Dear Mr. O

Forgive the tense changes in this piece. I retired from teaching little kids a year ago. Sometimes I still wake up and I'm a little confused about where I am. My tenses are bewildered.

You might remember letters. A pencil-and-paper message, handwritten, with thoughts, memories, stories. Love. Carefully crafted. Written in cursive, folded twice, tucked into an envelope, licked shut, stamped, addressed, return addressed. I received one this week. It was from an old friend. 

 I knew this child a couple years ago. She was in my third-grade class. We spent 7 hours a day together. We played on the recess field. Shared meals. Made each other laugh. We shared our favorite books, family stories. We sat side-by-side during powerful discoveries, asked and answered important questions. After a while (never at the very beginning) we said we loved each other. And it was sincere. 

The life of a teacher must be peculiar to those outside the field. Teachers and students start out essentially as strangers, each of us asking ourselves if we’ll like each other, if this will be a good time, if we’ll laugh. Can we be ourselves? Will there be moments of amazement? Joy? Will there be sadness? Fear? Will we be allowed and encouraged to be who we really are? 

 I asked myself at the beginning of the year (yes, even after 38 years), Am I up to this? Do I have teacher/imposter syndrome? Am I faking it? Is everything going to be OK? 

As we got to know each other, there were all the important times one expects after years in the profession. The Ah-Ha! moments, difficult things to learn and teach, the sometimes excruciating outside world pressing in on our classroom lives, new babies, the deaths of grandparents and beloved pets, getting to know each other in ways that few people can. Knowing which gags will make the class laugh. Understanding how to get everyone’s attention. Figuring out everyone’s line of when to push, when to let go, when to show anger and disappointment, and when – after a while – to say, “I’ve been meaning to tell you all this. I hope you don’t feel uncomfortable. But… 

“I love you. I do. You’re my best friends. Someone has to be in charge here. And that would be me. But I want you to know. I mean it. I love you.” Or something like that. 

 It was more spontaneous than it sounds. It wasn’t rehearsed. I usually said it when we got settled from a transition. Like coming in for recess, just before read aloud, lining up for lunch, or at the end of a particularly difficult day. (Yeah, we had those.) 

There were plenty of years as a young teacher when I didn’t tell the kids how I felt. The emotions were always there. I just wasn’t comfortable enough in my teacher-skin to say it. But after the first time I used “the L word” with my young students, a weight was lifted. It became more natural. It felt right. 

When the kids went on the fourth grade, I often mourned. Quietly. It wasn’t just certain kids. There’s an US that happens with a group of people who get to know each as teachers and learners in a room where you spend hundreds of hours in the same space. You may remember from when you were little. It probably happens in middle and high school. Surely it happens in college seminars. But it’s not quite the same as when you’re little. 

So, when they moved on I mourned. I missed US. Certainly, there was a new group in front of me that I would learn to love. But for a time, there was an uncertainty in many of my former students’ eyes as we passed in the hall or saw each other in the cafeteria. 

There’s the guy who made us laugh and work hard. There is the graybeard who read us stories, let us into his life, read to us from the news and asked our opinions. That man who brought in watermelons for us to eat on hot days, caterpillars for us to watch, forest soil to examine. He prepared us for the ridiculous end of the year tests, sang songs with us, listened as we shared our stories. That old dude who taught us new playground games, math games, chess. The fella (born in the 1950’s, can you believe it?) who had a hard time hiding his tears and never held back his laughter. 

After a while our connection fades. For those new 9-year-olds passing me in the hall or playing kickball with their own class on the recess field, that time in 2nd and 3rd becomes distant. They’re growing up, making new memories that replace many of the old ones. They’re not strangers exactly, but no longer best friends. I might flash the “I love you” sign, but their smiles back become less bright. 

It’s natural. I’ve seen it so many times I can’t remember. My first students would be in their mid-50s now. They may remember my name, but very little else. It’s just the way it is. 

But then every once in a while, a little glimmer reaches through the bills, ads, political BS, and sales circulars in my mailbox. Every so often there is an envelope addressed to me in cursive handwriting (that I taught). And it’s filled with… 

Dear Mr. O… I got to see my new baby cousin for the first time. She is so sweet… We caught 3 snakes and a huge crawdad… My pinky got stung by a bee that I was trying to rescue… I can’t believe we’re going back to school so soon. They say there might be a new kid… I read a good book called Charley Thorn and the Lost City. What are you reading?... 

And every once in a while, it’s signed with perhaps the most important word of all time. 

Love