Strange times with a quiet room
As this school year comes to an end, the regular happiness and nostalgia that comes with it, is noticeably absent, replaced with deeper sentiments of a year cut short.
Normally, in the weeks before summer vacation, my elementary school fills with the warmth of spring, joy and celebrations. Specially saved activities come out of the cabinet. Mother’s and Father’s Day crafts are designed. Portfolios of student work come together. Students celebrate a year of growth, learning and triumph.
As a teacher, ending this school year has been difficult to say the least. Sad is not strong enough, and disappointed just doesn’t completely describe what is felt. Strange seems to resonate, and heartbroken perhaps is the the word that comes nearest to the feeling of what this time has brought.
I did not get to say goodbye or give my students one last hug or high-five. I didn’t get to explain why they had to leave and couldn’t come back. I and other teachers won’t be able to wave as students pull off from the bus line on the last day of school.
Teaching is an act of the heart. To be a teacher you give 100% of your heart, time, and effort to your students, 100% of the time. Not being able to end the year naturally feels like all that time and effort has somehow been lost. I am not upset for me though, but rather, I am upset that my students also share in the heartbreak. Everything I am feeling, I know they are also feeling tenfold. That is what is most heartbreaking and brings me close to tears.
But what actually has brought me to tears, is something I never thought could. Teachers were recently instructed to close their classrooms without their students present. So, I made my way back to my classroom: Room 14. My green shamrock garland was still draped over the doorway, the inside of my classroom was seemingly untouched — frozen, put on pause. Student’s art adorned on the walls. Plans for the week still sat on my desk. On the board, the date read March 12, 2020. That was the last day I saw my students in person; the last time I spoke with them face to face; the last in-person goodbye I was able to offer, saying, “I will see you tomorrow.”
This feeling was, again, indescribable. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I started packing up student’s desks, taking down their art, and collecting their academic files. As I looked at all their belongings and months of hard work stacked up, a slight chill flowed throughout my body. I wanted to reminisce with them. I wanted to show them how their writing had improved so much and the math they once thought was impossible, they had learned to master.
As I finished packing, I began to put their chairs back up on their desks. And that’s what did it. The familiar clank of chair on desk is what brought a tear streaming down my cheek. A sound only a teacher would recognize. A sound so simple, so familiar, that I never knew I could or would miss. It reminded me of the goodbye I would not get to give this year to all of my smart, loving, and kind students. Room 14 is only a classroom because of my students. Without them there, it is just a quiet room.
While heartbreaking, the experience has been enlightening as well. Our school, community, staff, and children have come together like never before, and we will surely cherish each day we do get to spend back inside the classroom in the future.
This end of the year looks a little different, but every teacher is working hard to end our year the best way we can for our students. We are apart, but have never been closer.