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.
Monday, July 6, 2015
A school year fantasy
Sometimes we need not only to relax, but to reenergize ourselves. This is something that I wrote five years ago. What's funny is that what I struggled with that year seems to be very similar to what I'm struggling with now at work. I think SMCM people know what I am talking about here, but I hope that others can relate.
The song. The blasted song that brings you back to the nights pond-side under the lingering glow of a far away street lamp, singing your sorrows and prayers and hopes to a sky full of stars. The song has played on the radio every morning for a week and each time you hear it, you are tempted to continue down the highway to find that pond-side peninsula, remove your shoes and socks and let your soul feel the wet soft grass. This morning, you chose to go. Not a call to work or home to warn them of your decision, just the flick of a turn signal to indicate that you are moving out of the off ramp and back to main lane of the highway.
Two hours later, you pull down a familiar hill, round a familiar turn, and see the river to your right and your pond to the left. The sun is high overheard and the campus is full of loud children. It is not the refreshing oasis that you wished to find. The sun and the blue sky make everything beautiful, yet the serenity is not the serenity you long for. Still, you follow the road around and pull into the visitors' lot, get out of your car, and walk down to the brick sidewalk that paves the length of the campus.
Laughter greets you before you see anyone. The laughter of those who are completely carefree. You walk under the arches and see the source--a circle of shirtless young men kicking a hacky sack around in a circle. You turn away from the men, wanting to be somewhere alone, but the laughter echoes down the path.
Across the pond, you see your spot, but Frisbee golfers are there, teeing off, trying to skim their flying discs off the girls dorm. The laughter seems to be infectious, but you are more pensive. You walk instinctively to a secret place that everyone knows and hope the reverence of the location keeps the laughing psuedo-teens away.
Down a steep hill, through a brambly, sandy familiar path, you walk until you see the cross appear against a backdrop of water. As you suspected, the place is silent. You are alone. Your shoes, sensible close-toed dress shoes, are ill-suited for the trip you just forced them to make. You strip them off and your socks too. As soon as your bare feet touch the sand, your body tingles. Soon you inexplicably lose your dress pants, blouse, bra, and panties and wade into the water, submerging yourself beneath the chilly clear waves. You yearn to stay in the river longer, but the temperature forces you back to shore after a few short minutes.
On the sand, you shake out your sandy clothes and quickly dress--the breeze is cold. You roll your pant legs up to your knee and tie your shirt above your bellybutton and walk back towards your car barefoot--your sensible shoes and dress socks left on the shore under the cross, like a sacrifice on an alter. While you do not join the laughing children around you, you feel your soul laugh and you crack a smile--the first one you can remember cracking in months. You walk slowly to the car, enjoying each step on the brick path. You get in, start the engine, and drive--drive back to reality.
The song. The blasted song that brings you back to the nights pond-side under the lingering glow of a far away street lamp, singing your sorrows and prayers and hopes to a sky full of stars. The song has played on the radio every morning for a week and each time you hear it, you are tempted to continue down the highway to find that pond-side peninsula, remove your shoes and socks and let your soul feel the wet soft grass. This morning, you chose to go. Not a call to work or home to warn them of your decision, just the flick of a turn signal to indicate that you are moving out of the off ramp and back to main lane of the highway.
Two hours later, you pull down a familiar hill, round a familiar turn, and see the river to your right and your pond to the left. The sun is high overheard and the campus is full of loud children. It is not the refreshing oasis that you wished to find. The sun and the blue sky make everything beautiful, yet the serenity is not the serenity you long for. Still, you follow the road around and pull into the visitors' lot, get out of your car, and walk down to the brick sidewalk that paves the length of the campus.
Laughter greets you before you see anyone. The laughter of those who are completely carefree. You walk under the arches and see the source--a circle of shirtless young men kicking a hacky sack around in a circle. You turn away from the men, wanting to be somewhere alone, but the laughter echoes down the path.
Across the pond, you see your spot, but Frisbee golfers are there, teeing off, trying to skim their flying discs off the girls dorm. The laughter seems to be infectious, but you are more pensive. You walk instinctively to a secret place that everyone knows and hope the reverence of the location keeps the laughing psuedo-teens away.
Down a steep hill, through a brambly, sandy familiar path, you walk until you see the cross appear against a backdrop of water. As you suspected, the place is silent. You are alone. Your shoes, sensible close-toed dress shoes, are ill-suited for the trip you just forced them to make. You strip them off and your socks too. As soon as your bare feet touch the sand, your body tingles. Soon you inexplicably lose your dress pants, blouse, bra, and panties and wade into the water, submerging yourself beneath the chilly clear waves. You yearn to stay in the river longer, but the temperature forces you back to shore after a few short minutes.
On the sand, you shake out your sandy clothes and quickly dress--the breeze is cold. You roll your pant legs up to your knee and tie your shirt above your bellybutton and walk back towards your car barefoot--your sensible shoes and dress socks left on the shore under the cross, like a sacrifice on an alter. While you do not join the laughing children around you, you feel your soul laugh and you crack a smile--the first one you can remember cracking in months. You walk slowly to the car, enjoying each step on the brick path. You get in, start the engine, and drive--drive back to reality.
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