Final Day at School, Derry/L'derry

               On the last day of February, we rushed to Oakgrove’s Tuesday morning assembly in our five taxis—well, six, because the first driver wouldn’t clear his newspaper for a fourth passenger, so we had to wait an extra forty minutes for another cab—most of us arriving just in time to see John honored before the gathered body with a congratulatory cake and speech for becoming the permanent principal.

              Over and over again, our students were awed by his care and laughter and enormous kindness, and wondered what it would be like to have such a principal. We would see this in full force over the course of the day, especially in the evening, when John would juggle between playing the generous host to our students, confronting a student, his parents, and the police in his office for a full hour, guiding staff through various other emergencies that had occurred through the day, and welcoming Oakgrove Hands for a Bridge alumni for the evening’s potluck, interspersed with his ridiculously disarming whale sound that he called out in equal parts to focus attention and to enjoy himself.

              This would also be our day of farewell at the school.

              Roosevelt students recited three poems before all the students seated on the floor of the hall, two by Seamus Heaney and one by Gwendolyn Brooks. They got through it in the morning, but when called upon to do it again before the HFB alumni that evening, some had to laugh their way through their contributions. That’s okay—John had said his students had been intimidated by the confidence of the American students, and a stumble would reassure Oakgrove, show it all possible.

              But how our students did lead, with marvelous poise and such joy later that morning, as we met Fountain Primary School across the fence and just the other side of the city’s 17^th century walls, in the Protestant neighborhood and its Tory red, white, and blue kerbs. For decades, they’d been joined by Long Tower Primary, the elementary school on the nationalist side. This morning, the children were in the gymnasium together when we arrived, watching a video about dirt and butterflies. When they turned around and their teachers cleared the tables, Roosevelt students led raucous games in a big circle before splitting into smaller groups, which is when I cried a few times, more than the night before: watching Taylor lean back on the wall and laugh as he took such full-bodied delight in the little ones (wee ‘uns), watching Karen pat-pat the floor in gentle, lovely encouragement, and above all, watching face after face—ours, Oakgrove’s, Long Tower’s, Fountain’s—share unadulterated delight in one another, an entire room enchanted by the moment.

              At the Hands for a Bridge alumni potluck and final evening with Oakgrove friends later that night, students pulled each other into a single tight hug on the stage. Two alumni from the very first class summoned them to the front of the stage to acknowledge their sorrow but to show, their laughter and physical closeness the signal of it, that enduring friendship is here.