A Year of Lasts

This is my last Fall semester of teaching.  Barring a miracle change of heart or an unforeseen event, I will retire on June 30, 2016 after 30 years of service. So after making this monumental decision, this has become a year of lasts: the last Remembrance Day Assembly; the last time I’m in a room full of grade 10’s; the last time I teach The Merchant of Venice; the last time I mark a set of Media Studies exams; the last time I have a semester turnaround day (because the next time I have a turnaround day -- in June -- I won’t be turning around.  I’ll be retiring).

I had a thought this morning: I’ve taught grade 12 University English every year except in my first year and in this, my last year.  I’ve come full circle.  In my first year, I was rookie guy.  I was given the dog’s breakfast, as it’s called in the business: 2 Maths, 1 Science, 2 English and 1 Accounting.

Café/Bookstore in Gorey, Ireland (not a book room:) )

The Science was lots of fun. Try/demonstrate experiment for students. Fail said experiment/demonstration.  Tell students, “This is how the experiment was supposed to have turned out.” Read this chapter.  Answer these questions. Press “repeat.” -- not my finest teaching moment.

I distinctly remember at the time, 1987, in my first school, that it seemed as though everyone was teaching English -- the Business teacher, the Math teacher, Mr. Simpson, who looked like Beethoven and had a grand piano in his room, and the History teacher. They were all teaching English out of their subject areas and I -- a qualified English teacher -- was teaching Science, Accounting and Math…. Something didn’t add up, I deduced.

I can still picture the hazy English bookroom where, back in the day, teachers were still allowed to smoke in public buildings. I walked in, waded through a cloud of cigarette smog, and sidled up to the then Head of English, Malcolm. “Hey Malcolm.”

"Hi Rocco.  How’s it going?”

“Well, thanks,” I said (notice “well” not “good”? -- literate my entire career).  “I’ve noticed that a lot of people are teaching senior English outside their areas of expertise.  I just wanted to let you know that I’m qualified for senior English. In fact, I have my Senior Specialist paper.”

“Well, that’s good to know!  I’ll keep that in mind for scheduling next year.”

The rest, as they say, became history. I taught full-time English from 1988 until 2012; became an English/Literacy consultant from 2012-2015; I’m back in the classroom for 2015-16 teaching all English.

It’s a bit surreal knowing that this is my last year of teaching.

I was told this and now I know it to be true: that is, once you’ve declared to yourself and others that you’re retiring, things, psychologically speaking, are put in motion. In my case, I embarked on a year-long journey of closure.  

If you’ve read my most recent posts, you’ll know that I suffered a health crisis.  I’m not sure if I would’ve been so quick to retire had I not been diagnosed with NH lymphoma.  But I was and here I am.  

It feels as though this year of lasts is a transition. The cliché is that retirement isn’t the end, it’s a new beginning.  An adventure.  And that’s true. But on a deeper, less cliché level, it feels as though I’m moving from a sort of sleepwalking good fortune to a wakeful blessedness.  

What I mean is, as I live out this year of lasts, and  look back on a career I’ve loved, several thoughts and hopes strike me.

I hope I’ve brought light, peace and joy into some lives -- I know that many over the years have done so for me.

Because of my illness, my senses are heightened.  My wife jokes (?) that maybe for the first time in my life I have feelings :).

The thought occurs to me that my career flew by without me really slowing down enough to realize the moments: the individual conversations, the thank-yous at the end of a school year; the laughs in the staffroom and the list goes on.  

I’m hoping that in my new adventure I’ll be more mindful, more intentional about the micro moments of life.  I hope I continue to cultivate and pay attention to -- what did my wife call them again? Ah, yes -- feelings.


Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own;He who, secure within, can say,Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived today.— John Dryden