Students received their yearbooks today. I expected to sign a few seniors' yearbooks at the senior picnic this afternoon—I signed perhaps three or four last year—but I was unprepared for the number of students who demanded my autograph. Four sought me out in my classroom en route to the courtyard where the picnic was being held; once I arrived at the picnic, I was literally surrounded by students who wanted me to sign their yearbooks. For an hour and a half, I chatted with students (past and present) and wrote endearing passages in winding patterns in their yearbooks.
Excited by my popularity, I told my husband about it when I returned home. He said, "you probably wrote something different for every one of them." He was right: I did. The notes I wrote to students contained inside jokes, an assessment of the student's strengths, and a specific wish about their future endeavors—all written in an informal tone. I have known these students at least since August (many longer than that), and thus I wrote with an air of familiarity.
I'm embarrassed to admit how much I loved being popular in a group of eighteen year-olds. I always say that if I wanted to be popular, I wouldn't have become a high school English teacher.
Really, it's not the concept of popularity that is important to me, but that I made an impression in these students' lives. This is the time of year when my toil seems to have come to fruition: yes, I have been hard on them all year, but nonetheless they love me for it. The trick is remembering this sentiment come August.
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