A Grieving Educator
Trust me when I say no amount of schooling prepared me to cope with students’ death.
Turkey meatballs with pasta. Fred had just cooked dinner. I hadn’t had a bite of anything, and her cooking was godsend. The smell of garlic permeated our kitchen. Buzz. I just got a message from Karen, my ex-supervisor.
What the hell? The Caden we taught? What happened — wait no, that’s impossible. What? Is this a mistake? Are they sure it’s the right Caden? How is this possible? Shot and killed by whom? Why him? What does she mean no details? I don’t understand.
I didn’t understand then, and I don’t understand now.
Endless questions ran through my mind. The pasta didn’t seem appealing anymore. My heart sank. I was flooded with confusion. Even with an empty stomach, I had no appetite. I crouched in the corner of my bedroom in silence, paralyzed by the sea of emotions that washed over me. I kept asking “why”, but have come to realize no answers will ever prove satisfactory, no details will justify what happened.
The life of a 16 year-old filled with potential was taken away by a merciless act of violence. That in itself was unsettling.
In the following days, I found myself zoning out as I went through the motions of life. Life became a haze. I struggled to see through the fog of grief. There would be brief moments of clarity where I reminded myself that his life entails much more than how he died; there were moments when I was consumed by the hopelessness his death brings. My body would be flooded by fear and powerlessness. As his teacher, I could not stop the shooting from happening — heck, I don’t even know who was implicated. I was scared this may happen to other students, my colleagues, or myself. I was unable to plan for the future, fearing that any plans would simply be meaningless.
I struggled to see hope.
As an educator, I thrive and rely on the hope that the teenagers in my classroom may grow up to actualize their potentials and dreams. After they leave or graduate, I imagine that they moved on to pursue their goals. I teach with the hope that I can learn and grow alongside my students, who have a world of possibilities before them. Yet, death precludes all other possibilities. Caden wished to be an accountant, and he will never get there. At times, I think of the lives he could potentially touch and how they will never get to know his warm, soulful spirit.
In the month between his passing and my writing this piece, I have frantically searched through the Self-Help and Grief sections of bookstores. I texted and called my colleagues, friends, and family at all hours of the day. I spent hours looking for support networks and grief groups. I wanted so desperately for the pain to subside, wishing they would become more bearable. Often, I hoped to find fixes, forgetting that grief is not something to be fixed.
Unsurprisingly, most Google search results are on how to discuss death with kids — more so than how we may cope personally. To me, that is a reflection that our profession consists of caring individuals that often place others’ needs above our own.
As educators, we are taught how to show up for our students when they are grieving, but who shows up for us? Trust me when I say no amount of schooling prepared me to cope with students’ death. There are policies and protocols on how to support grieving students, but no manual for how we may manage our grief. Learning to cope with grief often comes, paradoxically, through experience. Whilst I wish there is a magical pill that dulls this aching pain, I know feeling is the only way to heal.
I still recall the first time I uttered, “my student passed away”. My mind was blank, and my body felt numb; I could not comprehend the gravity of the very words I verbalized. Nothing made sense whatsoever. My friend K was on the other end of the line. “They will offer you grief counselling; take them up on it” he said. I didn’t know then, that shock and grief would colour every bit of my life, leaving me paralyzed at times. In retrospect, I am thankful he planted that seed for me to seek support.
Caden’s death thrusted me into an ocean of raw emotions. I felt powerless, having acknowledged I had no control over what happened. Fearful of losing my loved ones, I often wondered who would be dying next and when. Despite not knowing whom to direct my anger toward, knowing that somebody who took my student’s life was still running free filled me with resentments. Immense sorrow washed over me, as I recalled his goal of becoming an accountant and realized he may never achieve it. My whole attitude toward life was shifting — trust became a foreign concept. Planning even the minute, day to day tasks became nearly impossible.
Some days, my fears would cloud all my judgements. Other days, I could stand tall, shrugging off the doubts and fears. The ebbs and flows of grief is not unlike the unpredictability of life itself — I never knew when it may hit.
Whilst I am told that time heals all wounds, I know most wounds leave scars. We don’t forget somebody after their passing. From time to time, we still get reminders of the person whom we cared for. Healing from grief simply means becoming able to coexist with the emotions that emerge, which is a lifelong process of learning and growing.
Weeks after his death, I joined a Homicide Loss support group. Prior to the first meeting, I recall thinking to myself: “I’m not close enough to him to join this group”. Evidently, I thought the right to grief belonged only to his family and friends. I was fearful of being judged for how strongly his death affected me; I feared my emotional sensitivity may reflect poorly on my professional identity. What does it mean to be professional, though?
Can we truly teach our students without building loving and caring relationships with each and every one of them?
A colleague of mine reminded me that love is the best gift we can offer our students, and that grief is what we experience when those we love are gone. Thank you, Kevo. Whilst loss feels excruciatingly painful, I don’t ever want to become numb and apathetic. I don’t want to get used to losing students. The pains of loss are visceral, palpable signals of unconditional care and love. Many of us hope our students may feel empowered to pursue what their heart desires, and an early death strips all those possibilities away. Whilst I am grieving the loss of my student, I am also grieving the world of possibilities and potentials that are taken away from him.
His name is Caden. He was 16 years old.
Her name is Florence. She was 19 years old.
His name is Alan. He was 18 years old.
His name is Tom. He was 18 years old.
At 22 years of age, Caden’s passing is my fourth encounter with death — all of whom by suicide and homicide. I am continuously reminded that death by homicide and suicide make up a small percentage of deaths overall, that deaths in teenagers are less common than deaths in older folks (see: Our World in Data). Yet, no numbers can comfort me. Deaths of teenagers never became any easier to swallow. The fear, that any of my students or friends may die any moment from now, is still present.
Teaching is a precious gift I don’t take lightly. This gift comes with love, fear, joy, sorrow, and every other emotion in between. To show up fully for my students, I have to take care of myself. I have to give myself the permission to feel and be vulnerable. I don’t have all the answers in life, and I can fall apart. Most importantly, I can ask for help for I am human too (see: Teachers are humans).
I am always human first, teacher second.
To conclude, I will leave you with a poem I wrote.
To grief is to love
fiercely with our tender, fluid heart —
never forgetting
their smile, scent, spirit, and sound story.
To grief is to let love linger and bleed
into the fabric of our lives,
weaving our unwavering spirits into the stream of life.Pain. Anger. Fear. Love never subsides,
it remains
showing up with different faces when we grief.
To grief is to feel.
To grief is to behuman.
