It was a year of ups and downs, all of which were more manageable because of my teaching pals, Rachel and Tim, whose rooms conveniently flank mine and who cheerfully tolerate my mercurial disposition and all-too-frequent use of the f-word.

Today, Tim came into Rach’s room, where I was wiling away the moments until the goodbye luncheon, to hand over her summer viewing assignments. She’s teaching a couple of sections of Art of Film next year, and I guess she should be familiar with the ins and outs of the western, film noir, and screwball comedy.

“This one,” Tim said, holding up Bringing Up Baby, “I show out of spite.”

We laughed.

“I mean, the kids hate it, but it’s kind of funny,” he continued. “Katharine Hepburn is kind of annoying, but Cary Grant? Seriously. Even I think he’s hot.”

I said adios to two classes today. They took their final exams and will be swiftly on their way to junior year. Some shook hands or hugged. Others just gave a shout or wave from the door. Some slunk out without acknowledging the end. Dylan, who had an unfortunate plagiarism episode a week-and-a-half ago after a year of small steps forward and the slow and painful realization that "fuck" is not an appropriate word for the classroom, wrote me a heartfelt note in the back of his Blue Book: “I want you know I love you as a teacher,” he said. “I have a ton of respect for you as a person and as a teacher. I’m sorry I cheated, and I’ll never do it again.”

Good enough for me.