Another academic year has ended. The next two months will be without children, without fellow staff members. No annoying echoes in the hallways. No fear of job security. No irrational confidence that a passing grade can be achieved even as zero effort is put forth. No psychic siphoning by emotional vampires that don’t know any better. No extenuating circumstances to prompt colleague complaints about things you can only guess at. No specter of professional usurpation whispering in the dark to rob me of sleep. No panicked mornings praying that the whispers from the night before were only that.
So why am I not more thrilled?
For one, I have more than a moderate dislike for endings in general. Finishing books leaves a hollowness in the chest, and it’s all I can do to immediately pick up another to try and ignore it. Even as I celebrate the emotions evoked by a great film, I can’t ignore the looming twilight where I will only remember them. Life and death speak for themselves. Years from now, a therapist will inform me I should’ve stared into that hollowness and recognized the demon of squandered potential. But, hey, don’t let’s spoil the ending.
Let’s get one thing straight: I am in no way mourning my being away from the classroom or from school or the kids— fuck’em. In fact, this strange lack of enthusiasm seems more a reaction to what this summer might represent, something I hadn’t considered until this very moment as I write it. This will be my third year at the same school. I’ve only taught at two so far, so really there shouldn’t be this much emotion attached to it, but we don’t always get to choose what moves us. Now, if I want to get super technical, it’ll be my second year teaching yet another new section, but there’s a sweet spot between the eye and microscope where things are just kind of there. Besides, the section is in the same subject, so I’d really just be trying to circumcise a mosquito.
Part of me wants to play the tortured professional that can’t get his head around what is going to be asked of him next, but dramatics do not agree with my stoic face. Even if these years have been spent teaching different subjects and sections, the overall concept of pedagogy is sketching itself out nicely for me. I’ve no doubt I’ll be taking a nice big step this coming year. So, while there is a piece of me that flirts with the histrionics, honesty will out and I know that it’s more a formal ingredient in the pie than any inspired inclusion.
Even the grounds of philosophical strain slips beneath my feet, as my arms have ceased to shake with that particular weight. I’m sure the weight will be increased at some point, but the the horizon shows only clear skies and a rogue cloud that, if anything, will refresh. I feel capable of entertaining on those grounds without concern for the existential torrent. The idea that this profession is one where the very basis is investing yourself in someone else’s life, facilitating their knowledge while doing your best to nurture their humanity with the specific goal of being left behind and more than likely forgotten has begun feeling transactional. That isn’t to say it’s become soulless and impersonal; I tear up at the thought that I played some minuscule part in helping a kid walk the stage. All I mean is that I accept the fate. I chose it, in fact. I like it. I think it suits me. I’ve never been much for attention, and this sort of relationship where I can help as much as possible without expectations works very well for me. After all, in doing what we ought we deserve no praise because it is out duty.
I feel the grip on my office tightening. I’m making peace with the professional shadows that torture. I love the transitory nature of the love that I have for my students. So, the question hounds: why am I not more thrilled about summer? Obvious answers are universally eschewed because of their less than sexy nature, but the strength of them is the ease in acceptance, which is what I need to do with this particular thought as answer: I think I’m just really fucking tired.