Dear Friends,
Byron once described school as both a "palace and prison." I've often described Rigas Valsts 1. gimnazija, my school in Riga, as a Saved By The Bell school, after the hit teeny-bopper television sitcom that entertained a generation of us on weekday afternoons nearly two decades ago.
Those of you close to my age will instantly picture what I'm talking about: the six leading characters immersed in the playfully swirling drama of high school life -- in and out of the Drama Club. The kind of drama that gets neatly wrapped by the end of the thirty minute time slot. The kind of drama (who can forget Zack and Kelly's heart-wrenching last dance to Michael Bolton's "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?") that ropes you in, even as you pretend to roll your eyes and resist the attraction.
Those of you older than me -- or younger, gulp-- who have no recollections of Saved By The Bell may need to do some research.
My school is so much like Bayside High -- Baltic Bayside High. It has nearly all of the ingredients. Artistic hand-painted signs dangle from the rafters of the foyer. Potted, flowering plants brighten every window sill. And, several flocks of Kelly Kapowskis dance in the talent shows on Friday nights and compete in the Science Bowls on Saturday morning.
Idyllic though my year in this school was, I don't aim to suggest the people I met are anything less than simply complex, multi-faceted people like you and me. My rosy-colored glasses did not block all reality, and yet some areas -- some sights -- shall remain magically theatrical, too good to be true. Stranger than fiction. What I witnessed was people thriving, not in a perfect world, but in a setting that was darn near close.
And still some questions remain suspect.
For example, why is it there's always light shining through the open windows, even on a cloudy day? How come the "few" never seem to spoil it for the "many"? And, why in the world does it always seem like students spend more time hanging out in the hallways or walking in and out the open doors than they are sitting in class?I. Meet Preppy and Slater
Class rings are one of the many traditions at Riga First. Unlike in the States, every senior (or 12th former) gets one. Back home, there are as many varieties and combinations for rings as there are fingers to wear them. Here, each senior wears an identical ring: silver and chaste, bearing the facade of the school and its initials RV1G.
The international teacher is also honored each year with a ring. A few days after Christmas break, two senior guys knocked on the door of my classroom. Teaching only 10th and 11th graders, I only recognized these two from the hallway where I had casually observed them. Both of them were leaders. Popular. "Preppy" stood tall, curly blond hair, slender, handsome, possessing that rare chemical compound that men of all ages strive for but only few can claim, the one that tells you, I'll be the first to break the rules and the first to break your heart, baby, but you'll forgive me completely when you see how sorry I look. The thing is, he really is sorry. He's not a jerk. He's just smooth -- the All Around Good Guy -- and the model for his peers. What we all would be, given his genetics.
His comrade, "Slater," is shorter and squatter, longish dark hair, and though he shares a good portion of his buddy's charm, he is cast as the co-star and he's okay with it. Even from the side of the stage, this character is anything but dull. Even more than his leader-of-the-pack sidekick, we appreciate the realness this guy offers. This particular dude is an avid American football fan, and loves to pick-up a conversation about it with me in the halls. He doesn't seem to mind that I only warm the bench listening while he scores the conversational touchdowns. If this guy were in America, he'd be a quarterback.
"Hi Tim." This is the tall one, Preppy. He is standing with his hands behind his back. "We have something for you!"
I knew this was coming, and I willingly oblige the role of the gracious recipient.
Slater is standing beside Preppy. Each of them smiling like Prince Harry.
"We just wanted you to know how happy we are to have you here this year. And we wish we could be in your class." Spoken in utter sincerity, as only a teenager can.
"So, as a token of our thanks, we'd like to present you with this!"
Preppy hands me a matchbox. It's wrapped in beige paper. A brown ribbon is tied in a bow around it. Inside is the ring.
Thanking them, I elbow Slater and say, "Man, it almost looks like you wrapped this yourself!"
"Well," Slater says, almost blushing, eyeing his feet. "I did!"
II. "Hey, hey, hey! What is going on here?"
The week before Christmas, I took my classes into the Aula (main hall) to sing Christmas carols around the grand piano. For the students, I had prepared lyrics sheets. My music was compiled in a black binder. As if following the directions in a script, the students sang their hearts out. To my mind, "Jingle Bell Rock" never sounded so rockin'.
At the lunch break, I left the song sheets and my music on top of the piano. I locked the doors to the large hall and as is customary in the school, returned the key to the woman in the small office just inside the front doors. When I returned from lunch, I was surprised to find the hall's doors unlocked and a handful of students milling around inside. It was a 12th form class, preparing for a small Christmas play. Students pulled costumes and props out of large boxes. Two boys were running a rope to hold a curtain across their makeshift stage.
Back at the piano, I found my music was gone. Stolen! was my immediate reaction. I glanced across the spanning room at the happy thespian elves, unpacking their treasures. No, surely not...
Copying more song sheets was not a problem, but what I couldn't do without were my notes. My natural ear only takes me so far on the keyboard; I needed keys, I needed harmonies! I had ten minutes to class, so I started asking around. The students in my midst were as kind as could be put claimed to know nothing of the Mystery of the Missing Melodies.
"Maybe I could make an announcement over the speaker system?" one girl suggested. In the entire first semester, I had heard a voice on the loud speakers no more than a half-dozen times -- a blissful departure from the familiar hallway noise pollution of schools back home.
I responded ambivalently and went to tend to my class. Sure enough, a few minutes later, an announcement came across the speakers. I couldn't make out all of the words, but I heard my name and location.
"Excuse me, Teacher Tim," said one of my students, approaching the piano. "I just heard you've misplaced your maps."
Maps?!
"Well, I can't seem to find my music. It was just there an hour ago... I don't know about any maps."
We sang. I played, even though my holiday mood was fizzling faster than a chestnut on an open fire. In fact, "Chestnuts" sounded shoddy, because someone had taken my music! I was convinced of it now. This is what I get for smiling before Christmas! The students are too comfortable with me. They don't see me as Teacher but as an Exotic Pet, a Big English Buddy, an Outsider.
My thoughts surprised me.
The end of the class, another student (unknown to me) approached me in the hallway and stopped me in my frantic search.
"Excuse me, Tim, I understand you lost your passport. Have you found it?"
Criminy, I have to learn Latvian! What in the world did that announcement say??
I explained. I smiled as usual. But under the surface, I boiled.
The next lesson started and again I was faking it at the piano, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Hi, Teacher Tim." Again, a student I did not know. "I am very sorry about your music."
Finally, my music! Oh, this better be good, my boy!
He continued. "I came in here at lunch time and saw you had left your music."
And... so??
"I didn't want the notes to get lost, so I moved them to your mailbox in the teachers' room."
My mailbox! The only place in the school I hadn't thought of!
"I'm really sorry, though," handing me the black binder.
I patted him on the arm and sighed. I thanked him for his care and kindness.
And this is how an astonished Uncle Scrooge got his groove back.III. "I like school... It's a good way to kill time between weekends."
RV1G is a happy place, just like Bayside High. Once you're in, you don't want to leave. Take Hoffrats, for instance. After retiring from a distinguished career of teaching physics, he decided to stay on at the school. Some teachers, when they retire, land on beaches or mountains or in green woods. Not Hoffrats. He landed in the copy room.
The copy room is open daily until 1:00 p.m. If you're looking to make a copy after the hour of one, forget about it, baby. Come back tomorrow. But no one complains because... no one has to make her own copies. Simply drop your document off on the desk, attach a post-it note with directions, and Hoffrats will have your stack of whites and blacks ready and waiting for you, hot off the Canon.
Now, Hoffrats doesn't speak much English, and I don't speak a whole lot of Latvian. I was especially verbally challenged at the start of the year. No matter, though! Hoffrats and I got along beautifully and understood each other on a deep level, really. More so than a good numbere of the married couples I know. Using only a few words of Latvilish. Here is a common conversation in those early days:
"Labdien (Good Day), Hoffrats!"
"Hi."
"Man ludzu (May I please) twenty five copies."
"One-side?"
"Ja (yes)."
"Labi (okay)."
And when I came to pick up my stack...
"Paldies (thank you), Hoffrats!"
"Please."
I should note that, like bitte in German, ludzu in Latvian means both "please" and "you're welcome." When Hoffrats told me "please," I knew he meant "you're welcome," but on some particularly busy days, when Hoffrats had grown weary like the rest of us, I imagined I heard in his tired voice, "Please, boy! For crying out loud, learn the language! Please!"
IV. "Screech"
Things happen when they happen at the school. The atmosphere is relaxed and stands in stark contrast to the hyper-attention-deficit bastions of American education.
Anticipating traveling over spring break, I remember going in to see the assistant principal sometime in mid-January to inquire about the dates of the spring vacation.
"School break...hmm," she said, rummaging for her calendar. "Let's see if break has been scheduled yet..."
The take-it-easy pace was maddening for me at first. I'm long sense recovered. Inga says, "Work is not rabbit. It is not jumping away." The same can be said of life, to a degree.
So, when I didn't meet with my two new second semester classes until the middle of the second semester, I wasn't surprised and I wasn't bothered.
"Timmy," said one enthusiastic girl, my new student. "I'm so happy to finally be in your class. I was always wondering who is this always-smiling, weird guy walking around. Now I know!"
V. "I'm so excited! I'm ... so... scared!"
Work may not be jumping anywhere, but the end of the school year came quicker than a hare descending into its hole.
Students offered me heartfelt outpourings these last days: cards, cakes, maps, candies, socks, mittens, framed photographs, even a plastic yellow banana protector. Even a bottle of champagne.
I offered them Dr. Seuss and "You've Got a Friend" on the piano. For this song, I don't require any music. I shared my address and in lieu of "Good Bye," bellowed "See you in Illinois!"
The year's end is bittersweet every year. A businesswoman once told me that teachers are fortunate because they get bookends: every year has a definite opening and a definite closing.
What filled the space between the bookends for me this year was essentially no different than any other year. I guess I shouldn't be surprised to discover I wasn't a different kind of teacher here in Latvia than I am at home; if anything, I'm more myself than I've ever been.
And yet being who I am and where I am -- and knowing that once this second bookend is set on the shelf, it will not be removed -- this school year's closing was altogether unique.
In a culture full of traditions and ceremonies, it felt natural, even necessary, to take part in today's "Last Bell" event. At 2:00, the junior class was lining the double stairways to the second floor of the school building. Each student rang a small golden bell, and when the uniformed school band began to play "When The Saints Go Marching In," the seniors, decked to the nines, arm-in-arm, began to ascend the stairs, heading toward the grand hall.
The ceremony lasted just over an hour. It wasn't graduation. Graduation takes place in July.
Like each class in the school, the seniors are divided into seven smaller classes -- each thirty-person strong. After introductions and words from the principal, each class performed a song for the audience. From what I could make of the lyrics and the audience's reactions, the songs were mostly humorous "swan songs" -- tongue-in-cheek, harmless digs on the headmaster, for example. After the students had sung, it was time for the teachers to share a song. I played the piano. From my perch on the bench, as the teachers bounced and swayed to the roving tune, and as the students rose to their feet clapping to the beat, I noticed there were no parents in the room at all. No video cameras either. This was a living, shared moment between the students and teachers: partners in education. It brought to mind the famed Faculty Follies or reverent Baccalaureates of my high school days, where for an hour or so, students saw teachers as truly human, and teachers saw students as something divine.
After the ceremony, following the headmaster who carried and rang a large brass bell, the crowd moved outdoors and down the street to pose for the annual senior photograph in front of the Freedom Monument.
You could argue the future is scary, but on a proud day like this, with the warm breeze stirring, even Class President Jessie Spano could exhale completely.
VI. Curtain Call
Saved By The Bell ended when the kids graduated from high school. Officially, my teaching job at RV1G concluded today, though I know my memories of the time in this school with such multi-dimensional, wildly welcoming, and wacky people will certainly be unpacked and reviewed in syndication for months to come.
For as every good TV commencement speaker knows, "Commencement comes from the word commence, which means beginning."
Yours,
Tim
