Being there

Yesterday I completed year #18 of professional teaching. 18 years of lesson planning, lesson grading,  reflections, meetings, discipline referrals, parent-teacher conferences, informal chats in the hallway, formal chats in the principal's office, not to mention 18 years of performances, 6 periods a day, those performances we euphemistically like to call "teaching". Along the way, there's been 2nd grade, 4th grade, 7th grade, 8th grade, college students, and an 75 year old man trying to learn English. There's been students who absolutely loved being in my class, and students who couldn't wait to be done with my class. No matter their age, though, and no matter their feelings towards me, I have tried to be there for all of them.

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June 7 is the latest day, by far, I've ever finished teaching. Between a calendar that already stretched long, and the worst Iowa winter in the last quarter century (we missed 11 days of school), the school year stretched almost unimaginably long, challenging (but not changing) my long-held belief that we need to move to year-round schooling as long as buildings are air conditioned.

I think it was meant to be, though. Yesterday was the kind of day that every last day of school should be, warm but not hot, sunny with puffy clouds, a nice breeze. We ate lunch at the track, I threw the football around and played a little soccer, and then jumped into the pool early in the afternoon, and I swear I have never felt pool water at a better temperature. At 1:00 we headed back to the school. The eighth graders going to high school last year formed a tunnel for the sixth and seventh graders on the way out. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" I asked them. "It doesn't matter," one of them shouted back. And they were right. It didn't matter at all.

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There is one particular positive aspect of the teaching profession that a lot of people don't recognize. (No, it's not the summers off; everyone recognizes that....). It's that we have a discrete beginning and a concrete end each school year, a feeling of being done. This is so important, psychologically, in a profession that is notorious for burnout and psychological stress (google "Xanax and teachers"). And with each year, we greet some new students, and send some students on to the next level, whatever that may be.

In my current iteration as an educator, the new students I see are seventh graders, and no matter how many older siblings or cousins I've taught, no matter how many high fives I've exchanged with the then-6th graders, there are always a few that I don't know at all, a group I'll have to get to know, their strengths and nuances, their idiosyncrasies, so that I can best be there for them. And the students I send on are 8th graders, to high school, to another building, students I've worked with in one class in 7th grade and two in 8th grade. We definitely get to know each other; sometimes we even get sick of each other. Not that much, though. Not nearly so much as you'd think.

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After school yesterday, we gathered at a colleague's house to celebrate another successful school year. It was well-attended: 25 junior high teachers that welcomed me in after 11 years of being an elementary teacher. We were on a back deck that was, quite literally, constructed for such occasions, eating snacks and having some of those adult beverages that a teacher can really use after 178 student contact days. We told stories and caught up with each other (teaching can be surprisingly lonely, considering you're constantly surrounded). Did I mention the weather was perfect yesterday?

I've worked with a lot of teachers over the years and each group has a bit of a different contour. Junior high teachers, I've found over the last five years, tend to have a wicked sense of humor that is necessary to fend off uniquely junior high behavior and verbal attacks. There is definitely a sense of reality as the students begin to turn in to whoever it is they will be, and yet the act itself, of teaching these kids, of working with them seven hours a day for 178 student contact days, is an unbridled, indeed radical, act of optimism, a statement that practically screams to students, who sometimes desperately need to hear it, "You can do it, and we will help you. We will be here for you."

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Two days ago, the real last day of school, the last day we actually had classes and taught (or "taught", as the case may be), I gave my standard speeches. I try to keep it light; junior high kids, I've found, generally aren't big on sentimentality.

To the seventh graders: "In two months, you'll be back in this room, but as an eighth grader. And you'll have to deal with me twice a day then!"

To the eighth graders: "I have really enjoyed my time with you guys. Now you're heading off to high school, but don't forget about us here. Stop back and say hi every once in a while."

They left, for the last time. One kid, mature for her age but in a good way, a fun way, stopped. She seemed a bit at a loss for words. "Well, Mr. Plum..."she began, "...thanks. Thanks for a really good two years."

"No," I said, "thank you. I've always said, I learn more teaching than I ever could learning."

She smiled. She got it. I love it when they get it!

She shook my hand and said "See ya around, Mr. Plum."

I turned and walked back into my room. It was empty and quiet. To my surprise, my eyes stung a little bit. I tried move some desks around, to distract myself, but I stopped. I was feeling something...something I couldn't put my finger on.

Two days later, I think maybe I've figured it out. I think maybe, maybe it's not so much that I'm there for my students.

I think maybe, maybe it's more that they're there for me.