Dear English Class

Dear Eighth Grade English,

I'm sitting here, wondering if you have any idea how much I've loved being your teacher. Only two school days remain, and our classroom is a (mostly) quiet buzz of your voices singing school-house rock grammar songs, quizzing each other on poetry terms, and playing your favorite vocabulary game of sparkle, in preparation for your English exam.

I'm trying to grade your tests, and help return library books, but I find myself distracted by memories of the school year. The window is open and the fresh scent of warm earth rushes in, reminding me of the hot days last fall when this first began.

You may not have known it, but I was so afraid to be your teacher. Some of you were taller than me, and others knew way more than I did about grammar. Suddenly I was supposed to be the final authority on how to spell a word, when for the past five years, the spelling tests I'd given contained words no more difficult than, "dog" or "kite". I felt unqualified and naive, not sure how to motivate students without gold sticks and a treasure box.

You told me later that I'd earned a reputation that first month of school, not for being nervous, but for being strict -writing a student's name on the board if they dared whisper to a friend, and handing out lunch detentions like candy. I once confiscated a (very juicy) note that was being passed and gave the offenders the option of having their note read aloud to the class, or promising to never write a note in my class again. They chose the later, and my reputation was sealed. "Mrs. Jones is so strict," was the word on the street, according to one of my coworkers. What you didn't know was that my heart was pounding when I gave my first lunch detention, and that my mind was racing to decide if your signaling to a friend across the room technically counted as talking, and should result in a check-mark, or it that was unfair, since I hadn't specified 'no signaling', while at the same time trying to explain eight different kinds of pronouns that I barely understood myself. You did make my life challenging at times.

But, oh, how you made me laugh. When we acted out "The Diary of Anne Frank," many of you revealed your previously hidden acting talents, and you begged me to let you play Mrs. Van Daan and wear the fur coat, or Mr. Van Daan and get to "smoke" the pipe. A few of you may have caught onto how much fun I was having deciding who would be married to whom each day. The real drama, though, came toward the end of the play when you fretted over who would have to play Anne and Peter in the scene that they kissed! I saw the relief spread over your faces when Mr. and Mrs. Skidmore joined us in English that day, to play the parts of Anne and Peter.

After a few months, we worked out a deal. You'd realized by that time that I was strict for your own good, and I'd realized that maybe you could handle getting up to get a tissue without asking for permission.  (I'm sorry if I treated you a little too much like six year olds at first.) We came up with some classroom rules together, and decided on a set that we all felt was fair. Some of you continued to receive detentions, but I like to think that you at least felt more ownership over the rules, and your choice to break them.

I don't remember how it came up, but one of you wanted to know which section of 8th grade English was my favorite. My vague answers provoked an intense competition between the two sections of English and I received notes, chocolates, flowers, and the best homemade cookies I'd ever had, all in an effort to win the title of "my favorite class." While neither section was satisfied with, "I love you both the same, but for different reasons," you came together and got me back on April fool's day with a fresh batch of cookies and a note that read,

Dear Mrs. Jones, 

The two eighth grade English classes have decided that we both want to 

be your favorite class. So, together, we baked these cookies for you. 

We hope you enjoy them as much as we did when we tasted them.

Love,

The Blue and White Eighth Grade English classes

It was actually April 2nd when I tasted them, so it took me a minute to realize that there was something horribly wrong with them, and I later learned they had been made with a few extra tablespoons of salt, chili powder and garlic! I like to think I had the last laugh, though, when I walked into class, thanking you profusely for the cookies, but regretting that before I'd had a chance to eat them, Coach R's dog ran into the staff room, and gobbled them all up! By the way, the dog was now at the vet with a terrible stomach sickness and they weren't sure he was going to make it...I couldn't hold the joke in for more than a few minutes, but the tears in Hannah's eyes and the guilty looks on all of your faces were enough to tell me I'd tricked you back.

You'd learned at this point in the year that if you wanted to get me off topic, at least for a little while, all you had to do was ask me for a story. Perhaps it's because I have such fond memories of my eighth grade English teacher telling our class stories. Whatever the reason, I was almost always persuaded to spend a few minutes telling you a story when you asked. You were also always eager to hear entries from my 8th grade journal. You couldn't believe I'd written about thinking that a guy other than Mr. Jones was cute. I saw the recognition glimmer in a few of your eyes as I read to you about feeling left out at times and wondering who my real friends were. I hoped that hearing bits from my journal, and laughing together over some of the entries would persuade you to take your class journals seriously.

I even stood on a chair one day and begged you to keep your 8th grade journal forever because someday it would be nice to look back on. And even if you never wanted to look back on it, you might marry someone like me, who would give anything to be able to read the 8th grade journal of my husband today. So, on Fridays, we journaled. You responded to prompts like, What matters most to you in life?, Is lying always a sin?, What are you thankful for?, and the more popular, What are you not thankful for?, What do you wish you could change about yourself?, What do you daydream about?, and What do you wish your parents understood about you?

Do you know how touched I was by your journal entries? You responded with such candor, and honesty. You wrote about the challenges of living life oversees, of the transitions you've gone through, struggles with your faith, and friendships. Kaden, you made me laugh with your "confession" about the plan you had to run away to Italy with Ian, Fabio, and David, while others of you made me cry with the sweet honesty in your entries.

You also wrote letters, often to our first grade pen pals in Arizona. Hudson, I could not believe that you requested a pen pal named Steve, continued to talk about "Steve" as if you already knew him, and when the letters finally did arrive, lo and behold, you had indeed been paired with a little boy named Steven! Though Steven later requested, "Please do not call me Steve," you guys wrote some fun letters and I was so proud when you wrote Steven and asked him if he knew who Jesus was, and copied some verses, including John 3:16 in your letter.

Thank you, eighth graders for teaching me how to be a middle school English teacher. Thank you for helping me figure out how to turn on the projector and plug in the speakers. Thank you for working hard to pay attention and earn class points. Thank you for working even harder to make me laugh. Thank you for opening your hearts to me in your journals. I don't think you'll ever fully know how much you've touched my life.

I can think of no better verse to leave you with than Philippians 4:1: "My dear, dear friends! I love you so much. I do want the very best for you. You make me feel such joy, fill me with such pride. Don't waver. Stay on track, steady in God." (The Message)

I'll miss you guys.

Love,

Mrs. Jones