The Last Day . . .

I'm sitting in my almost empty classroom on the last day of finals, and it is a very strange feeling.

I didn't expect to be sad when this year ended.

Halfway through the first semester, I was almost convinced I wanted to come back next year. Come back and do it better. Come back and conquer the unconquerable quest for excellence.

But then it just became too much. Too stressful, too exhausting, too frustrating. Working with kids, when respect is the highest need on your list, is a very challenging endeavor. For one thing, it's not easy to gain their respect. For another, they're not very good at knowing how to respect, even when they want to.

So, in the midst of those spring blues, I decided that continuing on teaching was definitely NOT the path for me.

But now, in the midst of goodbyes, final evaluations, talks on the roof about books, class parties, and packing up my classroom (which I've lived in, much more than I've lived at home, these past several months), I'm not so sure.

I'm going to miss these students. Miss these conversations. Miss the crazy drama of my 9th grade class. Miss the wide-eyed expectation of my 7th graders. Miss the quiet kindness of my seniors. And, perhaps above all, miss the thrill of creation with my actors.

Several of my 9th graders stayed behind after their "final" (it was actually a class party mixed with performances of their original tragedies -- the actual test had been done early) to convince me of all the reasons I had to stay. These included (but were not limited to) having all my students dress up like Darth Vader, having Claire make me peach cobbler every day, having Yasmeen hook me up with a British husband (who can sing, is rich, and works for the U.N.), having Star Wars marathons at Matt's house, and being teased mercilessly about, well, just about everything.

[the wonderfully crazy 9th grade class]

It was a pretty tempting offer. And I want to come back. Want to teach these students again. Want to see them change and grow. Want to grow with them. I told them that maybe when they're seniors I'll come be their British literature teacher.

But who knows? Dreams are good, but in this transient world, and transient lifestyle, it's so hard to believe that it'll actually come back around.

And it saddens me, much more than I expected, because I believe that we could keep growing together. That we could trust each other more, respect each other more, learn together more. That we've built a foundation (with much toil and tears, at least on my part) and next year could be better.

There are so many things I want to experience and do. I only get to live once, and I want to make it count. Want to experience all I can. Orphanages and convents and farms and universities and protests. And yet, I also want to build. Want to have a foundation, and get to grow on it. Get to see something emerge. Get to lay deep roots. Get to be part of something permanent and stable. Get to invest. Beyond a year, beyond a class.

I want a community and a home.

7th Grade Haiku

Here is some joy to share with you. This is a selection of some haiku my 7th graders wrote this year. One (by Anna-Lena) tied for 3rd place in the formal category of the poetry contest Whitman held (and there were 180 overall entries, 7th-12th grade, so placing was kind of a big deal =). And "Bob" and "Test Day" are probably two of my favorite funny poems ever.

Flashes of Lightning, Rolls of Thunder
As the the thunder rolls
and lightning flashes brightly
I watch with wonder

by Anna-Lena


Test Day
Is it Monday, Josh?
No, it's Tuesday. The test day.
Oops! I am busted.

Clouds
It's cloudy outside
Every test day, it's cloudy
Like it was promised.

by Chan Young


Who left the milk out?
Spoiled and rotten
unhealthy and so chunky
left out in the sun

by Josh


Bob
Bob is a good friend
But Bob stole my cookie jar
Poor Bob is dead now

by Bassam and Elias


Traveling Clouds
Carried by the wind
Sending shade upon the land
mixing with the blue

Lost Strength
No water to drink,
no sun to shine upon it.
Once strong, it withers.

by Bridget (who wrote a poem that came in 1st place for the humorous category)


Insomnia
Hearing thunder roar,
Seeing lightning flash by me,
Trying to fall asleep.

The Ugly Duckling
Ducklings mocking him,
the small duckling cries,
he just swims away.

by Sarah

Teaching Wrap-ups

Somewhat inexplicably, I'm only nine days away from the end of my first year of teaching.

This is crazy to me. And very stressful. Who knew there could be so much left to do? So much to simply stay on top of -- not to mention those far-off, crazy dreams of actually finishing well.

Tomorrow I will listen to the last two novel presentations from my seniors, and do a very brief review in which I'll try to recap everything they've learned (or at least studied) this year. Then I'll give them their final on Wednesday, and they will be done. Out of here and on to bigger and better things (like traveling to Turkey for a week).

But it's my other classes that I'm more concerned about. The classes that have wormed their way into my heart and stuck themselves onto the walls of my life, with sticky glue and tenacity. The classes I'll carry with me when I leave.

It isn't that I don't love my seniors -- I do. It's just that they're already individuals, cutting their own paths in the world, without need for school or guidance. It's just that I'm too close to their age to really be a role model or someone to look up to. It's just that they already have one foot out the door, and it's hard to listen while their feet are itching to run.

My 9th graders, on the other hand, while they yell, and jump up from their seats, and hum songs, and speak without raising their hands, and tease me mercilessly, actually believe I have something to teach them. And they're willing and ready to learn. Eager to soak up anything that might fall into their paths. Eager to live and experience and grow.

Then there are my 7th graders. The class that is truly mine. My homeroom. My double-periods of English. Eight hours a week I spend with them, and they spend many more reading for me, writing for me, and learning vocab for me. I never expected to love teaching Middle School, yet somehow, with their energy, enthusiasm, laughter and hugs, they have become one of the bright spots in my day.

How do I say goodbye to these faces, these people? How does it just end one day, among diplomas and waving caps, and then, no more. They'll go on to read or not read, to care passionately or to sit apathetically, and I'll never know.

Or will I?