Today is my last day in the classroom. The closet, filing cabinet and desk are mostly empty. The counter tops are clear and the walls bare. The room is mostly ready for the new person to make her own mark.
This week has been a cornucopia of emotion as each “last” ticks by. I expected to feel sad, and happy, but was taken aback at how angry I felt.
I am leaving education for a few reasons, but the primary reason is the toil it has taken on my mental health. When I started teaching thirty years ago, I was expected to teach content, but now I am expected to be a counselor, a parent, a jail warden, a psychologist, an entertainer, a life coach, a behaviorist, and if there is time in the day, an educator. The expectations are impossible and the pressure is intense. I sit in my car in the mornings with pains in my chest, my heart racing,and tears running down my face. At the end, I return home and it takes hours for me to decompress from the noise, the demands, the constant barrage of raw emotion and neediness of kids who are wanting to be seen and validated at every turn. There are wins, but so many defeats that the triumphs seem insignificant. So I am leaving, but I am angry that I have given my life to this work and feel so very defeated at the end of it.
I used to be afraid of anger. But I see value in it now. Anger can be a catalyst for change and a way to stand in the truth. The truth is the educational system in America is broken and it is not failing kids, it is failing the adults who are trying to hold up the crumbling walls and being crushed in the fallout. Letting go and walking away isn’t defeat for me, it is survival. So I guess I feel like any survivor–sad, happy, angry, triumphant, strong, proud, lucky, humbled, and grateful. All the feels are showing up to take their turn and help me let go of this life and walk on. Anger just needed to do its part.
I am not sure what the last day of my teaching career will look like and what emotions will show up, but I am ready to cross the finish line. And that feels redemptive.
I am down to single digits of my teaching career. I gave away posters on my wall and stuffed animals on the shelves. I packed up my coffee mugs, and extra clothes and a few things I want to take home, like my radio that I bought with my own money and my DVD player. I am giving the DVD player to my son, so maybe he will watch Hot Fuzz at his own place instead of on my couch while eating my snacks.
Everyday people ask me what comes next. Honestly, I don’t have a clue. Sometimes I say the truth, that I don’t know. Sometimes I say that I plan on moving to the beach, walking my designer dog and writing on the front porch. That’s my fantasy life. I know I do want to work, just not necessarily with kids, and I don’t want to manage anyone’s behavior or teach anyone anything they don’t want to learn. I would love to work from home, but I am not opposed to moving, so I suppose that leaves me a lot of options. Mostly, I can’t think too much about the next step until the classroom part is over.
I ran into someone I know over the weekend and she was scoffing outwardly at my retirement mid-year, and too early. I could have gotten upset, but it’s her opinion, and she has no idea what I feel, or what I need. I know it’s the right decision, even if I am uncertain about the future.
In a way, I just wish my last day could just happen without a lot of fanfare, but I know that closure is important. I do have a few more things I want to accomplish before I dip out. I want to finish strong and mostly, I can say that I am doing that. I am going to miss watching kids grow up, and knowing all the slang and trends. So many people have touched my life in education and I have grown and learned so much in this career. My years in the classroom have made me strong, resilient and ready to face any challenge. So even though I don’t know what comes next, I have the mindset for crushing it!
Pam was my sister. We might not have had the same blood, but we were thrust together as babies and shared clothes, toys, brothers, mothers, fathers, food, crayons, hobbies, dreams, and fears. Even if we had other friends, interests, paths, we had an unbreakable bond that reeled us together no matter where life took us.
This is twice now that I have gotten a phone call that irrevocably changed my life. I am going to say that I must not have learned much the first time, because it is equally baffling the second time. I feel like everything has been ripped out from underneath me and I have to restart my journey all over again, but this time one of my senses has been taken away, and maybe one of my limbs. My car is out of gas, and I think a storm is coming. Also I don’t have the right clothes. And the first person I would call for advice is gone.
I knew where Pam stood on everything from the Easter Bunny to pineapple on pizza and I can’t believe that we aren’t going to grow old on our front porch drinking tea and remembering how much fun we had as kids, how wild we were in our twenties, and how hard we worked in our thirties and forties.
It’s been a week now since the phone call. I wrote a tribute to share at the service. I sat with friends and family who have their own memories and love. I took in the photos and flowers and sympathy messages. It doesn’t feel real. I can’t cry. I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about little things, like her purple Donny Osmond socks, and reading Snoopy comics on beach towels in the backyard. I just keep waiting for her to call me on the phone like none of this has happened. But it did happen.
When Pam and I were nine or ten and we were at the playground on the schoolyard. There was one of those old metal jungle gyms that didn’t really have a name. We were determined to walk up it without using hands. We practiced, one at time, talking turns spotting each other, first walking up one side, then across the flat top, then down the opposite side. It took a lot of balance and concentration and falling on that thing was no joke. We practiced until we had a little circus performance of starting on either side, passing at the top for a high five and finishing on the opposite side. We probably could have set our own TikTok trend with that stunt. I don’t remember showing off our skill to anyone else. We knew we did it and that’s all that mattered. We always had our own private brand of brave and crazy.
I have a habit of treating grief like a supervillain, staving her off with strong, sharp swords, forcing her to retreat into the shadows. Too bad she doesn’t stay there. I am trying to accept grief as a rider on this journey, but I kinda hate her and I don’t want to be friends.
Pam has been with me on every stage of life up until this point. I used to think our bond was formed by our shared histories and all our memories, but it was deeper than even that. I think at our cores we both shared a gritty, determined powerful courage that carried us through challenge after challenge. We learned to be fighters together. We may have chosen different battles, but we constantly converged and drew strength from each other. It never occurred to me that one of us would fall before the other. So, my journey continues and instead of my brave and crazy soul sister, I get to ride on with Grisly Grief. Pam would laugh if I told her that and say, “Well, that sucks, but that’s how it is.”
Pam always kept things real for me. I know I am strong enough to go on to the next stage, even if Pam is somewhere else, because I have reels and reels of memories and stories. One night soon, she will show up eating cotton candy in a dream, and maybe I will wake up laughing. Or maybe crying. It doesn’t matter because Pam has always been there for all my laughter and tears and she will always show up for me because she is in my heart and soul forever.
I woke up this morning with the memory of discovering a perfect sand dollar on the beach. I could feel my sharp intake of breath at the joy and surprise. I could viscerally feel the coolness of the damp shell and the rough grains of sand clingy to the surface. When I picked it up, I thought the sea had given me a gift, maybe it wasn’t like winning a million dollars, but it felt like some kind of magic.
I didn’t open my eyes, instead I just remembered that moment alone watching the sun light the Pacific. I breathed in the peace. For a girl, who grew up in the mountains, I feel like the coast is home. Before long, all the “to do’s” of the day came crowding in, filling my mind with busy noise. I have to teach two classes the concept of civility today. Eleven year olds and civility. No wonder I am trying to gather strength from my memory of the ocean.
I have thoughts on this idea of “teaching civility,” but, I am trying very hard to bring my best everyday. Part of that is silencing my cynicism. I came up with an idea of grouping my class into random teams and giving them a bag of materials to invent games and the rules that go with the games and seeing if they can play nice, because isn’t that what civility really is? Playing nice? I already know which kids will be successful, which kids will struggle and which kids, will try to steal, eat, or destroy the supplies. There is that cynicism again. Maybe the kids will surprise me. Yeah. It could happen.
Anyway, I got up, and started getting ready for work and realized it wasn’t even 4 am. I was excited. Not for work, but excited because I entered an art show. I submitted some photos to the local art center for the September show “On the Horizon.” I have never submitted work to an art show before, but I have always wanted to try. The opening is tonight, and I am looking forward to seeing my work on the wall.
The irony of the title. ” On the Horizon” is not lost on me. I am doing my best to approach my last months in the classroom “one day at a time.” But really seeing the light in the very near future is getting me through every day. It doesn’t feel like a burden, more like a final stroke on a painting that’s almost finished. I can step back and see the brilliance and the flaws and the parts I would change and the parts I love. But mostly, I am done.
The art show is exciting to me because it is the first step in my promise to myself to show up for what is in deep in my soul. Sometimes I have thought I have wasted my creativity on a bunch of kids who don’t appreciate it, but I am trying very hard to reframe my thinking. Maybe thirty years with kids has given me more creativity, filled me to the brim with ideas and experiences. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I have promised to no longer hold back the pictures, stories, movies written in my heart. This is their time to be born. The horizon is right in my reach.
I used to say that when I retired I was going to move to a beach and get up every morning and gather seashells from the receding tide to sell in my tourist shop along with kitchy t-shirts and whimsical clay sea turtles. I’d call my shop, “My Shell’s,” which is a play on my childhood nickname from my dad. When my son got sick, I thought maybe an ice cream truck might be a better idea. Together we could travel from beach to beach serving soft serve to haggard moms with sandy toddlers. On rainy days, I’d close shop and watch the waves crash in. Every beach town I am in, I imagine what it would be like to live in a place where I could hear the roar of the ocean every morning. My travels haven’t been about the perfect beach to retire in, but they aren’t NOT about that either.
Speaking of retirement, that’s happening. I put in my paperwork, but I will work until Christmas. I will start 2026 as a free agent. The choice to leave was agonizing, and I so appreciate the patience of my friends and family who have listened to me waffle and wail over the decision. I discovered that I am really not great at endings. I have been going to school in the fall literally my entire life. When August rolls in, it’s time for new shoes and Sharpies and maybe a haircut. But for the past four or five years, maybe even longer, August has also been a source of great anxiety and panic. I have tried different things; I’ve switched subjects, grade levels, schools, even districts. I have tried breathing exercises and yoga and positive self-talk. I coach myself up with thoughts like…”You can do this! It’s gonna be great! One more year. You got this.” But in reality, by March, I am ready for a padded cell, and it takes all of June to get my soul healthy again. I finally decided that it was time to listen to my heart and start a new chapter for myself.
Most of my friends are already back in their classrooms, pouring over class lists and making bulletin boards and getting lessons ready, but I’m spending my last days of summer on the Oregon coast. I want to finish strong, and bring my best, so I decided to give my soul a long drink of the ocean, like an energy drink for the last leg of the race.
My first day on the beach, I looked down and saw a perfect sand dollar. It felt like a gift. I held it tightly as I walked along the water line. I could go all writerly and make a metaphor about the shell and life, but I”ll just say that finding the sand dollar was transformative. It helped me realize that shedding my old life is making way for something new. It’s all up to me. I get to decide. And I am so ready for the challenge.
Meanwhile, the Oregon coastline is unlike anything I have ever seen. It might just be the perfect beach.
When I got home from my trip trip from Chicago, my son told me the cats hadn’t eaten in two days. I tried to hold Lucy, but she wasn’t having it, but she crawled onto my chest in the middle of the night and stayed put. I haven’t seen Charlie though. I guess I am being punished for leaving him again.
Chicago was great. The Art Institute. The Bean. Deep dish pizza. River taxis. Shedd Aquarium. I fell in love with this creature called the sea dragon. It was like a prehistoric fish floating to its own rhythm. There is something mesmerizing about watching fish. The colors. The patterns. It’s like looking at a piece of art that is constantly in motion.
July 2 was our last day in Chicago. I woke up and remembered immediately that it was exactly ten years from the day my parents were buried. It caught my breath, but don’t flatten me. I wasn’t even that sad; my parents are still with me, no matter where I am. Their bonds are strong and ever reaching. Being with my brother these last weeks has reminded me of the solid foundation we were given.
On my last night in Chicago, I was sitting across the table from my brother at an Italian restaurant. He said, “We had a lot of fun growing up.” Even though the table was full of people, for a moment our eyes locked and that statement hung in the air between us, making an instant movie of all our adventures as kids. I got flashes of us standing on the top of a waterfall at a pool in Acapulco, gathering the courage to jump off. I remembered pulling our money together at Gibson’s to buy a raft to sail down the ditch in our neighborhood. I remembered the hours in the backseat of the car playing games that we made up. I saw him as a young man with big shoulders knocking on the door of a guy who stole my stereo, ready to try to get it back for me. He was always so brave and strong and ready for anything. Saying we had a lot of fun growing up is the absolute truth, but it also just doesn’t cover the depth of all that we shared. Or how lucky we are to have had what we had.
So much has happened in my travels that I feel like I have been journeying for a thousand years and have returned to the start of the map a different person. I have been reminded of all my blessings and strengths, then returned home with the power of choice in my pocket. I can feel everyone around me, including myself, trying to predict the next roll of the dice. I need to float around like the sea dragon and think about the next direction.
Part of me wants to just grab a day pass for public transportation and do a Google thrift store search and see if I can find some old Gameboy games for Shayne and a vintage Cubs jersey and maybe a Painted Pony that has been discarded. Big city thrift stores are so fun. I also love discovering restaurants off the beaten path. I wouldn’t mind dropping by the Chicago Mosaic school and picking up some smalti in person, but that’s not what this trip is about.
The first time I came to Chicago, I came with a group of teachers on a tour of American cities to explore the history and bring back our learning to our classrooms. Before the trip, we had to read Upton Sinclair’s, “The Jungle, and other books about the city and its role in shaping the nation. Then we spent ten days touring the area in a luxury bus, walking the raining, steamy streets, gazing up at the city built on the edge of a vast lake, and getting back stage passes to all the places tourists crowd to see. An added attraction for me was that my birth mother also lives in Chicago. I came away feeling connected to the city, like it had claimed a small part of my heart.
I have been back to the city many times since the first time. Each visit takes me to another place, the theater, The Mexican Art museum, a Cubs homestand, music festivals, but this visit I have come as tourist guide for my brother and his family. I am doing Chicago in a new way. Taxis, shopping, photos of famous buildings. Last night I rose above the city on the Centennial Wheel.
Today, we are going to the Chicago Art Institute and I am excited to see the lions and the Impressionists and for my nieces to see the miniature collection. I have never been to the museum and not come away with a sense of awe. I can’t wait for The Bean and the photos that will inevitably come. I think the Bean might actually be the birthplace of selfies. My bed last night was the lap of luxury and I got to wake up and talk to my niece about nothing of importance. I walked with my sis in law along the pier with the early morning enthusiasts and watched the city start to wake up. These are memories I will have forever. And that’s what this trip is about.
Today is my brother, Kevin’s, birthday. It is also the day that my parents were in the fatal car accident and my son began his decent into mental illness. It’s been a decade since that day, and some memories can feel very fresh, but it mostly feels in the past. I am aware of the anniversary, but I am not LIVING the tragedy again. And this year, I am focusing on celebrating my brother, because I get to share the day with him and honestly, I can’t think of anything that brings me as much joy.
A few weeks ago, we were swimming together in the sea and made our way to a dive float in deeper water. I realized as we made our way to the platform, that by his side, I am always a little braver. He always makes everything seem like a good idea and an adventure. If nothing else, it’s gonna be a helluva story to bring to the table later on in the day. That’s what life has always been like with my brother.
For his birthday, I wanted to do something epic, like take him on the Skycoaster at the Royal Gorge, or go hang gliding, or parasailing. My brother used to spend hours trying to figure out how to fly when we were small. I can’t count the number of times I watched him jump off something ridiculously high and crash to the ground, but he believed so hard, that it was impossible not to be infected with the hope that he could defy gravity and soar. I just want to give him a moment of that flight in anyway that I can.
The day in the ocean when we made it to the dive float, a teenage girl climbed up with us and asked if we were married. When we said we were siblings, she commented on how different we looked. Neither of us answered, that’s something that we have heard our whole lives. Being adopted is one those things that can add layers of complexity to simple things, but the truth is that we are siblings in all the ways that really matter. And if I look back on my life, he is my one true thing as far back as I can remember. When I am with him, I feel anchored and strong. I am so thankful that I have got to share my life with such a warm, funny, generous, beautiful person.
There is really nothing I can do or say to truly express all that he means to me, but in a few days we are going to Chicago together. I am going to take him on the Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier. I want him to see the magic of the big city lights below us. Maybe it will remind him of all the carnival rides we were partners on in our childhood. We usually ended the night on the Ferris Wheel, our parents waving to us every rotation. That’s such a strong image of my childhood, like an ongoing loop of color and excitement with my brother at my side and my parents nearby.
All I really want is for life to give us many more opportunities to keep creating memories and stories. So even though, I can’t deny that there is some sadness to this day, I am grateful and blessed to share one more birthday with my brother.
One of my most fundamental memories of growing up was weekends at my grandpa’s. We’d rush into the car after school on Friday and hit the road to get over the pass before dark. My grandpa would always be sitting on his front porch and as soon as we pulled up, he’d be half way down the sidewalk to give his hugs and then he’d rush into the apartment to call my uncles and aunt to let them know that we had arrived and then his hat was on and he was bustling to the store. My brother and I happy to be out of the car, jogged along with him. He’d insist on buying us candy and stuff dollar bills in each of our hands despite our protests. It was our childhood dance with our grandpa.
When we got back to the apartment relatives would already be arriving. By the time supper was on the table, the tiny living room/dining room would be wall to wall people, laughing, telling stories in a mix of English and Spanish, gobbling up my Grandpa’s thickly cut fried potatoes. Even though those occasions were mini-family reunions, the real reunions were even bigger, with all my father’s siblings and their families converging in the mountains of the San Luis Valley for a weekend of swimming, baseball, food, campfire, laughter and memories. The summer reunions always ended with photos. Each family would gather in a spot, then there would be picture of us all together.
When my Grandpa died, I was fifteen. I remember my mom saying, “It’s not going to be the same anymore.” I ddn’t understand that at all. I couldn’t understand why we would quit going to Antonito; I still had aunts and uncles there and many cousins. I wasn’t ready for my weekend visits to end. It turned out that my mom was only kind of right. We didn’t visit the Valley as often, but the reunions didn’t end. They just stopped being in the mountains. We had a couple at the family land in San Luis; we had one at Mineral Palace Park in Pueblo; we had one in Alamosa at a cousin’s house. At some point, my Aunt Marvene stepped up and we began a tradition of gathering in her backyard in Colorado Springs. She wasn’t the oldest sibling, but she became the matriarch and even though the backyard wasn’t the mountains, it was still a great time of gathering together with food and laughter. My favorite part was seeing the little ones of the next generation running around making friends with their cousins they hadn’t met yet. It always made me remember when I was one of the little kids darting among the adults playing some crazy game one of my cousins thought up.
One of the last Colorado Springs reunions was in 2015. My parents had just been killed and I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to go. I will never forget walking into the backyard and seeing my dad’s two brothers sitting side by side. The ghost of my father’s image was there for a minute, stopping me in my footsteps. I remember catching my breath and then my uncles were there again, not Dad, just Joe and Bobby, the two other men that I have always loved like extra dads. My family surrounded me at that time, giving me the strength to get through the loss.
Many more losses have come to our family in the last decade. After the loss of my aunt, the reunions faded away. I had wanted to host, but something always got in the way, finally I decided it was now or never and with the help of my cousins, I said, “Let’s do this.
I didn’t really know what I was signing up for. I have spent the last month being a world traveler and the house and yard were very much neglected. Looking over the weeds, the dust, and the broken back door, I had a week to get everything in order. I started regretting my decision to host. The RSVP’s kept rolling in and as always my hometown tribe showed up for me. Friends brought over coolers and tables and tents. My school teammate and her husband came out in the hot sun to plant flowers and shape up the yard. My brother and his wife arrived from the Philippines to arrange the tents and help with last minute details before the big day. I thought about staying up all night and painting the downstairs bathroom, but I realized I was overthinking as usual. No one would care about the bathroom being blue or white or pink zebra striped. It was my family.
Four generations of Taylors showed up to my little backyard. We had an abundance of food, laughter, and reconnections. I was so surprised at all the millennials that showed up. Their kids were the ones racing through the adults playing with cousins they hadn’t met before. At one point, I went out to the front porch and the two youngest of the Taylor descendants were on the porch swing. Lucas, 4 was riding the swing arm like a horse. Olivia, 2, was sitting so pretty with her big eyes struggling to stay awake through the gentle sway. I realized I was witnessing a first meeting of another generation of cousins. I don’t know if they are old enough to remember the memory, but maybe a small seed of the event will remain with them. Because those times of coming together with my family in the mountains as a child built my foundation. I might not see my cousins everyday, or share my day to day moments with them, but they are my core, my center, and gathering with them is like drinking from a well of strength.
I was completely exhausted when everyone left and putting everything away and returning all the borrowed items was overwhelming to the point of tears, but my brothers came to help. For the first time since my parents died, there was peace between all of us, there was no mention of sadness or anger. I didn’t know that bringing all my family together would offer peace and healing, but the power of coming together has always been transformative, so I am not surprised, just grateful.
I don’t know if I will host another reunion, but I am sure there will be more. The legacy my grandpa started has cast its net far and wide and I hope will continue to touch many more generations to come.
I am not sure why the last 30 miles of a van ride with students is always the hardest. I am always so ready to drop them off and get home. I want an ice cold beverage and my cats and to relax in something soft, like a bed, or the couch. I really am considering giving my sleeping bag away and making a blood vow to never sleep in another one, except, I actually would do road school again. I believed in everything about it. It felt valuable and impactful and beautiful.
The last two days were spent in Denver. We went to History Colorado, the aquarium, a dance class, and an immersive art space. We did an exit interview and the bad ass hard edged boys claimed me for their group. Not a huge surprise because we went to Turquoise Lake together and watched a storm roll over the mountains and it was magical and unforgettable. I also get them. They are ready to be grown up and be men, even though they really have no idea what that means, because who really does in this world? They feel lost and unsure, but don’t want to admit that to anyone, not even themselves.
They told me they were glad they came on the trip, and they loved the mountains and the city and think that they could apply their learning to real life. One of them hugged me, which was a surprise, and all of them said thank you, which was a bigger surprise. I told them that if I see them around and they don’t say, “hi,” I will be super offended. They laughed. I don’t know if I will see them again, but I won’t forget them.
It might be years down the road before all the learning of Field Academy becomes clear to these kids. For myself, I am still processing the take aways. I experienced so much that I am really just thinking it through right now. Maybe after I get some quality sleep, my thoughts will be more coherent.
Just Another Damn Thing to be Strong About 