There is an ebb and flow to the life of a school. There are always times of great action and activity, punctuated by the joy and presence of children as they go about their daily tasks. From the energetic raising of hands to answer a teacher's question, the squeals and yells of great leaps and feats on the playgrounds, or the highly animated conversations so characteristic of lunchtime in a crowded cafeteria - each of these activities and more produces an energy and enthusiasm unique to schools.
At the end of the day, the ebb of these same activities is often a welcome downtime. When the last backpack is stuffed with the day's work, and the final car door is safely closed, the change in the atmosphere is palpable. Depending upon the events of the day - and the behavior of the students - the last tick of the clock can represent the end of your finest day, or just another reason to catch your breath before beginning to prep for the next. Either way, there is usually a great sense of accomplishment and feeling of a job well done that permeates the minds of those teachers left in the quiet of their classrooms.
Imagine the feeling then, of a school where students do not simply go home for the weekend or a long holiday. Instead, imagine a school where the whoops and hollers, the surges of activities and events, and the simple presence of young children eager to learn and engage, are heard and enjoyed no more. A place where for one last time, the classrooms are empty, the floors swept, and seemingly each and every piece of detritus common to school life is gone . . .
Walking around the campus for the final time, I slowly realized that while the halls and rooms may be quiet, the floors vacuumed, and the walls and tables scrubbed clean - in fact, it is virtually impossible to erase the memories of children from a place where they once laughed and learned, played and discovered, and finally, where they spent an enormous amount of time simply being children.
As if to emphasize the memories that refuse to disappear, the buildings themselves that once housed the Global School now stand as mute testimony to the baby boomer years of the 1950's and 60's. Built of cement and cinder block as if to withstand any attempted Russian nuclear attack - can you say "Duck and Cover?" - they have seen at least five iterations over of the years of various types of schools, public and private. I had only to look down at my feet for evidence of prior children's memories. There, the once wet cement encased forever the handprints and scribblings of previous students - John, Susie, and someone named Tiz (I'm thinking "Tim" with a shaky hand . . .). Just north of the handprinted cement are the dozens of lockers left over as well from another school incarnation - too heavy to move and not quite appropriate for elementary schoolers.
It is around the corner from the lockers however, where memories of the Global School students are still echoing. In one classroom, no amount of scrubbing or cleaning can remove the tape marks on the floor where students once sat for reading time. In another room, the splashes of paint near the sink - stubbornly refusing to be wiped off - speak of projects now gracing refrigerators and bedroom walls all over the valley. While pencil marks on a door jam next door signify the physical growth of numerous students - and the "stunted" growth of the teacher - whose own pencil marks never seem to move . . .
Down the hall, the art room holds more special memories. In addition to the splashes of paint and ink - here not simply confined to the sink area, but found all around what was a very active place - there are other traces of fun, experimentation, and learning to be found. Though the forest of papers and projects no longer hang from the ceiling beams and walls, the holes and pin pricks that still punctuate these surfaces by the hundreds say that great art and great fun was to be had here.
Walking through each classroom for the last time before locking the door, I see the stain on one floor of an overly active volcano project gone awry. In one corner, I have to laugh as I notice a few puffs of styrofoam beads from the reading area's bean bag chairs that have somehow escaped the dreaded vacuum cleaner. My final inspections also reveal that numerous rooms still have student names posted on their cubbies - stubbornly refusing to be removed with anything approaching an easy task. Needless to say, I decide to leave them . . .
Locking the last classroom door and turning the corner of the building one final time before I head out the gate, I hear the faint sounds of a familiar gurgling . . . It seems that even the bathrooms require my presence one last time. After all, what would my day be like without having to jiggle the handle of the third urinal from the left in the boy's bathroom one last time? I think it's the only time I've ever laughed trying to address a plumbing issue . . .
Gurgling silenced, lights turned off, and bathroom secured, I happen to glance up to the tree that shaded our playground. There, my eyes are met by the sight of my final and most significant memory of the children of Global School. For there on the middle branches of the weeping willow tree, is one of the school's hula hoops - bright red no less - gracefully swinging in the wind and blithely refusing to fall.
And that's when all of the stress and pressure of the last few weeks seemed to hit me all at once. There, on the edge of a now-silent playground, and staring up at a red hula hoop in a tree, I started to laugh and cry at the same time. For of all of the memories I will have of Global School, remembering the students determined efforts over several days this past fall to get the hula hoop down, will always remain with me. While no one admitted the original crime of spinning the hula hoop up in the tree in the first place, everyone - including myself - volunteered to solve the problem. Basketballs, ladders, volleyballs, other hula hoops, and even a human pyramid were suggested, attempted, and ultimately futilely discarded.
My laughter and tears however, were not about the fact that the hula hoop still remained in the tree. My emotions had to do with the realization that in trying to "free" the hula hoop from its capture by the tree, the students had encapsulated and practiced virtually everything we had tried to teach them. Principles such as identifying the problem, attempting to come up with a solution, and most importantly, working together to accomplish the task were utilized as almost a second nature. Though the end result was a failure - the hula hoop obviously still swayed above my head - one thing became clear above anything else - the fun and the learning was in trying and failing.
For all I know, the red hula hoop is still occupying its place of honor in the playground tree, and I hope it remains there for years to come. As for me, wherever I may land in the future, I hope that there is a tree that I can throw a red hula hoop up into. It will be with great joy and just a tinge of sadness, that I will then have the opportunity to explain to all of those interested, the meaning of the hula hoop and stories of the wonderful students who once attended the Global School of Silicon Valley . . .
For more thoughts about education, please visit my new blog:
www.oureducatedlife.blogspot.com
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