The Desk Drawer

Today was a rough day. Today was one of those days where I sat at my desk at the end of the day, fighting back tears in the back of my throat, questioning each and every interaction throughout the day. It was one of those days where I felt like I was on enemy lines without any means of defense and without a friendly face. After a somewhat dramatic social media post (because... public venting...), a friend innocently commented, carefully suggesting that I find an old letter or note from a student to perhaps raise my spirits. I couldn't help but be reminded of the BEST advice I ever received from my former teacher and now friend when she suggested that I always be sure to keep a box with small mementos from students for days JUST like this. Truth be told, I know better than to let days like today get to me, but I also am grateful that I heeded this advice so many years ago and started this feel-good collection... I scoured my old laptop for this piece I KNEW was there, and all I can say is... it did its job :0)

*Originally Written 2014*

After 179 days of taking on the daunting task of a ninth grade inclusion class consisting of varying levels of learning disabilities, borderline cell-phone addictions, and WeDidNotHaveToDOThisInMiddleSchool-ness, it was finally the last day of school. Despite the empty cavern that was my wallet, I decided to throw an end-of-the-year party to celebrate the survival of my twenty-eight freshmen through their first full year of high school. Now, having already done this once before the previous year, I knew that my generosity would probably be rewarded with some combination of the following: approximately four paper plates carefully folded into paper airplanes, two to three pizza sauce smears across the desks, a request to take the remaining two liter bottle of Cola to the next class because it would be “so cool,” and – if luck prevailed – at least one heartfelt thank you. I mentally prepared myself for the fact that the students would run off to their next class, ignoring my genuine sadness that we would no longer be together as a ninth grade English class. My self pep-talk had already ensued that morning to rev me up for the crowd of students who would leave my room forgetting to say goodbye, or failing to thank me for a great year, or even wishing me good riddens, or…anything. I had already convinced my ego that this had nothing to do with my teaching and everything to do with the fact that ninth grade girls and boys care more about the five minutes of social time between classes than they do about their teacher’s feelings. Then, as I scraped pepperoni off the floor, I realized that two lone students remained in the room, and one was holding – GASP – a gift?!

Now, I have heard countless stories from my elementary teacher friends of the barrage of gifts and cards and homemade knick-knacks placed on their desks by teary-eyed children at the end of each year. With my high school students, however, I was happy when they called me Ms. Conner and not their math teacher’s name – gifts and tears were not something I factored into our end-of-the-year plan. So, as to savor this rare moment, I slowly opened the colorful gift bag and pulled out a beautiful gold and orange necklace – clearly from my favorite retail store because I had seen it glimmering there on the shelf while shopping for new, snazzy grading pens only weeks before. The girls told me that they just wanted to get me something so I would think of them when I wore it. Wait, you mean you want ME to REMEMBER you guys? YOU are going to remember ME? I tried to keep my exploding inner joy down to a reasonable level, but I was genuinely touched that these girls had thought to get me a gift, and at that, something they knew I would love. But, the necklace wasn’t what really did it for me.

*M* handed me a card. That pale, recycled paper envelope served as a clever costume for the words scrolled inside. I slowly read her meticulous hand-writing that told of a doubtful ninth grader who started the year uncertain about her own abilities as a student. She recounted our after school sessions and lunch periods where she would write, and revise, and re-write, and edit, and re-write her essays, and where I would read, and comment, and make suggestions, and praise her. I was simply doing my job. To her, I had made a difference. To her, I had been someone who provided her with confidence and encouraged her to do better. To her, I was someone she was genuinely going to miss. To her, I was a teacher she was never going to forget.

To me, this small envelope filled with folded card-stock was validation that maybe I WAS doing a decent job as a teacher. It was a year’s worth of memory’s recorded in purple pen. It was all of the silent thank you’s that had exited the door moments before. It may have been a simple card, but in that moment, it was everything to me.

It occurred to me that this card would be something I would need on long days when I began to doubt my teaching ability – and days like this can sneak up on a person. After those long weeks where it seemed that I had failed to do justice to my dreamed up lesson plans, had misspoke one too many times, or had finally remembered to take a deep breathe after floating in a state of panic for days, I might just need to read this card.

This card – this small reminder of why it all matters – lives in a drawer in my desk. Now, it has acquired some friends: a few short, hand-scribbled notes; various photos; a duck pen (yes, a pen with a duck on it) that lights up and quacks; a copy of The Pearl with a note scribed on the cover joking about how much the student knows I despise it. This box is filled with small moments, snippets of memories or inside jokes, some that may escape me as time passes by. Most days this drawer stays closed, and sometimes it remains shut for months at a time. However, on days where it feels like everything is spinning and the doubt permeates every corner of my brain, I will open this drawer… and I will remember. But mostly, I will take a breath, revel in the memory, and smile.

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