Gone But Not Forgotten

A newly retired colleague asked me recently, "If I recycle/burn all evidence of my teaching past, does that mean it is gone forever?"

My initial reaction was that she was asking about larger issues. As King Lear says, "it smells of mortality."

I guess what retirement makes us contemplate is whether we have vanished or not. At a practical level, it is nearly impossible to obliterate all evidence of a lifetime career; there are always little scraps left behind. I recall a fellow teacher telling me how she kept running across little treasures, of the teacher whose room she inherited when he retired. She regarded them as clues as to who he was.

I have liquidated nearly all of my files, at least in hard copy; I have, in fact, bequeathed whole drawerfuls of lessons and materials to younger colleagues who might find them useful. There are still folders full in my computer. But there are plenty more stored in my mind, as well. And memory is a powerful force. I believe that my "teaching past" and my influence continues to exist in both my mind and in the minds and lives of students I taught and touched.

Of course, you can't make a difference in every student's life, but I always tried to work at "my personal best." I always felt that what I was doing was a noble calling, and looking back, I feel I spent my life in a worthwhile fashion. If I moved a student to think or feel more deeply or differently about the world and people around him, then I had really accomplished something. Those successes didn't come every day, but they occurred often enough.

As long as those students love reading and discussing literature and pondering the human condition, then I leave a legacy behind that exists wholly apart from my lesson plans and teaching tenure. The human touch outlasts the tangible evidence.

In addition, there are a number of my students who decided to be English majors, and even teachers. So even if I could eradicate every shred of lessons, or other paper trail detritus, there are students out there, keeping my "teaching past" burning bright.

Jan