15 Year Old Slain: Her Name Was Ruby

Her name was Ruby. She was one of mine. A Sophomore. I offered her one-on-one support in my academic lab as an intervention tier for kids who needed extra pushes in the right direction.

I see her face, I hear her voice. I imagine where I sit her outward appearance: Slender, long jet black hair, dark frames. Super bubbly, talkative, and always beefing with her teachers.

"Mrs. G. I like coming here, you cool Mrs. G. Like you listen to me and don't judge you feel me?"

"Yah I feel you Ruby, show me your essay, show me what you got."

She'd, with pride, whip out her laptop and slide it to me. She'd smile and watch as I read through her efforts. She wasn't a bad writer, she had a way with literary devices and creating writing.

"You likie?" she whispered.

"I likie," I responded.

She'd end up talking my ear off most days, and I'd let her. I appreciated her confiding in me. Her attendance was kinda sketchy though, so I'd see her in spurts. But when she came, you felt her presence. She was so sweet, and respectful. Always greeted me. Would ask how I was doing. She wound up bringing a friend in trouble. I'd sign him in with positive attendance and help him too. This was last school year.

This school year, I wasn't seeing her. I thought she'd stop in by now. She never did.

Yesterday the email dropped from our principal. "It is with heavy heart and sadness to share this news for Morton East.  On Sunday November 20, a recently inactive junior at Morton East, Ruby Navarrete died...we will continue to assess the needs of our school community and extend availability as needed.  The loss of a member of our school community is always very sad but during this season of the holidays, the impact on students who embrace the safe place of school may be increased."

My mind froze like an ice cube in a tray. Defrosting it, I began to consider my Ruby. I actually said out loud at my computer with students present, "Is it her, my Ruby from last year?" In the middle of my deductive reasoning, a second email hit my inbox confirming that she was on my roster. I asked how she passed immediately...only to discover it was a violent tragic death taken at the hands of gun violence. Was at a party in the city-wrong place, wrong time--a common culprit.

I left the room in swift movement. I waved to security to watch my class as I just received bad news and went into the room of my trusted colleague and friend. My behavior erratic. From punching lockers to banging my head on the wall once I hit the floor, a full panic attack commenced. Pain flooded my veins like a morphine drip, except it wasn't alleviating the anguish.

A posse of staff surrounded me, getting me to breathe, getting me to a place of calm, but I couldn't reach it. My colleague Ritz serving as my protector just held me as I wept. Brief spills of "She was just a baby," and "Her mom, her mom, Dios Mio," managed to find their way to semi-audible sentences. Suddenly, with eyes closed tight, I hear the voice of my principal as he touched my shoulder. Leaning in he whispers, “I need you to breathe, kid.”

Collapsing in the nurse's arms, I got whisped away on a wheelchair. The crisp breeze outside and the blaring sun in the height of the afternoon arrested my skin. Limp in my colleague's passenger seat, I make it home miraculously.

The evening a blur. My husband, my son, my daughter, my mama and my siblings rushed to my aid. I'm so grateful. The texts and calls came crashing from my school community and family. Blessed.

My reaction points to deeper wounds that still need healing and my attention. I realize now that I need new help. PTSD triggers smothered me like a pillow over my face. Working inner city Chicago all those years still rattles my insides like maracas. The panic and angst exposes my dismay to the grander issue of gun violence. I tried to take the message to DC this summer, I advocate and spread awareness and share the lived experiences of my students and being a teacher in urban education. For the past 15 years I have, but will it ever change? These are the stark realities of living and teaching in environments more susceptible to tragedies like this than others---can I slam my wooden spoon on pots any louder? I asked the question last night through the tears that filled my pupil specks. She marks another tally of the dozens, I mean dozens of students I lost. Shooter still not in custody. Justice for Ruby goes the beating drum of my heart.

The next day of finding out is always the hardest. Wanta know why? I zero in on their favorite seat in my room. I fill in mental blanks and place them in my chair with my imagination. I did it this morning. Yoga breaths and self-talk ensued. "You got this G, you got this."

Brought me to my knees again. Every time. If you want to know what teachers and school communities go through when they lose a student to gun violence, this is one version. I will continue to tell the stories of pain and visceral suffering. I came back today and reported for duty; I will be back every time. This I pray.

ABC news footage: https://abc7chicago.com/chicago-shooting-police-crime-austin/12477320/