Small Strokes Big Oaks

It sounds cliché, but I will always remember that, on December 14, 2012, I was sitting in our building’s athletic office preparing for the conference speech tournament when I heard the news that 20 children and 6 adults had been shot by a man who then took his own life in Newtown, CT.

It was horrifying news. But when I heard the entire school was comprised of kindergarden through fourth graders, it was unspeakable.

The woman who was helping me stuff packets and make copies for the tournament turned to me and said quietly, “They’re just babies.”

They’re just babies. This would ring throughout my head for the rest of the weekend. They’re just babies.

They probably had cool shoes that lit up when they jumped up and down and favorite colors and teddy bears they didn’t want to leave behind when they went to school but did because they didn’t want to look uncool going to school with stuffed animals in their backpacks. They probably had presents underneath their family Christmas trees.

They’re just babies.

I couldn’t even imagine. I can’t even imagine.

So I did what I knew how to do. I pressed on. I planned the tournament. I stuffed packets and met student volunteers after school who helped me hang signs. It wasn’t until later, when we had some downtime, that I asked them if they had seen the news at all. “About that school shooting?” they asked. “Yea. We saw it.” They didn’t seem to want to say anything more, so I didn’t press. Then I went home, ran around doing a million different errands because if I sat down, it would really sink in. When I woke up in the morning, I grabbed Tim like he was the only thing that could keep me afloat.

“They were just babies,” I cried, tears wetting his t-shirt. We were still in bed, and he was still groggy, but he pulled me close.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

I took a deep breath and moved on, already late to get ready for the tournament. I let the shower wash away what it could, and promised myself I’d deal with the rest later.

The tournament went well, and I am sure I walked about 10 miles around the school throughout the course of the day. It was good to have a distraction. We picked up the dogs from my in-laws, because Tim worked the tournament, too, and my mother-in-law said, “You look tired. But you did a good thing. Now is the time we need to invest in our kids the most.” I could just nod. When I got home, I purposely didn’t turn on the television. I feel right asleep.

I got up the next day, determined to relax. Then, I cleaned my house because I can’t relax until everything is clean. Afterwards, I settled down with my book. Devil in the White City. And I read a passage about how he shoved a young woman into his basement kiln and burned her to death.

And I put the book down.

Because here’s the thing. This book that made the New York Times bestseller list and who everyone I know tells me they couldn’t put down, but they could have skipped all the stuff about the fair and just read the stuff about the serial killer – it has just added to the hype and media that has immortalized every serial killer and mass murderer throughout history. Now, a whole new generation who never heard of H.H. Holmes knows exactly who he was and what he did. He’s been infamized and glamorized and made into a novel people forget is actually true. I wonder if Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, James Holmes, Wade Michael Page, and Adam Lanza will be written about and perceived in the same way. I hope not.

But these women actually died at the hands of H.H. Holmes. And these people actually died at the hands of these other mass murderers. But instead of reading books like Dave Cullen’s Columbine about how the media just looks for the best story then moves away instead of getting the whole picture and also immortalizes the victims rather than just the killers, we’re devouring books about a mass murderer in our history who led women to awful, unspeakable deaths. I can imagine that, in 100 years, people might be reading the same thing about Harris and Klebold, J. Holmes, Page, and Lanza.

As a nation, we will now turn to debates about gun control and mental illness. We will work towards policies that help those involved in such a tragedy. While there is valor in that, we also need to consider the teachers and students in this nation and how to better protect them.

Because they were just babies.

Like I told my students on Monday, I don’t care if you’re 8 years old or 80, you’re too young for something like this to take away your life.

I’m not just saying this because I am a teacher and I have 132 students this year and countless others in years past that I care about deeply. I’m saying this because these sorts of things seem to happen most often in schools, and it’s time we focus our attention on how to keep our students and teachers safe. School is supposed to be safe. Our babies are supposed to be safe.

After a tragedy like this, I always make sure to talk to my students and help them feel empowered and ready to do something to help rather than beat down and scared. Some students wanted to donate money, and I helped them find ways they can do that. When we get back to school, we’ll be making snowflakes to send to Newtown to help welcome the children back to school.

I also told them to remember the victims, not the murderer. I told them to do something nice or say something nice to someone that day because, no matter who you are – a student, a parent, a teacher – going back to school was difficult. I believe they did just that, and they will continue to do so because, no matter how old they are, they’re still just babies, and they still just want to help.

For myself, I have to believe that out of a tragedy comes love. When I walk into my classroom and see my students eager to make the world a better place, I know that this is true.

Photo Credit: woodleywonderworks