That Word

It’s 5 am here in Miami; I got up early to join a video call with Mr. Davis and our third-graders in Cairo on their last day of school. Their half-covered faces make me smile to the point of almost sneezing.

After the call, I choose to stay up and write for a bit instead of going back to bed for thirty extra minutes. Then, as it usually happens before I begin typing, I went on my phone and scrolled on social media for a few seconds to give inspiration some time to get ready; there, I saw the many posts of colleagues and teacher friends describing this year as the most challenging ever. 

That’s it; challenging. That word, again.

Do you know that feeling of hearing or seeing a word so many times that it kind of loses its meaning or stops sounding like a word at all? 

Yeah.

My school year was also challenging. It started with a desperate need to numb the fear and anxiety of not knowing when I’d leave Cairo. That numbing came in the shape of a small third-grade class or Nest 2, as we called them. Those nine children kept steering me in the direction of possibilities and silver linings; on those days together, things felt less challenging and more like life.

Even though we knew I’d be their teacher just for a little while, we built a strong bond by writing together, singing songs, playing games, making up jokes, dancing on Thursdays before dismissal. Those memories now live on a massive card they gave me before I left, where they chose to write things that, according to them, I said a lot. 

“We can do hard things, Ms. Ana.”

I said goodbye to those students in November, and today, I got the closure I didn’t know I needed.

In all my years of teaching, this is the first time I don’t get a whole school year with one group of students. Instead, I had four months with one and then three months with another. When I moved to Miami, I wasn’t hoping to get into a classroom right away, but then April happened, and it brought me back.

When I joined this new and much larger third-grade class, I did as a shy bird, observing and slowly approaching; now, it feels like I’ve known them since August. These students call me Ana, and it feels odd and wonderful at the same time. We write and eat lunch together, play Mastermind or Rummikub, and share laughs at recess.

This goodbye feels strange, like a rare flavor I cannot identify.

Yesterday, as I worked on a writing workshop for teachers, I gathered some quotes from students about the work we’ve done with writing this past few weeks; one of them said something that was the “aha” moment I needed.

“I like writing because it touches my heart.”

After he said those words, he looked at me with a half-smile and shrugged; I nodded and smiled back. He reminded me of all the feelings that hide inside the “challenging” label people add when describing this school year; feelings we’re meant to feel and savor, as hard as they are.

Writing these words feels like what the boy described; the mixed memories touch my heart, and I stay in this space for a while. I’ll need some time to be okay with the word challenging again; its overuse got the best of me. In the meantime, however, I’ll show gratitude to it.

This challenging year deserves nothing but gratitude and a kind farewell. I’m grateful to it just as I’m grateful for the uncertainty that held me prisoner and the unexpected transition back into a classroom.