Sally Huggins Toner

When I was twelve, I killed my pet hermit crab. Let’s get that confession out of the way. We had two halves of a scallop shell in his tank for water and food, and they sat bone empty and dry for three days, maybe four. I think I went to my grandparents’ for the weekend; I’ll just blame them. Or maybe it was the end of the school year, the routine changed, things got more busy, or less so. One morning I went to the tank, and he was lying naked outside of his shell–a sad, shriveled cross between a crawfish and a shrimp. Truth be told, we had made several attempts at different pets in that particular tank–a pair of painted turtles I fed raw hamburger, several bug eyed goldfish spotted white and red. One of the goldfish jumped out of the tank and died on the hardwoods next to my dresser. The others followed belly up in a matter of weeks. I didn’t kill the turtles. They just stank. One was also born without a flipper, but his disability didn’t stop my parents into talking me into “releasing” them into the brackish Knittingmill Creek that flowed in front of our house. I was never able to talk them into gerbils or hamsters, not that I tried too hard. I’ve hated rodents ever since I was bitten by the class rat in the second grade.

Hopefully, I’ve grown more responsible. The Russian Blue we adopted this summer sits in my lap as I type this. I’m actually a great cat mom. And my track record with creatures of the wild notwithstanding, I still have an affinity with the outdoors. I love the Virginia outdoors in particular, with four distinct seasons that aren’t too much–especially this time of year before the summer heat burns off the fluorescent green. This year, as everyone is talking about, is the one of the cicada. Brood X. They haven’t quite taken over, yet, but we saw evidence of days to come by the oak in our front yard this morning. Discarded shells on the trunk, some with yellow newbies with black eyes still spilling out. Then my husband told me to look down at the grass and clover at my feet. Nymphs were crawling from the earth by the dozens; the dirt was literally bubbling like something out of a sci fi movie. This was a sight I had not remembered from the two other emergences I’ve seen in my lifetime. When we took our 19-year-old to the same tree later in the afternoon to show her, it was an entirely different scene. Still a gazillion shells on the tree. One or two clumps of yellow on the trunk, black eyed jelly oozing out to dry into flying bugs in the sun. But now the ground was still, and blanketed with death–torn wings, heads bitten off, all the ones who didn’t make it.

The cicadas are the ultimate hermits. They stay on lockdown for seventeen years. Not the just under seventeen months we’ve been in the netherworld. Walking down to the farmer’s market today, I have yet to hear the laser whine of their mating call. That’s coming. What I saw in the square wasn’t a bunch of crawling bugs, lousy flyers who have to wait for their wings to dry. I saw people enjoying a gorgeous morning. Some masked, some not, they walked their dogs, chatted with their neighbors, bought snacks from the pretzel cart. Kids rode scooters, played hide-and-seek. It’s tulip and geranium season right now in Reston. Cue Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park.”

It’s also graduation season. This year’s high school seniors were just learning to walk when Brood X was here last. I had already been teaching a decade. Our oldest was five, her baby sister two. This year, that oldest daughter started her own first teaching job with a class of fifth graders in Providence. Her baby sister spent most of the last eight months across the country in her first year of college. I am now the age my mother was when that first daughter was born.

This year’s high school seniors were babies with Brood X was here last. I’ve seen the cicadas three times. So maybe I have something to offer these students in the way of knowledge? Life experience? This year, as with the last 27, they have much more to offer me. These students have spent the culmination of their public education in a netherworld we never imagined. They weren’t scheduled to burrow into the ground last March. The natural rhythm was disrupted. Or maybe reset. 

Down at the farmer’s market today, I saw the appreciation of seasons I always have, but maybe it smelled just a little sweeter. A friend of mine told me she heard that the two years after Brood X are the most fertile. The way these creatures aerate the soil lets in water and light. The ones sacrificed to birds and chipmunks fertilize the earth and leave it prime for lushness in the months to come. 

I can’t wait.

This is a long post, but I’ll make it just a bit longer. Every year, my seniors write a final reflection they read aloud on the last day we are all together. My year is far from over. It’ll peter out, trickle down as students take SOLs, AP tests, do internships. It’s akin to waiting for the full throttle of Brood X. They don’t all emerge at once. So yesterday was the last day I knew I’d have my students all in hybrid person and Google Meet before they begin to fly off. They came in, some at their desks, others icons on the jumbotron in my classroom. They read, cheered each other on in the chat. I am always humbled by what they come up with. Even the ones who recycled college essays revised them, made them even more thoughtful. One student wrote his reflection entirely in Latin. (Okay, maybe a bit of intellectual flexing, as I teased him, but OMG a high school senior who can write in dactylic hexameter? These kids are CRAZY smart and talented) Students shared so much, trusted each other, and me, with honesty, wisdom, and the absolute best of their 18-year-old truth. And that’s some truth, let me tell you.

As for me, I share a reflection of my own every year as well. This year, it was a hermit crab essay inspired by a workshop I attended last weekend. I’ll go ahead and post it here, in honor of the Broad Run High School Class of 2021. In honor of all seniors, really. Go fly.

THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING

Hello, passengers on flight BRHS21. This is your captain, Ms. Toner, letting you know we are beginning our descent into high school graduation. Please return your tray tables and seats to their full and upright position in preparation for landing. OH WAIT, CRAP…Is this the first time I’ve come on the intercom? Did we forget to run the safety video? (murmuring in the cockpit)

Honestly, it’s okay. I’ve always been the kind of person to read the last page first, and the truth is you’re always on your phones during the attendant’s demonstration anyway. Still, rules is rules with the FAA, so I am required by law to do the spiel. Here it goes:

Welcome aboard LCPS flight BRHS21 with service from middle school to legal adulthood. Estimated travel time four years, though, at times, it may seem much much longer. Here are a few things about our aircraft and flight that we hope have made your trip as comfortable and enjoyable as possible.

First, notice your seat belt—the courses, requirements, bell schedules, and routines meant to keep you safe and secure. These were easy to slip into. You simply lifted the top of an education system you were familiar with and inserted the buckle from the other side. This place seemed larger than you needed at first, so I’m sure you pulled the belt to tighten your situation comfortably across your lap. Luckily, it adjusted as you joined clubs, teams, the band, drama, color guard—as you met some of the 1400 passengers traveling with you. It didn’t take you long to realize some had different connections. Some were headed places you had no desire to visit. Some were the chatty kind whom you avoided by putting on your headphones. Others came on board with that stinky Chipotle you had to smell the entire flight. You still offered them gum to keep their ears from popping when you took off.

When the pressure in the cabin dropped, oxygen masks fell from the ceiling. You had younger, less experienced passengers next to you as well. I know we didn’t need to tell you that you couldn’t help a soul unless you put on your own mask first. Or maybe you learned that the hard way. But you always had the best of intentions. And you know better now. Before anything else, you must breathe. Sometimes you must remind yourself to do just that.

Please take note of the emergency exits to your right, left, and at the front and the rear of your high school career. You’ve been on other flights. You know the most difficult parts are the take-off and landing. And the slide you use in a crash landing may look fun, but you know that such shortcuts are more dangerous than they’re worth. You have learned to trust those who hold the instruments. Sometimes those people are actually you. Trust yourself to know what to do when there’s turbulence. Return to your seat, return to your people, buckle up, and hold hands. At that point, there’s only so much in your control. You know that too. 

We are approaching our destination. You might feel a slight dip, tip to the right, a bump when the wheels engage and a bigger bump when they hit the ground. You might have flipped through the in-flight magazine that describes what’s in store when we land; trust me, the reality is never like the glossy pictures. Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes it’s much much better. Thank you for showing consideration for the other passengers on this trip. Or if you didn’t, try to show a little more grace to the 300 pound nervous flyer with the super puffy jacket who crowds your armrest. You won’t be sorry. One thing you’ve already learned—some days, you’re the one asking for grace, both from yourself and others. I, your captain, have had to ask for plenty. I know I’ll be asking for, and hopefully giving, that grace on many flights to come. Thank you for choosing this AP class for your travel needs. I’ll miss you.