Full Circle: Goodbye to the School-Leavers

Wednesday, May 3rd
[22:45]

Hungary invented a grand cure for senior-itis, the dreaded curse of apathy that haunts all those about to leave school behind. They ship ‘em out a month early, under the ruse of "school-leaving exams."

All year they’ve been preparing, only taking break for December’s Szalagavato shin-dig. Next Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday their high school career hangs in the balance. For the rest of us, it means no school. But this week, it means my very last classes with 12D, 12B, and 12A.

12D is the police class. I’m not sure how bright the future of Hungary’s finest is. I’ll miss just a couple of them, those that can speak English like Adam and Tamas. I won’t miss those like Lajos who don’t favor the English language or effort. I confiscated a gun from him in November. Then I found out it was okay for him to have it because he’s a police student.

(I shouldn’t write such mean thoughts…they all just showed up at my window to serenade me and say thanks. Full circle.)

I wrote a lot about 12B. Attempts at recycling and a girl named Georgia. They’re good kids, some good English speakers throw in the mix, too. And two sets of mis-matched eyes, my new favorite phenomenon.

For class today, I let them look at my photo album and yearbook, while those who wanted to practice for the oral exam spoke with me. In between two "individual short term interviews," I slipped Georgia a note. I congratulated her, wished her good luck, and told her about a story I once wrote. About her. I told her where she could find it online. The school doesn’t like it when I print things, otherwise I would have given her a hardcopy.

After my last afternoon class, I walked to the teachers' office. I found a meeting in progress. I don’t ever attend them, so I snuck in to get some work and then found a bench in the sun outside. I was busy reading when Georgia sat next to me.

"Thank you for the note. I read what you wrote," she said. She speaks hesitantly, carefully. I’m sure she wasn’t aware of the rhyme.

I closed my work and smiled at her. "Congratulations on finishing high school, Georgia. You are a clever girl and a nice person. I am proud of you."

She nodded. "It was interesting to read from a different…" she trailed off as she didn’t know the word.

"Perspective. I have a different perspective. My perspective is different because I am an outsider," I said, explaining the word, reiterating it in an attempt to pound the word in.

"Yes, a different perspective," she agreed. "I cried when I read it."

"I cried when I wrote it," I admitted. Then I held her hand in an aborted handshake. We thanked each other and she walked away. Full circle.

And 12A is Gitta’s class. Super Gitta. I haven’t written the name Gitta in a long time. I’d be nice to say that we simply lost touch after the holidays, but it was something more than that. We both became disenchanted with each other, I suppose. We stopped having private lessons, our hour-long weekly chats on life in general. She stopped participating in class, I stopped including her. Then she stopped coming all together.

If she weren’t a wonderful person with feelings of her own, Gitta might just be a symbol of my emotional failings this year. I’ve developed the habit of calling happiness fiction and accusing those who bring happiness to be simply figments of my imagination. Aaryn, of course, was real. And so too is Gitta.

This year, I must admit that I have oftentimes reverted to being a self-centered person, left too often to my own imagination and thoughts, my words and my interpretation of other’s words. My world revolves around the living of my stories and the telling of my stories. The rest of the world exists primarily as a supporting actor. I’m not so sure that’s healthy.

With only one delicate exception at the moment, every personal relationship I broach crumbles. I have too many feelings, or not enough, but never just the right amount. I’m easily convinced that people are amazing. I seem to have gifts that convince others into a similar analysis. But then it all falls apart. I shake my head and blame myself. So it goes.

But Gitta isn’t a symbol. She’s a girl. A woman, she would demand that I write. She’s the best English student at Eotvos Jozsef Kozepiskola. She’s a caring and special person.

And she’s my friend. She was the first person, and for a long time the only person, who was interested in me. Who asked me questions. Who inspired a Hungarian happiness here in Heves. I probably would have asked to be transferred somewhere across Hungary without her.

She’s leaving in one week, and I’m leaving in five, so we called a truce by text message. I owed her the scarf and gloves that she lent me in December after all, and she said she had something for me. She came to class and we all played Family Feud.

I had her sign my yearbook afterwards, a foreign concept here. After she closed it, I handed back the borrowed winterwear in a bag. I felt guilty. Just as surely as I had used the gloves and scarf to keep my hands and neck warm during the cold Hungarian winter, I had used Gitta to keep my heart and soul warm in the cold Hungarian loneliness when I first got here.

She handed me a long cardboard tube. The Hungarian movie poster for "Wedding Crashers" inside will be one of the prized souvenirs I will take home with me. We had gone to see it together in December. I had to buy four tickets because we were the only people in the theatre.

I peeked into the yearbook after I said goodbye and walked out of their classroom for the last time. I know Gitta’s handwriting. "Your happy smile warms the world." I smiled at the reminder of my charge. Full circle.

And tonight, they serenade. All the seniors. They walked around town, as a class, singing outside of the houses of their teachers. 12B came first. Erika and Ildiko, Georgia and Norbi, and the rest. They sang. I popped two bottles of champagne in their honor. I forgot to suck the first one and half of it is on my floor now. I played a Hungarian song on my CD player for them. Loosely translated, the chorus is "right here, right now, I’m at home."

12D made me go outside, an hour later, in flip-flops. Lajos thanked me and said it was a good year. Even the kids I don’t teach talked to me in German. I felt bad that I had given all my champagne to the first group, so I handed out small American flags. They were a hit.

And now we wait for 12A. Erika, my neighbor, and I. They will come late, Erika is their form teacher and their last stop. She’s been with them for 6 years. I’m simply a visitor. Saturday they’ll walk across a graduation stage, on to better and brighter things.

I’m not sure if Gitta will be among the carolers. She lives in a different village. But if she does, a bottle of wine will be waiting for her. She gave it to me in November, destined for a dinner and conversation that simply never happened. Not because of any faults on her part, just the craziness of my mind.

Until then, we wait. For everything to come full circle.

(Either 12A came really late, after I had fallen asleep with Poisonwood Bible open across my chest, or they didn't come at all...)