You cannot simply convocate in Mordor


So, teacher’s college is weird for a number of reasons.

But the one to talk about now is this: it has a lot of ending points. You finish your second practicum: you feel pretty done, at least with the whole in-faculty part of the program. And then you have a big party with your class to celebrate being done, and then you have another that night. And then you have an internship, and that finishes, and you feel done again. And then you have a big lunch with your classmates to celebrate being done. And then you see each other again two weeks later at convocation to ceremonialize being done. It’s like Return of the King, in a way: there are great number of natural ending points, and each begins to feel exhausting once you realize you’re still not really done, because hey: we have a bunch of footage of hobbits hugging, so here we go again (roil in that strained metaphor, will you).

Add to that the fact that I’m still regularly visiting my kids, and it’s hard to feel as though the program has really ended. Maybe it’s the fact that B.Ed. programs are only a single year: after slogging through endless months of undergrad, finishing one semester and knowing that another loomed just aroud the corner, a single-year degree seems ludicrous. And suspicious. I keep expecting my professors to dart out from the shadows and announce to the lot of us that there’s another placement or, god forbid, lesson plan assignment to complete.

But I have my degree in hand. I will be certified by the OCT (the vague and kind of obnoxious certification organization in Ontario that charges you several hundred dollars so that you can get a magazine and a blue membership card (like Costco?)) imminently. Some of my kids are graduating, or “graduating” (hilariously, one of my associate teachers has been barred from holding a Kindergarten graduation: at most it can only be called a celebration). I am really, actually, verifiably done.

And that’s a little terrifying. I’ve been in school all the way back to where infantile amnesia clouds up my memory. And now it’s done. The road in front of me is not easily visible, carved out in applications and transcripts and huge, horrifying piles of essays. I’m not a student anymore. Huh.

I think maybe I’ll start looking into master’s programs.

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