One Last Love Letter for my Seniors

Every year, as I prepare to say goodbye to a group of seniors, I think: I'm never again going to have a group that I love like this. And this year, just like every year, that statement is true. I will never have a group of kids with these stories and experiences and personalities. I will never have a group of kids who love quite like they do, whose inside jokes make them laugh like this. I will never have this exact set of kids gather in my classroom before the last lunch bell to tell me all about their days and their dramas and their dreams. And, as it always is when May rolls around, it's time for them to go. They're ready. We are ready. But I will miss them.

This year's senior class is a unique one. Our consolidation came at a challenging time for a lot of our kids - a fundemental time, a time wherein kids do the most growing, need the most guidance, find the height of teen struggle. Our seniors spent the majority of their lives in three separate little school buildings, with separate, tight-knit classes of kids that they had grown up with, that felt like family for them. They were pandemic freshmen, who had to learn to navigate months of isolation from their friends and their activities and their lives when they'd just learned how to be a part of those things. And then, with just two years left of high school, we tossed them all into the same fishbowl and asked them to swim together. And they did. They did what they have always done - they adapted, they grew, they blossomed.

Something that always amazes me about kids is their resiliency. They bounce; they adjust; they're receptive and pliable. I've been lucky enough to spend six years with some of these kids, but, like them, I was tossed into a bigger fishbowl a couple of years ago too - with new students who have new needs, new dreams, new feelings and opinions. And that was a challenge for me - for a lot of our teachers, I'm sure. It's so easy, in a small school, to get attached to these kids, to know them, to influence them, to love them. And when you have that unique opportunity to really bond with those kids, it's also easy to relate to them, to connect with them, and because of that, to teach them.

Those kids whom I spent six years teaching: I know how they learn. I know what they need and how best to motivate them. The seniors that I had for the first time as juniors - knowing what they need and how they learn was a little more challenging. There's a grace period with any transition wherein you have to spend the time to learn the necessary balance, to trust each other. And I'm so grateful to have had the opportunity to learn about these kids, to get to know them, to read with them, write with them, listen and laugh with them. Admidst a handful of things this school consolidation has taught me, it has called to light something that I talk about often with teachers from other buildings, when we share humors or frustrations or moments of pride in our students: kids are kids. No matter where you teach or which group of teenagers wanders into your classroom: kids are kids. They're clever and funny, endearing and frustrating, smart and naive, full of emotions and audacity. And if teaching is the place and the purpose for you: it isn't difficult to love them.

I love this group of seniors. I have so many lovely, silly, heavy, interesting memories attached to them. A few weeks ago one of them popped in for her typical post-lunch chat, and she asked me what I was going to write about them this year. Well, actually, she said: "You'd better write something way better for us than you wrote for last year's seniors because I know you love us more." And while she might not be entirely correct (sorry, Harper) - because "more" is so difficult to quantify, she wasn't entirely wrong: I love this group of seniors differently. I love how open and honest they are, how curious and interested they are about the world, how invested they are in their feelings and their relationships, how developed their senses of humor can be, the level of kindness and empathy they show.

Some of my very favorite teaching memories have come from this sweet group of teenagers, and I will miss them fiercely. But I am also so very proud of them. They are the kind of humans that I am grateful to have in the world, that I know will do interesting and beautiful things. No matter the frustrations that come with the end of the school year (and they are many), teaching these kids is such a gift. They are so full of light and potential, empathy and wonder. I truly hope that this world treats them kindly, and too, that when it inevitably doesn't, they hold onto that spark of audacity that often drives me so crazy, and use it to face down any adversity that finds them.

Within the last few weeks I've had a handful or so seniors ask me if I will miss them, and my answers depend on a lot of things: the time of the school day I'm asked, my level of frustration with the underclassmen, whether they interrupted something to ask me - but part of the beauty of being a teacher, of knowing that this is what I'm supposed to do, is that the answer is never "no." And they know that before they ask. They know I will miss them. I hope that they also know how grateful I am. 

I am grateful to have had the opportunity to love them. I am grateful to have been able to listen to them, to laugh with them, to share stories and wonders and even, sometimes, tears. I am grateful to have heard their clever one-liners and to have scolded their missteps. I am grateful to have guided, prayed for, and worried about them. I am so incredibly lucky to do this job, and on the days that it feels like one, I am lucky to have them to remind me of the purpose of it: to have a hand in making them good human beings.

I hope these kids take the things that we've learned together, the lessons I've taught them (about literature or grammar or just about existing on this planet) and use them to influence their worlds. The lessons that they have left me with are not something I will lose, no matter how far the world takes them. 

I wish so many beautiful things for these kids, and they will forever hold an incredibly special place in my prayers, my fondest memories, and my heart. I may not be entirely ready to watch them go, but I hope the world is ready for their lovely, lovely souls. They will undoubtedly give the universe a run for its money.