Meet my Homies

Let me introduce you to my homies. They don't stand on a big city street corner. Each Thursday morning at 10:00 they drink coffee at Johnny Jay's in Casper (this is the pseudo-50's restaurant at which now President Obama ate lunch while campaigning for delegates at the state Democratic convention-I don't know where Hillary ate that day). They are not unemployed school drop-outs; they are retired teachers and administrators. We average about 8 to 10 in attendance but that is increasing as the snowbirds return from Arizona. When they invited me, I told that that Thursdays were for skiing and if I was there in the winter, they were my second choice. They accepted that. The only "bling" they show is a wedding band. They don't wear earrings-just a hearing aide or two. When someone tells a story, everyone leans toward the middle of the table to hear. They don't have skin piercing unless it was part of a hip or knee replacement. They don't talk about scoring dope-just the cost of prescription drugs. They don't talk about tagging bridges or box cars; they just wish the writing on signs were easier to read. They don't talk about offing anyone-just discuss anyone we know on the obituary page (the saying goes: The first thing I do is open the paper to the obituary page and if I'm not on it, that's a good start to the day). They don't talk about hurting people; they just talk about their personal aches and pains. They don't think much of No Child Left Behind, yearly performance testing, or many recent court decisions. They like the good old days when the number of central administrators didn't exceed the number of people actually in the school buildings actively teaching kids. My homies are survivors of the education wars. They know the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat as it pertains in and out of the classroom to students. These are my friends, my allies, my story tellers, my compatriots, MY HOMIES.
NOTE: My "homie consultant" tells me that "Word" means agreed.