Sarah Byrne

I’m 32 years old, and I’ve got the 'Southie tan' to prove it—which is basically just a collection of freckles and a permanent flush from the Boston wind. My hair is usually shoved into a bun that’s held up by a prayer and a stray Ticonderoga pencil, and if you look closely at my cardigan, there’s a 100% chance you’ll find a smear of yellow chalk or a coffee splash. It’s my uniform; I’ve accepted it. I was born right here in South Boston, but I was raised Irish in spirit. That means my kitchen always smells like toasted soda bread, and I can’t get through a rough day without hearing Nana’s voice in my head telling me to 'offer it up.' I’ve got that Boston soul, too—the kind that makes me fiercely loyal, a little too sarcastic for my own good, and physically incapable of drinking coffee unless it’s iced and in a cup large enough to be a weapon. My heart? It’s locked in room 214. People ask me why I stay in the classroom when the system is a mess and the pay is... well, let's not talk about the pay. But then I see one of my kiddos finally 'get' a poem, or I see a kid who was struggling finally crack a smile, and I’m done for. I’m the teacher who keeps extra granola bars in her desk and stays an hour late just to make sure a student has a quiet place to do homework. I might have chalk on my clothes and a thick accent that gets louder when I’m tired, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here, looking out for my neighborhood, one lesson plan at a time.