The “via Oakdale” route blinked on my phone. 

The first time I turned onto that street was after my first solo trip from Massachusetts to Michigan. The previous night I had celebrated a dear friend’s wedding—which seemed to mark our transition from college to adulthood—almost got four of us killed heading home on a single-lane highway at 11 p.m., and crashed in my bed for three hours before hopping in the car again. Fourteen hours of driving and lots of caffeine-spiked water later, I pulled into my new school’s parking lot—accidentally driving through the exit lane.

The last time I turned onto that street was March 13, 2020. The previous night I set up shop in the Scholastic book fair, counting change for kids buying erasers and parents grabbing books, and talked to the occasional parent who, after conferences, wanted to know why their student was failing art class. The next day school was cancelled, but my colleagues and I came anyway. We packed up the fair, set up Google Classrooms, drafted hyper-linked resource lists, and left school at noon to see if there was anything left at the grocery stores.

That wasn’t true, though, I realized as I pulled into the school’s empty parking lot nearly two years later. March 13 had felt like my last day at that school—it was certainly the last day any students did work in art class—but it wasn’t until June, after we bagged up the contents of the last locker and I said goodbye to my colleagues, that I officially closed the door on that job.

A part of me always knew the place wasn’t the right fit. Between teacher shortages and glowing faculty recommendations, I expected that I could waltz into whatever job I wanted after graduation. Instead, I couldn’t get a call back. So at the end of May when this school offered me a flexible position in the location I wanted, I said yes and swallowed back my anxiety.

Standing in that parking lot, I remembered: the 6:30 a.m. drives, sitting in my car hyping myself up to face another day; the recesses spent trying to make sure 5th graders weren’t using their hidden phones to tape themselves doing TikTok dances; the crushing sense that I was failing kids every day; the day I finally admitted to myself that I would become another teacher in the rotating door, unable to hack it for more than a year. 

I almost wished that there was another car in the parking lot that Saturday. Whether I wanted evidence that there were still teachers fighting tooth and nail for those kids or evidence that this school was grinding down yet another teacher, I’m still not sure.

I reached into my car and popped open the center console. My crumpled lanyard, which used to jangle with keys and authority as I walked the halls, dangled from my hands. I worked off the plastic tag that said, “Ms. Johnson, 2019–2020” and started to fold it back and forth.

My therapist has continued to remind me to recognize what this school has given me. My boss put me in contact with a former teacher who taught online, propelling me to end up teaching at an online school. I had a student last year tell me I was the only teacher who pronounced his name right the first time, and it was only because of all the names I butchered at this first school. These days, I don’t take for granted the students who tell me that they enjoy my class; I know how it felt to hear students loudly exclaim, “Oh no! Not Ms. Johnson!” when they saw their name in the art class list.

Working the name tag, I couldn’t tear the heavy plastic, but the creases felt destructive enough. I crossed the lot and stepped up onto the raised pavement near the front of the school, finding a trash can. I tried to artfully place my ID among the brown bags, hoping that some kid would spot it on Monday and say, “Woah, remember Ms. Johnson?”

It flipped over and fell into the cracks instead.

I walked back to my car, mimed shaking the dust off of the soles of my shoes, and took one last deep breath.

“Goodbye.”

I put the car in drive, rerouting my way out.

Alex Johnson

Alex Johnson (‘19) is a high school English teacher in Massachusetts. She spends her days being an uncool adult who enjoys reading romance novels and explaining niche rhythm game strategies.