Today, we had our commencement ceremony for high school seniors. I'm a fierce defender of lazy weekends, so when the alarm clock went off on a Sunday morning, I flung some choice angry bear growls in its direction.
As an elementary teacher, I don't know any of the students on stage. But it's a common tradition for K-12 independent schools to get all faculty together, from preschool to AP Bio, to formally and fabulously celebrate their graduating seniors.
So early this morning, our entire faculty gathered on the athletic field, bedecked in our black polyester graduation gown and hoods. Visually, we were a colorful sea of colleges and pedigrees. Our honors cords, alma mater colors, and accoutrements representing special degrees and recognitions would reassure tuition-sunk parents that this teaching faculty was worth the high sticker cost.
Actually, I don't know if that's why they make faculty don such formal regalia for commencements. But it's a theory I've secretly held for a few years.
Anyway, once my morning matcha started working its powers on my fuzzy Sunday brain, I started to enjoy the pomp and pageantry of the occasion. And then somewhere between the valedictorian's remarks and our commencement speaker, I became gaspingly aware of the parallels between these hopeful, bright-eyed graduates...and me.
We were both dealing with our lasts. It struck me that so many of our student remarks from the stage would wistfully and nostalgically mark so many of the 'lasts' for these seniors. The last classes. The last study hall. The last presentation. The last exams.
For me, as I stare down these last five days of my teaching life (for awhile), I'm gripped with the same desperation to put a heart spotlight on all these big and small classroom moments. Our last science meetings on the rug. The last time a child shows me their latest outdoor find. The last time I get to delightedly praise a student for their fantastically curious question and guide them toward answers.
We would both leaving a place of comfort. Some of these graduates, affectionately called 'Lifers' our PreK to 12th grade independent school, have been attending our institution for their entire student lives. Next year will be the first time in their whole lives where their back-to-school day will be on an entirely different campus.
I've been a teacher for seventeen years, and I can't remember a time when I didn't feel that zap in the spine at seeing the first back-to-school displays in a store. I've spent my whole entire life in schools - as a day care attendee, as a student, as a college student, as a graduate student, as a teacher. I figured this was what I'd be doing until brittles bones or death took me away.
"You can always go back," James often reminds me whenever I wonder aloud about my future as a Not-Teacher. "Schools will always need teachers, and there are teacher-starved schools that would be dying to have you."
I know that. But deep inside, we both know what went down this year at my school and we know I'm in no rush to head back.
Neither the graduates nor I feel entirely certain about what comes next. These gown-clad seniors know just a few things. They know the names of the schools they're headed toward. They might even know which major, which program, which roommate, which dormroom. But, as Malcolm Gladwell once pointed out in a podcast, so much about the college experience is created by the unknowables.
College-hopeful students and families are forever researching the knowable things like graduation rates, success rates, offered majors and minors, and campus amenities. But statistics can't possibly allow these graduates to forecast the people they'll meet, interactions they'll have, and all the experiences that will change them. Their graduation is a gate into a heavy haze of unknowables, but our high schoolers are heading out with hope anyway.
So am I. The plan, for me and for now, is to relish this Page and Spoon space for the joy that it brings. I don't know how long or how extensively I'll tend to this passion project, but writing here is currently one of the scrummliest joys of my week. (I know that's not a word. But that's the word that popped into my head.)
And, of course, I'll be soaking in these last moments with these funny, creative, big-hearted kids. From now until Friday, we'll be finishing up mineral field guides, cuddling with our chicks, taking down our bogolanfini, and beginning to close the door on this year.
Since we can never get enough of chicks (maybe that 'we' is just 'me', but you're here now so welcome to my jungle), I'll leave you with this video of our silly chicks spontaneously learning to play the game of football with a poop-covered wood chip.
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