A friend of mine said a couple weeks ago, at the last Senior Mug Night, “This is first of the last things.” And it’s true. For me, the first of the lasts included the last Senior Mug Night, the last Glee Club spring concert, the last Theatre Fairfield show, the last Mirror article, and many more to come in the following weeks. I’ll be darned if it hasn’t gotten me just a little upset. I was on April vacation last week, which felt like it lasted 15 years. I went back to Massachusetts for a few days, trying to pound the educational pavement and find a job, to no avail. I came home (weird, writing “home” and meaning Fairfield), and worked on my massive professional portfolio for my student teaching seminar. Instead of taking finals, we have to hand in a collection of every detail of our work this semester, including a philosophy of education, samples of student work, a pint of blood, and the feather of a rare South American eagle to bring with us on potential job interviews. Needless to say, mine was finished late Monday night, as I pulled my last all-nighter (another “last” thing). The rest of the week just dragged. My friends had classes, and I had a few sunny days to sit out and work on my sunburn. I slept late, watched TV, and embraced my future as an unemployed English teacher. It was around Thursday that I started to miss school and the kids. I was missing all the acronyms I was used to during the week, like PPT meetings, IEP plans, 504 modifications and CAPT testing. I was missing students complaining to me that my homework assignments were too hard, and that they hated my tests but that I had really cute shoes. I was missing the kids who would come in 10 minutes after the last bell on a Friday to ask me what I was doing that weekend. I was missing the kids who asked me for my opinion on personal problems. Tomorrow is my last day at Fairfield Ludlowe High School. I didn’t teach this week. I just observed my cooperating teacher, the man who has taught me exactly how to educate and to whom I am forever grateful, not counting the four classes I considered mine for the past three months. Talk to me Friday afternoon, if you can find me, and make sure I survived. I’m not a crybaby, so I don’t imagine I am going to give a tearful send off to each of my classes. I expect a party in each class, but I mean, it doesn’t have to be a big party. And as for the question I absolutely loathe answering (“So, what are you doing in the fall?”), I’ll tell you straight. I have no idea. I know I’m working at a camp for autistic kids this summer. I know I’m moving back to the Boston area, because I’ve missed it these past four years. I know I’ll be going to Red Sox games, running with my dog and pretending that graduation really didn’t happen. I don’t have a teaching job lined up yet. I’m only mildly concerned that I won’t get one. English teachers seem to be a dime a dozen, so just wish me luck. All in all, student teaching taught me more than three classes and an internship ever could. I have learned that every student lies, even the good ones. I’ve learned how to be tough, think on my feet, and go with the flow more than I ever thought I was capable. Most importantly, I’ve learned that teenagers, and college students, need role models even if they’re not looking for them. Thanks to The Mirror for letting me give you all a glimpse of my abnormal last semester of college. If you need me during the month of May, I’ll be in the backyard of my townhouse, working on making my freckles blend into a tan, soaking up the first of the last days of senior year.
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