As the final minutes of the school year tick down, our eighth-graders walk the halls on a farewell tour, waving goodbye and giving high-fives to teachers and younger middle-schoolers. Parents crowd the end of the path, welcoming their newly minted high school freshmen into the sunshine and summer break.
My Katie vowed that she would complete that final walk without crying. Why would she be sad when she was looking forward to ninth grade?
I saw her three times on the walk — first with a peace sign, then an enthusiastic smile and, finally, dramatic sobs. I totally understand. I've always been a last-day-of-school crier, too.
Endings are tough, no matter what opportunities await.
Katie's tears welled up when she thought of friends she wouldn't see over summer, of friends who are moving, of friends who might not be in her classes next year or even share the same lunch period.
I understand all of this, too. I'm often guilty of experiencing emotions for circumstances that haven't yet happened. We're both planners, for better or worse.
Childhood offers enviable chances to make friends. It's as if there's some sort of unspoken code. "You're at the playground. I'm at the playground. We clearly both enjoy sliding and swinging and climbing, so let's be pals." It's the same in kindergarten classrooms and bouncy houses, at neighborhood pools and grocery store aisles. Little kids are instinctively drawn to other little kids, without pretense or fanfare.
As children get older, they become choosier, taking note of qualifiers that might invite or exclude a future friend. Clothing, hairstyle, shoes, obvious interests, other friends. Yet each new school year or activity welcomes another opportunity to meet new people.
There's a whole crop of ninth-graders coming from the other feeder middle school, and there's unknown possibility among the crew she's grown up with. So while Katie and and a few friends may naturally drift apart, there will be new people and previous acquaintances in debate class and French, in the cafeteria and the gym.
I met some of my dearest friends in eighth and ninth grades — the women who would eventually stand next to me when I got married, who I call or text with good news and tragic news, who know my quirks and love me anyway. I can't imagine life without Jayshree, Karen, Melissa and Swati. But there are many others who were important at the time and eventually faded away, not because anyone was frustrated or angry but because maintaining strong friendships requires work from both sides.
Sometimes there are simply not enough common interests to keep the bond healthy, and that's OK because one of the great blessings of growing older is continuing to expand your circles of friends.
I also can't imagine life without Gretchen, who I met when we were young journalists in Lubbock, or Julie, who has been my neighbor for 17 years, or Sharon, who was my boss for a little while but has been my friend for much longer, or Jenny, who I met through PTA, or Jana, who mentored me through my first year of teaching and is still my go-to school confidante.
We don't know what each season will bring, which people we'll meet, which memories we'll hold on to. The end of one season doesn't necessarily mean the end of friendships, but it almost always offers the hope of new relationships.
On that last day of middle school, I embraced Katie as she cried and then stepped aside as she continued to say goodbye to friends, most of whom she would text later that afternoon. I look forward to watching (and advising when asked) as her relationships deepen, as she discovers more of her people, as she learns for herself which friends she can rely on and how she can be the best kind of friend. There will be more tears in the journey, but I'm expecting a greater number of peace signs and cheerful smiles.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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| Peace out, middle school |
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