It's been eleven years now that I've written a culmination address for my students. The first time, it was to honor the class of 2015, the group I taught the year after my mother passed. This year, it is for the group of students who saw me through the loss of my dad. It was a heavy year, but I'm so grateful for those who helped lighten the load.
One morning this spring, in the middle of third period, I got a text from my sister. “Hi Nori, call me when you get a chance.” My face must have betrayed me, because one of you asked, “Everything ok?” I shrugged. I wasn’t sure. Dad had been in hospice for months, but I still wasn’t prepared for this kind of text.
I flew to Portland that afternoon and spent the next couple of days counting my dad’s last hours, last minutes, last breaths. After letting him go, I returned to school. You welcomed me back with sweet words and gestures. You helped ease my loss, but it has been a tough couple of months.
Grief is a strange companion. In the poem, “Neither Time Nor Grief is a Flat Circle” Christina Olson describes it “like a dog that wants to be close but doesn’t really understand physics. Like it is a dog, I push my grief away and then I feel bad and invite it back, pat the cushion next to me, smell its wet breath. It’s oppressive, this grief, yet without it I feel terribly alone.”
This is how I have felt this spring as the weight of grief forced itself into my days, and I pushed it away as it threatened to smother me.
Through these heavy days, you, my students and colleagues, parents and friends have been there for me, offering your condolences at first, but then, you were being the eighth graders in my class the spring I lost my father.
The other day, one of you asked, “Are you going to miss us?” I looked up from whatever work I was absorbed in, looked out at your faces, and answered, “Yes.” As afternoon light fell into the room this spring, I already knew I would miss you so very much. You have been a welcome distraction from my grief. Some days it was ridiculous, rage bait, getting tissue, annoyance, other days it was a poem or a thoughtful question. Sometimes it was just a smile or, “Hi, Ms. Nakada.”
So, yes, I will miss you. We have been through three challenging years at Emerson. You have seen historic shifts in leadership like we never seen before (eight different principals!) and you stuck with us. Families, friends, graduates, colleagues, thank you for sticking together through your challenging sixth grade year, for growing so much in your seventh grade year, and for your hard work this eighth grade year. We made it, and I am so grateful for all of you. As you make your way off to high school, know that our shared time together has been sacred just like my last days with my dad were sacred. In tough moments, poet Gwendolyn Brooks reminds us: “See what the news is going to be tomorrow. / Graves grow no green that you can use. / Remember, green's your color. You are Spring.” I can’t wait to hear about the news you will bring in all of your tomorrows. Congratulations!
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