A letter to Carly

Dear Carly

I recently returned to my parental home for a short vacation. My mom — who is a hoarder — hands me a cheap dogged eared plastic photo album. “You might like this…” she says. Flipping through its pages, your face leaps out at me from one of the group photos. And it takes me back…god…it takes me back! I remember your spirit, the way you would be unafraid in my class, how you would volunteer to read or share, how you would make our school proud by bringing home the Gold Medal at the English Eisteddfod every year. Your smile lit up a room. And yet I wonder now if you are well, if you are happy, if you still write poetry…

I remember that day in May of 1999, when I was on school yard patrol during recess, a couple of students in your class came running up to me… “Miss, come quickly, Carly is bleeding!” I went as quickly as I could, thinking as I slogged what common schoolyard incident could have befallen you—you were an exceptionally well-spoken twelfth grader in my English class. My images of a fall, nose-bleed, even fist fight, were a far cry from the sight that greeted me as I rounded that corner. Carly, you were leaning against the wall, propped up against it by your two closest friends, Rene and the other girl whose name has vacated my memory; you were severely hemorrhaging from between your legs, blood running like someone had left a faucet on…I was stunned. Nothing could have prepared me for this sight of you, the 17 year old girl whom I had known since she was in eighth grade, so obviously in the start of a miscarriage in full view of the whole school population. My mind still reels at the image, especially of Rene who was on her knees beside you, trying to stem the flow of blood from between your thighs. I recall how I could not get a single male student to help me carry you into the school building, and that it was these girls in your class, pale and ashen, who lifted you and helped me get you inside. When the ambulance arrived, not a single teacher was prepared to go with you, Carly, not even your cousin Elize, who was a teacher at the school. With my huge, pregnant body I got into the back of the ambulance with you—you kept on saying, “Please help me, Miss. The pain is so much.” I clutched my own kicking baby in my womb fearfully…not knowing much more than to cry with you and promise that everything would be alright. I was so afraid, Carly. I hope you knew even then that I loved you so and would have done anything I could have to remove that experience from your life.

I remember that we were taken to the local municipal hospital where the principle of racial segregation no longer existed in theory, but in reality, because we were Coloured, it meant that we had very little or no health care and were forced to go to these municipal hospitals as opposed to private ones, and so the service was slow, unwelcoming and uncaring. Medical personnel were understaffed and underpaid, all of which produced the effect of a hugely deprived and destitute situation for you. On the ride to the hospital, I looked at the face of the medical officer constantly…it was wan, yet I kept telling you that you would be all right. Of course, what else could I say to you, even when I knew that everything could not be OK, that something was terribly wrong?

I kept touching over my own very pregnant belly, and I thanked God that my own son was safe and cocooned within me. I felt so inadequate…I kept wondering what my role here was as your teacher—what did I say to you?

Upon our arrival, you were put on a wheeled bed and told to wait…to wait! A doctor would be with you shortly, they said. I was given paperwork to fill out…so many questions…who was I? Why were you at school this far into your pregnancy…did your parents know…and more importantly, did you know you were pregnant?

Oh Carly, how had I and the education system and your parents failed you? What was the purpose of my life as a teacher? Was I just there to teach you grammar and make sure that you brought back the gold medal at the annual English Eisteddfod? What was my role?

I guess I struggled to make sense of this for myself, for how I interacted with you that day and with those that came before you, and I realize now that my job, my role, my purpose, it seemed, had always been bigger. I was supposed to give of myself to those whom I taught—not only English, but about the life we lead—because it is a truth that teachers are privileged to teach, influence and shape, and that we have to be careful how we wield that power with which we are entrusted. I believe it is true that we are teachers of academic subjects, but moreover, we are the pastors, the social workers, the guidance counselors, the judge and jury, the forgiver of sins and the bearers of all sorrows, big and small.

I remember coming over to you after the doctor finally examined you, you had had a miscarriage…the fetus approximated at 7 months…I felt your pain…it was tangibly hanging in the air. You looked to the wall and held onto my hand so tightly, but you kept looking to the wall as I said, “Everything will be OK.” I prayed it would be so, that you would laugh and write poetry again, and that this experience had not sapped the life from your beautiful spirit.

As I sit here thinking about you I am struck with how teachers and students come in and out of each others’ lives — how we say we will keep in contact and then that diminishes to a nothingness… I wish I had done a better job of keeping that contact. But Carly, I hope above all hopes that you are well and that you are living the best possible life you can have. I hope you laugh and that life has treated you kindly. And I hope you still write your poetry…

Thank you for the lessons you taught me; thank you for trusting me that day. I treasure it.

Your Teacher,