It’s taken me awhile to recover from this past year’s graduation. You’d think after all these years that it wouldn’t be a problem – that perhaps these things were expected, endured, reflected upon, and subsequently moved on from. Something about this year was different, and it’s taken me three weeks to figure it out.
In short, it’s loss. Not just another year gone, students gone, teachers gone. This year, more than any other, I feel like I’ve lost something significant.
Let me back up a bit. A great deal happened at my school since my last blog post a few months ago. After feeling like my department was dealt a huge setback with the “reassignment” (read: firing, resignation) of four full-time teachers, I was prepared for the worst for the coming school year. We hired new teachers, created some solid inter-departmental and District level teams, and got ready to forge ahead. This what we do, right? We forge ahead with new personnel, new policies, new students, and a “Don’t Look Back” attitude. It’s how we survive, and how we make an environment of constant change work for us. Things were looking good.
The drama began in the Spring, with the “reassignment” (see above interpretation) of a well-liked teacher in our department. The situation was traumatic, to say the least, not only for the teacher in question but for me, my colleagues, and non-Special Education co-workers that liked and respected her. Another teacher gone from our department – a total of five over a two-year period. For a small, relatively close-knit group, that’s a lot. At about the same time, we came to the stark realization that several of our seniors were most likely not going to graduate. That may seem like no big deal to those of you outside SPEDLand – after all, lots of kids don’t graduate. Those kids may or may not turn out ok, but the likelihood that you will be in some manner disadvantaged is quite high if you do not, at the very least, get your high school diploma as a child with a learning disability. It becomes a badge of honor, a certificate of perseverance in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, and not just a stepping stone to college. For many, it is the highest educational honor they will ever achieve. For some, it is the highest educational honor anyone in their family has ever achieved.
This came as a blow. Our senior class had been a tough group ever since they entered as freshmen four years ago. Not tough behaviorally – more so in the realm of motivation and effort. Getting them to class on time, or even to attend school in some cases, was hard. Once in class, getting them to do work, of any kind, was hard. Homework was out of the question from day one. Families were supportive, but difficult to contact and pin down for meetings. They entered our school with very low test scores and skills, and had experienced years of feeling stupid and ostracized from their non-disabled, highly academic peers. At first I thought, “Well, they did it to themselves.” They cut classes and didn’t do the work, so why should they get any special treatment? Why should I go out of my way, when I’ve been going out of my way for three years, to try and motivate these kids to leave here with a diploma? Besides, it’s almost the end of the school year. With two months to go, what can they possibly DO to make up for a lifetime of diminished expectations?
Then I remembered that this is what we do. We do it every year, and as long as we are teachers with a voice that can advocate for our students, we will continue to do it. Communication is always key, so we increased it. We started to communicate more with all involved parties – teachers, parents, administrators, and potential non-grads. We encouraged, cajoled, threatened, yelled, complained, and cried. Our seniors started to come around. They went to class, did make-up work, and kept their eyes on the prize. Sure, we had many scary moments along the way, but in the end they all made it. Graduation Day 2016 came around and I saw them all walk across the stage. I heard their families yelling for them, and I saw their faces as they passed by me one last time, all of them aglow with accomplishment. For the first time in their lives, real accomplishment. I tried to identify how I felt, and I felt nothing at all.
We went on a family vacation the very next week, and I was a wreck. I was exhausted and grumpy, and I didn’t really know why. The day after the ceremony, I received this text message from G, a senior on my caseload that was perhaps the most unmotivated of the unmotivated from the Class of 2016:
Mr. (spelled my last name wrong…)
Hey I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you after the graduation I was really hoping to so I could give you a big hug to thank you. You had so much faith in me that I was going to graduate. I’m going to miss the good times we had ha
Haha I appreciate the help so much you are the best teacher I ever had in my life. I was thankful to have a teacher like you. Thanks for everything Mr. (spelled my last name wrong) you made a difference in my life. Have a great summer
I have read that message over and over again, and it nearly brings me to tears everytime. I have received many thank-you’s in my years as a teacher, and I think I know now why this one in particular hits so hard.
Loss. Our students don’t just go – we lose them. In many ways, the relationship a Special Education teacher has with their students is like a marriage. There are good times, rough times, laughter, hurt feelings, disappointment, and victory. We get to know their families, and they ours. We bicker and sneer at each other, and chuckle at each other’s foibles. We delight in their progress, no matter how small. We counsel them in relationships with their peers and help work through sensitive family issues. We try and teach by example. Yet in the end we lose them.
I feel like I am losing friends. I think about all the wonderful teachers I have known throughout the years, and how many of them are lost to me now. They’ve moved, gone on to other jobs, been “reassigned”, or have just dropped off the radar. I think too of all the wonderful students I’ve had, and how many more of them are lost to me as well. I have kept in touch with some, but most are lost. The idea that they may have forgotten about me completely does not bother me the least. Young people move on and live their lives. I’m still here, however – thinking about them and not wanting my job to be about constant upheaval all the time. Sometimes in a profession of continual, unrelenting change, we just need things to stay the same for awhile. Today I am not comforted by the constant of change, and feel the need to pause and look back. That is, until it’s time to forge ahead.
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