“You want to prepare them for the real world?” I asked. “The real world is terrified. The real world is lonely. These kids are growing up in a time where everyone is shouting and no one is listening. They are addicted to screens that tell them they aren’t good enough. The last thing—the absolute last thing—they need is another screen judging them.”
I looked at the young teachers in the front row.
“They need eye contact,” I said softly. “They need to see us make mistakes on the whiteboard. They need to see us laugh. They need to know that when they fail, a human hand will be there to help them up, not a notification ping.”
“Sir, you are out of order,” Sterling snapped, his smile gone. “This is a mandatory training on district policy.”
“It’s a funeral for the profession,” I said. “And I won’t be a pallbearer.”
I picked up my bag. It was an old leather satchel, battered and scratched, filled with unread essays and half-eaten apples.
“I’m going back to my classroom,” I said. “I have a stack of journals to read. Hand-written. Illegible. Messy. And beautiful. Because that’s where the truth is. The truth is in the margins.”
I turned and started the long walk up the aisle toward the exit doors.
For five seconds, the only sound was my footsteps on the carpet.
Then, I heard it.
