Let politicians claim virtue,
and abandon honest men. Let the poor inherit promises, and be comfortable servants. Let the famous enjoy advantage, and carry no favors in heaven. Let physicians prescribe hope, and a worthy price be paid. Let education forge solutions, and notorious liars lose favor. Let simple humanity be rewarded, and tyranny reap the sorrow of death.
A sinner first, and, worse, the worst backslider,
I've learnt a lot from list'ning to the spider. Thanks be to God for sending such a teacher To teach His dumbest, ignorantest creature. I ascertain by methods of my guider That God Himself (my Saviour) is my guider.
Black Colleges Have been chronically underfunded, unacknowledged, Hell - Unappreciated. Black culture curates Common culture. Black coins buy Booming business - Black universities Breed Brilliance, Undeniably. Understand Black children Contain unrelenting Capacity, Cause upheaval - Controlled, creative Chaos; Coerce Change. History Continues. Heads held high - Commemorating heroes. Celebrating Hope- Bravery- Coexistence- Unity- Hope- Bravery- Coexistence- Unity- Healing-Balanced-Charismatic-Unequivocal-ly Colorful Blackness.
HBCUs are an essential commodity to a significant facet of our population. Protect them at whatever cost.
Schools’, free-ish U.S.
budget cuts GALORE, burnout Teachers: in terror | are trying
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I want this life to read like an intricate novel. I don’t want to keep sitting at a computer all day while the romance of life slips through my arthritic fingers. They are meant to write beautiful prose that flow over our souls and cover them with golden warmth.
Yet they are tippy-tappy typing away at exhausting, unimaginative emails with signatures like “warmest regards” to cover how calloused my heart has become. Sitting in this comfortable space behind a giant screen where nothing can hurt me is crippling. We were meant to embrace the love this earth holds us in. We are supposed to bathe in rivers, meet strangers in different cities, and learn to fall. My knees should have scrapes, my elbows bruised from stumbles I take on dirt roads and motorbikes. While my bones are intact, my life is what is breaking.
Corporate America and climbing the ladder got me like.
Intent on the final bell ring
declaring spring for reals as we feel every inch a bag of hammered turds You will have heard the crack in every colleague’s voice this term, felt the glut of panics that the journey home may be in a hearse Still, it could be worse, and when the rear view shows a dwindling, darkening school, we’ll spend two weeks pondering how, exactly
I love you lot. You colleagues and loves who despise this alongside me so when my foot slips or knee gives you are at my shoulder, my elbow with a Kit-Kat or quick jab about being old and **** so giggles lift the misery of ignorant, blind and fruitless bosses while our loss seems their gain for now I am bound to remember this refrain: We’re not gonna take it So, my brothers and twisted sisters get those pitchforks ready, sharpen in the dark, keep being artisans for when the time comes, the spreadsheets won’t even be worth the cold nothing they’re typed on but your healing hands will
You’ll look close for all its feints,
its lies of needing you being lost without while the fingers on your windpipe tighten and those tears come in place of shouting loud, steady, drip-drip mention of blissed futures, dispatched, ***** pasts, the present full of passive aggression where passivity is too nuanced you’ll still be there with open arms and a heart dark with hope, but that tickle-whisper in your skull is not just the concussion not just
Today I began to hem,
rein in the threads that grow free when left unstitched I ticked a set of books and, though I love my charges, my heart hurt My language is another, my experience of this globe unutterably different, though geographically the same And I want to help them play the game, I do, but I don’t trust those telling me how to My instincts, honed by humans I trust, unless I’m lost in my own Truman Show, show me the right way to go, divergent from this current shitshow The pedagogy of care is somewhere way, way over there
I know which fat bells are tolling
with “Pupils come first” on lips like a benediction spoke by those whose fingers dip the collection box But it can wait. Piles of marking like ancient pillars meant for Samson to do his thing remain upright Because a little tight in this metaphor, Samson is for cooking a roast playing video games and watching the last gasp of TV, anyone with me?