Back to School

“It’s gorgeous weather up here today,” Mom texted. “We may head up to Saugatuck. I have that ‘back to school’ feeling.”

I knew just what she meant. Earlier in the week as I was walking the dog, I noticed a subtle change in the sun’s angle, a scent on the breeze, the way the light seeped through the trees, the color of the sky. Nothing you could put your finger on. Just a collection of signals that set my “back to school” senses flaring.

Mom retired from teaching middle school nearly twenty years ago, and I waved good-bye to my last group of school buses three years ago in May. But “back to school” is instinct for us both. After decades in the classroom, you find August and September exert a pull on your heart perennial as the tides. Something in the air I’m breathing this week makes me think of crisp stacks of paper, new notebooks and markers, rearranging desks and chairs, decorating my classroom to welcome new kids to love, and standing at the door to greet them. This time of year, I viscerally miss watching awkward adolescents pretending confidence and nervously straightening their carefully-chosen new clothes. I can picture them—darting daring glances at each other, choosing their seats with care, comparing shoes, and eyeing me with skepticism and hope to decide if I’m worth trusting. I can almost feel the exhaustion of these early weeks even though I am not living them—the emotional pull of working to be worthy of their trust, knowing that these early days are critical cornerstones for a year of changing lives and hearts and minds.

I would usually spend these weeks memorizing 150 names in two days— Is DJ the one with the mischievous smile and the fade or is that Donnell? Serena is the angry one. Lydia is shy and has the long bangs. And who is Mark? I would read stacks of “Who Am I?” compositions; and respond with encouragement to memoirs about last-second basketball victories, amusement park vacations, friendship, and aching loss as we kicked off writers’ workshop: “That’s it! I love it. Keep going. What happened next?” We would listen to my favorite songs, poems, and stories—introduction to the power of words. We would read our “I Am From” poems to each other and start those first steps toward sharing and being vulnerable. I would begin falling in love and figuring out my quirky new family for the year—starting to see needs and hurts and buried stories to uncover. Just like always.

Back to school looks different this year for teachers and students, but some things never change. Just as Mom and I still scent the air, note the angle of the light, and know it’s time, the hearts of teachers everywhere still recognize “back to school.” Back to school is not a place or even a time; it’s something far more powerful triggered by the rhythms of the year. Your senses call you to the fresh page, the new book, the unwritten story. Back to school is always—and never—the same.

As we greet new faces and build community, back to school remains a sacred space for beginning, year after year after year—and nothing can change that. No mask, virtual platform, desk arrangement, plastic shield, or protocol can alter the importance of beginning. I know so many of my colleagues are grappling with fear as school reopens, or feeling torn and frustrated about how different a start this is. I know I would feel the same, wondering as I greeted kids just what this strange year would hold. I’ll offer this encouragement to all, however. The virus is a dangerous living thing, it’s true, but back to school…we need to keep in mind that it has a special DNA, and in those of us who spend our lives in school and love it, this time of year creates its own powerful life force. If we focus on the same things that have always called us back, year after year, nothing will defeat us.