Now that the Board of Education in Hitachinaka has finally told my schools the unfortunate news, I feel like I can publicly say this without accidentally informing someone who shouldn't know.
So, big news: I am moving to Tokyo.
This wasn't an easy decision. Well, in some ways it was, but in others, it wasn't. What was easy was the realization that, for my own wellbeing, I need to be back in the city. The tranquility of simple suburban life has always made me stir-crazy. What others find reassuring about it, I find stifling and maddening. Suburbs are good places to settle down, invest in stability, raise kids, and live peacefully. Maybe someday, that will be a good life for me. (Sans the kids part; I want a dog.) Right now, though, I still feel like my life is in motion. I still feel like I'm growing rapidly as a person, evolving, becoming. The idea of trying to settle into a peaceful space long-term before I've gotten the need for rapid evolution out of my system makes me feel like a seedling being slowly pulled up by the roots; like I'm being cut off from the stimulation I need to grow.
Therefore, the decision to move out of the peaceful suburbs and into a dense, noisy city was an easy one.
What was difficult was the decision to leave the schools and students I've gotten to know for two years.
I love my students a lot, and they know it. My second year especially has been magical, because my 6th graders all knew me from last year, and my 5th graders had seen me in the hallways and on the playground while they were 4th graders. I'd become part of the school community, someone familiar whom the kids could count on being present in their lives. That kind of inclusion is powerful. Kids recognize that your continued and active presence in their lives implies an emotional investment in them, and they respond to that. They listen in class, they talk to you in the hallways, they say hello to you outside of school. Kids won't just hand you their respect and attention; they have to see what you're willing to bring to the table. My second year here has been incredible, because I was still here.
The most difficult part of this decision was knowing that by leaving, I'm taking the stability of my continued presence away from these three schools. The main reason I stayed a second year was because I wanted to be that stable presence. I wanted my students to see me back a second year and realize that I was making a commitment to them. The only reason I am leaving is because I can see myself wearing down, and I know that if I try for a third year, my performance and mental health will probably suffer. That's not good for me, and it's not good for my kids. My kids deserve to have a teacher who is a stable and committed presence in their lives, but they also deserve to have a teacher who leads by example, and the example I want to show is that it's okay to make a big and difficult change in your life if the ultimate result will be for your own happiness and the dreams of your future.
Tomorrow, all the 6th graders in all the schools will be graduating. Last year I attended the graduations of the two schools nearest to me, because my school year had been cut short and I was able to hop around the city. Tomorrow, I'll only be attending Kouya's graduation. I've got a suit picked out and everything. I'm going to try very hard not to cry. I cried a bit this Wednesday, when my Sano 5th and 6th graders took time out of their Graduation Ceremony practice (because that is a thing that Japanese schools do, they hold practices for the procedure of major ceremonies and events) to hold a short thank-you ceremony for me. They sang a song, which I only understood a little of, but the refrain was "Sayonara tomo yo," which means "Goodbye, friend."
I'll probably never see most of them again. I'll probably never know how their lives turn out, how they turn out, if the things they dream of become reality. That's one of the hardest things about being a teacher, the not knowing. The next best thing you can do, short of knowing, is to hope; hope that you did some good, hope that your students achieve their dreams, hope that they know you always learn just as much from them as they do from you. Probably more. I told one of the Sano teachers that his students gave me the dream of being a homeroom teacher, and it's true. I came to Japan knowing that I enjoyed teaching, but it's the kids who showed me how much. It's the students who've made me get out of bed on my worst days, put on a smile when I'm tired, stay up late working on a lesson plan, because I know they deserve no less than my best.
I'm going to try to take everything I've learned from my students in Hitachinaka to my new school in Tokyo. If I am at all successful in this new endeavor, I will owe it to the lessons I learned teaching the ridiculous, hilarious, hardworking students at Kouya, Mitanda, and Sano Elementary schools in Hitachinaka.
I hope next year's teacher cares as much about these kids as I have. These kids deserve no less than their sensei's absolute best.
One week 'til Tokyo.
Sayonara, tomo yo.
So, big news: I am moving to Tokyo.
This wasn't an easy decision. Well, in some ways it was, but in others, it wasn't. What was easy was the realization that, for my own wellbeing, I need to be back in the city. The tranquility of simple suburban life has always made me stir-crazy. What others find reassuring about it, I find stifling and maddening. Suburbs are good places to settle down, invest in stability, raise kids, and live peacefully. Maybe someday, that will be a good life for me. (Sans the kids part; I want a dog.) Right now, though, I still feel like my life is in motion. I still feel like I'm growing rapidly as a person, evolving, becoming. The idea of trying to settle into a peaceful space long-term before I've gotten the need for rapid evolution out of my system makes me feel like a seedling being slowly pulled up by the roots; like I'm being cut off from the stimulation I need to grow.
Therefore, the decision to move out of the peaceful suburbs and into a dense, noisy city was an easy one.
What was difficult was the decision to leave the schools and students I've gotten to know for two years.
I love my students a lot, and they know it. My second year especially has been magical, because my 6th graders all knew me from last year, and my 5th graders had seen me in the hallways and on the playground while they were 4th graders. I'd become part of the school community, someone familiar whom the kids could count on being present in their lives. That kind of inclusion is powerful. Kids recognize that your continued and active presence in their lives implies an emotional investment in them, and they respond to that. They listen in class, they talk to you in the hallways, they say hello to you outside of school. Kids won't just hand you their respect and attention; they have to see what you're willing to bring to the table. My second year here has been incredible, because I was still here.
The most difficult part of this decision was knowing that by leaving, I'm taking the stability of my continued presence away from these three schools. The main reason I stayed a second year was because I wanted to be that stable presence. I wanted my students to see me back a second year and realize that I was making a commitment to them. The only reason I am leaving is because I can see myself wearing down, and I know that if I try for a third year, my performance and mental health will probably suffer. That's not good for me, and it's not good for my kids. My kids deserve to have a teacher who is a stable and committed presence in their lives, but they also deserve to have a teacher who leads by example, and the example I want to show is that it's okay to make a big and difficult change in your life if the ultimate result will be for your own happiness and the dreams of your future.
Tomorrow, all the 6th graders in all the schools will be graduating. Last year I attended the graduations of the two schools nearest to me, because my school year had been cut short and I was able to hop around the city. Tomorrow, I'll only be attending Kouya's graduation. I've got a suit picked out and everything. I'm going to try very hard not to cry. I cried a bit this Wednesday, when my Sano 5th and 6th graders took time out of their Graduation Ceremony practice (because that is a thing that Japanese schools do, they hold practices for the procedure of major ceremonies and events) to hold a short thank-you ceremony for me. They sang a song, which I only understood a little of, but the refrain was "Sayonara tomo yo," which means "Goodbye, friend."
I'll probably never see most of them again. I'll probably never know how their lives turn out, how they turn out, if the things they dream of become reality. That's one of the hardest things about being a teacher, the not knowing. The next best thing you can do, short of knowing, is to hope; hope that you did some good, hope that your students achieve their dreams, hope that they know you always learn just as much from them as they do from you. Probably more. I told one of the Sano teachers that his students gave me the dream of being a homeroom teacher, and it's true. I came to Japan knowing that I enjoyed teaching, but it's the kids who showed me how much. It's the students who've made me get out of bed on my worst days, put on a smile when I'm tired, stay up late working on a lesson plan, because I know they deserve no less than my best.
I'm going to try to take everything I've learned from my students in Hitachinaka to my new school in Tokyo. If I am at all successful in this new endeavor, I will owe it to the lessons I learned teaching the ridiculous, hilarious, hardworking students at Kouya, Mitanda, and Sano Elementary schools in Hitachinaka.
I hope next year's teacher cares as much about these kids as I have. These kids deserve no less than their sensei's absolute best.
One week 'til Tokyo.
Sayonara, tomo yo.
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