I asked him if he was going to miss us.
I looked at the clean, white board, the walls that were empty of posters, the empty chairs, the untouched desks. I looked at his almost bare room and thought back to the first day of school when I sat, uncertain of what the year would be like. I was overwhelmed with frustration and I could not bare it.
Now, all the seats were empty while I stood there, saying good-bye. I knew I was going to miss that class, those immature, yet creative boys who took every chance at sexual innuendos. I was going to miss Chester’s imitation of D.H.T.’s “Listen to your heart”. I was going to miss Julia’s speeches as she half sat on her chair, perfectly tanned. I was going to miss John’s witty, smart aleck responses.
Many stories were told in that class. Stories of young lives in two generations. Stories that one teacher decided to tell. Stories that one teacher decided to hear. Stories that were shared, whether wanted or unwanted. Stories that weren’t written in text, but were told by kids who lived them everyday. Stories that were real in all their simplicity and honesty.
We made realities out of everyday happenings. We interpreted literature in the best way that it could be done by a class of teenagers. We wrote, and were asked to share. And he was right; we all did have something to share.
We discovered the very lives of those sitting next to us, how their parents treated them, how they got away with trouble, how they played tricks on their teachers.
I knew I was going to miss him.