Today began with the news that a former student had died. No, not just died, had taken his life. 23-years-old. One of my first students. He was friends with my brothers, had been to my house, had inspired rules that still exist in my classroom: namely only one butt-per-chair. He was smart, but goofy. Determined and stubborn. The last time I spoke with him, he told me that he wanted to work for the FBI and that he was pursuing a degree in criminal justice, a major that I didn't even realize existed at his school. He seemed so eager. That had to have been two to three years ago though.
That's what sucks about teaching: you watch these little people grow up and for a few you are a big part of it for four years (or three or two or one) and then they are gone. They disappear because for them, you were a crutch, you helped them through this tumultuous time in their lives and hopefully instilled some knowledge in them, but they no longer need that crutch anymore. It's the natural course of things, but for teachers, we remember students as they were. As the goofy boy with braces for most of high school who hung out with his sister and their childhood friend. And you are unprepared for when news comes like this.
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