It turns out that after spending 27 years in the same school — and 25 years in the same classroom — a lot of things can happen.
The place becomes a part of your life.
This portion of my retirement speech addressed this.
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I thought that I would be a teacher and writer who entertains folks onstage with stories and comedy.
And that would’ve been lovely. Truly a dream come true.
But then businesses came a’calling. And unintentionally, miraculously, bizarrely, and inexplicably, I find myself today working with Microsoft and Amazon. Johnson & Johnson and Google. Banks. Hospitals. Foundations. Universities. The FBI. I consult. Teach workshops. Deliver keynote speeches. Coach executives.
It’s crazy. I’m so lucky.
But it also means I leave a place where so much of my life has taken place.
Many of the greatest friends of my life are fellow teachers and the parents of former students.
My children’s Godparents are former teachers and the parents of former students.
I met my wife in the Wolcott School library.
Elysha first told me that she liked me in the Wolcott School parking lot.
The first person to know that I’d be asking Elysha to marry me was Cindy Raynis. I told her in Sharon Snow’s office.
I bought Elysha’s engagement ring during a professional development seminar. Cindy, Sharon, and Justine Wolgemuth helped me choose and purchase the ring online.
Our engagement, which happened on the steps of Grand Central Station while 25 of our friends — including Wolcott teachers, parents, and students — was planned in Cindy Raynis’ first-grade classroom.
When Elysha and I were married, five of our bridesmaids and groomsmen were teachers from our school. Our principal, Plato Karafelis, married us. Wolcott School music teachers Rob Hugh and Andy Mayo played the music at our ceremony.
I was told that my mother died in the principal’s office. Rather than going home, I went back to my classroom, where 23 children embraced me in an enormous communal hug.
I walked out of our school on 9/11 holding my friend and fellow teacher Donna Gosk’s hand.
During the pandemic year, my class and I spent many days under the trees in front of our school, reading, writing, and smiling behind masks. Town Meeting broadcast from my classroom. We took secret walks to the splash pad to play. We did a great job forgetting the fear and tragedy of that year.
I was sitting at my desk in my classroom when I received the call that my first book would be published by Doubleday — another dream come true. I first told Elysha in the hallway behind the auditorium. She collapsed to the floor and wept.
I was standing at the restroom doorway when my colleague, Michelle Sebastianelli, a member of the TOY committee, whispered in my ear that I had won.
Three days later, in the very room where my retirement party was held, it was announced for real.
During my final year of teaching, I taught the child of a former student and the child of one of Elysha’s former students.
I’ve taught the nieces and nephews of former students.
I’ve worked alongside former students who have become teachers and paraprofessionals in our school.
I’ve officiated the weddings of former students.
A lot has happened in the last 27 years.
There were less important but also unforgettable moments:
- The parent who kissed me during a parent-teacher conference.
- The time I sang Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” at Town Meeting. Elysha was terrified that I might be proposing in front of our student body.
- The time I accidentally wore two pairs of underwear to school and made the mistake of telling my students.
And the many injuries over the years:
Three concussions.
Snowballs to the groin by an angry group of fifth graders.
A separated shoulder during a four-square tournament on the stage. One broken toe.
A pink marker and a shoe to the head by the very same student.
There isn’t an inch of Wolcott School — literally — that I can’t tell you a story about. I have lived every inch of that building and could entertain you endlessly with stories of joy, sorrow, raucousness, hilarity, and meaning.
Wolcott School gave me my life. It turned a feral, stupid, unsophisticated young man into something much more.
This year, when Loic Heinmen joined my class in May, he became the 601st student whom I have taught.
I spent 182 days a year — 10 months of the year — for 27 years, with 601 students, and honestly, I loved every single one of them.
Some admittedly more than others.
It’s hard to imagine I won’t have another roster of students in my life ever again.
