Miles to Go Before I Sleep

I've been teaching for almost ten years. In those ten years, I've worked at many different schools, with a diverse cross-section of students. I've taught students who are filthy rich and dirt poor; students who have spent time in rehab, or had a parent pass away, or are themselves in remission from cancer. I've seen students come to terms with being gay and or their parents' divorce. And seven years ago, a bunch of ninth graders and I muddled our way through a tough day in September. Though my teacher shoes are fairly worn in, I find myself this week in the midst of another first: the death of a student.

Ryan had long hair that hung in front of his blue eyes- the kind of hairstyle popular with teenage boys in the South. He didn't talk much, though he had developed a deft note passing technique. I never wrote him up, never had to call his parents, and never really got to know him. He got a "B" on his poetry quiz on Friday. On Saturday morning, he got on a four wheeler with his cousin, drove it through a stop sign and into a speeding pick-up truck. On Sunday afternoon, he died.

I knew Monday would be emotionally exhausting. Dealing with death is something that most adults are unable to gracefully navigate. Thirteen-year-olds can't navigate their way to the restroom, let alone deal with the death of a classmate. I thought long and hard about the best way to go forward. In the end, I decided to acknowledge to my students that it was a hard day, but that we needed to proceed normally. We learned how to diagram the rhyme scheme of a Robert Frost poem, and they quietly and obediently took it in. They didn't argue. They didn't yell at each other from across the room. Some kids put their heads on the desk, and I didn't bother them. Throughout the day, several girls broke in to sobs, and I sent them to the counselors who had gathered in the library. One student (even as Ryan's empty desk sat across the room from him), made a perverse comment about what the scene of the accident might have looked like. He laughed about it as his classmates around him cried. I sent him to the principal's office. He was the only one.

Overall, we fought our grief by walking through our day as we usually do. I think that my students found comfort in routine; I know I did. Beyond that, I was proud of the way that they handled themselves, and the way they treated each other. For whatever reason (this is a whole other post), I have struggled immensely with this particular group of students. But I have hope. Ryan's death forced us to be human. It forced me to stop focussing (for a moment) on whether or not they're able to make their subjects and verbs agree, and it forced them to stop focussing on themselves.