Bizarre prologue, a nod to a story not told: I had originally hoped to write a creative piece this week about the storm-grate outside my classroom in the courtyard between my room and that of a crazy and delightful retiring english teacher. I had hoped to write a silly, witty, and imaginative piece that would pay tribute to my friend and colleague of creative writing. It was to be clever; it was to answer the question "where do all our students go?" It was to be light and fun (and maybe a little playfully dark), and avoid the reality that our students just get up and move away because it is time for them to go... ...And I cannot find the space in my head today to spin a fictional yarn. Perhaps some other day... You see, I am distracted this morning by emotions that stretch back almost twenty years, and yet cycle annually for me. Each year stronger. Each year more complex. Each year dragging forward the feelings and stories from year's past in an ever-growing feedback-loop of reminiscence...I know where the students actually go. It is not a mystery like in Blue Beard's tale, squirreled away in a creative writing macabre ending; they just walk away because it is time for them to do so...
Sweet Melancholy: You see, it's that time of year again. Graduation. Pride, loss, hope & laughter, tears, hugs, awkward silences... happy melancholy; they all flood me each year starting around 5pm graduation night and pushing me to linger as the last families drive away from the high school around 7pm...
I teach for a living. I am blessed with roughly 100 kids a year to try to teach and learn from. I receive the sacred trust that is forced by a compulsory public educational system with great humility and seriousness. I work hard and invest myself in my student's lives well beyond the social studies curriculum I try to effectively teach. I get to feel a sense of satisfaction when my students succeed, and suffer great remorse, sadness, and perhaps a modicum of guilt & regret when their lives become unmanageable...
1st person singular and plural: Perhaps you noticed that the paragraph above contains half-a-dozen "I" statements, hardly the model of selflessness that is expected from an educator, mentor, advisor that seems to be affected deeply be seeing yet another group of beautiful souls stepping out into a wider world. You see, it is not selfless work we do. It is deeply selfish. We believe in what we do and who we work with. We strive to do what we think is best for them, trying to anchor our decisions in best practice, data analysis, collegial conversations and comparison. We try to be purposeful in our actions, hoping to have meaningful and positive impact on our charges of future promise. And yet we sometimes fly by the seat of our pants; we make it up on the spot; we experiment with tactics and strategies, hoping to do no harm and helping our children, our young adults, our growing-ups to find their way to something positive, meaningful, and forward progressing...
Possessiveness that I find wonderful: The last paragraph had 10 instances of "we," that collective 1st person use that speaks to our efforts beyond individual ego. That idea of community, of collective responsibility, of shared values and expectations. It also used 7 occurrences of "our." It is a possessiveness that points to the relationship that happens in classrooms and schools where the lives of students matter... not in the abstract, but in the personal, real, and persistent relationships that we try to form there.
And yet, today's post is not about "we," or "our;" It is about "me" and "my" today. It is about a sense of wonderful loss that is delightful and powerfully sad all in one go. It is the realization that I was taught this lesson long ago, I just didn't know it then. But I understand now. I've been understanding more and more each year...
A short anecdote that has helped me learn some perspective: Years ago I went to grad school, and I worked in an academic library, and I formed friendships there. I was employed for four years in a reasonably small back room where books are received, processed, catalogued, and placed into circulation for the rest of the world to use or ignore as they please. When it was time for me to move on from the city to start a new teaching-life in the beautiful rural foothills of the Appalachians (only 3-ish hours from my library friends) my closest friend—an older brother figure with more experience and wisdom in the world, often positive, amazingly insightful, and just plain fun to be around—withdrew a bit and offered a "no offense" statement to me that surprised me at the time. It's a paraphrase that is only accurate in the general intent (It was almost 20 years ago now): "No offense, but every time I invest friendship in our student employees, they just end up leaving, and I am tired of it. I shouldn't make any more 'new-buddies' if they just end up leaving over and over again." It's a paraphrase, like I said. It is most likely not what was said, it is what I heard though. I was mildly hurt that day, feeling a little rebuked, but more-so just confused. I planned to "come home" often. I was only moving a few hours away. It wasn't good bye; it was just minor distance. But my friend was right... For a year or so I "went home" often for live music and short visits, often doing the return drive through the night to arrive back at my new home as the sun came up. And then I had children. Sleep trumped the six hour driving investment to see a few hours of friends and music. My trips to the city night life and my friend's world of live music and no-matter-what softball early Saturday mornings did not mesh well with a new family settling down 3 hours away. I have returned only twice since then. How lame... and clearly proof that my friend was right... I had left him...But I have paid attention to him, and he to me; the relationship changed, but sustained because it was right to be so. The lesson I have learned: It hurts to watch my students leave. Although I feel great pride, and hope, and happiness, I am also aware that I am being left behind, no longer meaningful and critical for most of them; as they are to me, all 1600+ of them...
And yet some of them return and visit, and reach out digitally at the most unexpected times; some of my old charges become "buddies" of sorts and I feel renewed each time they touch base with their aging teacher of old. I fear that I should not make "new buddies" as each new class arrives, and yet always seem to let another batch of 100 in, just as I am sure (in fact, I know) that my mentor/buddy/friend from my library days continues to allow "new buddies" into his life as well, and also keeps up with a few of the old ones who move on...
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