I teach teenagers. We learn to write together. We use imagination, precision, and revision to build communication skills, creativity, and confidence. I teach teenagers, but today it hurts.
The pain is nearly paralyzing. Why? It is not college denials or college struggles. It is not confusion about career, friendship, or romance. It is not social escalation or social isolation. It is not the “almost win” at a state championship or the “not-quite selection” for a major role in the spring musical. It is not the parent who expects too much or the parent who cares so little. It is not the lack of wealth, support, or resources.
It hurts today, though, and the paralyzing pain is not retreating. You see, two teenagers won’t be given the chance to sort through college selections, career planning, social status, or extracurricular activities. They died. They were murdered.
They were best friends, Abby and Libby, finishing eighth grade in the school district next to mine. They had a long weekend off from school and were enjoying the outdoors at a well-trafficked hiking area not far from their homes. They did everything right: let adults know where they would be, took phones to stay in touch, stuck together, struck out in full daylight, and set a specific time to be picked up again. They still died. They were still murdered.
Why can’t I shake this? Maybe because they were so young. Maybe because the place where they were murdered is so near to where I live. Maybe because the murderer has not been caught at the time of this writing. Maybe because they were likely in one or another audience of mine last year when I traveled the state as Indiana Teacher of the Year. Maybe because I love teenagers, and loving them hurts.
The teacher in me wants all teenagers to thrive. I want them to learn from mistakes and grow from stumbles. I want them to see the bright futures that can open up in front of them when they find their gifts and discover how those gifts can lead to fulfillment. I want the quiet ones who feel alone to know that they are not alone and the loud ones who speak endlessly out of insecurity to know that they are okay without the plethora of words. I want them to lift their eyes to meaningful lives not based on the frivolous things that too often seem like essentials in their young lives. More than all of that, though, I want them to live, for in living, there is potential, and in potential, there is hope.
I will not ask forgiveness from the education community for failing to engage in debate about policy, leadership, testing, evaluation, letter grades, and teacher shortages these last couple of weeks. I thank you for carrying those banners without me. I’ve been loving teenager’s full-time, and I’ve been hurting full-time. I’ve been fighting fear and trying to understand the mama-bear instinct to fiercely protect all of my teenagers from everything.
Most of all, I’ve been being an educator who loves teenagers, even though it hurts so much to love them.