My 1000 Kids

In the early, pre-dawn hours of this morning, one of my kids died. I say "my" kids because when you teach, you have the special privilege of seeing a young person every day for 180 days grow up in front of your eyes.  This is especially true in middle school when the span of time from September to June can mean a six inch growth spurt, head gear and braces to radiant smile, facial hair and an octave drop in a boy's voice, say nothing of the relationship transitions, ah-ha moments when their reasoning fully shifts from concrete-ish to abstract, that first real conversation where the glimmer of the adult they will become shines through the bathroom humor or self-conscious mumblings. 

I have had the honor of seeing somewhere in the neighborhood of 1000 young people through these years, spanning 7th grade through seniors in high school, from about 12 to 19 years. Many I have watched grow from awkward middle schoolers all the way through self possessed, talented seniors, a decided perk of a 7-12 school. My oldest are now in their mid 30's and the youngest barely teenagers. I feel fortunate that I don't have much more grey hair than I do. 

After they graduate, I will accept their Friend requests, and I encourage them to call me by my first name.  A decade and a half out and some still just can't do it.  I love seeing their parents, or better yet, the kids themselves, in the grocery store and hearing about their first year of college, or how they landed this amazing internship or job, or that they are still playing soccer. I love the pictures of engagement rings and weddings, first homes and new jobs. Yet even when I get to hold their babies, I can still see that baby faced teenager who wreaked havoc on my third period class or cried in my office after school or wrote a brilliant essay about their favorite activity being a totally fictional underwater sport.

But not all news comes from benevolent social media posts. Yes, I read the police reports, searching for the names of "my kids." It crushes me every time I see one splashed across the news. I want to take them by the shoulders and shake them or hug them and show them a picture of that adorable (or sullen or purple haired) kid they were when they sat in my class wondering why I insisted they learn how to use a comma when really what I wanted was for them to pause and be good people. I want to ask them if there was an opportunity I missed or something that I could have done to prevent such unwanted notoriety. When I see them later in the aisles, head down and averting my glance, I try to catch their eye, smile, and search their face for the answer. I ask them how they are doing and I really want to know. I still want to know.

And then there are the headlines I could have done nothing about, even if I had made them read one more book about a better world or had given them an extra dollar for lunch money. These beautiful young people do not deserve to be fighting for their lives, or worse, have no fight left to give. I cannot save them from cancer or car accidents, and this incenses me even more than a trip to court or even jail.

I understand better than most that our time is finite. Tonight I look at my own son, snuggled in his bed, and I want to put him in a bubble and never let him out from under my protective watch. I have wished these past six months that I would live to see his graduation from high school, to dance at his wedding, to hold a grandchild. But it's on nights like this, as I watch my feed fill with the tears of my past students, when I fervently wish that I could protect all of those kids who have come under my care, that I simply, selfishly ask that he outlive me. Because anything else is unthinkable.