Making it About Me

Excuse me while I self-indulge for a moment.

I know that there is a move towards worshiping youth in this culture. I know that we are doing a disservice to our young people by telling them that, no matter what their skills or their level of discipline, they can be whoever or whatever they want. This is simply not true – as an example, I will never be a line backer. Ever. I take that back... I will never be a successful line backer.

We strive in education to make each student feel special. Parents help, of course, and we are now (again, in education, I still can't speak to the parenting side of this) fighting this cult of individuality, this “my child is a precious snowflake” mentality. If you are in a math class and you refuse to listen to the lecture, do the homework or study, you're going to fail the class. The instructor shouldn't be expected to give you a passing grade just because s/he doesn't want to hurt your feelings.

That being said, I wouldn't be in education if I didn't believe some of the hype. If I didn't believe that each individual was a potential font of greatness, if I didn't believe that every single student I meet had the ability to become a happy, functional, contributing member of society, I wouldn't be here. And there is no excuse for someone to remain in education any amount of time if they can't rejoice in the possibilities inherent in every single human being they come into contact with.

I do not remember every student I've ever taught. I am not the teacher or librarian with the didactic memory. To be honest, half of my job as a librarian is to forget most of what I'm asked. I am a source for information, not a source for editorializing. And if my patrons thought I was remembering them or their queries, they'd quit asking me.

There are some students, though, who stand out. For me, being a librarian, they are the readers and the ones I have some sort of geographic connection to. These are the students who seek me out to talk about places we've both been or suggestions for new things to read. They're usually weird in some way. They're always pleasant to me, even if they're trouble in the classroom. I remember all of these students, and when they move on, while I don't expect to ever hear from them again, I keep good thoughts for them.

It is by sheer luck that I found out a former student of mine – one who stood-out, one I remembered fondly and specifically – died, likely by her own hand . It is by sheer luck that I am writing this on a day of recognition for bullying and suicide. Please don't look too closely for connections – I don't want to cheapen either event.

I just find that I fail to understand. Of course, she had baggage. This flight doesn't make you stick with a carry-on, you can drag along anything you refuse to let go of. When I knew her, she was at that age where she was picking a path and really starting to come into her own – the seeds of adulthood were sprouting and she had come to terms with “the past” in as much as someone her age has one. She was vital and there was no reason to think anything like this would happen. It's the very cliché “I never saw it coming.”

We all have parents who fucked us up – it's what parents do, and it's the nature of children to figure out how the best possible parent has failed. We all have mates who have betrayed us in some way, friends who have abandoned us, dogs who have died. The fantastic truth is that life goes on. There are countless ways to reinvent yourself, countless ways to start over, to ask forgiveness, to forgive, to move on.

I am not a religious woman. I believe strongly that you've got to spend what you make right here because you can't take it with you. Perhaps that is why I find this wastefulness so upsetting. That potential? No matter how much we pray or hope or wish or dream, no matter what we believe, that potential is gone. The stars that filled her up have dissipated and cannot be collected again.