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.