8 years. 8 long and tireless years.
I've finally made it.
One month ago, I moved back home to Chicago. After years of traversing foreign land, I've finally come home to the place I belong. I'm back in the classroom and I could not feel more full. The overwhelming joy that cascades from the wells of my heart every day I step outside my home and realize I am in the greatest city in the entire world. The deep satisfaction I experience at the end of every day when I've just poured my heart out to the flowering young Black and Brown men of this city. It is unmatched. I haven't felt this good in forever.
I love this city because it brings out the best in me. Since I've been home, there is an increase sense of pride I have in everything I do. Even after over a year outside the classroom, I've been able to seamlessly re-enter this profession with greater vigor and skill. Part of it is my desire to give Chicago's children, not only the best I have to offer, but the best there is. These are my boys, born of block and beauty. They are mine. I feel a great sense of personal responsibility for their welfare, which pushes me to form new habits that allow me to work harder than I ever have. My mood is brighter because I feel purposed, successful, and valued in my work. I live knowing that I am doing what I've been called to do. It's a beautiful feeling, knowing that you are walking in your purpose.
I love this city because it brings me hope. In the midst of the desperation and desolation, as people move away from this city in droves, I see a future here. A new horizon. Chicago will never die. No matter how many times this city is slaughtered by the media and, unfortunately,
I hope this feeling never leaves.