I’ve always found goodbyes difficult. The last few days have seen the departure, on study leave, of our GCSE, AS and A level classes. They’ll be back to sit their exams; they have an open invitation to avail of study facilities and to contact and meet with their teachers for any revision advice they need, so it’s very much au revoir rather than goodbye, for now. But it’s goodbye too: it’s the end of their time in our classrooms, the daily give-and-take of lessons, questions, discussions, deadline-extension-wrangling, late arrivals and all the other things which make up the typical school year. For our A level students and some of the GCSE people, it’s the end of their time with us. All over bar the frantic scribbling in the exam hall- the hugs, the tears, the panic and then the great, wonderful relief when exam season finally ends.
I’ve been very honest with my exam classes, telling them that teachers get nervous on exam dates and results day too, and that we want them all to keep in touch. To feel that we’re still their teachers- that the school is still their home, even if they don’t go there every day anymore. This year, more than most, my exam classes have realised that teachers are human beings- not just human resources which are just as part of the furniture as the desks, chairs, computers, interactive whiteboards, photocopiers, or all the rest of the accoutrements of school life. I missed almost three months of the first term, as I cared for, then grieved for, my much-loved Dad. At that time and still now, guilt has been an overwhelming feature of this school year for me. I’ve felt that I’ve let my students down- even though I had no other choice. I’ve felt bad about having had to rush to get courses finished on time, this term, and about any gaps left unfilled from those early months. I’ll be more than usually anxious as 2024’s results days approach.
But my students seem to have forgiven me. There were thank yous and cards and kind words, in those final days, and some of them even laughed at my jokes. And my two A level classes banded together to pull off the best leavers’ prank (and present) which I have ever seen.
My classroom is home to an ever-growing population of rubber ducks. Many of these have been gifts, over the years: there are souvenir hotel ducks, a Derry Girls duck, and several ducks based on celebrities: Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, Ariana Grande, Katniss Everdene, Harry Potter, and no fewer than three different versions of William Shakespeare. And that’s only part of the population. Students in several of my classes sometimes borrow a duck for moral support when a lesson becomes stressful. Classes who aren’t usually in my room, but who are rediverted there for a cover lesson, are at once amused, bemused and confused by what they see. So, it seemed like a logical leavers’ prank for my two Year 14 classes to add to this population of ducks.
By rather a lot.
The two classes found out my timetable from their Head of Year, got themselves excused from class when I was free but attending a meeting elsewhere, sneaked into my classroom, locked the door, closed all the curtains, and proceeded to hide almost 500 teeny, tiny yellow ducks absolutely everywhere in the room. There were ducks on every desk and many chairs. Some ducks were engaged in a séance, while others were re-enacting a wedding. There were ducks on all the many bookshelves, windowsills and on the computer trolley; there were ducks in neat rows on all the power sockets and along the top of the whiteboards; there were ducks on top of door lintels and blu-tacked to the ceiling. They’d got out my John Donne anthology, opened it at the poem that I liked, and they didn’t (The Flea), and covered the page in ducks. Sitting at the front, on my chair, was a large, inflatable duck: the students had all signed my board, and someone had drawn a speech bubble emanating from the large duck, commenting that all the baby ducks were driving her ‘quackers’. The students had clearly had so much fun setting this up, that when I saw it, all I could do (when I recovered from the shock!) was laugh. Next morning, they told me about how helpless with laughter they’d been, freezing when they heard ‘teacher footsteps’ in the corridor, and then dissolving into tears of laughter when they weren’t apprehended. They had climbed on desks and chairs to reach ceilings and high shelves. They’d hidden ducks in lots of places I hadn’t discovered yet, because they wanted me to find lots of them next year, when they’re all off on their new adventures in university and work, so that I’ll stop and smile and think of them.
As if I could forget the Class of 2024.
I tend to remember my students forever, once they leave: it’s a source of pride that some of them wish to keep in touch, whether by email or online. It’s a wonderful thing about our school that so many staff members are former students, and, in the part of my job that involves working with student or early career teachers, I find myself back in contact with people who once sat in my classes, delightedly watching as their careers take flight. I’m always at pains to tell former members of my Junior or GCSE classes that they can still call in and say hello, in passing, even if I’m not teaching them English any more, and as some of the members of this year’s GCSE class mumbled things like: ‘Sorry you had to tell me off so much. Thank you very much, I enjoyed your class,’ last Friday, it certainly felt as if it had all been worthwhile.
And as for the Class of 2024. When they were fresh-faced and nervous little first years, their uniforms bought to grow into and their schoolbags almost as big as they were themselves, life was very different for us all. Since September 2017, we’ve experienced a global pandemic and two lockdowns; school went virtual for a while and, even though most of us hated that, we all coped. In the February mid-term break of the first year of the Class of 2024, I lost my Mum; I lost my Dad just before the October mid-term break of their final year. The Class of 2024 have been the constant of those years, as with all those people who mean so much to me in school.
I will be finding those ducks throughout next year, and doubtless for the remaining years of my career. Yes, I’ll remember, and I’ll smile. But I’d remember anyway. I’m glad that the students each kept a tiny duck as a memento of their leavers’ prank, and I hope that they’ll remember and smile too. I hope that what they remember is positive: I hope that they know I did my best, and that I always cared.
I’m still in touch with one or two of my own former teachers: people who meant so much to me when I was 18 and starting off on my own new adventures. These last few days, the exchange with which every Latin lesson used to end has been echoing in my mind: Valete, pueri et puellae. Vale, magistra. Goodbye, boys and girls. Goodbye, teacher. As I say goodbye to the Class of 2024, I’m saying goodbye to some of the hardest years of my life. Thank you to my students and my colleagues as well as to my family and my friends. Just like every tiny little duck now makes up part of the landscape of my classroom, every person I’ve known in those seven years makes up part of the mosaic of how I survived that time.
Education isn’t just about exam statistics or a place on a league table; it’s not just about never breaking a rule or never getting something wrong. Education is about human beings- imperfect, funny, eccentric, troubled, troublesome human beings, who are just doing their best to get through each day, each term, each stage of their journey. It’s about learning, more than it’s about the quantifiable test of what’s been learned; about learning in the heart and mind more than about brain training to learn, or learning off by heart. Those of us who teach, are learning too: as our students learn to grow up, we are learning to grow older, and that includes the harshest lessons as the generations before us fade away.
Thank you to the Class of 2024- and the Year 13s, Year 12s, and Year 11s, all of whom face tough exams too in the weeks ahead. Thank you not just for your brilliant leavers’ prank (and gift), but for every lesson, every homework, every discussion, every missed deadline, every kind word. I’ll certainly not forget you. I hope I played some part in making your years with us good. You certainly ended on a high note, putting all your ducks in a row.
Good luck, take care, be happy. Go and show those examiners what you can do.
Valete, pueri et puellae.
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