The First Class

I can remember being told that my first year of teaching would be the worst. The absolute worst. One professor warned that we should keep a heft supply of tissues in the car, our best friend on speed dial, and plenty of liquor in the fridge. I prepared myself for hell. Hell in a small school in central Maine where I would teach 8th grade. I'm pretty sure that the day before I started my first job I uttered the words, "They're going to eat me alive" more than once.

I'll admit that I'm never, ever going to forget that first year. It had some pretty bad days, but those are almost all forgotten now, three years later. Instead, I think everyday about how much I learned as a teacher and person, and about how much I love and miss those kids.

Every year, I think about my days at CMS. I think about the connections I made with kids, and some that I still have. I think about how eager they were to learn what I had to teach. I wonder, more than anything, whether I'll ever find a class like that again.

I know that those kids will always be special; they were the first class all my own. It was a small class, and I had them 80 minutes everyday. But, there was more than that. I am a person who believes in fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it. And, as such, I truly believe that I was meant to have that class, that year.

I'm not sure I'll ever have a class I connect with like that again. A few have come close, but there's always something missing, and I can't figure out what it is. Maybe when I do, I'll figure out if I can recreate the feelings of that first year.