Matching Tracksuits

English I kids finished up their Odyssey board game project with a couple of days' game play.

A forgotten post

It's late October. The first quarter is drawing to a close, and students sit wading through district-mandated benchmark tests. Despite this, it's one of my favorite periods of the school year. The honeymoon period is over, and we're up to our noses in work that occasionally seems like it might sweep over us all. The kids are getting comfortable with the demands of an honors course, and we've all settled in for several months of work. But more than that, more personal, when I look out over the class, the students are now not just faces to which I'm trying to attach names; when I scroll down the roll at the start of each class, the names are not just sitting there waiting for me to combine with a face. 

They've emerged as this amalgamation of worry and laughter, of procrastination and focus, of silliness and maturity -- everything that makes thirteen-year-olds and fourteen-year-olds thirteen-year-olds and fourteen-year-olds. They're still kids but in bodies that are nearly fully developed, and the awkwardness that implies radiates from every smile of accomplishment and glistens from every tear of frustration that accompanies the eighth grade. Their brains, developing in new and unexpected ways, are awash in a warm flood of newly-released hormones. They realize they're not adults yet but in some sense are convinced they are. They've become people that I think I might actually have quite warm feelings toward instead of just a list of names an administrator has handed me.

I look around the classroom and see faces behind which are entire universes of experiences, worries, excitements, concerns, joys, and doubts. Each face is a mixture of all these things and more. 

I see B, who's new to public school and worried the effect her shyness and lack of experience might have on making friends but who is, nonetheless, making friends because she is a genuinely good soul and everyone sees that. I glance over at J, sitting with his head down, a child I suspect is just on the edge of the autism spectrum, who seems just enough aware of his social awkwardness to be annoyed but not defeated by it. H sits in front of the class, a teacher's dream in so many ways: quick, bright, kind, helpful, she would probably be accused of being a teacher's pet if it weren't so obvious that she does these things because it's just the person she is. In the corner desk is D, who has a mouth that seems incapable of pausing at times yet is impossible not to like despite his frustrating behavior. In the middle of the room sits quiet J, who struggled mightily at the beginning of the year and wanted to leave the class but has in the last weeks blossomed into a determined but struggling writer who has shown more improvement in the last month than some students show all year because she is so very determined to make that improvement.

In short, it's the time of year that I realize I was wrong in my assumptions at the end of the last year, just as I am wrong every year. 

"I love these silly kids!" I think at the end of the year. "There's no way any other group can compare to them." 

And then the next year's students come, and over the course of a few weeks they go from being names on a list to kids I'm working with, laughing with, fighting with, crying with, and I see that the impossible has happened: once again, I have the greatest group of kids I could ever imagine working with, and I'm equally convinced that they are irreplaceable, that I can never feel for another group of kids what I feel for these kids.