"The Transition"

THE TRANSITION, PART ONE

April 19, 2008

When April began, as usual, by teasing us with the idea of Spring when it had no intention of allowing our hopes to be realized until May, I began to contemplate for the first time what it was going to be like to vault down the home stretch of another school year—but a year unlike any previous year because this year would be my last. I wondered when my students would realize that our end-of-May departure would bear more significance than any other. I wondered how long it would take me to empty out the classroom I had inhabited for 18 years, the room that had become in so many ways a home away from home, full of my mementos, my writings, my schoolwork, my books and videos and CDs, the photos of so many past students. I had spent forty percent of my lifetime as a teacher; the orderly chaos of my classroom was emblematic of my state of mind. I wondered when to take down certain things because taking them down and putting them away meant acknowledging a finality that I could accept in my mind but not yet commit to physically. I couldn’t imagine myself ending a school year—even my last one—with a bare-walled classroom, with the shelves stripped, the cupboards empty, the desktop finally revealed.

And I refused to count the days down. Let the days come as they may. The end will come as it will. But I did permit myself to think about the number of faculty meetings I had remaining, and the number of monthly fire drills, the number of times I would have to post my grades online, the number of assignments I would still have to concoct to flesh out the year. And I did contemplate the oddity of next August when my wife and children would gear up for yet another season of public school, and I would not. I would be busy, yes, but with something else.

And I began to hope, too—as afternoon sunlight prompted visions of hiking and biking that overnight snow flurries erased like some magician’s vanishing act—that this year would end without incident—that no one would make a foolish decision on prom night (as did those four boys so many years ago when they decided to try to drive the fifty miles home without any sleep, and one of them, the driver, drifted off and then the car drifted across the center line, and then one of them was dead, and another would never walk again). Already we had absorbed one tragedy—the husband and step-son of one of our math teachers were in a two-car, mid-January accident that killed the boy, a 7^th-grader on my son and daughter’s ski team, instantly—and we needed no other reminders of our mortality.

But that hope, apparently, was one hope too many. Six days ago we received another jolt: A sophomore boy, after an argument with his father, went into his downstairs room and wrote a note and put a pistol to his head and shot himself. His memorial service was two days ago. I did not attend, excusing myself by telling students and faculty members that last year’s service for my own father was still too fresh for me, and that I would acknowledge this boy’s passing in a more private way. Scott was one of my second-hour students, a big-shouldered, fairly quiet blond-haired boy who was a member of Skyview’s football and wrestling teams. Nothing in his demeanor had ever suggested to me or his friends that he might do something like this. I guess we never truly know the heart or mind of any individual.

Scott’s death cast a pall over the entire week. Since it was a suicide, the subject matter was a slippery slope. Even Scott’s own family considered suicide a sin, the penalty for which was eternal damnation. That’s a difficult penalty to accept when it moves from academic discussion to cold reality—from a mere philosophy to blood in the downstairs bedroom. Tempers in school fluctuated like mercury in the beginning. One girl came to me at lunchtime to announce, “I have to get out of here before I punch someone.” Fights were narrowly avoided as verbal injuries were exchanged. Some thought Scott was “stupid” and “selfish,” while his best friends could muster nothing harsher than that they were “disappointed” in him. Mostly all his friends could feel in those first few days was an outpouring of sorrow at their loss and love for the soul they had engendered unto their own for sixteen years.

One day in class early this week, Scott’s friends began to write on his empty desk, which sat in the exact center of a cluster of nine desks. Mostly they wrote of their fierce affection for their departed friend, and I let them write, blatantly ignoring their flurry of activity and allowing them their catharsis. But when the class ended, and I was left alone to begin my planning period, I wandered over to read the penciled memorials. One, in particular, caught my eye and made me smile. I wrote it down, although I doubt I’ll ever forget it. It came from Bryce, Scott’s closest friend, and it said, in part, “You were my brother and my skateboarding buddy. I can’t wait until I can go skateboarding in heaven with you and Jesus.”

Unfortunately, I had to erase all those heartfelt words. The administrators and Scott’s family made it clear that they did not want Scott’s act seen in a positive light. He was not to be deemed heroic, not a martyr; his was not an act to be emulated. His death was a tragic loss. Period. All student outpourings were to be kept confined to a room set aside for anyone needing to grieve privately, and a large swath of butcher paper had been laid the length of a large rectangular table so that the mourners could pen their memorials there.

My second-hour students were informed of the erasure by a school counselor, who explained the family’s rationale. She also told them that, although the desk had been Scott’s, it had been his only during one hour of the entire day, and that others sitting there—when it was their desk—might not see the memorials in the same light; they might not even know Scott and might think it funny to add their own comments, thus turning an impassioned message into a joke. My students agreed regretfully that it was best to expunge their words, and on the following day the desk sat painfully bare.

And now, tonight, is prom. My last prom as a teacher, perhaps not my last as a parent.

My last words to my students were, “Whatever you do out there this weekend, take care of yourselves, and take care of each other.”

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THE TRANSITION, PART TWO

May 4, 2008

Prom passed without incident. A handful of “dirty dancers” were warned once and then asked to leave when they failed to heed the warnings. Otherwise, it was an extremely normal affair—students arriving on the sunny evening of Spring Breakup in vehicles ranging from stretch limos to mud-bogging beasts; couples wearing prom regalia ranging from elegant and color-coordinated to stylish and suggestive, from wildly colorful to dark and gothic; the usual promenade and cheering parents and friends; the usual announcement of the king and queen, rarely anything more than a popularity contest; the stiff-but-smiling chaperones scattered about watching the dancing, listening to the too-loud music that almost no one would never be caught dead with on their iPods but that almost everyone disengaged themselves from the tables for and got out onto the dance floor to shake their stuff to.

I saw students there I rarely see in my classroom. I saw students there who often complained bitterly of how little money they or their families had—dressed in hundreds of dollars of wear-it-once clothing, sporting spendy boutonnieres and corsages, driving freshly washed and waxed (and sometimes rented) vehicles, arriving from full-course meals at our most-expensive restaurants. I saw students who looked so striking, like movie stars, and others so unfortunately dressed—large girls with meaty backs and flabby arms wearing shoulderless, sleeveless concoctions that emphasized their worst physical qualities; rail-thin boys wearing borrowed suits that hung on them scarecrow-like, making them appear emaciated and war-ravaged like prisoners escaped from Auschwitz.  I’m glad it’s over. I enjoy kids, so I enjoy prom, but still I find it mostly an exercise in excess.

And now April has crept into May, and the rest of the year has begun to more clearly take shape. On Tuesday, May 6, eighth-graders from the local middle school who are planning to attend Skyview next year will spend the morning at our school, being bored to tears on tours and gawking at all of the “big kids” smiling at them in the knowledge of the journey these youngsters are about to embark on. On Wednesday, May 7, yearbooks will be handed out. On Thursday, May 8, my most advanced seniors in Language Arts will take the national Advanced Placement English exam, and that stressor will be history. On Thursday and Friday, May 15 and 16, I will give final exams to my seniors; on Friday, all students will be given about a half-hour to clean out their lockers. On Monday and Tuesday, May 19 and 20, all underclassmen will take their final exams. On Wednesday, May 21, the last official day of school, seniors will have graduation practice while underclassmen who actually show up will have mini-classes and a barbecue; that evening I will attend my final graduation as a high school teacher. On Thursday, May 22, I will attend my final faculty meeting, at which I should be presented with my 20-year pin and at which I will say the majority of my goodbyes; the rest of the day will involve putting everything away in my classroom, finishing the process of stripping everything bare and hauling out to my vehicle the myriad boxes of teaching paraphernalia that I must haul home and find space for. Then I will have my room inspected one last time, click off the lights one last time, turn in my keys one last time.

Meanwhile, I have begun the process of extraction. I’ve boxed up dozens of videos and books, using miscellaneous mementos as packing straw to hold all the bits in place and keep things from being damaged. Last night, I completed the cleaning of my poster cupboard, jammed with 400-500 posters ranging from Shakespearean (famous scenes and quotes from Romeo & Juliet and Julius Caesar) to famous authors of different centuries, from Greek gods and heroes to movies, and many defying categorizing. Most of the posters were from movies, posters gathered from local video stores and movie theatres in order to provide bright décor for the one big empty wall in my classroom, and to emphasize points in the Films class I taught for 17 of my 20 years. I set aside all my favorites—too many of them, I’m sure, since I don’t  know what I’ll do with them all, other than roll them into a great heavy tube and let them lie in out of the weather in either our crawlspace or one of the storage sheds on the property. The rest—more than 300, I’d guess—I plan to give away this week, along with my cardboard stand-ups of Darth Vader and James Dean.

TWO MORE THINGS: (1) A few weeks ago, my son asked me if I thought he’d make a good teacher. The question caught me off-guard; it seemed to come in out of the blue. But I tried not to show my surprise and told him that I thought he had many of the qualities that make a good teacher—an enjoyment in helping others, a good sense of humor, a willingness to work hard when necessary, an ability to communicate ideas, and on and on. He seemed pleased, and I asked him if he were thinking of becoming a teacher someday—knowing that he is 12 and just ending seventh grade, and that many things in his mind-set may change between now and his eventual graduation date. He said he was thinking about it. And so the conversation ended … until last week, when he announced to me that he wanted to become an English teacher like me, maybe in a high school or maybe in a middle school. He said he was thinking how cool it would be someday to be hired to teach English at Skyview High School and to be given my old classroom. I felt a small chill radiate down my arms, and I smiled. (2) On Friday, April 25, a school district job opening closed, just as many others were opening and closing all around the district this time of year. However, this one interested me most because this one was for my job—the job I wasn’t even finished with. I know that’s how things go—that hiring must take place before all the best candidates are snatched up, and that in this particular year three of the four area high schools are advertising for full-time English positions—but it’s still an odd feeling to watch my principal and my fellow Language Arts teachers go about the process of setting up interviews and making selections. Right now, there’s an offer on the table to one of the prospects. If he accepts, he will become only the second male to teach full time on the Skyview Language Arts faculty. I was the first. He could even end up in my old classroom.

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THE TRANSITION, PART THREE

June 1, 2008

Just over a week has passed since I handed over my fat ring of keys, toted out to my car the final taped-up cardboard box, and checked permanently out of Skyview High School. As with the previous 19 times I ended a school year, I departed with a decidedly upbeat swing in my stride and in my mood. I had completed another year, wrapped up another set of grades, and had attended another graduation.

I have attended graduation ceremonies every year, taking part in them whenever I could—helping with the Senior Slide Show, reading aloud the names of graduates, or acting as keynote speaker—because I like the idea of personally saying goodbye to as many of the graduates as possible. I like the sense of closure that graduation gives me. And this year, the sense of resolution was particularly acute. Talk of transitions took on added meaning. Like the graduates, I was preparing for a new chapter in my life, examining new goals and weighing alternatives, saying goodbye to the known and preparing to face the unknown.

Graduation occurred on the evening of the final day of school for students. The next day was a scheduled work day for school staff, and also the day on which all goodbyes were said to departing staff, especially the three of us retiring—one custodian, one counselor, and me.

The sun shone brightly as I drove away, accentuating my upbeat sense of the moment, but I must admit to an undercurrent of mixed emotions.

On the one hand, I am happy to leave behind two decades of living on stage. As I’ve told many people, I have spent most of the last 20 years facing 100-150 teen-agers a day, no matter what was going on in my life, good or bad. While a teacher, I have (among a long list of things) gotten married, had two children, and celebrated birthdays; dealt with the deaths and injuries of several students, battled Bell’s Palsy and pneumonia, and suffered through my father’s death—all in plain view of a steady stream of curious teens—all, to some extent, sharing my triumphs or tragedies. Of course, the students couldn’t see completely into my heart and mind, any more than I could peer completely into theirs, but I have been struck at times how vulnerable teachers must make themselves—if they desire real human contact (versus artifice) with their students—and how that vulnerability pays incredible dividends while exacting a sometimes terrible toll. Most students appreciate being taught by teachers whom they can perceive (at least partly) as real human beings—and being “real” equates to exposure. This exposure is powerful in much the same way that allowing ourselves  in love to be vulnerable can be powerful; it is the way we open up to others, the way we forge connections, and the very nerve we lay bare and at-risk. I am ready, for the most part, for a return to a more private life.

On the other hand, I worry—perhaps too much—about the unknowns.  For 20 years, I have been a high school teacher; it was what I did and what I was; it has been my identity. (Just as my dad was Dr. Fair for all those years, I have been Mr. Fair.) My salary has been steady and solid. I have worked hard to do the best job I could while still attempting (sometimes poorly) to be the best husband and father and friend  (and child to my parents) that I could be. Sometimes I didn’t handle that all too well. Sometimes I allowed my teaching—an aspect of my life over which I seemed to have the most control—to be the part of my life in which I became most absorbed, to the detriment of other parts of my life. It was a delicate balancing act in the best of times. If a psychiatrist wanted to tally up the stressors in my life to see whether I was suffering from clinical depression, he or she might have a lot of material to work with; however, I’m not sure that most people in most families aren’t stressed by similar strivings for equilibrium.

I don’t know.

For the past 20 years, my life has followed a generally predictable path. Suddenly the path contains far more unexplored side-trails than I am accustomed to. This is neither bad nor good, just different.

In Hamlet, Shakespeare wrote: “Nothing is either or bad but thinking makes it so.” Smart man.