The dictionary defines the phrase "Stick a Fork in It" to mean:
1) A State of Completion
2) To be done, finished, over
Yesterday, June 26th was the graduation of my New Heights high school seniors. My babies, my sour patch kids. Three years ago, while still in the first few months of my grief over the loss of my mother, my best friend in the world, I started a scary new venture and challenged myself to get up and go face this new world in Washington Heights with brand new students, coworkers and experiences. I was so apprehensive about meeting these kids, wondering if I would be able to engage them, if they would grow to like me enough to trust me, and if I could be the counselor they needed.
It was a tough start. It took a while getting used to the kids, the staff, the school culture and protocols, and all the rules and bureaucracy. But, halfway through my first year, I felt like I was starting to know what I was doing. I was excited to get up and face another day in the Heights. I felt like some passion had come back in my life. That June, I watched New Heights have their very first graduation, and I celebrated in the joy of seeing the seniors, my borrowed students for that year, be loved and supported by their teachers and staff who shared stories and anecdotes about how they watched these children grow. I loved that aspect of the process, and how it made the ceremony feel like a family event.
One year ago, after my second year that saw even MORE ups and downs personally and professionally, I was faced with the reality of my situation: I'm on my way out of this place. Though not necessarily by choice, it was obvious the writing was on the wall, and my time was becoming limited. Over this past summer, I threw my focus into researching what I thought was the most important part of this process: my kids. By now those unruly sophomores I had been given were about to be seniors, and I was also counseling a new group of sophomores, a smart, insightful colorful group of young adults who bonded with me during their first year as high schoolers. If this was going to be my swan song year, I figured I'd go out fighting for my kids till the end.
From the beginning of the year, it was clear I brought a knife to a gun fight. A cheap, plastic butter knife to a 12-gauge shot-gun fight. LOL It was rough. Meeting after meeting, scolding after scolding, tear by tear, I tried to hang in there as best I could. All while watching my students continue to grow. Most people who knew me well are very familiar with hearing me utter these words, "I just wanna see my babies graduate." It was all I wanted to end all this mess.
Well, someone from the other side must have heard those words as well, because on April 27th, that became the impossible-not only could I not speak for my students and be a part of their ceremony like I had wanted to for three years, I wouldn't even be allowed in the building. I wouldn't even be listed as someone who had worked with them and helped them reach that stage. Devastated isn't the word. Hell, I've written other blogs on that, so I won't even go back there. For the past two months, I had to sit back and watch them get ready for college, go to prom, get their yearbooks and go on their senior trips while being sidelined. As graduation approached, I knew I had to find a way to see them one last time.
It was a covert operation to say the least. LOL. The staff was specifically instructed to NOT let me in when they see me, even though my kids fought hard to scrounge me up a ticket. Because I was not allowed in, I knew would have to be smart about it. Crouching down around the front of the church where the ceremony was held and sneaking in through side doors and creeping around in 4 inch blue stilettos and huge dark shades was hilarious, but thanks to a few assists, I was able to sit in the balcony and see my babies on that stage! It was only an added bonus that my cheers for my kids AND blue dress and blazer were loud enough to be seen from the stage, so my babies AND my detractors knew I was there.
After the ceremony, I truly felt lighter. I mean, it will always bother me how I was treated, and that I missed so much of their end of the year celebrations and the chance to speak for the children I have truly grown to know and love for the past year. In some ways, their celebration was mine, as well. Just as they thanked me for being their counselor, I wanted to thank them, as well. For bringing me back to life and giving me hope. But, even though I wasn't able to do that they way I wanted, I still got to be there. To see my babies, to hug them, to love them, to laugh and cry and high five with them and send them off into the world. It also meant the world to me that I got to congratulate their parents in person. It was so overwhelming to hear so many of them (and even my coworkers) thank me for coming in spite of the circumstances and showing up for the kids when they needed me.
And just like that, I was done. When I got home last night, I didn't feel like I was defeated. I felt like I was finally uplifted. That I could finally breathe and I was ready to let it all go. Stacy, Leslie, Marilyn, Marisol, the board, the whole mess. I finally felt like I could wash my hands of that filthy, slimy, bed bug infested mess and focus on my future. Tomorrow, I go and pick up my stuff (!) and I walk out of that place for good. No turning back. Yeah, you can officially stick a fork in this. I'm done.
