Pain Hurts, Until You Share It
A short story about sharing pain in the light.
The middle schoolers came into the classroom in small groups, infusing the atmosphere with their particular and diverse energy. Instead of a cold and sterile room, it was now enlivened by loud talking, physical shoving and books slammed on the desks.
It was time to begin.
I stood up from my desk and walked around it, hitching my right hip on the solid wooden surface to anchor myself. I have been with these kids for many months, and I had seen their struggles to understand the changes their bodies were experiencing, the shifting tides of friendships, and the growing sense that they were entering a new phase of their lives.
The dull roar of 26 teenagers faded as I raised my hand. After I had their attention, I asked them to take out a clean piece of paper and pen, and to put their books away.
I said, “Today, we’re not going to discuss European history.” I paused, as there were several whoops of joy. “Instead, we are going to share baggage.” I held up an empty garbage bag in front of me.
They looked at each other, eyebrows raised, until one person raised their hand to ask, “Don’t we have to take the TAAKS Test next week?” The test was required by our state to ensure that no kid was left behind. I had been pushing them for the last month toward this goal, and to take a day off was unusual.
I smiled and said, “The next few minutes will help you become a better person in life. The TAKKS test will still be there and you will still focus on preparation to show your intelligence.” I paused for emphasis. “What we are doing today is a different intelligence.”
They shook their heads, and I caught several eye rolls. That universal sign teenagers use when adults behave as if they are from a different planet, but expect the teen to follow alien rules.
“How does this garbage bag relate to your life?” I held up the plastic bag that was empty.
Emily raised her hand, her sweet voice answering. “That’s where we put our garbage.” Several people laughed as I nodded.
“That’s what we are going to do today. Put our garbage in this bag. Instead of calling it garbage, I want to call it baggage.” I paused to see if they were listening, then I asked, “What’s the difference between garbage and baggage?”
Another voice from the back called out, “Garbage is what you throw away, baggage is what you carry with you.”
I smiled at Jack, knowing that he was pushing the rules by not raising his hand, but not wanting to call him out. “Right! So we are going to call this garbage bag our ‘baggage bag.’”
Puzzled looks and the whiff of boredom. I had to keep them engaged or risk losing them.
“Please write or describe the mental and emotional baggage you carry. It can be as long or short as you want.” I made sure they were listening, then said, “And don’t put your name on it. This exercise is anonymous and no one will know it was your baggage.”
I continued. “Ask yourself, ‘what baggage am I carrying today?’ Then write it down. No need to analyze or judge — just write the first thing that comes to your mind.”
The sound of papers rustling, bodies squirming, and thoughts churning filled the room as 26 heads bent down over their desks. Only one student continued to look at me, a small smile playing across his face. Jack was always acting the part of the smart ass, but I knew it was a charade hiding a genius level intellect. He was my most frustrating student, because he never seemed to allow his brilliance to shine. If I were honest with myself, part of my motivation in holding this exercise was to see if I could ferret out his reluctance to be a leader among his peers.
I motioned to him to write and turned to see how the rest of the class was doing. After a few minutes, I asked them to put down their pens. When I had their attention, I held up the baggage bag and asked, “How heavy is your bag?” No one responded, but I could see pain in the eyes of a dozen students that they hid.
Without saying a word, I started walking down the aisles, asking them to crumple their paper and toss it into the bag. When it was full of crumpled paper, I walked back to the front of the room.
“This bag holds the pain you’ve been carrying — your baggage. No one knows what it is, but it drives your behavior. Behind your behavior are your thoughts and beliefs that are based on this pain.” I paused and noticed several eyes filled with tears. “You can’t accept the pain until you see it as separate from you.”
I reached inside the bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. I tossed it to Ethan in the third row and he caught it. As he held it up as if he had caught a fly ball, I asked him to stand up and read it.
“My dad…” Ethan’s mood went from playful to sad as he stopped talking. He looked at me for reassurance, and I motioned for him to continue. His voice trembled as he read, “My dad just left us. My family is breaking up and I have to live with my mom and dad in two different houses.” As Ethan sat down, I said, “We are each going to read a message from our classmates. This is the baggage you have been carrying that weighs you down and affects your view of the world.”
I nodded my thanks to Ethan and continued. “Each one of us hides our baggage from the world. When you can see it, accept it and share it, it transforms into something beautiful. And when you see the baggage that other people carry, you understand them a little better.”
Their mood had turned somber, almost as if they realized that life could intrude on their world at any moment. As we worked through the crumpled pieces of paper, and each student read a message, I noticed the mood of the room had lightened.
Midway through the process, I asked them to describe what they were feeling. Emily raised her hand and said, “I always thought I was the only one with problems.” She turned and looked at her classmates. “Now I know everyone is carrying some baggage.”
Many heads nodded, and several kids smiled at her. Emily was the quiet one in the class, but she was always prepared and ready to take part. It didn’t make her popular with her peers, but there was a new respect for her as she voiced what many other students were thinking.
There was one last piece of paper in the baggage bag. Jack had not read, so I walked to the back of the room and opened the bag. It took him a minute to find the paper, which he flattened on his desk. He looked at me with a depth of pain that I had never seen. It startled me for a second, but hen he started reading.
“My mom has stage 4 cancer…” Jack looked down as he gathered himself to continue. Tears glistened in his eyes as he read the rest of the message. “The Doctors say that she only has 6 months to live.” He sat down and buried his head in his arms, sobs racking his body.
The class sat stunned and silent. No one had to ask who wrote the note. No one had to guess why Jack was crying. Several kids looked at me for guidance and I stepped into the void.
I opened my arms and gestured for everyone to surround Jack. Several of his friends got close enough to hug him. As we stood there, listening to his soul-wrenching sobs, each person opened their hearts to him.
Emily was the first one to speak. “We love you, Jack,” she whispered, hugging him for emphasis. Several other voices joined her, and the energy of compassion flowed from the group to fill the room.
After several minutes, Jack became quiet. He looked up at his classmates and smiled, wiping the tears from his face. “Thank you,” he breathed. “I’ve been feeling so alone, and now I know I can share my pain without being afraid.”
I nodded and smiled at him. Now I knew why he held back and why he hid his pain by being a smartass. Our eyes locked, and he nodded, acknowledging my efforts to help him.
“All right, everyone. Please go back to your seats.” I walked back to the front of the classroom and waited for the noise to die down.
“Thank you for being so open and honest. Please remember that if one of your classmates is acting out of sorts, they could use a friend and a person to sit with them and hear their pain.”
Ethan raised his hand. “Ms. Parson, thank you for this lesson. I know that sometimes I don’t think about what the other person may be going through.” He paused, then said with a laugh, “I hope everyone remembers what happened today.”
I nodded and said, “Well done, everyone. Tomorrow we start back on the TAAKS review.” Groans met this announcement, but Jack called out from the back of the room. “That’s easy compared to what we went through today!” Everyone laughed, and they started filing out, eager to move on to the next thing.
Jack was the last person to leave. He stopped by my desk and said, “Thank you, Ms. Parson.” My throat was too tight to answer, so I just nodded, tears filling my eyes as he walked out of the room.
In all my years of teaching, that day still stands out as the day that pain, when shared in the light, has room to heal.