Amy Adoyzie

Anytime there is discussion about our departure date, I am ecstatic.
The mania is setting in. I think of the sensory overload when I get home and realize that I am flooded with sensory overload just from thinking about or writing about going home.
But then something happens when a student asks about when I’ll leave. Today Nishka asked when I’ll be departing and I found myself choking down tears as I mumbled the date. There is no revelry in saying this date to these young women whom I will miss deeply.
“Miss, do you mind if I do something that is very traditional in my culture?” She asked afterward.
“Sure.”
She knelt down onto the floor, bowed her head at me and touched my feet. Nishka gently lifted my hand from my thigh and placed it onto the top of her head, against her soft black hair and said, “Now give me your blessings.”
“You have my blessings.” I nodded, my vision distorted through tears.
She told me how much she loved her teachers, and I reciprocated. Most importantly, she told me how much she learned. And it is because of this that makes it difficult to leave, to not be here to be apart of their continual evolution.

Loda came into my office weeks ago to ask for advice about dealing with a friend. She listened patiently to my suggestions when suddenly her eyes watered.
“What’s wrong, Loda?”
She wiped her face with her orna and said, “Miss, who will I talk to when you go away?”
“There will be others here who can talk with you too. You’ll be fine. There will be really nice people here to work with everyone.”
She shook her head, “Miss, you are going. Leaving us. It will not be the same. What are we going to do?”
“You’re going to do what you have been doing…” I paused to think of an apt metaphor, to help her picture who she is, as a student, and who we have been as teachers. “Have you seen those little trees? The ones that are just beginning to grow but they are too small and they need support?” I stuck up my fingers to mime four posts around a skinny tree. “And there are strings that connect the tree and the sticks around to help it stay upright.”
She nodded.
“At first, you were like that small tree. Maybe you had trouble growing on your own, so you had teachers and family and friends to support you, to hold you up. But what happens to those posts eventually?”
She let out a sad sigh, “They are taken away.”
“Yes, they are removed because the tree is strong enough to grow on its own.”
“I see what you are saying.”
Go grow.

The countdown is part tether-to-sanity and part heartache.
The countdown is a just an inevitable part of it all.