On and Up, With a Longing Look Back

By Daniel de Vise
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, June 21, 2008

It was the first day of summer and the last day of school at Kate Waller Barrett Elementary in Arlington County. It was, in fact, the last last day of school for the Washington region. Beyond the drawn blinds of Donna Barnette's classroom, blue sky beckoned.

Inside sat 25 students who were about to become sixth-graders. But they weren't quite done with fifth grade.

Ahead lay 10 weeks of summer. That, certainly, posed no problem. But then these students, like thousands of others in the area, would scatter to different middle schools to begin lives as adolescents, a daunting world with complicated class schedules, imposing eighth-graders, raging hormones and maybe even intimidating teachers who assign more homework than anyone could fathom.

"These kids are listening to the clock ticking," Barnette said. "Because they don't want to leave."

For this class, there would be no more colored pencils from the principal on birthdays, no more class guinea pig, no more nap time, no more Skittles from the resource teacher, no more hugs from worshipful kindergartners. And no more Ms. B.

All this sank in toward the end of an award ceremony yesterday morning. The entire school was singing "Each of Us Is a Flower," a particularly unpopular chore for the fifth-grade boys. Out of nowhere, 11-year-old Carla Siangas broke down in tears. Carla never cried. Classmates watched in amazement. A few girls collapsed into each other's arms. Then some of the boys. Soon, the entire class was crying.

"I'm going to miss you," sobbed Floren Martinez, 11, smothering a first-grade girl who wandered over to offer consolation.

"You have to go. You have to," someone wailed.

"I've got a tissue box," cried Erika Balmores, 11, running through the crowd. "Anyone need it?"

Fiona Hickey, 11, stood against a wall, watching.

"We don't want to leave," she said. "I've been going here for six years. Are you kidding me? This is my life."

The end of school, which arrived in Arlington after rippling across the region over two weeks, is a joyous release and gateway to idle summer hours. But it can also be sorrowful, particularly for students who leave a school and will not return, passing from elementary to middle school or middle to high school. At such times, even a worldly child of 10 or 11 can feel the pang of something slipping away.

"I've been called Mom so many times this week," Barnette said. "Someone called me Dad. I need to wear more makeup."

All week, between giddy award ceremonies, cake parties and other year-end rites, Ms. B's students had been spontaneously bursting into tears and clinging ever more to their teacher, a former equities trader who runs her class with a procession of hand claps, inspirational chants and hugs.

Barnette, 46, a self-described "Peace Corps girl," entered teaching at 38. Her latest class reveals many facets of public education. There are 10 students with disabilities and 16 who speak English as a second language.

She and her students, as ever happens, have grown intertwined. Imar McKay, 10, is making honor roll for the first time. Bo Sampson, 11, a formidable chess player, is blossoming into a highly gifted child. Adam Michalak, 11 -- dyslexic, like his teacher -- is discovering self-confidence.

In the final days, the class was getting restless. To keep everyone on task, Barnette captured and recaptured their attention with relentless routines. "My management tool," she said, "is no down time."

On Wednesday, after an experiment to determine how many drops of water would fit on the face of a penny, Barnette quieted the class by counting backward from 10 and extinguishing the lights.

"Everybody -- deep breath in, deep breath out," she said.

The class filed into the hallway for lunch, lining up along a bank of lockers, one foot on the black tiles, one on the white tiles.

A sign in the lunchroom warned that there would be no more ice cream until fall.

At long, rectangular tables, talk turned to middle school.

"They say at Kenmore [Middle School] there's a 'beat-up day,' " said one boy, a fifth-grader from Ronna Weaver's classroom next door. "And there's like blood everywhere, so they had to close down the school to clean up the blood."

Back in class, two students napped beneath a rectangular table. Ms. B clipped the guinea pig's nails. Imar removed construction-paper "robust nouns" from the wall. One by one, children went to the dry-erase board to select a picture from a montage of images: Ms. B's class at the National Zoo, at a fifth-grade picnic and splashing about in the water on Field Day, earlier that week.

Wednesday night, Theresa Bratt, principal of Barrett Elementary, took the stage of the school auditorium. She had a cold and had been saving her voice. "It is now my pleasure," ( cough, cough) "to present the DAR citizenship award," she said.

Most of the boys had come in baggy suits, girls in evening gowns. Parents with digital cameras packed the rear of the chamber.

Five students read inspirational essays. One said he hoped to learn every language in the world. Another said he would probably become an astronaut.

Parents rushed forward to snap pictures as students lined up for their diplomas.

Afterward, in the leafy courtyard at the center of campus, Sarah Choudhury embraced her daughter Imar.

"I think she's nervous," the mother said.

"I'm not," Imar said.

"You're not? Well, I'm nervous for you, then."

On Thursday, students cleaned out desks, and the teacher's husband came to remove Virginia, the guinea pig. Imar asked to ring the class bell one last time, the one Ms. B used to quiet the room when other methods failed.

Lunch on the last day was turkey on a croissant, a pear slice and chocolate milk. Ms. B let her students eat in class. Then, for a laugh, she divided the class into groups and assigned them all-but-impossible tasks: calculate pi, find a cure for global hunger, invent a viable alternative fuel.

Someone handed out cups of orange soda and plates of potato chips. Students broke out chessboards and spools of colored twine, and a few began to watch a DVD of "The Parent Trap." A student from next door walked in and smeared shaving cream on Barnette's face. She wiped it off.

"I'm not going to give you your report cards, I'm not going to give you your diplomas, I'm not going to give you your stuff, until I see a group of kids who are ready for sixth grade," she said.

Students loaded their backpacks and filed into the hall. They lined up for one more hug, and then tapped down the stairs and away from Ms. B's classroom for the last time. Their teacher's voice echoed behind them: "You're such a good girl. . . . Oh, I'm so proud of you. . . . I won't cry if you won't cry."