Still see red...
Traffic was good that morning. Just like every morn when you live 1.4 miles away. Walking up the stairs after my routine visit to the teacher's cafe to warm up the liquid-caffeine gold, drop my lunch in the fridge, keeping my snacks on me, and filling up my water bottle with ice and H20. 3 straight, no break, you have to be prepared. Flying up the stairs still with plenty of time, I get to my door and there's a mob waiting for me. I politely push through when I hear, "Mrs. G. I need to talk to you." Not recognizing the female voice bouncing off my back, I reply as I try to get my stubborn key in the jacked up lock, "Come inside." To which she replied and blurted out, "Did you hear they killed Irving? You had him, Irving Estrada."If I didn't have a firm grip on my plastic Starbucks tumbler, it would've tumbled. In a busy hallway, her news silenced the audience. I turned to see who my messenger was and it was Angie Martinez, my graffiti artist from 2 years ago. Her work still graces my walls. She's a mom now, but still on track to graduate. Startled, my current students gush in to find their seats, recognizing the news slapped me violently.We all trickle in like ants in a line. Lights flipped on, projector button pressed, threw my bags down. Slow motion commenced as I tried to turn to Angie for more details. With info like this, the kids never lie, and oftentimes are the most reliable source. Thanks to social media. "Angie what happened?" Her words spued from her mouth too fast for my brain to register. The clock was ticking, getting closer and closer to game time I call it, the start of period one. My heart in a stupid panic, sirens start blaring in my synapse. Tears are swelling in my eye sockets, oh no, not here I told myself. My triggers from my condition PTSD were being harrassed. I grabbed the edge of my desk to keep my equilibrium. "He was playing basketball in Warren Park. They came on bikes. Shot em in the stomach Mrs. G. He didn't make it. Justin his boy, also your student was there. Must be messed up too."At that point the 5 minute bell rang. I only had 5 minutes, which to me were 5 seconds to get myself together. Unfortunately, it would take me longer than that to become stable enough to resume the role of teacher.Don't know how I turned on my laptop it just appeared on, and I fired emails to my principal and assistant principal asking to confirm this. No reply. I kept refreshing. Nothing yet.Hands trembling, mouth drying, I look up and all my students are present and wide-eyed. Shy batch of Sophomores with a splash of awkward, they did not know how to translate my disconnection from reality. I kept pacing, refreshing my inbox, my body unable to remain still. They followed me like you follow a pingpong popping up and down in a pinpong game.Bell rings.Game time.I'm trapped. You can't just walk out. When you're on, you're on. Students powering up their laptops, waiting for instructions. No words surfaced, I clutched my chest and pretended I was gonna peek into the hallway for any late comers.Breathing.Quickly.Short, swift, breaths.I manage to return. I rambled something off enough to get them started. It was as quiet as a library at Oxford.My co-teacher walks in. Salvation. Her sweet morning smile indicated to me she knew nothing. I clutched her arm and pulled her to the front door. "Listen, I know you weren't my co-teacher when I had him, but a student of ours was murdered last night." How I managed to articulate what was suffercating me still beguiles me. "Oh no Mrs. G., so sorry. That's aweful." Ms. Gaines is my girl, we rock school years together, I knew she meant it." She motioned for me to stay in the hallway while she picked up the class for a few minutes. Yet, I walked in not catching her suggestion. Walking to my desk in a haze, now she had to repeat her idea to stay with them. To which I silently knodded, but not before I checked my email one last time. And there it was, staring up at me. My principal confirmed. Fire flew down my back as a surge of grief-like energy, like the kind families get when they rush to the emergency room and they get the news their loved one didn't make it. That rush. I bolted for the door, running out in a panic. Looking to my left, I see my assistant principal walking towards me with his head bobbing yes in a sadness I know too well from administration. You see, back in my old school when our kids were shot, killed, or in custody, school leadership would sometimes go door to door delivering the news. Reminded me of the same news route from before."It's true?" I asked as he approached me gently. "Yah G it's true, why don't you go see Ms. Murray, have a talk. I got you a sub."Without warning I began sobbing. His tall build rushing alongside me to hold me up. He let me finish. Regathering myself and trying to dismiss any embarrassing feelings trying to take over, I agree to see our school social worker. They know my story. The badges of the fallen I wear metaphorically on my blouse everyday. They were my fallen soldiers, and I was their school mama. It was hard to say thank you, but I was overcome with his compassion towards me. He is also my evaluator and somewhat of a mentor to me. He's my fan on twitter because of my display of #mortonpride. Now I realized how much he cared for me as a person.Before I knew it, I was face to face with my colleague whom I depend on for my at-risk students...but now I'm the one in trouble. With green tea in hand and tissue boxes surrounded me, I retold my cinematic tales of several students I had lost during the years, and how much it affected me. Now living with a diagnosis of PTSD with stress and anxiety because of it, I assured her my faith and my fitness life became my saving grace. Refusing meds, I chose spiritual disciplines and workout regimes to ground me. I was in such a good place till this. My principal Gamboa walked in abruptly. He hugged me and just knew where I was at in that moment. "There was talk of you in our emergency meeting G. We needed to know you were ok." I felt cushioned, sandwhiched more than ever before with administrative support I have never experienced before in my professional life. My allegiance to this district and school community mounted, I just couldn't verbalize it in that instant. You see grief and trauma freeze me, putting me in a heavy fog. Our school social worker was working hard to get words and phrases out of me in the initial stages of our conversation.3 periods later and a few laps around the school with her, I refused the advice to go home and rest, and decided to go to lunch and try to knock out period's 5 and 6. To my surprise, I managed.That night, I fixated on the 10 o'clock news, knowing he'd be featured, and there he was. They were holding a vigil at the park where it happened. Some 10 minutes from my house. No one informed me they were doing it. I remember feeling upset I wasn't there. Maybe it was better that way.The cameras scanned the crowd. I was able to identify several of our students as they stood there with a countenance of grief I had never seen before on their baby faces.Now. Gulp. To prepare for the funeral.My memories began whipping back on my last interactions with Irving. I was digging through my memorybank, trying to remember some of the last things I said to him. Then it hit me. I recall warning him in a playful manner to be a gentleman to a girl he was crushing on. She happened to be my student at the time. "Be good to her Irving." He smiled as he picked up his sagging pants without even realizing what he just did was a habit of his.Before the funeral, I wanted to print out some studentwork to give his mom. I looked up his class notebook online. Seeing his name in period 6 in One Note enveloped me with a scary feeling. To my sadness, I just had some bellringers he filled out. He moved from my class before the year was up because he got into a verbal altercation with another one of my boys. We switched him for safety reasons. It made me wish I moved the other kid who actually started it. Crestfallen, I was wishing I had more time with him. The last school pic I had with him was prophetic. He's removed from the groupshot wearing a blue shirt and kinda blurry. Indicative of his future that would quickly come to an end so tragically.
Friday came quickly. I got a text from Angie with a screen shot of the 411.
As I walked up to the funeral home with my colleague, a sheet of nausea arrested my stomach. Still in my spiritwear Morton t-shirt we get to wear on Fridays, we slowly open the door to go inside. We were met with a sea of black, our students dressed in collared shirts and dress pants. I was startled at how nice everyone looked under the circumstances.My colleague and I taking turns as we hugged and comforted as many students as we could. Walking inside, it would get worse. We scanned the room to see falling tears, puffy eyes, and more students approaching the casket. They formed a huddle with sporadic sobbs and moans. My mama heart breaking second by the second.
I ran out to move my car because my meter was up and dashed into a local Walgreens to get a card, something, to give to the parents. Signed it at the counter. 
Approaching mom with it was excruciating. Her look, that look, also too familiar. Drifting in and out of her pain as people snapped her back to reality with ongoing hugs and sympathies. We were next. "We were Irving's English teachers. I was his sophomore teacher, and my colleague here was his junior year teacher." Looking up at us from the sunken in couch, they knodded in gratefulness. I got on my knees and headed straight for Mom. I grabbed her and held her for a few minutes and was only able to mutter, "I'm sorry, so sorry." She collapsed in my arms and hiccuped sobs of sorrow on my shoulder. UNREAL!I decided to do the unthinkable, approaching his casket. The kids who were cinched close parted like the Red Sea for Moses. I ascended. Wind blew out my lungs. I stared. There he was. Just like my other boys I've lost. Stiff, hallow, distant, gone. I leaned in and caressed his hair, and said audibly, "Ahí Irving. Goodbye sweetheart." Looking down I saw red. They burried him in a Bulls Jersey. Heart pieces shatter, my son a die-hard Bulls fan. I suddenly felt dizzy and slowly walked backwards. Red, red, red.We stayed a few more minutes, and weren't able to withstand much more of the scene. We left, but not before getting through mobs of kids that shouldn't have been there, but painstakingly were. We knew we had some rebuilding to do with them, one student at a time. The days ahead would not prove easy for us all.Days passed, and my husband gave me an idea. He suggested I do a March, or connect with other community leaders on behalf of our kids. Stupendous idea. I found myself at the Cicero Outreach Center with director Eddie Lopez who spoke at Irving's vigil. Irving was also apart of his Juvenile rehabilitation program, so it was on his heart too. We spoke, exchanged ideas, and plan to join forces.Meanwhile back at school, we are in the Memoir unit, so it's a perfect chance to share my story. How startlingly appropriate to now include Irving as another one of my fallen students who will impact my path for always.Still see red...Yet, I'll lean on the One who poured His red to cover ours...Lord have mercy, like a soldier who tells his commander when he wants to go back to the front lines of battle, "I'm going in...."
Approaching mom with it was excruciating. Her look, that look, also too familiar. Drifting in and out of her pain as people snapped her back to reality with ongoing hugs and sympathies. We were next. "We were Irving's English teachers. I was his sophomore teacher, and my colleague here was his junior year teacher." Looking up at us from the sunken in couch, they knodded in gratefulness. I got on my knees and headed straight for Mom. I grabbed her and held her for a few minutes and was only able to mutter, "I'm sorry, so sorry." She collapsed in my arms and hiccuped sobs of sorrow on my shoulder. UNREAL!I decided to do the unthinkable, approaching his casket. The kids who were cinched close parted like the Red Sea for Moses. I ascended. Wind blew out my lungs. I stared. There he was. Just like my other boys I've lost. Stiff, hallow, distant, gone. I leaned in and caressed his hair, and said audibly, "Ahí Irving. Goodbye sweetheart." Looking down I saw red. They burried him in a Bulls Jersey. Heart pieces shatter, my son a die-hard Bulls fan. I suddenly felt dizzy and slowly walked backwards. Red, red, red.We stayed a few more minutes, and weren't able to withstand much more of the scene. We left, but not before getting through mobs of kids that shouldn't have been there, but painstakingly were. We knew we had some rebuilding to do with them, one student at a time. The days ahead would not prove easy for us all.Days passed, and my husband gave me an idea. He suggested I do a March, or connect with other community leaders on behalf of our kids. Stupendous idea. I found myself at the Cicero Outreach Center with director Eddie Lopez who spoke at Irving's vigil. Irving was also apart of his Juvenile rehabilitation program, so it was on his heart too. We spoke, exchanged ideas, and plan to join forces.Meanwhile back at school, we are in the Memoir unit, so it's a perfect chance to share my story. How startlingly appropriate to now include Irving as another one of my fallen students who will impact my path for always.Still see red...Yet, I'll lean on the One who poured His red to cover ours...Lord have mercy, like a soldier who tells his commander when he wants to go back to the front lines of battle, "I'm going in...."