Three students were shot this year on my school’s campus. One died while my principal cradled him in his arms. I looked out of the window and saw blood. I still can’t explain anything I did in the moment besides yelling at kids to get down and get into classrooms.
Over the last three years, educators have been asked over and over to keep moving. We aren’t allowed to have time to process.
When I finished my degree, my body was so sick. I wasn’t celebrating except for the day of because my whole body hurt the next day. My voice was gone for three days.
When people tell you to rest, they don’t understand that it’s not always an option. I have had nightmares for months where I hear gun shots and see my students running across the campus screaming.
When people tell you that burn out becomes physical, they don’t explain what that means.
When I told people I wanted to be a teacher, I meant I wanted to give the love I didn’t get. I wanted to make kids feel safe.
This school year has finally ended. The seniors I’ll have next year were freshmen during the pandemic. We have lost so much time.
I have lost so much time screaming into the void not to take anything more from me, from my friends, my family, from my school, from my community.
In the 6 years I’ve taught. I’ve lost 4 kids and had three others we almost lost. We have had countless ceremonies about gun violence when it was already too late, and I have held the hands of mothers who were awarded a diploma on behalf of their child.
When people tell you that burn out becomes physical, they don’t explain what that means. They don’t explain that weight doesn’t melt off your shoulders, it lingers. It lingers and lingers until you get strong enough to hold it.
I wrote all of this to say that, I’m not.
