Walking on the Rooftop of Hell

There's a quote somewhere, I can't remember if it's Rumi or Basho, that says, "We're all walking on the roof of hell gazing at flowers." Today, I put a foot through the roof and shattered the illusion.

It didn't happen to me. It happened to one of my students. She came in early to ask about makeup work. She'd been out for four days, something that was out of character for her. She's one of my most diligent students. Her family background is, like so many of my kids lives, littered with the unimaginable. Although she's not yet seventeen, she's seen a close family member slain in cold blood by a former lover, members of her immediate family put in prison, and other members of her family following paths that will probably lead them to one of those two same destinations.

She's very strong. She's very steady. She has dreams and goals, and she works hard to get to them. She didn't do well in English last year, but has been very pleasantly surprised that she can do well in my class if she tries. I have been so proud of her this year, and so happy to be able to mark solid, strong B's for her almost every grading period.

This morning, after a brief discussion about makeup work, she told me that she'd probably be out again tomorrow. I never want to pry. Life is a personal thing, and it's full of crap that most people don't really want to have to explain over and over again. I could tell that something was wrong, though, and I gently asked her if there was anything I could do.

She started crying. My steady, strong student had silent tears running down her face, and my heart almost broke. I knew it had to be something terrible. I just went to her and hugged her. I didn't know what else to do. I got her some Kleenex, sat her down in a desk, and asked her what was wrong.

She had a baby three days ago, and her baby is dead. My sixteen-year old student miscarried, and the baby, premature by three months, wasn't strong enough to survive. She told me her story with tears streaming.

What do you even say? There are no words for grief that deep. There is no response. Anything that is said is too pale, too weak, too trite, too much a cliche to ever begin to be a response. What I wanted to say was that although I don't know what it's like to hold life inside me and lose it, my heart hurt for her. I wanted to rock back and forth and scream with her at the loss. These are not the done things, though.

So many people would just shut it out as a sad moment and go on. Too often, I've heard people insinuate that such things are either a punishment or somehow deserved because the girls are poor, or black, or too young to be having a baby, anyway. I'm sure some self-righteous jackass might even say it was better all the way around that the baby didn't make it. How anybody could look at another human being in pain and be that...un-human...is beyond my ability to comprehend. She is my student. She is a person. She is a girl child. Her heart was just cut out of her. How could anyone turn away from that?

This is the second time this year I've had a student face the unbearable. Another of my girls had a baby and lost her own mother in the space of 5 months. She, like my other one, is not yet seventeen years old. From mother to orphan in less than half a year. Again, there are no words.

I remember the day she came to tell me her mother was gone. She came to ask me for any work she'd need for the next few days. I figured something had happened and she'd gotten suspended, so I asked what happened. Her eyes couldn't focus. I will never forget. The day was so sunny. She looked out past me at the huge oaks that can be seen from the end of the hall windows and she said, "My mother just died. I have to go home." I almost fell down. Again, I grabbed her and hugged her. What else is there to do?

I wish I had the power to give these girls back their girlhood. I wish I had the power to give them a chance to be a teenager before they have to be adults. So many of my kids come from places where home is not a refuge, but another level of hell. So many of them have darkness chasing them.

I feel so useless to them. What good is pronoun/antecedent agreement when you've been up with a colicky baby all night? Is there anything other than prayer and a sympathetic ear I can give them? It rips my heart out to see them so young and in so much pain.

Tomorrow, my steady, solid student will go to bury the tiny body that is all that remains of the baby she'd looked forward to with such happiness. I'll be working on To Kill a Mockingbird with my classes. We'll all go on walking on the roof of hell and trying to focus on the flowers while avoiding the gaps and thin spots that will send us right back down again.