I used to teach on the west side. Of Chicago. Garfield Park. Twenty-six five-year old souls in my hands. On a street where sometimes kids didn’t make it. From the school to the car. A street ruled by the Vice Lords. Where sometimes the front and back windows were shot out of all the car windows. Where sometimes old women in Sunday hats at the church next door shared cake over the fence with gang members. Where once on the way to parent teacher conferences, a full bucket of water was tossed through my car window, soaking my left side. Where if the Lords were sitting on my car at the end of the day, the elderly janitor and I would sit and chat. Until they left.