Nine-and-a-half months ago - and 58 blog entries ago - I wrote that the school year would be a sprint, that I would begin running when the first bell rang. Today is my last day of final exams, the last day I’ll see students. The sprint has come to an end.

How do I feel besides tired? The truth is I’m not really sure. Looking backward through the lens reveals little. Everything’s kind of blurry. I’m breathing hard. That’s a positive sign. My body’s sore. I’m beat, for sure. I feel like I can honestly say I tried hard every day. Still, have I done a good job? Perhaps, at times. Have I screwed up in more ways than I can count? No doubt. Have my students grown? Have I?

I wrote in that initial blog entry that I expected my students to be docile on the first day, uncomfortable with each other and me and unwilling to risk offense. That, at least, is surely no longer the case. In fact, one of them wrote in her portfolio that one thing she really appreciated about the class was how I appeared never to get offended, regardless of what anyone chose to write about. I suppose that’s a good thing.

If I were an ESPN Sportscenter anchorperson - which in an alternate universe I am - I would now proceed to offer my highlight reel of plays of the year. Followed by the blooper-reel illustrating my many foibles. In this universe though, what feels more important is to say that even if the vision through the backward lens is blurry, my students no longer are. The blond girl in the back row has become Katie whose brother is an alcoholic. The boy with the skateboard T-shirt is David, who can’t remember the last time anyone in his family told him he does anything well. The two girls with holes in their jeans are Sarah and Lisa. Both have known boys who died too young, one a suicide, the other in a car accident. My students have solidified, become people that I know and care about. I may not always remember their names, but I won’t forget how their stories made me feel, how hearing what they’ve been through, what they think about, has made me a fuller person.

One boy recently wrote a poem that took the form of a letter to the future wife he hasn’t met yet. In it he wrote that he wouldn’t want their kids to believe in Santa Claus. I asked him why. Because, he said, we build up this sense of magical disillusionment and then it all crashes down in damaging ways.

I hope, before he has his own children, he reconsiders that idea. If there’s anything I want to teach my students, it’s that magic is real. Sure, Santa may be a myth, but believing that myth - at least for a little while - helps us practice a kind of faith. Hopefully, not every corner we walk around will present us with something disastrous. We may yet stumble onto something dazzling. Take a look at the way the picnic table seems so solid, so dependable, I want my students to tell themselves, even if the ground beneath it is swampy. There’s a lot in the world that’s ugly right now. It feels like we’re awash in conflict, in oil. It does us no good to ignore those realities, to deny them. But how will we face them anyway if we don’t trust there’s something else out there too? Something magical? Some gorgeous moment worth waiting for? Reaching for?

This same boy who doesn’t want his kids to believe in the dude in the red suit also wrote about how intimate it can feel to share a 50-cent cupful of sour lemonade with someone he’s got a crush on. Now, when my kids sell lemonade next September on a Football Saturday, I’ll think about what they’re selling in a whole different way. I’ll think about what it might mean for a young couple, on an early-stage date, to buy that lemonade and share it. That’s a kind of magic and the boy’s poem made it real.

Another student, a girl writing in response to the same exercise, said that she will not be with a man who doesn’t like cheese.

I can support that point of view. Not in terms of dairy, of course, since that doesn’t work for some folks, but in terms of cheesy-ness in a relationship. I’d like my students to take that away from my class too. A little cheesiness is OK, relax, we don’t always have to be cool, or hip. We can sing songs to each other off-key, tell bad jokes, dance awkwardly, not understand how to operate our phones, tear up in sentimental movies. Believe in cheesiness. Believe in magic. Have a great summer. If you see me in the hallway next year, or down the road in the grocery store, remember you are real to me now. Don’t pretend like you don’t know me. Don’t snub me. That’ll hurt.

*Note - having written this blog throughout the school year, I’ll be signing off for a while, turning my attention to more poetry and fiction. Not sure if I’ll be picking the blog back up in the fall. Knowing me (which I don’t quite yet), I’ll probably have something I’ll want to run my mouth about. Still, if I resume activity here, I suspect it’ll be on a less regular basis. Thank you for paying attention and if you’ve commented - whether you’ve agreed with me or not, or whether you’ve liked my particular writing style - thanks for caring enough to engage in conversation. Here’s hoping a year from now the world is experiencing a little less conflict and that we’ve figured out how to do something about the oil. Oh yeah, and have a great summer. •

** Note - speaking of great summers, if you’re looking for a really fantastic experience for high-school aged and college-aged students, The Neutral Zone is once again offering a week-long Creative Writing camp called the VOLUME Summer Institute. It’ll be from June 27th - July 2nd and features world class faculty members teaching workshops in poetry (Roger Bonair-Agard, Patricia Smith, Kevin Coval, Scott Beal); fiction (Adam Mansbach); and Creative Non-Fiction/College essay writing (Sarah Andrew-Vaughan, Karen Smyte). Tuition is on a sliding scale basis. More info is available on the Neutral Zone’s web site @ www.neutral-zone.org. **

Jeff Kass teaches Creative Writing at Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor and at Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti, and directs the Literary Arts Programs at the Neutral Zone, including the VOLUME Youth Poetry Project, which meets every Thursday night at 7pm (not until September).