Saturday, October 22, 2011

Moseyasaurus


There’s something about a kid in a Halloween costume that always makes me choke up a little, and since I’m not the weepy type, I’m not really sure why. Maybe it’s the costumed cuteness, or perhaps it’s the excitement that is reflected in the eyes of a child peering out from behind a little mask. But mostly I think it’s because Halloween is simply the best, most purely joyful holiday. Halloween lacks the schedule that is associated with most special occasions. There aren't multiple family gatherings to attend, no religious services or taking time out to focus on the real meaning; It’s fabulously fanfare-free, the ultimate goal to assume a fake identity and rake in truckloads of tasty treasure. And last year I saw it all through the eyes of a toddling green dinosaur.

Witches, Disney princesses, Transformers, and ghouls of all makes and models braved the crisp fall air and populated the sidewalks of downtown Canton on Halloween. As we made our way around the square to collect treats from the various merchants and vendors, I walked backwards through the throng of trick or treaters in an effort to capture video footage of my little dino’s first independent trick or treating experience. Dragging his dino tail behind him, he warily approached the first vendor, and after just a little coaxing, uttered his first official “trick or treat.”

His request was greeted with a shiny red lollipop, which he immediately tore open and deposited in his mouth. He enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he had little interest in acquiring more candy. While other children clamored to the next stop, my dino’s floppy dino-feet shuffled slowly along the concrete sidewalk, his blue pumpkin candy container swinging happily from one hand, red lollipop grasped firmly in the other.

He set his pace to mosey, stopping periodically to gaze at the streetlights that were beginning to flicker, or to carefully study the scraping sound that his blue plastic pumpkin made as it bounced and scratched against the surface of one of the tall brick buildings that line the downtown district. He quietly observed the other ghosts and goblins as they zoomed past him in their frenzied quest for more sugar, and the round face that shone out from behind his dino facade wore an expression of perfect, happy contentment.

He was warm inside his furry dino exterior; he had his favorite sticky snack and was still too young to understand that he had not yet reached an acceptable Halloween candy quota. Our little Moseyasaurus had no place to be, and no place he would rather be, besides on an evening walk with the two most important people in his two-year-old life. And it was a rare moment of simple perfection, and in our tiny Coulter circle on that busy city sidewalk, Halloween had never been sweeter.


Monday, October 3, 2011

The Ripple Effect: Part II


Last time I witnessed the ripple effect was during the strike at Illini Bluffs High School.  As a teacher on the line I felt like the rock that had disturbed the smooth surface of the water, and from my unique vantage point, I watched from the center as the ripples widened, floated away from me, and disrupted the placid indifference of my adopted community.  We continue to tread water at Illini Bluffs, but today I find myself in a new position.  Today I'm floating, unnerved and unbuoyed, in a new set of ripples. 

The past week has been a slow goodbye to one of our own.  For the second year in a row, I stood in front of my students and delivered the heart-breaking news that we'd lost another member of our family.  I have done my best to comfort students; I've cried with them, and I've sat in classrooms full of teenagers who have been shocked into silence as they learn how to navigate their grief.  As teachers, we watched as another piece of their childhood eroded away, and it has left us heartsick.  As a mother, I have wept for the lost child and for his shattered family who are left behind to find the strength to make all their pieces fit together again. 

In the ten years I've been involved in my school's community, I've found that there are two cliches about small town life that hold true:  Word travels quickly, and it seems that everyone is related by either blood or marriage to everyone else in town.  You would be hard-pressed to find a community member that isn't touched in some way by the death of Austin Nau, and in the immediate wake of the tragedy, I've watched ripples of comfort turn into waves of support.

Schools from around the area wore orange and black, observed moments of silence, and sent pictures to our school as evidence of their empathy and support.  Facebook became an open forum of grief and served as a make-shift support group, available 24/7 to those in need of a human connection.  Inside my school and out, I've witnessed students, past and present, protect, comfort, and sustain one another, and it is a remarkable sight that has left me overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions.  I am so proud of the people my students have become, and I am humbled by their strength.  In the past two years they've been forced to grow up too quickly, and my heart aches for them.  At our school, as we work to right our ship once again, we find ourselves in new roles.  There have been moments in the past week when being a teacher felt a whole lot like being a parent, and other times when students became unwitting teachers, their examples illustrating lessons about the fragility of our lives and the power of community.

As we prepare to say our final goodbyes to Austin Nau, I am acutely aware of the impact his death has had on our school and the members of this community, but I am also inspired by the legacy he leaves behind.  I have heard first-hand accounts from his friends about how Austin helped to positively change the direction of their lives.  Through organ donation, there are now multiple families whose children will have a more certain future, and while this can't bring Austin back, it certainly keeps him going.  The ripples of Austin's legacy have the potential to reach far beyond his tiny community, and they will be visible for generations to come.  It is my most sincere wish that his family and close friends, the ones at the center of this tragedy, will find peace and solace in that fact, and I hope that all of his loved ones will continue to be upheld, comforted and enveloped by the concentric circles of support that will continue to surround them here at home, Nau and forever.