Ex-Elmhurst D205 Teacher Explains Early Retirement In Memoir

David Venetucci, a retired teacher from Elmhurst School District 205, is writing a memoir. Here is the part about why he decided to retire early:

After high school administrators “reassigned” my broadcast journalism and TV production classes without justification in 2005, then signaled their intention to eliminate the school’s long-standing SPEECH graduation requirement, I knew that I needed to—as the phrase goes—get out of Dodge as soon as possible. Ironically, my years of teaching experience made switching school districts untenable at this point in my career, so my only viable professional move in a community unit school district composed of just one high school was to move to one of the district’s three middle schools.

I considered my options and decided that the middle school on the north side of town was my best choice as I had found teaching at the high school that the more ‘rough-around the-edges’ kids emanating from that less socially affluent middle school to be teenagers who were likable and acted less entitled. As described in a previous memoir piece, I made the requisite contacts within the school district and learned that a position was becoming available at this particular middle school for the following school year teaching 8th grade English and social studies. I pursued the opportunity and landed the internal transfer. While apprehensive about teaching younger students, I immediately liked the school’s current principal and thought it a doable professional venture. In hindsight, I was both right and wrong about that assessment. I’ll explain.
My first year teaching middle school in 2007 was challenging. I recall vividly a day before the official start of that first school year when the new 6th-grade students got to run through their schedules in an abbreviated fashion without the pressures of a regular school day. As a new 8th-grade teacher, several “upperclassmen” served as “ambassadors” in the hallway near my new classroom during this simulated school day. I recall asking these 8th graders about the very young kids who seemed to be wandering in the hallway.

“Those are the new 6th graders,” my student ambassadors remarked with a knowing snicker.

I knew at that point I was—as the legendary film saying goes—no longer in Kansas. After 20-plus years teaching high schoolers, the realization hit hard that I was staring at a uniquely distinct challenge of teaching much younger students. I was right.

Thanks to the support of a caring and competent principal, that first year went fairly well, although not always smoothly. I learned right away that many of the edgy, sometimes unconventional approaches I had cultivated as a high school educator didn’t cut the maturity mustard with younger kids. No more sharing of the “Shit List” and other more unorthodox teaching techniques that I had thrived on when teaching older, more mature adolescents. That was fine as long as I had the support of my boss in difficult situations, which inevitably materialize for every educator, especially those whose teaching style is unconventional, as was mine for the entirety of my career. I had one exceptionally challenging situation that first school year with a constantly disruptive 8th grader in one of my English classes. My principal eventually agreed to move the student out of my class and into an “independent learning” environment, a drastic move I learned was unheard of at the middle school level. I was grateful for the principal’s steadfast support during this challenging transition year. That invaluable administrative support, however, would soon evaporate.

All was good until late that first school year when I learned that the principal who had hired and supported me had decided to leave public education to work at a non-profit organization. Oh shit, I remember thinking at the time. I was right to be concerned. And so began, to my professional chagrin, a multi-year revolving door of multiple semi-competent to mostly incompetent building principals at this middle school. Equally alarmed by the situation were my teaching colleagues, who realized that the education of multitudes of students was suffering due to poor school leadership.

After several mind-numbing stints serving on various school committees, I quickly reached the point where I respectfully refused to volunteer for any school “advisory panels.” I had learned that my participation on such committees was a waste of valuable time as administrative decisions—be they at the building or district level—had usually already been made regarding the proposed educational topic-du-jour.

‘Look here,’ the administration would invariably proclaim disingenuously to the school community. ‘We’ve had this illustrious group of dedicated teachers discuss at nauseam this crucially important instructional issue at length’…before completely ignoring their informed recommendations and doing exactly what we, the administration, intended to do all along. WTF!?!? Involvement in these so-called “school improvement” efforts was usually nothing more than a ridiculous dog-n-pony show, and we all knew it. What a charade. Of course, this non-conforming stance on my part didn’t endear me with the administration as a “team player,” and when it came time for formal teacher evaluations, respectfully refusing to play these silly games ultimately became a factor that led to my early retirement from teaching several school years hence. But more about that in a bit.

Whether working at the high school or middle school, my professional approach when interacting with administrators was always straightforward: I’m a good teacher, and I know what I’m doing, so—if you don’t mind—please leave me alone. When I need help, I’ll ask for it. When I ask for assistance, I expect administrative support, especially when dealing with thorny issues involving students and parents. Yes, I’m willing to take my professional lumps when, as a fallible human being, I invariably screw up something somewhere in the complex process of being an educator, usually as the result of some error of commission (versus omission). So, when that happens, go ahead and take me out to the proverbial woodshed—in private—when I mess up, but for gosh’s sake, please support me—especially in public settings —when endeavoring to work with students and parents in good faith. In return, I pledge to avoid making the same professional mistake twice. Pinky swear.

That’s it. Pretty reasonable, right? Unfortunately, that’s not how it usually works in public education. Take this simple philosophy, turn it on its head and that’s what my colleagues and I typically encountered working with most building administrators when plying my trade at the high school and middle school. Instead of allowing the most competent and innovative teachers the professional freedom to do their thing without undue scrutiny, the usual protocol was for school leaders to harass these creative and unconventional teachers endlessly and then offer little, if any, support when these skilled educators requested assistance and needed it most. In a warped way, this approach made sense from an administrative perspective where doing right by students wasn’t always the primary motivation for decision-making. After all, every time a highly paid, veteran teacher is unceremoniously pushed out the door, the school district could hire a new teacher at a substantially lower salary who was either right out of college or a career changer. These newbie educators would, of course, be grateful for the job and act in a professionally subservient, compliant manner in all aspects of their work.

One of the most noteworthy administrative failures during my near decade as a middle school teacher was a principal who admittedly didn’t like loud noise, chaos, or kids. During a school-wide reading initiative, the building librarian asked building staff to display on the outside of their classroom door or office a note indicating “what you’re currently reading” as a way to role model to students the importance of life-long literacy. This particularly incompetent building leader took the instructions quite literally by posting a note saying, “I’m reading emails.” Oh my goodness. Sadly, it took several school years of concerted effort from a small contingent of courageous teachers—myself included—and the teacher’s union to get district administrators to decide this quirky administrator didn’t have the skill set necessary to run a middle school effectively. Yikes.

For better or worse, the revolving door of school principals came to an end more than a decade ago with the hiring of an administrator who, as of this writing, still helms the educational ship at the middle school where I concluded my almost three-decades-long teaching career. As you will learn, this administrator’s arrival coincides with my abrupt, unexpected decision to request early retirement. And that leads me to a more detailed account of my final year in teaching. Come along, and I’ll explain.

After near-constant professional battles with the principal who thought “reading emails” modeled literacy for the school community, I was emotionally and mentally exhausted. Being a classroom teacher is difficult enough, but repeatedly butting heads with meddling and often incompetent bosses tends to push educators over the edge.

Again, it’s my informed contention that some school districts purposefully enable this type of school dysfunction as a way to maintain tight control of what goes on in the classroom and to reduce overall operating costs related to personnel. I can’t prove this theory of public school district malfeasance, but the anecdotal evidence to support this “conspiracy” theory is abundant from my years in the educational trenches. Just ask any veteran or retired teacher about this premise. If honest, they’ll likely confirm my hypothesis to some degree in whatever public school district they’re employed.

So yes, I was feeling more than a tad “burnt out” when the school district hired yet another new principal early in the second decade of the 21st century to run the middle school where I was teaching 7th and 8th grade English and social studies. Nonetheless, I recall at the time being hopeful—even optimistic—that this newly hired principal would finally put the brakes on the revolving door of unsuccessful building administrators at this school. I would wager that nearly all of my teaching colleagues felt similarly. Everyone was eager to see how things went, and, for a time, there was genuine reason for professional cheer. But that upbeat feeling soon changed, at least for me.

The first red flag was learning that the new principal reportedly had no classroom teaching experience whatsoever. Instead, according to the school grapevine, district administrators hired this educator based on the candidate’s previous experience as a social worker in a state-run correctional facility. This was disconcerting to me because, besides the challenging task of running the school building on a day-to-day basis, a middle school principal is considered the school’s instructional leader, a person tasked with the crucial job of supervising and evaluating classroom teachers. Along with my colleagues, I asked myself, ‘How is a former social worker who reportedly worked in some sort of prison qualified to evaluate teachers?’ Also alarming was learning from a credible source that the new principal had not been the school district’s first choice for the position. The head gig at my school reportedly had been offered to a different, reportedly more qualified candidate who ended up declining the position, having already accepted an administrative post in a different school district. Hmmm, also not good, I said to myself. Nonetheless, again, I was still hopeful, although not nearly as optimistic as I had been previously about where this all might be heading.

All seemed ok-fine working under this new administrator until I encountered difficulties working with several challenging students, instances where my philosophy of ‘please leave me alone unless I ask for help’ came into play. I soon discovered that I would receive only tepid assistance when I requested administrative support in managing these difficult situations that typically involved enabling parents. It was a frustrating experience so late in my career and my educational “spidey senses” had now become fully activated, and not in a good way.

As a topical aside related to classroom discipline, here’s something to consider. Early in my teaching career, I learned about the “Bunsen burner” analogy in a graduate class from a veteran teacher who has long since retired from the profession. This common-sense yet elegant theory provides educators with a psychologically-based framework to effectively manage student misbehavior. It’s a simple and effective concept, yet few educators know the theory exists, much less utilize it effectively. Even fewer public school administrators appear to realize the theory exists, and if they do, most patently refuse to support excellent teachers who employ the technique as part of their classroom bag-o-tricks. Before I share how the Bunsen burner technique works, here’s some context to understand why it’s so darn effective when employed properly.

Depending on the circumstances, anywhere between 80 to 90 percent of students in a given classroom will never misbehave…ever. These are the “good” kids who have learned it’s in their best interests to follow the rules, even if they don’t always agree with said rules. These are the kids that—by nature or nurture—possess good executive functioning skills. These are the students who can (mostly) sit still and moderate their behavior even during boring class activities. These are students who never cause teachers any problems. That’s important because most teachers could never survive in the profession without a healthy number of these well-behaved students in their classes at any grade level.

From there, we have a group of kids—generally between 5 to 20 percent—who will test the limits (and patience) of their teachers and, if permitted, can cause moderate to severe classroom disruption. These are kids whose behavior a teacher must firmly attend to early on in the school year before disruptive patterns develop that threaten to turn the classroom environment from safe and productive to toxic and dysfunctional.

Lastly, we have a much smaller percentage of students—maybe 1-5 percent, depending on various factors—with various special needs that tend to create the most classroom chaos. Some of these students genuinely can’t control their behavior and belong in a special education setting with specially trained educators with the skills to best manage these types of disruptive behaviors. My point here is that it’s imperative not to allow chronically disruptive kids to negatively impact the educational experience for the majority of students who are willing to follow the rules. Others in this small group of frequently disruptive kids are what I term the “budding sociopaths.” These are, by and large, troubled kids with various emotional and/or cognitive issues who can, with the proper external motivation, learn to control their behavior in the classroom. Motivating these kids to control their adolescent impulses, however, usually requires significant effort and skill from teachers and building administrators. The key, again, is to manage these difficult kids and keep their inappropriate classroom conduct from polluting the educational environment. More easily written than done, I get it. All this stuff is wildly controversial in the educational world and easy fodder for a separate essay, if not a doctoral thesis. But ah, I digress. What about the “Bunsen burner” theory, you ask? I’m getting there.

Invented by 19th-century German chemist Robert Bunsen, the “Bunsen burner” has for years been a ubiquitous piece of equipment in science labs worldwide. Most of us have had experience using Bunsen burners in science class dating back as far as grade school. Using a Bunsen burner is straightforward: open a valve to turn on the gas flow to the burner, ignite the gas with some form of sparking device, and then adjust the burner’s flame, as desired, for the scientific experiment at hand.

We all have childhood memories of accidentally touching a hot stove. One painful encounter was usually enough to become wary of this potentially dangerous kitchen appliance. Now imagine, if you will, the Bunsen burner’s flame as analogous to the teacher’s response to a student’s classroom misbehavior. To continue this extended analogy, the teacher must control the intensity of the burner’s (disciplinary) flame to encourage the student to self-extinguish undesirable conduct. As such, the teacher employs a low burner flame (consequence) to curb minor inappropriate conduct with increasing levels of flame to tame more serious or repetitive disruptive behavior. Get the idea? I thought so, but there’s more to understand and fully appreciate this classroom management theory.

No one likes the sensation of being burned, and no competent teacher wants to harm students, so the key to utilizing the Bunsen burner technique effectively is to start a misbehaving student with a low level of consequence discomfort—perhaps in the form of a stern look—and gradually escalate the discomforting consequences until the student chooses to curtail the misbehavior and behave appropriately. Escalating consequences include multiple interventions such as private and/or public verbal reprimand (i.e., “I’ll see you after class…”), parent contact, mandatory parent conferences, various types of restitution, including school-related community service, letters of apology, or in-school detention. In the most serious instances and/or where all previous interventions have failed, out-of-school suspension, removal from the classroom, and/or law enforcement involvement may be necessary to protect the classroom’s sanctity.

Most importantly, the incremental escalation of disciplinary consequences must match the severity and frequency of the misbehavior until the student decides the benefits of acting like a hooligan during class (peer attention-seeking, etc) aren’t worth enduring the discomfort that results directly from the escalating consequences. Skillfully and thoughtfully utilized, the Bunsen burner approach to classroom discipline works marvelously. An ironic, potential problem with this approach involves classroom teachers who are—for whatever reasons— unable to enforce consistent, appropriate consequences for student misconduct. For example, the system won’t work when a teacher employs a high-burner flame consequence for what is a low-level misdeed or when a teacher employs a low-flame consequence for conduct that’s seriously disruptive.

The other conundrum involves administrative support. When using this classroom management framework, a teacher is invariably going to have to enlist building administrators to incrementally raise the disciplinary flame required to earn compliance from highly disruptive students. My years of classroom experience demonstrate that few administrators have the willingness or professional spine to back a teacher once the escalating consequences upset the student’s parents and when parents attempt to intervene—inappropriately in most instances—to shield their progeny from the logical consequences of their inappropriate school behavior. Teachers often lament the highly entitled, enabling parents living in higher socio-economic school districts who seemingly have their private attornies on speed dial to run legal interference anytime their kid runs afoul of school authorities. My experience is that memes like this one aren’t much divorced from the reality many public school teachers face, especially in affluent communities—including the one where I taught for nearly three decades —where, sadly, a worrisome percentage of affluent parents fail to instill in their progeny any true sense of personal accountability.

So, that’s my primer, a mini-sermon, perhaps, on school discipline. Feel free to apply the Bunsen burner analogy as you see fit with your kids or others, as appropriate. Robert Bunsen would be thrilled.

One more topical aside before we head back to the story of my final year of teaching. While teachers in most public school districts are professionally obligated to inform parents when students demonstrate poor academic performance or inappropriate classroom behavior, I made it a practice to regularly send home positive notices to parents based on a student’s exceptional achievement, improved academic effort, or outstanding classroom contributions. I used the same criteria to justify positive phone calls home to parents. In fact, I even allowed my students up to two (2) times per semester to request that I “phone home" with positive news. It was great school PR, and my students loved it. So did their parents.

To land this coveted perk, students had to submit a written request, including a formal justification, and attach a copy of a document called a “Grade Sheet” that I provided to all students designed to self-monitor their academic performance throughout the school year. Some students invariably would ask me to call home or send a positive “Special Report” but —for various reasons—hadn’t made the effort to keep track of their grades. My response was always the same. “I’ll be happy to call home or send a positive report once you properly update your Grade Sheet. Would you like some assistance updating that Grade Sheet?”

One of the most consistently amusing experiences when making positive phone calls occurred when a parent realized their kid’s teacher was on the other end of the phone call. Perhaps from their own school experiences, most parents assumed I was calling with “bad news” and often interrupted me with something to the effect of, “I knew that kid wasn’t telling me the truth about this class. So what has (he/she) done now?” At this point, I would cheerfully chime in with, “Actually, (insert parent’s name), I’m calling with positive news to share about your son/daughter.” At this point, I’d hear the phone clatter to the floor or the parent’s body fall to the floor with a dull thud from abject shock. Just kidding. It was never that dramatic but always a pleasure to share unexpected positive news with parents about student classroom performance—even if the teen had requested it by taking appropriate advantage of an innovative educational opportunity.

Thanks for the topical indulgence. Now back to the story.

My accumulated professional frustrations motivated me during the school year before my retirement to pursue transferring to a different middle school in the same district. I was optimistic the school district would honor my transfer request until the newest principal at the middle school where I taught informed me that my request had been denied.

“We want you teaching here, Dave,” was the milk toast explanation I received. This nebulous feedback was likely supposed to serve as a professional compliment, but I was dubious about the sincerity behind this administrative edict. In hindsight, that skepticism was justified.

Soon enough, things started to get weird with my professional evaluations at the middle school. I’d been through this professional mishegos early in my career when teaching high school in another school district. In that instance, I received exemplary evaluations from building administrators during my first year of teaching while serving as the school’s yearbook adviser and teaching 12th-grade British literature. The high school’s previous yearbook adviser—a veteran English teacher who later became department chairperson—resigned abruptly from the yearbook gig the previous year after the school district—in their infinite wisdom and desire to cut costs—decided to combine the yearbook class with senior-year English. So, in my first year of teaching, I had the unenviable task of trying to gain the loyalty of high school seniors pissed off because their beloved yearbook adviser had quit. These students were nearly as upset that they had to produce a yearbook while studying British literature. Yes, I had walked into the educational equivalent of a hornet’s nest. It was a brutal first year for me as a new teacher. Early on that school year, I remember thinking that I might survive if I could make it to Halloween. I did make it to All Hallows Day, of course, but it seemed dire most days that first autumn in the classroom, and my internal mood reflected the stress I was experiencing.

Year-long conflicts with one disruptive student in that yearbook class—and that student’s enabling parents—unfairly impacted professional evaluations I received during my second year at that high school, ultimately leading administrators to not renew my teaching contract for a third year, the year I would have received job protections legally afforded by state-mandated tenure. It was an ironic and frustrating situation because my second year teaching at this particular high school was arguably one of the best in my career, as I had recruited the yearbook staff directly from my junior-year English classes. From this disappointing yet eye-opening experience, I learned that administrators can use the formal evaluation system in nefarious ways when they desire to get rid of a teacher who isn’t—shall we say—what they consider a “team player.” With that in mind, let’s head back to the saga of my final year in teaching.

With teacher union support, I had already battled the previous middle school principal (the one who disliked noise, chaos, and kids) about evaluations I considered flawed and unfair. I prevailed in those protracted evaluation wars and the administration had to redo portions of my evaluations to more accurately reflect the extent of my instructional skills and contributions to the school outside of my classroom. At the same time, those intense, professional conflicts took a toll on my psyche and energy. I wasn’t getting any younger and intuitively knew I’d be hesitant to wage war over my evaluations again so late in my career. Perhaps the administration also realized this reality and knew I was unlikely to challenge another unfair evaluation. My days as a crusading educational rabble-rouser were about to come to an end, but I didn’t know that yet, at least with any certainty.

In what was to become my final year of teaching, it became clear in meetings with the newest principal that I would have to challenge my latest evaluation to avoid beginning a process called “remediation.” This is the formal process that public school administrators utilize with tenured teachers to facilitate changes in professional behavior. Failure to adhere to required remediation requirements can result in a tenured teacher losing his/her job. Remediation is serious business and a process I had never been subjected to in my nearly three decades as a classroom teacher.

Based on an evaluation I believed was misleading and inaccurate, I would have to participate in a formal remediation process the following school year that would require me to change aspects of how I taught my classes and how I ran my classroom, in addition to altering my approach to mandated professional development activities. I felt like I was being targeted and harassed for not being a “team player” by a middle school administrator who, reportedly, never taught in a public school classroom.

I attempted to circumvent the remediation recommendation by pointing out, accurately that the evaluation instrument the school district was utilizing currently to evaluate tenured teachers was never designed as a tool to formally evaluate teachers. Moreover, Charlotte Danielson, the educational researcher who developed this evaluative framework, had spoken publicly that this evaluative metric was designed for professional development purposes only and was not to be used as a formal, high-stakes evaluation tool for teachers. Alas, my direct school supervisor dismissed these articulated concerns stating something about every teacher being evaluated using the same criteria and that the teacher’s union hadn’t opposed the adoption of this evaluation tool. Ok-fine.

I realized in late winter of that school year that I had to reconsider my professional options. The administration wasn’t going to allow me a fresh start by transferring to a different middle school in the district, and moving back to the high school was out of the question for reasons detailed in a previous memoir piece. At this point in my career, I wasn’t willing to tuck my tail between my legs and cow-tow to administrative edicts contrary to my educational philosophy and an instructional approach I knew was in the best interests of my middle school students. At the same time, I was exhausted from many years of contentious battles with administrators over evaluations, curriculum issues, student discipline, and the like.

My only other option—one that I was initially reluctant to consider—was applying for early retirement. I had turned 55 that calendar year, and according to state law, I was now eligible to retire with partial retirement benefits. With justifiable apprehension, I began to research the viability of this nuclear option, much to the chagrin of my then-wife, a veteran elementary school teacher and mother of my two kids. Her message was straightforward: no way does a teacher leave pension money on the table by retiring early, no friggin’ way. Burned out and frustrated with my professional situation, I wasn’t so sure about that approach and continued my early retirement due diligence.

I contacted the Springfield-based Teacher Retirement Service (TRS) and spoke with several helpful representatives to determine the amount of my teacher pension should I elect to retire early. It was sobering to learn the extent of the financial penalty I would incur by retiring short of the 34 years required to earn full pension benefits. I don’t think I even shared this information with my then-wife, at least not immediately. Next, I had a conversation with my principal exploring the possibility of my early retirement. Not surprisingly, this administrator was supportive of the idea. I can’t imagine why.

Another consideration was what to do about the “sick days” I had accumulated over the years, some of which, by law, couldn’t be applied toward calculating my retirement benefits. I was always loath to miss school because of the hassle of creating lesson plans for a sub and the student behavior problems that would inevitably occur on days when I was away, despite our classroom “Social Guidelines” edict to treat subs with respect and courtesy. Truth be told, mischievous students penned many apology letters to substitute teachers following my school absences over the years. The bottom line is that I seldom missed school and, as a result, had a shit-ton of sick days banked. But what to do with these excess sick days? I learned the school district wouldn’t reimburse me for these extra sick days and, for reasons never explained, I couldn’t donate them to fellow teachers would would benefit from having access to these extra paid professional days. I was in a quandary. I sure as heck wasn’t going to let these valuable sick days die on the vine if I decided to take early retirement, so I developed a strategy unique to this moment in my life and career.

At the same time that I was wrestling with the early retirement decision; my family was in the midst of serious circumstances involving my son, then age 19. My kid had been abusing alcohol and drugs since his early teen years and, as a result, completed only a portion of his freshman year of high school before his mom and I reluctantly sent him out of state to an adolescent mental health facility for what we deemed necessary in-patient treatment. My son’s story is a long, sad tale of drug abuse, relapse, and recovery that tragically ended with his death from an accidental opioid overdose in November 2018 at the age of 23. I’m planning to write more about my son in a subsequent memoir piece. It won’t be an easy tale to share, but share it I will, someday, in my son’s honor.

It will come as no shock to learn that my son’s substance abuse issues created in me a significant amount of stress and anxiety, so much so that my doctor, after learning I was contemplating early retirement, agreed to sign a medical leave request on my behalf. Depending on the timing, I calculated that I had enough leftover sick days to take early retirement in the spring of that year and still receive my full salary for the rest of the school year. This seemingly far-fetched retirement plan could work, I remember thinking at the time. But other issues still needed to be sorted out before I could make this momentous personal decision.

Another interesting, albeit ultimately disappointing aspect of piecing together this early retirement jigsaw puzzle involved a program called “Five Plus Five.” A state law enacted in 1983, the 5+5 program afforded teachers who were retiring early without full pension benefits to essentially buy back up to five (5) years of service with a lump sum cash payment to be matched by a mandatory one-time cash payment from the retiring teacher’s school district. The idea was to provide veteran teachers with an equitable method to maximize their yearly retirement benefits despite not having the requisite number of years of teaching to qualify for full pension benefits. School districts liked the program because it motivated older teachers with higher salaries to leave teaching earlier than planned, replacing these veteran educators with new college graduates or adult career-changers at much lower annual salaries. The 5+5 program seemed to work just fine for several decades…until state legislators voted in 2014 to modify the program making school district participation optional, not mandatory. Unfortunately, I was contemplating early retirement the same school year that the 5+5 program became optional. So, once again, Mr. V became the guinea pig for an untested school district, although this case was not nearly as controversial and contentious as the “Shit List” fiasco aptly described in another memoir piece.

It wasn’t easy, but I was able to cobble together the funding necessary for my lump sum contribution to make the 5+5 option a reality. I awaited the school district’s decision with a sense of hopefulness but an awareness that district administrators—for the first time in decades—were no longer obligated to participate in the program. You guessed it. Always looking for ways to save money versus doing the right thing by long-time employees, the school district declined my request for complimentary 5+5 program funding. The only saving grace was knowing that future early retirees from the school district would now know the 5+5 option was no longer viable…unless, of course, school district administrators were to play personnel favorites and decide subsequent teacher 5+5 requests on an individual, case-by-case basis. I’m curious to learn how administrators have adjudicated subsequent 5+5 requests since my 2014 retirement.

After I had finally gathered all the necessary data needed to make my decision, I carefully considered the pros and cons of taking early retirement, did some budgetary calculations, winced visibly, and then conducted considerable soul-searching before deciding to go for it. My wife wasn’t pleased with my decision, but I had made my choice balancing concerns for my mental health and overall well-being with important financial considerations. My decision was now made, and it was time to implement this carefully crafted plan and move on with my life, a life away from the classroom.

I subsequently secured the doctor’s note approving my leave request and notified the school district of my intent to take early retirement. I suspect my building principal was quietly ecstatic at the news. When my early retirement request received district administrative approval a few weeks later that spring, I had only a few school days remaining before exiting my classroom. The plan was for a young teacher to take over my classes for the remainder of the school year. This teacher had previously substitute taught in the building and had worked with my students, so it seemed like a good fit. The school district’s spring break was still several weeks away, and I had the unenviable job of sharing this sobering news with my students, which I did as earnestly and professionally as possible. Some students wept, some sat in disbelief, while I suspect others rejoiced quietly after learning of my imminent departure.

“Will you be able to attend our graduation?” several 8th graders asked sheepishly. “Yes,” I replied. “I’ll be there.” And I was. I’m grateful the administration allowed me the opportunity to see my students one last time at the graduation ceremony in May of that year. It was a somewhat awkward, but affirming experience. I’m glad I attended.

Before attending that 8th-grade graduation ceremony, however, I used my unexpected free time that spring to go skiing in Colorado (all by my lonesome), in addition to completing several diving classes required to achieve scuba instructor certification. I kept myself busy that spring, but it felt strange every school day knowing that I was playing a form of sanctioned professional hooky while my colleagues were laboring away at the middle school gulag. Nonetheless, I enjoyed this newfound freedom and used my time productively. Enjoying afternoon naps on school days was nice too.

My last official function as a teacher was attending a retirement party near the end of the school year. I initially decided to take a pass on this event but was convinced by the colleagues who organized the party that my attendance was desired and necessary. I consented, and I’m glad I did, as the evening was fun and memorable. Unbeknownst to me, a good friend and colleague had reached out before the retirement party and contacted two of my former high school TV students. These super-talented kids were now doing amazing things professionally in the LA film industry. I had kept in touch with both over the years even visiting them in LA on several occasions. It was very touching to watch the video testimonial my friend produced that included sound bites of my former students saying flattering things about my work as a teacher, along with the impact I had on their decision to work in the video and film industry. Yes, I shed more than one tear that evening, and I’m grateful to my middle school colleagues for including me in the event despite the awkward circumstances created by my unanticipated retirement.

Not as wonderful that evening was the retirement speech I had prepared for the event. My speech—a sarcastic, educationally-themed rendition of Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address”— was pretty clever. Unfortunately, no one in the audience could hear it—even with a microphone—because the party was held in a restaurant without a separate banquet room. The din caused by the restaurant’s other rowdy patrons that evening drowned out every word in my witty, carefully crafted speech. Oh well.

After the retirement party and the school year had concluded officially, I stopped by the middle school to clean out the remainder of my possessions from what used to be my classroom. It was a somber task. I had spent nearly a third of my career working at this school, and it was surreal to think I might never set foot in this building again. As I packed up my teaching materials for the final time, I experienced a range of emotions. Yes, I was bitter about how my career had concluded so suddenly, and yes, I was concerned about leaving pension money on the table in the process. But, I was also proud of the dignified professional exit I had engineered for myself that spring.

While I knew I’d miss the students and my colleagues, I also recall feeling relief knowing that the pressures of creating lesson plans, grading papers, attending faculty meetings, and pointless professional development sessions were now over. No more dealing with disruptive students, unreasonable parents, and clueless administrators. I shed a tear and breathed a deep sigh of relief when packing my car in the school’s parking lot that early summer day. I remember thinking at the time that how I handled the challenging circumstances of my retirement was akin to an adage I had often shared with students facing personal adversity: ’When you’re faced with a lemon, make lemonade.’ I had indeed made lemonade from a batch of bad lemons this final school year of my career, and, I had to admit, it was pretty damn sweet…with a couple extra scoops of pure cane sugar added in for good measure.
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Although I’ve had several occasions to visit the high school where I worked for nearly 20 years, I haven’t set foot in that middle school since. Even after over a decade, the thought of visiting the school leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish it didn’t.

I keep in regular contact with one former colleague and good friend who also recently opted for early retirement at age 55 from the same middle school. Unlike my abrupt departure from teaching, this teacher’s retirement was entirely preplanned. This exceptional former educator says he, too, has no plans to visit the school where he plied his trade for multiple decades. I understand the sentiment. His recent retirement, like mine over a decade ago, is a loss for the school community. Just as when I opted for premature retirement, his faculty position most likely has been filled by a young teacher right out of college or a career-changer at half the salary my friend was earning at the time of his retirement. It’s sad to admit, but I suspect both the district and building administration were quietly elated at getting rid of this veteran teacher, a competent and caring educator who always passionately advocated for doing what’s best for students. School district brass were likely also plenty pleased with the substantial cost savings realized by my former colleague’s retirement. And so it goes in public education these days.
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If I’m not mistaken, public reporting indicates the administrator most responsible for encouraging my early retirement more than a decade ago is currently one of the highest-paid employees in the entire school district. If nothing else, at least this administrator’s decade-plus stint as principal has halted the revolving door of lead administrators at this middle school. That’s a positive, maybe.

I wonder what German chemist Robert Bunsen would have to say about all of this public education Sturm and Drang if he were still alive today. We’ll never know, of course, but we still have the invention he made famous. So, my friends, let’s fire up those old Bunsen burners and conduct with gusto whatever physical science experiment you please. But watch the height of that flame. Getting burned—literally and, in some instances, even figuratively— can be an awfully uncomfortable sensation.