“If we hurt people, then they cry. It’s sad when people cry.”
I called a friend this evening. “I’m scared,” I told him.
“I think you should write,” he said.
Streetlight Diaries are usually about frivolous things—baggage and boys. These frivolous things mean a lot to me, but contribute little to the bigger picture or greater good. This post, however, is about both.
Last weekend I was in Boston. My family hung out in Allston, saw a game at Fenway, and brunch-hopped down Boylston. The sun was shining and life was good; summer was here again and we’d all managed to come together for yet another memorable weekend.
As we walked down Boylston, I stopped to admire some art that was nailed to a tree. How interesting, I thought, this pretty little art amidst this bustling street. But it wasn’t art. As I looked closer, I noticed there were four crosses, each with a picture glued to its center—Sean, Krystal, Lingzi, and Martin. It took me a moment to figure it out. My family walked ahead, but my feet would not follow them. I looked at the tree, then down at the sidewalk, and then back at the store I stood in front of. Marathon Sports. The tree, the sidewalk, Marathon Sports. My realization was slow—eerie—and when I looked up, only my brother’s girlfriend was watching me. She made this sort of wincing pout; only she understood what I was realizing as I stood in the exact spot . . .
April 15, 2013 2:49 p.m. The first bomb is detonated in front of Marathon Sports, near the Boston Marathon finish line.
Some part of me—a delusional, yet well-educated part—looked to see if Krystal Campbell was lying there, if I could help her. But she wasn’t, and the sidewalks were clean now. My feet let go and I left that terrible spot.
“I’m scared,” I told my friend this evening, “This shit just keeps happening again and again—and maybe if I hadn’t been in Boston last weekend Orlando would be hitting me differently, but . . . it could happen here. Next time. Next attack. The next bombs or knives or—FUCK GUNS! It could happen at my school. It could happen near my family again.”
“Maybe you should take a day off to rest,” he suggested.
“No,” I said abruptly, and then, more calmly, “No.”
I teach preschool because I’m no good at keeping up with politics. I know the world needs to change, and I see my opportunity to change it in my classroom.
The three years olds in my class are new to the world. They just learned how to speak, put ideas together, feel, and have opinions about it all. So today, instead of following our regular curriculum, we did a lesson on compassion:
What is compassion?
“It’s love. And being so nice with kindness to others.”
How can we show love?
“I know! We can give hugs to everybody!”
“We can help people.”
“We can laugh. But we don’t tease anybody, we only laugh together.”
“We can let all our friends play.”
Can they play with us even if they’re different from us?
“Yeah!”
“Of course, Miss Erica, you’re so silly.”
We also did a lesson on things we can do if we’re upset:
What is upset?
“Maybe if you’re sad or angry.”
“Frustrated.”
“Disappointed.”
Should we hit if we feel upset?
“No! And not kicking either.”
“If we hurt people, then they cry. It’s sad when people cry."
What can we do instead?
“Talk. We have to use our words to tell why we are upset.”
Who’s a good person to talk to if we’re feeling upset?
“Teachers, mommies, daddies, friends, or doctors.”
That’s a good idea. What else could we do if we feel upset?
“Not hit. That’s so sad.”
“Draw a picture and tell a story why we’re SO MAD!”
“Do some exercises. Then the energy goes into our muscles.”
“Take deeeeeep breaths and feel our heart beat.”
Not hit? Not kick?
“No, Miss Erica, hurting is bad. Hurting is so sad."
Why wasn’t this blog posted yesterday? Honestly, because I was alone yesterday. Because there are really only two people who know how tremendous an effect the Boston bombings had on me and neither one of them were options to run to yesterday when everything from 2013 (and 2007 and 2012) suddenly seemed relevant and horrifying again. Reading about the tragedies of the Pulse nightclub and Christina Grimmie would not have been safe or healthy to do while I was alone. But today—today I had to face eleven three-year olds. And as I watched them play, I thought, there is hope. Change is possible. I think if it starts with us, maybe it will finally end with them.
T.
