Sally Huggins Toner

It’s been a minute since a blog post; graduate work and teaching have kept me hopping. And the school year ain’t over yet. But the seniors are finishing up this week, the trees have that fluorescent hue that’ll blind me until the haze sets in mid summer. My pale pink rose bush is late blooming. They cut her back a little too far; still, I’ve noticed the tiny green buds that’ll explode in fragrance during the next month. I love late spring in Virginia.  

It’s also time to write my senior farewell. It’s a tradition to have them spend the last day sitting in a circle in a read-around. They write reflections based on the theme of one of the first things they read in high school–The Odyssey–the journey, the wanderer–some “road” they’ve traveled over the past four years.

We’ve discussed in my nonfiction program at Georgia the word “journey” and how much many writers hate it. It’s vague, like the adjective “interesting.” Of course, there’s also some latitude that lives in language open to many interpretations. I tell students I don’t want their reflections to be graduation speeches. No platitudes. I want a specific memory–a specific story of growth, or regression, victory, failure (which is its own victory, but I guess that’s a platitude too). They can share any part of what they’ve written in our final read-around. Then, when everyone has had a turn, I read my message to them. My own thoughts about this year’s “trip.” 

I found this year’s reflection especially tough. I’ve been writing a ton for other people, and, at first, I thought it might be that my creative energies were tapped. I’m tired. We all are. I’m feeling much less clever and pithy than I usually do in May–which is to say I don’t usually feel that clever and pithy at all. This time of year, I’m wrapping things up and, yes, counting the days. I sometimes even wish them away.

That’s when it hit me–my message to the class of 2023. Remember when we all felt so bad for that class of 2020 robbed of so much? I posted about that way back then. It has occurred to me on several occasions this year that this class has had the most of its high school career impacted by that event which shall remain nameless right now. (No, I didn’t want to write about THAT AGAIN.) They read their first Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet online–if they did at all. Their sophomore slump was virtual. They came in as juniors with everyone expecting them to be leaders when they had no clue what high school was even about. So now, the class of 2023? They’re leaving this strange trip that Broad Run has been with their own list of, here’s that word we’ve heard way too often, unprecedented experiences. 

And they are counting the days, sometimes even wishing them away, as high school seniors always have. 

I’m including a picture of a four-leaf clover I found this morning–my first of this season. It’s a little deformed, one leaf smaller than all the others. That somehow fits the class of 2023. A colleague of mine gives four-leaf clovers to her seniors every year along with a personalized message for each student. I’m not that prolific, but here’s my message to all of them. On June 1, I will watch my 30th class get their diplomas. I was only a little older than they are now when I started teaching. And this year, as with every other, I’m humbled and amazed by their thoughtfulness, their resilience, and what they continue to teach me. 

To the Class of 2023,

Don’t ever wish the days away. It’s something my boss, your principal, said in a department meeting a few years ago. Y’all are super lucky. We all are here at BR. We have a wise man at the helm. One thing I’ve learned in the half-a-century plus I’ve been on this planet. When someone wise says something smart, write it down. In her book Bird by Bird, Annie Lamott says we should put all that meaningful dialogue on index cards to use in our work. That’s writing advice. I also think it might be human advice. 

As for 2022-23, I won’t lie. We didn’t get our snow days. I’m as relieved about the early graduation date as you are. We crave a break…but…

I went through some photos today of my first year in the classroom. We had 17 snow days that year but not a break between March 1st and June 17th. We even went on a Saturday to make up for lost time. I taught a lesson on comic strips. Oh yes, people read newspapers then. My first year of teaching ended in 1994. Many of your parents were in high school or maybe just starting college. Billboard’s top song of the year was All4One’s “I Swear.” Ask them. They might remember it. Back then, they wished the days away like you are now. When they were little children, they wished the days away just like you did way back when–endless waits for Christmas presents, birthdays. Remember when the winter, the cold, seemed to last an eternity? Everyone just wants the diving board, the ice cream truck. We know we’ll hear its Ragtime bells every 45 minutes, during break. Sitting on the edge of the pool for fifteen minutes? That seems like forever too.

What I promise–minutes will become decades. I promise something else. There’s always something to look forward to, if you choose that. Oh, what do I know? Maybe a little more than you, a little less than your grandmother. 

Make that a lot less than your grandmother.

Minutes become decades. Every year provides an opportunity to learn exponentially. 

So do that. 

30 years ago I began learning from students. I sit here today grateful for that. Grateful for you. 

To quote Vonnegut, and I so apologize for shortchanging you with him, but please read this author again. You’ll be glad you did:

He wrote, “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

Isn’t this nice? Right now. Us. Right here. Let’s soak that in for a second–before the minutes become decades. Because I promise, they will.