On Retirement
After 34 years of teaching, my Dad decided to retire this past school year. I attended the board meeting where he, along with three other retirees, was recognized for his years of service to the school district. He received a gift bag, a slice of cake, and a two-minute speech from a superintendent who worked with him for only the last four years of his career (and the only story he could think to share at the moment was how my Dad bailed out the district by taking on two principal positions in the middle of a school year for a small pay raise – a much appreciated and cheaper alternative than hiring an interim principal). My dad, in turn, gave his own two-minute speech about how honored he was to get to know the people he worked with both professionally and personally. He said that he would truly cherish his job and how everything he did was all for the students. People stood. People clapped. One of his former students even made a comment about how Dad was the first teacher that she could remember that had ever given her homework on the first night of class. People laughed.
And then it was over. Nine people retired from the district this year – four of them showed up to this board meeting ceremony to be honored. Nothing was said about the other five. They were merely acknowledged. And later this year, like my father, they were replaced. School goes on. I would be lying if I said that part of me wasn’t a little bitter about the lackluster way in which my dad retired. I felt like he was being cheated in some regard. Does the school district even realize all the sacrifices he made? How many ball games of his own sons’ he missed, or how many anniversary dinners he had to reschedule because of a school event? It was as if the school district was looking at him and saying, “Thanks for the hard work. But we can’t do much else but offer our thanks. We understand that sometimes you left for work before your family ever got out of bed in the morning and you didn’t come home until everyone was already fast asleep in their beds. We know that you coached teams, drove buses, sponsored science fairs, organized clubs, tutored students, called parents, raised money, spanked children when their parents wouldn’t, and hugged kids too when their parents wouldn’t do that either. You did all of this and more. So much more. So try to enjoy your retirement. You’ve earned it.”
After 34 years of service, my dad died 64 days later. 64 days. A mere thread in the fabric of time that was his life to enjoy the fruits of his labor. If anyone deserved retirement, it was him. He worked from the time he was 11 years old cleaning bathrooms in a local office building to 60 years old cleaning faces of the schoolchildren he had as a principal at the local elementary school. He worked extremely hard and he enjoyed his work. If he were here now he would tell you the same. Selfishly, I would trade the last six or seven years of Dad’s service to the school system so that he could have traveled a few more places with Mom. So that he could spend a few extra hours with his grandchildren. Or so he could spend just a few more days doing nothing at all because he had already done so much. But Dad wouldn’t have traded. Not because he loved to work or lived to work, but because he loved people and helping others. I truly think this was his greatest joy. Getting to know people and their stories and being there for whatever they might need.
The accolades that I felt my father was cheated out of were more than fulfilled following the days of his death. Family members wrote notes and letters, students made tributes, and colleagues and friends shared stories, and people of every age and background waited in line for hours just to give their condolences to my mother, brother, and me during my Dad’s visitation. The school system even closed for a day so that teachers and students could attend Dad’s funeral. This was the tribute to his legacy that I so selfishly wanted and thought he deserved. I just didn’t want it like this. I’m still racking my brain trying to figure out the why’s of it all. I may never fully understand why this happened, but I refuse to accept that nothing good would come from all this. One thing I know for certain is that I want to share my Dad’s story with fellow educators.
Take note, those of you still running the race. You better not be working for the finish line. Fellow employees may remember you and all the good you did, but school districts will move on. They have to. So you better take from this job what it has to offer. Take with you the relationships you formed with colleagues that you can call your friends, and even though cynics will warn you otherwise, don’t be afraid to form meaningful (however appropriate) relationships with your students. Take time to counsel with a kid when no one else could or even wanted to. Take a moment to change a life forever. Because those are the things that will last. Those are the things that matter. Not recognition. Not pensions. Not gifts or cake. My Dad’s retirement party was unceremonious at best. 34 years of his life reduced to one pot-luck dinner thrown hastily together and a shared 30-minute spectacle before a monthly board meeting. But his career. His career and the life he lived was celebrated beyond even my own belief. I don’t think I ever truly appreciated how much of a difference he made in the lives of people until he was no longer with us. Every educator has that opportunity to make the same kind of impact. That is a burden and a wonder that we should not take lightly.
And then it was over. Nine people retired from the district this year – four of them showed up to this board meeting ceremony to be honored. Nothing was said about the other five. They were merely acknowledged. And later this year, like my father, they were replaced. School goes on. I would be lying if I said that part of me wasn’t a little bitter about the lackluster way in which my dad retired. I felt like he was being cheated in some regard. Does the school district even realize all the sacrifices he made? How many ball games of his own sons’ he missed, or how many anniversary dinners he had to reschedule because of a school event? It was as if the school district was looking at him and saying, “Thanks for the hard work. But we can’t do much else but offer our thanks. We understand that sometimes you left for work before your family ever got out of bed in the morning and you didn’t come home until everyone was already fast asleep in their beds. We know that you coached teams, drove buses, sponsored science fairs, organized clubs, tutored students, called parents, raised money, spanked children when their parents wouldn’t, and hugged kids too when their parents wouldn’t do that either. You did all of this and more. So much more. So try to enjoy your retirement. You’ve earned it.”
After 34 years of service, my dad died 64 days later. 64 days. A mere thread in the fabric of time that was his life to enjoy the fruits of his labor. If anyone deserved retirement, it was him. He worked from the time he was 11 years old cleaning bathrooms in a local office building to 60 years old cleaning faces of the schoolchildren he had as a principal at the local elementary school. He worked extremely hard and he enjoyed his work. If he were here now he would tell you the same. Selfishly, I would trade the last six or seven years of Dad’s service to the school system so that he could have traveled a few more places with Mom. So that he could spend a few extra hours with his grandchildren. Or so he could spend just a few more days doing nothing at all because he had already done so much. But Dad wouldn’t have traded. Not because he loved to work or lived to work, but because he loved people and helping others. I truly think this was his greatest joy. Getting to know people and their stories and being there for whatever they might need.
The accolades that I felt my father was cheated out of were more than fulfilled following the days of his death. Family members wrote notes and letters, students made tributes, and colleagues and friends shared stories, and people of every age and background waited in line for hours just to give their condolences to my mother, brother, and me during my Dad’s visitation. The school system even closed for a day so that teachers and students could attend Dad’s funeral. This was the tribute to his legacy that I so selfishly wanted and thought he deserved. I just didn’t want it like this. I’m still racking my brain trying to figure out the why’s of it all. I may never fully understand why this happened, but I refuse to accept that nothing good would come from all this. One thing I know for certain is that I want to share my Dad’s story with fellow educators.
Take note, those of you still running the race. You better not be working for the finish line. Fellow employees may remember you and all the good you did, but school districts will move on. They have to. So you better take from this job what it has to offer. Take with you the relationships you formed with colleagues that you can call your friends, and even though cynics will warn you otherwise, don’t be afraid to form meaningful (however appropriate) relationships with your students. Take time to counsel with a kid when no one else could or even wanted to. Take a moment to change a life forever. Because those are the things that will last. Those are the things that matter. Not recognition. Not pensions. Not gifts or cake. My Dad’s retirement party was unceremonious at best. 34 years of his life reduced to one pot-luck dinner thrown hastily together and a shared 30-minute spectacle before a monthly board meeting. But his career. His career and the life he lived was celebrated beyond even my own belief. I don’t think I ever truly appreciated how much of a difference he made in the lives of people until he was no longer with us. Every educator has that opportunity to make the same kind of impact. That is a burden and a wonder that we should not take lightly.