Cole...

It is about this time of year that I forget why I became a teacher. The rowdy pre-pubescent children that invade my classroom daily, make me pine for my own little ladies.  Why do I choose to spend time with twenty-eight smelly twelve year olds when my two lovely preschoolers keep asking why Mommy has to go to work.

I work because, well, I have to. That's a given. But I teach because I think I'm good at it...or I used to be at least. The last decade has hardened my view of education. It is so grievously flawed. It's impossible to realize unless you actually practice the profession. Parents wave excitedly as they send their children off to AWARD WINNING BLUE RIBBON SCHOOLS!!!  Not realizing, however, that winning those awards is akin to securing the presidential nomination. It takes a lot of money and politicking and not nearly enough of the character and integrity it should. Wealthy schools win the awards. My school district just secured the title of NATIONAL SCHOOL DISTRICT OF CHARACTER! This is the same school, where just weeks ago, sixth grade students stood around and took pictures with their phones of an overweight fourth grade girl who had fallen between the seats of the bus. The pictures were sent to nearly every member of the student body in minutes. The punishment. Detention for a few. The reward? Toting the title of a nationally recognized school of character.

There are plenty of moments though that remind me of how important it is that I keep trying. Trying to reach the kids and help them to positively impact the lives of others.

A few years ago I had a young boy named Cole. Cole came into sixth grade a tiny pipsqueak of a thing. He had lost his mother to cancer the summer before and his best friend Nathan also suffered from the same disease. Needless to say, Cole was fragile and his father impressed upon me time and again that he needed a loving female figure in his life.

The first essay he wrote for me was about his mother, how her passing had crushed him. He envied everyone's familial situations. And who could blame him for that? Cole would cry at the drop of the hat and I was certain he would not make it through the year. How could I possibly help him? I would sit in my car and cry; college did not prepare you for these kinds of situations.  So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I talked to him. About anything and everything. I would sit on the floor next to his desk, while the other students were working, and we would just talk. At first he didn't say much, but as the year progressed he opened up more and more. Our daily chat sessions turned into debates and wagers, mostly centered around football.  

Cole and I made bets for every Steeler game, the loser having to bring in lunch for the victor. We exchanged turkey sandwiches time and again while Monday morning quarterbacking about our black and gold.When the Steelers made it to the Super Bowl that year, I called him at home and we hooted and  hollered over the phone. He was forever jumping up and down in front of me, begging me to assess his work or "look at this picture I drew!"  Occasionally he would confide in me; worries and whatnot. But mostly he smiled and we enjoyed each other's company for the duration of sixth grade. The bell rang on the final day and I didn't see him for four years, until last week.

The high school choir came to sing songs about character and there was Cole, grown into a man, belting out tunes in the front row. I could scarcely believe how tall he was, and watched in admiration from the back row of the auditorium. When the final note had been sung, he leapt from the stage and ran towards me, picking me up like a sack of potatoes. Without a care in the world he buried his face in my neck, swung me around and said "I've waited so long to see you."

He was doing so well. Singing in the choir, fronting his own band and sheepishly admitting that he did indeed have a girlfriend. I put my hands on his face, like mother's do, and told him how grown up he was, how proud I was of him. He gave me one last squeeze and promised, as he ran back to the stage, to visit soon. As I walked back to homeroom with my rowdy class of tweens, they all wanted to know who he was. Why was he hugging me? Was he a student of mine?

Very simply, he is why I love what I do.

Breakable...

Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?

Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts

So it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess,

And to stop the muscle that makes us confess

They met in law school and, to follow the age old cliche', it was love at first sight. I vividly remember viewing their relationship as if through a frosted windowpane, eager to join them inside by the fire. They had a love that was timeless; one that many envied. Including myself. After a while they started to almost resemble one another and their first names became one in conversation. AmyandAllan.

And we are so fragile,

And our cracking bones make noise,

And we are just,

Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys

He had crooked glasses and, upon drinking too much rum, attached his Ipod to his shorts and scrubbed the house into limp submission. Rage Against the Machine was his poison. We giggled and pointed. It didn't fit his look. He was a bookish nerd with a death metal soul. He smoked; cigarette dangling from his fingers. He walked with a deliberate shuffle. Eager to get on with life.

And you fasten my seat belt because it is the law

In your two ton death trap I finally saw

A piece of love in your face that bathed me in regret

Then you drove me to places I'll never forget

They married in November of 2001 on a day that denied the coming of winter. The sun shone and the air was warm against our strapless shoulders. We danced and drank and they looked at each other and no one else. They were the essence of love. On a vacation with us a few years later they created life. The scandal. Were they just in the next room?

And we are so fragile,
And our cracking bones make noise,

And we are just,

Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys

And then fate, deciding he was needed for other endeavors, took him. In a blinding flash of light she was now solo. The essence of love snuffed out. If we try hard enough can we still remember the timbre of his voice? If you stare long enough at a picture, can you travel there? If life takes your love, does it still exist somewhere?

It does. It will. We will all make sure of that.

To Allan Wertz

September 8, 2009

Husband

Father

Friend