Bittersweet can never encapsulate the emotions of goodbye

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Yesterday, I closed my first classroom door for the last time.

Bittersweet is the adjective commonly associated with the end of the school year. But one word is not sufficient to describe my last few days, the endless goodbyes, and the turbulent emotions I crashed in between. 

This school year was, as predicted, challenging. Not only because it was my first full year but because of the unique trials and tribulations forced upon my school community in January and the sudden loss of my grandfather. Grief was etched into weekly meeting agendas, 10-hour work days, and late-afternoon grading sessions.

However, this first year will be memorialized by the joy in community, perseverance, and growth that my students, coworkers, families, and I showed in spite of each trial we faced together. There is so much to celebrate this year that cannot be measured by data points and formal assessments.
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Our precious community of 18, then 22, then 16, then 17 students learned about so much more than the topics presented in our curriculum books. Over nine months, they absorbed and grew curious about the deep culture of Uruguay and built connections with real second graders in La Pedrera. They built a bridge of culture and friendship. 

They became more empathetic, confident in their Spanish, and informed on how to be community advocates when fear was at our door. They opened their hearts to six new students who joined our classroom, they worked through countless social problems, and learned how to take accountability. They practiced being como el caracol (like a snail) and taking their time and doing their best work on tasks from daily work to state testing. I will miss their kind, generous, dedicated, and silly personalities. 

And, lastly, they grew more into themselves as scholars — creative and independent thinkers. Their reading and writing endurance took off with encouragement from me and from each other. And finally, they fell in love with reading real books. Their adoration of Frog and Toad and Pete the Cat will endure (I hope) for years to come. 

Therefore, bittersweet can never encapsulate the emotions of goodbye.

. . .

I unsuccessfully held back a wave of tears as I ushered my herd to their buses for the last time. I felt stifled by the late spring humidity and the cacophony of laughter, a water balloon fight, and the pressure of letting go of the nine-year-olds I spent months teaching, coaching, loving, and protecting. I held each one close to my chest and whispered one last affirming message in their ear. When I was alone, I surrendered myself to the embraces of my coworkers. 

And as the buses began to pull away and honk in jubilee, I lifted my hand to wave, blue glitter smeared on my otherwise red puffy cheeks.  

And just like that, it was over. Well, until tomorrow. There will be several boxes to check and many others to fill with souvenirs, knick knacks, and posters.

But it marked the sudden end of all of those extra hours poured into the safety, security, success, expectations, and joy of each student. The end of weekly staff meetings analyzing data on Wednesday mornings; spirit weeks and boom box Fridays; conversations in line for the copier; celebratory emails to families; crafted routines, takeout food orders and Queer Eye on collaboration of learning days; staff bowling night and book club; parent volunteers during the math block; and every other idiosyncrasy that makes teaching the arduous, exhausting, and fulfilling job that brings me so much purpose and passion.

I thought I would feel overwhelming relief with the arrival of summer. Instead, stress sleeps and grief linger. My brain requires time to unwind the tight coils of responsibility that spun since September. However, I know that the next waves that will crash my anxious shoreline will be ones of adventure, self-restoration, liberation, and of course, rapture in a well-deserved respite.

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