When I first met you, I sat seven timid boys on the carpet,
and I repeatedly tried not to be sick and lose my breakfast…and then lunch… and
then dinner. My four years of Early Childhood and Special Education seemed to
have grown legs and hopped right onto the bus that had brought you here. While
I had felt prepared and ready to rock
the world with my strategies and behavior management skills, I quickly realized
that nothing could have prepared me for that first week of school.
But we made it. You learned routines and how to write your
name and how to raise your hand, just like most kindergarten students. However,
we also learned how to say “yes” and “no,” to go to the bathroom all by
ourselves, to ask for help with words and not tears, to feel remorse when our
clip went down, and joy when our clip goes back up. We learned that we say,
“Good Morning” and to ask, “How are you?” We learned to take deep breaths when
we are angry, and we learned how fun it can be to use adjectives and
exclamation points.
And as much as I look forward to relaxing this summer, I
think just as much about how different life will be when I can’t call you “my
kids” anymore. In a way, you’ll always be my kids: you were my first class, you
were the students that taught me how to be a teacher. My days as your teacher
are over. However, I have a few thoughts that I want you to take with you as
you leave my classroom for the last time.
First, I want you to
remember to try new things. Remember in October when you were scared of getting
into the pool for Adaptive P.E.? It was frightening at first, but by November you would jump in
without me! You learned how to share, to be in charge of your classroom job, to
try new foods and play new games. Sometimes you needed a helping hand, and sometimes
you still do, but you are steadily becoming more comfortable entering
unexplored territories. So when someone wants you to try something new, just
think about going swimming. Remember to take deep breaths, count to three, and
jump right in.
I want you to
remember to use your words. You taught me this year that words are a gift
that are so easily taken for granted. Most kindergarten classes begin the year
with a noisy, boisterous group who are taught there is no talking to your table-mate,
in the hall, in the stairwell, during the movie, or in the bathroom. But when
you peeked into my classroom, you saw
a different picture. You saw teachers using all types of modeling, visual
supports, some serious verbal prompting, and just about anything else we could
think of to coax you into communicating. I
will never forget when each of you asked and answered a question, independently,
for the first time. All seven times, I wanted to shout from the rooftops, and I
would get teary-eyed as I shared your accomplishment with others. You opened up and let us peek into your mind as you gave your own thoughts and
ideas to us. Now it’s the end of the school year, and sometimes instead of
asking you to PLEASE quiet down, I smile and observe you yell over each other.
Do not forget that you have a voice, and its exciting to hear you use it.
I want you to remember to hug your mom and
dad. You don’t know it yet, but when you are hurt, they hurt. When you cry,
they want to cry. When you are happy, they are filled with the purest joy. When
you want something, they want to move mountains to make your wants and dreams
come true. You don’t know it yet, but they worry and wonder about you every
minute of every day. They worry if you’re happy and progressing enough in the
present, and they worry about who you will become in the future. Most of all,
you don’t know it yet, because you never will, just how much they love you. So
hug them, and talk to them, and try not to get frustrated when they can’t always
give you what you want. Try to remember that your parents will always, ALWAYS
be your biggest advocate, and to give them lots of hugs.
I want you to
remember to be yourself. As Dr.
Seuss put it, “There is no one alive that is youer than you.” You don’t know
what Autism is or what it means to be on the spectrum. You don’t know yet that
people can be cruel and lack the ability to see the greatness in uniqueness,
and while sometimes it makes life a little more challenging, your uniqueness is
a gift, NOT a disability. You don’t know yet that your little mind is actually
a big mind, and it’s a big blessing to us all. You don’t know yet that you are
an extraordinary person. All you know is how to be you, and that is all you
need to be. I don’t say that because I’m your teacher, I say that because every
single day, you have proven it to be true. Every day, you are extraordinary. Be
the shining light that you are, and change the world with it.
Finally, here is what
I have learned from my seven tiny teachers. I have learned to find beauty
in the unexpected; that it is okay to veer from the Big Plan. I have learned to
stand firm and do what is right, even when I see others getting by
doing what is easy. I have learned to not take your outbursts personally, but
to personally investigate what you are trying to express to me. You have taught
me that on days where it feels no learning is happening that, not only is it
okay, but that it isn’t ever really true. Our favorite days were those when we
detoured off the path of preparation, whether for fun or survival, and it is
then that we truly grew. You have taught me to put YOU first, not my routine,
not test scores, not state standards, or even my teacher reflection. I have
learned that when I put you first, all the rest falls right in line. I have
learned that THAT is what it means to be a teacher, to not take the easy way or
teach to the test, but to make your education about you. Thank you for being my
very sweet and dedicated teachers. Thank you for stretching me each day. Thank
you for being patient when I had moments of feeling very lost in how to teach
you. Thank you for being a joy to teach when I finally figured out what I was
doing. Most of all, thank you for being YOU.
