The beginning of the end

Yesterday I signed my contract renewal renunciation form, which officially declares that I won't be here for another year, that my time is up as of August 25, 2011. The forms were on my desk when I got back from class, looking as if someone had just tossed them there. See them lying there, askew, looking like any other memo, struck me as, in a word: unceremonious. I'm not sure what I was expecting. Teachers and students huddled around my desk, pushing back waves of tears, tearing at their clothes, lamentations. Not that, but at least something. It's true, teachers have expressed regret at my leaving, and some have tried to convince me to stay. As for the students, they don't know yet. I am trying to think of some way to tell them, but then I learned that teachers often tell the students they are leaving the week before they are gone. This seems so abrupt to me.

I think about how long it took me to first decide to come to Korea, and then to get all my paperwork, fingerprints, interviews, applications in order. I think about the scores of emails I sent out to recruiters and to people who had taught in Korea before to find out if this was indeed what I wanted to do. I think about the drama and the difficulty of telling Joe's and my family that we were doing this, and the same difficulty in telling my friends. I think about all the things it took to get here: planning, packing, moving, breathing, breathing, breathing, trying to steel myself for the coming experience. All in all--months of planning, stressing, wondering, fretting.

And now: a piece of paper slid halfway under my keyboard, awaiting my signature. No meeting with the principal. No ceremony. Do I want to meet with the principal? Do I want attention drawn to my leaving? Not really, no, but doesn't it just seem like there should be something more than this to accompany what I consider to be the important moment when I say, no thank you, Korea, I'm done?