Good Riddence to the 2021-2022 School Year

I dreamed last night that I was visiting my old school on the last day of the year. I dreamed that I was going through offices and classrooms, wishing people well, and meeting new staff members. We joked and hugged and laughed and were all dressed in Halloween costumes. I dreamed that things were just as I left them, but different and better.

But that isn’t the school at which my friends and former co-workers teach. That isn’t the reality of education at the end of the 2021-2022 school year. That was my dream (really), but the truth is that my friends are survivors of a disaster. They end this year with anxiety, anger, frustration, grief, pain, and lots of tears. 

And it shouldn’t be this way. 

Teachers, Counselors, and other school staff are asked to carry it all. They are simultaneously hailed as heroes who will save, protect, and sacrifice for their students with opportunities and weapons and love and knowledge, and then derided as groomers and political opportunists, lazy slackers, and self-serving conspiracy puppets. When it serves the sound bite, they are the saviors of society and when it fits the narrative, they are taking our children into an uncomfortable world of race, gender, and masks. 

And it is too much. 

My colleagues have been carrying the pandemic. Their mantra has been “We’ll make it work,” and “We do what’s best for kids.” They have been performing a high wire acrobatic juggling. Sometimes, their administrators and school boards, and communities have stood by their sides and provided a net. But just as often, those who should be their allies have turned on them and thrown them flaming torches and shaken the tent, threatening to bring the entire circus crashing to the ground in flames and flesh. 

And teachers are exhausted. 

So as the end of the school year approaches, as summer rounds the corner, kids are fidgeting in their seats, and classrooms start to smell of sweat and cut grass, as the looming grading deadlines feel like Kuber-Ross’s stages, let us bid a not so fond goodbye bye to this disaster of a school year. 

Of course, we wish you a relaxing and rejuvenating summer, time with your family, and time to yourself. We wish you health, which has been Sisyphean these past two years.

And we thank you. 

I am not sure I know how to do this. As a retired teacher who left just before the sky fell, I can only half imagine what these years have felt like. For the first time, I have heard several school friends say to me, "I hate working here." As a supporter on the side, I have seen the disrespect and destruction, heard the yelling, and unbelievable thoughtlessness. Alice had it far easier. I felt both guilty that it was you and relief that it wasn’t me and anguish it was happening. People say to me every day – every.single.day – that I “got out at the right time.” I wish you could join me. Right now. 

And we should be concerned that you will. 

Teachers are leaving in droves. They watch their friends and colleagues of decades marching toward the cliff’s edge and feel the pull of gravity. Wonderful, inspiring, passionate professionals are packing their classrooms for the last time right now. As the lockers slam and the sneakers squeak down the hall, they are crying with relief and shame. Accountants are not asked to kill themselves for taxes, but sometimes healthcare folks are. 

And our teachers. 

This is not an exaggeration. I have heard a call for a student strike in the fall. What if students said, “We aren’t going back to our classrooms until it we are safe from gun terrorists.” What if parents said that?  What if teachers, across this nation, said, we will not conduct another active shooter drill until lawmakers stop the senseless stream of school shootings! 

So hear me clearly. Hear it from a retired veteran teacher: Teachers, you have been outstanding. You have made critical differences in children’s lives. You have nurtured, challenged, enriched, advocated – and educated. You have fought the good fight – over and over and over and over. What you have done matters and will continue to matter, even if you are no longer doing it. 

And now it is your time. 

Some of you will return to the classroom in the fall. Some of you will retire. Some of you will watch the stream of buses and kids with backpacks and step out of the line. Some of you will place your own children at the front and focus there. 

And that is okay.

The last bell is ringing. It brings relief and intense sorrow. Set down the load. Rest. Hold yourself and your loved ones. You have been through a war and, although it is not over, we are hoping for a few months of cease-fire. Go to your bunker. Hug your people. Cry. Unload. Recover. 

And this summer – and all that comes after it – do what heals and helps you.