Facebook became my friend this summer. Through it, I connected with high school friends, family members, and other individuals who, over the years, have come into my life in one way or another. A fascinating and ludic pastime for my summer-time days.
Toward the end of July, it occurred to me that I might be successful at locating some of my former students. Already in touch with a few, I began to dig a little harder to find others. Student after student appeared in my searches, some still in San Angelo, Texas where I taught them at a couple of elementary schools, others as far away as Chicago or California. Each time I opened Facebook and saw a "friend acceptance" notice, it was as if I was a little girl again, hunting elusive Easter eggs. Many of my students wrote notes that made me realize what a special year we'd had together and little snippets of memory from that particular year.
During this entire time of searching, I honestly did not realize that many of these "found" students were in my classroom twenty years ago. It was as if time stopped when they left my fifth grade room and trickled slowly into my thinking that they could
possibly be in their early twenties. That's where it stopped. And that's why I was shocked into reality this weekend by one of those "found" students.
My husband, eleven-year old son, and I were eating at Miss Hattie's in San Angelo. A beautiful girl walked in with a friend, and I knew immediately it was Joyce from my first class of fifth graders. After being chastised by my husband for staring (never mind that he'll turn his entire body around when someone walks in a restaurant), Joyce recognized me and bounded over to give me a hug. We visited for a bit, and, then, she said, "Wow! It's been twenty years!" I politely smiled and thought, "She's just exaggerating; maybe it's
just
seemed like twenty years to her." As she walked back to her table, I recounted that year that shaped me so much as a teacher to my husband and soon-to-be fifth grader: moved on fifth day of school from one campus to another because of low numbers; Joyce's class had already had three substitutes quit in four days; my first glance at the class was not positive, from the lightning bolt razored into one young man's hair to the daring looks from many others.
This class consisted of the "cast-offs"---those whose parents didn't request the good teachers; teachers whose classrooms had books that year and were located in the fourth and fifth-grade wing. Mine was in the first-, second-, and third-grade building. No books, no materials, new teacher...it was a recipe for disaster. Luckily, I had Labor Day weekend to get the room ready, and ready it was when the kids arrived the following Tuesday. The fruits of my labor were the community that we built in that cast-off classroom. I worked so hard to prove to the kids that they were special, and that, despite the not-so-wonderful beginning, we were going to have a great year.
And we did. Like I told Joyce this past Saturday, every group of kids I teach is special in some way, but they were the touchstone for my career. They were the toughest group of kids I ever taught, partially because of my inexperience in a regular education(I had taught early childhood special education for my first three years of teaching.) Nevertheless, despite my fumblings that year, that particular group of students grew to become a force to be reckoned with in school and out in the world. I run into them more often than other classes, for some reason, and, while teaching in San Angelo, received more favorite teacher letters from the campus where the discipline problems went for consequences.
It was a special year, and, as I've really examined it over the last couple of days, and done the math (thank goodness, I teach English Language Arts!), I realized that Joyce wasn't exaggerating. Twenty years ago, I was a twenty-seven year old teacher placed in an almost impossible situation with a classroom full of young minds. Tomorrow, a new school year begins, and those young fifth graders, now in their thirties, will be with me in my eighth grade ELA classroom, whether they're my friend on Facebook or they're still hiding like an Easter egg forgotten. And every other student I've taught will be standing right behind them, pushing me to be the best teacher I can possibly be for this year's students.
Honestly? Twenty years ago? Honestly.
