Culmination Address for the Class of 2026

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. 

For the Class of 2026

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!

For the Class of 2020

For the past five years, I've written graduation speeches for my eighth graders. This year's graduation speech was a little different, mostly because the end of this year has been so different. But here it is, my model for my current eighth graders. It has me thinking so much about all of the graduates and all of the graduations worthy of celebrating. So before Obama and all of the other amazing graduation speeches get made, here is my offering. 

Class of 2020 Graduates,

You made it. You are here, but I’m not ready to let you go. 

You didn’t get all of the moments this year had in store for you; didn’t get all of those lasts: last Academy Day, last projects, last dances, last field day, last classes, last days of school. Well, we had these lasts, but we didn’t know them while we had them.

Instead, we’ve had something else. We traded in classrooms for Zooms. We learned how to connect with one another through a screen instead of face-to-face. We searched for the motivation to get up every morning to head to school without even opening the front door, and to complete assignments that you might learn from but that couldn’t hurt your grade if you chose not to complete them. You had to get used to so much change so quickly.

High School Graduation: June, 1992. 

Greek philosopher Socrates said, “The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new.”

You are here, and you have helped build something new.

It isn’t what we expected, but it is ours and we are here to celebrate because you have earned it. You put in two and a half long years on campus: days learning and growing, struggling with teachers and classmates, watching the clock and waiting for that 3:00 bell. And each and every one of those days in all of those classes count.

And now you’ve survived something new. For twelve weeks you have shown up in so many new ways. You found your way onto on screens and into chats. You turned in assignments, checked in with friends and teachers in new ways and adjusted to new ways of being at home with your families.

You read the news and felt anger, anxiety, fear, and loss. You witnessed tragedy from near and far. You worried about friends and classmates and endured constant change and uncertainty.

American author Maya Angelou says, “If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude.”

You have done this. You have taken this unprecedented situation and learned about yourself as people and as students. You’ve learned what to do with hours upon hours upon hours at home. You have grown up in these few months and learned more than we could measure inside the halls of our schools or the walls of our classrooms.

Our school’s namesake, Ralph Waldo Emerson says, “The way to mend the bad world is to create the right world” and you, the class of 2020 are truly making your own path. You are carving out new experiences and are already shaping a new, post COVID-19 world.

I might not be ready to let you go, but you are ready. You know how quickly everything can change and your adaptability during this time has inspired me. You have brought me hope. So thank you. Thank you for sharing so many of these long-short days, your thoughts and dreams of what tomorrow might bring. 

You have helped mend the bad, and I cannot wait to see the new, right world you help create.

I'm Sorry, Again: Doing Right by Overdue Apologies...

I work at Emerson, a wonderful little middle school in Los Angeles. I've taught here for twenty years, and it's where I've gotten to know so many young people and learned so much about myself as a person, a teacher, and a writer. And it is at Emerson that I learned to forgive the Pilot Butte Junior High School girl from the second book in the Through Eyes Like Mine series: Overdue Apologies.

When this book first came out, there was no big release, no launch party, no readings. I wasn't ashamed of the book, no, I think I was still just a little unsure of the girl I was in middle school and of the choices I made. But I forgive my students every day, and I believe that is what makes a good middle school teacher: thick skin and short-term memory. But I'd spend years thinking about the girl I was in middle school, so my memories were raw.

But you know who loved that girl and this book? My students. They gave me feedback, created book projects, and talked with me about my book. They wrote summaries about reflected on how they saw themselves in the pages. They checked out my book, they read it, and passed it on to friends. They stole it. Through them, I learned to love and believe in my middle school memoir.

So here it is again, this time with a wonderful foreword from my oldest brother, Chet, who is living with his middle-school-aged daughter now.

Since publication, "Challenger" appeared in Specter and "Winter Ball" in Sky Island Journal.

If you've read Through Eyes Like Mine, but have been scared to read Overdue Apologies, I get it. Middle school is scary, but on its re-release, I hope you'll be brave enough to go back. Let me know if you need a copy of this or of the trilogy.

Tomorrow, I Tried.

What I Learned from Black History Month This Year: Part I

This past February was a tough one.
There was the loss of a couple of former colleagues at Emerson.
There was the exhaustion of these winter teaching months when spring seems so far away.
There was the prospect of a new job for David that made me question my own career choices.
There was a disturbing, hateful, and divisive presidential primary.
There was a heat wave hinting that our planet is doomed.
There was Black History Month.

In the past at Emerson, Black History Month was marked in a variety of ways. Mrs. Cowart would sing over the PA. Maybe Ms. Randall or Ms. Dawson would make announcements from a moment in Black history. I observed the month from the periphery, conducting my traditional President's Day lesson about our founding fathers and their roles as slave-owners.

But this year, a parent spoke to me early on about doing something to mark the month. Other teachers agreed to curricular lessons about Black scientists, artists, and mathematicians. At our charter board meeting at the start of the month, I proposed a Black History Month assembly, got it on the calendar and figured this committee of teachers could help make it happen. But as the month unfolded, rather than dedicating specific lessons to Black History Month, I was focused on To Kill A Mockingbird and helping our Speech and Debate team prepare for the up-coming tournament we were hosting. Teachers got busy, grades were due, parent conference night loomed, and Black History Month was pushed to the back of all our minds.

As the end of the month neared, I tried to envision how this assembly might look. Who would participate? What would the audience gain? After all, Emerson is a unique school. It is diverse like few schools are. There are Black kids, Latino kids, white kids, Persian kids, Asian kids and mixes of all of these backgrounds. There are kids whose families have been in Los Angeles for generations, and kids who arrived just this past week. So, what could we present at this Black History Month assembly that would educate and inspire and hopefully spur conversations? I wasn't sure, but what came together surprised me.

You can read all about it in my next post.