At the End of it All
One lives in the hope of becoming a memory.
- Antonio Porchia
A phrase has been playing in my head over and over as I contemplate the end of my time at this school:
At the end of it all, what will I be to you?
It’s an egotistical way of thinking about it. But as I walk the halls of the school I’ve spent the last 3 tumultuous years teaching in, I can’t help but consider what kind of memory I’m leaving behind. Was I a good teacher? A friend? A mentor? A role model? The haggard, bearded slob in the corner, sprinting from one classroom to the next?
Teaching is a strangely emotional career. We spend a lot of time with our students, there’s a reason we call them our kids. I try to get to know each of them, I build relationships, I learn what makes them tick. I tell jokes, I tell stories, I know their families, I watch them grow, mature, from one year to the next, I coach them, I cheer them on.
(As I was writing this, outside the school, on my table, I was just handed a stack of thank you cards from my graduating 8th graders. Call it serendipitous, just don’t call it crying.)
I know there are students who won’t like me, won’t like my class, and honestly, it is hard not to take that personally. I am constantly doubting myself, I suffer from the indelible infliction of my generation: Imposter Syndrome. When a day goes well it is like a high, when it goes poorly, it hits hard. Every teacher puts so much of themselves into every day of teaching, it is exhausting, and one of the countless reasons why we deserve that Summer vacation along with our kids.
I know that for every student who doesn’t like me, or my class, there are many who do. I’m not saying that to brag, but sometimes to remind myself: I am good at this. When I told a class of my 5th graders that I was leaving, one kid shouted out, “Raise your hand if Mr. Crumpley is your favorite teacher!” to which all of my students quickly raised their hands (I wasn’t crying, just something in my eye.)
There are students I’d like to believe I’ve made a difference for. And yes, again, this is a highly egotistical way of thinking, but I can’t help but think of the ripples I may or may not have created in these kids’ lives. I think of the pep talks I’ve given, the encouragement, the meetings with parents, the one on one help, the consoling of a crying child, the inside jokes, the unsolicited advice.
What have I taught them?
I can’t tell you a single thing I remember learning in middle school. But I know I started writing short stories in 6th grade, in Mrs. Voorhee’s class. I started writing poetry in Ms. Pehle’s 7th grade English class. I remember joking and laughing with Mr. Pratt, my 7th grade Social Studies teacher. I can’t tell you a single academic thing I learned during this time, except for of course that mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.
Last year a seventh grader told me that something I had said at one point had really stuck with her. We had had a revolt of 5th graders who were fighting the school about the shortness of our recess time, they had started a petition drive among students to extend recess. I mentioned this as we learned about the lead up of the American Revolution. I told my class, “What good is it if you guys, just this class, wants a longer recess? If you don’t tell anyone else, what’s going to get done? You might have every other student in every other class wanting a longer recess, but if you never talk with them, organize, and unite your voice, nothing will change.” To me this was just a throwaway parallel I was making for the revolution, but it stayed with her. She circled back to that comment several times in my class through the rest of the year. Together you are stronger than alone. If that’s the only thing she learned in my class I’ll be happy.
As teachers, we can hope and work and sweat all the little details, the standards, the skills, the intricacies of history, of whatever, but we have no control over what they actually remember. Sometimes it’s like throwing a bucket of water at a cup, something will land, but you can never know what, or how much.
At the end of it all, what will I be to you?
The question circles my head.
My dad, who’s taught for 38 years, was recently invited to a college graduation party for a student he had as a 5th grader. The student asked specifically for him, remembered him as a great teacher who made a real difference. Will I ever be invited to a former 5th grader’s graduation party?
I said goodbye to my favorite group of 5th graders yesterday, (Yes, I know, I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do, and every other teacher does as well.) and as I looked at each one of them I thought about what kind of difference I’d made. Will they remember me? Will I be a memory worth looking back on? Will they remember how awesome irrigation is?
To my 8th graders, leaving, some of whom I’ve taught for two years, did I make a difference? Sometimes I’ll see a former student in the wild and they’ll remind me of a fond memory they had in my class, and it means the world. When they’re older will they remember that I told them that trying to be cool is stupid, and being yourself is cool? Will they choose a career path aligned to their own values and interests as a result? Will they think back fondly of their eccentric teacher with a big beard and a rubber duck collection, who told them that finding something to be passionate about, and doing that thing, should be their goal?
Will I be the reason someone picks up a book? Will I be the reason a student hates history for the rest of their life? Am I overthinking all of this? (Yes.)
I think about the teachers I’ve had that have made a difference for me. I think about the teachers I needed at certain times of my life. Me, a haphazard, lazy, ADHD kid, convinced I was dumb, convinced I could only be liked if I could make people laugh. Who did I need? Have I been that teacher?
It’s hard not to think back through my time here. Pick apart my choices, my mistakes, missteps, analyze each way I could’ve been better, constantly asking myself: Am I a real teacher yet? I’m leaving of no failing of my own, but that’s hard to remember. It’s difficult not to be hard on myself, focusing on the negative. It’s hard not to give more weight to every time a student has rolled their eyes, every rebuke, than every time a student has asked for a hug or brought me a gift on the last day of school, or told me they loved my class.
I don’t remember every student I’ve ever had, so I don’t expect to be remembered by every student. But navel-gazing is endemic for me and I want to know the future. If memory is like a footprint, I want to know, how did I step — heavy and abrasive, or soft and purposeful? Will I be washed away with time, or solid and permanent? I want to see what difference, if any, I’ve made. And because I’m self-conscious, overly critical, full of self-doubt, and egotistical, I want to know: at the end of it all, what I will be to you?
It's a blessing to know that you will be remembered fondly by some of your students. There are others who you impacted that you don't realize. Keep sharing stories, connecting with kids and giving them things to ponder and wrestle with for themselves.
Best of luck in future endeavors. I'll miss catching up during the Friday socials...
This one hits hard. Setting aside the fact that we have worked together, I can say this: let yourself remember the tangible. The most unlikely of kids will, too. When you least expect it, you’ll get a message: “Mr. Crunpley, I need____.” They have away of finding their way back when they need. Your footprint is there. Trust.