The Last Day of School

I wasn’t prepared for this.

All year long, I’ve been thinking (and sometimes daydreaming) about the last day of school. It seemed as though it would never come, like a carrot luring a donkey on the end of a stick. It didn’t seem to matter how many plans we made or events we scheduled for the summertime, it felt as though the school year would never actually release its kung-fu grip on our lives.

Then, very suddenly, it did.

I knew it was coming, too. For the last several weeks, I’ve been administering end-of-year tests, attending promotion/retention meetings, and cleaning out my classroom – all signs that the end was near, and that my time with these kids was quickly drawing to a close. So how did I get blindsided?

Thursday was the last day of school. Kids came in wielding yearbooks with grins plastered onto their faces. There was a generally jovial spirit about the hallways. Kids sat where they wanted to for the first time all year, and laughed and talked through much of the day. They watched a movie in one class; made ice cream in another; they played a review game in mine. All in all, it was a low-key, low-stress day for everybody.

My last class ended at 1:30. The bell rang (just as it had all year) and kids began to file out of the classrooms and into the hallway on their way to their next class (just as they had all year). At this point, the reality of the school year ending still hadn’t hit me, and I stood at my door, watching students walk (and run) away from me.

I knew something was different, however, when students started coming up to me to say goodbye. Goodbye? This was new. Some threw their arms around me, some just yelled, “See you Mr. Olsen!” as they walked by my room. As these goodbyes occurred one after another, I finally started to realize that I wouldn’t see most of these kids ever again. And while I probably would have rejoiced at this news back in September, it was June now, and part of me wasn't ready for goodbye.

Then came Antonio. He had been one of my favorite students throughout the year. He was the kind of kid that said very little, but when he did, it was worth remembering. True to form, Antonio didn't disappoint:

“It has been a pleasure to have had a teacher like you.”

He accompanied these words with a bashful grin and an outstretched hand. I shook it, and responded, “Antonio, it has been a pleasure to have had a student like you.”

With that he walked away, disappearing behind a corner down the hallway. By this point, I could feel the emotion welling up inside of me. I quickly retired to my classroom and closed the door behind me.

I started breathing heavily and staggered towards my desk in the back of the room as images of my students faces flashed in front of me. I turned off the lights so that passers-by would think I was away from my room.

Soon my heavy breathing gave way to a sustained weeping that went on for longer than I care to admit. I was a broken man at that moment, and there was nothing I could do to fend of the tidal wave of raw emotion. My body shook as I cried. I dropped to the floor and sat with my back against the wall in the back corner of my classroom. My door didn’t have a lock, which meant anyone could have walked in at any moment. I was in no mood to be seen, so I sat on the floor, hiding behind my desk, crying like a child in the lap of my mother.

Many of the tears were happy ones. I rewound many of my favorite moments of the school year and played them back in my mind. I thought about Christmas cards my kids had made me, about our field trip to Washington, DC, and about the time I came back to school after missing a day of work because of sickness to Gabrielle’s “Thank you, Jesus! Mr. Olsen’s back!”

Of course, many of the tears were born of grief. I couldn’t help but think about how many of them will never outgrow their poverty, and how even now some of them hardly have a place to call home. Some of them have already started their lifelong and life-ending careers in drugs and crime and violence, and it hurt because I wasn’t able to change that.

It took me awhile to regain my composure. I eventually did, returned to my feet and started to clean up the mess my kids left as they hurried out of my class. What a year it had been.