Nothing bothers me more than the loss of a child, regardless of that child's age. In 1996, I experienced the loss of one of my students. She was tragically killed in a freak car accident. I mourned deeply, crying each day. Some tried to comfort me, reminding me that this young girl wasn't a member of the family and I should just get over her death.
I've had other students die--usually after graduation--and my heart has a little hole in it each time I find out about a student's death.
However, one of my all-time favorite students killed himself this week. I don't know why. I do know he was smart, funny, loyal, loving, and sweet. He had potential to do much with his life. He was in love with a beautiful young woman, close to marriage.
When Steve walked into my classroom in August of 2005, wearing his work boots, long t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a large silver chain around his neck, I realized that I had two choices: make an enemy of this kid or make him my friend. I decided to try to make him my friend. It took awhile for him to thaw, a wounded young man--wounded by people who didn't believe in him, wounded by people who felt he was useless. By the end of the first semester, I felt like I knew him, and I admired him greatly.
At the beginning of his senior year, I was disappointed not to have him or his friend on my roster. After talking with his girlfriend, I realized he had made a mistake and registered for a class he would flunk. He wouldn't flunk it because it was too hard for him; he'd flunk it because the teacher would anger him and he'd stop going to class. Like a mom, I nagged him to move to my class; I felt like I had a shot at helping him graduate. I also moved his friend to my class.
Athough the class was a college preparatory class and neither boy had any desire to continue schooling after high school, both worked diligently to pass. By May, both did what many didn't expect them to do...pass English (and with decent grades) and graduate. Among their parting gifts to me was a picture of Steve, his friend and his girlfriend, immortalizing them at 17. I treasure that picture, and it reminds me why I work so hard each day with my students.
But now Steve, the smart, funny, loving, and loyal guy, is dead. Dead becuse he tried to commit suicide. Dead at 22. My pain is deep. I simply want to crawl into bed until I can feel better.
That's one of the problems with suicide. Why. Why did Steve kill himself at 22? How could he? All those unanswered questions.
I looked frequently at that picture today, the last day for my seniors. One student said that he wondered where they would be in 10 years, who would be dead, and what would the world be like.
All I could think about was Steve, dead four years after graduation. And a world much emptier because he is no longer in it.
