Saturday morning, while I was outside mowing our weeds, my friends Estelle and Ken stopped by and gave me a beer. I normally don't drink at 10 a.m., although I'd like to think I'm flexible and open minded. It was a home brew--a witbier, for you stuffy hopheads--with a lovely label that featured a photo of my friend Andrea, in full mohawk mode. I held the bottle like I might hold a baby--one reason I'm done having babies. And I promised to crack it open on May 24, the last day I'll be employed by Lincoln Public Schools.
This photo of Andrea and a motley crew of her fans--myself included--was taken when she was donning that same beer-label 'do. She was halfway through her cancer journey, which meant that East High also was halfway through her cancer journey.
Andrea was a mighty bright light in my 29 years at this lovely school. But she was not alone in that spotlight.
For someone whose dad changed jobs every 7 or 8 years, I am verklempt as I ponder this 32-year-long teaching career (two years at Pius and one at Pound, as well) that began with a lunchtime visit to Teacher's College while I was writing sappy commercials at KFOR.
And, while I suppose it's possible that other jobs can leave a person changed, I can't imagine anything that changes you like a building filled with teenagers.
On those mornings when I woke without oomph, there was lovely Maryam waiting for me, her shy smile hinting at the poem she wanted to share with me.
On that day when I wondered how we'd get it all done, there were Mya and Noah, across the street from Everett Elementary School, showing off the Little Free Library they'd helped make possible. And dozens of their classmates--cheerleaders and nerds and woodworkers and readers--along with their teachers, stood on the steps of Everett, all of them celebrating a really cool project that built bridges between tweens and teens.
Over and over and over again, for 32 years, the kids just kept showing up. Sometimes wily, often funny and kind, they found their way to school, to my classroom, into the library, and made a point to just say "hi."
And the adults did the same. Like this fall, when, at the end of that really long week, Pam and Luciano salsa danced on my patio.
Many people who become teachers do it because they love a
thing--English or reading or history or art. But I'd argue that, down the road a bit, it's the
humans that keep us coming back. It is the human framework on which the content hangs that makes this thing work. And, as much as I love journalism and great books, it is the people I will most miss when I walk out the door May 24th.
. . . everything else was just an onramp to the person I've become.
