As long as I can remember, the last day of school before summer vacation has been a treasured moment. Long before I could even understand the joy of that day in June, I could read it on my dad’s face. A public school teacher for over forty years, to this day, he still works as a high school substitute. To an educator, it’s more than just open season for beach days. (Don’t get me wrong, it is totally about open season for beach days, but all I’m saying is that it’s more than just that.) My dad always talked about his work with passion. When I was five years old, I stood in front of my kindergarten class and announced that when I grow up, I want to be a teacher. I guess education is just in our blood. Can you blame me? The thrill of educating young minds, of breaking down barriers, of molding the future of society, I wouldn’t trade it for the world, even now that I find myself in the position of administration. Each school year is filled with those beautiful moments, even for the assistant principal, believe it or not. And as all educators know, each year is also filled with challenges, all of which ultimately culminate on a warm and sweaty day full of bittersweet goodbyes. The last day. For the entirety of my career, that last day has started in a sensible dress and heels, walking the halls one final time, filled with students on the verge of the coveted summer vacation. It also must be said that the majority of the eighth graders are also on the verge of tears because when you’re fourteen, “graduating” from middle school is a big deal. There are hugs, smiles, tears, selfies. There are video slideshows filled with memories and sappy music. There are goodbyes- some for a summer and some for a lifetime as their peers go off to different high schools. In four years, they will not give a single thought to their eighth grade graduation because it’s really the high school graduation that matters. And four years from then, many of them will only be focused on their graduation from university. And for that exact same reason, none of our eighth graders are thinking about what it felt like to move on from grade 5, or from kindergarten. All of our students are graduating from something this year- some of these accomplishments are accompanied by ceremonies and others are not, but they’re still there. Accomplishments. Celebrations. Wins. In middle school, teachers sign the paperback version of the yearbook and before we know it, they’re off. The bulletin boards come down. The chairs get stacked. The maps of next year’s classroom get taped to the window. The stories are told, of good times and struggles. Educators break bread with one another in celebration of yet another year in the books. Each year, some retire or move on and collectively, we reminisce about our treasured colleagues. More often than not, teachers continue to celebrate well into the evening. And they should; there is indeed reason to celebrate. An academic year when we learned the ins and outs of our students and their abilities, tested their boundaries and were met with successes both big and small, is worth celebrating.
And yet, here we are. I for one did not spend my day celebrating. Today in Massachusetts and in countless states around the country, we are faced with the reality that our last day has come and gone and we never even knew it. There is an entire profession of human beings and an entire generation of children all around the world being robbed of that magical last day of school. For some, there were twenty hours of notice. For others like us, there were none. We went to school on a Tuesday and learned on Tuesday evening that we would not return. At first, it would be short lived. We would return in a few weeks, and boy will that be challenging! All those lost days, how will we make up for the gap before MCAS testing? We distributed instruments, we organized enrichment, we watched the press conferences. Each day brought news of dire situations, of horrifying images of the healthcare workers on the front line fighting for lives of strangers. Each day, we grew more and more skeptical that we would return to our beloved building. Soon, we distributed the contents of students’ lockers, we organized remote learning. More images of hospitals and nursing homes in crisis, of people Face-timing their loved ones to say the final goodbye. I’ve known in my heart for several weeks now that we would not return to school this year, but today it became official. No field trip to New York City. No grade six presentations to honor their cherished loved ones. No spring sports or spring musical, experiences our students revere. Our children, despite our best efforts of connecting with them, of continuing their learning, of checking in to ensure their mental wellbeing, feel as though they are left with nothing. Our teachers are left home with their own families, fighting to develop a schedule of remote learning, fix lunches for everyone, ensure their own children are provided with stability and routine, are devastated. I am devastated. I’m devastated for those who have lost loved ones, for those who have battled and are battling this disease. I’m devastated for the hospitals and their professionals who are being pushed to their breaking points. I’m devastated that there are still people out there who refuse to adhere to social distancing protocols and whether they know it or not are just perpetuating the issues further. I’m devastated for the mothers and fathers who now have to face the hard truth that they will indeed be dealing with these struggles until at least the end of June. (Those of us living it with children at home know firsthand that this ain’t easy.) And yes, I’m devastated for our teachers and our students. I’m also deeply thankful that those I know and work with are, as far as I know, home and healthy; while the connections to loss will undoubtedly reach all communities, I remain hopeful that my loved ones, including all of my colleagues past and present, will remain safe throughout this ordeal.
There are many things we can and should mourn right now: experiences, events, people, reality, life as we knew it… just to name a few. And we should mourn them because this is hard. It’s really, really hard. It’s overwhelmingly hard to talk to our children about what is happening, to continue to be a productive member of a faculty, to put all of the books back on the bookshelf for the seventeenth time in one morning, to navigate technological issues with virtual meetings, to break up the arguments between the kids, to even begin to think about how to go about “homeschooling,” to provide a wide range of nutrition to our kids when the produce is sold out in a store full of surgical-masked strangers, to exist peacefully in a home that now feels like a prison, and sometimes, even to breathe. And as hard as you think it is for you? Imagine being three and feeling like maybe you’ve done something wrong and that’s why you don’t get to go to ballet anymore. Imagine being five, never being able to see your kindergarten teacher again. Imagine being nine, seeing the terrifying images on the news and overhearing your parents but never truly understanding what the hell is happening to your world. Imagine being fourteen, never getting to say goodbye to your classmates before the end of middle school. Imagine being seventeen, being robbed of your rights of passage: prom, graduation, and the countless events that we all experienced. Imagine being twenty-two, feeling like all your hard work has been for nothing, feeling like you really don’t ever get to finish college.
My hope for whoever may read this, whether it’s April of 2020 or countless years later, is that you take even the most brief of moments, close your eyes, and express gratitude for what you have in this life. These really are the definition of trying times, and if we cannot lean on one another, then what can we do? It’s so much easier said than done for me, but I do try to be thankful for the health of my family, the fact that I am still able to work, and that I live in a home that not only has heat and water but also has a large yard that allows my girls to enjoy being outdoors when there is so much that has been taken from them. I’m thankful for the communications I’ve had with our students, for the almost penpal-style relationships that have popped up, because even though I know they’re grasping at any kind of normalcy they can reach, their emails secretly make me feel a little more okay than I would otherwise have felt. I wish more than anything that we could have our treasured last day of school, but I know that in order for our community, our state, our nation and our world to move forward, we must all make sacrifices. But you better damn believe that I’ll be popping some freeze-pops with my girls on June 17th, and next year, I’ll be celebrating all the way through the summer for a full academic year having come to a beautiful end.
