Hazel Eyes

I was three minutes late to check my bag for my flight.

Three minutes.

Tears.

I had crossed all my T’s and dotted all my I’s. I had done everything right. I ran from the parking garage, focused on one thing and one thing only: getting to my final destination.

Hazel Eyes.

They looked at me, and they weren’t all that nice.

8:15 was the cutoff.

It was 8:18.

“You have the option to dump anything over 2.5 ounces, and then you can hop your flight, or you can rebook.”

I took the second option.

“Well, text this number and you’ll get a bot. You can change your flight.”

The tears I had been holding back poured over.

The woman looked at me like I was some dramatic, dumb blonde who simply couldn’t regulate her emotions.

I sank into a cozy leather chair and tried the bot.

Booted out.

Back in.

Back out again.

I finally said, “Fuck it.”

I wanted a human.

Human-to-human.

Face-to-face.

Eye-to-eye.

What happened to the human experience?

It’s being taken over by robots that lack sensitivity, emotional regulation, and compassion for the human race.

Bots cannot relate.

And, frankly, it’s gross.

I suspect my profession of teaching will be obsolete someday soon. AI schools will apparently be better. It’s already happening in Scottsdale.

AI is promising to “replace” warm smiles and tender hugs from the male history teacher—you know, the one the fatherless child looks up to.

Fuck that.

Back to the airport.

Within five minutes, the kind attendant took pity on my tear-stained face of disappointment and had me booked on a new flight—only a few hours later than the original.

Hazel eyes bound.

The other woman, the Karen, looked at me and said:

“Stop crying.”

I wanted to punch her in the face.

What right do you have to tell me how to feel?

I have to get to hazel eyes.

I make no apologies for being an all-feeling human.

Big heart.

Big feelings.

Love hard.

Hurt hard.

Care hard.

Disappoint hard.

I will not be anyone else.

So here’s my segue.

Let me give you an example.

My beloved sister, Sara, died over Christmas from a heroin overdose.

I cried in front of my class.

That’s a very human reaction to losing my half-sister—she was born when I was in high school. I helped raise her.

That’s not an overreaction.

It’s not dramatization.

It’s not being overly sensitive.

That’s grief.

How I choose to handle my grief is not up for debate.

It’s not up for discussion.

My journey is mine.

Yours is yours.

It will look five billion different ways.

A student went home and told their mom that I had lost a loved one and cried in class. The parent called my boss.

I got pulled into the office.

“Don’t cry in front of your class. Step out, compose yourself, and go back in. You cannot cry in front of your students. Call me to take over. Your students take on your feelings, and you need to work on emotional composure.”

The day you ask me to change the content of my character is the day I walk away.

You’re asking me to be robotic.

Stoic.

Contained.

For the sake of what?

Aren’t you being a bit contradictory when you tell me to teach students that all emotions and feelings are valid, while simultaneously telling me I’m not allowed to show real, reasonable emotions and feelings?

Am I not human?

Am I not allowed to be real?

My fucking sister just died.

And instead of meeting me with an “I am so sorry” and a hug, you lectured me on emotionality in teaching and maintaining my emotional composure.

That’s not good leadership.

That’s fuckery.

You can’t teach a kid well if you don’t understand their unique family situation and structure—what they thrive in, what gets them out of bed, what makes them feel safe, and what they struggle with.

You have to address their feelings.

Their emotions.

You have to teach them from the inside out.

They’re humans.

Not robots.

We took a teacher training on AI. We were taught how to use it to propel our teaching capabilities and help our children thrive in the classroom. We encourage the same with our students on their Chromebooks.

I sat in that training perplexed.

I raised my hand.

“We absolutely, positively need to teach children boundaries around AI. Children are using AI to replace talk therapy. Some are using Siri as a therapist. There have even been horrific situations involving children relying on AI during moments of crisis. Like all things, teaching moderation and boundaries around AI is in the best interest of our students’ safety.”

“Well, we are not supposed to be focusing on teaching emotional regulation and leading with feelings, Ms. Rosella. We are teaching state standards and all school subjects.”

Immediately, I felt dismissed.

My dear friend, our school social worker, raised her hand.

“Melissa just made a very important point, and she is correct. If we are going to allow AI to be utilized at our school, we have a responsibility to teach best safety practices and model what those practices look like to keep our children safe.”

My administrator looked embarrassed.

That discussion, among others, made me feel disregarded as a professional.

I wasn’t being edified as the incredible woman, teacher, and colleague I was.

So I quit.

Now I work for myself, and I am working hard at edifying myself.

I use AI when necessary. I recognize its value. I also recognize its limitations.

It is not a perfect science.

And it is absolutely, positively NOT a replacement for human connection, human judgment, emotional support, or professional mental-health care.

It is not a magical solution for mental-health issues.

Quite the contrary.

Technology can assist us.

It can make things faster.

It can make things easier.

But it cannot love a child.

It cannot look into their eyes and recognize that something is wrong before they ever say a word.

It cannot sit beside a grieving student.

It cannot give a hug.

It cannot know what it means to lose a sister.

It cannot understand what it means to be human.

As for hazel eyes, I guess we’ll have to see.

But I learned something at the airport:

Always show up an hour early.

And perhaps don’t pack the expensive perfume.

Buy the mini.

Better to be hella early than making it by the skin of your teeth.

Because apparently, according to Hazel Eyes:

“If you are on time, you are late. If you are early, you are on time.”