Another year

This blog post comes in two, tangentially related parts.

Part one: the leavers assembly

I love being a teacher, sometimes. Last week, the senior students at my school went on study leave. In particular, Year 13s go off for a fun day of bowling and whanaungatanga (celebrating and cementing their connections as a cohort), then come back for a final assembly, receive their leavers' certificates, then go home. Aside from turning up to exams and the few who go to the formal dinner later in the year, this is the last chance to see them.

At the Year 13 assembly this year, I was extremely touched to see some students I've taught or made connections with absolutely brimming with confidence. One young man got up and sang in front of his cohort, dancing enthusiastically and energetically in a way you wouldn't have believed had you met him in Year 9, when he seemed perpetually grumpy (but actually turned out to just be incredibly direct).

What really tugged at my heart was mention made of a student who passed away at the start of the year. She was a fairly popular student, so outgoing, so friendly, so vibrant. A student mentioned how they were missed, how their loss affected them and so many in the crowd, and all of the students cheered and applauded her for acknowledging that mamae (pain). I don't know if that student knew, but that also really spoke to the staff, too. You're not alone. We miss her very much.

Part two: what we wish to say

This week, I've been sick, stuck at home coughing up a lung. I was thinking a lot about that moment in the assembly. You don't know when you won't get another chance to tell a student what you think of them. On the last day of teaching my Year 13s, I sat them all in a circle and asked them to share what they enjoyed about their time in my subject (whether in my class or not); in return, I told them what I thought of who they had become. There one was young man in my class who I've taught all the way from Year 9, five full years. Yet, I didn't get a chance to share with him what I thought about him as a person, as I had done with most of the rest of the class. To put it simply, I ran out of time; the bell rang and so I never got to go back to him.

At the ceremony after the leaving assembly, wherein we all gathered some kai (food), I caught up with him and got a selfie. He joked, maybe only half-heartedly, that maybe he was such an uninteresting student that I didn't actually have anything to say about him. He assured me that it was fine. I felt a bit sad about that because I actually had plenty to say.

I would have told him how proud I was of how he made putting in effort seem effortless. He never gave up (except once, though that was fair enough). He asked tried asking questions, then helped others around him when he figured it out. He listened patiently when others had the answers rather than him. He understood when things went wrong, took time to figure out why, and acted on them. On many occasions, I left him to figure some things out for himself — and he did! He even (heavily) carried some group work.

Maybe that doesn't sound as interesting as exotic as some of the other things I told the other students but those are the sorts of things that make a well-rounded person. Somebody anybody would want to hire. Somebody who anybody would like to be led by. Somebody who I know will be there for his mates when they need him, and who they will gladly help in return. He's a great guy, as all the rest of my students are (well, great people in general, regardless of their gender).

So yes, I had plenty to say. And that goes for the rest of you, too.