I have nine days left with my kids.
I'm thrilled and petrified to be starting a new job at a new school in a new district in the fall. I have no doubt that it's what I need and that I am what they need. I would say that I have no regrets, but that would be a lie. A big one.
I'm going to miss my kids so much.
I've watched entire families grow up - siblings, cousins, and now, aunts and uncles. I haven't had students of students, but I'm sure I was getting close. Sure, a half hour once a week doesn't seem like enough time to really connect with kids - and truly, I don't connect with every kid - but half and hour once a week for five years adds up. Compound that with the kids who choose to do Special Chorus and are actors in the big 4th grade play. Mix in the fact that I have a heart for the kids that struggle in class but bloom in music. These are my kids.
And it's tough to know that I'm leaving them to help myself. It feels selfish. Un-teachery. I say to myself, "I'm making such a difference in these kids' lives. I can manage. I can do hard things."
Yes. I can. Should I have to? No.
So much has happened this year - I've been called "toxic," told to "put my attitude in a box," reminded that "I have one foot out the door," and that "people are looking for a reason to hate (me)." This year, I have not taught in an environment where I can (or frankly, want to) do my best teaching, and I'm the type of human for whom her best is never good enough. I'm constantly striving and remixing, taking what works and making it better. Reflecting. Practicing. Feeling captive in your job doesn't allow for that. I know I need to go. It's time.
And I have one last job to do. For all the teachers telling me that I'm brave and they're proud of me. For all the people apparently looking for a reason to hate me. And most especially for all the kids, I need to teach them how to say goodbye.
You'd be right in identifying me as more of a Hamilton than a Burr (waaaaaaaaay more), but here? Here and now, I need to be Washington. I need to leave with dignity. On my own terms. I need to look at my legacy - thousands of children - and let my program, my school, my home learn to move on, to outlive me when I'm gone. Through my actions and demeanor I need to show what I've learned, the hard-won wisdom that I've earned. I didn't throw away my shot to create a new program in a place where music is worth more, but now I need to ease into the past, a creator of foundations, a mentor of many, and a person who lives on their own terms.
These two weeks, I'm going to play with my kids. I'll spread joy. We'll teach 'em how to say goodbye.
One last time.
_______________
Note: Orange text denotes lyrics from "My Shot" and "One Last Time" from the musical Hamilton, written by Lin-Manuel Miranda.
I'm thrilled and petrified to be starting a new job at a new school in a new district in the fall. I have no doubt that it's what I need and that I am what they need. I would say that I have no regrets, but that would be a lie. A big one.
I'm going to miss my kids so much.
I've watched entire families grow up - siblings, cousins, and now, aunts and uncles. I haven't had students of students, but I'm sure I was getting close. Sure, a half hour once a week doesn't seem like enough time to really connect with kids - and truly, I don't connect with every kid - but half and hour once a week for five years adds up. Compound that with the kids who choose to do Special Chorus and are actors in the big 4th grade play. Mix in the fact that I have a heart for the kids that struggle in class but bloom in music. These are my kids.
And it's tough to know that I'm leaving them to help myself. It feels selfish. Un-teachery. I say to myself, "I'm making such a difference in these kids' lives. I can manage. I can do hard things."
Yes. I can. Should I have to? No.
So much has happened this year - I've been called "toxic," told to "put my attitude in a box," reminded that "I have one foot out the door," and that "people are looking for a reason to hate (me)." This year, I have not taught in an environment where I can (or frankly, want to) do my best teaching, and I'm the type of human for whom her best is never good enough. I'm constantly striving and remixing, taking what works and making it better. Reflecting. Practicing. Feeling captive in your job doesn't allow for that. I know I need to go. It's time.
And I have one last job to do. For all the teachers telling me that I'm brave and they're proud of me. For all the people apparently looking for a reason to hate me. And most especially for all the kids, I need to teach them how to say goodbye.
You'd be right in identifying me as more of a Hamilton than a Burr (waaaaaaaaay more), but here? Here and now, I need to be Washington. I need to leave with dignity. On my own terms. I need to look at my legacy - thousands of children - and let my program, my school, my home learn to move on, to outlive me when I'm gone. Through my actions and demeanor I need to show what I've learned, the hard-won wisdom that I've earned. I didn't throw away my shot to create a new program in a place where music is worth more, but now I need to ease into the past, a creator of foundations, a mentor of many, and a person who lives on their own terms.
These two weeks, I'm going to play with my kids. I'll spread joy. We'll teach 'em how to say goodbye.
One last time.
_______________
Note: Orange text denotes lyrics from "My Shot" and "One Last Time" from the musical Hamilton, written by Lin-Manuel Miranda.
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