The time has come to say goodbye, at least it will be when the final bell rings.
Recalling the number of bells that have been in my life, I have realized there are several.
First, it started with the church bells that play throughout my town at strange times in the day and even stranger times at night.
Then, it was the bells on my bicycle with training wheels attached as a child. Ding, ding, ding, as I rode down the street of my childhood home, belting my self-made song “long, day, tree day…”
Author’s note: There’s a reason why the bells in Phoebe Bridger’s “Scott Street” resonate with me more than the train whistles. Can you see why?
Next, it was the bells at school. The first school bell began in sixth grade, when I reached middle school in 2014. At last, the final bell pinged in my ears as a high school student in June of 2021. With my mask over my mouth and nose, I walked out of the school building for the final time with my friends since elementary school.
I transitioned into hearing the Devereux bells on St. Bonaventure’s campus every hour as a college student. I remember hearing the bells during summer orientation in August 2021 for the first time.
Over time, the bells became a familiar part of my day. It was a sound that, strangely, brought me comfort. As a deeply homesick freshman, hearing the Devereux bells tugged on the deeply nostalgic parts of me. The Dev bells reminded me of the summer before college, of my hometown friends and family, and they made me ache to return to those last amazing weeks of summer after senior year.
Suddenly, the bells of my life returned to me, but in different ways.
I heard the junior-high school bells once again a couple of years down the line when I returned to substitute teach.
The bells were changed; they sounded nothing like the transition bells when I was a student. The changed bells signaled to me that time had passed and changes had been made in my absence.
When I return home and drive through the neighboring town, the one just past a single traffic light, I notice the church bells fading away. They used to chime clearly, but now they sputter out, warped and uneven. It’s probably an electrical issue, but the sound is haunting, almost unrecognizable, like a memory trying to hold on for dear life.
The last bell I will hear at St. Bonaventure will be the final signal of the end of my undergraduate and graduate career, and it will somehow echo all of the bells I heard throughout my life as a student.
Here’s how I think about the bells. The bells in my life ultimately lead to endings. The bells fade away, they change, or they stop altogether. It’s the sound of an ending, but it’s also the calming sound before stepping into a new role.
I have sat at numerous desks in my life. I have sat at desks too small and uncomfortable, and at desks with yoga balls placed at them, thanks to teachers who put them there. I have sat at desks right in the front of the room, not by choice. What’s more is that I have sat at desks as far in the back of the room as I could get, and that was a choice I made.
I have picked out my favorite desks and spots over the years, and I now find that I progressively move towards the front of the room as much as I can. I have grown an appreciation for front-row desks. Partially, this is due to my failing eyesight over the years. The other part of me likes being up front so I can pay attention more, and feel more engaged and included.
I have watched so many of my favorite teachers and professors lead and guide with purpose. They have taught with compassion, have had the difficult conversations, and have gotten to know me and numerous other students. Watching the educators I look up to most lead with the utmost compassion makes me eager to step up as the next generation of teachers who do the same. Once, I was a student in high school and middle school who needed guidance. Now, it’s my turn to do what my teachers did for me.
This time of my life marks the slow transition to the desk at the very front of the room. I have received a sense of what it’s like to mentor behind the desk rather than in front of the desk through clinical block, student teaching, and substitute teaching, and for that, I am grateful. But I am ready for the entire authentic experience.
I will hear the new bells of my life; the ones that signal a certain group of people (students) in the hallway to scatter, like I once did, but I will stay put in place.
Along the way, I hope to stitch into my heart the former sentiments and encouragement from my former educators, because even if they don’t already know it, they were some of the first people to make me feel seen and appreciated.
The new bells of my life will no longer whisper sad endings to me; instead, they will ring sounds of a new beginning.