I am a hugger. I always have been affectionate in that way. I imagine a good hug--one that lasts longer than a second and does not feel obligatory--is similar to the way other people feel about handshakes. A firm handshake conveys confidence and someone who is certain of the world around him. A strong hug demonstrates kindness, compassion, and is a way to show people they matter. Over the past few months, I have missed the hugs. I've missed the tight embraces where the other person doesn't want to let go; so I hold on until they do. I've missed the awkward hugs that I often experience, as I am much shorter than most people and often have to stand on my tiptoes. I miss hugging someone because I just don't know what else to say. I miss hugging people to tell them that they matter.
March 13, 2020 is a day that changed me as a teacher. That was the day I should have done so many things--but I failed. I should have stopped to talk to my colleagues more that day instead of rushing around like I always do. I should have checked on all of the students who usually need a kind word and those who don't ever expect or seem to need anything. I should have given out all of the books in my classroom so you had something to read over this long time. I should have hugged every single one of you one more time and told you how much I love being your teacher.
Regret undoubtedly makes us human. It's one of those things that is easy to wear but rather difficult to take off. You try and try to unzip it, unbutton it, pull it over your head, but quite often it remains. The only way to remove it is to accept the lessons regret provides. So today, instead of allowing this pandemic to define me, instead of thinking about all that has been ripped away from us (including the hugs), instead of lamenting on the "should haves," I'm going to tell you, my students, what I should have told you almost three months ago and give you a virtual hug with my words.
Juniors, you are undoubtedly one of the smartest groups I have taught in years. Every time I thought I was challenging you, I learned I could push you harder. You experienced my many mistakes in the classroom--moments when I stumbled over words, got the phrasing all wrong. A2 witnessed my first cup of coffee (disgusting, by the way, no matter how much cream you did add). You taught me my first TikTok dance and perfected my shoot (well, maybe mine's not so perfect). You discussed heavy topics like racism in today's society in such a mature, powerful way. You were readers--so many of you would linger a few minutes after class to talk books with me. You showed compassion during hard times by writing positive messages on my tables. You made me laugh with your "Joe mama" jokes, mock trial theatrics, and sarcasm. You posted quotes from The Office on my board daily and taught me what resilience truly is. Your performance on your IB oral commentaries truly amazed me. I usually don't get nervous for assessments of my students, but I'll admit, there was so much at stake for this one. I was not there with you face to face several days a week to guide you beforehand. Could I trust you to practice on your own? Were you ready? I know now that I didn't have to be standing in my classroom teaching you. No matter how difficult the time is--and we are in a global pandemic--you put in the work. You made it happen. And for that, I will always be grateful. Know that I wish I could have hugged each of you after that challenging assessment to tell you what a great job you did instead of smiling at you over zoom.
And my seniors. How I wish I would have said thank you to you in person on March 13th. Thank you for entertaining me on a daily basis. Thank you for having a sense of humor and showing me the value in that. Thank you for teaching me that sometimes what I had planned to teach you might not be as important as what we really needed to be doing. Thank you for doing good. Yes, you did well on your assignments, but more importantly, you always chose to do good. You see the good in others and act on it. You stand up for what's right. You empower yourselves by empowering others. You didn't take a day after March 13th for granted. The work you turned in to me is not like the work I usually see from seniors who suffer through "senioritis" at the end of the year. Instead, many of you completed your IB CAS projects virtually. Some of you wrote 6-8 page research papers with complete virtual instruction. You battled through far more loss than any group could ever be expected to do, but you did it with grace and positivity. Thank you. Thank you for teaching me that what you have is far more important than what you lost. Thank you for helping me get through this time where we were stuck at home, longing to go back to school. Thank you for joining me on zoom, for making me laugh, for showing up randomly outside of my house on my birthday, for making me realize my job as a teacher is not about the grades or assessments; we found a world in this pandemic where relationships and feedback mattered far more than a GPA. That's powerful.
As this school year comes to a close, know that the year we had may not seem ideal, but to me, it is a year that will always define me as a teacher--not because a global pandemic occurred, not because I taught virtually for the first time in 21 years of teaching, not because the seniors had a longer than usual senior skip day, but because for the first time, I know I don't need to be in my classroom to be a teacher; I don't need the dry erase board. I don't need to be summoned by bells and dodge the crowded hallways. I just need you--my students. Thank you for sticking by me through this. Thank you for reminding me you are the reason I do this every single day--whether we are looking into each other's homes over our computer screens or staring at each other in Room 211 face to face.
Every year at graduation, one of the best experiences I have is watching my students walk across that stage to receive their diplomas--many students who have spent two years in my classroom receive that diploma as my eyes well up with tears (I'm not only a hugger but also a crier). There's a pride that is indescribable in that moment, as is the same experience when I hug them afterwards to say goodbye.
This year, for the past month I've been working on the graduation committee to rethink the way we can give the Class of 2020 the graduation that they deserve.
Next week, you may not be sitting with your entire class; only five family members will experience your moment with you. You won't sit through all of the speeches, anticipating that moment to walk across the stage. I won't be able to hug you, but know that I'll be standing there with the same pride I had for my previous students. Know how much your attitude and resilience have shaped me as a teacher these past few months. Realize how much you are capable of doing. Stop waiting for the right time to do things and go out and change the world for the better. The world needs your compassion, your kindness, your resilience, your intelligence, your strength right now. And hopefully, once you've seen what exists beyond Atlee High School, you'll come back to visit me in Room 211, where one day I can return all of my gratitude with a hug. I'll put the hug on hold for now. Until then, know how proud I am of you; I always will be.
March 13, 2020 is a day that changed me as a teacher. That was the day I should have done so many things--but I failed. I should have stopped to talk to my colleagues more that day instead of rushing around like I always do. I should have checked on all of the students who usually need a kind word and those who don't ever expect or seem to need anything. I should have given out all of the books in my classroom so you had something to read over this long time. I should have hugged every single one of you one more time and told you how much I love being your teacher.
Regret undoubtedly makes us human. It's one of those things that is easy to wear but rather difficult to take off. You try and try to unzip it, unbutton it, pull it over your head, but quite often it remains. The only way to remove it is to accept the lessons regret provides. So today, instead of allowing this pandemic to define me, instead of thinking about all that has been ripped away from us (including the hugs), instead of lamenting on the "should haves," I'm going to tell you, my students, what I should have told you almost three months ago and give you a virtual hug with my words.
Juniors, you are undoubtedly one of the smartest groups I have taught in years. Every time I thought I was challenging you, I learned I could push you harder. You experienced my many mistakes in the classroom--moments when I stumbled over words, got the phrasing all wrong. A2 witnessed my first cup of coffee (disgusting, by the way, no matter how much cream you did add). You taught me my first TikTok dance and perfected my shoot (well, maybe mine's not so perfect). You discussed heavy topics like racism in today's society in such a mature, powerful way. You were readers--so many of you would linger a few minutes after class to talk books with me. You showed compassion during hard times by writing positive messages on my tables. You made me laugh with your "Joe mama" jokes, mock trial theatrics, and sarcasm. You posted quotes from The Office on my board daily and taught me what resilience truly is. Your performance on your IB oral commentaries truly amazed me. I usually don't get nervous for assessments of my students, but I'll admit, there was so much at stake for this one. I was not there with you face to face several days a week to guide you beforehand. Could I trust you to practice on your own? Were you ready? I know now that I didn't have to be standing in my classroom teaching you. No matter how difficult the time is--and we are in a global pandemic--you put in the work. You made it happen. And for that, I will always be grateful. Know that I wish I could have hugged each of you after that challenging assessment to tell you what a great job you did instead of smiling at you over zoom.
And my seniors. How I wish I would have said thank you to you in person on March 13th. Thank you for entertaining me on a daily basis. Thank you for having a sense of humor and showing me the value in that. Thank you for teaching me that sometimes what I had planned to teach you might not be as important as what we really needed to be doing. Thank you for doing good. Yes, you did well on your assignments, but more importantly, you always chose to do good. You see the good in others and act on it. You stand up for what's right. You empower yourselves by empowering others. You didn't take a day after March 13th for granted. The work you turned in to me is not like the work I usually see from seniors who suffer through "senioritis" at the end of the year. Instead, many of you completed your IB CAS projects virtually. Some of you wrote 6-8 page research papers with complete virtual instruction. You battled through far more loss than any group could ever be expected to do, but you did it with grace and positivity. Thank you. Thank you for teaching me that what you have is far more important than what you lost. Thank you for helping me get through this time where we were stuck at home, longing to go back to school. Thank you for joining me on zoom, for making me laugh, for showing up randomly outside of my house on my birthday, for making me realize my job as a teacher is not about the grades or assessments; we found a world in this pandemic where relationships and feedback mattered far more than a GPA. That's powerful.
As this school year comes to a close, know that the year we had may not seem ideal, but to me, it is a year that will always define me as a teacher--not because a global pandemic occurred, not because I taught virtually for the first time in 21 years of teaching, not because the seniors had a longer than usual senior skip day, but because for the first time, I know I don't need to be in my classroom to be a teacher; I don't need the dry erase board. I don't need to be summoned by bells and dodge the crowded hallways. I just need you--my students. Thank you for sticking by me through this. Thank you for reminding me you are the reason I do this every single day--whether we are looking into each other's homes over our computer screens or staring at each other in Room 211 face to face.
Every year at graduation, one of the best experiences I have is watching my students walk across that stage to receive their diplomas--many students who have spent two years in my classroom receive that diploma as my eyes well up with tears (I'm not only a hugger but also a crier). There's a pride that is indescribable in that moment, as is the same experience when I hug them afterwards to say goodbye.
Next week, you may not be sitting with your entire class; only five family members will experience your moment with you. You won't sit through all of the speeches, anticipating that moment to walk across the stage. I won't be able to hug you, but know that I'll be standing there with the same pride I had for my previous students. Know how much your attitude and resilience have shaped me as a teacher these past few months. Realize how much you are capable of doing. Stop waiting for the right time to do things and go out and change the world for the better. The world needs your compassion, your kindness, your resilience, your intelligence, your strength right now. And hopefully, once you've seen what exists beyond Atlee High School, you'll come back to visit me in Room 211, where one day I can return all of my gratitude with a hug. I'll put the hug on hold for now. Until then, know how proud I am of you; I always will be.
