I hope everyone is back into the rhythm after the two-week break and is ready to tackle the final stretch of the school year. Upon returning from Taiwan where I spent a spring break full of joyful and emotional reunions, I noticed that some little elves had been at work at 111 dotting each piece of furniture with a sticker—green for what gets moved to the new building, yellow for what stays, and red for what won’t make the short trip and will be discarded or donated.
I remember the first time a school paid for relocation as part of my contract, allowing me to take anything I wanted with me—more than my usual backpack for once. I took everything I could without a second thought: electrical appliances with incompatible voltage, clothes I would never wear, and even sugar cubes simply because they were in a box I wanted to keep.
In my container from Taipei to New York, I unknowingly packed the sounds of the city (the hum of scooters, the music signaling the arrival of the subway, the jingle when the doors open at 7-11), the smells (the streets after a storm, the essential oils the elderly dose themselves in when heading out for an early morning walk in the mountains, the food stalls and the market stands). And then, of course, the people, those I’ve stayed in touch with, those I hadn’t heard from in a while, those who I barely knew but whose faces take me back to a time, a place that I thought I had forgotten. I packed it all into my luggage when I left Taiwan, and to a certain extent, it is strange to find everything the same as when I left it, while those who stayed feel everything has changed.
It goes without saying that at The École we put cosiderable thought into organizing our move—let’s call it collective intelligence. For months now, we’ve been drawing up meticulous lists of what will come with us and what will stay behind. These are practical choices and decisions, but over the past few days, I’ve found it hard to ignore their symbolic value. It is, after all, the time of year when families let us know that they’re leaving New York, while others prepare to arrive. New families will come with their own memories, expectations, and impressions of The École. The families who are leaving will draw up a mental list of what they’ll miss the most: a teacher, a classmate or a friend, a show, a picnic, or a gathering. Those who stay will act as the bridge connecting the two: missing those who leave and welcoming those who arrive. The school will change almost imperceptibly.
I spent ten days metaphorically unpacking boxes and diving into the past. I reemerged convinced that for all our green stickers, we’ll be taking more than just furniture with us to 115. We’ll be bringing the whole spirit of The École: the stories we share, the legends that were created, the peals of laughter with friends and colleagues, and the pure energy that fills the building the moment the children walk in every morning. It’s people who make a school, and—let there be no doubt—the people of The École are the type we will never forget and that we will carry with us wherever we go.
Wishing you all an excellent weekend!
P.S. Thanks to Thomas, Justine, and Josephine’s dad, who dropped by my office yesterday to pick up a novel he had lent me. The conversation we had inspired this letter.