Graduation is time to say, ‘That one’s mine’

This past weekend was the highlight of every teacher’s school year: Graduation.

Regardless of grade level, all teachers recognize at least for a brief moment their stake in a young adult’s high school diploma. A third grade teacher somewhere remembers teaching the valedictorian of Kendrick how to write. A kindergarten teacher of a Columbus High Page One winner remembers teaching her the colors. And a sixth grade PE coach remembers teaching college-bound athletes the fundamentals of basketball. The investments are endless.

I sat at Jordan High’s graduation next to one of my dearest English teacher friends, Julie Vickery, who teaches at Hardaway. She had been invited to Jordan’s ceremony as a result of a school tradition in which each graduate invites one past teacher who was influential outside the hallways of Jordan.

Each teacher receives a really nice note, a formal invitation, and of course, the coveted ticket to the ceremony. A section of the Columbus Civic Center is reserved for these special guests, and they are acknowledged and honored during the program. It is special moment for them.

Julie and I chatted before the ceremony about the young woman, Kiana, who invited her to attend. I have the honor and privilege to be her current teacher, and so we compared notes. She had Kiana as a freshman; I had her as a senior.

In our chat, Julie admitted that she had no clue she had made such a powerful impact in the life of Kiana. And that’s the beauty of teaching. It’s such a beautiful realization that regardless of how hard the struggle might be in teaching these 21^st century, tech-savvy kids, we are making a difference — and sometimes, just by being caring and compassionate.

Every teacher can testify to the importance of plugging along. We may not see the results of our impact now, or maybe ever, but the mark we are making is everlasting.

That’s often the difficult part of teaching. We invest in and dedicate ourselves to our kids, knowing we may never see the positive results.

But sometimes we do, and Kiana is a prime example of this.

Julie and I hugged her neck before the ceremony and took our seats. She shared about the Hardaway graduation that had occurred just moments before.

A young lad had shown up with white socks under his black trousers, a no-no for the formal event. So, the teachers prepping the graduates went into problem-solving mode. It’s the same mode we have when one of our students doesn’t understand the math problem or didn’t eat breakfast that morning or has a seizure in class. We just solve problems. That’s what we do.

The solution was simple: Mr. Campbell gave the Hardaway graduate his own socks and continued his duties sockless.

That’s the kind of quick, sacrificial action teachers take to make sure their kids walk across that stage.

“Pomp and Circumstance began,” so Julie and I watched the Red Jacket graduates file into the arena. They looked great. Borrowed ties. Borrowed shoes. New hairdos. They clean up nicely, and like a proud mama, I beamed with excitement.

I leaned over to Julie and said, “Those four girls leading the line… they’re mine.” And so was a whole slew of them. I know I annoyed her, but every time one of my own walked across the stage, I proclaimed in Julie’s ear, “He’s mine” or “She’s mine.”

Sometimes I told her a quick story about the graduate, but most often I just made the proclamation and sat in pride. She just nodded and smiled because she totally understands. She had done the very same thing only moments before.

See, that’s what many people don’t understand or recognize about teachers. We have a heart for our students. We spend more time with them than most of their parents, so we tend to feel like surrogate moms and dads. I know I do. My heart fluttered with every name called who had graced the desks of Room 212 because I knew their stories firsthand. I watched them struggle and overcome. I watched them fight and battle and win. I watched them soar. That was my kid walking across the stage on Saturday.

I’ve written many stories about these graduates. The girl who jingled when she walked — we hugged and cried and didn’t want to let go. My island — we streaked our makeup together. The boy dealt a bad hand — I held his face and told him he could do anything he wants to do.

Yeah, those kids are mine. And I love them dearly. It’s just what we teachers do.

This story was originally published May 24, 2016 at 4:40 PM with the headline "Graduation is time to say, ‘That one’s mine’."