Processing a Life

I'm wearing my new boots - they fold over - and I'm walking down the hall. It's quiet, and clean, and white and sterile. I go to my room. It's early. No one is around. I drop the bin filled with secrets. I perch precariously on stacked desks taping fallen, colored tissue paper on lights. A student pops in, asks about the rough draft that was homework. He didn't do it, and I'm short with him. It's due today.

I sneak away, backpack slug on shoulder, LSAT prep tucked inside. I enter the office and make 12 copies for studying tonight. I'm quick. And feel like I got away with something that I also feel I deserve.

I'm walking in the hallway. Back. A student slides next to me and slips me Model UN money, in cash, which is more uncomfortable than a check. Ahead, I see a student's mom crying in the hallway. I know her. She has emailed me, multiple times. She's waiting for me, and I'm worried, but not afraid. I lead her into my classroom and she's talking to me about something she thinks I already know. When I don't react, she knows I don't.

She starts crying harder. I can't understand her. Fragments of meaning: last night, push to hard, the quiz, tutoring, found him, her son's upset, preacher coming, counselor's here, life is precious - Jamie committed suicide.

I don't believe her. Not at first. Last person to expect.
Then I cry.
We're hugging.

I don't know what to do. I didn't learn this. I called my mom. I called Theresa.

I told Jacob. I told Sean. I told Neil. I told Annie. I told Lonnie. I told Kevin. I told 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 6th, 7th period classes - out of 150 students, the ones who stayed. And they told me fragments of meaning: anxiety medicine, depressive side effects, text-messaged warnings, overwhelming make-up work...

I do the best that I can and I think I helped. It was good I could be there. I couldn't not be there. I think of the six girls grouped in my room in 5th, my conference, crying into tissues, eating chocolate, worrying about friends, processing the levels and ranges of grief. They came back after school and thanked me. And I feel so bad for them.

I left at the end of the day and went to go study. I was fine for that time. For that time. But now, I'm sad again. Angry again. I'm not tired, despite the long day.

I hate that the grades catalyzed this situation, commandeered this kid's life with chemicals and fears. We're so fucked up.