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I am a little melancholy as this year’s classes end today.

I am not sure whether this class will run next year. Together, we’ve seen great progress, with 19 students in and out my door.

I have felt so blessed to get to know every one of them: the boy who told me that what I do is not teaching, who eventually came to me to get help; the girl who shared her heart-felt pain with me; the one who would share nothing; the one who smiles only to herself; the one who always claims to understand; the one who texts just because he is bored; the one who is sad to be here, but pushes herself to learn more quickly; the one who comes almost daily, no matter the problem; the one who calls me “second Mom.”

I celebrate and cry over students leaving my class, almost simultaneously. I urge them to leave, knowing they need to go on to move forward.

I tried to help them through troubles, both in and out of school. And sometimes those troubles were heartbreaking; other times they disappeared like mirages.

I know I will see these students again… at least most of them. I’ll see the ones who stick it out, who try to play school the way that we do, even though it may clash fundamentally with the schools they came from. I’ll still ruminate on the ones I don’t see, the ones who decided that this school is not the right place, or that it’s not the right time.

They will grow. They will learn, no matter which path they choose to take.

And I will miss them all.

I will miss teaching this class. I can only hope that the mood of the country changes, and that we will be able to someday run this course again.



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