Having been a high school dropout, I never had a graduation. I really didn’t know what the whole five years were supposed to be all about at all, least of all what it would have been like to cross the stage in cap and gown and receive a diploma. What it would be like for normal kids, I mean. Kids who weren’t grieving the sudden loss of a parent, and worrying about the mental health of another, for instance. Kids who instead could focus on making the cheerleading team and running for student government and playing volleyball in the gym; kids who had long-term goals, who won scholarships.
When I became a teacher, no one was more surprised than I to realize how much I had missed those years. Nor how glad I was to have found my way back to school. I got to relive my adolescence in some wonderful ways: going to football games, being yearbook and student council advisor, even chaperoning proms gave me back something I had lost, and I loved every minute of it. No longer someone who didn’t, couldn’t fit in… I belonged.
Over the course of my teaching career, I also discovered that I had two superpowers: the first was making Shakespeare come alive for disaffected adolescents; the second was making connections to adolescents who hated everything about school, not only the bard. Kids who were just like me at their age: lost, sad, angry teenagers, the ones with eyes nearly closed, or fists almost raised, the ones aimless and wandering alone. They became my specialty, really, and I was very, very good at recognizing them, whether shooting off their mouths from the back of the classroom, huddling in a corner of the cafeteria, or running down the hall, ducking into the girls’ bathrooms, skipping class. Becoming their teacher – looking after the lost girls and boys who longed to be found by a grownup, by an adult who ‘saw’ them – was really the best part of my career. Other teachers used to wonder how I always knew what was ‘wrong’ with Steven or Hailey or whomever. I used to wonder how they could not have known. Just look at him/her – they’re a mess. Ask them what’s wrong. They spill their guts.
That class of kids, Zinta, Briony and Arlene, Lisa, Bessie and Amanda, and especially Emilia did not fall into that category. From them, I learned to understand and appreciate those cheerleaders and high achievers, those good girls I had envied so much; had wanted so desperately to be just like, but was so dismissive of in high school. That class of kids provided a soft place to land for a new teacher with confidence issues and a sketchy educational background; they also both challenged and supported me whether or not I wanted/needed either. It was such a steep learning curve, in some ways, but it taught me many important lessons.
I spoke to Emilia just the other day. She told me of how upset she was that I hadn’t been at her grad, especially upon learning the reason why – that I had lost the child I was expecting the last time I saw her at the end of the school year. I was deeply touched by her response. She laughed at my assertion that I was the world’s worst teacher, and countered by saying she saw me as having been a pretty great one. We were both surprised at how much we remembered of that year, and we plan to meet up one day soon for a real visit. It astonished me to learn that she, too, is in her sixties now! In some ways, Emilia will always be that bright-eyed beautiful young woman who sat beside Sue in the back of that classroom, and who elbowed her friend for making that retort. My heart soared when she told me she had become a journalist – I had called it….I knew she was a writer from her first essay.
And so I write to tell you this: that truly wonderful class of ’82 made me a better teacher, and I am grateful for their lessons in humility and honesty and commitment. Thank you, Emilia, for the inspiration, then, and now.
