Her father poo-pooed the idea

Of her going to Law School

And becoming an attorney, like him,

Because that’s not what girls did,

Even though she could take apart his arguments

With her eyes closed.

After battling her father at the dinner table,

She learned what it’s like to deal with difficult people.

Up in her room,

She sat her little brother in a chair,

Brought out a small blackboard

And wrote her name out in chalk.

Outside of Chicago,

Standing in front of her first classroom,

She learned something important about teaching.

That children were the easy part,

If only the job were just teaching.

Battling crazed parents,

The side-eyed glances of other teachers,

The imperious posturing of principals,

The lonely commute out to a school

In the middle of nowhere,

Where her youth withered away 

Into the cornfields.

Still, her students smiled brightly with

Sweet, eager faces ready to please,

And even when animal spirits stirred after recess

Staring them down, serious as a southern judge,

She learned something important about happiness.

You must celebrate what can be celebrated when you can celebrate it.

That her happiness is hers and no one else's,

And no one could make her unhappy.

Not her father, not any man,

Not the mixed bag of teaching, or love,

Not her dreams of becoming an attorney

Standing in front of a judge, ready to argue her case.