No more will be added to THIS.
6 October 2004
On Monday, a hot wind blows through the sandy fields, and I have my
last class with 12A. Only half of the class shows up. I am disappointed
and a bit angry about the low turn-out. All my grandiose speeches
disintegrate. I look at the notes jotted down on my paper, of what I had
wanted to say, and I realize it was all in vain. It's like when you're
planning to have an argument with someone, and you plan out exactly what
to say and how to say it and you imagine the whole scene, with yourself
victorious in the end. But when the time comes to have the argument, some
little thing has changed and you are disarmed by the actual presence of
the person you had spoken to a thousand times in your mind. So it is with
12A. It suddenly seems silly to say everything I wanted to, so I just give
them advice for their upcoming exams, give them my address, and give a
small speech wishing them good luck in their future. But even this chokes
me up a bit. It's fitting, in a way, that I bumble through this last
session with 12A. They were always my difficult class, they could suck the
life out of me when I had them first period and I would work all day to
regain the enthusiasm that they had consumed without even a smile.
I come home from class on Monday disgruntled and fidgety. It hadn't
been the ending I'd wanted--the low attendance clearly showed that most of
them didn't care too much that it was the last day I would stand before
them as their teacher. But then I remember back to when I was in grade 8.
It was my first year of Spanish, with Ms. Bailes. She was large, hairy,
and an exacting teacher. Every tilde and accent mark had to be in its
place, every word spelled correctly. She was hard, everyone hated her, but
I thrived under her. At the end-of-year awards ceremony, she gave me and
another girl awards. At the ceremony, she hugged each of us, spoke with
emotion, and had tears in her eyes. I didn't understand then, I thought it
was weird for a teacher to be emotional about students, I might have even
laughed about it a little afterwards. But just now, I feel the same way as
she did and I understand it. We justified Ms. Bailes' existence. We made
her a teacher. But to us, she was just our Spanish teacher. We couldn't
understand.
I think parenting must be just like this. You love too much and the
kids just accept it-accept that you're working for them, doing everything
for them, hoping so much for them. And then they just leave, and the room
is empty and you've got a space inside, but they're going on to other
things, just glad to be finished with school and on to the next phase of
life.
On Tuesday, I say goodbye to 12B and our black hen dies. When we come
home from school, we find her belly up, under our front flower bushes,
with a few smaller chicks perching precariously on a stem just above the
dead chicken. Her baby chicks, whom she had driven away when she started
laying more eggs, were playing on the branches above her, oblivious to the
death.
My farewell speech with 12B goes better. 12B is my favorite class and
almost everyone shows up. I start with a few matters of business,
collecting papers and books. I give them some final advice for the two
English exams they will write on October 12. Then I tell a story. I had
read it a long time ago, in grade 11 or 12, probably given to my by one of
my English teachers. It's about a young man who dreams of changing the
world. As he gets older and older he is unsuccessful in changing the world
and keeps lowering his sights, first to change his country then his town
and finally he settles for just changing his family, which also proves
immovable. Finally, he's on his deathbed and realizes he could have and
should have changed himself first. Then through his example, leadership,
and encouragement, he might have changed his family, which would improve
his town, which would set an example to other towns and eventually change
the country. "And who knows," I conclude, "he might have
even changed the world." The class responds with "Mmmms" to
indicate they are satisfied with the ending, but a little disappointed
that it wasn't a funny story.
Then, I tell them what I hope they've learned over the past two years.
I keep it simple. Referring to Things Fall Apart, I say, "I
hope you learned about the importance of culture, both the positive and
negative aspects of it. You all were born before Independence, but you
grew up after it. Your country is changing and if you don't preserve your
culture, it will be lost. So you have to think about what is good about
your culture. What do you want to save and preserve for future
generations? Which parts of your culture can you let go? In life you have
choices. You can be like Okonkwo and fully embrace your culture, even when
it goes against what you really feel. Or you can be like Nwoye, and just
leave everything to join the new religion. Or you can be like Obierika or
Ikemefuna and think about things. You can pick and choose what you want to
keep and what you want to leave.
"From Master Harold and the Boys, I hope you learned what
Sam was trying to tell Hally, that you have free will. In your life, you
will find yourself in situations or part of something that might not be
good. For Hally, his bench was apartheid, it said "whites only"
and he sat on it because that was what he was supposed to do, what his
society told him was right. You will all have different benches in your
life. But just remember what Sam said, 'You can leave it any time you
choose.' If you believe you have free will, and you think about the
choices you make, I believe you will be successful in life. It won't be
easy and it will take courage, but you have free will, and it is possible.
"Furthermore, in English class this year, you have all developed
critical thinking skills. That means that you are able to question what
you read and what people tell you. You know how when you write, I always
say you must give examples and reasons to support your point? In life, it
is the same way. There are a lot of people-politicians, salespeople, even
your friends-who will try to trick you, who will tell you things that
don't make sense. So always ask yourself, 'Did this person support their
statement with reasons?' Don't believe everything you read or hear. Always
question things and ask yourself if it makes sense.
"Finally, read. I know books are hard to find in Namibia, but
they're there. Look for them and read them. Read magazines and the
newspaper. Continue to improve your mind and gain knowledge. I believe
that you are all intelligent and talented people who can make good choices
for yourself, your family, your town, your country and who knows? Maybe
even the world."
Throughout this speech, nobody moved, no papers shuffled, no feet
scraped the floor. As I talked, I was choked with emotion, and my voice
would break. Tears would well up in my eyes, I would fend them off the
best I could. John buried his head in his arms during most of my talk-lest
he be seen crying. Miina ran out of the room at the end. What I was saying
was not really new, but it was final and their solemnity shows they
understood. This was it. Mrs. Arcaro's last lesson.
When the bell rings, I can't watch them file out, can't watch them go
for the final time, leaving their seats and desks vacant. I go into my
store room and burst into tears. A Reader's Digest on my lending shelf
mocks me: NEED A LAUGH? the cover asks in big blue and red letters.
Later that day, I am supervising the computer lab for 12B. I watch the
learners, as they cruise websites and type emails. They look different. I
felt like someone watching an ex-lover. You know them so well and yet they
seem like a stranger simply because they are not yours anymore. You have
no right to them any longer. That is how I look at my learners, who are
not my learners anymore, who will learn nothing more from me.
On Wednesday, I bid farewell to 12C, my final class. I give them the
same speech I gave to 12B, but I do what I always told them not to do
during a speech-I look out the door, out the window, at the floor, at the
chalkboard, everywhere but at my audience. I'm afraid of a complete
meltdown before I finish saying what I need to say. But I steal peeks at
them. Aletta is unbraiding her hair, her head cocked sideways. Kornelia
alternates between staring straight at me, eyes wide open, and burying her
face in the crook of her arm. Tomas has his normal smile that is always on
the verge of a smile, with little nods to show me he's listening
carefully. Nelson sits up straight, occasionally jotting down notes, even
now, even in my last lesson that he will never write a test on. Mike sits
defiantly-slouched in his chair, legs sprawled out in front of him,
eyelids half open, looking angry. Freddy stands in the corner, leaning his
head on the edge of the window, looking both bored and amused, no doubt
memorizing everything I say, searching for contradictions, so that we can
have a nice argument about some miniscule point later on. Sandra sits
sideways, facing the chalkboard and not me, and appears to be trying to
assume the fetal position while sitting in her chair. Selma sits relaxed
against the wall, at the giant desk cluttered with learners' books.
Despite my best efforts, I get choked up. Mike says, "Oh,
shit," and I can see the water in his eyes as well. What I feel now
is just how I felt after my last big swim meet in high school. After each
race, the feeling grew, until after the last one, it overwhelmed me and I
cried until my goggles filled up as I swam in the warm-down lanes. I knew
it was time for it to be over, I didn't want it to go on forever, but
still I cried and cried. I knew a momentous part of my life was ending,
something I couldn't come back to. Sure, I would swim again, I would even
race again, but not in this way, this moment would never come again. A
door was closed. A part of my life was finished.
This love of swimming and love of Namibia were not merely because of
their fun. It's what you give to it, the sacrifices you make, the
frustration you suffer that is proportional to your love. The intoxicating
buzz when you succeed is the rare reward and the dull throb of failure the
constant reminder. You love it in a way that it can't and doesn't love you
back, and when it's time, it ends. The anguish seals it. It's a way of
accepting that no more will be added to this.
Ironically, when my life of swimming really did end, it was in the
Mansfield orthopedics' office in February. When my doctor told me I should
never swim again, I didn't even care. All I asked was, "When can I go
back to Namibia?"
The end, for me, is today. The next two months in Namibia are just an
epilogue, a gradual detachment. The grade 12s will be here until early
November, writing their final exams. I will teach grade 11 English for the
next month, to help out the other teacher, until exams start. I'll teach
again in the States and innumerable teenagers will sit before me and learn
about themes and symbolism and topic sentences. But no more will be added
to this.
When I finish my speech to 12C, there are still a few minutes left
before the bell. It is that awkward feeling, like after you've already
said all your goodbyes and then you see the person again. So I venture,
"Uh, do any of you want to say something? That's all I really have to
say."
Mike says, softly, "We'll miss you, Miss." Kornelia is bent
over her desk, visibly sobbing. Sandra has disappeared behind her arms.
Tomas, who rarely talks in class, says, very formally, "Thank you for
what you have said to us."
And that summed it up, really.
Love, Sera
