January 9th started as any normal Monday morning. I arrived at my classroom, got the supplies ready for the day, made sure the bell schedule was correct and the targets were written for the week. I roused the computer from its weekend slumber and quickly checked my email for any important announcements. My eyes were instantly drawn to the third message in the queue, and a wave of adrenaline and anxiety hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Tragic News”.
No. Not again. Damnit, not again.
There isn’t a single teacher credential program that exists that is able to prepare you for everything you will encounter in your teaching career. They provide you with the latest research on pedagogy and childhood development. You learn strategies for how to get students talking to each other, how to write a basic lesson plan, and ways to manage classroom behavior.
What they don’t teach you is how to deal with the death of a student.
Nothing can prepare you for the moment you learn that one of your kids is gone. The sadness is deep, and it persists. The logical part of my brain knows they are not my biological children, and that I only see them for about an hour a day. My heart does not care. It’s as if an unseen force reaches into your heart and tears off a portion that you will never get back. The piece may be small, but you still feel its absence.
I learned of four former students dying in the past year. Let me tell you about them.
Max was a gregarious fellow, full of energy and fun. On the hockey rink he skated with abandon, crashing into the boards and other players frequently, always with a smile on his face. He was the goofiest of his siblings, and he never failed to make me laugh.
Christian was a complete rascal with a sly smile that showed he understood more than he let on. His long bleach blond hair gave the impression that he was just a simple surfer and water polo player, but his mind was sharp and full of wit.
Dylan loved to crack jokes and make the class laugh. You always had to be on the lookout for his next opportunity for humor. Behind the comedian was an intelligent young man who never tried his hardest in my class, but I knew that he could do it.
Alex was just a wonderfully empathetic boy. A rarity in middle school. Alex made sure everyone was included and he stood up for what was right. He didn’t get the highest grade in the class, but he didn’t seem to care because he knew he tried his best. Alex would help anyone, no questions asked.
Alex was the subject of the “Tragic News” email. Only a senior in high school. I was looking forward to seeing him graduate in June. Now there will be an empty seat at commencement.
The simple truth is that if you teach long enough, you will outlive some of your students.
Most often the news will be shocking and unexpected. Young people are not supposed to die.
The news of one will make your memories cascade, reminding you of all the kids you have lost over the years. What you thought you had healed from, or buried, rises to the surface to remind you of how absolutely random and cruel the world can be. In the case of Alex, I learned of his death 30 minutes before school started. The first period bell rang whether I was done crying or not.
Some of the most important research on effective teaching shows that the stronger your connections are with your students, the higher they will achieve. My principal is well versed in this research, and consistently reminds us how important these connections are in our regular staff meetings. I know that what he says is true. The problem is, the stronger your connections are with your students, the more it hurts when they are gone.
That’s the toughest part of the job. When you truly care about your kids and build those bonds, you open yourself up to the hurt and despair when you lose one of them. If you choose to guard yourself and only know them on a surface level, they can always tell, and they don’t learn as much. Sometimes, you will put everything you have into a group of students and you will never see the result. It will feel as though your efforts were wasted.
Do you lean in and expose yourself to possible grief? Do you close off and merely “do the job”, protected from the pain?
I honestly don’t know the right answer. I just know that my heart is heavy, and I’m tired of losing my kids.
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