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In New Orleans it’s called “mess.” That cancerous, manipulative drama that teenage girls get wrapped up in every year. We dealt with our share of it this year at my school, most of it within the seventh grade. It came to a head with two strong-willed young ladies yelling from behind their desks, exchanging threats and insults.

A school district in the midwestern town of Erie, Ill. found Todd Parr’s award-winning children’s book objectionable because it included references to gay and lesbian families. The school board gave in to pressure from a small group of outspoken parents and decided to remove The Family Book, written and illustrated by Parr, from their elementary school’s social and emotional development curriculum. According to school district Superintendent Brad Cox, the concerned parents took issue with the fact that "the book references families with two mommies or two daddies."

It’s summertime, and students have replaced class time with free time. In the wake of the Trayvon Martin shooting, parents and teachers are painfully aware of the widespread racial profiling targeting men of color—particularly younger men who are more apt to be out and about during these summer months.

This past February, our school abandoned the traditional Valentine’s Day love note exchange, opting instead to encourage school-wide participation in a new activity we called the “Valentine’s Day Apology Note Project.”

In a recent discussion about a history reading, I asked students if they understood the need to think critically about what we read, even if the reading is labeled “historical.”

Rodrigue drove me nuts. He stood too close and talked too much. If his hand was raised and I didn’t call on him, his face would contort and he would put his head down on his desk. He answered questions with a “know-it-all” tone that the other students (and I) found obnoxious.

My middle school students had started to use words like “bum,” “creeper,” and “hobo” to describe people who are homeless in our city. To my eighth-graders, it was comic relief.

We each have a part to play, a role uniquely ours each day. I’d raised my hand often enough and spoke about equity and LGBT rights during my years in Minnesota’s Anoka-Hennepin School District to convince myself I was accomplishing the role I’d chosen when I decided to teach.

Karl paused at the classroom doorway, his thin face pinched with apprehension as he stared down the hallway. “Is everything all right?” I asked. Startled, he looked at me almost guiltily. “Uh—I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Karl risked being late by the time he darted out.

This just in: Men make up a small fraction of early childhood and elementary school teachers. And for children younger than 6, having a male teacher is a rarity. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, just 2.3 percent of preschool and kindergarten teachers are men.