saying goodbye: a letter to my students

My cherished students -

Well, here we are. It’s hard to believe that our time together in the classroom is over. I’ve never been good with endings, and part of me wants to keep you in my classroom forever.  There are so many more things left for us to learn from one another...but I know that it’s time to send you on your way.

We’ve covered a tremendous amount of academic content over the last 1-2 years, but I have a feeling that those lessons aren’t the ones that will stand out as the years go on. Rather, I think (and hope) you’ll remember the “life lessons.” So as we part, I have one more lesson left for you. And it’s an important one, so pay attention:

BE KIND.

Friends, this is the most important lesson of all. Years from now, when you run into classmates at a coffee shop or on the street, they will not remember how popular you were or how well you did on a test. They will not remember that you scored the winning touchdown or fell on your face in the hallway. Nope. They won’t remember those things. But they WILL REMEMBER how you treated them. So decide how you want to be remembered. Hopefully, you’ll choose kindness. And if you can't be kind, be quiet.

Sometimes, being kind requires great bravery and strength of character. Sometimes it means you’ll have to make tough choices, even if those choices aren’t popular. In moments like these, be still. Listen to your conscience. It will rarely lead you astray. If something feels wrong, it probably is wrong.

And speaking of kindness, be kind to your parents and siblings. You may not realize this until you become a parent yourself, but they are your biggest champions. You are their masterpiece - so remember that the way you act is a reflection on them, too.  At the end of the day, should everyone else in this crazy world decide to walk away, your family will stand beside you. So treat them well, kiddos. Trust me on this one.

Being kind to others begins with being kind to yourself. Life is messy, my dears.  People will hurt you. Your heart will break - probably more than once.  And in those moments of messiness, it’s easy to feel inadequate. We begin to tell ourselves that we will never be good enough, smart enough, fast enough, skinny enough...the list goes on. But here’s the truth:  You ARE good enough. Even when you make mistakes (and you will make many), even when you make poor decisions or when you disappoint others, you are good enough. So tell yourself, when this happens, that you’ll do better next time. Forgive yourself, make amends, learn from it, and move on.  In these moments, allow yourself some grace. Be kind to yourself, and you’ll find that it’s much easier to show kindness to others.

Last summer, I debated coming back for another year --But I heard a quiet voice telling me that it wasn’t time yet. I’m so glad I listened.  Please know that you will forever hold a special place in my heart...my last group of kids.  When I talk to adults about you, I tell them not to worry, because our future is in good hands. I am continually in awe of your depth, of your hearts, and of your wisdom.

So as we part, I want to thank you for being such an important part of my life story.  I don’t believe that our paths crossed by accident. As a teacher, I’ve always believed that God places students in certain classes for a reason. And I am so grateful that He placed you in mine. You’ve brought so much joy into my life - joy that I will continue to carry with me forever.

Even though I won’t have a classroom at MMS, please know I will always be your teacher. I hope you’ll continue to share your triumphs and struggles with me, because that’s what I’ll miss most of all. Should you need me throughout the years, know that I’m never far.  

You’ve been blessed with tremendous gifts, and I look forward to seeing what you do with them. I can’t wait to grab a front-row seat at your graduation (or your weddings, hint hint) to celebrate your success. It won’t be hard to find me; I’ll be the one clapping loudest of all.

Go forth, darlings, and serve your world well. I love you.

Mrs. Nianouris

testing, testing

Testing season is upon us. If you've been watching the news, you're well-aware of the Common Core backlash, particularly when it comes to the increasing amount of testing that our students will endure under these new mandates.

It would take me many posts, over many months, to explain how I feel about testing and what the new requirements are doing to our schools, our classrooms, our teachers, and our students.

So instead, I will just tell you ONE story, from ONE child, from ONE day last week.

A little background: When I returned from maternity leave in October, I spent the first day trying to get to know my students. When I got to Mellie, she was very straightforward, very matter-of-fact.  "Hi. I'm Mellie. I won't be here long. I never stay in one place for a long time."

She's still here. And I'm so glad about that. You'd just love this girl. I know I sure do. She's beautiful inside and out. She's confident. Charming. Funny. She listens and asks really good questions. She nods when she "gets it" and frowns when she doesn't, which makes my job easier.  I've watched her very carefully as she's worked to assimilate among the other students here, and I really think she's starting to feel at home...for once.

Last week, we began our state assessments - the very assessments that you're probably reading about in the newspapers, In case you aren't aware, these assessments cover the entire NEW eighth-grade curriculum. And they're given in February. Because testing a child over a year's worth of curriculum in February makes perfect sense, right?

And they're hard. Really, really hard. In fact, the state predicts up to a 33% drop in student proficiency. As teachers, we've worked diligently to prepare the kids for these tests and the rigor that accompanies them, but the truth is evident: Many of them won't do well. And friends, there are few things that can make a kid feel worse about him or herself than a really hard test.

So last week in social studies, I helped guide the students through the online math practice test. A few minutes into the practice test, Mellie raised her hand. I walked over to her.

"I don't understand," she said. I looked down at the math problem. It was something about inputs and outputs, and I had no idea how to solve it either.

"Just try your best. Think it through..." I encouraged.

"No, you don't get it. I DON'T know how to do this. I am so stupid," she explained. And then the tears started to fall. This beautiful, confident girl, a girl who has moved eleven times, a girl who was finally in one place longer than a few months, simply broke down in the middle of my room.

And I froze. Because what do you say to that? I put my arm around her and looked her in the eye. I tried to explain that she was smart, and that the test is hard. So, so hard. I tried to explain that many students are feeling the same way she is, and that there's no way she would know it all right now. But my words were futile in stopping the tears. She listened, and then she said something that stopped me in my tracks:

"No. That's not true. If this is what's on the test, then THIS is what I'm supposed to know. And I don't know it, so I must be stupid. Otherwise, why would they ask us these questions?"

And my reply...my awful, horrible reply to that statement: "Try your best."

I wanted to tell her that it didn't matter. I wanted to tell her that the TEST is stupid. But I didn't. Instead, I uttered those three useless words.

That night, I went home and couldn't get Mellie off my mind. If a practice test can drive a confident girl like Mellie to tears, what is it doing to all the quiet, insecure kids out there? What is it doing to the ones who will never speak up, and instead, are wrestling with these feelings internally?

I wish I would have said something different in that moment, but like so many moments in my career, I said the wrong thing.  The next day, I slipped her this card in the hallway, and walked away. I don't know if it made her feel any better, but at least I told her the truth.

61 days left.

and so it begins...

On Day 71, I stood before my students with a giant "71" projected on the screen behind me. (Note - I plan to project the number every day. Today was Tuesday. I dread Thursday. The projector might be conveniently "broken" on Thursday.  Do the math. If you've ever taught middle school, you know why.)  

I asked them if we could talk for a minute.

For the record, when you ask 8th graders this question, the answer is always, always yes. Yes, Mrs. Nianouris, we can talk! Talk for an hour! In fact, talk for TWO! We don't care! We will listen like it's the best story we've ever heard! (...as long as it has NOTHING to do with what we are studying.)

So I sat down on my stool and explained my plans to leave the classroom this spring. I didn't really tell them why, because that wasn't the point.  Their reactions were mixed. Some teared up, some looked betrayed, some looked at the clock, others at their fingernails- the usual myriad of adolescent expression.

I explained my mission: "For the next 71 days, I vow to do something to make sure each of you know how special and loved you are. So we are going to start with standing ovations. How many of you have had a standing ovation?"

No hands. 

"Why do people give others standing ovations?"

Hands shot up. "Because they're good at something!" they replied.

"Right. We give standing ovations to celebrate people. And you know what? You all deserve to be celebrated. Celebrated just because you're alive. Celebrated because you've made it this far. So beginning today, one of you will receive a standing ovation until we've gone through the entire class. You will yell, scream, shout, and stomp. We will be so loud that they will hear us in the office. We will be so loud that other teachers will come in here wondering what the heck is going on. You will cheer for your friends, and you will cheer for your enemies. You will cheer equally loud for every single person because that's what you'll want them to do for you. Normally, we will pull names out of a hat. But today, I will pick the first person." (Read: I hadn't cut up the names yet)

I quickly scanned the morning group and called on a sweet girl named Mary (names have been changed to protect the privacy of the students). Mary is a cancer survivor. She's beautiful, quiet, and kind. She wears a head scarf most days, and man, she rocks it. Mary is a true testament to beauty and strength. A warrior among warriors.

Mary walked tentatively toward the front of the room as the students rose from their seats. And then, for 60 glorious seconds, her classmates went crazy. At one point, about 15 seconds in, I watched Mary gasp and bring her hand toward her mouth. I wasn't close enough to see if she was crying, but I know one thing: I was. You guys, I wish I could play you the video, but you'll just have to trust me when I say that it was one of the most beautiful moments I've ever witnessed.

In the afternoon, I took a different route. I chose a boy with whom I've really struggled this year. See, this young man doesn't really do much in my class. Homework, to him, is not a requirement, but an option. An option he rarely never picks.  And man, does that frustrate me sometimes, because he's SO capable. 

But here's the thing I love about him:  He never makes excuses. He doesn't pretend to hunt through his materials when I'm collecting work. When I ask him if he has it, he just says no. When I ask him why he isn't paying attention, he often tells me he's just not interested in what I'm saying.  It's refreshing, actually, his honesty.

He's a really neat kid. Very deep. Very introspective. I have a feeling he'd have a lot to say if he thought anyone at school cared enough to listen.

Yesterday afternoon, we celebrated this young man. A young man who's probably never been celebrated in school for any reason. He stood there accepting the applause, looking very unsure at first, holding on to the back of his neck.  By the end, he finally smiled. Just a little, but I saw it.

I hope that he felt special. Because he is.

70 days left.