Throughout my year of teaching, I would fantasize about the last day of school with a colleague, and how it would surely bring sweet tears of joy to our eyes, how we would rejoice as the last students filed from the building, and how we'd probably even be brought to a euphoric climax of sorts, brought on by the pure glory of conquering a school year under the weight of administrative idiosyncrasies and 180 some days spent with a whole bunch of kids.
Alas, here I am, about a month removed from an end to the school year that didn't include any of the above things, surprisingly enough. And, also alas, here I am missing those very same kiddos who could play my emotions as if my emotions were keys on a piano and they were master pianists. Those students owned me, heart and soul, and I miss the highs and mediums of being owned, and the sparse moments when it was apparent that I owned them as well.
I remember when the girls on the basketball team started asking me if I'd coach them the next year. When they first started asking this, I would respond ambiguously, saying things like, "I want to coach next year." Of course, I already knew I wouldn't even be returning to the school, but I didn't have the heart to reveal that, at least not then.
As time passed, and the girls continued asking me, I decided to just tell them the truth. I'd say, "You know, I'm not going to be here next year." I wanted to explain why, so I said, "Teachers have tests just like students do, and I didn't pass my teacher test." The look on one girl's face, someone I'd become rather fond of after coaching, was a look of unmasked disappointment.
These students are so used to one-year-and-done teachers, and I hated being just another one of those to them. But at the same time, I was moved by the looks on many of their faces when I finally let them know that I wasn't coming back.
I miss so many students, and particularly one who would frequently eat lunch in my room. She'd be the only one in there without a lunch detention. I've written about her before; she's the student from Nepal that I interviewed a few times.
Near the end of the year, I told this student that she had chutzpah. I'd only recently learned the word, and I think I was using it right. But when she looked it up in the dictionary, it gave some definition that really wasn't what I'd meant. So one day she comes up to me and is like, "Mister, you said I have chutzpah, or whatever, but I don't get it. The definition doesn't make any sense. You have to tell me what it means!"
I told her I would later, but I forgot to. Then the school year ended, and I still hadn't told her.
Thankfully though, she had the chutzpah to get my phone number from another teacher and ring me up one day. She left me a message that was as conversational as our chats had been in my classroom during lunch.
"Hi Mr. Londberg. It's that student from Nepal that you really enjoy," she said without saying. "YOU never told me what that word means. YOU said you were going to, but YOU didn't. I would like to know what it means, so please give me a call back when you can. Thank you. Goodbyeee."
I called her back. We chatted. I told her that it took chutzpah for her to get my number and call me up like she had. I think she understood the word after that.
I miss a student who was in the eighth grade. He was dating a seventh grader, and they had a penchant for hugging as much as possible in the hallway. I found it atrocious. So I sung to the boy, trying to deter him from making all the hugs. I won't tell you his name, but I will tell you that my favorite song to serenade him with was "Bennie and the Jets." I especially liked belting that high-pitched "Bennie" over and over to him.
I really miss the basketball court. My classroom was the second-closest in the school to the gym, which is irrelevant really but it did mean that we only had a short distance to walk when I took a class there for gym time. Perhaps unsurprisingly, gym time really skyrocketed in the last few weeks of school.
I also miss hooping it up after school. There was one student who was obsessed with making it to the NBA. His name wasn't Jason, but that's what one teacher called him because that's what the student had asked to be called. Jason could play. A reliable shot (a rarity in middle school), creative and quick ball-handling, and a competitiveness that could twist his face into sourness made him the toughest seventh grader I've ever played against. We played one-on-one a handful of times, and the cat went out and beat me once. I was going all out to prevent it, but still he beat me. I've never been and might never again be so happy to lose a game of one-on-one.
I hate the fact that I may never see any of these kids again. I think veteran teachers must just get used to seeing kids for so long, becoming so close to many of them, and then saying goodbye for perhaps forever. I'm sure that saying goodbye thing is the hardest in your first year, and that it gets easier after each year that you teach, but damn I miss them.
I miss a tall boy who could draw the heck out of a worksheet that wasn't meant for drawing. Most times I didn't mind his sketches, though, even if it meant he had been off-task to make them.
I miss an eighth grader who was hilarious. He'd talk in a goofy, cartoonish voice that sometimes annoyed me but most times cracked me up. I miss trying to hide my laughter so as to preserve some semblance of control. But I also miss the times that I couldn't. The students' reactions to seeing me laugh was so sweet.
I miss the students who would hang around the school well after the last bell, and one student's little sister who would give me high-fives and even hugs sometimes.
I miss all the teachers on my team. Talking about shared kids, I've found, is possibly the funniest thing to talk about in the world.
I miss watching dejected faces walk toward me during lunch–the faces of students who must leave all their friends during their one break of the day to serve a detention. I hated doing that, but if I hadn't then my classroom may well have fallen into preteen energetic madness.
I miss kids asking if they could ride my bike. And I miss quickly telling them no. And I miss the one kid who actually did ride my bike, and the other kids who watched it happen all giddy and stuff.
I miss calling all the students either sir or ma'am. I don't know why I did that or where it came from, but it didn't go away. Many times a girl would think I'd just called her man instead of ma'am. "Did you just call me a man?" she would ask, perplexed.
I miss, in one way or many, every single one of those students. Even the ones who gave me headaches because it's when they were participating or engaged in their work or just chatting with me about the boring book we were reading that I felt highest as a teacher.
I wish I could have said a better goodbye to all of them, but I do hope they know that whatever they're doing or struggling with, they can always reach out to me, like that student with chutzpah, if they need to chat.
Alas, here I am, about a month removed from an end to the school year that didn't include any of the above things, surprisingly enough. And, also alas, here I am missing those very same kiddos who could play my emotions as if my emotions were keys on a piano and they were master pianists. Those students owned me, heart and soul, and I miss the highs and mediums of being owned, and the sparse moments when it was apparent that I owned them as well.
I remember when the girls on the basketball team started asking me if I'd coach them the next year. When they first started asking this, I would respond ambiguously, saying things like, "I want to coach next year." Of course, I already knew I wouldn't even be returning to the school, but I didn't have the heart to reveal that, at least not then.
As time passed, and the girls continued asking me, I decided to just tell them the truth. I'd say, "You know, I'm not going to be here next year." I wanted to explain why, so I said, "Teachers have tests just like students do, and I didn't pass my teacher test." The look on one girl's face, someone I'd become rather fond of after coaching, was a look of unmasked disappointment.
These students are so used to one-year-and-done teachers, and I hated being just another one of those to them. But at the same time, I was moved by the looks on many of their faces when I finally let them know that I wasn't coming back.
I miss so many students, and particularly one who would frequently eat lunch in my room. She'd be the only one in there without a lunch detention. I've written about her before; she's the student from Nepal that I interviewed a few times.
Near the end of the year, I told this student that she had chutzpah. I'd only recently learned the word, and I think I was using it right. But when she looked it up in the dictionary, it gave some definition that really wasn't what I'd meant. So one day she comes up to me and is like, "Mister, you said I have chutzpah, or whatever, but I don't get it. The definition doesn't make any sense. You have to tell me what it means!"
I told her I would later, but I forgot to. Then the school year ended, and I still hadn't told her.
Thankfully though, she had the chutzpah to get my phone number from another teacher and ring me up one day. She left me a message that was as conversational as our chats had been in my classroom during lunch.
"Hi Mr. Londberg. It's that student from Nepal that you really enjoy," she said without saying. "YOU never told me what that word means. YOU said you were going to, but YOU didn't. I would like to know what it means, so please give me a call back when you can. Thank you. Goodbyeee."
I called her back. We chatted. I told her that it took chutzpah for her to get my number and call me up like she had. I think she understood the word after that.
I miss a student who was in the eighth grade. He was dating a seventh grader, and they had a penchant for hugging as much as possible in the hallway. I found it atrocious. So I sung to the boy, trying to deter him from making all the hugs. I won't tell you his name, but I will tell you that my favorite song to serenade him with was "Bennie and the Jets." I especially liked belting that high-pitched "Bennie" over and over to him.
I really miss the basketball court. My classroom was the second-closest in the school to the gym, which is irrelevant really but it did mean that we only had a short distance to walk when I took a class there for gym time. Perhaps unsurprisingly, gym time really skyrocketed in the last few weeks of school.
I also miss hooping it up after school. There was one student who was obsessed with making it to the NBA. His name wasn't Jason, but that's what one teacher called him because that's what the student had asked to be called. Jason could play. A reliable shot (a rarity in middle school), creative and quick ball-handling, and a competitiveness that could twist his face into sourness made him the toughest seventh grader I've ever played against. We played one-on-one a handful of times, and the cat went out and beat me once. I was going all out to prevent it, but still he beat me. I've never been and might never again be so happy to lose a game of one-on-one.
I hate the fact that I may never see any of these kids again. I think veteran teachers must just get used to seeing kids for so long, becoming so close to many of them, and then saying goodbye for perhaps forever. I'm sure that saying goodbye thing is the hardest in your first year, and that it gets easier after each year that you teach, but damn I miss them.
I miss a tall boy who could draw the heck out of a worksheet that wasn't meant for drawing. Most times I didn't mind his sketches, though, even if it meant he had been off-task to make them.
I miss an eighth grader who was hilarious. He'd talk in a goofy, cartoonish voice that sometimes annoyed me but most times cracked me up. I miss trying to hide my laughter so as to preserve some semblance of control. But I also miss the times that I couldn't. The students' reactions to seeing me laugh was so sweet.
I miss the students who would hang around the school well after the last bell, and one student's little sister who would give me high-fives and even hugs sometimes.
I miss all the teachers on my team. Talking about shared kids, I've found, is possibly the funniest thing to talk about in the world.
I miss watching dejected faces walk toward me during lunch–the faces of students who must leave all their friends during their one break of the day to serve a detention. I hated doing that, but if I hadn't then my classroom may well have fallen into preteen energetic madness.
I miss kids asking if they could ride my bike. And I miss quickly telling them no. And I miss the one kid who actually did ride my bike, and the other kids who watched it happen all giddy and stuff.
I miss calling all the students either sir or ma'am. I don't know why I did that or where it came from, but it didn't go away. Many times a girl would think I'd just called her man instead of ma'am. "Did you just call me a man?" she would ask, perplexed.
I miss, in one way or many, every single one of those students. Even the ones who gave me headaches because it's when they were participating or engaged in their work or just chatting with me about the boring book we were reading that I felt highest as a teacher.
I wish I could have said a better goodbye to all of them, but I do hope they know that whatever they're doing or struggling with, they can always reach out to me, like that student with chutzpah, if they need to chat.