the walk home from school

On my way to and from school every day, I pass a white house that's inhabited, but never has windows or blinds open. It sits behind the gas station and attached convinience store ("Naw, we don't got much here. We're really just a beer store."). Sometimes, however, the inhabitants are outside, especially if I leave school early enough and it's sunny out.

If the men are outside, I brace myself. I smile, but not too friendly; I'll mouth a "hey", but only if they greet me first; I'll even make small talk, but only if they initiate a conversation; otherwise, I'll walk by purposefully like I'm on a schedule, eyes down, eyes intent upon something in the distance, eyes searching for something in my tote bag. "I'm a TEACHER," I always catch myself reasoning, but I ought to know by now that that doesn't make a difference.

But other days, the kids of the house are out. The girl is the oldest, tall and heavy-set, but she's still in elementary school. There are two boys younger than she is, scrawny little ones. They've all still got their red polo shirts and khaki pants on.

The first time, one asked, "You teach at the high school, don't you?" And I answered yes, and that I was Ms. Chang, and asked them for their names. Since then, they're sure to call out "Ms. Chang!" when I walk by. One day, they all hid under a table on their porch to surprise me when I passed. Another day, they ran up the street after me to sell candy-bars for a fund-raiser. Wednesday, they ran up to me with hugs. The girl will ask if I need help carrying my tote bags and books. In the morning, she'll ask if she can walk with me to school.

They're cute. They make me feel like I'm a regular here.