So I started off my 6th period class by telling each student what I liked or appreciated about his character or personality, and with encouragements to push him on to whatever his next level is, as I see it. Some of those students are in their 3rd year with me, and I know them well enough to have unique insights into them. Down each column of the room, student by student. Less than a minute for each person. That took the majority of the class period.
Then some of them wanted to tell me about what they appreciate about me, or the way I run my class, or the way I treat them. I didn't ask for anything like this, but I thought they had a right to their opinions, and it certainly was the right moment, so I sat on the edge of a table in the front of the room and let them have at me. Several students (more than I expected) had something complimentary to say, and as it go rolling, new hands went up as they took advantage of the opportunity.
It was a powerful moment. I received many unexpected insights, and a few responses that validated much of my approach to the student-teacher relationship, my expectations for deep thinking instead of busywork, my helpfulness to them in their task of learning, or my availability to them concerning their academic challenges or willingness to be a confidant to listen to their personal problems and offer advice. It was all very touching (poignant is the official vocabulary word). The one I cherished the most was the simple "You treat us like real people." Not everyone volunteered; maybe half the class. I looked each one in the eye when I thanked them
I wanted to break the bad news to them sooner, but I had to let them have their say, and that left just three minutes in the period for me to tell them that today would be our last meeting, and briefly explain the unpleasant truth about life that sometimes there operate powers beyond our control. I figured this way was better than telling them at the beginning of the period, giving a three-minute explanation of why, and then having forty minutes of awkwardness to get through. And part of it was selfish on my part: I was counting on having the rest of the year to say those things implicitily. With just one class meeting left, I had to use it to give that one thing to them. I saw no other way. When time is short, you tell the truth.
When the bell rang, no one moved, because our business together wasn't quite done. A few students asked if I had any room in any of my other junior classes, and I encouraged them to go staight away to their counselors (just twenty-five feet from my door) if they were serious about wanting to go to June with me. A handful did, and a couple of them actually walked out with new schedules.
About five o'clock, I'm in my room with another teacher, helping her edit an application essay for a summer seminar, trying to get my mind off the disappointment of the day and reconciling myself to the reality of my new situation, when one of the counselors popped her head in the open doorway and asked, "Did you hear?"
I thought she was referring to the loss of my class, so I shrugged my shoulders and scrunched up my mouth to express "Que sera, sera." She realized that I was behind the information curve, so told me that the AP was able to find someone else to take that sophomore class, and that my juniors weren't going anywhere but back to me on Monday.
You could have knocked me over with a horribly-written first draft essay. Of course, my first response was relief. Then laughter, at the now-unnecessary mental and emotional anguish I (and they) had gone through that day. Then appreciation for the dedication of our AP, who really went the extra mile after I came to him to explain my disappointment earlier in the day. He didn't have to do anything about it: his problem was solved the moment I said "If it has to be done, it has to be done" that morning.
So it will be business as usual on Monday, except that I will be bonded even more closely to those young people who walk over my threshold after lunch. There won't be any more emotionally comfortable pretending: we will know a particular truth about our experience together, a truth that has been spoken, and now cannot be unsaid, and cannot be denied. We like each other. They are my students, and I am their teacher.
And that ain't nothing.
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