For many years, I would sneak my class of fifth graders through the forest adjacent to our school and into the adjoining park on the last day of school, where we would play in the splash pad.
I learned this trick from my longtime friend and mentor, Donna Gosk.
I would tell any parent whose small children were using the splash pad that I had reserved the space for 15 minutes for my class. The parents were always more than willing to clear their children out so my students could play.
It was great.
Also very against the rules.
Technically, the park was off campus, which meant going there would’ve required all the paperwork for a field trip just to take the 100 steps off campus to the splash pad, which I wasn’t going to do.
I don’t think I would’ve been given permission, either.
Instead, we just went. And for years, it worked out beautifully.
In the winter of 2021, Connecticut experienced a snowstorm that dumped two feet of snow on the ground. The forest, which is part of our school’s property and therefore accessible to teachers during the school day, was deemed off limits after the storm because of the amount of snow that had fallen.
But it’s when the snow is at its highest that the forest is most fun, so I took my students to the forest anyway, tracing a careful path under and around the security cameras so we would not be seen by office personnel.
One of the students who spoke at my retirement party told this story. She talked about how I had taught her that breaking the rules is sometimes necessary in life, and, as an obsessive rule follower, she found this an important life lesson.
Just like the splash pad, we had a great time.
That same year, after we had snuck off to the splash pad on the last day of school, one of my students stupidly told the principal how much fun it had been.
My principal was not happy. “You can’t ever take your class to the splash pad on the last day of school ever again.”
“Okay,” I said, and I meant it. I may bend and break rules, but I was never insubordinate.
That same student who spoke so fondly of our snowstorm adventure in the forest then whispered to me, “You’re going to take them to the splash pad on the second-to-last day of school next year. Aren’t you?”
“Of course,” I said.
Two years later, the principal found out about this circumvention of his rule and deemed the splash pad off-limits on all school days, thus shutting down the joy of running, splashing, and getting soaked.
I understood, of course, but I wasn’t happy.
During this past school year — my last — my principal did something pretty extraordinary for me:
He attempted to get permission for me to take my students to the splash pad on my last day of teaching. Sadly, the splash pad’s parking lot and surrounding area are under construction, so it was impossible to get permission to take my students onto a construction site, but he tried like hell to make it happen.
It meant a lot to me.
I know it wasn’t always easy to be my principal. I’ve always viewed rules as relatively toothless suggestions that are sometimes important, sometimes foolish, and sometimes ornamental. I wasn’t the most ardent follower of rules and regulations, and though I think it was almost always best for students (and me), it sometimes made my principal’s life less than ideal.
I wasn’t always easy to manage.
But my final principal, Scott Dunn, understood me. Dealt with me. Sometimes had to redirect me. But he always appreciated me and accepted my rule-bending and sometimes rule-breaking as coming from a desire to make kids’ days better, even when it circumvented or flaunted regulations.
Just the effort to get me over to the splash pad for one more day of fun meant the world to me. Sadly, risk management deemed the construction site too dangerous for the kids, so his hope of giving me permission was not meant to be.
Did I bring my students over to the splash pad on my last day of teaching anyway? Sneak them through the forest and past the piles of earth and concrete for one more moment in the sun?
Probably not. That would’ve been insubordination on my part.
Right?
