Would the River Give Him Back (TinyLetter Archive)

On Sunday, a former student at my last school drove his car into a tree. The police said that he lost control and ran off the road, but there are surely things that were left out. A single-car accident between 4 and 5 am so late on a Saturday night that it’s Sunday must certainly involve alcohol or drugs or emotional turmoil, right? The chance of an unknown deer or rabbit bearing responsibility seems unlikely. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that there are still places in our cities not covered by cameras, but he must have been in a dead zone. Does it even matter though? We cling to such information so we can better define our experience and understanding, so events fit neatly into our mind box, but it doesn't really matter whether he was under the influence, distraught, distracted or not. So what are we left with? What are all the other 20 and 21 year olds who loved this guy left with? He was the kind of kid who drove teachers crazy. Checked out, disengaged, kind of a punk, but he lived for his friends and for a laugh. He had good hair, great style, a cool name, and a winning smile, would have been prom king no question, if our school had one. Dead of blunt force trauma. 

He is not someone I really knew. He was a junior class officer and on the prom committee I had to oversee one year. Many of my students were friends with him, and so I heard them talk about him offhand while working on other things. He wandered into my room sometimes to chat with them. To say he was beloved doesn't really cover it. He was an icon of fun, straight out of a John Hughes movie, and the tributes posted for him reflect that. When his older sister, who I did teach, finally posts on instagram, she says "please forgive him for anything he's done and keep him in your duas forever." It is hard not to feel when death passes so close; there's a secondhand grief that comes when we grieve for those we are close to who have lost someone they love. I don't miss this kid, but I see the space he has left behind. I see the kids (though they aren't kids anymore) I know and love flailing in his absence, trying to process and understand. They post photo after photo and video after video to their instagram stories. They make slideshows combining all the clips and images together overlaid with nostalgic music because what else, really, can they do? He was twenty-fucking-one years old, and these young people who have lived almost all their college years in a pandemic have now lost someone from the before times. Someone who was a bright star to them.

And I, too, don't know what to do. And so of course I search for and post poetry to my instagram account where I know some of my students will see and read and maybe find some cold comfort in the words I've put up. I am not their teacher anymore, but I will never not feel like their teacher, like a teacher. And so I am trying to do what I would have done if we were still in class. I'm taking a moment, providing a space, providing some words, that maybe will help. It has been a full year since I have been a teacher, but my heart still feels like an open wound when it comes to my students. I don't know if that will ever change or if the strange timeline disruption of covid is keeping us frozen in place in some ways? But I guess I speak only for myself. I am only now beginning to feel less shattered, and the smallest feather can knock me over. I'm mixing metaphors now, and I blame all the sad poetry I've been reading, so I'll leave you with the one I posted for my students today, linked through quote below. I hope, friends, that you are ok. 

"And the river asks, did this boy dream of horses? / because I suddenly dream of horses, I suddenly dream..."