A Farewell Blessing

"Today is our last class," Susan said while writing the date August 18 on the white board. "We will return to class in two weeks, on August 18^th."

She held up two fingers for emphasis. Bhudhav and Arya read the sentences out loud, softly, and several others repeated "two weeks."

"You'll want to write this down in your notebooks," Susan instructed. Amita and Saradha looked at me with questions in their eyes, so I mimicked writing and pointed to their notebooks. They diligently made marks on their papers.

"What does return mean?" Susan prompted. "It means come back. We will come back to class in two weeks."

We had been through this routine several times over the past year. In trying to stretch its meager budget as far as possible, Project Learn instituted the six weeks on/two weeks off schedule for all of its classes last fall. The result is a constantly interrupted course of learning for people who need consistency and repetition above all, plus the added bonus of teachers who can scarcely meet their own budgeting needs with a two-week gap in paychecks every other month. It’s not entirely a lose-lose proposition, but it's certainly far from ideal.

For my part, I had conflicting emotions about the end of another session because I won’t return with this class in two weeks. My schedule at my new job includes working all day Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, so I won't be able to come to the Institute Monday and Wednesday mornings anymore.

That means no more descending the basement stars into the scent of curry and BO; no more choruses of good morning teetser to greet me; no more grunting beckons or angelic smiles from Yadu; no more Nepali lessons from Saradha.

I led the exercise break one last time. That's probably my favorite part of the class, when everyone gets a little loose and there's a lot of laughter. Yadu stood right next to me in the front of the room, smiling so hard his face almost split in two and awkwardly holding his arms up over his head with his elbows bent, not really executing the correct moves, but constantly trying to hold my hand while I led the class through arm circles, side stretches, and walking in place. During the three deep breaths we do as our final exercise—what the students call "ceiling" because we tilt our heads back to look at the ceiling while inhaling deeply—I consciously absorbed the room's odors one last time. I tattooed onto my sense memory that particular piquant of basement mustiness, halitosis, body odor, and leftover curry. It sounds unpleasant, but it isn't. Rather like the odor of melted tar being sprayed on the dirt roads of Punxsutawney in the summers of my youth, that smell will always bring me back to a specific moment of bittersweet happiness in my life.

After the break, I gathered my small group for one last session of focused teaching. Susan suggested we work on verbs, but Asara had already told me she really wanted to practice the alphabet. She's a little more advanced than most of her classmates and very determined to improve her English. Besides, we had a brand new student with us on this last day, and he seemed thoroughly confused by the whole idea of writing during the first hour.

So I coached Asara, Krishna, Saradha, Lakshmi and the new guy on the ABCs, both capital and lower case. Karma came to join us a little late, and for the first time his wife, Mahasweta, joined us, as well.

Mahasweta is more advanced than her husband and usually stays with Susan and the rest of the class when I conduct my small group, but today she just pulled a chair up next to Karma and sat down. I was surprised but didn't mind, of course. Mahasweta has been my favorite in this class almost from my first day. She is very smart, great with math and counting coins, and has a certain quality about her that I can't really name, but that makes me somehow respect and, I guess, admire her somehow. I don't fully understand it myself; sometimes I suppose we are just drawn to certain other people. I have the feeling that if her English were better, or if we had both been born in the same country, we would surely have been very good friends.

At the end of our time, everyone had a full alphabet written out, and we had clarified the pronunciation of G versus Z. As the students gathered their things, thanked me, and said their goodbyes, I reminded everyone about no class for two weeks.

"Coming back two weeks?" Mahasweta said to me with a question in her eyes.

"Yes," I said. "Come back to class in two weeks. Okay?"

"Yes," she said. She and Karma started to go, then Mahasweta turned back to me.

"You?" she asked. "Coming back two weeks?"

A small bolt of surprise and grief shot through my stomach. I fought the tears that pricked at my eyes.

"Me?" I asked, pointing to my chest. Mahasweta nodded, smiling her dear half-smile.

"No," I said, my voice catching in my throat. "I won’t be here in two weeks. I have a new job."

Her brow furrowed and her eyes looked a little sad, despite the little smiled that stayed on her mouth. "Oh," she said. I had the feeling she wanted to say more, but maybe that was just me.

Maybe I wanted to say more. Maybe I wanted to thank her and her husband for always being so gracious with me, even when I made mistakes and said stupid things in class. Maybe I wanted to tell her how much I admired her courage and stamina in coming to a new country and helping her family survive. Maybe I wanted to tell her how beautiful I thought she was, in spite of—or maybe because of—the scar on her forehead and the deep, weathered lines in her cheeks. Maybe I wanted to tell her how much I wanted her and Karma to continue with these classes and improving their English, how their life here in Akron was going to get better and better the longer they stayed and the more they tried to assimilate. Maybe I wanted to tell her that she and Karma had shown me what teaching means and how valuable it is to share knowledge with others. Maybe I wanted to tell her that she had changed the way I see myself and my hometown, that teaching her and Karma had given me a confidence and joy I never expected to find within myself, and that I was forever changed for having met her. Maybe I wanted to tell her that I would never forget her and that I hoped we would meet again someday. Maybe I saw all those things reflected in her narrow, deep brown eyes. But it was all I could do to keep the tears from bursting forth and embarrassing us both.

So I smiled and said, "I'll miss you."

I put my hand to my heart and bowed a little toward her. She bowed back with her palms together at her chest, and it felt like a kind of blessing.

"Miss you, too," she said.