Letting Go

Some time ago, my apartment complex decided to install washers and dryers in all the units. As much as this came as a welcomed addition, it also meant that we (the tenants) had to clean out our outdoor patio storage closets. Thus 10 boxes of comic books found their way into the interior of our apartment, where they became permanent fixtures in our dining room*.

This weekend, my wife and I got tired of looking at the stacks of boxes and did some major reorganizing of our remaining storage space. We found loads of stuff in our interior closets that we decided we didn't need, and made continuous trips out to the nearest dumpster until we managed to make enough room to hide the comic book boxes behind closed doors. The expendable items included the four large framed photos of the band from the school where I was formerly employed.

Flash back to 1994... I'm a snot-nosed 24-year-old getting ready for my first teaching job. I was hired in October to replace a guy who had spontaneously decided to switch schools. I went in to shadow the out-going band teacher (lets call him Darryl) for a week. I don't need to tell you how incredibly scared I was. It didn't help that the students could instantly see the fear radiating from my being. Had it been the current-day me that was following this guy around, I would have been shocked and disgusted at the lame-duck attitude that he had adopted**. At the time, I was too busy trying to figure out how I would be able to manage all of that chaos in the following week.

On the Thursday before he left for good, Darryl finally cleaned out his (well... my) office. He removed the large framed band photos from the wall and put them in a box.

"Uh... don't those belong to the school?" I said.

"Those are mine," he said... not rudely, but definitely in a way that made it clear that he didn't care if I objected . "You'll get your own soon enough."

Four years later, I found myself cleaning out the very same office, and when I looked at the four band pictures hanging on the wall, I realized what Darryl meant. The pictures were the mementos of an era that was closing... The years of Mr. Maestro... There was no reason for them to remain. The guy who was replacing me would probably take them down anyway. I pulled them off the wall and put them in my car. In hindsight I realized that taking them was my way of handling the feeling that I was abandoning the students there.***

Today, as I was cleaning out the coat closet in my apartment, I found them. I had forgotten that they were there. It occurred to me that I was keeping them out of loyalty to a bunch of students who had long since graduated and found their own paths in life. College... jobs... marriages... kids.... I realized that even if I found a bigger place to live (a house... oh please God...) The chance of them being hung again were slim to none (probably none). They weren't honoring anyone by sitting in the back of a closet.

I picked them up and walked out to the dumpster. It felt like every eye in those photos watched me as I piled them on top of the other stuff that I had hauled down earlier. I took one last look, drew in a deep breath.... and walked away.

That was an hour ago. I'm trying to decide how guilty I should feel.**** Maybe I just don't want to be a Darryl. But the way I figure it... no one, including the current band director (who replaced the guy who replaced me) and the students whose faces sternly gaze out from behind the glass of those frames, would want those pictures. Besides, it's not like I'm trying to forget my time there.

It's okay. I'm going to let it be okay.


* I use the term "dining room" loosely. It's not a room in and of itself; it's more of a patch of carpet in between the kitchen and the wall that boasts obvious spot for a table. Also, we stopped eating there years ago. We have since pushed the "dining" table against the wall and use it as a makeshift desk. Point being: there's not a lot of room.

** At the same time, that's the kind of guy Darryl is. I heard that in less than a decade, he quit teaching band altogether. It's too much work.

*** Which makes me wonder why Darryl took his photos. It was pretty clear he wasn't torn about leaving that school. He couldn't get out the door fast enough.

**** Or if I should feel guilty about not feeling guilty.