The circles we touch

Today I had the opportunity to speak to a group of parents whose children had been offered acceptance to my school. It got me thinking about the fact that their children could end up being in my classroom someday, and would therefore be a part of the future history of my life.

And it got me thinking...

Years before I was born, one summer in the 1970s, my father bought a notebook for 29 cents.

He was driving across America, a relative Kerouac or Steinbeck in his own right. My father espoused on the people he met, the places he stayed, the things he saw and felt. One evening, he flipped open the journal (he'd bought it at the outset of his trip) and touched upon a point that is acutely familiar to those of us who work in schools: People come and go. Students, colleagues, friends. Relationships with parents vary from year to year and the depth and amplitude of connections ebb and flow. But, like the tide, sometimes they come back.

Here's what my dad put on the page:

...upon this circle will touch and sometimes enter strangers, known at first by some of us, or none, and so the circle will grow and change as we travel and move. Eventually each of us in the circle will leave it, some forever, some for a day or a year. As time passes the circle will change, the periphery will fade and new friends will draw near the center. 


Schools are just such human spaces. Spheres of connection and interaction...circles that envelop strangers and draw them close, inviting them to stay or go. I remember returning from the NAIS People of Color Conference in Houston five years ago and thinking, "there is nothing more important than ensuring everyone in this school feels connected to everyone else...that everyone feels known.

I was reminded of this recently when a current student of mine told me she had been accepted to a different school for next year and would not be returning.

Students come and go.

I was reminded, too, of the paper-thin existence of today, of our normalcy, of our able-bodiedness. Things change fast and there is no guarantee of tomorrow. Robin Williams reminds the boys in Dead Poets' Society "Carpe Diem" as they stare at old photographs of  former students from their school. We must seize each day in schools because we don't know what tomorrow holds. This is the oldest any of us have ever been, and we are all trying to be the best versions of ourselves. Teachers want students to be successful. Parents want children to be successful. And young men and women want to be successful, too. We all drive for the same thing and are consumers of the relationships we build.

I've always felt that my students stay the same age as my own wisdom develops from year to year. My students certainly change, but they stay the same, too. Every topic studied is new to them, and just as inspiring. And it is that journey that draws me into the craft of teaching, too.

Sometimes I'll open a file and read something a former student once wrote. A poem, or an essay, or just a note to say thank you. Sometimes I miss my students. I think about my someday future retirement, and how many students I will have known and with whom I will have connected.

Teaching is a profession worthy of attention for anyone who likes celebrating our humanity, our vision, and our propensity for growth. But without the ability to reflect on the craft of being human, it could easily be mistaken for a bunch of correcting papers and writing tests and telling students to sit down and spit out their gum.