Lessons in Love

Weeks ago, as the regular school year was winding down and the beginning of testing was near, the days couldn't pass quickly enough. We began a countdown on the kitchen wall calendar after we returned from spring break, and 39 days felt like an eternity. My kids were starting to slip into summer mode, and to be honest so was I. I was ready to move on - a new job in a new city awaited me on the other side, it was just a matter of surviving. As we crossed the days off on our calendar each night, my roommates and I excitedly discussed how different our lives would be when that last day finally came and went. In my head I was planning my outfit for the last day of school, not because I cared how I looked, but because I wanted to ensure that I would be able to do celebratory cartwheels and high kicks down the hallways after we watched the last of the buses pull away. I imagined breathing a huge sigh of relief and feeling a 1,000 pound weight lifted off my shoulders, and clinking glasses with some of my TFA friends as we shared stories that reminded us why were leaving.

What I did not expect was to be standing in a parking lot, simultaneously passing out report cards and wiping tears from my eyes as I hugged my babies for the last time.

I went back and forth in my mind about whether I would tell my kids that I wasn't coming back next year. On one hand, I didn't want them to feel abandoned when they came back to school and I wasn't there. And maybe a little part of me was afraid some of my kids would just shrug it off, when it felt like such a big deal to me. But on the other, people leave all the time, and I didn't want to make a big deal about something that they probably already expected. Eventually, I decided to only tell my homeroom. We had spent so much time together, especially during testing and retesting that they had really become "my" babies, and needed them to know how proud I was of everything we had accomplished this year. I told them our last morning together and gave them all my cell phone number so they would be able to reach me whenever. It was hard (there may have been a few tears shed by yours truly), and the kids seemed sad, but the excitement of what was to come that day kept us all distracted.

We spent the day at Kings Dominion, a reward for the students who had either passed both tests or made significant growth from last year's scores. A testament to the transitional phase that is middle school, our kids were relieved to find out they didn't have to walk around with their assigned chaperone all day, yet were surprisingly excited when they ran into us as they roamed the park. Too "grown" to hang out with us, but still young enough to wave enthusiastically and brag about the ride they just rode as we crossed paths. They got a kick out of seeing us in line for a roller coaster, shocked that their usually strict teachers enjoyed a little adventure. I started to feel little pangs of sadness as I felt them already slipping away from me, but I was having too much fun to really feel the weight of it all. The weather was perfect, the lines were short, and the company was fantastic. Even though we were all exhausted by the time we headed home, the bus buzzed with an unmistakeable energy.

As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, the reality hit me. In just a few minutes, these children that I had fallen in love with would be headed home for the summer, and these babies would no longer be "mine". Although it's really me who is leaving, I had to stand there and watch them walk away, my heart breaking 20 or 30 times over as parents came in waves to collect their children. I always said I would never cry in front of children, but I couldn't fight back the tears as one by one they came to me to get their report cards and give me one last hug.

Some students were especially difficult to say goodbye to. KG, my smart-aleck (and very verbally gifted) baby girl who used to hate math and shut down on any attempt to push her past her comfort zone. The same baby girl who scoffed at her classmates' immaturity and cried out of the frustration of not fitting in. She has truly come out of her shell because our team of teachers loved on her when she felt alone and on the outside. She passed her math test with flying colors, and has a new appreciation for the subject that she once despised. JG, one of my volleyball girls for whom math came easily, and who has big dreams of playing basketball at Duke (while maintaining good grades, of course). DS, a quick-tempered young man who was a pain in the butt for every teacher except for me (theories include his love of math and his love of white women). He slept through every other class, but was one of my hardest working students. I was his school momma; he would do anything for me, and I was often the only one that could get him to come down from one of his fits of rage (he also passed BOTH of his tests advanced). KM and MC, two of my sweet baby boys who complimented how nice I looked and told me they loved me almost every day. JG, another trouble-maker who no one else could stand but who was an angel in my room (and also passed BOTH tests advanced). Seeing their faces, knowing how far they had come and how much I loved them, made me physically hurt somewhere deep in my heart.

I know some of you may think I'm crazy for being this upset over leaving, especially after some of the stories you've heard and the many times I've lamented about how awful it can be. And to be honest, there are some children that I am ready to be free from. Quite a few, in fact. But my homeroom babies...they are the loves of my life. They are the reason I looked forward to going to school, even when it was hard. They are the reason I got up in the morning when the day before had been a complete disaster. I couldn't wait to see their faces and answer their questions and challenge them in new ways.

These babies are beautiful, y'all. They are sweet, kind, generous, and helpful. They are playful like kids should be, and they keep me laughing all day long. But they also know when it's time to get down to business, and they are eager to grow and learn. I call them my "babies" because they are still like children in so many ways, seeking approval from the adults they trust and being respectful and obedient when they know you care. And they are as bright as any other seventh grade class in any other city or state. They aren't perfect. We had our share of moments where I was disappointed in their behavior or the way they treated one another. They are still kids, after all. But I would never have traded my babies for another group. Ever.

It may sound like I don't love my other children, and I assure you that's not the case. There are so many kids in the other classes that I love and will miss and that worked hard all year long. But the dynamic of this class and the culture we built was unstoppable, and led us to huge success. They let me be the best teacher I could be, and I am forever grateful for the way that they worked hard to make me proud.

I'm not just sad because I'm saying goodbye to such an incredible group of children. I'm sad because I'm scared. Scared that they will get trapped in the cycle that defines their communities. Scared that no one will push them as hard as I did or love them the way I do. Scared that their realities will overshadow their potential. Scared because I know that I will no longer be able to fight for them and so much is out of my control. They are so deserving of a great education, a bright future, and a happy ending, but they have so many odds stacked against them. So many things to overcome before they can even have half of the experiences that I've had. It's not fair.

I cried all the way home from school yesterday, cried as I recounted the story to my roommates, and have cried three times today thinking about it all. I never, ever thought it would feel like this, but in a way I'm glad it does. It means I've learned lessons in love so deep that I cannot separate myself from them. And isn't that the point of life--to love deeply?