For some time now I have intended to come back and write here.
I have kept delaying, because I have too much else to do, because I have nothing to write about, and because of so many other reasons.
Today I decided: I will just start writing. Daylogs to begin with, until my brain remembers how to construct sentences and the words start flowing freely again.
I suppose the impetus for this was a letter I just received. I have just come back (mentally, emotionally and physically shattered after 19-hour days on the go) from retreat with my year 12 class. Translation for non-australians, this is the end of high school (“college” for us) before they go on to the workplace or university. They are mostly 18 years old.
I’ve been with these kids since they were in year 7. It’ll be six years by the time they leave, 12 weeks from now. Some of them I’ve taught every year of their high school and college lives, some I’ve never taught and never to my knowledge spoken to. But most of them I know reasonably well, some very well. Some I still can’t stand, many I care deeply about, some I could be friends with were it not for the fact that I’m their teacher.
At retreat, we all decorated large envelopes with our name and whatever else we felt moved to draw on them, and stuck them to the wall of our main meeting space. Over the three days we could put notes in people’s envelopes – affirmations, acknowledgements, wishes for the future etc. It was incredibly draining – trying to write notes for all the kids I’d had contact with. In the end I wrote reasonably personal notes for all the students that are “mine” now – my pastoral class (“home room”) and my biology class…as well as for the other 20 or so that I have come to know well. For all the others with whom I had had some contact, I left a little note: “The principal was right. We do love you more than you will ever know”.
The notes back from my students were moving. Some thanked me for things that I’d never really thought about – one was so grateful that I’d taken some interest in her dancing, when other staff had dismissed it as being a bit silly. Some just thanked me for my years of teaching, some for other things. Most of the notes were on small notebook-sized pieces of paper (paper was at a premium) and brief, though sweet.
But one student wrote a page. He wrote for several other people that I know of (two other staff shared their letters from him with me, as did two students). This boy is intelligent, overwhelmingly articulate, beautifully self-confident and also reasonably humble. (It also helps that he looks and sounds like a blond version of sneff). Each of his letters showed a deep knowledge of the nature of the person he was writing to; each was individual and personal. His ability to find le mot juste was overwhelming. The phrase: “The group, here undersigned, thanks you for faithful, informal and surly compatriotism” resonated perfectly.
I was awed by his writing ability, when I myself am often so inarticulate when trying to express how I feel. I was hampered by being their teacher – unfortunately unable to really share my thoughts because “friendship” is the only right word, but one that I can’t use.
This morning I remembered that I, too, can write. I was hampered there by a natural reticence, but here I can let the words out.
So here I am, writing. I’ll hope to do so more often.