Because Ms. L is as pregnant as a cumulonimbus, I have been assigned the Writer's Club at school. The Writing Club position pays zero dollars, but I have a lot of books with writing exercises, and I like writing, so all of this makes sense.
Since I took Writing Club three weeks ago, we've doubled in size. This is not because of the posters I've made advertising Writing Club (because I haven't hung them yet). But I think a new writing, er, "coach" has gotten the two girls in club exciting about showing their work off again.
Now, there are four of us.
I'll profile, if I may:
Taylor: The first work I saw was from Taylor, when I sat in on writing club with her and Ms. L on Ms. L's last day of Writing Club. (Before she'd said to me: take Writing Club--take it. I don't want it back. It's yours.) She's working on her memoir. She's seventeen, she's skinny, hair the color of nougat. White teeth, perfectly in line. She takes piano lessons, she works at the library, she reads in her free time and she submits to writing contests that she finds online. She wears a silver necklace everyday that spells out the word famous. Her writing is fresh and fluent and conscious. Some of it, is, anyway--enough of it was to get me excited about taking Writing Club into my classroom. Taylor has to turn in all of her stories in 14 point font, because she has a visual impairment. She writes about it, and Ms. L told me about it, but I don't know what to call her impairment. It looks like a lazy eye. It looks as though she's squinting with one eye, consistently.
Taylor, when critiquing, is far too nice to really critique. She has a wretched case of Minnesota, and I think that she's been wounded by teasing so much that she couldn't fathom saying anything constructive about anyone. As a result, I hear I loved it, I loved it, I love this part, I love this part to any piece. And she'll point out where commas should go, or where apostrophes are missing in her critiques. But overall, I loved it. I love this piece.
She's fantastic. She dresses up for school. She loves being a part of something.
Barb: The other day, Ms. H came up to me and said, what are your thoughts on Barb? Every time I walk by her in the hall, she ignores me and turns away. And I said, oh, that's just her, she seems reserved. But Barb was only reserved on that first day. The second I said, I'm happy to take Writing Club because my background is in this--I have a Master's in Creative Writing--Barb's face exploded into a grin. And she stays after Club to chat, and we don't talk about anything much, but I think she just likes being there. And when I read things from my book joke book today about writing, such as ways to end that novel you're working on that included jokes like and then, as they kissed, he reached down and cupped her breast, and then her other breast...and then...her third breast Barb explodes into laughter. She does a lot of exploding. She explodes into smiles, and she explodes in her prose, in her imagery and details, in her character development. I don't understand how she knows so much as a sophomore in high school. I'm dying to know who taught her. Because she's about where I was as a junior in college. Or maybe as a senior in college, and I'm certain she's been infected by some secret, odd gift. I want this. And she plans on going into science for the rest of her life. Figures.
Barb asks for my craft books. When we do activities at the beginning of club, she thinks more on her feet than I do, and I find that I have to really push to show that oh, hey, I can write, too.
Should I describe her, too, other than exploding? Long hair, no bangs, light brown. Just a little chubby, but the cute kind. Red lips, naturally. And when she gives comments, they're sincere and honest and she gives the kind of advice you'd expect the teacher to give. And she's working on a novel, set in 2020, years after the United States has lost a war with North Korea. And, I'm enticed.
Ben: The story with Ben is that he was Ms. A's student last trimester, in 11th grade, and one day he came to school with bloody knuckles, so Ms. A said, hey Ben, what's with the bloody knuckles? And Ben said, I'm just so crazy about this girl, and I'm so in love I get angry and punch the wall because she doesn't love me back and then Ms. A said, after Ben had mentally excused himself for class to swim around in his teenage emotions, Ben, you have to stay with us in class, but if you need to get some of this out of you, why don't you write? And she opened a page in his notebook, and said, write it down.
And then Ben did. He wrote it, and he wrote it. And it turned into some poems and it turned into some, uh, prose, and then Ms. A said, Ben you should join Writing Club and then he dropped by and left his poem with me. And it rhymed, and it was about being in love and we were meant for each other, baby, you are like an angel, sent down from heaven. And I wrote, are these song lyrics?
And they weren't. It just started to rhyme, so he went with it. The next week, he dropped off an entire notebook of writing about a girl.
And in Writing Club today, he read the first two pages. It was like the poem, abstract, about how much he loooooooved her. And the group said, Oh, it's so cute! And Taylor said, I loved this piece, I just loved how nice it was and how you loved the girl. And Barb said, you just might want to throw in a metaphor or simile--you just describe how pretty her hair is and how you like the same things, but the reader can't really picture her--instead you just say you love her over and over again. And the new girl, who's name I don't know yet, said, Oh, I just get it! I just replaced she with a he and it was so romantic, I just got it.
And I said, well, what I like about this is that it shows us more about the narrator than it actually does about the girl. What I mean is, that, the fact that you're so obsessed with her, and we hear all these things, and the fact that you know you asked her "to be yours" on February 26, 2010, at 8:07 tells us that this sort of love really matters to you.
And then, when Ben got to talk, he talked and talked and talked. And he said, well. Well, I just kept repeating that I love her over and over again so I could remind that reader that I loved her, and I kept repeating about how pretty she was because I didn't want the reader to forget how pretty she was--I just wanted to emphasize that.
Uh-huh.
And then I asked, so, how does it end? It's nonfiction--I'm interested in how it ends. And he turned to the last page and said, oh, should I read this whole last page? (He'd just read and read and read the earlier part for workshop, since he'd only had one copy.) And I had to do everything in my power to not keep him reading, so I said, no, no just the last line, and he read, I just can't explain how much we are meant to be together.
So, are you still together, I said?
No.
So, why don't you tell a whole story--tell us what happened. ...What happened?
And Ben broke into this story, this story. He met this girl and she lived in a different town, and then they just hit it off so quickly, he couldn't believe he'd found someone who just knew him so well, who listened to techno. And they just saw each other all the time and kept talking about how perfect they were for each other. Until, three weeks later, she said to him, Oh, hey, it's just that we seem to bee too perfect for each other, I've just never met somebody so into me, and it feels weird, and it's just too much, too much right now.
And, poor little Ben, he didn't quite get that too much right now meant that it was coming from him--I mean, he still doesn't get it--and he went on with his story, I just don't know how it could be too much (should I mention Writing Club turned into a therapy session at this point?) how it would be hard to just know someone was almost too perfect for you. I mean, it was really hard, because then I had to go over there and get my sweater--and I'd said to her, "I want you to have this sweater so you feel like I'm with you and I'm protecting you even though we're not with each other" and really, I'd just wanted her to keep it, and I'd wanted her to keep the promise ring too, because, I mean, I felt something when I gave that to her.
What. Promise ring.
And he went on, and on about this girl. Poor, poor Ben. Poor, pitiful Ben.
I said, what if you called it "The Three Week Relationship," this prose piece, and then break it into sections by week, writing about how you feel and what happens every week? Or, it could be organized like "day one" and then it would read, "Oh, I love her, she's my angel, we just connect..." and then "day two" would show us how the narrator progresses: "Oh, I hate her, she is just a big slut."
He just looked at me.
I should mention that he's skinny, wears skinny jeans, and has straight red-orange hair (but a soft red-orange) that gets in his eyes. Actually, if you put some bell bottoms on him and took a picture of him, you could blow that picture up and put it on your wall and pretend it was a rock poster and the year was 1976. David Cassidy, Ben is.
Girl-Who's-Name-I-Don't-Know-Yet: She joined today. Barb said, oh, my friend [blank here, obviously] wants to join us, so she'll be coming later. GWNIDKY is a strong writer, strong images, but a weird short story. That's okay, she'd just written it in 15 minutes, she'd said. But I can't tell about GWNIDKY--she seems like the kind of person who just likes to be a part of everything (if I recall, she joined the school newspaper for about 6 minutes). It's like she spends her high school career trying to make memories. After our group activity, she collected all of our little stories and said she was going to type them into a big portfolio. I hope she's part of the group.
She has a lot of teeth in her mouth, and tries to be funny, but she's talented and pretty and will find herself eventually. And I feel horrible for not knowing her name, and it was an awkward way of running that meaning, trying to address her without have to say, hey, yeah...you.
Ms. A said that after Writing Club Ben popped into her room and said: I love Writing Club!
Anway, I was thinking of Glee today when I was in Writer's Club. Taylor is my little Rachel, perfect and precise and wearing skirts. And Barb is like the black chick, but not black and not as large, And now there's these new people, and we're growing by the week. I mean, part of me wonders if I'll say, someday, come on club, let's go. Work on that flash--we've got to get to sectionals! I know it's hard to accept these new people, intial group people, but they've got talent, and it's time to go for it. Time for sectionals!
Same shit, different outfit.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Just another Monday.
Today is a big pile of shit. I'm so busy I can't think, or move, and I feel like somebody set me on fire and I've been running around and running around and trying to put it out.
And to end the day, I found myself in the lobby of my psychiatrist's office, grading papers and grading papers and grading, whipping pages around, making wide strokes with my pen like I was out of my mind. I suppose it was the right place to be, then, going crazy.
Sucks. Everything sucks.
Oh, hey, here's a picture of me on a mini-motorcycle. I WILL FUCK YOU UP WITH MY FOUR INCH TIRES, MOTHERFUCKER. (Ahem. I am often so bad ass I cannot stand it.)
And to end the day, I found myself in the lobby of my psychiatrist's office, grading papers and grading papers and grading, whipping pages around, making wide strokes with my pen like I was out of my mind. I suppose it was the right place to be, then, going crazy.
Sucks. Everything sucks.
Oh, hey, here's a picture of me on a mini-motorcycle. I WILL FUCK YOU UP WITH MY FOUR INCH TIRES, MOTHERFUCKER. (Ahem. I am often so bad ass I cannot stand it.)
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The wisdom of my father.
Say what I will about my parents, blame them for what I blame them for: but they're there when I call them crying because my credit card payment has been turned over to a collection agency and that collection agency calls me and harasses me and makes me feel like a big piece of shit for not having enough money--especially in the big chunks they ask for all at once (hey, guess what, if I had that money I'd give it to you, because believe it or not, having shitty credit and owing people money is not fun nor a choice of mine) and when I talk to Rich he says, well you do what you can and you don't have it and they can't expect it--if you couldn't make payments now, how can they really want you to pay $6000 by the end of the month? they're just trying to scare you into borrowing a bunch of money from a friend--and their job is to harass you and make you feel like shit--because they work on a commission, you know, but when it comes down to it, you owe them money and they can't take it out of your wages, and they want their money--so stand hard. Don't give them your tax payment--you need that to live this summer. Don't give them shit. You don't have it. Goddammit, you can't get blood out of a turnip.
And so, I returned the phone call to Nicole, the unbelievably bitchy woman at the collection agency who left the message that it was imperative that I called her back, who interrupted me when I was talking to her, who said, when I said, as I said to you, if I had the money, I would give it to you; it's not FUN for me to have debt--who said to that, Miss, I never once implied that this is a joking matter or that any of this was FUN for you and who then nearly criticized my decision to get a college education for the last eight years--so I returned a phone call to her, and when she said, what can you pay me right now, I said: I'm a public school teacher, and if you can't work a payment plan with me to take care of this a little at a time, then you get nothing. I'm sorry, but as I said, if I had the money, I'd give it to you. But you can't get blood out of a turnip.
[click]
And so, I returned the phone call to Nicole, the unbelievably bitchy woman at the collection agency who left the message that it was imperative that I called her back, who interrupted me when I was talking to her, who said, when I said, as I said to you, if I had the money, I would give it to you; it's not FUN for me to have debt--who said to that, Miss, I never once implied that this is a joking matter or that any of this was FUN for you and who then nearly criticized my decision to get a college education for the last eight years--so I returned a phone call to her, and when she said, what can you pay me right now, I said: I'm a public school teacher, and if you can't work a payment plan with me to take care of this a little at a time, then you get nothing. I'm sorry, but as I said, if I had the money, I'd give it to you. But you can't get blood out of a turnip.
[click]
Sunday, March 14, 2010
I hate you blogger.
I just accidentally wrote a huge post on the wrong blog. And for some reason, blogger doesn't let me copy and paste.
Fuck that.
Anyway. It was all about how I hate Hutchinson, but I'm worried that the 60 degree, sunny weather is going to trick me into liking it here.
I don't want that to happen.
But it's so much work to not stay. I'll have to put my things in a truck, again. I'll have to design new classes when the ones here would be already-taught and ready to go, I'll have to learn a new school, new people, new rules and new curriculum. I'll have to reorganize my school files. Maybe I won't have my own classroom, new place, or maybe I'll hate you, new place.
And the draw here, how much easier my life would be--how I'd teach the classes I've planned, the allure of a new classroom that isn't filled with science-things, the people I already know--and I already know who I like and who I don't, the students I'd recognize in the hallway. The graduate thesis that I'll be working on, how that'd be easier when I know my curriculum already.
Ugh. I feel gross. Life feels gross to me at this point. The drive back from spring break was so hard for me. It was painful to keep driving once I went through the cities, to pass highway 52 and not turn on it for a drive down to Rochester. Once I get here, I'm sort of fine, but I don't feel at home. I don't feel like I want to clean or do things or be myself. When I'm at school--like today--I feel good, because I'm working. But that's what scares me. I only find that little happiness in Hutchinson when the good things happen at school. This means that I'll spend more time at school, and that means I'll become obsessed with my job. And I don't want that, no sir.
It's like a bubble, Hutchinson. When I'm in the bubble, I'm like: I can tolerate this bubble. But when I leave, when I'm gone for a weekend or a small spring break--and someone says: get back in your bubble! I scream and resist as much as I can. Because I've seen the outside of the bubble. I know the outside. Put me back in, and I'll just spend the rest of my life trying to claw my way out of it.
...am I doing the right thing, wanting to leave? Or should I take the easier approach and suck it up and stay? If only I could just know if I'm doing the right thing. If I'll work myself to death. If I'm right that I need a bigger city, or if I'm wrong and this excruciating loneliness will follow me everywhere I go.
Fuck that.
Anyway. It was all about how I hate Hutchinson, but I'm worried that the 60 degree, sunny weather is going to trick me into liking it here.
I don't want that to happen.
But it's so much work to not stay. I'll have to put my things in a truck, again. I'll have to design new classes when the ones here would be already-taught and ready to go, I'll have to learn a new school, new people, new rules and new curriculum. I'll have to reorganize my school files. Maybe I won't have my own classroom, new place, or maybe I'll hate you, new place.
And the draw here, how much easier my life would be--how I'd teach the classes I've planned, the allure of a new classroom that isn't filled with science-things, the people I already know--and I already know who I like and who I don't, the students I'd recognize in the hallway. The graduate thesis that I'll be working on, how that'd be easier when I know my curriculum already.
Ugh. I feel gross. Life feels gross to me at this point. The drive back from spring break was so hard for me. It was painful to keep driving once I went through the cities, to pass highway 52 and not turn on it for a drive down to Rochester. Once I get here, I'm sort of fine, but I don't feel at home. I don't feel like I want to clean or do things or be myself. When I'm at school--like today--I feel good, because I'm working. But that's what scares me. I only find that little happiness in Hutchinson when the good things happen at school. This means that I'll spend more time at school, and that means I'll become obsessed with my job. And I don't want that, no sir.
It's like a bubble, Hutchinson. When I'm in the bubble, I'm like: I can tolerate this bubble. But when I leave, when I'm gone for a weekend or a small spring break--and someone says: get back in your bubble! I scream and resist as much as I can. Because I've seen the outside of the bubble. I know the outside. Put me back in, and I'll just spend the rest of my life trying to claw my way out of it.
...am I doing the right thing, wanting to leave? Or should I take the easier approach and suck it up and stay? If only I could just know if I'm doing the right thing. If I'll work myself to death. If I'm right that I need a bigger city, or if I'm wrong and this excruciating loneliness will follow me everywhere I go.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
this is what happens (to me) in high school when a student dies
First, I arrived to school late, and not even a little late, but 20 minutes late, as the entire staff was exiting the faculty meeting. Then I saw a teacher crying. Then I saw a student crying. Then I checked my email, which ties in thematically because my coping has existed in emails throughout the day, to Jenny and Christina, then to Phil:
7:25, To J & C:
So, one of my students died yesterday.
And I missed the meeting about it this morning, because I hit my alarm, and now I have no idea what's going on.
A boy from last trimester. The one that I consistently forgot to put in groups. And after we were in groups, I was like: Oh, Chris, you didn't get a group again? I'm sorry that I keep forgetting you.
7:30, to my mentor at school:
Hi Mandy,
I was late to school this morning and missed the faculty meeting--not a good day to make that mistake. Could you update me on anything I missed at the meeting?
I had Chris first trimester.
Thanks,
Jean
7:35, her response:
Jean,
Chris was hit head-on at an intersection. He was killed on the scene though they flew his body to HCMC in the cities. He was an organ donor and therefore his parents are still at the hospital. They may hold the funeral at the school.
I am so sorry--this is so horrible.
Please let me know if you need to talk to someone about this.
Mandy.
8:57, to Jenny and Christina:
It's weird. They called an assembly for teachers this morning, but I was late, and so I walked into a barrage of teachers leaving the faculty room. (The entire staff, of course, seeing I was late.) And one teacher was crying, and I was like whoa and then I saw some students crying, and then I came into my room and checked my email and there it was.
It is business as usual, and it's giving me a headache. No time to process everything, but having to deal with 100 students in my room today. The atmosphere is heavy, and the girls are crying and crying and boys are saying who was this kid I don't know who this kid was and then everyone tries to tie themselves to him in some way.
The principal came on the PA this morning and gave a brief message about it. It was awkward, and they offered counselors to kids who need a counselor. And then he ended the message awkwardly with: that's it. And then silence and then I had to say something to the 25 sets of eyes staring at me, so I said: take out your assignment.
I got the scoop from my mentor: he was hit head-on in a car accident yesterday (thank God it wasn't a suicide). He died on the scene, but was lifted to Minneapolis. He was an organ donor. So, I keep picturing my student all cut up and people running out of the room with his organs while his parents cry in the waiting room while I'm teaching today. I met his mom at conferences. We discussed where he should go to college. Could he handle it? Oh, yes, I'd said. I can't get these horrifying pictures out of my head even though I'm physically trying to shake them. Everyone is good when they die, but he really was one of the good ones. A special ed kid who worked ridiculously hard. I am an awful person because I gave him a C because it seemed to be what he'd deserved as a sped on his final essay--he was just a few points away from the B and I didn't bump him up. But then his special ed teacher called and said: Chris is just a few points away--what do you think? And I said: he works hard, let's give him the B. And she said: God, he's so happy! And we told Mom, and she's so happy.
Sorry. I just have to get this stuff out so I don't sit on it all day.
But, school goes on. It's finals week. Counselors are available.
9:05, to Phil, feeling like I need to keep talking about it:
One of my students died yesterday, Phil.
This isn't in the handbook.
I need a Philism. I'm coping poorly.
After his response, 9:20:
He was in a car accident yesterday, and apparently he died on the scene. I don't have him this trimester, fortunately, because I wouldn't be able to physically deal with the empty seat, but I do have seniors later (he was a senior) and I have no idea what to say to them.
That's the thing about the small district. Everybody knows everybody. Everyone's crying. Hm.
It's just so odd that when this happens, everyone ties themselves to the dead kid in some way. I knew him like this, I knew him like this. Like I can't stop thinking about the comments I gave him on his essays, and it's the most selfish thinking from anyone, ever. That sort of deal. Or did I say enough positive things to his mom at conferences? The kids must be thinking these things, too. How can one not be self-centered at a time like this, I suppose.
His following response, 10:00:
Thank goodness, I've never had to deal with the death of a student...just the thought of it makes me shudder. And I'm sorry I can't offer any comfort; I'd be in the same condition--feeling dumbstruck, guilty, awkward, and at-a-loss for what to say and do.
I think the notion of having the funeral at school is a great idea. Eight or nine years ago, a Century teacher was killed in a car accident and his funeral was held here (as he was single and entirely devoted to teaching). It was the perfect opportunity for people to grieve together; it was cathartic.
My response, 10:35:
No, no, this is comfort.
The seniors were as they always are. I am sort of surprised at their resilience.
I imagine that if I died while I was a teacher, that I'd have my funeral at the school. And then I'd make them bury me beneath the cafeteria so I could haunt students. (I make jokes, sometimes, in tragedy.) The menu could be: ham-boo-ger on a bun.
*
Anyway, the people who I email throughout the day get me through the day. It's probably a full-time job for Jenny and Christina to get me through some of these days I have.
But, I guess, to expand on the idea: today I realized that nothing brings out the selfishness in someone than the death of someone they know, but who isn't entirely close to them. Chris died. I thought of how I knew him, what he thought of me as his teacher. Yes, yes, I thought of how those closer to him were grieving, I thought of his mother, with her short hair and her big smile and her immense love for her son which was clear even 5 minutes into our conference last October--how we discussed what he could handle as a writer if he went to Community College, Ridgewater in the fall of 2010, how we were both so excited about his maturity, how he knew what was best for him, what he could handle. During that conference, I remember imagining the conversations that he and his mother must have had at home. It was hard to imagine, since he was so shy in class, always. I liked to imagine him talking.
I thought of how I wrote expand here on one of his journals and he took it literally, wrote more on the paper and then handed it back into me--and I remember thinking then that it was such a cute thing to do--but I don't remember who he wrote about as his hero on his hero essay, and I don't remember his proposal, and I don't remember what he wrote about himself on his college essay. A trip, perhaps? I remember that I forgot, for some odd reason, to put him in assigned groups two times in class, that after I called out all of the students' names that he'd look at me with this sad look in his eyes at being forgotten the first time; and I remember all of my apologies, and I remember that we both sort of laughed about it when I forgot him the second time, how I apologized again, how I said I don't know why that happens. I remember thinking that I'd graded him sort of easy throughout the trimester, so when he got a C as his final grade and was a couple of points from a B I didn't just bump him up. I remember having this debate about his grade in my head for a solid five minutes. I'd had this debate exactly a trimester ago, today, during finals week.
And I remember his special education teacher sending me the email, after Chris had probably asked her to, and I remember that she said he'd be so happy with the B. He'd never gotten a B in English before. I remember feeling stupid and cruel and horrible for taking that from him, that B. But, perhaps, all the better to get the compliment from me at the end about his hard work. He didn't know I debated it for 5 minutes. All he knew was that I bumped him, that I thought he was a hard worker.
He was one of the only students in my class to go to the Romeo & Juliet performance in January, after our English class was over. One of the two with enough motivation to go on a Saturday.
When I think of him, I picture his handwriting first. The right slant, the smudges of pencil. And now I can only imagine his organs in coolers. I don't know why. I think it's just the idea of them having to get the organs so fast, perhaps. Parents find out kid is dead. Parents have to drive to Minneapolis. Parents probably don't get to see their son before parts of him are taken. What does a body look like without the organs inside? How does the head sit on the neck of the organless body? Why is this what I think of?
Why is death such a remorseless bastard. What sound did the car make? What does it look like now? Did it hurt him? Did he see it coming? What did he say? What was his last thought? I really liked this kid, and I would've said this if none of this had happened. He worked so hard. It's hard to find people who work hard.
I have nothing profound or literary or normal to say about any of this. But the high-school-death-day is such a dramatic, intense situation. Annoucements over the PA. Rumors and stories. Some kids crying. Some kids acting like nothing happened. Girls crying who just like to find themselves wrapped up in drama. Girls who used to date him. The kid in Tessa's class, the one who Chris was driving to see yesterday, who found himself in school this morning, looking as though he'd been ripped in half. My seniors who said nothing. My senior who said: I better give you this today instead of waiting until Thursday. And when I sad, don't trust yourself, eh? Said: oh, well, you never know if I won't be in school on Thursday...could die or something. And how we both just pretended he hadn't accidentally said that.
Yes. Death brings out the selfishness in people. How does this affect me. How will I go on. Why am I feeling and thinking what I do right now. Did this really happen? Doesn't everybody die all the time? Didn't 800 people just die in Chile? Will I ever learn how to deal with death? Yeah. Probably not. Probably hopefully not. I am shit at death.
But what else would it bring out other than the selfishness in people? What other purpose could it serve than to make people reflect on who they've changed, how they cope, who they are. What other purpose could it serve to just make you hate death and everything he takes, so selfishly himself, just like you in your selfishness alongside.
7:25, To J & C:
So, one of my students died yesterday.
And I missed the meeting about it this morning, because I hit my alarm, and now I have no idea what's going on.
A boy from last trimester. The one that I consistently forgot to put in groups. And after we were in groups, I was like: Oh, Chris, you didn't get a group again? I'm sorry that I keep forgetting you.
7:30, to my mentor at school:
Hi Mandy,
I was late to school this morning and missed the faculty meeting--not a good day to make that mistake. Could you update me on anything I missed at the meeting?
I had Chris first trimester.
Thanks,
Jean
7:35, her response:
Jean,
Chris was hit head-on at an intersection. He was killed on the scene though they flew his body to HCMC in the cities. He was an organ donor and therefore his parents are still at the hospital. They may hold the funeral at the school.
I am so sorry--this is so horrible.
Please let me know if you need to talk to someone about this.
Mandy.
8:57, to Jenny and Christina:
It's weird. They called an assembly for teachers this morning, but I was late, and so I walked into a barrage of teachers leaving the faculty room. (The entire staff, of course, seeing I was late.) And one teacher was crying, and I was like whoa and then I saw some students crying, and then I came into my room and checked my email and there it was.
It is business as usual, and it's giving me a headache. No time to process everything, but having to deal with 100 students in my room today. The atmosphere is heavy, and the girls are crying and crying and boys are saying who was this kid I don't know who this kid was and then everyone tries to tie themselves to him in some way.
The principal came on the PA this morning and gave a brief message about it. It was awkward, and they offered counselors to kids who need a counselor. And then he ended the message awkwardly with: that's it. And then silence and then I had to say something to the 25 sets of eyes staring at me, so I said: take out your assignment.
I got the scoop from my mentor: he was hit head-on in a car accident yesterday (thank God it wasn't a suicide). He died on the scene, but was lifted to Minneapolis. He was an organ donor. So, I keep picturing my student all cut up and people running out of the room with his organs while his parents cry in the waiting room while I'm teaching today. I met his mom at conferences. We discussed where he should go to college. Could he handle it? Oh, yes, I'd said. I can't get these horrifying pictures out of my head even though I'm physically trying to shake them. Everyone is good when they die, but he really was one of the good ones. A special ed kid who worked ridiculously hard. I am an awful person because I gave him a C because it seemed to be what he'd deserved as a sped on his final essay--he was just a few points away from the B and I didn't bump him up. But then his special ed teacher called and said: Chris is just a few points away--what do you think? And I said: he works hard, let's give him the B. And she said: God, he's so happy! And we told Mom, and she's so happy.
Sorry. I just have to get this stuff out so I don't sit on it all day.
But, school goes on. It's finals week. Counselors are available.
9:05, to Phil, feeling like I need to keep talking about it:
One of my students died yesterday, Phil.
This isn't in the handbook.
I need a Philism. I'm coping poorly.
After his response, 9:20:
He was in a car accident yesterday, and apparently he died on the scene. I don't have him this trimester, fortunately, because I wouldn't be able to physically deal with the empty seat, but I do have seniors later (he was a senior) and I have no idea what to say to them.
That's the thing about the small district. Everybody knows everybody. Everyone's crying. Hm.
It's just so odd that when this happens, everyone ties themselves to the dead kid in some way. I knew him like this, I knew him like this. Like I can't stop thinking about the comments I gave him on his essays, and it's the most selfish thinking from anyone, ever. That sort of deal. Or did I say enough positive things to his mom at conferences? The kids must be thinking these things, too. How can one not be self-centered at a time like this, I suppose.
His following response, 10:00:
Thank goodness, I've never had to deal with the death of a student...just the thought of it makes me shudder. And I'm sorry I can't offer any comfort; I'd be in the same condition--feeling dumbstruck, guilty, awkward, and at-a-loss for what to say and do.
I think the notion of having the funeral at school is a great idea. Eight or nine years ago, a Century teacher was killed in a car accident and his funeral was held here (as he was single and entirely devoted to teaching). It was the perfect opportunity for people to grieve together; it was cathartic.
My response, 10:35:
No, no, this is comfort.
The seniors were as they always are. I am sort of surprised at their resilience.
I imagine that if I died while I was a teacher, that I'd have my funeral at the school. And then I'd make them bury me beneath the cafeteria so I could haunt students. (I make jokes, sometimes, in tragedy.) The menu could be: ham-boo-ger on a bun.
*
Anyway, the people who I email throughout the day get me through the day. It's probably a full-time job for Jenny and Christina to get me through some of these days I have.
But, I guess, to expand on the idea: today I realized that nothing brings out the selfishness in someone than the death of someone they know, but who isn't entirely close to them. Chris died. I thought of how I knew him, what he thought of me as his teacher. Yes, yes, I thought of how those closer to him were grieving, I thought of his mother, with her short hair and her big smile and her immense love for her son which was clear even 5 minutes into our conference last October--how we discussed what he could handle as a writer if he went to Community College, Ridgewater in the fall of 2010, how we were both so excited about his maturity, how he knew what was best for him, what he could handle. During that conference, I remember imagining the conversations that he and his mother must have had at home. It was hard to imagine, since he was so shy in class, always. I liked to imagine him talking.
I thought of how I wrote expand here on one of his journals and he took it literally, wrote more on the paper and then handed it back into me--and I remember thinking then that it was such a cute thing to do--but I don't remember who he wrote about as his hero on his hero essay, and I don't remember his proposal, and I don't remember what he wrote about himself on his college essay. A trip, perhaps? I remember that I forgot, for some odd reason, to put him in assigned groups two times in class, that after I called out all of the students' names that he'd look at me with this sad look in his eyes at being forgotten the first time; and I remember all of my apologies, and I remember that we both sort of laughed about it when I forgot him the second time, how I apologized again, how I said I don't know why that happens. I remember thinking that I'd graded him sort of easy throughout the trimester, so when he got a C as his final grade and was a couple of points from a B I didn't just bump him up. I remember having this debate about his grade in my head for a solid five minutes. I'd had this debate exactly a trimester ago, today, during finals week.
And I remember his special education teacher sending me the email, after Chris had probably asked her to, and I remember that she said he'd be so happy with the B. He'd never gotten a B in English before. I remember feeling stupid and cruel and horrible for taking that from him, that B. But, perhaps, all the better to get the compliment from me at the end about his hard work. He didn't know I debated it for 5 minutes. All he knew was that I bumped him, that I thought he was a hard worker.
He was one of the only students in my class to go to the Romeo & Juliet performance in January, after our English class was over. One of the two with enough motivation to go on a Saturday.
When I think of him, I picture his handwriting first. The right slant, the smudges of pencil. And now I can only imagine his organs in coolers. I don't know why. I think it's just the idea of them having to get the organs so fast, perhaps. Parents find out kid is dead. Parents have to drive to Minneapolis. Parents probably don't get to see their son before parts of him are taken. What does a body look like without the organs inside? How does the head sit on the neck of the organless body? Why is this what I think of?
Why is death such a remorseless bastard. What sound did the car make? What does it look like now? Did it hurt him? Did he see it coming? What did he say? What was his last thought? I really liked this kid, and I would've said this if none of this had happened. He worked so hard. It's hard to find people who work hard.
I have nothing profound or literary or normal to say about any of this. But the high-school-death-day is such a dramatic, intense situation. Annoucements over the PA. Rumors and stories. Some kids crying. Some kids acting like nothing happened. Girls crying who just like to find themselves wrapped up in drama. Girls who used to date him. The kid in Tessa's class, the one who Chris was driving to see yesterday, who found himself in school this morning, looking as though he'd been ripped in half. My seniors who said nothing. My senior who said: I better give you this today instead of waiting until Thursday. And when I sad, don't trust yourself, eh? Said: oh, well, you never know if I won't be in school on Thursday...could die or something. And how we both just pretended he hadn't accidentally said that.
Yes. Death brings out the selfishness in people. How does this affect me. How will I go on. Why am I feeling and thinking what I do right now. Did this really happen? Doesn't everybody die all the time? Didn't 800 people just die in Chile? Will I ever learn how to deal with death? Yeah. Probably not. Probably hopefully not. I am shit at death.
But what else would it bring out other than the selfishness in people? What other purpose could it serve than to make people reflect on who they've changed, how they cope, who they are. What other purpose could it serve to just make you hate death and everything he takes, so selfishly himself, just like you in your selfishness alongside.
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