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and bulletproof. I know you work at that school in the hood, but it doesn't give you superpowers."

I wanted to argue with him then. "Yes, Dad, it does. I do have super powers. Don't you see? That guy tripped the disrespect button in my head. A button that didn't even exist in me until I taught for two years in the inner city."

Sure that was part of it. I did feel disrespected, but it was really more like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder form the accumulated future felons I teach in seventh grade. Don't even get me started about them. I mean it. I can tell you stories, that's all I'll say here.

Seventh-grade.
Seventh-gra der.
It looks so silly on paper. It even sounds silly when you say it out loud. And as I think about it now, I think I know what really happened that night. Why that guy really backed off. I talked to his inner seventh-grader. And his inner seventh-grader freaked.

My mother gave me a magnet for Christmas that says: "You can't scare me. I'm a teacher." It has a cartoon of a guy putting a gun in a woman's face. The woman is wearing a starched blouse, skirt and sensible shoes. Her face is disdainful. Like a superhero. Hey, there are worse super powers a person could have than to be able to scorn gracefully and scoff with ease.

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