart filled with tremendous joy.

My student hurt me when he took my phone. He hurt me when I smiled at him as it sat in his pocket and he said nothing and he hurt me again when he cleaned out all of the memories in that small plastic device and sold it to a pawn shop.

I will never again see that video of Michelle’s purple hand or the countless loving texts from friends and family throughout the years.

But I will forgive him.

Because all I can hope for is that this student learns someday that he hurt me. And that life gets harder when you hurt the people that love you.

I cannot save him, nor do I want to. He will have to make this journey of life on his own.

And cell phone or no cell phone I will always cherish and love the moments I have with these students. The purple hands and the giggles and the tiny things that hold us together in this broken world.

I don’t need a phone to remember these things. I will always have these snapshots burned into my brain.

But if I do happen to get that phone back you better believe I’m locking that shit up like Fort Knox. 

What It's Like To Be A High School Teacher The Day After Trump Gets Elected

I’m not a politician. I’m a teacher.

I teach History and Geography and Psychology.

I teach how to make evidence based claims and how to raise your hand when you want to speak.

I teach teenagers to keep their hands to themselves for 90 minute increments.

I teach please’s and thank you’s and eye contact.

I teach respect.

I teach Anakaren to put her phone away every single day.

I teach objectives and "Student Learning Outcomes."

I teach assembly line simulations and Great Depression photography.

I teach Hitler and I teach MLK.

I teach picking up your trash and recycling.

I teach could you please stop taking Snapchats while I’m talking.

I teach Mexicans, Muslims, and boys with raging hormones.

I teach complete sentences.

I teach problem solving and critical thinking.

I teach in French occasionally and with a Scottish accent when I need your attention.

I teach while eating bagels and sometimes give kids coffee from the teacher’s lounge.

I teach that the human brain can do amazing things.

I teach PUT YOUR NAME ON YOUR GOD DAMN PAPER.

I teach to wonder.

I teach to ask questions.

I teach standardized testing.

I teach you are more than a score.

I teach to handle things with care.

I teach while accidentally bleaching the carpet.

I teach watch out for that wad of gum on the floor, Jose.

I teach treating women with respect.

I teach treating men with respect.

I teach that you can never have too many pencils in your back pocket.

I teach to please remember your pencil because I am spending too much money on pencils.

I teach that I will always give you a pencil.

I teach Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and what feels like twice on Fridays.

I teach standing on top of a chair when I am excited or when I need you to hear when this assignment is due.

I teach to capitalize and empathize.

I teach okay Jason you can somersault across the floor just this one time.

I teach kindness and I teach smiles.

I teach I'll wait til' it's quiet.

I teach no seriously I'll wait.

I teach to tired, hungry, and fidgety.

I teach that you can always come to me when your dad kicks you out of the house again.

I teach laughter and bad history puns.

I teach with coffee and more coffee.

I teach no you may not change my seating chart.

I teach it’s okay if you want to cry.

I teach shake my hand at the door.

I teach on good days and on bad days.

I teach Hurricanes and political cartoons.

I teach of course you can get make-up work.

I teach Vietnam and protest posters.

I teach kids who push my buttons and kids who make me want to pull my hair out.

I teach them that I love them even when they drive me crazy.

I teach all of these things and more.

But what I don’t teach is how to ask your teacher what to do.

Not what to do for a question on a paper or to write with a pencil.

But what to do if Mr. Trump takes my mom away.

I don’t teach Miss someone told me today to go back to where I came from.

I don’t teach hate and bigotry and fear.

I teach listen to me my children I love you more than you will ever know and I will fight for your right to be in this classroom until my last dying breath.

I teach even on days like today when it feels like every atom in my body is screaming.

I teach for them.

Because America has just taught them that this “land of the free” might not be as free as we thought it was.