On the loss of a student

Teacher school prepared me for many aspects of my career, but one area where I wasn't adequately prepared was on the loss of a student.

I still remember my first student who died in a horrific car accident; Brooke was 16 years old. I cried for weeks after her death; it seemed so senseless. Non-teachers don't quite understand the bond between a student and a teacher, and when a student passes away, it's devastating.

This morning, I opened my Facebook account and found out I lost a student to a gun.  I sat there, stunned. Less than a week ago, he was in my room, asking to go to the library, and now he is dead.

He is my son's age.

He is also the second of my students to die in 2016.

I lost a student to suicide earlier this year.

I spend eight hours a day, five days a week, 10 months a year with teens, and each one has a piece of my heart. When one of my students dies, a part of my heart dies. I don't know quite how to describe it to non-teachers. I can still see Brooke's beautiful smile and laughing eyes. I can see Sean's blue eyes and heavy silver chain. I see Nathaniel dancing into my room, singing an 80s song. Leah dressing up differently each day. Josh--so tired he couldn't function--sleeping in study hall.

The potential, gone forever.

I think about my students' families and say a prayer for them.

Although teaching has joy-filled times, there is far more pain in it than I expected. But the loss of a student, well, that's a pain I'm ill-equipped to cope with.

Fat a poem

Fat

When I was born,

I weighed 6 pounds, 4 ounces.

My head barely filled the palm of my father’s hand,

My body rested on his arm.

The last time I was “small.”

By third grade,

pictures show me

plump, chunky,

Whatever the name was then.

My mother, bless her heart, wanted to make me thin.

I was restricted on my eating…

I was eight years old…

I was watched…

nagged…

monitored

to make sure I didn’t eat too much.

By fifth grade, my playground nickname

was Hungry Hungry Hippo.

I hate that game.

Kids would throw things at me,

telling me to eat them up.

Oh yeah. Fat.

By high school,

I knew I wanted to play soccer, to be more involved,

and that required a physical.

Nothing better than a doctor

Grabbing my stomach,

telling me “My we are a little chubby, aren’t we?”

I wasn’t.

And my mother?

Still nagging, still concerned

I would be “too fat.”

I began sneaking food,

eating on the sly

so no one would know-

shovelling to fill the hole inside

Craving...craving what?

My life’s journey has been to answer

that specific question.

Once I wrote, “Plump like a pumpkin

she struggles…”

equating myself with a round vegetable.

I am no better than 

a Gourd.

Here I am

Cancer warrior...

Teacher...

Mother...

Wife...

Daughter...

still Fat.

Still defined by my 

clothing size. 

A Failure in my Life and What I Learned...

I know we all fail from time to time, but failure is hard for me to accept. Some failures had positive results, like the time  when I lied in a parent meeting about what I said to the student; the student and I ended up respecting and liking one another. The worst failure of my life, to date, is ruining my friendship with Shannon.

When Shannon and I met, she had just graduated from high school while I had just completed  my first year  of  college. We were working  in a burger joint called “Round the Corner,” and I was told to train her. Frankly, I didn’t like her. She acted like she was tough, she smoked cigarettes, and I didn’t think she  was very nice. However, as she  was going to attend Metro State, and I was already attending Metro State, and we lived a couple blocks apart, it made sense to carpool together.

All the  time we spent in the car and on campus together allowed us to become like sisters. To this day, I still consider her my sister. Shannon was dating a guy I didn’t like, a guy she ended up marrying. He’s  a pompous asshole; a recovering druggie and smoker who found God and devotes as much time to God as he did to drugs and smoking. He also barely graduated from high school, and he’s a registered Republican. Not that I have problems with Republicans, just  assholes like him.

Shannon and I were inseparable; she was daring while I was safe. She smoked and drank and did drugs, while I did none of those. She  was living with her  boyfriend and having sex. I lived  at home  like a nun. She was on birth control pills. Not  me. She listened to hair bands and could do her make-up and hair like them. I had a bob and listened to all sorts of music. We were definitely opposites.

When we worked together, even if we were fighting, we were amazing together. No one could run the front counter like we could. No one could talk as  fast  as we could, no one fought like we fought.

Fast-forward a number of years; she and Chris married, had a baby boy and later a girl. I finally married, had a baby boy. Shannon was with me when I was on bed-rest, caring for me and helping me out.

None of this is failure, right?

Until I decided I couldn’t be friends with her anymore.

That was my failure.

Her husband Chris would call her repeatedly when she and I would get together; he didn’t like us being friends. We’d make plans, and Chris would make her cancel with me because he had to do something else. She was depressed, I was depressed, and I couldn’t cope with both our depressions.

Then I went back to grad school and work. We hardly had time with one another. She lived in Castle Rock, I lived in Denver. But her husband, the asshole, made it hard for her to see me.

One night, we had dinner together, and she sat in my car crying because she felt her husband had taken her identity. She didn’t know who she  was anymore. If he couldn’t reach her on her cell phone, he would call mine. He must have called a dozen times that night.

Finally, working full time, going to grad school, new mother, fighting with my husband, struggling with my parents, I was done. I had to eliminate some stress from my life, and I realized I wasn’t being a good friend to Shannon.

So I wrote a letter, taking the chicken-shit way out. I told her that I loved her and she was my sister, but I couldn’t stand her husband any longer. I broke off our friendship.

I failed her. I failed us.

Our relationship is irreparable. And it’s my fault.

I have never had another friend like Shannon. I may never have another friend like Shannon.

I lost a terrific friendship because I couldn’t stand her husband. I have also learned that I can fail at something that I will regret for the rest of my life. And finally, I have learned that I can never go back again. Sometimes, although I might be forgiven for my stupidity, there’s no return.

I miss Shannon every day. I think about her frequently. I wish I could go back with the knowledge I have now and NOT send that letter.

No Fair!

After all this time, after all these years, you'd think I'd realize that life's not fair. It's not fair that I had cancer even though I take good care of myself; it's not fair we live paycheck to paycheck while others live lives of privilege.

But what really has me stewing is burglary. My dad was broken into the other day; they threw a rock through his sliding glass door, shattering it. He was home, too, and I'm glad he wasn't assaulted, and the burglars ran away. What about the next house? What if it's an elderly person unable to defend him/herself?

We were burglarized seven years ago too; our home was ripped up, our things were broken or smashed, our truck was stolen; our brand-new TV, the one we had saved for, was gone. As I put my house back together, I cried for the lack of fairness of it all.

Burglary is a violation; homes invaded by strangers who touch whatever they want. Possessions gone, onto the black market or to Mexico, to make some thug some money. Average people like us work hard for what we have, and I'm struck repeatedly by the unfairness of a stranger thinking it's a good idea to go into other people's homes and help himself.

I'm struck by what drives burglars to steal. To destroy.

Burglars stole my security. They destroyed the sanctity of my first house. No longer do I believe I'm safe in my own home. I fear my child coming home by himself and finding someone here.

No fair.