How do you say a good goodbye?
As we come to the end of the academic year, it's a time of goodbyes in our schools. And for DSL's, I've been wondering: is there a right or wrong way to do this?
Every July certain moments will plonk me into a philosophical mood, and one of these will be the point where I effectively say goodbye to children and families who I’ve sometimes been working with for over a decade. Here are a collection of reflections I’ve had on the art of the goodbye, from the silly to the deeply personal…
To get emotional or not to get emotional?
A good friend of mine - who also used to be the Year 6 teacher at our school - used to cry every year when he did the Leavers Assembly. Sometimes he cried a lot, sometimes he just about held it together, but it was always emotional. And because I grew up in a time and a place where men did not talk about their emotions - and in an extended family of emotionally stunted cavemen - if I’m completely honest I found it very strange watching him cry in front of a hall full of people. And yet - because I’m also a bit older and wiser than I once was - I still bizarrely envied my friend when he stood up in front of the whole school, and got himself into a bit of a mess.
I can rationalise for hours about the reasons why I keep my emotions at arms length in my job. Both regular readers will have cottoned onto the fact that I am generally at the more emotionally boundaried end of the spectrum. But I honestly do not think that being a ‘stiff upper lip’ kind of person is any better or worse than being a ‘heart on the sleeves’ type. As with anything, there are just upsides and downsides to either tendency - for you, and for the people you work with.
But when it came to my mate and his emotional farewells they always filled me with admiration. Whilst I really do care about my job and the families I work with, it would be disingenuous to say that I feel that level of connection that he clearly does (and that I know some other DSL’s out there do). It was definitely one of the things that made him such a brilliant teacher. I suspect that if he was a full-time DSL instead, that same quality would also have caused him quite a lot of distress. But for better or worse, whenever I saw him express that emotional connection, I always thought it was a bit, well, magic.
But it wasn’t just that he felt that level of emotion. It was that he was willing and able to show it to others (or maybe that he was unable to hide it from them?). You could argue that such outpourings from an adult could be confusing or overwhelming for a child about to take a big step away from primary school. But I honestly don’t think it ever worked out like that. Instead he was able to show those 30 children - who invariably liked and looked up to him - that they really mattered. That sort of authentic caring has genuine value for those children who might feel like they don’t really matter that much to other people. It was certainly more powerful than any words that I could ever robotically trot out, as I try to send those kids on their way.
That doesn’t mean that some people don’t sometimes swim too far into the emotional deep end for my liking though.
There’s a strange phenomenon that happens every now and then in our school. A class will - often without warning - manage to turn a standard end of year goodbye into an emotional typhoon. Suddenly there’s a whole lot of crying and hugging and crying again. The whole thing seems to feed off itself: the sadness seems to simultaneously swell and become contagious. Then the sentimentality is cranked up to 11 and before you know it the ‘hardest boy’ in the class has water streaming down his cheeks and is saying a heartfelt goodbye to ‘the best coat peg’ he’s ever had.
It all looks a bit - and I’m sorry if this sounds unsympathetic - performative. These incidents used to grate me, and I used to think it was irresponsible of teachers to let things get out of hand like this. Until last year, when my daughter and her friends spent a week planning how much they were going to cry on the last day of term. And suddenly I saw the whole thing from a different angle. So now I think it’s just a silly but largely harmless bit of growing up. Maybe.
So what about a good good-bye?
So, as I’ve acknowledged, I’m maybe not the best at big goodbyes. But that does not mean that they are not important. And whenever people are leaving our school I want them to have a good goodbye. But how do you do that?
I once heard an interview with Tom Hanks where he talked about how hard he found it learning how to deal with situations where fans would come up to him and want to talk to him. (By the way, next time you’re having a bad day, go and listen to Tom Hanks talk about anything. His voice is probably as close as a person can ever get to sounding like medicine).
Anyway, what he was describing was how difficult it is to know that a moment is very significant for the other person, and to want to give them what they want in that moment, but not really know how to do that. To worry about not living up to that moment for them. And this reminds me of why we can find farewells daunting. How do we find the right words, or give the parting the goodbye it deserves?
Something I’ve come to realise is that I can very rarely remember the actual words in any goodbye conversation. At best I can sometimes remember the feeling.
Tom Hanks said after a while he realised that the one thing everyone wanted from their interaction with him was for him to be friendly. And when you think of it like that it simplifies things. Be friendly. Maintain that warmth and you’ll be saying a good goodbye.
My own goodbye commitment
I do have one good-bye tradition that I am committed to. Every time a child in care (LAC child, whatever, I’m still waiting for a better label for that group of children please), leaves our school I write them a card.
These children are all very different in a million ways, but they have some common threads that mean that I feel ok always giving them cards (when I don’t do this for other vulnerable pupils who might like or benefit from one).
Those children have sadly usually experienced adults just not caring enough about them in some way (so it’s good for them to be told that they matter).
Those children have usually got complicated life stories that are hard to make sense of (so I imagine that a card that they can keep, that connects to a particular chapter of their life, might be helpful in the future).
Those children are an easily defined group (so I don’t have to spend lots of time thinking about whether this kid should get a card, but this one shouldn’t, and where to draw that line).
Those children are used to all sorts of forms, meetings, questions and interactions with adults that are, well, not normal for a kid (so I think they are less likely to find getting the cards weird).
So that’s why I always give children in care a card when they leave our school. And those cards always follow the same format:
A bit about my memories of them at our school.
A bit about what I’ve learned from them (and I have always learned something).
A bit about something I want them to remember, based on their personality (e.g. “Be brave and take on new challenges” or “Make your own decisions, and work out who to listen to and who to ignore”).
A bit about why I’m confident that they will do well in the future.
And that’s my format for my LAC leavers cards. Experts feel free to message me and tell me all the reasons why this is actually awful practice…
Say goodbye to the year
One thing I do like doing is saying goodbye to the year. I like putting my diary onto the pile with all the other old diaries. I like archiving all of the old myconcern profiles, and taking a few more of the old paper safeguarding files out of the cabinet. I even like doing my end of year safeguarding reports.
I have always thought of my life in terms of chapters, which usually last somewhere between 2 to 6 years. But at work, each academic year is definitely like a page. The long summer holidays, the annual turnover of staff and the carousel of pupils mean that the school years really are a series of little endings and fresh starts. So I encourage you to find a way to say goodbye to 2024-25 properly at some point. Go for a walk, talk it over or think it through, and then say goodbye to it. Whether it’s a fond send off to good thing well done, or an emotionally drained good riddance to a sack of…rubbish. It’s goodbye to that year, and onto the next. Unless…
The ultimate goodbye
Maybe you’re reading this and you’re about to say the ultimate goodbye, because you’re very soon going to change careers, or retire, and so you’re going to stop being a DSL.
If you’re one of those people: I salute you.
However you are feeling, you should feel proud. And if you’ve been doing this for any length of time then I promise you that you won’t get the Leavers Assembly you deserve. Because the Leavers Assembly you deserve would be filled with all of the children that you’ve ever supported. The ones you’ve listened to and the ones that have sworn at you. The ones that got dealt a hideous hand in life, and then got a very thin but real slice of luck in having you looking out for them.
And all of the parents and carers that you challenged, cajoled and cheered on would be there too.
And all of the colleagues that you offered a shoulder to, or laughed out loud with.
What the hell, you’d even have to find space for all of the social workers you argued with had professional dialogues with.
Basically, what I’m saying is: you’d need a bigger venue.
As a DSL you build a legacy. The difference you’ve made can be hard to find, hard to recognise and hard to appreciate. But it’s out there. So if you’re about to hang up your DSL boots for the last time then take a bow, and a standing ovation from me. On behalf of all of those people that I’ve never met - who you have definitely helped - let me say thank you, and wish you all the best in your next adventure.
The real ultimate goodbye
Obviously joining the circus, or spending your days watching Loose Women or playing golf, are not the real ultimate goodbye. Because the real ultimate goodbye is dying.
A few weeks back I wrote about the Reverend Richard Coles, and his wonderful ability to articulate the thoughts, feelings and experiences that he had after the death of his partner (read that piece here). As I said then, he made me think a lot about how I approach conversations with people who have recently lost loved ones.
Well two weeks ago my Grandad died. Now this hasn't been the saddest bereavement: he had just turned 100, had lost his wife - my Gran - 18 months ago and was ready to go himself. But it's been a bereavement all the same. And whether we actually get to say a final goodbye to our dying loved ones or not, when they do die we must say still perform this final farewell. Emotionally and psychologically we have no option, as we try to get our heads around the fact that they are now gone forever.
And personally I have found that what I really want to do at the moment is just talk about my Grandad. So now next time I'm talking to someone who's been bereaved, one question I will definitely ask is: "Do you want to tell me a bit about him/her?"
So to finish this week, here's a bit about my Grandad. It's got absolutely zilch all to do with being a DSL, but it’s my blog and no one can stop me. And if someone you care about has died recently- or a long time ago - I'd be happy to hear about them…
My Grandad was the blueprint I grew up with for being 'a man'. He had great strengths: he was strong, humble, curious and inventive. He had flaws: he was very stubborn, could be very traditional (by that I mean extremely politically incorrect) and he was one of the aforementioned emotional cavemen on my Dad’s side of the family. I have inherited some old fashioned things from him that still really matter to me: the importance of ‘keeping your word', a belief that integrity really matters, and an almost immediate dislike of anyone who is egotistical or flashy. He referred to decent people as 'salt of the Earth', and I hope that he thought I was one of those.
In photos from his youth he looked like a handsome chap, full of bravado and dash. When he was old he looked like a perfect grandad, and also a bit like Santa.
Whenever I asked him how he was he'd say "I've got my health and my family, so I'm a very lucky man". The older I get, the more I appreciate the wisdom of that sentiment.
In his later years he became more cuddly and affectionate. When he held my own children I could see the love there. One time when I was a kid he danced in his wellies and I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. He did life very very well and I was very lucky to have him in mine. Goodbye Tigs Grandad.
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