I held it together pretty well on the second-to-last day. I felt more like myself than I had all year. I joked with my students, laughed a lot, enjoyed myself. It felt like the fog that had descended earlier in the year and hung about my ears every day had finally lifted, however momentarily.
With ten minutes left in our last class together, I closed the door and told my seniors that I had to tell them something. One of them shouted “you’re pregnant!”. One of them joked “you’re leaving?” I nodded.
They cried and I cried and we were all sad together. I forgot about how annoying they were and they forgot about how much they disliked our class. Endings make you do things like that.
I eventually recovered and went on with my day. I managed to tell a few more colleagues at the day’s end. Seeing their reactions made me feel like I had personally punched them in the gut. It was hard.
I stayed until everyone was gone from my hallway and then started to pack my things. I boxed up books and post-its and personal items. I examined what would make the transition to a new teacher most painless for my students. While I was busy, I was fine.
With my car packed full of the past, I drove towards home. And I cried again. Faces of students, current and former, swam through my line of vision.
It’s hard not to feel guilty when you’re the one abandoning the ship at the closest port. I hadn’t even waited for it to dock, just jumped blindly and started swimming desperately away, towards anything that looked like salvation.
I didn’t stop crying all night. Every time I got myself together, I thought about how hard it was going to be the next day and started again.
Just before bed, I got a simple one line email from one of my seniors thanking me. It ripped me apart. (If you’re reading this, it was in the best possible way. I am grateful to have been your teacher. Thank you.)
And that was the second-to-last day…
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