Remember that nine-year-old gimmick that always occurred around the end of a playdate with your best friend? You were in the middle of a wedding between your best friend’s rabbit, Dandelion, and the small bedraggled yet dignified yellow bear, Poopsie. Suddenly, their holy matrimony was interrupted by the fateful cry from the bottom of the stairs. “Susannah, your mom is here!” Panic ensues. Twist tie confetti goes flying every which way. You organize a quick plan as Dandelion poops all over the bedspread.
But alas, the plan falls short, your mom finds you hiding under the bed, and you’re in the minivan headed home within minutes.
My body wasn’t built for goodbyes. I can feel their impending presence building in the pit of my stomach. Days or weeks out, a dense clod of emotion begins to ravel in the pit of my belly button. Its growth can be best described as exponential: at its humble beginnings, it’s a tiny speck of rice, which twists into a jelly bean, which tangles into a kiwi, which implodes into a cantaloupe trapped in my stomach.
This cantaloupe weighs so heavy that I can’t even begin to enjoy the end of year festivities. Instead of dancing with the other counselors to celebrate a magical summer camp season, I can be found crying facedown in the sand at the docks.
I don’t want your cheesy greeting cards full of children’s literature quotes from E.B. White and A.A. Milne about the importance of having someone to say goodbye too. What I want to do is cry into two pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream at the exact same time.
I guess I should have known that goodbyes come with the teaching job. You spend 9 months seeing your students day in and day out, hearing about their flunked pop quizzes, the new dent in their hydro flask, and their homecoming drama. And at the end of the year, you are left with a blurry polaroid and a stuffed t-rex to remember them by.
But at least there is time to prepare and unwind from that goodbye. It is planned, with a nice three month recuperation time formally referred to as summer break.
The goodbyes that are harder are the ones that come suddenly, in the midst of the school year. One day, you are crying over the end of Orbiting Jupiter with a student, the next day you find out he transferred to another school. You are talking to a student about the flowers he bought for a girl, and the next day he is expelled. You are helping a student apologize to his estranged best friend and he moves to another state.
I know I’m not their mom. I know I signed up to support them for only a season or two. I know it’s “only my job to improve their literacy and social-emotional skills.” But I still find myself on the ground, yelling in frustration at my hopelessly entangled knitting, when what I am actually angry about is children whose lives are plagued by instability. And that I never got to say goodbye.
Goodbye to your stubborn arguments, your mid-class dancing, and your oversized beanie. Goodbye to your colorful notes, your intense questions, and your well-written debates. Goodbye to a teenager, trapped in the sea of emotions and guardian decisions, and societal pressures that threaten to overwhelm. I am going to miss you no matter how exhausted you made me.
This is the goodbye I never got to say. You deserve the world.
Susannah currently lives in New Jersey and works as a 7th grade ELA teacher in East Harlem. When she is not teaching or writing, she can be found exploring independent bookstores, going backpacking, and trying to roller-skate on all the cool trails in the city. She is also recently experienced in the art of citrus skunk repellent (I know you’re impressed).
