epitaphs spoken at 8th grade dinner

Sadlier Vocabulary Workshop Level C, Unit 5 p. 63

Class of 2025:

I read my favorite sentence ten years ago, when I was a pretentious junior in high school reading Slaughterhouse-Five at an LSU tailgate. “It’s just an illusion here on Earth,” Vonnegut writes, “that one moment follows another, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone, it is gone forever.”

It’s only been one full day since you left, and three half days of empty classrooms and half empty halls, of lockers hanging open like the collapsing cabinets of an abandoned house. 

There is so much space in my room, so much quiet. I would’ve wished for it a month or two ago, but now, it’s oppressive. 

As I sat at my desk today and sorted your papers, I found myself holding my breath. (Literally, I forgot to breathe.) Every time the bell rang, and you didn’t bang the door down ready to hurricane through my 728 square foot classroom, I relearned in through the nose and out through the mouth. 

I waited for my second hour to come in, so Paxton and Christian could hide under the counter with Toothless the dragon, and Hadley could tell Sophia and me about her insane dance schedule, and Kade could ask if I had a good weekend. 

I waited for third hour, for Ben and Cooper to be right on time and Rylee and Emma to be thoroughly late. I was ready to check if Margaret and Griffin had swapped seats again, and if Camille would give me a goldfish. 

Halfway through the day, when you never joined the lunch line, it felt real. I missed y’all.

I wanted my sixth hour to come back, so the small army of prayer leaders could assemble in front of the whiteboard, calling the class to get quiet for prayer: Cooper, Caleb, Joseph, Tyler, Finn, Audrey, and Bailey. Those devotionals have some tough words, like prerogative, philanthropist, and nonsectarianism. The reader would just lean to the person next to them, point to the word, and whisper what does that say? And a few teenage heads bent together to decipher it. 

I missed my 7th hour, my homeroom. High highs and low lows, y’all. You were all insane by the time you rolled in at 1:50, but when it was journal time, you knew how to put your head down and pour it out on the page. I loved how many of you would hand me your journal after the ten minutes ended, generously giving me a window into your day. Y’all were my paper ball throwing, cacophonous, passionate class. You were always willing to let me be silly, and you listened to my stories, even though it took twice the time to tell them in your class, because you kept interrupting to give commentary. Y’all are so full of life. I thank you for that.

The end of a day without you, in my empty classroom, feels incomplete. I know that Liam and Margaret won’t believe this, but it wasn’t the Redbull that fired me up in the mornings, it was y’all smiling in the hallway. What a blessing! What a life! To share each morning with a hundred teenagers, each infinitely complex. 

This year you took that complexity and you turned it into 545 poems and 3,270 journal entries. Thank you for that art. Thank you for teaching me so much. I spoke to you before many journals, about love and forgiveness, about friendship and aging and yes, mudskippers. 

But I am only one mind, and when I got to read what you thought about it, in your journals, those ideas multiplied. You fed them and changed them and taught me something new about the very thing I was trying to teach you. You made me better, smarter, for the next grade I’ll speak to. 

All of those moments that I remembered while your seats were empty today are not strung out behind me. They are etched on my heart. These moments that are gone, of passing the rock and circle time, are not gone forever. They are the beads we hold in our pockets as we grow up and go forward. So don’t cry because it’s over. Cry because it was beautiful, and it happened to you. 

At the end of Slaughterhouse-Five, Billy Pilgrim's epitaph (Vocab Workshop word!) reads “Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.” But that’s not until eternity, when we’ll be together again. For now, our lives will sometimes be painful and ugly, like the first draft of your research papers. But you will survive it. You are alive. You are incredible. Oh, and you’re one more thing. Don’t forget: YOU ARE VALUABLE!

Class of 2024:

A story is not told in epic moments. A story, a good one, is made of a thousand small details. Only with a thousand brushstrokes can you create real life. 

I’ve been think of an Emily Henry book called Funny Story, where she wrote, “All those moments throughout the days, weeks, months that don't get marked on calendars with hand-drawn stars or little stickers. Those are the moments that make a life. Not grand gestures, but mundane details that, over time, accumulate until you have a home, instead of a house.”

When I think of this year, it won’t be the grand gestures that I remember. It will be the way that everyday in second hour, Parker was standing at the whiteboard, ready to say prayer. How Hudson, Jude, and James asked me 99 days in a row to play Super Smash Bros, and Nnoema and Anna always asked me for snacks.

 It will be what you always ate in third hour – the pretzels, the protein shakes, the bananas, and how we asked Brody all year to be the prayer leader. How he refused for weeks at first, but by the end he said yes every time. It will be little moments, like James taking out eight packages of fruit snacks, and how he prayed everyday for all the holy men and women in his life. You were the only class who used the hand signals properly.

I will remember, in sixth hour, that Aaron always reminded me when we forgot to say prayer. And how he and Everett and Bella and Rishi and Brooklynn were willing to lead it. How you were always the best at the question and answer flow, and how many of you prayed for your parents.

In seventh, the long line of boys that needed to use the bathroom. The train that went by outside the window. How you guys could list a hundred prayer intentions, for the poor, and mentally ill, for people with cancer, and people in hospitals, and with disabilities. 

I will remember moments like at Youth Leg, when everyone had to stand take cover by the streetcar in their fancy clothes while we called carpool. I will remember how impressed I was when you played volleyball for Ethan’s principal for a day. Y’all are so good at sports! 

I will miss the little moments next year, the ghosts of you in the halls when you are gone. 

Riley hugging me in the morning. Claire, Jack, Julia, and Katie playing volleyball at recess. Brooks asking me if shark bus was called. Jadien telling me bye when he left at the end of dismissal. Joseph’s Ode to Mrs. Mueller.

You have brought me joy. You have made me laugh. You are all infinitely complicated and wonderfully interesting. I will miss you over and over next year, not on the days that I mark with stars or stickers, but everyday, in a million tiny moments.

I just want one more thing from you. Don’t forget: YOU ARE VALUABLE!