Weekends

On Friday everyone leaves school at 3:00. Not me. Usually I'm there til five or six. Am I slow? Am I stupid? Neither actually, but it takes me that long to pull the week to a close and head toward Monday with some semblance of sanity. How come, though, everyone in my building is gone but me?

It's lonely being there at sunset. I look out my windows and wonder what other teachers do from three to six on Fridays. (When John was in grade school, he was right there with me. He'd roam the halls making friends with custodians and the principal. Now no John, just me and my husband who is working on yearbook and newspaper.) What is it that keeps me there? Mostly I think about my students. They are so fragile in a world that is ready to devour them, even before they leave home. Divorce, strife, unemployment, relocation, foreclosure, heartbreak, suicide, cutting, alcohol, drugs, religion and a myriad other evils visit upon them and leave them weak and desperate for truth, which is revealed very seldom.

So it's lonely. I ache for them. I pack up and leave Monday on my desk. Turn out the lamp (fire marshall still doesn't like me) and head to the car. Plans for the weekend beckon.

Saturday list: sleep til seven or eight. Can't get past eight. Too many years of five 0'clock. Newspaper--the New York Times because all others have forgotten what journalism is about. I love the print news, especially the Times. Paper and coffee done. Laundry. Clean something, usually the bathroom or the kitchen. Exhausted after one. Groceries. Reading. Talking about students and school. Talking some more about school and students. Talking some more. I am unable to let them go. It has been this way from the first. Never put them out of my mind. If I read something in the Times, I want to share it with them. If I see a new book, I want to share it with them. If I have an idea, I want to try it out with them. If I find a new website, I want to share it with them. Saturday night early to bed. Too many years of bed at nine o'clock.

Then comes Sunday. Stopped going to church some time ago. My students wonder about my religious views. I am a "tree hugger" I tell them. A Thoreau-dyed-in-wool. God is in the sunrise and the trees. I don't tell them that I believe God is in them. Scary for teenagers. But they do constitute a large part of what I believe, what I hope, what I have faith in. And what do we do on Sunday? Newspaper. Coffee. Laundry. Reading. Napping. Some football. Think about Monday. Always think about Monday. Retired teachers tell me that Sunday nights are the best part of retirement. No more thinking about Monday. But I fear I will always think about Mondays. It's like a beacon. Keeps me out of the shallows and on course.

So it's Saturday now. So tomorrow the Times, coffee, napping, football. Thinking about Monday. Students. Patience and perseverance. Thinking about Monday.