Black, Pearls & Ugly Cries: The Day I Said Goodbye.

Black, Pearls & Ugly Cries: The Day I Said Goodbye.

There are days that gently pass…

And then there are days that leave mascara-stained memories on your cheeks.

I am still recovering from yesterday. Emotionally, spiritually, and quite frankly, hydrationally, because wow… the tears? Unlimited supply.

Let me take you back.

Sometime earlier this week, or last week (my memory has been acting like it’s on annual leave lately, honestly) my school invited me to attend the graduation ceremony for my third-grade junior high school students. My babies. My actual babies.

I was excited. I was proud. I was also… stressed.

Because let me tell you something about Japanese public school graduations: the dress code is not a suggestion, it’s a lifestyle.

No bright colors.

No “fashion risks.”

Pearls? Encouraged.

Black? Safe.

But also… don’t look like you’re attending a funeral.

So now tell me, what exactly are we doing?

For days, I was hopping from shop to shop like a confused fashion consultant who suddenly forgot her own credentials. I wanted to look polished. Elegant. Soft. Put together. But also not stand out too much, because, let’s be honest, I already stand out. Being the only Black teacher in the room? The visibility is already doing the most.

I consulted teachers.

I consulted friends.

I almost consulted the ancestors.

Finally, the day before the graduation, I found something. A simple black outfit paired with a white WEGO blouse. Safe. Clean. Approved by society.

The morning of the graduation?

That’s when the real chaos began.

As I was getting ready, it hit me.

This was it. My last time seeing them like this.

And suddenly, my mind became a cinema.

Flashbacks of us playing basketball.

Their cheeky laughs echoing in the hallways.

School lunches where they would literally play janken just to decide who gets to sit with me.

(Imagine fighting over your presence like you're the last slice of pizza. Iconic.)

These were the same students who, two years ago, couldn’t even look me in the eyes.

Now? High-fives. Full conversations. Love.

I smiled… and then immediately felt the tears loading.

I rushed to the train station—late, of course, because why would I be on time on such an emotionally important day? and by the time I arrived, things had already started.

But when I stepped into that school gym?

Oh.

My.

Goodness.

Flowers everywhere. Decorations blooming like spring had personally RSVP’d. It was soft, beautiful, and intentional.

And the teachers?

Whew.

The third-grade teachers were dressed in traditional Japanese attire, kimono and hakama, looking like absolute royalty. The red lipstick? The elegance? The grace?

I almost forgot I came to cry.

And then;

“MS JES!!!”

I turned around, and here came a group of students running toward me with yearbooks and pens.

“Please write a message!”

“Sign here!”

“Don’t forget me!”

Before I could even process what was happening, one girl looked at me…

…and started crying.

Now I’m thinking: Baby girl, I had a plan.

I was supposed to cry later.

On the train.

In private.

With dignity.

But no.

Now we are all standing in a circle… crying like we just finished filming the final scene of a very emotional movie.

Teachers had to come and collect us like we were emotionally unsupervised children.

One of my colleagues leaned in and whispered,

“I’ve been crying for a week. Welcome to the club.”

Ah. So this is a support group.

I went to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and gave myself a firm pep talk:

“Jes. Pull it together. Not yet.”

Fast forward, we’re in the gym for the ceremony.

And then… they started singing.

Oh, they SANG sang.

I looked at my JTE, and that was it.

We locked eyes, and boom. Tears again. No warning. No mercy.

The ceremony itself was beautiful. Everything moved with such precision, students sitting, standing, bowing, it felt like watching poetry in motion. The parents looked proud. The energy was full.

And then, as it was ending, some students quietly handed me an envelope.

“Read it later,” they said.

(Already suspicious. Already emotional.)

After the ceremony, they did their final walk through the hallways.

We cried again. Obviously.

I don’t even know how to explain that feeling, pride and heartbreak holding hands at the same time.

Even the vice principal had to calm me down at some point.

Yes. Me. A grown woman.

Back in the staffroom, I started packing my things, it was also my last day of the school year.

And just when I thought I had no tears left?

The teachers started.

Giving speeches.

Saying kind words (in Japanese, which made me cry even more because I could feel the love even when I didn’t catch every word).

Giving me flowers.

Sweets.

In Japan, that’s love.

I made my way home, emotionally exhausted.

Sat in the train.

And then… I opened the envelope.

Cards.

So many cards.

Handwritten messages from my students.

One read:

“Thank you, Ms Jes, for your wonderful smile. Whenever I see your smile, I become happy. You are so kind. I hope you teach at this school forever. I love you. Take care.”

I cried.

Again.

In public.

On the train.

No shame left at this point.

But in that moment, through all the tears, I felt it so clearly:

This was a beautiful year.

A full year.

A meaningful year.

And as I sat there, holding those cards close to my chest, I whispered quietly,

“Thank you, Lord.”

Because what a privilege it is, to love, to be loved, and to be remembered.

Even in black. Even with pearls. Even through ugly cries.

“Some goodbyes don’t break you, they remind you how deeply you were blessed.”