When I was a little kid, I generally enjoyed school. I liked the smell of classrooms, the scratch of chalk on the blackboard, the dozens of Scholastic paperbacks our teachers almost begged us to read. But by the time summer rolled around, I was more than ready for it. On the morning of the very last day, I used to whoop and holler and jump around the house like a wild, demented creature. Never mind that a blazing hot summer lay ahead; never mind that the temperature would quickly climb to 100 degrees and higher, that our house was not air-conditioned and the only place I could go to escape the heat was the local swimming pool. Who cared about any of that when the dispiriting routine of getting up, getting ready, and going to school had been replaced by lazing around the house, reading whatever I pleased, and splashing around in the local pool with my friends?
For some reason, my friends and I always pictured that the teachers were sorry to see us go. We figured that teaching was their vocation, that without us to instruct and educate, their lives would be diminished. God knows where we got this idea, but as we left school, singing our silly No more teachers, no more books song, we had the idea that they were watching us go with regret, wishing that September would hurry up and come. And having those three blissful months of freedom was such a heady thrill.
But however a great a thrill that last day of school might have been all those dreamy years ago, it was as nothing compared to the unmitigated joy of my last day of school as teacher this semester. Especially because my husband and I have turned in our resignations and are contemplating another move -- and our next expatriate adventure.
No more students coming to class ten minutes late and asking for toilet breaks! No more risking wrist injury wresting cell phones from the meaty fists of teenage boys! No more students showing up late without textbooks, notebooks, or writing implements! No more students whining Teacher, break time, fifteen minutes before class is up! And -- with apologies to the handful of hardworking students I've been fortunate enough to teach -- no more students! No more Can, Murat, Tanol, Sevge, Fikret, Aycan, Cedyda, Uzay, Aziz, or Hamit.
It's getting very hot here. Our house isn't air-conditioned and the only place I can get cool is the local swimming pool -- and I hate heat. Who cares? Not me. Not one single bit.
Today instead of waking up at six and getting dressed, I woke up at six and went for a swim. Instead of bolting breakfast and heading out the door, I did yoga. Instead of rushing through my lesson plans and getting my teaching materials ready, I lay down on the sofa and read half a book.
Summertime isn't quite as carefree and easy as it was in the halcyon days of my youth. My husband still has a couple of weeks left of teaching. There are chores to be done and meals to prepare. I've got a 15-year-old who's taking her international General Certificate of Secondary Education exams this month and needs the occasional nagging session to get motivated. We've got another moving day looming ahead and moving is never much fun. But cooking, cleaning, nagging and packing up have never been as fun as they have this past week. I've got a stack of books I know I'll have time to put a dent in, two manuscripts to revise, and the glittering pool awaits. And sometimes just for the sheer heck of it, I whoop and holler and jump around the house.
School's out for the summer, folks. And it isn't just the kids who are thrilled.
