School Leadership Reflections: Trials, Tributes, Remembrances
A tribute to children, teachers and leaders
I once saw a dead girl walking.
Her backpack heavy against her lithe figure.
I can still see her there, in the 100 wing,
Where the marching band practices, out of tune.
She laughs and skips across the green courtyard,
As if she is somebody special, which she is.
In see her often first semester and then I see her less.
And then the school nurse sends us an email,
And I do not see the girl after that.
As for me, I remain on hall duty in the 100 wing,
And the band plays on.
I once saw two freshmen fighting.
If you want to call it that.
I knew they were freshmen because it was during Freshmen Lunch.
And because, if one of them had sat on the other one’s shoulders,
They would together be just a cowlick over seven feet tall.
They never hit each other, mind you. The freshmen rarely do.
It was on a Friday. Of course.
I know that because one boy chucked his Fish Stick Tacos at the other.
I don’t recall their names.
I do recall that their ears were too big for their heads and their heads too big for their bodies;
I marched them both out, one under each arm, my grip tight against their big heads;
They never looked up. They just sat in my office and cried like their dogs had just died,
As one of the boys scooped fish sticks from his big ears, delicately, with a #2 pencil.
I once saw a boy with autism run for freedom.
It was as if he had escaped from Alcatraz.
Plotted it all night long, I suppose. Maybe for days.
All he had to do was distract the guards and dig a trench under the chainlink fence,
Except that it wasn’t nighttime, for it was noon on the last day of school.
And he didn’t dig a trench, for the gate was open to let the busses out.
And there was no guard. Just an ESE associate.
Personally, I am more intimidated by ESE associates than any guards I know.
Anywho, we called the cops. They called the helicopters.
We found the boy at a 7-Eleven, drinking a Slurpee and toasting to himself.
Free at last, after 180 days of incarceration.
I once saw a homeless kid find a home.
There among the two-parent, three-car garage kids,
And the smart, artsy kids from the beach neighborhood,
The one with the bungalow homes.
He said he felt safe at our school, only at our school.
He said the other schools called him names or just looked the other way.
He wasn’t in our zone. He just showed up one day.
He said he found a home with us.
That is why he rose at 4:00 a.m. and walked two hours to school,
Until someone bought him a bike so could sleep until 4:30.
Where others spent four years with us, he spent five.
In June of that year, I saw a homeless kid graduate.
I once saw a bully win an award.
She was the meanest girl in three counties.
And she failed twice, meaning she was 17 years old in the 9th grade.
There were days that we got to second period without seeing her,
And I smiled a smile of relief.
Then, she would just show up, like acid reflux or a migraine,
Just to pick on other kids and wipe that grin off my face.
And then one day a teacher did a project on bullying.
And the girl cried, and she came to know what kindness was.
And I smiled a smile of relief.
She created an anti-bullying campaign and won a district award for it.
In her speech, she said high school was the best five years of her life.
I once saw a drama student’s last act.
She was in the gifted magnet, the brightest girl of them all.
She carried around a heavy build, with a personality to match.
She carried a heavy heart too, though nobody knew it.
She didn’t come to school one day and a counselor checked on her.
Mom rushed home and beat the cops there.
The girl did not die that day.
It wasn’t long after that she joined the Drama Club.
She found her home there, among true friends, and rounds of applause.
I caught her last performance before she graduated.
I can still see here there, confident and proud, a grand dame.
As the curtain closed, her mom rushed the stage, with flowers in her hand.
Once again she beat everybody there,
This time, amid rounds of applause.
I once saw football players cry.
And not just one player, or two even.
I saw an entire team cry.
It was not what you think.
It was not that a player was sick or badly injured.
Turns out, the team cried that day because they heard about the nice girl.
Some would say the popular girl, but she was only popular for being nice.
She taught us all a lesson in her death.
That being pretty or talented or athletic will surely get you noticed,
But being nice to everyone around you, smiling at all manner of kids and adults,
Speaking to people by name and looking them in the eyes,
No matter the clothes they wear to school,
No matter their disabilities.
She taught us that being nice will remain with us long after our good looks fade.
Most of the players didn’t know her personally.
They never took the time for that.
I guess that’s why it hurt so much.
I once saw a nerd find a date to the Prom.
Maybe “nerd” isn’t the right descriptor anyway; it’s certainly not politically correct.
Especially since the labels we toss around never fit anyway.
So let’s not say “nerd.” Let’s just say a typical teenage boy. Let’s all try to picture that.
And then let’s picture the boy as a shorter, skinnier version of the rest,
Who walked and talked a bit differently,
Who never felt comfortable talking to others, especially to girls.
Who made straight As and was genuinely kind and decent.
You would think that was a surefire way to gain friends, though he didn’t have any.
He was a survivor. A short, skinny, nerdy survivor.
And braver than most.
Maybe that’s why he knelt down in the 100 wing in April of that year,
With flowers in his hand, and with one request for what he said was the prettiest girl in the whole school.
“I am so nervous but I’m going for it anyway. Would you go to Prom with me?”
I told you he was braver than most.
Maybe that’s why she said, “Yes!”
To the applause of dozens now gathered around,
And to the jealous stares of every boy that year at the Prom.
- Note: Reflections will be updated from time to time, as memories arise and fade.
