You're really only stealing from yourself.

I believe that my classroom should be my haven, the place where every student can feel safe and every object is in its right place. Apparently, I am the only one who believes this. Despite numerous reminders that my desk is off limits, items are always disappearing from their assigned spots. The solution, I thought, would be a barricade around my desk, making is virtually impossible to force your way to my stash of Sharpies and stamps and whatnot without some serious calculation and stealth. For a while, it seemed to deter the ninjas who would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down, but now, the items have begun to disappear again.

Until recently, the most perplexing disappearance was that of my collection of 36 Sharpies, kept in a container behind my desk. They were taken, clearly, all in one fell swoop, a feat which I had to admire, though I mourned the loss of my beautiful markers heavily. I begged, pleaded, and bribed to try to coax the perpetrator to return my property. I even offered total amnesty: just put them on my desk, no questions asked. But they were long gone.

Mostly it’s the little things: a pen here, a piece of paper there, even a Literature book every now and then. Why they would want to abscond with one of my classroom textbooks is beyond me, especially considering that I can’t seem to get them to read it in class and they all get their own copy for home at the beginning of the year, free of charge. Yet, who am I to deny some child who wants to enjoy the wonders of literature outside the classroom?

However, none of these broke my spirit. I wouldn’t let a little thing like material loss affect my dedication to the students. None of these things were truly vital to the classroom anyway. We could make do.

Until now.

You see, some genius decided that the ultimate prize from my classroom would be the pencil sharpener. You know the one, the silver contraption that’s bolted to the wall, that taught you coordination at an early age because you were forced to hold a pencil and turn the handle at the same time. The one that often required ridiculous amounts of force in order to make your pencil that perfect specimen of sharpness, sharp enough to stab someone with. For years, I was without a pencil sharpener. Kids would have to borrow a pencil from someone else, or pray that they knew another teacher nearby who might let them use their sharpener instead. Finally, I got my coveted wall sharpener. It lasted a total of about 6 months, and now, it is gone. All that is left is the holes drilled into the cinderblock walls, four gaping reminders of the wood shaving device that once dwelled there.

And you, oh pencil-sharpener-stealer, exactly what was your endgame? What devious plans do you have that required a wall unit sharpener? Was it some trophy for you, some symbol of ultimate defiance? Did you delight in hearing me tell my students that they could sharpen their pencils no longer? How long did it take you to unscrew all those screws? Kudos, sharpener thief, whoever you may be.