Flitting Shadows

This was an emotionally draining year.  It may seem odd that I have not chronicled it much.  I am usually pretty transparent about the good and the bad.  Truthfully, I had to be very careful with other people’s privacy.  I work in a small community.  With just a few careless details, all locals who read my drivel would know instantly of whom I speak.  Ethics and general consideration compel me to be sensitive to others’ feelings and privacy.  It hamstrings my writing, to be sure.  But such is my responsibility.  I will carefully share some of the angst of this past year, while being careful to not betray any of the folks in my orbit.  Just know there is more -- so much more.  Maybe someday after time has passed and memories are fuzzy I’ll have more freedom.  But not just yet…

Here is one story…

She came late in the year – a recent arrival from another state.  She was gregarious and darling and fit in immediately.  Unfortunately, her academic prowess was alarmingly behind her grade level. 

I met her dad on the day before she joined my class.  He had a preschooler in tow and an infant in a car seat.  I wondered about mom, of course, but didn’t ask.  I didn’t have to.  He was eager to talk about her.  For reasons I will leave in that moment, she was not with the family.  Dad and his three children under the age of seven were relying on the kindness of relatives. 

He wound down his sad tale and ended with a mumbled apology for not being able to provide her required classroom supplies until he started his job and got his first paycheck.  Not to worry.  I always have extra supplies on hand. 

By day two of her stay in the Magic Tree House, I knew something drastic had to happen.  She was hopelessly lost.  I called in the building intervention team and we mutually decided that she could not get the needed help in my classroom.  She needed to begin with the basics and hopefully, work her way back to the first grade. 

She took the news well; better than her classmates, to be sure.  They had already fallen in love with her and had made her one of the gang.  They felt forlorn and deserted.  Her new classroom, mere feet away from their own, might as well have been located on Pluto.  "When will she be back?" they asked daily.

She came to visit regularly; a little too regularly.  She would slip into my classroom in the middle of the afternoon, during social studies or writing.  She always came bearing a gift, usually a scrap of construction paper with the only words she knew how to write.  “I love you” was the standard text on each and every note, nothing more, nothing less.

One day her new teacher followed in on her heels, a look of consternation on her face.  She addressed her by name.  “You did not ask if you could leave the room.  You can’t just wander away and not ask for permission.  I need to know where you are at all times.”

A look of dismay crossed my former student’s face.  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.  “I won’t do it again.”  She left quickly, embarrassed at her faux pas.  I added my apologies.  “I didn’t know you didn’t know.  I will send her back immediately if it ever happens again.”  The other teacher nodded wearily.  “Getting the hang of classroom protocol has been a struggle for her.”

From then forward, we confined our greetings to seeing one another in the lunchroom, or passing each other in the hall.  She was always cheerful and full of sweet charm. 

And then came the first rumblings of her leaving our school and state to move back where they had come from.  I asked her new teacher if it was true.  She didn’t know.  The rumors began to take on greater detail and form.  I suspected it was a near certainty.  The gifts from my little friend began to increase in frequency.  One day a puppet face on a popsicle stick, another day a simple picture of she and me.  The one line, “I love you” notes came near daily.

“Are you excited about moving back?”  I asked her one day near the end of the year.  The noticeable pause in her response spoke volumes.  “Um… yeah, I guess.”  “You’re not sure?” I teased gently.  Another pause as she carefully chose her words.  “I AM, except…” her voice trailed.  “Except what?” I prodded softly.  “Except you won’t be my teacher next year.”  My heart broke just a little then.  I pulled her into my embrace and gave her a quick hug.  “No I won’t be, that is true.  You will have a different teacher.  But there are so many wonderful first grade teachers out there, and I’m guessing that yours will be perfect for YOU.”  With her soft blue eyes fixed on mine, she nodded hesitantly.  “Yes, ma’am.”  Her gaze reflected the doubts in her mind and heart.

The last week of school arrived and with it the announcement that she would be leaving for her home state on the last day immediately after dismissal.  I watched her go through the motions of the end of the year.  It is no secret that there is little educational value to that last week.  It is the last opportunity to get in that spring field trip, dispose of all lost and found items, clean out desks and lockers and supply bins, and get in a movie or two.  A few admonitions about being diligent summer readers and some transitional activities for the next grade round out the week.

She smiled and played and enjoyed the festive atmosphere of the last week of school along with her classmates.  She was truly a happy and welcomed member in her new class and she adored her other teacher, who adored her in return.  But I felt that there was an element of dread wrapped tightly about her.  It was larger than going to a different school in the fall and having a different teacher.  The very reasons for the move and the circumstances surrounding it had been traumatic and nearly impossible to process for a seven-year-old brain.  I think she was frightened that there would be more chaos to come and she shrank back from the prospect.  Her life in our town and our school was a known quantity at least.  The unknown can be so overwhelming.

On the very last day, as I sorted papers to send home, she appeared in my room.  “I wanted to give these to you,” she blurted without preamble.  “They’re goodbye gifts.”  Her blue, blue eyes were serious and fighting to be brave.  She tried to still the slight quiver of her chin.  I wrested my stare away from that mask of conflicting emotion in front of me and looked at the papers she had shoved into my hands carelessly.  The top paper, a small square, held one last familiar declaration.  “I love you” was emblazoned across the top in her unique large, block letters.  No picture or other words shared the space.

The second paper was a puzzle to me.  I couldn’t immediately discern what it was.  And yet something about it drew me irresistibly to it.  The entire paper was covered with lines – only lines.  And yet the shading and play of textures in gray pencil were expertly applied, creating an interplay of light and dimension usually only mastered by serious artists.  “It is beautiful!” I exclaimed sincerely, then added, “Help me understand what it is.  Tell me about it.”  “It’s a horse’s mane,” she volunteered simply.  Of course!  I could see it now.  The curve of the line and the variety of shades did indeed resemble a horse mane.  She loved horses more than almost anything.  She had given me the best of her proffers.  I was humbled.

I gently laid the paper down and pulled her into my arms.  “You are going to be fabulous in your new first grade,” I promised.  “I’ll never forget you and I will think of you often.”  Then I kissed the top of her soft blond head and released her.  She nodded almost imperceptibly and then turned and left without another word.  I knew I would never see her again.

I came across that picture the other day as I cleaned off the expansive bulletin board behind my desk.  I was busy throwing no-longer-needed papers away and nearly tossed her masterpiece into the trash with the rest.  But then I realized what I was holding and stared at it just as I had the day it was placed into my hands.  I was struck once again by its simple beauty.  “Dear Lord, be with her,” I breathed quietly.

This saying goodbye business is truly one of the hardest things about teaching.  I hate it.  These precious children worm their way into my life and heart and then quite suddenly disappear, for one of a thousand reasons, from my orbit leaving a huge black hole that only they can fill.  I have such empathy for these innocents who are forced to abide by decisions out of their control.  I keenly remember decisions my parents made for me that I was unhappy about.  But life is cyclical and I in turn have made decisions for my children that were wildly unpopular.  Such is the journey of all mankind.

And yet, the often warring and sometimes wedded sides of my educational background, psychology and education, wonder at the damage that occurs when such traumatic changes happen with such rapid speed.  The misconception is that children are incredibly resilient and that in no time at all, they will have forgotten why they were opposed to the change.  Don’t get me wrong, children are indeed resilient and can adapt very well. And yet, those very children will bring up those instances at odd times well into their adult years.  Some little part of their psyche is forever altered by it.  I am guessing as I type this you yourself are thinking of such a time in your own childhood.  I am too.

It is a double-edged sword to care fiercely about the welfare of my charges and wonder if they will be cared for as they deserve and find good people at every turn.  I always hope and pray so.  Most of these that enter my garden for but a brief moment in time, I will never see again on this earth.  I am sobered by that.  My influence is light at best for these transient spirits.

There is an ongoing and persistent rumor that our school is haunted.  There are most likely a large number of schools that boast the same claim.  And let’s face it, empty schools and churches are creepy at night in the dark.  Even a few faculty members have added to the claim.  A former English teacher insists that there were multiple knocks on his classroom door when he was there absolutely alone at night.  The music teacher says she has heard dribbling on the basketball court and no one was there. 

I don’t dispute their claims, but I have spent many a late night alone in that building and have never heard or seen anything supernatural.  Of course blasting iTunes at 120 decibels may have something to do with that.  Either I couldn’t hear the ghosts or they don’t like my playlists.

But pushing the supernatural to the side for the moment, I think maybe there is some truth to the argument that my building is full of flitting shadows – not literally, but figuratively.  I believe that each precious child that has crossed the threshold of my ancient building, has left a bit of their essence behind.  And this is true of those that were there for the full K-12 experience, as well as those that barely brushed our lives.

I have had to come to peace with that.  That is why each and every day that I am in the classroom, I must be at my best.  I must smile and show love and kindness, if only for that day and only for the child that will barely graze my orbit.  It can never be enough and it concurrently has to be enough.  I don’t get to write the script, I only play the part.

And so….

I breathed a goodbye and a blessing to another precious child placed in my path and prayed that her life would be filled with good things.  It is all I can do.  Her flitting shadow will forever become part and parcel of my classroom and the school at large.

“Go with her, dear Lord, and watch over her every step.  Hear her every prayer, and send caring people into her world.  Let her stumble into somebody else’s garden and find warm sunshine, gentle rain, and an environment that is perfect for growth.  I cannot go with her, but you can and I know you did.”

I rest easy…