Closure
I started here on these pages ten years ago,
showing, never telling, what it is to teach,
my brand new, can do attitude Swiss cheese
with holes that the winds of fear whistled through.
(Sometimes you can end with a preposition.)
And now I'm leaving with my graduates. Irony alert.
I'm not finished. I'm not ready. I'm not everything
you tell me when you're not when you're afraid to line up,
walk across the stage, and shift that tassel.
But who gets Parkinson's disease. Not women my age.
Au contraire, Teddy Bear. And maybe I'm sickest
of the books, the cope don't mope tomes that sneak
into my writing book stack, my screen play stack,
and tell me incredible things like, "Parkinson's
progresses slowly. Expect a two year honeymoon."
Well, pack my negligee!
I know, I know. Blessings count: Husband, kids,
I'm a writer, not a hockey player. All true.
But, like you, I'm not ready. A few years ago,
that summer when I sold my book, I almost was.
I had to find you at summer jobs to tell you,
my senior writing group, of my joy. Christine,
packaging produce in the back of the commissary,
cried with me into the romaine. Beverly,
duplicating transcripts in the education office,
cried with me in the hall. Kevin,....,
but I digress.
So graduation is to be our final night.
And think of how often I've said to you,
"When you step off that stage, you'll be an adult."
And you'd get pale or grey, and beg , "Ms. J.,
don't put it that way," and now when you step down,
I do to. Not a teacher. And by my definition,
i.e., "When I earn my teaching salary from writing.."
not a writer. As I tell you, "Transitions are scary."
Remember when I watched football practice in the rain
needing a phrase, an image, to bump the verisimilitude
("very similar") in my football story? Well, I got it
when Coach said, "See where your help is coming from,"
so if New Yorker buys it (it's been out a while),
or if my movie sells or perhaps my second novel,
then it could be like I chose this. Except for leaving you.
What will I do at the end of August instead of saying,
"Good morning, seniors," knowing that I'm the first
to call you by your new names since it's first period.
Who will I tell, "Spare me the term, 'Bonehead English'.
I teach jockey jocks because that's who I love. I want you,
not A.P. teachers pleasers, because it thrills me
to read great poetry from someone that doesn't know
he/she can write as well as pitch/bump/set/tackle."
I defined me by defining you as someone with talent.
"Talent is caring, practicing, doing your road work.
You can learn this. I'll show you how. Stick with me.
Who loves ya, Baby?"
And see, that's the thing, I still do.
It doesn't matter that we haven't met yet. We never meet
until August when my room, a freshly painted nursery,
awaits an unknown but cherished child. Of course I love you,
you, with a new hair style, and you with a new attitude,
and you, new in school and trying for cool. All of you.
And, true confession, I love the me that I used to be with you.
These lines are beyond this journal's length limit.
My writer self is aware of this but my teacher self,
not long for this world, uses the same reasoning my daughter
used when she missed her curfew. "We broke down, Mom,
and good-byes take longer if your heart is breaking."
Today I see that's true. It's very similar. Verisimilitude.
Written by: Janet Johnston
