Like Yesterday

It was three years ago today. Parts of it, I can remember better than yesterday. I remember the shirt I wore, the CD that was playing in the car, and the smell of the air outside.

I remember turning on the TV in the morning. Just before changing the channel to a kid's show for Binta to look at, I glimpsed an aerial shot of a highway accident involving a semi-truck. The banner at the bottom of the screen identified the location near the area I work in. I wondered if anyone I knew was involved.

I never would have guessed that it was my brother.

Later on that day, I heard staff members complain about the horrific back-up that resulted in re-routing traffic due to the accident from that morning. It made some people late for work.

My brother was already dead, and I didn't know it.

As my students were filing in from their last recess, a staff member came into my classroom. She told me that she needed to see me in the office. I walked outside, into the crisp air, following her. Her face was critically serious, and I considered making a joke about being in trouble, but her uncharacteristic silence scared me into keeping quiet. I walked down the long hallway with my mind whirling, wondering what could have possibly happened to have me called out of my classroom with only 45 minutes remaining in the school day.

Walking into the office, somebody's hand passed me a note with my dad's name and phone number scribbled on it. I knew then that something had happened in my family. I entered a private office to call my dad. When he answered, I was relieved to let go of worry that something had happened to him. It was easy to hear he was upset, however.

I used my calm voice, and said, "What's going on, Dad?"

He sobbed, and said, "Oh, Tiffany, you don't know yet."

"Know what?" I asked, thinking he was being a little dramatic. My innocence shows here, back when I was actually unable to think of anything that could be as horrific as what I was about to hear.

And this is the point I can't exactly remember. What his words were. All I know is my response: confusion and outrage. How would he know, all the way in Montana, if Derek were in a car accident involving a tractor-trailer here on the highway? It was a textbook example of the Grief Cycle, beginning, of course, with Disbelief.

I remember screaming.
I said, "Oh god," a lot.

I began to notice that I couldn't feel my fingers and toes. There was a frightening tightness in my chest making it hard for me to breathe. The school nurse was called for, while I sat hunched over, sobbing. I felt nauseous and cold. Soon, I became aware of someone rubbing my back, telling me that I was ok, that my body was just in shock. I was taken to the health room to lie down, and when school was dismissed, I was driven to my mom's house, where I spent the next several hours on the couch, in physical and emotional pain that cannot be described.

I never imagined that I would be looking back at it three years later. I didn't see how I would make it through that night, much less the first year. But here I am, already entering the third. I would have told you it must take a really strong person to recover from losing a brother, but now, I think differently. I don't think super-human strength has anything to do with it. I've reached this point because I went to bed each night, and each morning, I woke up, with another day ahead of me.

I've been working through it, literally, one day at a time.

Today Was a Better Day

I'm pleased to announce that

• My report cards are done (again)
• My crappy free haircut has been improved with a $50 cut

I had to play hooky today to accomplish this, but feel no guilt at all, 'cause if you'd seen the state I was in last night, when I was gloomily pinning up a ridiculous chunk of hair that didn't get cut correctly from the 19-year-old beauty school student, and discovered that a full day-and-a-half worth of report card work had never been saved, you would have agreed that I was in no shape to be around small, impressionable children.

So I'm better now.

The Worst Writing Teacher in the Whole School

While working at the copy machine this week, I ended up having a spontaneous discussion with a former parent. Her daughter was a third grader in my class last year. She mentioned that her other daughter, a second grader, will be entering third grade next year.

Here's what she asks me:

"So who's a really good writing teacher? You know, someone who will really whip her into shape?"

I try not to let my mouth hang open as I digest the implied message here.

I considered going into detail about the differences between third and fourth grade, hitting on some of the likely changes she's noticed in her fourth grader's writing. I thought about pointing out some of the differences in the teaching approaches of her daughter's fourth grade teacher and myself. Things that have nothing to do with me being a crappy writing teacher.

I gave some serious consideration into telling her off.

Instead, I gave her some tidy, politically correct response, which included mentioning that we have been given new writing programs, and that, as far as third grade teachers go, we're all in about the same position, in learning to work with the new materials.

I don't want her kid in my class, anyway.