And then there was one

Today all my underclassmen check out. I have spent the morning printing progress reports, searching through files of papers for ones I managed to not give credit for, asking students if they still have any of my books, and signing my name again and again.

And now I just have one class left. 7th period. I won't see them for two hours, however. In the meantime, I sit in my room finishing up grading, sorting through stacks of papers and books, and wondering where this school year has gone. So much has happened this year. But right now the minutes and seconds seem fused together. They slipped somehow quietly through my fingers and are gone.

Nine months ago I stood up at the front of this room and asserted my authority--trying my best to scare the living daylights out of them. I knew it wouldn't last long, so I had to give it everything I had. I stumbled over their names--Luscha and Vineishia and Jacoby. I looked in their faces and tried to memorize the differences. My stomach churned as I wondered what the year would bring.

As I sit here, I recognize Dallas Hall's laugh in the hallway. And the echoes of dozens of others rickoshaying around the walls that are covered with posters I made --and I smile at the familiarity of it all. My counters and filing cabinets are filled with handouts, assignments, and short stories. My desk littered with books I have scoured in efforts to be better and wiser. Empty baskets line the counter, no longer overflowing with papers or projects or assignments.

As they walked out today I called for them to have a good summer rather than the usual farewell of "have a good day." And just like the time, they themselves have slipped quietly from between my fingers. Out to other classes and other teachers and their other lives. And I wonder what it is they will take with them from this room. Will they remember the pages and pages we have read? Will they remember the papers they wrote? Will they remember my laugh during a laughing attack? Will they remember how excited they were to find out what would happen to Gatsby? Will they remember their devastation when Farquar's rope didn't break and he died in that split second? Will they remember Huck's assertion that you can't pray a lie? Will they remember the horror of Frederick Douglass' slave story? Will they remember how much I loved them? Will they remember that they are writers and must read like writers? Will they remember that "diction" is word choice? Will they remember the difference between transcendentalism and naturalism? Will they remember that reading can be fun? Will they remember their crazy teacher who loved to take walks in the wind and would rather read than watch tv? I don't know.

While I'm ready for the year to end, it makes me sad too. My first little flock of students. My first classroom. My first lesson plans and experiments. My first set of seniors to graduate. My first year teaching. And it's almost over. I'm sorry if this seems sad or solemn. I am sure by tomorrow I will be ecstatic that it's done (cheering and jumping, singing and dancing). But today, right now, I mourn the loss of a school year gone.