Goodbye, my Birds Karalee Riddle, Third Place ~ August 25, 2020 ~ One month marks the passing of a difficult decision, one that will leave a mark. I can only now begin to look back at the door I’ve closed. The emotions of the people I care about are palpable, and I imagine looking into the eyes of those I wish to explain myself to. An inconvenient truth I’ve only just realized about myself: I’ve never been particularly good at goodbyes. Perhaps a childhood of moving often or my own insecurities have contributed to that startling fact. Either way, my spirit is healing from some deep wounds I have been unsure of how to face, until now. I’ve wanted to be a teacher since the earliest days on tap. Just ask the poor neighborhood children who endured my vision of “school” when it was my turn to pick what to play. Like following a compass, I knew my direction and was constantly walking toward what I thought would save me. For eleven years, through life’s pickles and [ 131 ]
pleasures, I chased my North. Arriving was bliss. Right where I needed to be, I flourished. Teaching was love. It was a gift, and I blazed my own trail, surprising some, but confirming what I had always known: that it was my special place. So many great kids, so much to learn. My philosophy ran deep, braided with human integrity and curiosity. Through science experiments, service projects, songs, and debates, I challenged my students—my birds—to look with observant eyes, taking in more than facts and figures. I hoped they’d see the zest, the magic in one another and themselves, to see through a larger lens, one that carries us through the subtleties of the human existence, drinking the secret wisdom offered to us if only we watch and listen. It worked! A lot of the time it did, and there’s a spark you see in a student’s eyes. You teachers out there know the one. And that moment of ignition, that bit of energy is enough to fuel you for a year, through all the other bullshit—the bureaucracy, the politics, and opinions that are placed at your classroom door—shoved at you, and handed to you in baskets with handshakes. You carry it all, put it in a corner, and guard against the darker parts. You keep your spirit light and clean because a classroom is a sacred place. Your students need not know the dark. So you light yourself up like the Fourth of July. You dance, do voices, wear many hats, and you burn so bright that your kids will only see the light. You burn. You’re the last car there, the one to
