The Decision

Last week, I officially resigned from Clarendon High School and the Teach for America program. It’s not about teaching, nor is it about the students, difficult though they may be. I have actually enjoyed teaching; 10 hour-workdays and administrative inefficiency are manageable when balanced with the unpredictability and unparalleled energy in a high school.

In the end, it was the isolation. I am the only foreign language teacher, and therefore had no one to advise me about my teaching. I often feel like the only teacher with the gall to address offensive cultural ignorance, whether it’s calling all Latinos “Mexicans,” expressing disbelief or surprise with the term “gay,” or imposing Christian doctrine on the school’s lone Jewish-ish person.

Within the Delta Region, I am in one of its westernmost sites. My closest friends from Institute are across the Mississippi River. Arkansas roads being few and far between, a 70-mile trip takes two and a half hours — a drive not even close friends can justify every weekend.

The closest movie theater, Supercuts, and Bank of America are an hour away, in Little Rock.

A corps member at my school once told me, “Life’s simple, man. You do something, anything. If it makes you happy, you keep doing it. If it makes you unhappy, you move on to something else.” And that’s what I’m doing now. I’m moving to Washington, D.C. Hopefully I’ll find a job soon. And I’ll be living with Mimi.

I’m alternately scared shitless and thrilled by the prospect of being unemployed in a new city. But isn’t that what being a twentysomething is all about? At least, that’s what the movies tell me. And I wouldn’t be ashamed to take a waiting job in D.C.

All of this scary, exciting stuff doesn’t make leaving a place after a year difficult. I don’t doubt my decision — I would have been miserable next year — but announcing the news to the faculty and my students has been more trying than I predicted.

Phoebe, the pregnant senior, graduated last night. On her last day of school, I gave her a letter expressing how much potential I saw in her, and how she would be a wonderful mother. Mostly, though, I wanted to tell her that she was meant for great things in life besides motherhood, and she should never stop aiming high. Phoebe wrote me an e-mail later that afternoon:

“Thank You!! Those were some very inspiring words. The class could get a little boring but I stayed focus. I enjoyed the class and the little since of humor you tried to have. I thought you liked my attituded lol and I Thought it was a check in here 4real. Thanks for the motivation.”

She always had a well-developed “since of humor.”

Then, I told the College Club members. The Club has dwindled down to three devoted members, all girls, who happen to be the most motivated, involved students at the school. These girls began the year stating they were “home-bodies” and believed they would stay in Arkansas — for college and for life. I aimed to break that mindset. We drafted college essays, researched out-of-state schools, and filled out scholarship applications. Frankly, the Club itself was mismanaged and unfocused; Club meetings usually devolved into airy conversations about travel and weekend hijinks. But I continued to urge them to explore their options, and explore the world.

When I told them I was leaving, they got upset. Kristina, the artsy junior, didn’t talk to me during the following Spanish class. At the end of the class, she told me, “I’m painting you something, Mr. Pepper.” It turned out to be this:

"I fly because it releases my mind from the tyranny of petty things."

On the back she wrote a note:

“Mr. Pepper -
You have taught me to fly. You’ve taught me freedom that I can get away from here. You’ve taught me faith in myself and in my art.

I can’t thank you enough. You’ve been a huge inspiration.”

It’s things like these that make leaving here difficult.