And one day the seat was empty. JC Perez-Duthie on how he dealt with a loss of a student.
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The skateboard should’ve given me pause. But it didn’t.
José was not the only student who came to one of my English composition classes riding a skateboard. The fact that he did, though, made him easy to remember right away.
Friendly and funny, prone to wearing black T-shirts with funky prints on them, he liked to participate in our essay discussions. Of the many subjects we covered, his eyes lit up when he talked about electronic music or computer games.
His attendance record was not perfect, and so that week when he missed both classes, nothing seemed strange.
I normally check my college e-mail account right before and after each class, since students often send me messages at the start of our sessions. But that particular Thursday this past March, I waited till the afternoon to review the mail.
And there it was. A message from one of my other students from that same morning class, and a friend of José’s. The friend who had to break the news to me.
José had started a new job two weeks prior. He had a night shift at a fast-food restaurant in Miami. He would leave at midnight, catch a train, and then head back home. That week, on Monday night, he got off at one of the stations and apparently started to cross the street. He was on his skateboard.
“Seems he died instantly,” Juan would tell me a few days later upon his return to class, after his friend’s funeral. “At least that’s what the police said.”
Juan was not convinced about the veracity of those official words. But to entertain the thought that his childhood friend had agonized in his final moments of his life at only age 20, was probably too much to bear. We try to find consolation wherever we can.
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This was not a hit-and-run in a city notorious for such kind of fatality (in 2013, according to statistics from the Florida Highway Patrol, Miami-Dade County topped the list of hit-and-run crashes in the state, with an average of over 35 a day). The driver waited for the police. The police waited for the family. The family waited for José. And when he didn’t show up at home as he usually did, the relatives went out to look for him. They came upon the accident scene, and the news of the tragedy.
When I first read Juan’s e-mail revealing the reason why José had been absent that week, a feeling of such sadness overcame me. I looked at the screen and reread the words, not wanting to believe what was there in front of me. Lest we forget, or try not to think about, the death of someone we know is an awful reminder of that sense of finality that always lurks around the corner.
Every day after the terrible news, I faced the classroom desk where José sat. It was empty. I stood in front of the students, or walked up and down the aisles, aware that one specific desk was missing its usual occupant. It was unavoidable.
That image of emptiness stays with you. You feel like you have lost something but it’s difficult to voice what exactly because the person who is gone is not a relative, a partner, a friend. That person is a student, and as such, a different dynamic is at play.
I try to be not only an educator but also a mentor to my students. They may not say much in class about their world outside of the classroom, but in their writing, their essays are doors they open to reveal anything and everything, from the mundane to the tragic.
They share funny stories, sad stories, all kinds of stories. They open up, not only to me but, most importantly, to themselves. Perhaps it is even the first time they put down their feelings on paper. Frustration, insecurity, and uncertainty often come through. Death at times also appears on their pages.
I respect what they write and do not judge their lives. I don’t give them a grade for how they conduct themselves. I may write a comment, let them know that there is support if they need it. I listen to them if they want me to. And I evaluate their work based on whether or not they have followed the basic principles of an essay. They repay you with their trust.
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José wasn’t in class long enough for me to know what his life was like once he left the campus. But as with any of my students, I felt a certain responsibility towards him. When my students succeed at something, as one did in an essay contest after we had worked on it, I am filled with pride at their achievements. In a way, their success is mine too, and I want nothing more than for them to soar.
Even today, I still remember that’s what my first teacher, from kindergarten in Puerto Rico, a Cuban lady named Laura Pérez, wanted. Mrs. Pérez loved all of us kids. She made that first year of school memorable because she consoled us when she had to, taught us right from wrong, and for many I am sure, became the mother that perhaps they did not have at home.
Most of my teachers, I am lucky to say, have been like that. Very special people.
I too want my students to leave their school years with good memories. Sometimes, however, just like with life, that is beyond one’s control.
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About the author:
JC Pérez-Duthie is a bilingual college professor, language instructor, and freelance journalist and writer. He lives in Miami. www.juancarlosperezduthie.com
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