Chapter 4: The Breaking Point

My blood pressure spiked.

Right then, I wanted to yell.

Yeah, homeroom teachers get a little more money than regular teachers.

A hundred bucks more per semester.

Can you believe that?

Up before sunrise, home long after dark.

Seventeen, eighteen hours at school—endless meetings, endless paperwork, parent emails, weekend and holiday reports that never stop.

Phone always on, ready for anything, any time.

All in, a homeroom teacher’s workload is at least ten times what a regular teacher does.

You think I’m killing myself for a hundred bucks?

Is it worth it?

The Facebook group kept blowing up:

"Homeroom teachers get more pay, plus more chances at bonuses and awards. Perks everywhere."

"No wonder you won’t give up the job even when you’re sick. SMH."

"If you want to make money, don’t mess with our kids. We don’t owe you anything!"

"Just leave already. 🙄"

I was so angry I couldn’t type a word.

If I wanted money, I’d have left long ago.

A private high school once offered to double my salary to steal me away, but I turned them down, politely.

Why?

Because I cared about the students. About their precious kids.

Ms. Carter, the English teacher, finally stepped in:

"Mr. Grant worked while sick for your kids. Instead of appreciating it, how can you say such awful things? Don’t the grades speak for themselves?"

In two years, I’d taken a class from dead last to first in the grade.

That’s a fact.

There was a pause, then a parent piped up:

"That’s just because the kids worked hard. It doesn’t matter who the teacher is—it’s not about you."

The thread echoed:

"Yeah, my son studies till midnight every night. With that effort, of course his grades went up."

"My daughter’s done so many workbooks, they’re as tall as she is. 😂"

"Quit trying to take credit for yourself."

For a while, I just stared at the blue glare of my laptop screen, the old heater humming in the corner of my apartment—a small comfort against all the noise.