That kind of teacher...

Today is the day before the last day of school. This is typically the last real day of school in terms of student presence and actual learning (though, the latter is unlikely at this time), so it's often the time that those teachers who really connect with their students give a heartfelt send-off.

I apparently, am not one of those teachers.

Now, mind you, I'm not the other kind of teacher, either. You know, the ones that never seemed to give a damn in the first place and invested little to none of themselves in their class or their students; the kind of teacher you forgot you had unless he or she was a terrible person and made your life miserable. Even time seems to erase those names, though. My 7th grade science teacher, the devil's niece, was one of those teachers. Damn. What was her name?

With five minutes left to go I rounded up the troops; these were kids I'd been with from my first day onwards. They'd seen me screw up (though, they might not have known it), succeed, fall on my ass (literally), break up fights, swear, trip, laugh, rock out, make a fool out of myself, and find out I still had a job. I was their lieutenant and, dammit, they were my unit. So here they were, sitting their, waiting. Some were texting, a few talking, a few staring outside, and I started to give a half-planned, heart-felt speech. The talkers continued to talk until someone told them to shut up, because "Ballew's giving a speech!"

And then, I didn't give it.

Well, I kinda did. I wished them well, told them to be safe, the stuff parents tell you, but not a teacher. I just couldn't do it, though. I thought I had the words, the sentiment, the desire, but when it came time, I didn't have any of it. I felt awkward and disingenuous, and had I kept going, I think they would have seen through it right away. Instead, I just gave up and looked for funny stories from over our time together. Maybe that will be my direction: let the stories do the talking. Sure, I could say the same trite thing the students will hear from their other teachers, but as you quickly find out in your first year, a lot of the times kids just aren't listening. Instead, I'll let the stories do the talking, and hope that the class is mature enough to pick up on the idea that we've invested a lot of time and ourselves into room C208.

Author's Note:
I realize looking over this, it's not funny, clever, or particularly relevant to what our normal blog posts have been about, but it was on my mind. It's something that teachers think about; the legacy they will leave behind, though it's the teacher that stays behind. It's nostalgic, corny, and quite a bit arrogant, but those seem to be essential parts of effective teaching.

In the end, I'm comfortable with the fact that I'm not Jaime Escalante or Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society. I don't care enough in the first place, so why should I suddenly care (or fake caring) in the last place?

This doesn't make me a bad teacher, does it? I mean, I don't want to have a heart attack like Escalante, even if he did have Lou Diamond Phillips in his class. Psshh...