You Can't Stop What's Coming

Today has been one of the saddest, sickest, strangest days of my life. I feel as though I have stepped into the Twilight Zone - or even out of my own body. I am sitting here at 11:30 p.m. on a Friday night, with a monster headache, an upset stomach, and about enough Xanax in me to knock out a horse. Still, I am awake, tense, wired, feeling strangely hyper, full of dread and fear and horrible, horrible helplessness and failure.

I never intended for it to happen. Spring Break was a mere week ago and it lies in my memory like a soft, beautiful dream. Who was I a mere 7 days ago? What happened to me? Is this a nervous breakdown? A midlife crisis? Am I slipping into insanity or am I finally waking up from the dream life of denial and delusion? Where does reality begin and where does it end? I am guilty, guilty, guilty. I feel too much, I cared too much, I tried too hard.

Wednesday night I started getting violently ill - another strange stomach flu exactly like the one that pounded me in February. Hello bathroom. How odd, I never get stomach bugs. I have been sick every month since January, with a cold, or a flu. Oddly enough I never got sick between August and December despite how massively stressed and overworked I was. Well we all know what happened in January. Coincidence? Probably not. Depression and a sense of utter and total failure set in after my Principal's conversation with me. A sense of deflated morale and a loss of direction in my life ensued. My grandma's death has been much harder on me than I suspected it would be. My grandma! She lived a longer, healthier life than most people ever will. I know that. It's not really even her I miss - she was mentally gone years ago. It's knowing the house sits for sale, and that that era of my life was wiped out almost instantly...this still resides in a part of my brain that I can barely go to, but sometimes do, late at night, when I close my eyes and remember waking up as a child in her house, or swimming in her pool, or sitting with her at the dining room table. It probably doesn't help that the little monsters I spend my days with are nothing but germ factories as well. It's been a revolving door of illness in my class since January. My immune system is obviously shot to hell. And my psyche and soul are in no better shape. I forced myself to go to work yesterday and barely made it through. I woke up this morning and felt like I wasn't going to make it. But I did. Until I didn't. Until I left at lunch, feeling like I was going to throw up and pass out at the same time.

I began the week with such high hopes; a new Zen-like attitude of letting everything just roll off my back. I just have to make it to June 18th, right? I was good to go. A week in Palm Springs did the trick. Now, I am shaking, cold, hot, shivering on the couch, paralyzed with dread and fear. A lot of it is the flu; I know this. But I wonder, will I even make it to Saturday? I am fairly certain and hopeful I will beat this flu. I am not certain I will gain back the soul I have lost somewhere in this madness. This is what terrified me today. I am nowhere near my period; I cannot blame this on hormones. I lost control of my emotions. I mean, I literally lost control of myself. I could not stop crying. In front of my kids, or in front of my coworkers. It was humiliating and frightening beyond belief.

I will be 41 years old in a few weeks. I am not a young, naive, recent college graduate with idealized hopes of being teacher of the year, educator of the century. I never dreamt of winning any awards, or saving any lost souls, or even turning around the kids who seriously fucked up or lost. I am a realist, and some might say, sometimes even a cynic. I took this job because I needed the money. I thought I might like it. I thought I'd give it a chance. I knew deep down I probably wouldn't spend the rest of my career in an elementary school. Frankly, I'm too intelligent (if that doesn't sound egotistical I don't know what does but I'll explain) and don't like children that much. Haha. And believe me, I'm not insulting the primary school teachers of the world. Sit in a first, or second or even fifth grade classroom. This is where the real teaching is done. The actual process of teaching a six year old to read is excruciating - and yet it is a miracle. These are the teachers who are indeed, truly doing some of the hardest work on the planet. We degrade them by talking about how noble and wonderful they are, but secretly learn pithy little saying at a young age like "Those who can do, those who can't teach." We applaud them at Open House and admire their creativity but blame them for failing test scores and low student achievement. We expect them to teach a class full of kids who can't speak English and we expect them to receive merit pay for it. We expect them to teach kids who are on Zoloft, Valium, Prozac, who still wet the bed, who watch porn at home, who beat their younger siblings, who are so indulged, so massively spoiled that they are convinced they can do no wrong. Narcissim bordering on the sociopathic. We expect them to teach Special Education kids alongside extraordinarily gifted kids. We give them 30+ kids to a room and say "Differentiate instruction for each one of these kids." We expect them to be teacher, counselor, parent, minister, nurse, decorator, administrator, secretary, diplomat. We expect them to work for the district, to work for the kids and work for the parents. We don't have one boss; we have 30, 40, 50, 60 bosses. Everybody's a critic and everybody's allowed to critique you. Any parent with an email address is welcome to tell you what a shit job you're doing with their kid and demand your attention day or night. Email - what a gift for teachers. We expect teachers to teach kids who have been abused, neglected, beaten, abandoned, fucked by their fathers, uncles and cousins in the dead of night on soiled mattresses. We expect them to successfully teach standards while they go home to a raging alcoholic father, or spend weeks out of the month crossing back and forth over the border or are so spoiled their parents tell them to disregard everything the teacher says. I taught kids who had to walk around the coroner's van to get to school; to pass the gang murdered lowlifes blocking the sidewalk, still and seeping crimson under a white sheet. We expect teachers to teach kids who don't even have a place to sleep or eat or do their homework because 10 people are living in a one bedroom apartment. I teach kids now who live in mansions and are dropped off in Ranger Rovers and picked up by nannies and who are as fucked up as the kids who had no food to eat, no place but a closet to sleep. This was what was expected of me. And I did it willingly.

We expect teachers to work 10 hours a day and take home grading every night. Contrary to what one naive, out-of-touch parent said to me in class when she barged in at 7:00 a.m. one morning, teachers do NOT simply work from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. I had to LAUGH directly at her face when she said that because at over 40 years of age, this professional mommy actually still believed that myth. No bitch, there's a reason I'm here at 7a.m. and there's a reason you should make a fucking appointment with me if you want to see me and not walk into MY FUCKING OFFICE because when the kids aren't in the classroom it's MY FUCKING ROOM and would you just barge in unannounced to your kid's pediatrician or to your lawyer's office? Do I not deserve the same level of respect? She proceeded to take up my whole morning - the morning I came in to get more work done - but what did it matter - I could just stay until 5 or 6 p.m. that day and make it up.

We get annoyed when teachers ask for a living wage (yeah, the unions are corrupt and fucked as anything and I'm not a huge fan - sorry Jimmy Hoffa - but without them I wouldn't set foot on a school campus), a better salary, because you know, Jesus, they get three months a year off, right? Another tidy myth. Most teachers work other jobs during that time just to make ends meet. Indeed, the teachers I have worked with in the last year do the most important work I've ever seen, and get little to no respect for it. But they do it. Because they love it, and thank God they do love it, for who indeed would teach our children?

Anybody can stand at a podium in college and drone on, lecture after lecture. I did it. However, here's the rub: While I believe teaching small kids is amazingly hard, you don't have to be especially intelligent or insightful to do it. My co-worker who teaches fifth grade hates reading. That's right. You read this correctly. She doesn't read. At all. Yet she is the one who teaches the gifted kids in the literature circle. I eat books for breakfast, lunch and dinner but no one cares. My principal was right. I don't fit in here. I'm no better, I'm just different. My interests are not those of these women. No one cares about Caravaggio or ancient Egypt or what I saw on the History Channel. Elementary school teachers are not academics. They are teachers. There's a difference. I don't mean to demean them. They are hugely important. But I came from a different world. Even though I only taught at a junior college - these people had Master's degrees and PHD's and they just existed on a different level, academically. The American educational system however, really does encourage conformity and mediocrity. Teaching is HARD WORK, but it's not rocket science. It's not intellectually stimulating. I've sat around enough teacher staff rooms now and let me tell you, the conversations are less than stimulating. If you're interested in current events, politics, books, profound movies, discussions about art, culture, history - you're in the wrong place. You will get discussions about how little Eli blew the spelling test AGAIN and can you believe that parent said THAT? I'm not saying these people are stupid. They're not. But by and large, in MY experience, there's very little true intellectual stimulation to be had at this level of the educational world. But still, it's brutally hard. And I still think the good teachers are amazing human beings.

For example, try teaching 31 10 year olds how to write. How to write! I wish every American could spend a month teaching an elementary school class. Then perhaps the coy lip service would be silenced and the State buildings overrun with thousands of people who've finally seen the light and realized, Jesus, maybe we should start these people out with with a goddammed fucking living wage. It boggles the mind. Still, I thought, how hard can it be. I taught college! I student taught in the ghetto, the gang schools. This is a cushy place. They all speak English. I'll give it a couple of years. I was told "Don't teach high school. The kids don't want to be there." I have news for America. Ten year olds don't want to be in school anymore. I had second graders who acted like I was an imposition to them and they had somewhere better to be. Oh I was naive, for certain. I laugh at the girl I was last August. Even at age 40, with my hardened view, I was still naive. I didn't expect rewards, but I didn't expect the madness of getting a classroom full of fifth-grade rejects either. They speak English yes, but they hear nothing and they care even less. Stack the deck and the player is going to get fucked royally.

I came into this job with a lot of anxiety but also with principles and values because I live my life with principles and values. I don't have a house. I don't have a husband or a fancy car or a lot of money. I don't even have the health I'd like. But I have principles and values and as God is my witness I will not give them up. I like to think even if I came into a great Lotto win, I'd still have my principles and values. Because I have to live with myself and with what I do. I am I suppose, still naive enough to believe in honesty. I abhor cheating - of any kind. Cheating on a test, cheating on your spouse. The level of cheating I've seen in a class full of 10 year olds stuns me - again, perhaps this is where I am naive. Enron, elementary school. Isn't it all the same? The medium is the message. The message is get ahead, whatever the cost. The ends justify the means. Capitalism has officially run amok in this country. Materialism is a religion and the grand self-esteem movement tells us all the children are special and all the children are winners, and there aren't any losers in games anymore and everyone needs to know they will change the world and their very presence in the world is so very, very meaningful and special. My silver cross just fell off my neck. How symbolic. Losing my religion indeed.

Spiteful, hurtful lying makes me sick. Bullying kids make me want to wring their mean, nasty necks. And I was fortunate enough to never have been a bullied kid. Picked on a little as all kids are, but never truly bullied. Here's what I see - people treating other people as if they are dispensable paper towels - something we have become so good at here with the massive influx of immigrants; this makes me want to commit a homicide. I know, I know, I shouldn't care so much. But as surely as I can't stop my blood from flowing I cannot stop these feelings. I don't care if you are the cook at Denny's, the man who washes my car, the woman who cleans the toilets at an office building, the superstar who plays in front of arena stadiums or brings in $20 million dollar paychecks, I am fucking naive enough to believe that every single one of these people deserves the same level of kindness and respect as a human being. I am not naive enough to think that all men are created equal. Oh yes, this sweetness makes for nice Constitutional copy, doesn't it. But we're not. I realize that. Some people are born with brilliance. Some people are born Bono, some people are born Charles Manson, some people are born Ghandi and most people are just born pretty average and try to make the best of their lives, with whatever talents they have or pursue or cultivate. But I do believe, black or white or yellow or red skin, born here or crossing the Rio Grande with a coyote that took your life savings and will dump you in the desert in the dead of night, I believe that every man deserves dignity and respect.

I am ashamed to admit it, but I didn't always think this way. Maybe that's my problem. I am older and wiser now. I remember in college walking around with a sense of specialness and entitlement too. I was at an elite university, right. I was young and special and my professors kept telling us this was true. Well, I grew up and I've had a few nasty reality checks along the way. Perhaps that's why I have so little tolerance for it now. I hated it in myself, and I hate it in others. I believe in basic decency when dealing with people. I believe in doing your job to the best of your ability. I believe in taking pride in my work. I believe people are supposed to make a fucking effort when they go to work. I trust the man or woman who puts the bolts on my 747 and who takes my flower order over the Internet. I trust they will do their fucking jobs. I am a moron. I am an idealist. I am a romantic with pessimistic tendencies. I am sick because I am deluded enough to cling to outdated illusions and when I started this job, I was terrified. I am terrified still, 7 months later, but in a very different way. In the beginning, I was scared because I thought I would fail these kids, and myself. Now I am scared beyond belief by what I have seen in a small classroom, in a wealthy city in a suburb of Southern California. I am scared because what I thought I would see in this classroom is very different from what I have seen. I expected to come in and yes, perhaps make a tiny difference in some people's lives. I expected I would teach these kids the things I was supposed to, and maybe throw a few creative curveballs their way. I thought, perhaps I could be a small success. I'm a small fish in a small pond. There's nothing grand or magnificent about what I do. I stand and deliver but I'm no Jaime Escalante. But no matter what, I was going to be a professional and do the very best job I could for my kids. My kids. Thirty-one kids I spend 7 hours a day with. Thirty-five hours a week. Outside of their parents, they see me more than they see anyone else. I guide them everywhere. I bring them into the class in the morning. I pick them up from recess. I give them Bandaids, I send them to the nurse, I call their parents. I stand at the gate once every month and make sure every child goes home safely. I loan them lunch money (yes, they pay me back). In short, I work my ass off for them. I grade their papers in a timely basis and send them back. I give them feedback on their work. I am in constant contact with their parents. I email, I talk on the phone, I write letters. I set boundaries far too late in the game.

I bring them in from lunch and I take them to the library. I take them down to the computer lab. I teach them how to write a creative topic sentence. I help them find books to read. I counsel them during recess when they are crying. I counsel them when they fight with each other. I applaud their efforts and praise their growth. I endure their increasing moodiness and honestly, I thank God I go home to two animals. I teach them with every fiber of my being. I teach them to think. I teach them to question. I teach them what I am told by the state of California to teach them. I listen to their stories about their dogs, their siblings, their dance competitions, their vacations. I send them to the office for vision and hearing tests. I sit with them in assemblies. I watch them in their musicals. I encourage them in their contests, their sports events. I sponsor them, I root for them. I go through hundreds and hundreds of their assignments a week, looking for ways to help them learn, improve, get better, grow. I try to prepare them for the insanity that will be middle school. All I ever ask of them is that they try their very best. I put up rules; I ask them to live by the Golden Rule. I talk to them about character. We talk about death and the war in Iraq and 9/11 and religion and the Holocaust. I am sensitive to their religious beliefs. I tip-toe around everyone at the holidays, terrified I will offend someone. In a classroom where 90% of the kids are Jewish, I don't dare say the word Christmas - even though I grew up saying "Christmas vacation" and not "winter break." I listen to story after story about this person's bat mitzvah or bar mitzvah, this person's birthday party, that person's trip to Europe. I go to camp with them. I write their parents and let them know their kids are OK at camp. I hike with them, I eat shitty, cold camp food with them. I sit by a stream and eat a soggy peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches with them. I write down their food allergies in class. I bring different kinds of candy for the kids with allergies. I talk to them about my love of reading, my love of books, my love of animals. I try to show them the wonders of reading and books. I give away Barnes and Noble gift certificates in the weekly raffle. I try and teach them about peace. I talk about Martin Luther King Jr. and Ghandi. We talk about Darfur and Africa. I have a Star of the Week each week. I have raffles for incentives and table points and the prizes aren't good enough you know? Because who wants some scented erasers or Silly Putty when you've been given a laptop and a cell phone and a TV and an iPOD and every video game known to God and man. Now I understand why Oprah started her school in Africa. She was right when she said that even in the poorest schools in America, all the kids want are things. The kids in Africa just wanted a chance. A chance at an education.

I teach them about Impressionism. I teach them about the brilliance of van Gogh. We color like van Gogh. I take pictures of them when they dress up for Halloween. I laugh at their corny jokes. I let them have show and tell. I encourage them to talk about their feelings with me. I encourage them to be grateful for everything that that have because dear God, they have so, so much. Too much.

We read stories together. We talk about the American Revolution. I never mention my political beliefs even when they ask me about them. I don't speak negatively about our leaders, despite my intense hatred of the current administration. That is not my job. I don't tell them my age even when they ask - no yell- about it across the classroom. I confiscate notes from them. I am their advocate. When the science teacher keeps them in at recess, I talk to the principal for them so they get their recess back. I am the last one out of the classroom during fire drills, and disaster drills. I will be the first one in the line of fire, God forbid anything like that happens.

I am not a hero. I am not noble. I am not some great, wonderful person creating better people for the future. I am an idiot for doing this for a shitty salary and no respect. I hate myself right now. I AM naive to think I could do a good job and give 150% to my job and expect one iota of appreciation for my efforts from the administration or from my fellow fifth-grade teachers or from parents or kids. I know I got the shit class full of losers and academic fuck-ups. I've got parents writing me telling me what a fucked up class I have; these are the parents of the FEW good kids I have. You can look at the test scores to see how low some of these kids are. They stacked the deck against me; I've been bleeding chips at the table since August and you know, Jesus you know, the house always wins. I've got kids who cheat, steal and teach other kids how to find pornography between grown men and young boys. I've got bullies in my class. I still tried to play my hand and play it the best I could. People give a lot of lip service to teachers but do I for one fucking minute think ANY SINGLE ONE of those parents would encourage their kids to be a TEACHER? No. I am, in this school, just another blue collar worker to these kids. I am the maid who can't be fired. But I am the maid, when they pull the books off my shelves, and don't put them back. I bring in a book on Impressionism and they leave it scattered on the floor. Their Star of the Week papers are in the trash; they just wanted the prize, the toy, the goods. What? I don't have an iPhone in the treasure box? Yes, I am the maid. I am the gardener, I am the nanny, I am the help. I am the necessary evil. I am the bad guy because I keep bothering these kids with the word respect - I keep asking for it and don't I know by now I ain't gonna ever get it? Wake the fuck up teacher!

A kid whose parents are extraordinarily rich is obsessed with Donald Trump. He's an amazingly sweet kid. But he scares the shit out of me. He proudly told me "Do you know how many maids my mom has fired? When I grow up I'm gonna get a maid and fire her. They don't even speak English." These people are Iranian. No, I'm sorry, Persian. They don't want to be called Iranian. Iranians obviously look down on the poor wetback Hispanics too. At least the rich Iranians do. I hope this kid's parents are proud of the message they're sending him. They're doing a great job alongside the media. My kids are obsessed with Britney Spears. They say she's crazy. They're obsessed with Paris Hilton. They're only reflecting what we as a society care about. They know so much more than I ever did at their age. They know who Kurt Cobain was - they know who he was, what he did, how he died, why he mattered. Jesus. They weren't even alive when he died. I don't think I knew what gay was , what pornography was, at 10. Maybe I was naive and sheltered. I wanted to tell some of these parents at conferences, "Your kid is getting an A in reading and a B in math and I think you should put them on birth control now."

Yeah. I am a teacher. I am the fucking moron who sits there and tells my class to be quiet a hundred times. I have whispered it. I have screamed it. And they defy me a thousand times. I point to the rules. I have made them write me apology letters. They have written letters home to their parents. They are without boundaries. I am the sad soul who took this job thinking I was going to teach fifth graders like myself - kids who not only respected their teachers, but perhaps even had a little bit of fear of their teachers. Instead I sit with kids who have no qualms about asking me every little detail of my personal life. NO FUCKING BOUNDARIES. How old are you? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? They have been taught the world is theirs for the taking. I never had a chance; the real teaching was done at home. God only knows what the parents say about the teachers - why do you think these kids have NO respect for teachers? The parents set the example. I have kids who interrupt me, interrupt each other. I have kids who scream out in class and don't care about class rules, or consequences. I have kids with no respect for anything but money. I have no power. And they know it. They've made cracks in class, right in front of me, about how teachers make no money. I make no money, I work for them, I have no power. I do not deserve respect. I can do nothing with them. I write their parents. I can't keep them after school. I can't legally keep them in for recess. I can't discipline them. I had a kid argue with me about the year the Iraq war started. Jesus Christ - would you have EVER argued with your teacher about anything, much less the YEAR A MAJOR WAR STARTED? The kid was in kindergarten when the war started; I was teaching college. I wanted to scream WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU GET OFF? This kid is in love with himself. He's very, very bright. But so fucking what. He's a big fish in a tiny pond now. He has no idea; he'll end up like Narcissus at this rate. People like him are a dime a fucking dozen in the real world. I won't be there when these shitheads grow up and realize that no, the sun doesn't rise and set on their spoiled, indulged asses. I won't be around to see them get fired and watch them collapse under the truth that they are not the center of the goddamned fucking universe.

This is not my world. I don't understand children who have no respect for their elders or teachers. It's utterly surreal to me what these kids have said and done in my class. I didn't expect to save the kids; I could give a shit about the future for the children. Sad, but true. My principles and values involve respect. I give it to you, you give it to me. It's a transaction I require you to make with me as a human being.

I work at a beautiful school. Most of the kids are from very wealthy families. Many have traveled the world by age 10. They have iPhones and iPods and Wii and X-Box and laptops. They get laptops for Christmas and Hannakuh and whatever Iranian holidays they have and cell phones for their birthdays. We have cupcakes at every birthday party. They all wear Abercrombie and Fitch. They have expensive sneakers and go on cruises for spring break. Their parents have given them everything. I have a kid who spent two months in the beginning of the year telling us repeatedly how he flew to London first class. That's great. I finally said "How much later did the people in economy get to London?" This kid is on Zoloft, the product of divorce and can't control himself in class, socially, emotionally or physically. He's crippled by anxiety and sees the nurse for a different ailment every single day and I am not, as God is my witness, exaggerating. There is no hyperbole here. This kid went to Las Vegas over spring break, stayed the Bellagio, saw "O" and can't control his mouth in class; but he has everything - everything but values and respect. Their parents give them a sense of entitlement and forget to teach them humility and gratitude. I have everything a teacher could want. A nice, big classroom of my own. I am given money for school supplies. I have an Apple laptop - a lovely computer of my own to use. I work in a beautiful, safe environment. I have a nice budget for any creative activity I want to do with these kids. And oh God, if I could only buy them some character, some values, a sense of respect. I haven't even spent a dime of my allotted $600 on them. Why? Because there's nothing I can buy them they don't already have and no experience I can give them that I feel they will get anything out of.

This is not my world. And maybe I'm a fool; I expect and know that the only guarantee in life is change. The world has changed; perhaps it is better now than when I was a child, perhaps it is worse. Millions of years and we're still killing each other, still battling each other over pieces of land and pieces of silver. I am trapped in a dream world of my own making. A world where children are decent and respectful. This is a crazy time - a recession, an endless war, a psychotic dictator ruling the country for the last 8 years, an uncertain future. A country struggling to hold onto its position as the world's super power. A country that must see itself slipping, in the grandest of the grand scheme of things. A country that sees China and India in its rearview mirror and they are gaining ground quickly - and so we, the teachers, must push our children harder, and the harder we push, the harder they push back.

I have now lived long enough to watch stock markets rise and start markets fall. I have seen interest rates at 14% and 1%. I have lived in fear of the USSR and the nuclear bomb and have realized all it takes is a few angry, disenfranchised radical extremists to end our lives. I have seen Presidents come and go, recessions begin and end, Cold Wars end and countries fall into economic, political and social despair. I have hoped for freedom and seen exploitation. I see the middle class disappearing here. I see America's halcion days of great dreams for everyone who just works hard enough, on life support. I have studied history. Oh I have studied history and I know we will repeat it; we are repeating it every day. To quote the title of a book I bought, are we Rome? Yes, indeed, Rome fell. I don't know if we are Rome. I think we are. I think we are falling. The decline has begun and if you want to see some of the very tiny beginnings, please come into room 17. That is where I am, with children who reflect the decline of civilization in their narcissism and defiance and disregard and disrespect almost pathological egoism. I have read about this and heard from teachers all over the world on various teacher websites - the stories are the same. Perhaps I got an especially shitty class this year; but the general consensus is that too many of these children, the future, reflect a general defiance and disregard for all authority. The world is their oyster, theirs for the taking. I once asked them if they didn't have school, what could they contribute to the country, the economy, the fucking tax base, at ten years old? OK so maybe I didn't quite use that language, but that was the general question.

The sun set on the British Empire. The sun will set on what is left of America some day. This is the macro. And I live here in the micro. A world of small beings I am paid to guide into the next year of their lives. I have given them everything I have to give. I have nothing left. I am carved out, I am hollow now. I am finished.

To paraphrase a character in the Coen brothers' brilliant movie "No Country for Old Men" - you can't stop what's coming. The world has changed. It's not my world anymore. Too many people don't care about their work anymore. Too many people worship at the altar of consumerism and materialism and status and greed and hey, why not, two planes just took out the Twin Towers but we as Americans MUST GO SHOPPING! Because if we don't then by GOD THE TERRORISTS WILL HAVE WON. Maybe Gordon Gecko was right. Greed is good. People on fire - human torches can willingly propel themselves off the 97th floor of buildings, melting corporate American Express cards floating with them to the detrius and blood and smashed bodies below - and this was the message our leaders gave us. Do not let the economy down people. Prop up the dollar. Stop watching the man floating upside down to his death in a smoke-filled New York City and get thyself to Bloomingdale's stat. No, no, no, this is not my world. Let them have it - whoever them is. No country for old men, or disenfranchised, burned out, tired, cynical, disappointed, sad, sad, sad teachers. I am finished. There is no honor, no nobility, no dignity left in me, in my profession and I wonder if there really ever was and I no longer want to sacrifice myself on the altar of blatant disregard for everything I value. I've worked in corporations and I've worked in offices and I already know there's no honour amongst thieves. I'm not looking for a better deal; I'm just leaving this table. I'm done with this game.

Everything I thought I knew was wrong. Everything I believed in was a lie. I lied to myself. I told myself pretty stories to get myself through the days. Today the world cracked open and the abyss showed itself and there is nothing, nothing, nothing there. Darkness reigns and I give up. My cards on are the table and God willing, in two months, I will walk away and not look back.