I'm one of those people who takes several hours to leave a place. I have to say goodbye to every last person I know. I linger because I don't like endings. I never have. There are only a few times in my life I wished away time--battling the chicken pox, the tantrum my daughter had in a restaurant when she was little, any trip I make to the dentist. For the most part, though, endings are hard for me and closure just doesn't come easy. I know that with every ending comes a new beginning, but the "lasts" are just difficult. That's always been one of the hardest things about raising my own kids. What if it's the last time they mispronounce "hamburger"? (My son called them "hamburgurgers" for a long time, and I thought it was the cutest thing). What if this is the last time you know he's going to wrap his little hand around my finger and hold it as we walk through the grocery story parking lot? Would it be any easier if I knew it was his last? I'm not so sure.
We spend so long counting the days until June. We add up the assignments and the final units and the last projects. We measure our time from bell to bell, marking period to marking period. So, I'm not so sure why I am so sad when I knew this day was going to come the minute I started this school year. I go into each year of teaching knowing I have a finite number of days to make a difference, to teach you the content, to enjoy a snow day or two (hopefully) and a pep rally and a trip through the cafeteria lunch line.
The reality of it all is we can't go back to what we had before learning in a pandemic. There are things we learned this year that we can never unlearn. The way we understand school has drastically changed: I have the power to mute some of you every day despite the fact that I can't see your facial expressions when I do so because I stare into an abyss of black boxes on zoom. Simultaneously, I have often been made to feel powerless when I am muted and forget to turn on my mic. We walk in the direction of the arrows in the hallway and often collaborate with one another through a screen now instead of face to face. But we've learned flexibility and the art of balance and how to eat lunch in fifteen minutes and an awful lot of patience. For teachers like myself who have had to juggle students in the room and on zoom simultaneously, we learn that the line we walk is fine and that more often than not, one group is neglected even though that's never the intention. We learn to multitask more and sleep less. We fail but we keep getting back up.
One of the things I like most about teaching teenagers is the way you handle difficult situations. More people should take note of how you deal with things and perhaps there wouldn’t be so much stress, division, and hardship in our lives. You see, you have grit, perseverance, and a resilience that most adults I know do not possess. You don’t let much get you down--including learning in a pandemic. You complete multiple assignments a week--including IAs and tests with grace under pressure. You’re expected to do community service at a whim’s notice and simultaneously earn good grades and participate in an excess of extracurricular activities--all the while spending time with your family and friends. You went to school this year masked or behind a screen, the pep rallies and the spirit trains and the rage cages whisked from underneath your feet. Yet, you're still standing on solid ground.
Ironically, while I am terrible a goodbyes, I am ready to say goodbye to this year--to the masks and the social distancing and the zoom and room combo. But I'm honestly not ready to say goodbye to all of you. Truthfully, you haven't seen me at my best even though I am working harder than I ever have in my teaching career. I'm a teacher who is only still standing because you helped change her mindset. You see, there have been many moments this year when I wanted to give up on teaching. But I had some pretty decent role models. You're not afraid to challenge yourselves and take risks--whether that be to talk to the girl sitting six feet away from you or try something new in your writing or just surviving another day of hoping you would not be sent home to quarantine. I eventually found myself saying, "If they can learn successfully in a pandemic, I certainly can teach in one."
Thank you for embracing this year and for helping me view teaching in a pandemic from a different lens. For every time you made me laugh, for every time I was asked to unmute, for every mask we wore and every desk I cleaned and for every lunch outside and everything else in between--thank you. What I learned this year can never be erased. And while you may no longer be students in my classroom in a few short weeks, you will always be my students--the ones who made me stronger and better.
Saying goodbye is hard. Goodbyes make you stop and realize everything you've had. They make you think about the last time and how you wish it would linger just a little bit longer. I cry every year when the last student leaves my classroom at the end of the year, and I know I'll do the same this year. I get attached to the fact that you all are the future and that I had a part in shaping you but at the same time have to let you go. I get attached to your humor and your video game-playing, TikTok-loving ways. I get attached to the students who don't read the books as much as to the ones who do. So, yes, it's hard to say goodbye, and but what I'm realizing is perhaps, that's a good thing. It means we did something right this year--the year when everything seemed to be wrong. It means we had something that was worth saying goodbye to.
