Another School Year

Today, when I brought my students to the cafeteria, I stood by the two-panel door and watched them locate our assigned table. With pride, I watched as they intensely wade their way through the maze of tables and sat at ours -hmm, major accomplishment. They will be in that same table for the rest of the school year; they need to know where to go.

The students’ lunch time is our (teachers) free time. I was about to turn around and head back to my classroom, when out of nowhere I heard a commotion, screeching, bubble of voices and screams of “teacher, teacher!” rose above the not-so-quiet hallway. It was my kindergarten class from last year, this year’s first graders. The braver ones scampered to hug me, some were satisfied to just wave vigorously and the others were flashing their best smiles at me while they eye their first grade teacher with caution. A crescendo of voices rose up as each one tried to share something to their former kindergarten teacher -me. Some were trying to talk about where they’ve been last summer, others showing me how many teef (teeth) they’ve lost during the no-school days. I smiled, laughed, took a quick peek at their toothless gum (hehe) and casually detached myself from the little arms that were wrapped around my waist, and told them to continue walking as they were causing traffic in the cafeteria entrance. They walked on, but kept looking back and waving at me. I stood there barely inside the two-panel door of the cafeteria entrance, my “anticipated“ free-time forgotten as I linger to watch my former kindergarteners walk to their “new” table.

Three months ago they were the ones sitting where my new students now sit. The back of my eyes burned with unshed tears and a lump formed in my throat. My heart melted. A flood of memories washed over me. How they have grown! For ten months they were mine as I was theirs. A year ago, they stumbled in my classroom wide-eyed and unsure, with their cowering shoulders and their head bent low. Their fingers clumsy -can’t even hold a pencil, a stutter in their speech. I sighed, swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked back tears. What I saw made me proud. They are so different now from those children who came to my class a year ago. Now, their eyes are brilliant with wisdom and there is confidence in their stance. Their then-clumsy fingers now wield a pencil that they use to spill their thoughts over paragraphs after paragraphs of writing. The flood of memories dried and my lips formed a smile. They are good to go. I did what I am called to do and it is time to let go.

My eyes moved to another table, this time of five-year olds who were talking as they stuffed food in their mouf (mouth) while they tried to kick each other from under the table (teehee). Yes, a new batch! They are always very different from and yet very similar to, last year’s class. They come to me as caterpillars and I teach them to spin a cocoon and take them by the hand (literally) to a painstaking process of transformation so they can emerge as butterflies! Yes, I can almost hear the “I’m-so-tired-to write!” chants.

Every school year holds a special kind of wonder. This one, like many others, is full of possibilities!