Yesterday morning, eleven minutes into a quiet day in the office, my phone vibrated. I looked down, and saw that it was one of my school counselors. It isn't unheard of for a counselor to call me on my off day, but it's unusual on a teacher workday. I took the message, and it was one of those calls that all of us in this profession expect to get eventually but hope to avoid, and hadn't gotten yet in my internship. There was a crisis. In this case, a teacher's assistant had passed away over the weekend. The day was spent in flux. Did the teachers need me that day? Would the children need me tomorrow? Would I be helping out alone or with more experienced colleagues? How would this affect my schedule, particularly the time I wanted to devote to cases at my usual school? And somewhere in there, I tried to remember that I did know the man who had passed away and process my own emotions. Even though nothing happened of consequence- the staff dealt with the news on their own, and I was put on standby for the next day- the emotions were exhausting.
Today I went to my usual assignment with my phone on. As I settled in and thought about what I might accomplish at the school, the bells went off. The children were hearing the news, and the reality of a school full of grieving children had set in. I was on my way, and to be honest I was glad. I would have been anxious all day being somewhere else wondering how everyone else was doing, and the focus would have been gone from the children I did have in front of me. So I hurried over and met with my principal and counselor to make a plan to talk to the children and give them support. Soon after, a colleague joined to give her viewpoint based on her experience and to fill in pieces I hadn't thought of. With that, my first co-leading of a crisis intervention was underway.
Today was one of the hardest, but one of the most rewarding days of my internship year. I visited with dozens of classrooms, nearly 700 students, and told them that an adult in their lives had passed away. I joined with them in trying to understand how someone who was waving in the hallways Friday wasn't coming back. I shared with them memories of the person who did lunch and recess duty, and for some of them did a lot more. I learned that he was kind and caring, strict but not mean, funny and always lighthearted about his medical issues. For some students, he had been a tutor, a counselor, and a friend. Everyone, no matter how well they knew him, was saddened by my news. The older students were more introspective and tried to understand the loss, while younger students were still unsure of how to process the news and wanted to talk about the times they had felt loss or sadness (I learned about deaths of everyone from grandparents to neighbors to dogs to goldfish). A safe room was created for children to talk or write letters, but only two older ones were grieving enough to use it. The teachers were encouraged to do activities of remembrance as well, and the school was planning celebrations of life.
As I left, I was proud that I was able to serve my school well. I gave the children, and their teachers, what they needed to begin understanding and coping with the death of an important person. I feel good that I was able to give back to a school that has treated me well. I am also thankful that I learned so much more about the man who I never worked with, but who I always said hello to in the hallway, and who always had a smile on his face. I wish I had a chance to know him better, because anyone who the children remember so fondly has a special place in my memory. Mr. Aleman, may you rest in peace.
