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6: 15 p.m. Over the next 15 minutes, the students
trickle in, one-by-one or in pairs, nod hello, sit,
begin to chat.
At 6:30 I start the class. It's a case study, a
wrap-up to the entire term in which the students
will show me what they have learned, or not learned,
over our 14 weeks of work.
The time passes swiftly, as in a dream, my thoughts
running between surprise at their intelligence as
they twist ideas and make meaning of the case and
disappointment as I perceive that in places they
haven't gotten it, that they don't quite know what
they're talking about.
8:30 p.m. I've continuously grilled them, raised
questions, challenged their answers and now the
pace and tension has slackened.
I can see fatigue in their faces, the need to leave
these stiff-backed wooden seats, to exit this stuffy
room and end it.
So, I stop, congratulate them on the case, then
ask those who are graduating this term to stand.
The graduands are clearly surprised by this request
and about one third of the class stands. "You've
worked hard for this," I say, "you shouldn't
just leave, empty, as if nothing significant has
happened." And, the rest of us, those who aren't
graduating applaud them. Smarmy, yes, I guess so,
but I feel tears starting and blink them away.
As they leave, some come up to thank me for the
course. One or two say that it's made a difference
to them.
I shove papers into my briefcase, close down the
computer-projector and hear myself mumbling to the
now empty room that I'm graduating too, that this
is the last class I will teach. I am unable to blink
the tears away.
silent classroom-
these seats occupied
by a thousand ghosts
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