Joy and Sadness

What a week! We regularly discuss the concept of MITY time at my summer program, but it has never been more visceral than what I felt this past week. Every day at the program seems to move faster than the next. This week was a blur - a fantastically wonderful blur. Our students produced incredible writing, presented their work marvelously at the class reading and grew together as a class. Best of all, the appreciated the gifts and the shortcomings of each other. They celebrated each victory and embraced each flaw. Of course they also had a fair share of chuckles over some errors, but even then they laughed with one another, not at anyone.

Even more impressive for me, is that my co-teacher and I never did get "on track." Yet, all of our students had an amazing time. Certainly, we instructors are still good in the classroom with our "B" game, probably even with our "C." The students, however, are the real reason that this year achieved new heights. Their work and editing with one another stunned me this year. The depth and insight of their critical comments unnerved me. The young women and men understand how to peer edit in ways that I never imagined teenagers could. Some of my favorite moments came in the last three days of class. A young woman, who has been in our class for five years, essentially started functioning as a third instructor. The two of us were tied up assembling the final book and the class reading program, so she quietly stepped in to aid us. I know that some of our youngest writers exceeded my wildest expectations because of what she helped them to realize.

Thinking on that, though, also reminds me that the final day of the class is also incredibly sad. The bond that forms at MITY in general, and in the creative writing class in particular, is breathtaking. So may of our students feel alone and isolated in their own schools and in their daily lives. Being at MITY allows them to feel "normal" because every other student is just as talented. There is still tremendous diversity, but instead of competing with each other, they inspire each other. As a result the students form lifelong friendships even though they only see each other for a two week period each year. Even I know that I do my best teaching in this two week period. Thus, reaching the final day can be devastating. I was particularly worried this year. This class began bonding before we even entered the room on the first day. Some of that is the fact that 17 of our 27 students were returning to the class. The bigger piece, though, is the culture that MITY fosters.

Another reason that the "final" day has become more difficult of late is that we now are regularly having students who have been in the class for five years in a row. Last year, we had our first two students reach the five year mark. Both had already graduated from high school. We also had a third graduated senior who was in the course for the first time. This year, we had four graduated seniors - all of them have taken the class multiple times (with two again hitting the five year market). Beyond those two we had one other person hit the five year mark, and unless something radical happens, she will be our first six year student. Six is the maximum number of years that any student can attend MITY. Basically, she will have been in the class for two thirds of our nine years come next June. And, out of those 17 returners, we had many four and three year veterans. It is insane. It is also painful to reach those final moments and to know that we all can't be together any more. Now, change is good (in fact, I think it is vital), but it is also extremely hard.

The two five year, graduated seniors who had their last class today are incredibly important to me. The young woman is the one who I mentioned above helping her peers. She has always been a person who has given to others. Even in her first two years, she was the student who "organized" our piles of books. She writes glorious pieces and showers love on all of those around her. I know that she will miss MITY, but I also know that we will miss her smile and her presence even more. Thankfully, she is already a dear friend, and I know that we will stay in contact for years. The young man is someone to whom I am even closer. He arrived five years ago as a timid boy who definitely did not "fit in" at his rural school. He credits MITY with saving his life; I believe him. I have seen his town, and it has nothing to offer him. He lived for MITY every summer. Thankfully, he has grown into one of the finest people I know. He will be much closer (geographically) to me while he is in college over the next four years. I am thrilled. He calls me his "second dad," and I can think of no greater honor. I would be blessed to have had a son as wonderful as he is. He also happens to be one of the best writers that I have ever encountered.

Even though I know that I will see both of them again, it will never be in this particular "MITY" capacity. In many ways it will be better, but it certainly will not be the same. I know that much of my frustration of the past two weeks was the fact that my narcolepsy was preventing me from being the teacher that I wanted to be for them. Now, they both read this blog. They are well aware of my condition and would tell me it is insane that I would worry about that. Still, I care about them so much and hate that I couldn't be more for them this year. The situation does underscore the same problem I continue to have at home. I can accept the limits of narcolepsy when the people affected are strangers or acquaintances, but the idea of disappointed those that I love destroys me. Of course the reality is that I will impact the people closest to me more than anyone else because I am around them more. I can't put others ahead of me, even if they are people I love, or better yet, especially because they are people I love. When I think I have disappointed those closest to me, I am so harsh on myself that I wind up hurting them even more from my woundedness. Thus, I continue to accept everything that narcolepsy brings my way.