Entry # 13: He was mine...
Last Monday morning at about 6:30 a.m., I turned to the Metro section of
the St. Louis Post Dispatch to scan the latest news and editorials
for St. Louis. One small article announced that Roger Kent, 12 years old,
had died Sunday afternoon from injuries sustained Saturday evening after
a car had hit him. It was an accident. Just another kid caught in an unfortunate
chance of fate. Except he wasn't just another kid.
He was mine.
Roger was in my homeroom during the last school year. He was thin, with
large, expressive eyes and a ready grin. He was also mischievous as all
get-out, and often cracked jokes at the most inopportune times. More than
anything, he was a middle school boy, still a child in his interests and
behaviors.
The only time I can remember feeling such a deep sense of grief was when
my grandfather died on the day of my junior prom. I couldn't believe that
sometime between the time I was reading the Sunday paper and grocery shopping,
Roger had passed away. I think I've always known how much I care about my
students, but this one event brought the depth of my emotions towards them
completely into focus. They are more than little vessels, waiting to be
filled up with knowledge, they are children with dreams and personalities;
they are mine.
We know that we change our students, but we forget that they change us as
well. Each child that passes through our doors leaves a little piece of
themselves with us to learn from and pass on to the next group of children
who come to us. The truth is that we learn as much or more from them as
they do from us.
Did he feel welcome and safe?
I took a personal day on Monday because I knew I could not even begin to
hold myself together in front of my students. I went up to the school early,
gathered some work for them to do, and wrote a letter on the board to them
telling them I was sorry for being absent, but I would explain everything
to them the next day.
I spent Monday crying, posting to the MiddleWeb listserv, and journaling.
I asked myself some pretty tough questions. Did I treat him with respect?
While he was in my classroom, did he feel welcome and safe? Did I ever say
or do anything that would have caused him pain? Was I fair?
I think I was fair and treated all of my students with respect, but I do
know that there were times I was short-tempered with him or the class. My
homeroom last year was a real challenge behaviorally, and there was a lot
of trial and error until I got it right. I could beat myself up about my
failings, but even in our best intentions we are human.
Roger's mother spoke with my principal and requested that I speak at his
funeral. She said that Rodney had liked me, and she knew me from our conferences
about him during the school year. I was afraid to speak for fear of breaking
down, but I could not turn down the request of his parent. I was also honored
that she thought that highly of me.
Some of what I said . . .
Here are some excerpts of the speech I gave.
"I cannot think of Roger without picturing his smile. It lit up his
whole face, and he would undoubtedly flash that smile of his at me just
when I was about to chastise him for being off task or talking too loudly.
It was the type of smile that included everybody in its warmth and genuineness,
yet the mischievous little crook of his lips always made me wonder just
what new scheme he was up to. Roger's smile was such a large part of who
he was, and I will never forget it.
"For Christmas, he gave me a black jewelry box with a design on the
top. I was truly surprised that of all of my students, he was the one who
brought me something. During that first semester we'd had our ups and downs,
but we came to a meeting of the minds and mutual respect by the end of semester.
Once I earned Roger's trust and respect, he pushed himself harder to succeed
in my classroom. Towards the end of the year, Roger would be the first person
standing at my desk, asking me to check what he had done on his project
so far. He was insistent that he not only complete the project but that
he do his best work. He became a top student and a model for others to follow.
"Roger will be missed, but never forgotten. Although as teachers we
watch our students steadily move on and away from us, they leave a piece
of themselves with us, changing us forever. I can say with all certainty
that a large piece of Roger and who he was will follow me forever."
I made it through the speech with no tears. As I was leaving, his mother
hugged me and said, "You were always so good to my Roger. Thank you."
Her words have meant everything to me this week as I continue to struggle
with his death.
Making meaning from death
I have been seeking to make meaning of this event in my life. If I learn
something from this tragedy, then he will live on.
What I have learned is the affective domain is at least as important as
the cognitive domain in our classrooms. Every child has the right and expectation
to feel safe and comfortable while they are with us. A large part of why
students and teachers are successful in a given situation is related to
motivation.
If our students respect us and believe we think they can be successful in
our classroom, they usually are. We cannot create this climate through lip
service and cute posters with motivational sayings. A supportive climate
comes only through our daily actions that prove we believe the words we
say.
I do not regret knowing Roger. He has taught me a lot about the kind of
teacher I want to be. Throughout the week my old students have come to me
to talk, to get a quick hug, to use some Kleenex, and to reminisce about
Roger. His memory has allowed me to move outside of myself and my pain in
order to listen to them and help them through their own pain. Together we
are healing ourselves.
Because Roger has made a difference in my life, I can make more of a difference
in the lives of others.
God bless you Roger. I will miss you, but your spirit will always be with
me.
Editor's Note: This diary entry was republished in the St. Louis Post
Dispatch over Thanksgiving weekend.
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