The Delta Negative

Blogging has become a venting activity. The week rushes by, and sometimes I’m too tired to vent online, and instead move on to my 30-minute yoga workout, or my nightly chats with friends and family. And venting has quickly morphed into another beast. Instead of complaining and griping and bemoaning my situation, I’ve recaptured some of my former self. My weekend in Washington for the Rally to Restore Sanity and Halloween recharged my personality batteries. I’ve been laughing more; I’ve been goofier and more fun-loving. And I’ve felt incredible.

But of course, in this place, the Negative hunts you down and seems to discover you just when your situation appears bearable.

My dog of 14 years passed away last week. It was somewhat expected; the veterinarian found a malignant tumor in his mouth the week prior and informed our family that Marley only had a week or two left. But I wasn’t there to hug him again. And more importantly, I wasn’t there to comfort my little brother, Logan. He called me the day Marley was put down and all he said, through 8 year-old sobs and staggered breathing, was, “He’s gone.” I only wish I could have been there to hug him too, to tell him it was OK to be sad, to cry, to mourn. But he’s a strong little boy, and the thought of a new dog has already made him forget the sadness of losing his first.

Although laughing helped me get through the week, the Delta’s characteristic shadow persists. Yesterday was the toughest day I’ve had. Teaching has plateaued. I no longer go in blind, unaware of the possibilities my school has in store. I know about my administration’s strengths and weaknesses, about my students’ attention spans and learning styles. I was recently told by a visiting administrator that my classroom management is some of the best in the school. It’s everything surrounding teaching — the Delta, the people, the conditions — that at times seems unfair.

Yesterday, there were five fights, two arrests, and a drug deal busted, all before noon. Some of my students were involved, including one who recently shot a hole through his right hand with a gun. There were rumors of some ex-students returning at the end of the day with their weapons to settle the disputes started earlier. The teachers gathered at the entrances to the school and formed a meaningless barricade of adults. Our visibility was meant to intimidate the criminals. I guess it worked. Maybe I’m just that scary.

Later in the day, after I had returned home to relax from the week’s stress, I learned that one of my students had been killed. Unrelated to the day’s previous drama, he was running across the highway and was suddenly struck by an oncoming car. I went to the hospital in Stuttgart and stayed with the family outside the emergency room. His grandmother hugged me tight and cried on my shoulder.

He was the only student to finish his homework that day in my Spanish class. I had taken him aside and worked with him on his Spanish story about a coyote who was hungry for a McDonald’s hamburger. It was awesome, and I felt I had finally broken through with him. He was a special education student, he was failing my class, but he would walk into the special education room everyday speaking in Spanish. His Resource teachers would come up to me and tell me how much he enjoyed my classes and how much fun he thought I was. Obviously, I was a wreck last night.

How do I address this with my students? Do I request a moment of silence in his honor? I think it’s only respectful.

But this student’s face is haunting my thoughts. This morning I drove through the town where he was killed. It was raining, and I thanked the weather for sparing me the sight of his dried blood on the road. The Clarendon city line sign read “Population 1,960,” but I couldn’t help thinking, “Not anymore.”

In TFA, they teach you to have the end-goal in mind. I’ve now come to live for 3:15pm, for Fridays, for holidays and breaks. Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and another break from Delta life is what I’m giving thanks for this year.

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