Yesterday was my last day at work before the big move. We’d known for a few days, but my boss thought it would be easier on the kids if we told them early Friday afternoon, rather than giving them days to chew on it. I disagreed, but such is life. We made the announcement yesterday, which was followed by lots of moaning and groaning on the kids’ part, and we spent the rest of the afternoon visiting and saying our goodbyes.
We went outside for a long time, me standing in the sun-spotted shade of a blooming Bradford Pear Tree, and the kids circling around to tell me stories, ask about my life and my new job, ask why I was leaving. Their faces reflected a sadness; the somber knowledge that most of us might never see one another again. As I listened to them and reflected on my time with them, my heart reflected the same.
I never considered myself an ideal teacher. I was not the sort of person who enjoyed children or knew how to discipline them or relate to them. When I got my job at the elementary school earlier this year, it was based entirely upon the understanding with myself that it was temporary, that I was not truly cut out for this sort of work. Over the course of the school year, though, these kids have gone from being strangers to children of my own. They’ve laughed with me, challenged me, confided in me. They’ve shown me a much clearer picture of the world and my place in it.
They’ve shown me who I am.
Yesterday, when we came in from outside, the kids presented me with a huge going away banner. It was signed and decorated by all of them, with each of their hand prints drawn on. They crowded around me as I opened it up, pointing at their creations and shouting at me to look.
“Miss Ashley, Miss Ashley, I did this one! Look! Look at mine! Mine is right here! I did this one!”
My coworkers had a small party for me–cake, homemade pasta, cookies, strawberries and chocolate, chips, etc. They gave me a card signed by all of them. The kids drew me a million pictures. Hugged me goodbye. Told me they love me. Cried when it was time for them to go home. Hugged me again.
I walked to my car yesterday with two arms full of leftovers, drawings, cards, my banner. I walked to my car yesterday with a heart full new experiences and new ideas about life. I don’t think I can find a better metaphor for life and relationships than the teacher-student experience. You meet someone, you grow together, you change together, you learn to love each other, and then, as quickly as it started, it ends. It is time to move on. People swoop into our lives and change us forever without ever knowing it. They shape us into the people we were always meant to be.
When I was younger, I assumed that was the teacher’s job. The teacher helped me learn, helped me grow, showed me new things, and then I moved on and it was okay because that was her job. She was there for me and the students, and that was it. I never imagined as a kid that when I said goodbye to my teacher at the end of the school year and felt that heaviness in my heart–the true appreciation for who that person is and has been in my life, the sadness at them going, sadness at the passage of time, the knowledge of how much they’ve helped me grow, a deep understanding of what our time together has meant, the quiet wish that we would meet again someday–that my teacher was feeling the exact same thing.
Be seeing you, Wells Elementary.
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