Not really Sure How to Begin this But....

Here we go.  My first official blog.  This is going to be an interesting journey for me, seeing as I usually have my best ideas when I am laying in bed in the dark, about to drift off into sleep, or when I am in the middle of an instructional day, with 20something middle schoolers in front of me.  The idea of writing to myself and my own thoughts and experiences is a strange one. Usually I tend to deal with things on my own. For example, we learned last week about Adam Toledo, the young boy who was murdered by Chicago Police after a foot pursuit.  When I saw the story it absolutely gutted me.  I cried for Elijah McClain, I spoke up in facebook posts about Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Ahmaud Aubrey.  But for some reason I was frozen and broken at the same time when I heard about Adam.  Perhaps it was his age.  13.  Middle school.  I work with 13 year olds every single day.  Perhaps it was his story.  Came from a struggling home where mom worked and couldnt keep tabs on him all the time.  The streets were enticing and as many rebellious adolescents will do, he went out to quench his thirst for the experience, or perhaps he was promised money if he helped the adult who put him in that position and all he could think was how much it would help his mom. Perhaps he was just being an impulsive teeenager.  We will never truly know.  Because the police officer that night, shot him, while his hands, devoid of any weapons, were in the air.  On news posts about this story, so many people posted nasty, assumptive comments about this slain young man and his family.  Some even justified his death and seemed almost happy that another “thug” was taken.  And all I could think about was how broken his family, friends, and teachers are right now.  I remember all too well how it felt to lose a student.  The first was Ahjee.  Found shot in the head in an alley.  No suspects.  No motives.  She was 16.  Then Darian Horton. 19. Shot in the chest in his home, where his mother and brother were also shot. Then, the hardest, was Dennis.  Dennis was shot in the head while walking down the street one day, by a jealous boyfriend of a girl who had hit on Dennis, and Dennis rebuffed.  She was mad he rejected her, and told her boyfriend that Dennis had tried to make a move on her, so he killed him.  Dennis was 19.  But I knew Dennis at 13.  He was one of my goofy boys at Lombard.  He, like Adam, ran away a few times.  He, like Adam, had other siblings who he was close with.  He, like Adam, was taken way too soon.  ANd while Dennis was not murdered by police, it begs the question, what really is the difference between a faceless person with a vendetta and a police officer, when you’re Black or Brown  in America?  It seems that no matter what, if you’re a Black or Brown child in an urban environment, you are in danger from the moment you go out your front door.  These kids learn to run before they learn to walk. they build walls to protect themselves because weakness is preyed on.  I remember when I used to have conversations with Dennis’s class about some of the dangers of living in Baltimore.  Many of them would tell me how they’d have to find a new way to get home each day, because gang members would be waiting for them on certain corners, trying to recruit them.  Many of them were frustrated because their parents would buy expensive TVs for their houses, while the water or lights were turned off.  at 12, 13, and 14 years old, I had some students who had lost parents and siblings to violence, jail, and health problems such as cancer.  My students were carrying weights bigger than I could ever imagine, and they had been doing it most of their lives.  

I keep in touch with many of them to this day, 15 years later, and thankfully we have not had any more deaths since Dennis in 2013 from that first group.  Unfortunately, several have been locked up for charges ranging from armed robbery to attempted murder.  But for the most part, my kids are doing alright.  Many have families of their own now.  Some have joined the service.  Some have gone off to college or pursued careers in modeling or professional sports.  

I was told when I first began my teaching residency that I had to remember that I was not going to save every child, even though I would want to with all my soul.  I was told though, that if I could make a difference, even with one, that I needed to hold on like hell to that feeling, and it would mend my heart when I lost another.  I remember Ahjee’s feisty attitude and smile, and how absolutely brilliant she was.  I remember Darian’s quiet politeness, and how he always made sure to thank me after every class.  And I remember how excited Dennis was to meet his daughter the last time I saw him. But I will always regret not trying to connect more with Ahjee.  Not inviting Darian to the horse farm with the other students.  And not staying longer to chat with Dennis that hazy June afternoon.  I am sure Adam’s teachers have memories of him that they will hold onto forever.  And I am sure that they will also have regrets about what they could have done to possibly avert this tragedy.  But they, and I, have to remember that in those moments, we did the best we could, because we did it with all of our hearts.  We can’t prevent what we cant predict.  But moving forward, we can take those broken pieces of our hearts and allow those we have lost to teach us how to help those children that we meet and will continue to meet in our days ahead.  We may not save them all, but in efforts to do so, we just might save a few that would otherwise have been lost, and thats worth everything.

You and i both know what you did. We both know that the way you demonized me was purely for your own self preservation because had your family known the truth, you aren’t sure they’d take your side over mine. And that scares you. You know if they heard your constant criticisms, your constant rejection, and saw your lack of affection and reciprocation of love, they would emphasize with me over you. If they heard you say how being married to me was facing a lifetime of disappointment, after I had tried to do something nice and do the laundry, or wash the dishes, but they weren’t up to your standards, they’d be disgusted with your selfishness. Especially after knowing that my attempts to alleviate your chores was on the heels of a double shift of my second or third job, all of which is to support you through nursing school. I just want to know, what is so important that makes your image more important than the truth? You and i both know that the police reports filed on me, alleging abusive controlling behaviors, were all fabricated, and I tried desperately to get you to attend marriage counseling with me because our communication was falling apart. Your words were like knives constantly slicing through my confidence and my good intentions. Imagine how it must have felt to have the love of your life tell you that your very existence isn’t worthy of procreation because of the CHANCE there was some mental illnesses. And then them telling you that you do everything wrong. That all you are good at is going to work. Finding out over two years later that they are not attracted to you, and that they deceived you in order to get you to help them reach their dreams which you thought meant together you would rise, but instead to her, meant she could be self suporting enough to leave you. All the while also painting a terrible picture of you to her friends and not allowing you to meet them, so they never knew the truth. This was my reality. This was THEE reality. I won’t pretend i am faultless. Lord knows my insecurities did quite a bit of damage over time. However, not three months into our relationship i was put on medication which would prove to be more harmful than beneficial. I found this out once i finally detoxed myself from it and all of the things you conplained about (particularly my memory and processing of things you tell me), began to correct themselves. I remember telling you long before that i wanted to go off the meds. You refused to allow it, fearing it would make my anxiety worse. I tried counseling but it did nothing to help me because I had to still come home and deal with you. Remember when i asked what you had done to adapt and change for me and our relationship? Your response was “I gave you time to learn how to do things my way.” That was your cold calloused answer. Devoid of any empathy or emotional connection. Or what about when i asked you why the things that you fell in love with about me didn’t matter anymore? And you told me that they “weren’t enough.” That the way I’d listen to every word you said and bought you all the gifts you hinted at wasn’t enough. That the way I would send you sweet texts motivating you and letting you know I was taking care of the kids so you could study wasn’t enough. That the way i took care of you when you were sick, and let you sleep while i was up and down all night when the kids were sick, wasn’t enough. Put simply: I was not enough. But really nobody could have ever been good enough for you, because the truth was you were never good enough for you.