Not with a flourish, but with a wave.

     Yesterday the last of my students walked out of my classroom.  Seniors, who will not be back again next year but will be moving on to something else.  The next thing.  Hopefully a good thing.  Most of them I will never see or hear from again.  And they will not hear from me either.  They passed out of my life in the same way they came into it, according to schedule.  The bell rang.  They left.  

     I've grown accustomed to this departure, and I've lived enough years beyond my own that I know how early this is in the stories of these lives.  For now, this is as much of the story as they know.  But so much more will happen.  Looking back years from now this will not be the time that inspires their recollection or requires their reflection.  It's not that complicated.  They had to go to high school.  They had to take an English class during their senior year.  I happened to be their teacher.  A paragraph, maybe a page, in a life.  So many more chapters will be written.  

     It happened with little more than a wave.  We kept it light:  "See ya'."  "Have a nice summer."  "I'll see you at graduation."  We avoided saying 'goodbye.'  There were no tearful embraces, no manly handshakes.  There were no final words of wisdom from the old sage before the hero's journey.  Just a wave, some casual words, and they were gone.  As if this were only a holiday break and not the journey of their lives.  Perhaps the weight of the latter thought kept us to our daily routine.  We hadn't missed the significance of the occasion.  We just didn't want to talk about it.  We're tired.  We're hungry.  We're bored.  That's enough for now.

     That's enough for now.  But I will remember some of them.  And some of them will remember me.  And whether I am only a footnote, or even just a name in reverse order (Son, Dr. J. Thomas) in the index, or actually get a mention in the text itself, I have become a part of the story of these lives.  Years later, when they are flipping back through warn pages, they may find me there.  A minor complication to a minor plot.  A benevolent presence in the bottom margin .  One teacher among many who wished them well with a wave.  Whatever my character, whatever my part in the tale, I hope it turns out to be a good story.

For Mother's Day ...

For Mother's Day

     A sonnet for the mother of sons, 

     from their grateful father.

Of chromosomes, the "Y" one is the worst,

Perpetuating brooding, distant males --

In retrospect the 50/50 curse --

The prodigal of old, familiar tales.

They rarely grasp the gift of motherhood,

The bruin-heart, the sacrifices made;

Obtuse by nature, thinking that she should

Give all she has, they take; they go away.

Yet what she's given lingers deep within,

Though outward feeling he'll not suffer long;

The motherhood within the lonely men

Bursts forth in poetry, in art, and song.

These gentle arts confirm their mother's worth,

Bestowed and nurtured in them from their births.

                                        By J. Thomas Son

     When I was a somewhat younger man, about fifteen years ago I think, I participated in a weekend retreat for educators.  It was led by an educator-cum-writer, a devotee of Parker Palmer, and the president of a small liberal arts college as I recall.  I can't remember now what specific topic focused our weekend; I only remember a question and answer session at its close.  Uncharacteristically, I risked my own self doubt in front of my peers and expressed the anxiety that kept me resisting this way of life.  I asked when  it is that a person actually knows enough to assume the audacity of teaching others.  In other words, when does one know enough to teach?  The leader did not miss the opportunity to appear wise (I'd opened the door very wide after all), and she readily suggested that when one is self-aware enough to ask such a question, one is ready to begin teaching.  I could appreciate the rhetorical timing and the inspiration of that moment, but I remained uncertain.
     I still am.  And I'm still asking the question.
     Today I led my final class session with my AP Literature students before they take a three-hour reading and writing exam.  In a sense, we work toward this moment all year long.  It matters to most of them, I think, and they will do their best.  But I think it matters more to me.  It's the measure of my success.  It's the answer to my question: Do I know enough to teach?  It's the scale that weighs how much I know.  As they walked out of the classroom, I felt the inadequacy of what I'd provided them not only today, but every day.  Did I say too much?  Did I not say enough?  Did I leave too many questions unanswered?  Did I answer some questions too easily?  Did I pretend to know more than I actually do know in order to make them confident in themselves, and in me?  Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
     Do I know enough to teach?  Yes.  And I also know enough to be filled with anxiety over how poorly I may have prepared my students for the tests I cannot take for them.