The End of an Era

I submitted grades for my final semester of teaching just hours ago. I threw away old lesson plans and course packets and filed leftover Post-It notes. The only items remaining in my charcoal gray backpack (which made me look like a student when on my back) are my grading pens, which will not fit in my container of household pens on the computer desk.

All of this finalization talk brings the beginning back to mind. I sat through a week's worth of training for my first teaching job. My mentor was strict and expected perfection. I taught French 101 that semester and as I walked through the door, five minutes before class was to start, I saw the heads of my students turn to see who had entered the classroom. I was eighteen years old and they had mistaken me for a fellow freshman. They returned to silently examining their textbooks and I felt the butterflies in my stomach flutter more rapidly.

I was nervous about making a mistake in French, even though I was proficient and most of them knew less than Bonjour. And I was just plain nervous all over. Through all of my years teaching, I've never much liked the first day of class. Well, more like the first ten minutes of class. There's all that analyzing students do ... How old is our teacher? Do you think she'll be nice? I wonder if we'll have to buy the textbook... Plus (don't judge me), I find it hard meeting new people. I really do. I love having new friends, but it takes me a while to warm up to people (my mentor verified this).

Nevertheless, I worked hard for those students. I taught them for 50 minutes per day, five days per week. I spent two hours preparing each lesson and many more hours tutoring students who needed extra help. Grading was endless. I usually arrived at school between 6:30 and 7:00 am and stayed until 8:00 or 9:00 pm -- however long it took to complete my work. But I didn't call it work. I loved it. I loved teaching. And I loved my students. I called them my students; they belonged to me and I wanted them to feel that they were part of me. I brought myself to class everyday. I shared with them my favorite French songs and poems. I brought letters from my French friends. I told them my stories about my visits to the famous town Montmartre (watch Sabrina) and the quaint countryside covered in vineyards. I invited them to see French movies at the International Cinema Theater on campus (our favorite was Ponette).

On the last day of class, the students presented me with a gift. They had pooled their money to buy me a necklace with an Eiffel Tower charm. I cherished it -- not because of its value or beauty, but because of what it represented. I had succeeded that first semester. They knew that I was a teacher who knew them personally and cared about them very deeply. And unlike grammar rules or vocabulary, that's something they'll never forget.