Roosevelt School

I always cry at these things. I’m not usually the only one. I’m not even always the only sniffling dad. But normally, not ALL the guys are crying. And almost never the boys.

And while there might have been a dry pair or two—male or female—in the Roosevelt Elementary School multi-use auditorium at yesterday morning’s traditional last-day-of-school assembly, it was mostly not so much.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

I’ve been to a few of these events. Eight of these same ceremonies, to be exact—having had at least one student at Roosevelt every school year since Vincent entered as a kindergartner in the autumn of 2003. Add to these eight the dozens of Veteran’s Day ceremonies, choir concerts, Martin Luther King Day celebrations and play performances, and I’ve shed a proud tear or thousand on school grounds over the years.

But I’d never seen anything like this.

In fairness, it was a particularly touching show, anchored by a 15-minute slideshow lovingly compiled by the three outgoing AmeriCorps teachers, who had been honored earlier in the program with bucketfulls of tokens of appreciation. There was other housekeeping to do—the crowning of the year’s BoxTops collection winners, and the lengthy distribution of the district track meet awards. The slideshow was the straw that broke the kids’ tearducts, but things had been moving in that direction for several segments, ever since the faculty had started getting in on the act.

Roosevelt is the only grammar school my kids have ever attended, so I don’t have anything to compare our experience with. But through informal research & observation, it does not appear to me as though every other K-5 administrator, faculty & staff has the level of enjoyment of-- and dedication to--their crafts as do Steve Morse and his team at Roosevelt.

Steve surely isn’t the only principal ever to have worn a tutu at school on a dare. Band directors shave their heads when their kids take State; coaches paint their faces for big games. There are Great teachers at every school in this country—mentors whose impacts on their students will truly last a lifetime.

But in scanning the faces on the risers as the faculty traded places with the student choir, I was reminded of what an amazing group this was. As they earnestly sang “I Hope  You Dance” as a final gift to their departing 5th graders, I paused on so many of them, fondly recalling the growth my kids had experienced in their care. The nurturing glow & unshakable patience of Karen Ottorholt. The grace & depth of experience of Kim Rutledge. The zeal & curiostiy of Russ Nuckolls, in whose classroom our kids had spent a combined three years. Terri McKee, from whom Edie in particular might have drawn the most confidence of any teacher she’s ever had at any level. But there were some missing faces, too. Gone were Pam and Janice, Tiffany and Donna.

But in pausing to consider each of these and other dedicated lifetime professionals, it occurred to me that it wasn’t just my daughter who was leaving this school—it was me, too! I’d spent a lot of time in this place. I’d ‘been there’ longer than many. I remember the first time I met the incoming 4th grade teacher Megan Thygeson at school—I thought she was a 4th grader! And now there she was on the riser— a faculty & student favorite— her future secure after several 11th hour contract rescues, gently rocking her 6-week-old baby in a front pack as she sang along with the rest of the faculty choir, this beautiful song about life’s opportunities and dancing when those opportunities present themselves.

I hope you dance. When you get the chance to sit it out or dance—I hope you dance…

And in the middle of it all—always in the middle of it—was Steve Morse. A year earlier, I’d looked into the fidgeting eyes of some PTA reg’lars outside the school when they’d asked if I’d heard about Steve. Ruling out what else their worried expressions might have meant in the humid split second that followed, I hastily hoped that he didn’t have cancer, but it sure was cancer. Prostate cancer. An early diagnosis in an otherwise healthy 52-year-old man, but still—cancer. School let out shortly thereafter, and then—nothing. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough to phone. No one appeared to know anything when I bumped into them at the supermarket, and it seemed morbid to chase information. Josie Estrada was officially designated interim principal. It didn’t feel right. We were apprehensive going into the autumn session, and we briefed the kids, who hadn’t heard anything, either. I braced for bad news every day. But none came.

And of course there was Steve on the first day of school, coffee cup in-hand and looking a little ashen, but still greeting everyone just like he had on so many September mornings past. Getting cancer these days doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to die. We baby-boomers have grown up in the age of cancer, and are still adjusting to the miracles modern medicine have laced together where treatment & research are concerned. Of course people are still getting killed to death by cancer—at a rate of 20,000 each day. But the rate of not dying is climbing as well, and it seems like I have been personally touched by more success stories these past couple of years (including my own mother’s) than I have tragedies.

And ten months later still, on the last day of school, here was Steve Morse— looking his old self again. Before opening the teargates, the staff had given the students and parents (AND each other) a hearty laugh with their traditional re-working of a song from the spring musical, this year a drama-within-a-drama entitled Dear Edwina. Edie had shared the title role with her best friend Emma, and the two girls had been further honored by the opportunity to re-write the lyrics of one of the show’s songs “FrankenGuest” into “FrankenBoss” in which Mr. Morse played the role of a tyrannical administrator imposing impossible demands on his already-overworked staff, trying desperately to stay a step ahead of the budget ax and the goons from the State’s testing Gestapo. The skit was hilarious.

FRANKENBOSS—here’s the new math curriculum (throws stack of paper into the air)

FRANKENBOSS—where’d everybody go—to Haggen’s?!

FRANKENBOSS—I AM ALL POWERFUL!!

HE WAS A FRANKENBOSS…

I don’t know how many 5th graders (or  even parents, for that matter) realized how ridiculously funny many of these lines were. The body of the lyrics were written by Edie & Emma and were humorous to everyone; but Steve’s parts definitely came from him personally and were surely an inside joke to a staff that has stood behind him through some hard times and for whom he has stood up as well. There is a great mutual professional admiration amongst these educators, and it shows not only when they are exchanging a wink & a nudge on the choir risers on the last day of school, lampooning a principal gone mad upriver like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now when in fact he’s got the district & state and its “failing schools” list nipping at his shorts day in & day out. This faculty’s respect for each other and ownership of their callings shows every day in the classrooms & hallways of the school. Steve and his teachers genuinely care about each student at Roosevelt, as well as the families that support them. And this was never more apparent than during the stirring “I Hope You Dance,” Steve’s lyric sheet at his side, a proud captain singing the song from memory, his cancer in remission.

And after that, the piling-on of the slideshow. Sheesh… As the houselights came on afterward, I glanced around at a few of the parents standing or sitting nearby and it was clear there’d been an impact made on us. But like I said—that’s nothing new. What I was surprised to see was the knot of 5th graders in the middle of the auditorium clinging to each other through curtains of real tears. I’ve learned this past year that pre-teen girls have an appetite for social drama that often includes crying, but what was happening here as the younger grades peeled away leaving the graduating class to themselves & each other was a genuine display of hammering melancholy that was completely natural and not self-conscious in the slightest. Kids hung on teachers in groups, or hugged deep with classmates they might not previously have been that close with. This was not a cliquish group to begin with, but any subtle subgroups that may have existed seemed utterly dissolved as the 60 students moved around the group, greeting & consoling each other as the emotional pitch of the scene escalated. Noses dripped. Faces blotched. Lips trembled. The confident & matriculated had been thoroughly vaporized by this assembly, and they seemed quite uncertain of what in the world they were supposed to do next.

Eventually, they filed apprehensively out the back door of the building and into the glare of an all-school recess during which the weeping continued and in fact eventually began to spread to the underclassman of the school. Girls—and boys—of all ages bawling under the bittersweet weight of growing up. I’ve been to a lot of these types of events, and as a parent they just destroy me every time. But the kids, I don’t think the significance of these milestones really hits them until much later on, if at all—the privilege of perspective! But I’ve never seen a group of kids so caught in a moment, realizing AT THE TIME how important a move they were making, from being the biggest at a school of little kids to going to a middle school full of teenagers. They didn’t seem scared; they just seemed sad. They seemed sad to be leaving a safe place and heading toward an unknown. They’ll have each other next year, many of them, and some of these kids will be friends their whole lives. Others of them will probably move over the summer, and will never be seen again. What the future holds for any of these kids is completely unknown, and in that respect this is just another step in the great adventure.

 It’s enough to make anyone cry. But smile too…