Death Be Not Proud

A school is a microcosm of the larger world.  In many ways, it's also like a snow globe or a model-train town set up in a department-store window.  And everyone, it seems, likes to press their noses against the window to see what's happening inside. 

I'm sure many people woke today quietly wondering what was happening inside the walls of East High School.   And, for once, I don't think a single one of us gave a moment's thought to all those noses pressed up against our windows.  No, we were very much focused on taking care of ourselves and each other.

That's how it is when a school wakes up to heartbreaking news.

While I would gladly swap today's hard news for a dozen days of mayhem and misbehavior, I must say that the people who make up East High made me mighty proud today.  And I am so thankful for all of those Spartan parents who had enough faith in our school to send their kids to us, knowing it would be a difficult day.

Whether or not you knew Tony Kirkpatrick directly--and I did not--it was impossible not to feel the reverberations of a young life--vibrant, complicated and involved--suddenly absent the next day.  The halls were quieter today, but everywhere there was a low thrum of grief and recollection and tender care.

Elementary-school teachers probably consider hugs to be a part of their regular school day.  We high-school folks, though, are a less touchy bunch, worried that a hug will result in a funny look or a terse email, so we tend to avoid them.

Not today, though. At times, I felt cosmically compelled to take hold of my student's shoulders and pull her into my embrace.

We are, perhaps, all of us, mama bears at times.

In addition to the students, plenty of East High adults cried today, men and women alike.  I know that it can be a little scary to see a teacher cry.  I can count on a single hand the times I've seen my own parents shed tears, and I remember each of those times with savant-like clarity.  But I really do believe that, in the raw aftermath of a young life lost, sharing our grief, which sometimes takes the form of tears, is an incredibly bonding experience.

In the snow globe that is East High, today--with our windows veiled in mourning--curriculum and tests and deadlines and expectations took a back seat so that we could ponder the life that was Tony Kirkpatrick's.  And, in the process, we each felt like the Grinch, our hearts having grown three sizes this day. 

Role Call

I have been in exactly two theatrical performances in my life--one when I was 11 (and in which I was demoted to a smaller part by my wise, wise teacher) and another when I was in my early 30s.  Apparently, I needed those 20 years in between performances to marinate as an actress.

Last Saturday, I revived two roles that had been underutilized of late--the roles of "sister" and "daughter."  And, while a person might expect a blip in quality, given my lack of practice, it was a delight for me to play myself again.  In fact, it was downright liberating to put away "mom" and "teacher," "neighbor" and "friend" and focus solely upon my earliest, deepest roles in this life.

If we are lucky--and I am lucky in this way--there are people in our lives with whom we have a "just add water" ease, even if months or years or many miles have separated us.  And, in those instances when we manage to bridge all that time and space, it is as though we'd been holding our breath all along.  And finally--finally!--we can let it go.

That's how I felt on Saturday, in the car with my mom and sister, looking out the window and marveling at how long Fall had hung on this year.  That's how I felt Saturday in the coffee shop below my brother's apartment, sharing a lemon muffin with the same people I share a genetic code with.  That's how I felt Saturday, lingering in front of a painting, listening to my siblings and mom debating whether or not it had been painted onto wood, and finally deciding that the artist had actually figured out how to make wood with nothing more than a brush and some colors.

Twenty years ago, while gathering up the nerve to begin a scene from "A Midsummer Night's Dream," I remember wondering--just moments before my character spoke--if the words I'd practiced over and over again would find their way out of me, preferably in the right order.  And marveling that--somehow--they tumbled out as if on their own.  It was all so strange and magical and natural, this bending of time and this coming together of dusty, old phrases.

That's how I felt on Saturday, abuzz from this ancient thrumming that had been there all along, patiently waiting to be called into action again.  Amazed and grateful that it felt so natural.  Mighty glad to be there for it.

Navigating the In Between

I woke today relatively healthy, in a home that has heat and a dependable roof, with a ridiculously devoted dog and a surprisingly dedicated husband at my side.  So why the feeling of longing? 

I blame it on the in between, that odd time when absence and presence duke it out in the larger world.   Maybe that explains all the odd things I've seen on my early-morning walks of late. . .

. . . a possum triggering my neighbor’s safety lights, and then standing frozen in fear of its own unknown powers.

. . . the  last crickets of summer humming one more line of their gregorian chant, the tune quieter and sadder than their October number.

. . .the sun and moon battling over the early morning sky, while Orion fades silently into the background.

. . .the first fingers of a season yet to come, holding hands with the last warm wisps of summer.

. . . my own thoughts, fretting over elderly parents and children, all in the same chilled breath.

. . . four days, three owls.  One shooting baskets, another standing watch over our patio, and a third bellowing its mighty song to me just outside of Northeast High School last night. 

I know now that I am, indeed, among the fence walkers, those who are sandwiched between aging parents and muscle-flexing children, financial freedom and pre-planned funerals.  It is an odd place, to be sure, and not for the faint of heart.  

But this is where I am these days, in the in-between.  And I do my best to make my peace with all the conflicting messages, missing my children and celebrating my new-found freedom in the same, strange breath that I selfishly hope will go on and on for a very long time.

Why I Root for the Salmon

On most days, it is a challenge to get students to seek out the "other."  In an election season, that task feels downright monumental, like a salmon weaving its way up Niagra Falls.

If we taught school the way politicians seek seats these days--with finger-pointing vitriol, basted in barrels full of vinegar--I doubt our students would learn much at all about themselves, more or less anything substantive about the "other" who is on the receiving end of those diatribes.

Oh, I suppose that's not entirely true.  They would learn, for instance, who's got the most bravado, the best marketing strategies, the snarkiest one-liners.

But I'd prefer working with mirrors that reflect rather than refract.

Color me crazy, but I love those moments when students suddenly see themselves--or, better yet, someone else-- as though for the first time.  It is like morning sunlight fractured into a thousand diamonds on a single blade of grass--breathtaking and symphonic.  And, invariably, in the aftermath of such experiences, these students are left looking over their shoulders, wondering if--hoping that--someone else saw what they just saw.

Even though today's journalists lack the reputation and luster of their muckraking, independent ancestors, there are still those who seek to do the job in that spirit--diligently finding and giving voice to the underrepresented.  Certainly, the most magical experiences in my own classroom often seem to involve "the other"--an idea, a person, a perspective, a medium previously unexplored.

The key is to expect  the students to move outside of their comfort zones, and to give them both the permission and the tools they'll need to muddle through these new things--even if failure or discomfort may follow.  My role in that process is to provide the occasional Google Map and then stay out of the way.

Despite what the politicians may be shouting on TV these days, the means really does justify the end. It is the process--the journey, the hard work of showing up each day with our eyes and minds and hearts wide open and working through the discomfort of our own inexperience--that gives meaning to our lives and to the lives of others.

Life is messy.  And there are good kinds of "messy" and bad kinds of it.  It would serve us well to focus on the former, even if it makes for lousy sound bites.