that vision thang - January 19th, 2008

I don't even know what to title this entry. The part of me that uses humor to deal with things callously muttered, "Another one bites the dust." The other part of me wants to cry.

There was a car accident this part weekend-- a drunken hit and run. Six teenager boys were in the car that was hit. The teenager driving died at the hospital. One  was ejected through the windshield and died instantly. Another died the next day. Two were on life support or respirators for days; one was seriously injured but stable and expected to recover. Two-- the driver and one on a respirator- were brothers. I didn't even know it had happened, because I so rarely watch the news on the weekend.

I found out when another teacher at school called to warn me to be ready for all hell to break loose Monday morning. The kid ejected and dead on-site was a sophomore at our school.He had gone through our middle school, been there for five years.

He was seventeen years old.

The loss of any child is terrible. Our school is for at-risk youth, in an urban setting. Our students know about death and drugs and hopelessness and loss. Most have had a friend or family member involved in the criminal justice system, as a defendant or complaintant. Many have had brushes themselves. Many of their family are the soldiers who fighting in a bad war, one that doesn't benefit them, because it pays a decent living and gets them out of here, the place with limited options and a multitude of bad choices waiting to be made. Many of those who have died that they know have been children or teenagers.

But no one from our school, a student their age who was here Friday and gone Monday. Not in years.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I got to school, but I prepared for the worse. To be the typical white woman here, I wasn't sure how the grief would play out. We Irish don't do grief the way the Puerto Ricans do; the wailing and "Dios mio!"s and falling down on the floor. My grandmother used to live across the corner from a funeral home, when the neighborhood was changing over, and I've seen some doozies at a distance. The administration at our school knew what to expect, or seemed to, having dealt with the death of a student some twenty-five times in twenty-eight years. I wasn't sure I could handle a room full of hysterical, emotional students. I am not the touchy-feely type. You want a student yelled at and pulled back into line, I'm your woman. I can make a senior sit down, shut up, an start working with a look alone.

Consoling? Nice? Understanding?

SO. NOT. ME. 

The entire upstairs administrative staff came down to the high school hallways Monday morning, as well as all of our counselors (something like six, I think). The first tears started at 7:20. A student worked was sent out from the day care by the high school principal when she dropped her kids off  (and to the high school office) because the student broke down in front of the little kids.

I had to send out three kids by the end of first period-- or they asked to leave. The sobbing in the hall, as the students left classrooms and headed for a triage room-- discipline, the high school office/conference room, therapist's offices, any empty space grabbed up and stocked with tissues and stages of grief handouts -- was dreadful. One of my students took it upon himself to shut my door as soon someone started down the hall, and reopen it once the crying student had past. I had to put on music to drowned it out, because it was impossible to ignore and harder to teach. I pulled out a week of warm-up worksheets, anything to keep them busy and give them a chance to sit quietly. I did not want to let them talk, because then it was a chain reaction of breakdowns.

Another three students asked to leave the room by third period.

A good third of my students were not in class at all- absent or with the counselor from the previous period. The morning itself was absolutely eerie-- the halls were so subdued, there was no talking on the way to homeroom, in homeroom. Even the ninth grade, usually the loudest group in the hall, wasn't talking, much less joking and laughing. It was like Stepford students without the vapid empty smiles. They all sat like little robots and just did the work they were given. No one volunteered to answer questions or put work on the board; there was no complaining when I reminded them of a test in Latin the next day. I almost don't know what to do with myself.

Administration told us to carry on like any other day, just give them work to keep them busy, and don't discuss the student's death in classes. I guess I do understand that approach-  they have to keep the school functioning and under control, and they don't have time to deal with any more mass hysteria that a teacher not trained to handle this could cause. But the students were in pain, and unhappy, and it was so difficult to watch. I just want to give them a hug, because there is nothing else I can really do for them. They all thought they knew how cruel the world could be, that life sucked in the North Philly hood/barrio already; then they found out that it can actually suck more.

What's worse- this school is safe place for them. We are always here, always running according to expected rules. We make exceptions when necessary, and they know this; we will work with them, because we care for them. When there are problems, people on staff help them to work it out.

We can't do anything to make this work out. Their safe place is now sullied with the outside world they come here to escape.

This was probably the most stressful and draining week I've ever taught. Two thirds of the students were out on Friday, the day of the funeral; not all went, some are riding the coattails, but many did. Monday we are off; Tuesday is very much a catch up day, as it is the last grading day of the quarter. Midterms start Tuesday. The next week, the seniors have the final draft of their written research project, a requirement for graduation, due. As stressful as it is for me right now (and I write this with my house a disaster and people coming over for a two-year old's birthday party in four hours. Oh, and the cake's not finished yet.) these kid are close to breaking. I'm actually afraid for a few of them; they were teetering so close to the edge already. I lost another one to dropping out this week, too.

It's just a bleak time right now.

Current Mood: sad
Current Music: Another One Bites the Dust by Queen

Well, I meant to post that last post for most of the week, and just got swamped and didn't get it done until a few minutes ago as I down coffee and plan my attack on the mess that is my house as the clock ticks....but I also skipped an important post last night. I took my first real step in a writing life. Almost thirty fan-fiction stories to my credit, at least a hundred bad teenage poems, and too-numerous-to-count academic papers, and I have finally launched my original fiction career.

I have had two stories inches away from polished enough to send out for months-- Girl Love and Playing Doctor. The kick in the ass to polish them came from a comment from someone in publishing asking to see some original work, after reading a bunch of my fan-fiction (never thought fan-fiction could be an asset to a real writing career...) So I responded, sent the closet to her genre story (Girl Love), and worked to finish the other. Had some formatting issues that took a few helps from Hubby and Writing Buddy-- but got it done. Then came the, crap! I need a cover letter panic!

I have written dozens of cover letters for many things over the years- grants, jobs, applications, requests for information, etc. I drew a blank. I took an example from my Writing Buddy and adapted it. First paragraph is a description of the story. Easy. Second is a list of your credits. Writing Buddy has published several things over the past few years-- including his novel-- so he's got lots to put there. I haven't published anything since poetry in college. Except for fan-fiction.

Including my fan-fiction credits may not have been the smart thing to do. I am undecided-- anyone care to weigh in, please do-- but did it anyway.

So, I finally sat down with the list of places to send "Playing Doctor" to, from duotrope.com (a publishing website). The Chick Lit Review (it kills me to send it there, it really does), Gertrude, Della Donna, dANDelion, and The Indite Circle. Kinda of a blind choice-- put in my length, my general topic, and chose five form the search list. (Anyone that knows anything about these, feel free to clue me in.) I'm new at this, and it seemed like a logical approach.

Of course, once I started looking at the requirements of each closer, I suddenly had to whip up a biography. Not fun, but I cobbled something together. At least my pen name-- Lillian Ridgeway-- has been picked out for some time. (Pen name is a necessity, with being a teacher and all.) So I redid the cover letter, attached files, filled out on-line submission forms, and sent the little cheese doodle on its way. Now the waiting begins.

I'll let you know if anyone picks it up.

Current Mood: hopeful