Never sure why, but some classes just resonate more deeply
with you. The memories of their faces
come back with full Technicolor recall.
Names don’t get lost. I have
files full of faces that have long since lost their names. Few years back, I had one of those
Technicolor classes.
Maybe I remember them because I learned more about myself
than they did from me. These special
classes are my marks on the old kitchen wall.
This is how I measure growth now.
And I’ve said it before, but can’t say it enough. I get way more than I give here, and get far
too much credit. The giving comes back
in abundance. I’m sure this territory
has been covered by the Buddha and Christ at some point, so we’ll just leave it
at that and move on.
It was fourth period.
They became my anchor. School was
my vessel, my ship. Familiar territory
when the adult world stops making sense.
These guys became the ship’s anchor.
And it was a good year for teaching, but a bad year to be an adult. Inner demons making their way back up to the
surface. Turmoil. Large life changes. And doubt.
Just terrible doubt. Depression
too, I think. The pill poppers came to
my side immediately. When I mentioned it
to a doctor, pills became instantly available.
It was almost as if grief was a foreign concept. Something that had been eradicated years
ago.
“No thanks,” I
said. “I think I’m just supposed to be
sad for a while.” I figured I was
entitled to the old-fashion, full range of emotions.
So, I threw myself into school. Keep teaching. Keep close to the kids and all will be
well. I dreaded four o’clock and was
relieved when the bell rang at 7:45 to start the next morning. And I most looked forward to fourth
period. I was most at ease with these
kids. These were the kids that told me
that I was like a pregnant lady with my emotions all over the place. It was
true. They threw me a baby shower to
commemorate my condition. Very clever
and damn funny. These were the kids that
researched beards and did a power point presentation as to what beard options
would best compliment my face. I still
have a version of the chosen beard today.
And between the baby shower and the beard tutorial, the world
slipped away. And I was myself. It felt good to be me again, if only for those
fifty-two minutes each day. So it went
week after week.
On the last day of school, I only had them for about ten
minutes and then they were off to the quad for a few farewell activities. Free food and signing yearbooks. I was in much better shape than when I first
met them, and felt this urge to thank them.
I stand at the front and wait a moment for their attention.
“Before you go,” I
start. “For reasons you never need to
know, boring adult reasons, this was a hard year for me.” They nod.
They knew, of course.
“That’s why you
were so pregnant,” someone jokes.
“But the best part
of my day was at 11:04, when you guys would show up. I looked forward to it. Trust me, you have no idea how helpful you
all were to me. So, thank you.” I usually have a hard time shutting up, but
no additional words are required. Enough
said.
I jump into instructions.
“Okay, you may head out to the quad.
Enjoy the band and the food and your summer.” And with that, I turn to put some papers on
my desk. Distractedly, I look through a
drawer. Thinking about end of the year
clean up stuff. Behind me, I hear the
moving of desks and chairs. After a
moment, I get that feeling that I am being watched. I look to the door and notice that no one
seems to be leaving. I turn and see that a
line has formed right behind me. Not
sure what to make of it at first, until the first kid steps up and gives me a
hug. Then the next. And the next. All thirty-six. Fun and free food awaits, but they are
waiting in line to give me a hug.
Part of me wishes I was in my sixties already because this
would be the moment to retire on. After
about ten or so, I say nervously, “This is a lot of hugs.”
“Well, we won’t be
here next year,” the next kid says. “So
save them for when you need them.”
And I do. Some days, I
just close my eyes and there are all their faces. Names still firmly in place. Rough day?
Grief? I quietly push back with
my perfect scrapbook memory of the day I received thirty-six hugs.
If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.
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