Sometimes I wonder if they even care about the blank stares and those unprepared and those that are scared. They don't recognize with their blind eyes and their constant sighs, as if we are the gray in a room that should be white. We go every day and say what we should say, and try what we may but it's never enough and it's not ever ok. There is always the one. The one kid who did what he did, and got a fat lip from being hit by the cold looks that he always gets. And the looks he receives aren't even from students. The teachers can be cold and pretend they don't know, like the glow isn't carelessness that burns in their souls. A student can tell when a teacher doesn't love them, and a student can tell when a teacher doesn't want to teach them. If a teacher is going to teach, they must do it with passion. Passion for the art of learning, passion for the wounded, passion for the lost and passion for the stupid. We can tell when they want to be there less than the kids do. We can tell that they come to work just because they have to. We want to see a teacher come not because he has to, but because he cares about you and wants the best for you. We want to see teachers become our second parents, we want to see teachers stand up for the struggles that are apparent. We want to see a teacher believe in our minds, and get behind as we journey and climb. School drags on for such a long time when we can feel that our teachers are not standing by our sides. Rise up, teachers and know that we're hurting. We're hungry and burning and needing your teaching. Stand up for the ones that have problems at home. Stand up for the one who keeps struggling on.