And...Set Yourself Free

Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened

-Dr. Seuss

I know I need to let go. I've been trying for about 5 years now. But I hold them in my hands, look at the parts, the old notes, the well-preserved folders...and then I just put them back until the urge hits again. That's usually on a rainy day or a few months down the road.

My file cabinet has slimmed down considerably, but I just can't seem to throw away everything even though I know that I'll never use these books or curriculum materials again. I thought that a beginning teacher would want them. But they don't even have classrooms anymore. Nobody knows when onsite classes will return or what teaching will look like if and when this pandemic has passed. So the task remains.

But I have such good things to share. On my last day of full-time teaching, I knew I'd be leaving behind all my classroom computer files and sets of books, and file cabinets full of great lessons, student work, and teacher resources. So, I took two file folders and placed one copy of everything I thought was timeless or necessary not to forgot. Some of that has helped supervise

beginning teachers. It was a life preserver for some. But I no longer do that. Everything must go.

I'd love to have a ceremony of some sort, but I'm afraid most of these papers will be recycled or find their way to "free libraries" or the ultimate: the inside of a garbage bag. There just isn't any demand for a teacher's well used and carefully collected materials.

I suppose I could get aggressive and seek out some new owners. That might prove, I'm afraid, more work and rather depressing getting hit with all those, "thanks, but..."

So face facts I tell myself, you're just going to have to set yourself free.

I think the deed should be done quickly, lest I become one of these hoarders who must filter everything in the garbage before deciding to let go of nothing. I am going to do this. What's the worst that could happen? All physical objects can be replaced, and if not something new and perhaps better will take its place.

So what is this really about? I know. Losing a chunk of your identity? Definitely. But then we are all about loss along the way. Aren't we. I fancy myself at the stage of life where I'd like to emulate Gandhi. I think he only had three things when he died. His clothing, his glasses, and a little statue of the three monkeys who saw, heard, or spoke no evil. Now that's a worthwhile goal. I'll never get there but trying to will definitely help. I've heard it said that in the end, the only thing we really have is our memories. Mine are carefully filed away and available on demand.

Comments

To a Tee

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Illusory

What does it take to enrage you? That moment when your words fly on pure emotion because enough is enough. Is it a driver that cuts you off at high speed? What about being an eyewitness to blatant racism or on the receiving end of some obvious injustice? I know some people who never express rage. I admire them but know full well I am not capable of such distance from that which would bring about such a strong response. Another senseless shooting and 7 people die at the hands of a mentally ill gun owner. The father of the 20 year old college student lets it fly and somehow millions feel a new sense of relief. He calls the politicians bastards who do nothing, he wears his pain in public. The news media responds but we all know that nothing is going to change. We are the gun country. We are the place where anybody, anytime, can be cut down just for being there when somebody else snaps. Usually the perpetrators are delusional. ...

Mr. Greene v. Mr. Brown

I want to tell you about something. Something I've carried inside myself for a number of years now. Perhaps if I were a different kind of person I wouldn't need to talk about it. I'm not. My need to tell it is stronger than your need to hear it. Because, however, there are a number of teachers and former students of mine who may read these meanderings from time to time, I need to tell this story all the more. About 7 or 8 years ago I was asked if I would allow a university PhD. candidate to observe an English class. At first I decided against it because I was scheduled to have a student teacher placed with me the second half of the semester in question. After some urging, however, at the request of a respected colleague, I agreed. Soon I was committing to extra meetings, signing documents and explaining to the class in question who the young woman who thoughtfully pounded away on a laptop in the rear of the classroom three times a week was. I knew that the topic of ...

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