After 18 years at Gilroy High School, a part of him will always
remain in room C-07
Superintendent Diaz, Members of the Board of Education, Jim, Mani “Mas Ganas!” Corso, Greg, Kat, Mary Ann, faculty and staff, parents, and graduates:
It is an honor to stand before you this evening, to say a few words, and to hear That Lonesome Road one last time. Just three years ago, if some guy had said to me, “Hey man, when you leave here you’re gonna cry,” I would have been quite rude to him.
Leaving as I did, so suddenly and so unexpectedly, there was no time to think about the enormity of the change or how I felt about it. And yet, when I said good-bye to my classroom for the last time, as I had before so many summers, I knew there would always be a part of me in Room C-07.
And it wasn’t until I was in the car and turned the key that my throat tightened. I asked myself, “What’s up with this?” I hadn’t been stung by a bee or anything, so I ruled out anaphylactic shock. And I thought for a moment. And then I got it.
Teaching is not – as they say – a job of work. It’s a calling. A calling to give of oneself and to serve. And that’s what makes this profession so draining – and at the same time – so rewarding. And that’s why I got so choked up.
I’m proud to have been a teacher. I’m proud to have been a teacher here at GHS. I’m proud to have taught the Graduating Class of 2006. I spent almost 18 years here. I was a teacher before some of you were born.
In that time, about 2,000 kids came through my classroom. Some of them are on staff right now: Jose, Sarah, Shawna. Of those thousands of kids, you guys stand out. Some of you put up with me for three of your four years, and from the first week of your freshman year, I knew you were special.
It was September, English I, Lord of the Flies, Nature or Nurture, Savage or Civilized, and behavior in the absence of restraint. I asked, “Why don’t you get up and leave? It’s a nice day, the door’s not locked, why don’t you take off? What’s keeping you in your chair right now?” And Kyle Grogan raised his hand and said, “Gravity.”
I had the privilege of watching you mature from smart remarks to keen debaters who could parry back and forth. You took debate seriously. You prepared, squared off, and went at it. And I hope you took away from that assignment how important it is to listen to both sides of every issue and to think for yourselves.
You were fun to work with – as a teacher I could lower my guard and laugh and enjoy sharing what I love about language – and that is teaching at its finest.
You’re remarkable. You’re scholars, athletes … Bandos. I am most proud of your performance on the Advanced Placement Exam in English Language – the dreaded Rhetoric Test. Thirty-five of you passed. On the five point AP scale, we had: four 5’s, eight 4’s, and twenty-three 3’s.
And when the word got out that I was leaving at semester, you came to me with heart felt thanks that I will always remember. The giant card and photo are precious treasures of my time here. Thank you.
In closing, I want to share with you a passage which sums up my approach to life and growth and perhaps may qualify as sage advice.
It was written by Mo Anthoine, a climber who shunned fame, and passed up endorsements to do what he wanted to do for the sheer fun of it. Which might make him somewhat of a loser, but sincere and on target nonetheless. It is entitled, “Feeding the Rat”:
“Every year you need to flush out your system and do a bit of suffering. It does you a power of good. I think it’s because there is always a question mark about how you would perform. You have an idea of yourself and it can be quite a shock when you don’t come up to your own expectations. If you just tootle along you can think you’re a pretty slick bloke until things go wrong and you find your nothing like what you imagined yourself to be. But if you deliberately put yourself in difficult situations, then you get a pretty good idea of how you are going. That’s why I like feeding the rat. It’s sort of an annual check-up on myself. The rat is you, really. It’s the other you, and it’s being fed by the you that you think you are. And they are often very different people. But when they come together, that is smashing, that is.
Then the rat’s had a good meal and you come away feeling terrific. It’s a fairly rare thing, but you have to keep feeding the brute, just for your own peace of mind. And even if you did blow it, at least there wouldn’t be that great unknown. But to snuff it without knowing who you are or what you are capable of, I can’t think of anything sadder than that.”
Adieu, mes Ami, Adieu, Bonne Nuit et Bonne Chance.
