Life.

Tomorrow is my seniors’ last day of school. Four years have passed since a terrified, teary-eyed 23 year old walked into her new classroom and pretended to know what she was doing. Four years have passed since a group of quirky, nervous, lanky 14 year olds found their places in room 117.

Now they all have their places: back desks with their feet on the chair in front of them, in chairs pulled up across from me, or standing in a tight semicircle around my own desk. Consequently, I have found my own place, as well. They’ve given me a sense of belonging, a purpose, and a meaningful life here. 

Last night I finally closed my laptop around 10pm after helping one of my favorite students write his personal statement for a college application. I was surprised he was completing an application for this particular school, as he had previously told me he “didn’t like it that much” after visiting the campus. His response was simple, yet profound: “I guess it just feels good to be wanted.”

Isn’t that how we all feel? Don’t we all just want to feel needed, appreciated, wanted? 

I think we forget sometimes just how much we all have in common. We let petty, insignificant differences divide us; we are conquered by inconsequential challenges.

Today ended with me sitting at my desk surrounded by five hovering seniors. Each of them had a laptop opened to a college application or scholarship essay. Each one had questions, wanted clarifications, or asked me to look this over. 

When I first started teaching here three years ago, nobody knew me. I was anonymous, invisible almost. My presence was only known to those who were in my classes. Now, in the fall of my fourth year, I know every single student who walks down the hallway. I can chat about tv shows, sports, books, and future plans with nearly anyone who walks past. Students seek me out at all times of day to ask me for passes to come work on scholarships. I have individual folders in my filing cabinet for the core group who ask for my advice. 

The final bell rang signifying the end of homeroom today and the seniors packed up their belongings. One girl said, “do you mind if I come back tomorrow?”

I’ve had a tough time transitioning back to life in a small, rural town after spending the summer in Vermont. It’s not that I’m unhappy to be back, not at all. I love my students and the school. I’m still excited about what I’m teaching and I look forward to going to work every morning. I feel like part of the community. The owner of the coffee shop and both baristas know me by name. They are practically pouring my coffee before the door even closes behind me. I get to school, am greeted by several students as I make my way down the hall, and often find former students waiting for me at my classroom door. We spend twenty minutes before school chatting with each other while we each prepare for our upcoming days. When the first period bell rings, I already feel validated as an individual and as a teacher.

But as the day goes on, it’s easy to forget about those moments of shared silence at 7:50am. I find myself losing touch with the bright-eyed, coffee-toting teacher who started her day with intention. The copy machine is jammed; I’m annoyed I have to waste time fixing it when I could spend it doing something that matters. I walk through the library only to be confronted by a librarian who’s annoyed with me for not giving a student a pass prior to her study hall. My first ninth grade English class of the day begins with me snapping at a student who acts like he is better than everyone else. 

I want to be more intentional about the way I go through my day. I need realize that while the copy machine was jammed, I was inadvertantly given the time to catch up with a student who generally dislikes school and frequently opposes authority. I need to remember that I have the opportunity to help her feel validated, just as I have students who do the same for me. When I give a student a pass to come to my classroom during her study hall, I want to treat her college application process as the only thing that matters in those moments, because everyone deserves to feel they have someone who they can turn to for help. And when I am feeling frustrated by a student’s attitude as he walks in my room, I need remember that he has likely never been praised for his accomplishments, and that he comes from a home where he has probably never had someone tell him them they love him.

This afternoon I received a letter from a former student who is a few weeks in to her first year of college: “I am writing this letter to say thank you for everything you helped me with my junior/senior year... You truly inspired me each and every day to be a better student and a better role model.”

Tomorrow begins my fourth year of teaching. This is what I’ve been looking forward to since I began: my first freshmen- my first ever students, will be seniors. 

Three years ago, I welcomed a group of 72 freshmen into my classroom. I pretended I wasn’t terrified and acted like I knew what I was doing. Over time, it became easier. I looked forward to seeing these students every day and I developed a bond not only with them, but with their parents, as well. We read a horrible novel that my predecessor left for me, they pushed my buttons on a daily basis and complained about assignments, we bonded over shared enjoyment in tv shows, and they were humored by my attempts to acclimate to small-town life.

Over the past few years, I’ve attended hundreds of their athletic events. I celebrated their wins and consoled them on their losses. We read books together, volunteered together, and talked about their futures together.

Tomorrow they will begin their journey out. They’ll start applying to colleges and will say that they “can’t wait to be done.” I’ll be heartbroken to see them gone. I don’t know this community without them. I don’t know what it’s like not to have them waiting by my door before school, or how to start my day without our morning chats. But I’ll be there to help them with their college applications; I’ll be there to write them letters of recommendation; and I’ll be there on graduation day when they’re ecstatic about leaving.

Year three of teaching ✔️

16.5 hour drive from Madison to Burlington ✔️