It's Time for School; It's Time for School...

Today is the first day of school for lots of people in my life, so I thought I'd write a little about my favorite memories of being a teacher. It's really just a list of students, and what you see here is pathetically incomplete. I could go on and on, but you'd get bored.

I'm so lucky to be in the first generation of teachers who get to friend their students on Facebook (after graduation) and watch them go on in their lives. It's wonderful.

If you're a teacher and you love what you do, I hope you have a shiny, happy year. If you're a teacher and you don't love it, and I say this with all appreciation of money and the recession and obligation and everything, but GET OUT. If you're a parent of a student, I wish you easy drop-offs and a year free of worrisome mid-quarter reports. And if you're a student, make good choices!!

Here is my highlight reel:

The one who showed up one morning with one shoe on. He said he just forgot the other one.

The one who had no inner monologue. Everything came out of her mouth. I pitied her because I’m the same way.

The one whose mother bullied him about not being smart enough. He was the same one who used to say the most beautiful, most humane things in class. He struggled with details, but he saw the universe clearly.

The one who brought a “bomb” to class and put it in my hands when I asked him what was in his sweatshirt pocket. It was calculator he had modified heavily, so much so we called the bomb squad.

The tall, gorgeous one who was teased constantly for being tall and gorgeous.

The first period class that made me a coffee mug for my birthday…with all their pictures on it. Every single face.

The twins I always mixed up.

The one who nicknamed me VRob. It stuck. For. Ever.

How they all used to write about how much they loved their families--their mothers and their fathers and their brothers and sisters. They would write it in class like a secret they didn’t want anyone to know.

The one who read the Polish poem in the original Polish, even though he wasn’t Polish and had no idea what he was doing. I cried I laughed so hard. It wasn’t disrespectful. He just wanted to try and he went with it.

The one who grew a foot in eight months.

The one who didn’t grow at all in four years.

The one who had a strong preference for my black plastic-rimmed reading glasses and not the wire-rimmed ones and would be audibly disappointed anytime the wire ones were on my face.

The one who broke up the fight.

The one who, when I asked if anyone had any questions about the pronoun lesson, raised her hand and said, “Did you wax your eyebrows yesterday? They look different.”

The veteran at my community college who needed synonyms for “bullshit.” He had a hard time writing about his deployment without using “bullshit” at least twice in every sentence.

The one who ate Styrofoam out of a shipping box and explained in detail that it was totally fine to do so.

The one who came to my empty room during lunch and came out of the closet.

The one who came to my empty room about seven weeks into my pregnancy and said, “We know something’s wrong.” I had thrown up every morning, sometimes in between classes, and I was trying so hard not to let it show. I think they thought I had cancer or something and wasn't telling them, the little sweethearts.

The one who asked, "Did you buy that sweater . . . like that?"

The CC student who came to class reeking of pot and could write only about dealing drugs. He used to explain little things to me, like this: “So, Ms. R, my friend wanted an Infiniti, but he wanted a pick-up truck. Now, Inifiniti doesn’t make a pick-up, but money talks…”

The one who indignantly yelled, “I didn’t say anything!!” and then said, “Well . . . I might have said something.”

The one who photographed my wedding.

The one who sang “Billie Jean” at my wedding!

The one who played a violin in class. A violin she had made herself.

The one who hid in the storage closet three minutes after class started, for the rest of the entire period, just to see if I would notice. I did not.

The one who sent an email pleading with me to recommend him for Honors English. The subject of the email: “Honos English.”

The one who said, “I love this class. It’s like we’re a family. Only we like each other.”

The football players who sported the kiddie-sized Disney backpacks.

The one in the van in South Africa who began to choke—really choke—on a piece of fruit, and the one who, after the first one coughed up the fruit, started to cry and yelled, “Why do you always do this to me???”

The one who did a backflip off a desk when I wasn’t looking and broke his wrist. Great.

The one whose mom passed away that year.

The one whose dad passed away that year.

The one who danced and sang and made everyone happy and joyful no matter what . . . he was the same one who had lost his mom.

All the ones who awaited Ellie’s arrival as if she were their baby sister, and showered her with little gifts and cards and all sorts of love. All of that treasure has been kept for her in a special box, so that when she's older, she'll know how much she was loved by the kids I had before her.

The one who said, "Ms. Robinson, I could never be a teacher. We drive me crazy."

. . .

To a gloriously funny, lively, sweet and lovely school year, for everybody!