Magic Moments

When I retuned to my job after my stroke, I thought it was my desire to teach that propelled me. In hindsight, I don’t think that was it. It was my compulsion to be flawless. I hadn’t had the absolutely perfect year of teaching yet, a year in which every day runs as smooth as silk and the accolades pour in from all the stakeholders. A year where all the bulletin boards are aesthetically top-notch and I don’t ever get a reminder to post my attendance because I already have. In this year, I remember even the most mundane tasks and complete them with flair. A year during which I slow down and ask the best questions, ones that faciliatate discussions the students will think back on for years to come. A year where Christmas Break and Spring Break sneak up on me. I wanted a year that felt like crossing a finish line. Arms raised above my head and the finish line tape breaking as the crowd cheers. It’s not going to happen like that.

I remember becoming more aware of my surroundings after my stroke, and I had this pressing thought that kept nagging at me. I felt like I needed to share this revelation I had about time. In my overmedicated state, I had an epiphany about time and kept reminding myself, “Chris, be sure to tell everyone this secret you have about time.” But just as dreams often fade after you wake up, my unlocked secret about time inexplicably left me. That said, after six years of trying to capture the flawless year of teaching, I think I may have inadvertantly unlocked a new epiphany about time. The illusive perfect year is a mirage. There are only moments. Perfect moments are tucked away and hidden, waiting to be found, in the midst of the clunky, often mundane routine of a day spent teaching. I’ve started collecting those moments like the cool rocks you find while beachcombing. Here are a couple of my favorites I found on the shores of my classroom this year.

In 2nd hour, we are taking a quiz, using the digital platform of our literature series, and all the students are quietly working as I wander up and down the rows. A brilliant and autistic boy in my 2nd hour begins aggitating over his chromebook and the keyboard. I rush to him, and whisper, “*Cal, remember others are taking the test and need quiet to concentrate.” In his normal, loud speaking voice he explains that the quotation mark key won’t work. I show him how to change the keyboard settings and the key works. He looks up at me, touches my shoulder, and says so sincerely, “Thank you, Mrs. Laaksonen.” I nod and stand stunned for a moment. In a year of strict protocol to protect against COVID, I’m almost moved to tears to have a child touch my shoulder. I remember how nice it is, and before I walk away from Cal, I pat his arm. He smiles. That moment is perfection.

In 4th hour, my 7th graders are sharing what they’ve written in response to a QuickWrite prompt about a time they had a struggle. The sharing takes an unexpected serious turn when a girl shares about how she had to go to an in-house treatment center after thinking about killing herself. The class gets so quiet, no one fidgets and no one says anything after she reads. I break the silence by thanking her for trusting us with that writing. A classmate raises her hand, and says, “I’m so glad you didn’t kill yourself. We would’ve missed you. We all would’ve been so sad.” The girl who shared starts to cry, smiles, and whispers a thank you. That exchange is perfection. I hold it and cherish the beautiful way humans can take care of each other.

Who knows when I’ll retire; I had always thought it would be nice to bow out after that perfect year. Now I know I better. So I’ll just stick around for a bit and collect a few more sweet moments to savor after this teaching adventure has ended.