There are moments when I simply want to get out of the school, of the class, and never look back. There are moments when I ask myself if I had taken the right decision, being a teacher, and if in all this time, I couldn’t have done something else.
And there are moments – many moments – when you simply love what you do. You love being in front of children, of students, seeing their evolution, your fingerprint left in their lives. You love being in front of them. Or short epiphanies, when you realise that despite all the angriness, the nerves that they caused you, despite all their ignorance, you care about those kids, more than you thought and realised.
There is a huge struggle inside myself between the system that I hate and the classes that I love, between the communism which keeps on living on the halls of the schools, haunting all of us, teachers and students, and the things that I give and receive from my students. There are times when I am in the middle of a class, and I ask myself how could I give up all of these. Despite the tiredness, despite the system, despite the papers. Because since kindergarten, I have wanted to teach, to discover in ordinary people the exceptional things.
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