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?