New semester syndrome

No student stays forever, each has its expiration. So the fall semester of autumn leaves are buried under winter snowfall. The kids they come, then they go, demand pizza parties at all intervals, behaviour unwavering.

On the final day I give each JA a pencil. Pour out Cokes, rip bags of shrimp chips; avoid any teaching. They line up to take cell phone snaps of their former teacher. We close our books and I give them stamps, some even say they’ll miss me.

The first day of class is a teacher’s gift of silence. The new ones wobble out words of second guesses; stare up expectantly. Not yet are they sticking staples in my sweater, teasing my tower of a nose, or cursing in Korean.

As five quiet girls file out the door, another teacher’s class follows at the entrance. A quick reminder of noise to come hits as I see Tom, who sneers a smile at me and says, “Hey Yuck-face.”