It's impossible to be a teacher (or a parent) and not be absolutely overwhelmed with the school shooting that happened yesterday in Connecticut. This one was especially disturbing because the targets were elementary children--kindergarteners, the reports are saying. Honestly, I've had teen-agers in my classroom that I could almost imagine turning into a shooter because they were so dark and depressed, coming from a life of abuse and neglect. And I've seen high school students be so mean to each other that I have worried about a retaliation of extreme proportion. At this point, we don't know anything about this shooter and his motives, but what could possibly make anyone want to kill children? I'm not saying the other shootings were understandable, but if you hang around mistreated teenagers, you can kind of feel their pain and see how their unstable mind might get to that point. But not this time. It doesn't make sense, even in that sick way of one whose been bullied getting revenge.
I'm reminded of my first and second years teaching. The first year, though I wasn't young like most first year teachers, I was inexperienced. I had come from years of youth ministry where it was my job to befriend high schoolers. I didn't know how to relate as an authority figure, and as a result, my classes were sometimes chaotic. That first year, I taught seniors. I didn't even know my way around the school as well as they did! They knew more than I did, and they knew it. I cried many evenings that year. I came home saying, "I can't do this," on a regular basis. One of my mentor teachers recommended, in her words, that I become a b**** for a while to establish my authority. As a result, at the start of year two, I decided to become mean. I went in the first day with my stern voice and face. My introductions were brief, and I jumped right into the material. I tried to overwhelm my new students with the amount of work to be done in English class. I tried to impress upon them that this would be a hard class that they would need to take seriously. I didn't engage in chit chat, and I made it my aim to not appear all that friendly . . . . That evening, after the first day of school, one of my students took his own life . . . . That was five years ago. To this day, I wish I had smiled. I wish I had just been myself. I wish I had at least had a friendly conversation with that boy. I wish his first, last, and only impression of me hadn't been my stern face and down-to-business voice.
I'm not afraid to go to work. I'm not afraid for my life. But I'm terrified for the world these students are growing up in. And I'm not just talking about the young ones who lived through the shooting in Connecticut. I'm talking about my students--and my children, who are young adults now.
And I have that feeling I had five years ago--that I want to go back into my classroom on Monday and just love on my students. I want to tell them that I think they're wonderful--even the ones who won't quit talking. I want them to know that one person (if no other) cares about them. Every day during our moment of silence, my prayer is for the 130ish students who will pass through my doors that day. I pray that they'll know that I love them. My apologies to the State, but I don't pray that they'll pass their standardized test. I don't pray they'll understand grammar. In the long run of their lives, knowing a gerund from a participle isn't going to mean anything. But knowing they had a teacher who cared about them as a human being--that will last.
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