Not Part of the Curriculum

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Abstract

ps://readmedium.com/dr-jill-are-you-ready-for-this-5874d376bbae">I’d rather grade a stack of horrid timed essays</a> than have to face a sanctuary full of mourners one more time. But it’s something I do; not because I have to, but, really, because I need to. For my peace of mind. For the kids. Because I love both.The service was short, upbeat; a celebration of this Dad’s life. His extended family was there. My cherub and her mom greeted congregants outside, smiling, laughing, carrying on several conversations at once. They were so strong. I felt like the student; they were the teachers that day.The funerals, wakes, viewings and memorial services, over 23 years of teaching, became a part of the process. My curriculum, as it were. More vivid than the imagery we study in <a href="https://readmedium.com/cold-blooded-curriculum-5b07adf1385a">AP English Lang, also known as AP Nelson,</a> back in the day; far more insightful and full of meaning than the <a href="https://readmedium.com/when-youve-gotta-go-ddd3ff2409d4">standardized test</a> we administer every year.The deaths of the students were always the most difficult. The shining star gunned down a week after her 20th birthday in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Tech_shooting">Virginia Tech

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Massacre</a>. The fun-loving ice hockey captain who killed himself on his siblings’ swing set. The sweet, sweet grad who perished one August, whose death left even me without adequate words for several days.But on this particular Saturday, the family chose to celebrate a life, instead of mourn a death. The Dad who sang “Surfer Girl,” much to the chagrin of his children. The Husband who held on to his Monte Carlo with the blue plush interior much longer than fashionably imaginable. The Friend who celebrated birthdays, commemorated milestones, and even mourned a few deaths himself over the years.As I told my guy after the service, my cherubs make this difficult rite of passage bearable. But their very presence at a funeral, which speaks of a life well-lived, instead of a graduation, which celebrates a life soon-to-be-lived, always leaves the strings of my heart tied up in tiny little knots.They shouldn’t have to go through this. But at the same time, they must. We want to protect them, but at the same time we can’t. Death is a part of growing up. We don’t teach it, but somehow I think we should.<figure id="aef0"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*aw84sl7vQOSmwL0FQCvXZw.png"><figcaption></figcaption></figure></article></body>

We teach about life; we should teach about dealing with death, too

The hardest part of teaching goes beyond the traditional ABCs. (Photo by Element5Digital on Unsplash)

Moker leaned across the table over dinner that night. His hazel eyes had turned bluish — maybe because of the shirt he wore, maybe because he was focusing so hard as he said the words.

“You’re such a good teacher.” My man hands out compliments about as often as snow falls in Honolulu (does it ever?); I’ve sheltered this declarative sentence in my heart since then.

But he wasn’t referring to tests, or essays, or helping out a student who was short on lunch money — all things I’ve done more than once. He was talking about the hardest part of a teacher’s job. Going to funerals.

I had just returned from another memorial service on Saturday, for a student’s father. Felled in the prime of life. Extinguished by a heart attack at the age of 50.

The process never gets any easier. In fact, I’d rather grade a stack of horrid timed essays than have to face a sanctuary full of mourners one more time. But it’s something I do; not because I have to, but, really, because I need to. For my peace of mind. For the kids. Because I love both.

The service was short, upbeat; a celebration of this Dad’s life. His extended family was there. My cherub and her mom greeted congregants outside, smiling, laughing, carrying on several conversations at once. They were so strong. I felt like the student; they were the teachers that day.

The funerals, wakes, viewings and memorial services, over 23 years of teaching, became a part of the process. My curriculum, as it were. More vivid than the imagery we study in AP English Lang, also known as AP Nelson, back in the day; far more insightful and full of meaning than the standardized test we administer every year.

The deaths of the students were always the most difficult. The shining star gunned down a week after her 20th birthday in the Virginia Tech Massacre. The fun-loving ice hockey captain who killed himself on his siblings’ swing set. The sweet, sweet grad who perished one August, whose death left even me without adequate words for several days.

But on this particular Saturday, the family chose to celebrate a life, instead of mourn a death. The Dad who sang “Surfer Girl,” much to the chagrin of his children. The Husband who held on to his Monte Carlo with the blue plush interior much longer than fashionably imaginable. The Friend who celebrated birthdays, commemorated milestones, and even mourned a few deaths himself over the years.

As I told my guy after the service, my cherubs make this difficult rite of passage bearable. But their very presence at a funeral, which speaks of a life well-lived, instead of a graduation, which celebrates a life soon-to-be-lived, always leaves the strings of my heart tied up in tiny little knots.

They shouldn’t have to go through this. But at the same time, they must. We want to protect them, but at the same time we can’t. Death is a part of growing up. We don’t teach it, but somehow I think we should.