Time Just Slips Away

By Mark Nepper

Nathan met me in the Writing Lab to discuss an essay he hoped to submit to a writing contest. This occurred in my first year of teaching — 30 years ago at a high school in Madison, Wis.

“We have to write about the importance of technology in school. What role technology plays now, and what role we think it will play in the future,” Nathan said, excitement coloring his words. I wondered what focus his essay would take.

“Computers, of course,” Nathan said. We talked some more. I liked to think I was fairly tech savvy. I knew some computer-type words like hard drive, floppy discs, memory, gigs, bytes, log-on. I was starting to hear about this new thing called the Internet. I knew to avoid making my password my birthday. Needless to say Nathan knew so very much more.

He won the essay contest and the grand prize: a new computer.

When Nathan told me the news, I praised his efforts with hearty congratulations. He donated the computer to the English department. We graciously accepted the gift.

The next day I watched as Nathan set up the computer. A Social Studies teacher wandered into the Writing Lab and joined me. I explained about Nathan’s gift.

The Social Studies teacher said, “Who is going to dust it off?”

*****

I gotta go now

I guess I’ll see you around

Don’t know when, though,

Never know when I’ll be back in town

But remember what I tell you

In time you’re going to say, just like me,

Ain’t it funny how time just slips away.

Willie Nelson (with some adaptations)

A lot happens over a 30-year career. As my teaching career comes to an end, and retirement commences, I feel grateful to have enjoyed a career of teaching filled with so many moments of happiness.

Recently, as I cleaned out my classroom, I sat for a minute and let the memories wash over me.

Many of them always make me laugh. Some make me cry. Many fill me with joy.

*****

There was the boy who raised his hand during class discussion. I called on him. “I’m sorry Mr. Nepper, I don’t have anything to say to your question, not that it isn’t a good question. But I just can’t wait any longer. Kathleen will you go with me to prom?” Or the boy who had relocated to a different desk for group work. When I resumed class discussion, I had the students remain where they were. The boy looked down and saw a tempting lunch in someone else’s backpack. He started eating it.

I have always embraced the power of humor in the classroom. Students have made countless hilarious comments that brought guffaws, chortles, and belly busters of laughter.

Some memories hold a different tone. The girl who cried after recent election results, knowing her family would now move to Mexico to escape harassment. Or the boy who stayed after class to talk to me about why he skipped class the day before. He had gotten into some trouble, he said. Then he told me his story. He ended by saying, “I screwed up. Bad. But I really don’t want you to think any less of me.”

*****

We usually don’t know the impact we have on our students. Sometimes, though, former students reach out and remind us why we do what we do as teachers.

Two students sent me separate letters a couple of years ago. They thanked me for teaching them and assigning them seats next to each other. They became friends in that class and remained friends throughout high school. They lost touch but reconnected about 10 years after college. They wanted me to know that they are married now, something that likely wouldn’t have happened had they not sat next to each other in my class.

Another woman said she had planned to contact me earlier but wanted to achieve success first. She took a journalism class I taught. Twenty years later she won reporting awards for her work in Seattle. She wanted me to know that I affected her, and that she had made it.

Students have sent me books they have written. They have sent me notes revealing career accomplishments, weddings, births of their children. Mostly they just wanted to reconnect and say thanks.

Some students return to visit after they graduate. A recent graduate told me, “I sat in your class all of last year, and I challenged just about everything you said. Do you remember that?” I nodded, not like I could forget. “I thought you would never say anything meaningful for me. And yet I find myself quoting you all the time. I don’t know what to make of that.”

*****

Through the years I experienced many joyful classroom communities. One class will always stand out because students wanted to get together during a polar vortex, when they knew school would be closed. I wanted to think they sought more enlightenment on my favorite book. But I knew better. The semester was quickly drawing to a close. They wanted as much time together as possible.

I experienced a Rudy moment when every student in a class came to the front of the room and offered a personal apology to me for betraying my trust the previous day.

I have laughed with great joy in front of my students. And as I have grown older I also have cried more in front of my classes. When you get older, you cry more easily. You give yourself permission to cry.

I have much to cry over. Through the years I have failed students. I may not have failed them academically, but I failed them in the moments when they needed more and better from me. I gently carry those memories.

Joyful tears come, too. They came freely on my last class this year with a truly special group of students. Several students made a tribute video with a collection of individual messages from several class members. Their heartfelt messages of appreciation deeply moved me. Yes, the tears flowed.

*****

“I gotta go now

I guess I’ll see you around….

Ain’t it funny how time just slips away.”

I will live with memories now. I am grateful that I have so many wonderful memories, so many moments of happiness. When I walk out of my classroom for the last time, I will hope that I have done some good and that my students have taken one small bit of what I have shared and used it along with all of their other talents and skills and knowledge to make their corner of the world a better place.

With one last look, I will embrace the memories of 30 years in a job I have loved, gently close the door to my classroom and step out into the sunshine.