As a school principal, I
have had many opportunities over the summer months to be present when a teacher
or staff member, who has either opted to retire from our profession or who has
found an opportunity to forge a new career path within or beyond our profession,
has come to the building to give back his/her keys—the keys to a classroom, a
filing cabinet, a desk, or an office. I dutifully and quietly take the keys as
he/she offers them up in this typical way: one-by-one with an explanation about
the wrist-twist of this one or the funny-bend of that one. I know, all too well, that despite what
marvelous adventures may exist on the other side of this moment, this symbolic
event—this relinquishing of the keys—is pretty heavy and bittersweet for most
people.
Someone once told me that you have “to go” in order “to grow.” And if you think about that in terms of every major milestone or somewhat sideways moment of your life, it turns out to be pretty true. So, I always try to impart that wisdom to others while reminding myself, the person who is in need of a new employee and who is trying to keep several different sets of keys straight, of this adage: “Every new beginning comes from some beginning’s end.”
Despite however cute and
philosophical either of those little sayings are, “going and growing” and
“beginning and ending” fail to provide the depth of inspiration necessary in
the really hard moments with the really tangible “leaving stuff” … like giving
back your keys.
Remember when you got the keys? When someone trusted you enough to let you into the secret universe? When you had instant and total access to the thousands of possibilities and the inordinate amounts of differences you were going to make each day, just by showing up and unlocking a new door? When you didn’t know exactly what would go into the multiple-drawer file cabinet or the extra-large closet, but you figured that you’d find something, right? (And you certainly did, now didn’t you?!) In fact, you found so many things to fill-up the space—every little nook-and-cranny—that you’ve wondered, most recently, if you’d ever achieve “empty” again, much less be able to give back the keys!
At the outset of this journey, those keys could have unlocked anything, and the mere fact that it was your anything was everything! Come on, you even brought your family and friends to see it, didn’t you? Perfect pride. Over the years, it stayed somewhere between organized castle and organized chaos. First of all, as far as schools go, things are sometimes messy, and they sometimes stink like the week-old lunches in kids’ backpacks, which are forever littering a classroom floor; like the family of mice eating through the popcorn supplies and nesting in the playground equipment at the back corner of your extra-large closet.
That pile of ancient poster boards taking up three shelves of storage space is really quite ridiculous, isn’t it? Especially in the new age of PowerPoints and Prezis, Evernotes and Instagrams, but it always seemed shameful to discard them—I mean some are really good student samples! What about that penmanship unit you’ve had on file since your first year of teaching? Well, I still say that kids should spend more time learning penmanship! You know, we ought’a go back to teaching it, but—alas—they just want to print, type, or text everything, don’t they? Never mind, it isn’t even on the state assessment!
And then there are the pictures and heartfelt hand-crafted notes that are hanging layered and askew from every available surface in sight—your desk, your bulletin board, and right smack over the inspirational quote on the laminated poster that you purchased years ago at the local teacher supply store: “School’s COOL! Kids ROCK!”
You try to skip over the photographs. They’re too vivid, and they speak a thousand words from a thousand smiles over a thousand days; with every precious face there is a precious memory. Oh yes! THAT kid right there—the one in the middle of the picture with his face painted in acrylic blue from art class and sticking out his pierced tongue. That dear child reminds you of yet another sacred spot in your professional abyss— “The Drawer of Collected Contraband.” You walk to it, open it up, and find (right away) his slingshot fashioned from the tiny tree limbs of the newly planted Redbuds in the school’s Memorial Garden. You chuckle, because you’re pretty sure he got suspended for that little act of defiance; nonetheless, the slingshot is still a fine, fine piece of work… just like the kid!
Standing there, in your historical quagmire and within the organizational system that you—and only you—can totally appreciate and understand, you recall all of the times that you bellowed out this statement just before the bell rang and/or your colleagues were coming in for a meeting: “This place is a mess!”
Now, the mess seems pretty blessed.
I remember the day I left my classroom for the last time. I stood at the door and took one of those long, lingering looks back over my shoulder, like the ones at the end of a movie, or at the finale of a long-running sitcom, and I was absolutely awestruck by the nakedness of the walls and the emptiness that I had finally achieved—an emptiness that I was starting to feel in my gut too despite what my future held.
As I stood there retracing every wall with my eyes, I remembered a quirky little girl in my 3rd period class one year, who said to me in a very flippant tone, “You know, sometimes I think your room is cute; and other times, I just think it’s kind of cluttered.”
Wow, what would she say now? Because really, there were no words; just echoes of love and laughter within the empty walls. With a lump of sadness forming in my throat, and jingling keys dangling in the door, I turned to walk out of my room, when I heard the intercom system come on. It was my principal. He told me that he was leaving the building for lunch, and if I needed to leave campus before he returned, I could just put my keys in his mailbox. I was relieved in a way. Once upon a time, he had hired a baby teacher who was leaving as a school leader, and I was just relieved that I wouldn’t have to endure that sad goodbye with him on top of everything else.
Since he was otherwise engaged, I took the long way through the building to his office. I walked by every classroom and down every hallway. I don’t know why. I just wanted to make sure every part of the building was imprinted on my mind’s eye. As I would pass each space, I would whisper the name of each teacher (and the ones who had been there before, if I knew them too). I finally arrived in the office and, sure enough, my principal was gone. I habitually checked my mailbox one last time. Nothing there. I walked to his mailbox and looked in it. I started to put my keys inside, but it just seemed weird. In fact, how would he know they were my keys for sure?
So I walked out and sat down at the reception desk. I decided to dig through the secretary’s desk drawer like everyone else who constantly violated her personal workspace and office supplies while sitting at the front desk. I finally found some Post-It notes and a pen. I labeled each key with one-sized stickies and wrapped the whole lot of them in a large piece of 3Ms finest office supply. Then, I thought about what to write on it. I quickly jotted, “Thanks for everything! Not good-bye, but see ya’ soon.”
Remember when you got the keys? When someone trusted you enough to let you into the secret universe? When you had instant and total access to the thousands of possibilities and the inordinate amounts of differences you were going to make each day, just by showing up and unlocking a new door? When you didn’t know exactly what would go into the multiple-drawer file cabinet or the extra-large closet, but you figured that you’d find something, right? (And you certainly did, now didn’t you?!) In fact, you found so many things to fill-up the space—every little nook-and-cranny—that you’ve wondered, most recently, if you’d ever achieve “empty” again, much less be able to give back the keys!
At the outset of this journey, those keys could have unlocked anything, and the mere fact that it was your anything was everything! Come on, you even brought your family and friends to see it, didn’t you? Perfect pride. Over the years, it stayed somewhere between organized castle and organized chaos. First of all, as far as schools go, things are sometimes messy, and they sometimes stink like the week-old lunches in kids’ backpacks, which are forever littering a classroom floor; like the family of mice eating through the popcorn supplies and nesting in the playground equipment at the back corner of your extra-large closet.
That pile of ancient poster boards taking up three shelves of storage space is really quite ridiculous, isn’t it? Especially in the new age of PowerPoints and Prezis, Evernotes and Instagrams, but it always seemed shameful to discard them—I mean some are really good student samples! What about that penmanship unit you’ve had on file since your first year of teaching? Well, I still say that kids should spend more time learning penmanship! You know, we ought’a go back to teaching it, but—alas—they just want to print, type, or text everything, don’t they? Never mind, it isn’t even on the state assessment!
And then there are the pictures and heartfelt hand-crafted notes that are hanging layered and askew from every available surface in sight—your desk, your bulletin board, and right smack over the inspirational quote on the laminated poster that you purchased years ago at the local teacher supply store: “School’s COOL! Kids ROCK!”
You try to skip over the photographs. They’re too vivid, and they speak a thousand words from a thousand smiles over a thousand days; with every precious face there is a precious memory. Oh yes! THAT kid right there—the one in the middle of the picture with his face painted in acrylic blue from art class and sticking out his pierced tongue. That dear child reminds you of yet another sacred spot in your professional abyss— “The Drawer of Collected Contraband.” You walk to it, open it up, and find (right away) his slingshot fashioned from the tiny tree limbs of the newly planted Redbuds in the school’s Memorial Garden. You chuckle, because you’re pretty sure he got suspended for that little act of defiance; nonetheless, the slingshot is still a fine, fine piece of work… just like the kid!
Standing there, in your historical quagmire and within the organizational system that you—and only you—can totally appreciate and understand, you recall all of the times that you bellowed out this statement just before the bell rang and/or your colleagues were coming in for a meeting: “This place is a mess!”
Now, the mess seems pretty blessed.
I remember the day I left my classroom for the last time. I stood at the door and took one of those long, lingering looks back over my shoulder, like the ones at the end of a movie, or at the finale of a long-running sitcom, and I was absolutely awestruck by the nakedness of the walls and the emptiness that I had finally achieved—an emptiness that I was starting to feel in my gut too despite what my future held.
As I stood there retracing every wall with my eyes, I remembered a quirky little girl in my 3rd period class one year, who said to me in a very flippant tone, “You know, sometimes I think your room is cute; and other times, I just think it’s kind of cluttered.”
Wow, what would she say now? Because really, there were no words; just echoes of love and laughter within the empty walls. With a lump of sadness forming in my throat, and jingling keys dangling in the door, I turned to walk out of my room, when I heard the intercom system come on. It was my principal. He told me that he was leaving the building for lunch, and if I needed to leave campus before he returned, I could just put my keys in his mailbox. I was relieved in a way. Once upon a time, he had hired a baby teacher who was leaving as a school leader, and I was just relieved that I wouldn’t have to endure that sad goodbye with him on top of everything else.
Since he was otherwise engaged, I took the long way through the building to his office. I walked by every classroom and down every hallway. I don’t know why. I just wanted to make sure every part of the building was imprinted on my mind’s eye. As I would pass each space, I would whisper the name of each teacher (and the ones who had been there before, if I knew them too). I finally arrived in the office and, sure enough, my principal was gone. I habitually checked my mailbox one last time. Nothing there. I walked to his mailbox and looked in it. I started to put my keys inside, but it just seemed weird. In fact, how would he know they were my keys for sure?
So I walked out and sat down at the reception desk. I decided to dig through the secretary’s desk drawer like everyone else who constantly violated her personal workspace and office supplies while sitting at the front desk. I finally found some Post-It notes and a pen. I labeled each key with one-sized stickies and wrapped the whole lot of them in a large piece of 3Ms finest office supply. Then, I thought about what to write on it. I quickly jotted, “Thanks for everything! Not good-bye, but see ya’ soon.”
That seemed right.
I walked to the front doors, keys still in my hand and NOT in my principal’s mailbox just yet. From the inside, I pushed the door open, stood back, and watched it slowly swing closed and latched. It was a tricky door, I had always known, so I knew it wouldn’t latch back too fast, even when I was on the other side of it… just in case I needed back in, you know, since I wouldn’t have my keys.
That lingering curiosity answered, I walked back into the building, around and through the faculty lounge, and then back into the main office where I had begun. I was chasing my tail at this point. I stopped in front of my principal’s mailbox again and this time, with one swift unceremonious movement, I got rid of them. I crammed my Post-It notes full of keys into the box, and I hurriedly walked away… back by my mailbox (still, nothing there)… out of the office… to the front doors.
I stood there in the foyer, stupidly, alongside our life-sized Cougar mascot named Katie. [Bye, Katie.] I reached out and put my hand on her muzzle as if to steal a tiny bit of her power to take with me. Then, finally, I left. I guess the trick door eventually latched behind me. We’re always supposed to wait and to check it for closure, but I don’t work here anymore. And frankly, I was already speed-walking to the car and starting to cry.
That’s how I gave back my keys; let me tell you, I remember it each-and-every-time a teacher or staff member relinquishes keys to me. No matter what the circumstance, no one ever tells you that the keys are one of the hardest parts of leaving any job or any home for that matter. They are symbolic of the entrance-and-the-exit, the-go-and-the-grow, the-beginning-and-the-end.
I walked to the front doors, keys still in my hand and NOT in my principal’s mailbox just yet. From the inside, I pushed the door open, stood back, and watched it slowly swing closed and latched. It was a tricky door, I had always known, so I knew it wouldn’t latch back too fast, even when I was on the other side of it… just in case I needed back in, you know, since I wouldn’t have my keys.
That lingering curiosity answered, I walked back into the building, around and through the faculty lounge, and then back into the main office where I had begun. I was chasing my tail at this point. I stopped in front of my principal’s mailbox again and this time, with one swift unceremonious movement, I got rid of them. I crammed my Post-It notes full of keys into the box, and I hurriedly walked away… back by my mailbox (still, nothing there)… out of the office… to the front doors.
I stood there in the foyer, stupidly, alongside our life-sized Cougar mascot named Katie. [Bye, Katie.] I reached out and put my hand on her muzzle as if to steal a tiny bit of her power to take with me. Then, finally, I left. I guess the trick door eventually latched behind me. We’re always supposed to wait and to check it for closure, but I don’t work here anymore. And frankly, I was already speed-walking to the car and starting to cry.
That’s how I gave back my keys; let me tell you, I remember it each-and-every-time a teacher or staff member relinquishes keys to me. No matter what the circumstance, no one ever tells you that the keys are one of the hardest parts of leaving any job or any home for that matter. They are symbolic of the entrance-and-the-exit, the-go-and-the-grow, the-beginning-and-the-end.
See, when you give back
your keys, you lose immediate access to so many important and familiar things.
When you give back your keys, you leave what’s known for what’s unknown. It’s life,
no doubt, but it’s also totally surreal.
Written by Holly (Swanson)
Nevels
Principal, Whittier
Middle School
Originally Posted: July 2010
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