Sunday, July 26, 2009
so the phone rings
during the middle of this afternoon. I see from the caller ID it's my school. Curious. My Principal would be the only person calling from there on a Sunday afternoon. I wonder what's up? My hunch is she's putting in a couple hours working on assignments and issues for the upcoming school year, now less than a month away and she had a question or something to discuss.
I could tell from her tone when I answered that wasn't the reason.
As is typical of the students I work with, she had significant chronic complex health issues. I mean, that's the reason these kids come to my school.
She had been hospitalized a few weeks back, but by all appearances she was on the mend, on the upside of getting over another serious issue. She was back in class last week full of smiles and beginning to act like her music-loving happy wheelchair dancing self again.
Guess she wasn't over it.
She had only been in town and a student at my school for the past couple of years. Because she was younger and for the past several years I have been working with high school age students she wasn't one of my regular students during the school year. She was a student in my summer school class.
So I knew her, but I didn't know her all that well.
I was really just getting to know her, just beginning to understand the nuance of her expressions and her gestures, just starting to truly admire and appreciate all the gentle subtleties of her personality.
I was impressed with her spirit, her joy that shown so brightly despite her physical and cognitive obstacles.
She loved music. That was evident when I met her a couple of years back. It was a common thread that cut through disabilities and connected us as people, as human beings.
Just play something with a good rhythm, whether me on a guitar or some top-40 song on the radio. Play anything with a beat, and when she was feeling well it was like you wound her up just to watch her go, rocking and bopping in her wheelchair.
Ah cripes man, will it ever end? Three students in the past six months. So far this has been a tough year for me, my coworkers, my students, my school.
Tonight I just sat on the couch, hugging and cradling The Boy in my arms, counting my blessings. Yes, feeling the loss sorrow and sadness, but also feeling an almost numb hollowness because I did not know her better and some guilt at my selfishly thinking "there but for the Grace of God. . . " as I looked at The Boy.
Ah sweet little Lamiria, I hardly knew ye. . .
So please my dear reader, by now you know the drill. Raise your glass high and join me in a toast to another sista who ain't here.
Here's to another fallen angel sent to test our compassion.
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I could tell from her tone when I answered that wasn't the reason.
Hello! What's going on?She was only 12 years old.
- Lamiria died.
Wait. Who? What?
- Lamiria died, sometime during the night Friday. They found her Saturday morning. They think she died in her sleep.
Oh fuck.
As is typical of the students I work with, she had significant chronic complex health issues. I mean, that's the reason these kids come to my school.
She had been hospitalized a few weeks back, but by all appearances she was on the mend, on the upside of getting over another serious issue. She was back in class last week full of smiles and beginning to act like her music-loving happy wheelchair dancing self again.
Guess she wasn't over it.
She had only been in town and a student at my school for the past couple of years. Because she was younger and for the past several years I have been working with high school age students she wasn't one of my regular students during the school year. She was a student in my summer school class.
So I knew her, but I didn't know her all that well.
I was really just getting to know her, just beginning to understand the nuance of her expressions and her gestures, just starting to truly admire and appreciate all the gentle subtleties of her personality.
I was impressed with her spirit, her joy that shown so brightly despite her physical and cognitive obstacles.
She loved music. That was evident when I met her a couple of years back. It was a common thread that cut through disabilities and connected us as people, as human beings.
Just play something with a good rhythm, whether me on a guitar or some top-40 song on the radio. Play anything with a beat, and when she was feeling well it was like you wound her up just to watch her go, rocking and bopping in her wheelchair.
Ah cripes man, will it ever end? Three students in the past six months. So far this has been a tough year for me, my coworkers, my students, my school.
Tonight I just sat on the couch, hugging and cradling The Boy in my arms, counting my blessings. Yes, feeling the loss sorrow and sadness, but also feeling an almost numb hollowness because I did not know her better and some guilt at my selfishly thinking "there but for the Grace of God. . . " as I looked at The Boy.
Ah sweet little Lamiria, I hardly knew ye. . .
So please my dear reader, by now you know the drill. Raise your glass high and join me in a toast to another sista who ain't here.
Here's to another fallen angel sent to test our compassion.
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