I
heard the news as I sat with my sweet boy, putting him down for his
nap. I look at him and offer up silent thanks that I have him safe in
my arms, that he is too young to know the news that makes me scared to
be an educator. I hold him close, tucked under my chin, breathing in
his baby scent and wish him a life of peace and safety. I want for him
to explore his world, to see the beauty in it, to not know fear.
Even
before he came into this world I made a promise to him and myself that I
would do everything in my power to help him become a man of honor,
integrity, compassion. I want him to root for the underdog, fight for
those who can't fight for themselves, bring joy to others through his
thoughts and deeds. I want him to laugh with abandon at simple things,
to smile because he has helped someone else succeed. These are life's
pleasures.
And yet the dark side of me looks down at his fuzzy
duckling hair and bow tie mouth and I wonder if the
mother whose son committed this tragic act looked lovingly and
longingly at her own child, dreaming a world of possibilities for him,
never imagining what one heartwrenching day would hold. What dreams did
she have for him as she brushed her fingers over his sleeping cheek?
It
angers me that I have to look into the pure, unassuming face of my
child and wonder if there is a chance that he will grow up to commit
unspeakable acts. It angers me that I worry about saying the wrong
thing to the wrong student and not getting to see my son grow up at all because
of one person's selfish pain.
This event is tragic in its
incomprehensibilty. I don't presume to understand the grief, the
terror, the loss, or confusion. All I am certain of is my love for a
little boy, one who I hope will be given the chance to grow into a good
man who will make choices that will help, not harm.
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