Tomorrow is the last day of school.
Even as I sit here and look at these words, I don't even really know what they mean.
Any way you look at it, the last day of school is weird. Whether you love school, hate it, are a teacher, student, parent, etc., it is just plain bizarre to have something that you have done day in and day out for the last nine months just - end. But not forever! To be resumed in two and a half months! In basically the same orientation! Doing the same things! But different enough that the First Day of School is also insanely weird!
As a child, I loved school to absurd proportions, so the Last Day of School was not something I hungrily looked forward to, but it always arrived nonetheless, and always passed in a whirlwind, as we usually followed a different schedule and I ran around grasping at my friends for one last goodbye before the dreaded summer break began.
High school and college were similar, though felt slightly less absolute, and the Last Day of School was typically concerned with final exams and later, haphazard moving out of dorms and apartments.
As a teacher, the Last Day of School is weird in a different way. First off, even though we may be doing something completely different with the schedule - field day, class parties, or what have you - as the teacher, I am still doing the exact same thing: managing students. Despite any vision I have of special surprises, heartfelt goodbyes, ardent summer wishes for these beloved students - the day passes pretty much like any other, with the same reminders to wash hands, wait, have a seat, go to the bathroom, and so on, and before I know it, I am standing in front of the school, just like any other day, and the kids are on the bus, just like any other day. Except it's not any other day - it is the Last Day of School, and now we are "all finished."
And then what? After nine months of one reality, how to return to another?
This is why I stood forlornly in Dollar Tree this evening, on the brink of tears trying to find something to give to my students that expresses how grateful I am that they exist and for what I have learned. And then my thoughts wander to all of the other students who have touched my life this year, and I begin to realize: it may be impossible to encapsulate this year in any sort of understandable form. And it is going to be extremely difficult to transition away to the long-anticipated summer break.
Teaching in the traditional school year is like one really long work day. Weekends and evenings and the occasional non-contract day notwithstanding, from September to June basically only one thing happens. So it is no wonder that I'm left feeling somewhat helpless. I've felt this before when I worked as an instructional assistant, but this year is rather different.
An advantage of this nine-month work day that is now abruptly ending is that it provides the opportunity - no, it necessitates - reflection.
Where was I nine months ago and how have I, myself, grown and changed? What was I like on the morning of this extraordinarily long, challenging work day?
What a loaded question.
Sheesh, that's hard to write about. I'm not quite there yet.
But I do have a lot to reflect upon.
Nine months ago, I was a wide-eyed intern, fresh from an intense summer of grad school which I enjoyed more than I'd like to admit. Before I even knew what was happening, I lived in Rockaway Beach and was an essential part of a school environment in Tillamook. That was like the "morning circle" part of this school day.
Then, each day: rise earlier than early, drive to work, prep like crazy, work with students all day, inhale lunch while running between buildings, stay late working on paperwork, calling parents, putting things back together, try to make it to the YMCA, but usually wind up wandering around Fred Meyer grabbing things for my classroom, drive home, sit down for about eight minutes, go to sleep, repeat. The days, weeks, months, slipped by.
Then I blinked and it was morning snack break, or as others might like to call it, Christmas break. For half a minute I stopped, looked around me, and faintly remembered what it felt like to be Sarah Nelson. But then the bell rang, and back I went, plugging away and plugging away.
In February it all fell apart.
(That is for a different blog post, one or several later, or maybe zero never. I'm not sure.)
Anyway, the lunch break of this painfully long school day happened when I resigned from my internship and had almost a month off before starting a new student teaching placement.
This was the kind of lunch break you have when you get to leave the building, but you have to run several errands and somewhere in the middle your car breaks down, there is a long line at the bank, and you still wind up sitting on the side of the road eating chocolate for lunch in the driver's seat. You get a brief respite, but before you know it you are walking back in the door. You know you should feel rested, yet you don't.
From mid-March on, it has been the afternoon. Still a lot of important work to do, and for whatever reason feeling slightly more relaxed, you are more able to embrace change, take a deep breath, and enjoy your surroundings. Maybe it's the light at the end of the tunnel, maybe it's the change of pace. Nonetheless, you enjoy it and are able to think about how far you have come since this morning, when you dragged yourself out of bed and have since been running non-stop, as if you know nothing else.
Then the bell rings. Time to go home. But what does that even mean?
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Overinflated analogy notwithstanding, I am not the person I was nine months ago. A whole school year has passed. And in this particular year so much has happened.
I'm thinking about my students in Tillamook.
Thinking about my students in Vernonia.
Thinking about all of the adults I have worked with, teachers, assistants, administrators, parents, community members.
Thinking about my identity, both professional and personal, and how that is changed. Despite everything, I do think of myself as a special education teacher now.
Thinking about the places I've lived.
The communities.
The highs and lows, successes and failures, the extremely painful lessons I've had to learn and am still learning.
How to ask for help. How to recognize that I need help, and subsequently asking for it. The intricacies of special ed paperwork. The necessity of lesson planning. The even greater necessity of attending to my own life outside of my classroom (extremely difficult in this one-long-work-day-of-a-school-year thing).
The negative changes in myself; also, the positive. Sometimes, it is hard to tell which is which.
I don't know what's happening next. I have no job lined up for next fall. But, I know that no matter what I find, I will build upon this year.
I'm content right now. I am very happy with how the last three months have gone professionally. So I am sad to see this school go, sad to see these students, this staff, this building which has become my daily routine, suddenly stop existing, as if this is a perfectly normal thing. I'm reluctant to let go of this year of being a teacher-learner, though I suspect that both will always be true. The mass of things that have happened in this year is staggering and daunting to reflect upon.
Clearly, I'm also reluctant to let go of this blog post. It is much longer than is appropriate. This is probably why I got out of blogging to begin with.
As always, I'm grateful, grateful for life and the wicked curveballs it throws at us. Time for my three-month long weekend, and (one can only hope) many happy returns.
