I Don't Want to Go Home

It’s 3:00. The halls are hectic with students rushing in all directions, heading for home. There is a mix of relief, gladness, and exhaustion on their faces. School is hard work for kids. Don’t forget that. They have to be their best selves for seven straight hours: working with peers they may not agree with, tackling tough problems, and trying to be good. Not to mention negotiating those tough social situations all day.

I watch as one of my students skips out the door, her backpack bumping happily along for the walk home. I sigh as another student once again runs out the front door, waving his hands in the air and shouting “FREEDOM!!!” There’s a presence by my side, and I turn to see a student waiting, lingering.

“I don’t want to go home,” he says, eyes downcast. “There’s always yelling. It’s too loud.”

For a moment I allow myself a daydream. I imagine taking this child home with me. I see myself slicing him some apples while he sits at the counter telling me about his day. I see him going outside to play in the yard. The only yelling is that happy yelling of kids at play. “Tag, you’re it!” “Wait for me!”

I know my daydream can’t come true, and I have to ground myself in hard reality for a moment. What do I say? What do I do? I can’t fix this child’s homelife. I can’t take him home with me.

I stop. I get down on his level and look in his eyes. I tell him that I’m sorry. I tell him that I will be here tomorrow morning, waiting for him.

It’s too small an offering. It’s not enough, and we both know it. His bus pulls up, and he hugs me good-bye before leaving.

Sometimes, teaching is the easy part. Letting go at the end of the day? That’s the hard part.