Day Five: Goodbye, Mister
On the Friday before I left for Chelsea, my sixth period Honors Physics class and I had nothing to do. We were done making boards for a presentation on a lab experiment we had just completed, but not everyone was there to give them. It didn't make any sense to do anything. During moments like this, kids will generally speaking ask you to do...anything that's not class. Fill in the blank and they'll probably ask it. The most popular request: can we go outside?
I had an idea and it ended up working out. Many of the kids had open campus anyway, and so I asked where exactly I could take a class without worrying about securing permission. No such boundaries exist. So I took my class to Broadway Park, a playground and a common just down the street from my school. We walked in broad daylight, enjoying the open air, not a care for classes or academics or for bookwork or for physics. Eighteen teenagers and their physics teacher, off to have a good time.
When the kids got there, they played on the playground like they were elementary schoolers. They swung on the tire swing three at a time, spinning until dizzy. They climbed on the equipment and slid down slides clearly not wide enough for them. A couple of kids just sat on a bench and looked at their phones, nodding that they were enjoying the time outside. A few of the kids thought we should do it again and make it something physics-ey. I told them we were studying energy soon, so of course we could likely go again. When we gathered together, I asked them if a little sojourn outside of school was worth it for all the potential trouble it could cause (maybe it would cause some?). The answer was certainly yes.
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"Mister, can we go outside?"
"No, we have work to do. One last thing to cover, and then we can order pizza and get ready for one last test."
We review arithmetic and geometric sequences, common differences and common ratios, and there's a sadness about the room.
"Mister, this was actually a pretty fun class."
"Yeah, Mister, we really did get a good teacher."
"You should come back and do this again, Mister."
The scratching of pencils on paper. The occasional shuffle out of a seat. The occasional stretch. Someone gets up to go to the bathroom, and is back in two minutes. We all continue to work. The kids work the math, and I get the test ready.
At ten-thirty, I order from Domino's. At this point, I don't even bother to step out; I just make the call right there. I get a little testy when they tell me that they can't take my order until they open, which I know is complete bullshit. They hadn't seen me get this animated, so I think they think it's pretty funny. Then they start laughing because apparently I have moved into my Massachusetts accent. When I hang up the phone, I roll my eyes, and tell them that this doesn't seem that hard. They laugh again.
When the pizza arrives, I go to the front door with two other kids and we laugh as the delivery guy can't find the front door, despite all the signs that say "Please Use Front Door" with a gigantic arrow. I give the pizza to one kid, the soda to another. We walk it back to the classroom and eat, and I talk with other teachers while the kids watch It on a cell phone. They ask me about Stephen King and where he lives and what he's like.
"We're gonna miss you, Mister," one of them says as they watch.
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All classes end. This is a reality of education. Eventually, kids master what we ask them to master, or move on, or both. Sometimes, we never see them again. Sometimes, we hear from them often. Most of the time, it's inbetween.
Education is partially an act of giving, without a sight of the end result. We send kids packing with memories, skills, knowledge, and experiences, some of which we impart to them, and some of which they create and earn themselves. We think we've prepared them for a journey. We hope we did them right. Then we let them go. We do not know whether our students will make it to where they want to be, or if what we give them will be sufficient for the road ahead. But we do our best. We give what we can, and kids gather what they can. Conversely, kids give what they can to us and to themselves. It is reciprocal, indeed.
In the last moment, the final test, I thought about my first seniors in Lawrence, and my last seniors. I thought about my students at Bapst. I thought about Rose. I thought about every student I've ever taught, every piece of curriculum I've ever written, every class I've ever designed, and every other teacher I've helped to train. I wondered about them all. I hoped I gave enough. Maybe I'll never know. I don't think any teacher ever does. It's incumbent upon us to keep on giving, and we know it. We persist in it.
------------------------
Of my five students, four pass the test outright. I tell them that this isn't the last test, but what they get right or wrong gives them a lot of feedback what about they need to work on. I tell them they can email me if they need help, but I also tell them to find a math teacher they trust to help them before the MCAS.
I tell them I'll be there in May, and then the bell rings. The kids have another party waiting for them. I hand out gift cards to Target that are loaded with an amount proportional to the amount of time they came for.
We do one more Viking clap.
"Goodbye, Mister! We'll miss you!"
I miss them already.
I had an idea and it ended up working out. Many of the kids had open campus anyway, and so I asked where exactly I could take a class without worrying about securing permission. No such boundaries exist. So I took my class to Broadway Park, a playground and a common just down the street from my school. We walked in broad daylight, enjoying the open air, not a care for classes or academics or for bookwork or for physics. Eighteen teenagers and their physics teacher, off to have a good time.
When the kids got there, they played on the playground like they were elementary schoolers. They swung on the tire swing three at a time, spinning until dizzy. They climbed on the equipment and slid down slides clearly not wide enough for them. A couple of kids just sat on a bench and looked at their phones, nodding that they were enjoying the time outside. A few of the kids thought we should do it again and make it something physics-ey. I told them we were studying energy soon, so of course we could likely go again. When we gathered together, I asked them if a little sojourn outside of school was worth it for all the potential trouble it could cause (maybe it would cause some?). The answer was certainly yes.
-------------------------
"Mister, can we go outside?"
"No, we have work to do. One last thing to cover, and then we can order pizza and get ready for one last test."
We review arithmetic and geometric sequences, common differences and common ratios, and there's a sadness about the room.
"Mister, this was actually a pretty fun class."
"Yeah, Mister, we really did get a good teacher."
"You should come back and do this again, Mister."
The scratching of pencils on paper. The occasional shuffle out of a seat. The occasional stretch. Someone gets up to go to the bathroom, and is back in two minutes. We all continue to work. The kids work the math, and I get the test ready.
At ten-thirty, I order from Domino's. At this point, I don't even bother to step out; I just make the call right there. I get a little testy when they tell me that they can't take my order until they open, which I know is complete bullshit. They hadn't seen me get this animated, so I think they think it's pretty funny. Then they start laughing because apparently I have moved into my Massachusetts accent. When I hang up the phone, I roll my eyes, and tell them that this doesn't seem that hard. They laugh again.
When the pizza arrives, I go to the front door with two other kids and we laugh as the delivery guy can't find the front door, despite all the signs that say "Please Use Front Door" with a gigantic arrow. I give the pizza to one kid, the soda to another. We walk it back to the classroom and eat, and I talk with other teachers while the kids watch It on a cell phone. They ask me about Stephen King and where he lives and what he's like.
"We're gonna miss you, Mister," one of them says as they watch.
--------------------------
All classes end. This is a reality of education. Eventually, kids master what we ask them to master, or move on, or both. Sometimes, we never see them again. Sometimes, we hear from them often. Most of the time, it's inbetween.
Education is partially an act of giving, without a sight of the end result. We send kids packing with memories, skills, knowledge, and experiences, some of which we impart to them, and some of which they create and earn themselves. We think we've prepared them for a journey. We hope we did them right. Then we let them go. We do not know whether our students will make it to where they want to be, or if what we give them will be sufficient for the road ahead. But we do our best. We give what we can, and kids gather what they can. Conversely, kids give what they can to us and to themselves. It is reciprocal, indeed.
In the last moment, the final test, I thought about my first seniors in Lawrence, and my last seniors. I thought about my students at Bapst. I thought about Rose. I thought about every student I've ever taught, every piece of curriculum I've ever written, every class I've ever designed, and every other teacher I've helped to train. I wondered about them all. I hoped I gave enough. Maybe I'll never know. I don't think any teacher ever does. It's incumbent upon us to keep on giving, and we know it. We persist in it.
------------------------
Of my five students, four pass the test outright. I tell them that this isn't the last test, but what they get right or wrong gives them a lot of feedback what about they need to work on. I tell them they can email me if they need help, but I also tell them to find a math teacher they trust to help them before the MCAS.
I tell them I'll be there in May, and then the bell rings. The kids have another party waiting for them. I hand out gift cards to Target that are loaded with an amount proportional to the amount of time they came for.
We do one more Viking clap.
"Goodbye, Mister! We'll miss you!"
I miss them already.
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