




The Potomac sparkled, reflecting the early afternoon light. Crisp Autumn wind flipped my hair straight up, above my head. I silently walked the labyrinth at

Wispy strands of air whip my body, a gentle massage only a winter’s morn can provide; I tilt my chin up into the brilliant blue

The first time I saw the words “ms. chintha is a bitch” inked on to walls, I was 29 years old. I had been teaching for a mere four years, but felt so veteran already because I had stopped crying when fights happened in or near my classroom among students. Up until my fourth year, I blamed myself for not creating a safe enough space for my students and that’s why they began fighting.