Tuesday-Thursday, I teach art at a charter school in downtown Baltimore to 1st-7th grade. The school is young and a little rough-- the older students are separated by gender (after too many were getting expelled for fornicating in the hallways...yes, you read that correctly) and I've lost not a few students to concealed weapon and assault charges. I begin my week with a 1st grade class of 28 who behave mostly like The Dog Whisperer's pit bull pack on crystal meth; without fail, my class ends with me on my knees, physically restraining a 6-year-old child who's spewing something along the lines of, "Bitch Imma kill you!" I end the day with a combined class of 6th and 7th grade boys who call me "Shawty." While they also become aggressive with one another every now and then, the biggest danger in that class is some light, casual, sexual harassment:
"Hey Miss Lohmann, can I get yo digits?"
"Um, whatever for?"
"So I can call you."
"I'm not sure the school board would be too happy about that."
"Miss, they don't got to know!"
The exchange is usually concluded with a stealthy duck and roll on my part when the boy goes for a full body hug. Though more than a decade younger than me and (supposedly) still prepubescent, all of my boys are roughly the size of a baby rhinoceros, and it's a littler terrifying to be charged by one.
Needless to say, I often come home in desperate need of decompression, and sometimes my mind craves Light, Fluffy, and Cute. I bring to you, as a Friday gift, Suryia and Roscoe.
I want an orangutan.
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