Thursday, February 16, 2012

And I Can Hardly Speak, My Heart is Beating So



Bad news stinks, and getting bad news at work really stinks. But for most people, temporary solace lies behind the door of an empty office or in a walk around the block or, as a last resort, a quick cry in the lavatory stall.

When bad news arrives in a teacher's inbox, solace is harder to find. There are all those students - lots of eyes, lots of needs, lots of questions, and they need their teachers to be present and emotionally in tact. If my students get freaked out by seeing me in the grocery store buying toilet paper, you can imagine how upsetting it would be for them to see me come emotionally unglued. Teachers learn to keep their highs and lows to themselves, to remember that the kids have to come first. Students depend on their teachers to be stable, and like a parent protecting her children from the boogeyman, a source of strength and courage.

There's so much I could not have anticipated about this job when I signed my first contract. Late night phone calls, crying students, crying parents - I didn't enter this profession lightly, but I did underestimate the challenges inherent in being under a microscope all day long. Students look to their teachers for all kinds of support, and often we have to subvert our own emotional impulses in order to help them manage theirs.

The first year I taught full-time, my best friend died very suddenly. She had battled depression for years, but her final trip into the abyss proved to be too much for her, and she took her own life. The morning after I got the phone call from her housemate, I taught. My eyes were swollen and I had to excuse myself a couple of times and just stand out in the hall by myself, but I made it through that day without breaking down in front of my students.

Two years later, 9/11 played out, and we acted as parent, therapist, EMT and crowd control, as we were all they had when the bad news hit. The teachers and staff wanted to freak out, but we couldn't. The students looked were watching, and if we held it together, they stood a much better chance of holding it together.

This morning, I sat down to run the sixth grade homeroom, and the little red "new email" dot appeared on my toolbar at the bottom of the screen. Tim was traveling to his clinic in Manchester, so I checked quickly to make sure it wasn't an emergency. Unfortunately, the subject line "Mom" and the sender, my mother-in-law, were all I needed to see to grasp the news of that email. My grandmother-in-law has been very ill, and while we thought she had about a week left, she died this morning.

I got the email just as our regular homeroom routine was beginning - psalm, moment of silence, flag. Yes, psalm. Crossroads Academy is not a religious school, but we consider biblical literacy (along with all other subjects of cultural literacy) to be one of the most important elements of our students' education, regardless of any personal religious conviction.

I am not a religious person. I do, however, love words, and today's psalm, 139, held some nice moments for me, particularly the part about being truly known.


            O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
            You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
                        you discern my thoughts from afar.
            You search out my path and my lying down
                        and are acquainted with all my ways.


Being known was comforting to me, as I was in the middle of faking happiness in the middle of my private sorrow. Thanks to the current cold and flu season, there are boxes of tissues spread all over my classroom, and I hid my sadness behind the facade of a cold. I covered pretty well, so well done, me. I successfully ushered the sixth graders through the pledge of allegiance, and they headed off to history class. As a reward for my stoicism, I allowed myself a couple of minutes of unrestrained tears in the middle school office before blowing my nose, taking a deep breath, and teaching composition class. Grammy Eileen would have liked that transition. She was a kick-ass writer, and she would have told me to buck up, get my butt in there and teach those kids how to use a darn comma.

Middle school students are rumored to be self-absorbed, selfish, and so hopelessly awash in hormones that they can hardly see past the end of their pimply noses. Sometimes, this is true. But sometimes, they know. Sometimes they leave notes on their teacher's desks, wishing them a good day. Sometimes, despite my best efforts, they know me.

19 comments:

  1. I'm so very sorry. My thoughts are with you.

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  2. By the way, the computer just made me type the word "prayer" to verify my credentials. How very fitting. xo

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  3. I'll treasure this forever, Jess.

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  4. I'm so sorry to hear this, Jess. February truly is the worst month. Blessings to you and your family.

    If I could walk next door I'd give you a big hug, hand you a glass of red wine, and ask for your favorite story about her.

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  5. Teri, I just happen to have a glass of red wine beside me, had my son give me a hug on your behalf, and will share a story via email. Thank you.

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    1. Perfect. Here's to holding on in the days ahead....

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  6. Jess, thanks for your beautiful photo of Eileen and a reminder of what a wonderful role model she has been for so many of us who loved her.

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  7. Well done, Jess! On behalf of those of faith, may the good Lord "hem you in behind and before" and "lay His gracious hand on your heart." Safe travels!

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  8. Well done, Jess! On behalf of those of us of faith, may the good Lord "hem you in behind and before" and "may His gracious hand be on your heart." Safe travels!

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  9. Jess, So sorry. The pain seems to hit as I cope with how final death is. There is no bartering. We lost our family dog yesterday and Prescott (age 11) has been trying to navigate these feelings with us.
    Annette

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  10. Jess, Sharing the pain of grieving makes me feel close to you. Our family buried the family dog yesterday. Prescott (age 11) struggles the most visibly . . . and his pain brings all of us together.
    Annette

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    1. Went to work today with the life of my little grand-dogger teetering on the edge. Some people say, well it's just a dog, I say, well it's love with four legs.
      Jess, I am so sorry for your loss and stand in awe of your dedication to your kids.

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  11. Thanks, Wry Wryter, and I'm sorry you are dealing with the imminent loss of your pup. I have a yellow lab, too, and a family that loves her, and I can only image how hard your road is at the moment.

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  12. Jessica,

    I am sorry for your loss. In my 30 years as a middle school science teacher I had many of those moments. The worst involved being notified of my wife's miscarriage during class.

    Keep up the good work, I love your blog and reposted your 'Pimping the Pantheon' on our EARCOS E-Connect blog yesterday. Keep up the great work.

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  13. I'm writing a MG novel right now, where the whole plot kicks off with a scene just like this, except where a teacher learns her bother has been killed in the war. She DOES break down, and her students DO see it, and one of them, my protagonist, reacts in a very special and unexpected way.

    I blogged recently about bad teachers (angelhorn.com). You're obviously one of the good ones.

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  14. Jess, I'm so sorry for your loss, and thank you for sharing this reaction to it.
    It made me think back to an experience last year, when we learned of the death of the father of one of my students. In that case, our whole school community was grieving together, and it was nearly impossible to hold it together but, I think, valuable for the students to see how this loss affected the teachers as well. It must be very difficult to have to deal with a personal tragedy which can't be expressed and dealt with publicly. Best wishes and hugs for the coming days...

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  15. My thoughts are with you Jessica. You handled these situations much better than I would have, you are a very strong person. Hopefully this weekend will give you some time to relax and reflect

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