The Last Day of Classes...

The meaning of "The Last Day of Classes" has really taken new meaning over the years...

For eight years in fact, it was actually "the last day of class." Then we made the major transition from "class" to "classes" once we hit junior high. That was great. No longer were we forced to stare at the same face hour after hour of every day. We did however have one face that we had to stare at for a little longer, in "homeroom". Remember homeroom? Like home base. That conjures up an interesting image… What if in the middle of Ms. Simms’ science class I jumped up from my seat and sprinted out the door towards Mrs. Fraziers’ class, my beloved homeroom. Then if Mrs. Simms tried to take me back to class I would stand behind that invisible shield of protection, both feet planted firmly inside the classroom and just shake my head. “Sorry Mrs. Simms, I’m at homeroom now.” Chances are I wouldn’t do that though. Mrs. Frazier and I weren’t exactly on the up and up. She lived for giving me detention and I lived for goading her into giving me detention. That’s like playing a game of tag, where the home base was some kid standing ready to punch you in the face.

But I digress.

“The last day of classes.” From the moment it became classes, the last day of classes became associated with fun and frolic. First off, the last day of classes was usually a half day of classes, preceding often times by many half days. These final days were filled with movies, class field trips, and parties where you could eat and chat idly with classmates. Them were the days.

Now that I’m in business school, I find that the last day of class for each of my courses, is very different. Before starting business school I’d been out of school for five years. I didn’t realize that in all of the years I was in school, I’d actually been hardened to the world. I could spend 55 minutes a day with a teacher, five days a week, nine months a year, and at the end of that year say, “Bye, Have a nice summer!” and not once look back. In all of the years since leaving academia, if one could call K – 12 academia, I’ve only paid two visits to my old high school and one to my junior high. It was a little sad moving on from one teacher to the next, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Now five years later, my fierce spirit crushed by the “real world”, I’d convinced myself that the people spent the most time with, I’d probably know for the rest of my life. I could finally let down my guard and invite people in. For six weeks, four hours a week I’d sit staring at my professor of [insert course name here], often times with interest, other times with feigned interest, sometimes with your average run-of-the-mill blank stare. During those short 6 weeks however, somehow a bond was formed. And on that last day, was actually sad. During the “it has been a pleasure teaching you” speech, I’d find myself actually fighting off the tears. Some professors have even gone into lengthy explanations of why they decided to pursue teaching… I’m talking really touching and heartfelt these last classes. The class length wasn’t shortened; there was no fanfare, no hullabaloo, just a standard two hour class and yet, that end speech at the end seemed to tie everything together.

In those final minutes of the class, I truly loved my professors. I had the utmost respect for them and really valued all of their hard work and their passion for their respective subjects. All of the reading, the quizzes, group work… it was suddenly all worth the struggle, knowing that I’d studied under such masters. A “half day” would have cheapened the whole experience. If anything I wish I’d had more time to learn from them and to grow.

And then in the midst of my adoration, as I am making the mental note to name my first child, next dog, or gold fish after this amazing person standing before me, I hear them utter those horrible words:

“See you at the final.”

And by the change in my demeanor you’d think I’d heard, “See you in hell.”

Oh the final… the dreaded final. I wish I could somehow bottle up my feelings just before the word “final” is muttered and send it to each professor. Just so they know. Because maybe then, they could derive some sense of satisfaction for a job well done. I certainly don’t give them that pleasure, at the end of a 3 hour final, or in the case of Decision Models a 24 hr take home final, when I walk up, hands trembling and clothes covered in eraser shavings, and hand in all I was able to learn (out of 6 weeks of material) in one night. At this point, I usually don’t even have the heart to look them in the eye, let alone the gall to tell them how much I really enjoyed their class. They would take one look at my grade on the final and see right through that lie. Or they would believe that I was one of few who truly enjoyed being made to feel stupid and inadequate, lived for it in fact.

I could do without all of the emotional turmoil. My message to my professors: On that last class, I’m all for the speeches, but so I don’t have to hang my head down in shame every time I see you for the duration of my academic life at Duke, please forego the final. Trust that you’ve taught me well, and let’s part ways on good terms.

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My message to my three favorite teachers from junior high and high school, Mrs. K, Mr. Quigley and Mrs. Fredricks – I wish there never was a “last day of classes” with you.