From a Teacher During Graduation Week

When you become a high school teacher people tend to tell you the same things: 

"I hope you're not in it for the money." 

"That was my least favorite subject." 

"At least the vacation is good." 

"Good for you; I sure couldn't do it." 

But what they don't tell you - what they can't tell you - is just how much you're going to love those little punks. Because those stubborn, brilliant, funny, frustrating teenagers walk into your classroom every single day, and you get to watch them grow and change and struggle and strive. 

And one of the things about teaching in a small school that is so special is the gift of having those kids from the time that they turn thirteen until the day that they walk out the doors for graduation. Six years. You spend six years trying to teach them to analyze, to ask questions, to think deeply, to love hard, to be the best versions of themselves. Six years. And they become a part of you in those six years. You yell at them, and you dream with them, and you laugh with them. And then they go. Just like they should. Just like you hoped for them. 

This week was our seniors' last one. They left early on Wednesday, came back to practice for graduation this morning, and they'll walk for their diplomas on Saturday. I've been thinking for the past couple of senioritis-filled weeks that I am so ready for them to go. And I was. I have been. I am. So are they. So why, long after yesterday's last period bell, did I finish writing their graduation cards, sit back in my desk chair, and cry? 

Because I love them. And that's the part of teaching that nobody warns you about. I think because, unless you've experienced it, it's difficult to fully understand. People think they know what happens in a classroom. They think they know what goes on behind our doors and through our windows: math, science, reading, spanish, history. And yes, those things do happen, and they're important. But education is not made wholly of fractions, isotopes, and compound sentences.

In the past six years with these kids, education has been made of bursting in before the first period bell to tell me they made it to school on time because I harped about the tardies all last week, reminding the same four boys over and over again to describe girls with respectful adjectives until they finally choose them on their own, handing tissues to wipe after-school tears because sometimes teenage broken hearts are too heavy to take home. 

It's been: "Can I sit in here while you grade? I just need it to be quiet." - "Will you read this with me? I tried it three times, and I can't understand it on my own." - "How am I going to tell this to my mom?" 

Sunday nights proofreading scholarship essays and cramming the walls with their artwork and poetry, lotion in the winter when their hands hurt, a granola bar when they forgot to pack their lunch, lectures when their names are on the down list, and high fives when they come back from activities with a victory.

I've spent countless hours reading with them, questioning them, scolding them, praising them, letting them cry, hearing them laugh, giving them a safe place to breathe. Education is made up of all of those things. And when it's over, and they go, all you can do is let them - is hope that they've learned how to be kind, how to be strong, how to take risks, be responsible, and live boldly. You have to hope that those six years were enough. 

Teaching brings with it a myriad of difficulties, and teaching teenagers is a tricky business. They're often frustrating; there are days they make me want to pull my hair out, but even then, it never makes me love them any less. And the difficulties are sometimes many, but the reward is something not everyone gets to see: the gifts that they give back are something special. Sometimes they don't even realize they're doing it. 

Two of my most difficult goodbyes walked out of my class for the last time on Wednesday and hollered: "Thanks! Love you!" over their shoulders. That was a gift. The student who goes out of his way to tell me good morning every day popped in to to say goodbye and asked if it would be okay to give me a hug. That was a gift. One trusted me enough to share beautiful, difficult, personal pieces of writing this semester. That was a gift. One brought me lunch today when he didn't have to be at school at all. That was a gift. 

They don't tell you - when you become a high school teacher - that it's going to be like this. Because they don't know. They tend to think that a school building is made of hall passes, cafeteria food, and biology homework. What a tragedy - that they never see the loveliest parts. So...graduation week, the downhill slide of the rest of the year, it seems fitting to take a moment to see the good stuff. And to remember that, although they've been insufferable hellions since the senioritis kicked in, I really will miss these sweet punks. My six years with them have been a beautiful adventure; I hope they feel the same. 🖤