“He’s dead,” she said through the tears. “I just got a text message from my mother and she told me he’s dead.”
Our school ahs a very strict policy against the use of electronic devices during school hours, and my first thought – out of habit – was to reprimand her for using her phone, but considering her distress, I decided to wait until a better moment. I asked her who was dead. I imagined it might be a pet or a relative.
She told me the student who had been shot – Damarien – had died from his wounds.
I began to reassure her. The story on the website had said that the wounds were not fatal. I couldn’t believe that the paramedics, the police, or the reporter, for that matter, had gotten it that wrong. I sent her back into the room to compose herself.
But then, two of the school’s counselors came by, discussing it. I approached them. The students in my room came out, asking questions. I asked them to return to the room, but they said they were going to the regular end-of-day meeting we have. The counselors confirmed this.
“Then, it’s true,” I said.
They nodded and went on downstairs.
I stood at the doorway, holding it open for the steady stream of students and faculty that filed by. I tried not to show how I felt, but, uncontrollably, two tears ran down my cheeks. Several people asked me what was wrong, but could not answer.
Then, in the meeting, they announced that Damarien was dead.
There were wails and cries and curses and stunned, silent disbelief, all mingling together in a scene that was not so much like a dream as it was a game of pretend gone horribly wrong. Students, staff, counselors, administrators – no one knew what to do or how to do it. We all just stumbled our way through our thoughts and misery and reacted in whatever way our hearts took us.
For days, until Damarien’s funeral, and after, the school was wading through so many complex emotions that it was impossibly to sort them all out. Then, it looked as though we were going to make it through. We were getting over it.
Yesterday, I was in another classroom and one of the students I had late in the day was the best friend of Damarien. It was the day before Thanksgiving Break and no one was really pushing things. In this class, I was letting the students watch a film or work jigsaw puzzles.
I was sitting with a couple of the young ladies as they worked on a puzzle. They were engaging in the sort of insult humor that can only be done between two people who really care about each other and I was enjoying the show. Suddenly, the one young lady asked, “Mr. Greene, do you remember the last time you were in this classroom?”
I thought a moment but I had to admit I didn’t.
“It was two weeks ago today.”
“Okay,” I said. “Since it is memorable to you, something must have happened.”
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