The White House Has a Rubber Room
I teach boys at-risk. Many are clinically depressed, clinically emotionally disturbed, and clinically inclined to embrace an ultimate chaos that upends not just classrooms, but any school they choose to focus on.
Some are serial sexual predators.
Like Trump, watching institutions collapse is something they can do in their sleep.
How do you have a math test when someone has stripped naked, and is running around the room screaming.
The White House could be my classroom. On a good day, my kids could not tell you who the president is.
They aren’t taking lessons from Donald Trump upending families, juvenile detention centers, courtrooms, and skateboard parks where they target parents who have no clue how to deal with them.
They will steal anything that is not nailed down tight. They are especially fond of credit cards.
There is nothing normal about their education.
You can’t put them on the second floor because they jump out of windows.
Look. At. Me. I. Can. Fly.
Not.
There is nothing they cannot smash.
Every time I watch the evening news (it is very hard to relax), I am thinking I was just looking at my students. I turn the TV off.
There is no escape. They would watch you die, and laugh.
I wish I was kidding, but I never kid. It’s not their fault. Their brains are different, and usually on fire.
They can climb walls. Any wall. They eat pop culture’s lunch.
Your president fills the chaotic-crazies paradigm like a pharmacist.