Don't Ever Let Go of the Thread

All my life, since I was first aware that I was aware, I’ve held the exquisite beauty of the world cupped in my hands. Sometimes I bring it close and inhale the scent of life, sometimes I lap it up fiercely, and sometimes it’s enough just to know it’s there, sliding back and forth between my palms. But at one point, deep in the awakening that comes in those years of middle school epiphany that I’m not the only person on the earth, came the compulsion to share it. To scatter the zest of living to a world that seems sleepily, leisurely interested in licking its own wounds instead of celebrating its existence.

There are many ways to do this. I’ve experimented with several. But right now teaching seems the best. It lets you spread the beauty, share the beauty, and also experience the beauty. 

We watched the buses roll out today with a weird mixture of exhilaration and nostalgia.  Our kids are gone. Yesterday we administered their last exams. I was responsible for a class of fifteen twelfth graders, laboriously struggling through a James Joyce excerpt that some jerk of a testing official thought would be funny to put on the English 12 exam. Asshole. One of the kids kept turning the pages of his exam and then fluttering his hand in front of his face, saying “oh my” in a breathy little voice. Every time I caught his eye, I grinned—couldn’t help it. Another kid had a little gas problem mid-exam, but for the most part they behaved well, especially when they saw that I was un-interested in their shenanigans.

It was fun to talk to seniors, before and after the exam; one of my favorite kids from my homeroom is in the class and went haywire with excitement when I walked through the door. He gave me a good rep—the class is notoriously difficult, and he had everyone turning in their phones and eagerly hushing each other so I could read directions. We also yeeted a little to blow off steam before the test. Afterwards, as I was getting ready to leave, a group of three seniors came up to the desk, led by the boy who went “oh my.”

“Are you an angel?”

“What?”

“Are you an angel?”

“Why are you asking that?”

“Because how you came in, when you walked through the door you were happy, and smiling, and you keep smiling, and how you look… you must be an angel.”

I took stock quickly: I’m wearing a pencil skirt and a faded blue blouse that’s at least three years old. My hair is up in a messy bun and I’m nursing bruises down my left leg from where I decided to run into my stairwell. My bag is stuffed with books and folders, and I’m leaning on the desk to keep it from ripping. I’m certainly not angelic-looking.

“Huh?!”

“You just, you must be an angel. Your smile.”

Kids, I smile for you. You make me smile, with your earnestness, your silliness, the way you furrow your brows when you concentrate, and the stupid things that make you laugh. And outside this school, people smile all the time. They just do. Not to be angels, to be humans. Welcome to the world.

As I was walking back to my ninth graders, I passed the veteran teacher who’d proctored for me on Friday. He’s intimidated me ever since the first week of school, when he caught me making 60+ copies on the copy machine (I didn’t even know the word Riso then, let alone what it was to be used for). He stopped me by the bathrooms.

“Ms. W, I just wanted to say, I was really impressed by your control of your classroom on Friday. You told them to hush and they all hushed. Great classroom management. Are you going to be back next year?”

Oh, yes! Yes I am! And thank you, veteran teacher, for bolstering my confidence.

In my class, we sat and watched Olympus has Fallen, and I bemoaned the fact that multiple children asked whether that was actual footage. Yes, kids, this is exactly like that time the White House was captured by the North Koreans, but luckily Gerard Butler was there to save the day.

At the end of the day, I told two kids they could rip the paper coverings off the windows—big mistake. They began ripping everything they could find (luckily most of my classroom was already dismantled). My MLK poster, proclaiming the necessity of love and light, is now in two pieces. Some might call that ironic.

Today, only about a third of students came to school. In my classes we watched Valkyrie or The Croods and played Two Truths and A Lie and sat around chatting. I pulled kids in from the hallway where they were running around and disturbing people, and made them sit in my class. By the end of the day, half the students that were leaning forward, watching The Croods and sucking the last of my candy hoard, weren’t even mine. But those who were mine jumped to my desk at the end to take selfies with me and trade hugs and promise they’d visit me next year. 

So, my first year teaching is over. It doesn’t feel dramatic enough. At the end, the kids swarmed onto the buses just like every other day, and I waved and watched them go with a mixture of triumph and heartbreak. Everything they learned, everything they taught me is jumbled up in all our brains, and I hope poignantly that some of it sticks. If not, at least I taught them, and they taught me, to smile.

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

-William Stafford