The Mixed Emotions of Saying Good-bye

Last week we began the process of saying good-bye to the members of the Class of 2015 during morning meetings. On Thursday morning, the entire school met in the gym to hear the enchanting music of the 6th grade choir as they sang “Here's to Song” for the seniors.  What was particularly sweet about this performance was that the students themselves identified this piece of music as germane to the feelings our seniors may be experiencing; they asked Ms. Hart if they could perform it for the 12th graders.  After the 6th graders finished, Cantate performed an a cappella piece, “White Winter Hymnal,” with the seniors singing at morning meeting for their last time.  We began this ritual three years ago as a way to celebrate the music of our seniors, and it’s beautiful and touching every time. 

On Friday morning, for the fourth year in a row, Mr. Key, the senior advisors, and I read Dr. Seuss’ Oh, the Places You’ll Go! to the upper school while a slideshow scrolled with photographs of the seniors alternating with pictures of the colleges they will attend next year.  I am not sure how many schools have traditions like this, and I know that even fewer have teachers reading Dr. Seuss in Latin!  With this program, we recognize that the seniors have attended morning meetings for many years, and this part of their life at Bosque has now ended as they prepare to move on to other places. 

As I have said before, it is one thing to experience the mixed emotions of working with seniors for the past 25 years as an administrator and teacher.  Every year, we teachers become close with our students as we guide them on the road to becoming young adults.  We are excited for them as they have one foot in high school and one foot in college, but we are also a little sad for ourselves as we realize that we will miss them next year. 

It’s another thing entirely to go through this process as the parent of a 12th grader.  Last Friday, my wife took a picture of our older son and me before we got into the car to drive to school for the final time after commuting together every day for six years.  My wife told me later that she held it together until she went back into the house and then started crying.  I don’t know if it has quite hit me yet that come August our son will be gone from Bosque, our house, and Albuquerque.  We will have to depend on email, texting, and Skype to communicate, since it seems that many teens now find actually talking on the phone to be as antiquated as messenger pigeons or morse code.  Like his classmates, our son will live with people we don’t know, hang out with friends we’ve never met, and take classes with professors we can read about, but with whom we will not speak. 

As parents, we engage in a continuous act of making ourselves superfluous so that our children will no longer need us; but when it happens, we may question the emotional wisdom of doing this.  Of course, we desire that our children will be independent, but don’t we wish that they will at least want our company even if they no longer require it?  What seemed to be far away years ago is now here, and after this summer, our lives will be very different.  I realize that we are fortunate to be in this situation, so I am in no way complaining; nevertheless, the mixture of emotions—ranging from joy to sadness, from excitement to nostalgia—can be confusing and dizzying as they come at us rapidly and at times, unexpectedly.  We should take full advantage of the limited time we have left, and for those of you who have children younger than 12th graders—when everyone tells you that the time goes quickly, believe them. It’s true.