It was the Thursday before the first day of school, and the teacher’s lounge had that eerie calm-before-the-storm vibe. You know the one—burnt coffee brewing, the hum of a vending machine that hasn’t accepted paper money since the Bush administration, and the distant cry of a copier that’s jammed again because someone tried to run construction paper through it.

I was sipping a cup of something claiming to be Colombian roast when Sanchez walked in, clutching his new class roster like it had insulted his mother.

“Tell me you saw your list,” he said, dropping into the seat across from me like he’d just escaped a team-building PD.

I nodded. “I saw.”

He widened his eyes. “You’ve got Marco ‘Fire Alarm’ Gutierrez. Destiny ‘Throws Desks’ Lopez. Kevin—the one who once faked rabies with a mouthful of foam soap. And Myra. MYRA. She tried to unionize the 6th grade against standardized testing.”

I smiled. “Yeah. I saw.”

Sanchez looked at me like I’d just adopted a family of raccoons.
“And… you’re okay with this?”

I shrugged.
“Sure. Why not?”

“Dude. That’s not a class roster. That’s a parole board hearing.”

I chuckled.
“Come on. They’re just kids.”

“They’re middle schoolers. Velociraptors with Wi-Fi.”

“Exactly. Smart, fast, and misunderstood.”

“Smart, emotional, messy, creative… misunderstood.”

“They’re chaos goblins.”

“Maybe. But they’re my chaos goblins now.”

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said, pointing.

“What thing?”

“The Mister Rogers Jedi Master thing. Where you act like chaos is a gift from the universe.”

I leaned back in my chair and took another sip.
“Look, man. You know what I see when I look at that list? Opportunity.”

Sanchez gave me a skeptical look.
“Opportunity for what? To test if your blood pressure meds work?”

I smiled and shrugged.

“A chance to reach a kid before the world convinces them they’re already lost. A chance to show someone they’re more than the sum of their write-ups.”

Just then, Ms. Tran walked in carrying a giant insulated tumbler labeled “May contain coffee. May contain tears.”

“Oh, are we sharing horror rosters now?” she said, plopping into the chair next to Sanchez. “Because I’ve got Emilia ‘Cries in Morse Code’ Rivera. And Jaden—who once climbed into a storage cabinet to avoid a vocab quiz. Like it was a stealth op. Like Mission: Impossible, but with puberty and poor judgment.”

Sanchez nodded gravely. “Legend.”

“Also,” she added, “someone gave me Trevor ‘DJ Twitch’ Castillo. The kid who insists on bringing his Bluetooth speaker everywhere. He narrates his own life with beats.”

“Trevor,” I said, nodding. “He once live-streamed his detention.”

Coach Del Toro wandered in, eating a granola bar like it had wronged him. “Y’all talking rosters?”

Sanchez sighed. “We’re talking survival.”

Coach leaned against the counter. “I’ve got Liam—who turned dodgeball into a contact sport. And Bella, who once pepper-sprayed a bee.”

Ms. Tran choked on her coffee. “Was she allergic?”

“No,” Coach said. “Just mad.”

We all sat there, marinating in the moment.

“These kids,” Sanchez muttered.

“Yeah,” I said. “These kids.”

Then, quieter: “But they’re our kids.”

Coach nodded. “Middle school’s where the real work happens. They’re weird, loud, half-formed humans—but man, when they trust you? When you reach one?”

Ms. Tran added, “It’s magic. Exhausting, sticky magic. But still.”

Sanchez sighed and looked down at his roster again. “I got Lalo ‘No Shoes’ Ramirez. Kid hasn’t worn footwear since second grade. Just… vibes and calluses.”

I clapped him on the back. “See? You’re already expanding your worldview.”

He groaned. “And probably my immune system.”

We laughed—loud and a little too long—because in less than four days, the halls would be thick with Axe body spray, neon backpacks, hormonal plot twists, and the unmistakable shriek of someone yelling, “It wasn’t me!”

And honestly? We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Though we did agree—the coffee situation needed serious intervention.

First staff meeting agenda item: Elevating our caffeine game to something Batman himself would approve—because surviving middle school on the current brew is like trying to dance without music.

To my fellow educators—thank you for showing up with grit, heart, and a sense of humor (even before your second cup of coffee). Here’s to another year of controlled chaos, meaningful moments, and the kind of laughter that keeps us going. Wishing you strength, joy, and very strong coffee this school year.