Week one.
Lockout/walk out combo.
Support on the picket line was
amazing. Very few people took time out
of their day to swear at us or give us the finger.
That was nice. In 2005, teachers
took their lives in their hands, or so it felt, to identify publicly as a
teacher – never mind walking the picket line on those dark, rainy, dreary days.
Wednesday my daughter, who walked the line
with me on my Tuesday picket day, drove me to work (front tires are hooped and
I can’t afford to fix them now…thanks, Christy). She listened to CBC with me so I could catch
up on any bargaining news. What she
heard, interspersed with the support, were a number of completely misinformed people spout off about how we are
lazy (because of the summers off) and in no way deserve the kind of increase we
are asking for. She became very angry at
these opinions born out of ignorance and wanted to set the record
straight.
I suggested she write down her perspectives
and I would post it here. She
agreed. So did her two brothers. So did my husband.
Over the next several days, I will be
posting their words for you to see how the lives of teachers, the reality of
the job, impact the lives of their families.
I was so happy to see Todd Kettner’s letter
to Christy Clark, and gang, because finally a support person has gotten some
attention for their tireless work and dedication to the most vulnerable kids
and families in our province.
That dedication does not come without a
price. A very high price. Our mental health is compromised daily as we
keep putting one foot in front of the other because, in many cases, we are the
only ones who step up for these vulnerable families and youth.
I say “we” because I, too am a support
teacher. I, too have had to counsel kids
and families through loss, frustration, and heart break. In one school year in my district, we lost
count of how many kids died from car accidents, suicide, or o.ds. Some of those kids were grads and some were
kids we saw everyday…used to see everyday.
Kids whose chairs were now empty.
Kids in our classrooms.
My classroom.
My heart goes out to those teachers and the
community in New Denver. I have lost
kids, too. If it weren’t for people like
Todd Kettner, I probably wouldn’t be writing this today.
At the time of the losses I was working in
two schools – my “home” school and at a trades program with a couple dozen at
risk boys, three teachers, and an EA. We
were all very close. The loss was devastating to a group of kids whose lives
were already difficult for them in one way or another.
I felt completely separated from my “home”
school community for many reasons, not the least of which were the
circumstances of the car accident. Two
vehicles crashed into each other. The
friends of the kids in one car were angry at the friends and kids in the
other. Some adults even got in on the
division. It was unbelievably difficult.
The day after the car accident, my school
community wrapped around me like a blanket to keep me from falling apart. My colleagues left me messages telling me
that my pain was welcome there and I was to come home for love and
support. That meant more to me than I am
ever able to say.
I am also a counselor – a substance use
counselor – but in the “eye of the storm”
one cannot get any perspective. I am very grateful to our support staff for those difficult days. A number of my friends, who are also my colleagues, we by my side at back-to-back funerals. I don’t think I would have made it with out those people.
one cannot get any perspective. I am very grateful to our support staff for those difficult days. A number of my friends, who are also my colleagues, we by my side at back-to-back funerals. I don’t think I would have made it with out those people.
The hardest days, though, came after the
news teams stopped trying to harass us and the funerals were over. The hardest days came after the hikes we took
with the boys to get them out of the small school so they didn’t have to be in
the same places their buddy had been only a week ago. The hardest days came when we tried to go
“back to normal,” when we tried to get the kids back in to a routine, when we
tried to get ourselves back to how things were before.
It was never the same, though.
The empty chair was a constant reminder of how
we would never see the kid’s smile or hear the laugh again. And, for the survivors of the crash, both for
the kids in the vehicle and the kids in the class, the school year was
over. They just couldn’t see the space
and that empty chair.
The hardest day, by far was when I was
trying to get back to teaching Socials 11 (we were studying the Interwar Years
– labour disputes, of all things). We
were marking a worksheet together and I made a statement about how governments
in the past would basically hire thugs to beat strikers…then out of my mouth
came “and then_____said that they should have fought back more…” I said the kid’s name - the kid whose seat
was empty…like I would say the name of any of the other kids in the room if
they had given an example for other questions – like I would on any other day.
My voice trailed off.
And I remember this like it was yesterday…
I looked into the faces of the ten or so
boys who sat there looking at me, my eyes filling with tears, and I said… “I
didn’t expect that to happen. I’m not
sure how I feel about this. Sorry. I need a minute.”
I took a minute.
They took a minute.
Then we carried on.
After the lesson, as the boys left for lunch,
many of them gave me a hug or a little arm squeeze on the way out of the
door.
I have thought about that moment, the
moment when I recalled the comment by the kid whose chair was empty.
Why did I do that?
Then it dawned on me: for that split second I had forgotten that
the kid had died. For that split second
I had forgotten that he wasn’t just sleeping in, he was sleeping forever. For that split second we, all of us in that
room and that little school, we were all “normal” again; not drowning in a fog
of grief that weighed us down like Atlas.
In every way possible, I feel for the
teachers, families, and friends of those lost in Slocan Lake
My children and my husband had to watch me
suffer through that not once, not twice, but three times in four months. Six weeks after the first car accident, there
was a second fatal accident. Then, less
than a month after the second car accident, one of my colleagues passed
away.
During that second loss, my daughter was
also impacted by the death. A very good
friend of hers had passed. Also in a car
accident…it was a repeat of something we never wanted to go through again.
My youngest son, 9 at the time, was so
impacted by the grief in the house that he began to write poetry from the point
of view of a soldier in World War I, suffering in the trenches from the loss of
his friends and the burden of the job he had to do…to “pull the trigger when no
one else would.” He knew we were in
extreme pain and could not really help.
He was impacted by my job.
My husband held me as I sobbed into his
chest the night after I went to the hospital to visit one of the crash
survivors on a day when I also visited the other survivor at home.
Not a good combo, I know, but what was I
supposed to do? The young man called me
on my cell, crying, saying he needed to talk to someone.
What was I supposed to do?
The mom of the young man in the hospital needed
me to come to see him.
I had to go.
Those boys were burrowed in my heart as
deeply as if they were my biological children.
What was I supposed to do?
I waited with the parents (so thankful that
their son had survived) for their boy to come out of surgery. I waited, too. Thankful, too. Terrified about how this kid would look. How would I stay strong for him and his
parents when all I wanted to do was fall to the ground, wailing in grief?
An hour or so later the young man opened
his eyes and the first thing out of his mouth was, “Elke! It is so good to see your face!” He reached out his good hand to me to come to
him.
I took his hand. I tried not to cry. I really did…but then he remembered.
He had his moment of remembering why he was
there and he called out the name of his friend who had passed. He begged me not to be angry with him for the
accident.
Then I started to cry, which upset him, and
I thought it was a good idea to leave him in peace so as not to upset him further.
I sat in a chair and honestly thought I was
going to faint…if that’s what was happening.
I had never fainted before.
After I got home I told my husband that
story and sobbed until I ached from the wracking of every muscle in my body.
My husband had to endure my grief. My kids had to endure my grief.
What I do everyday for the lives of other
people’s families and kids impacts the lives of my family and kids. Most of the time it is for the better because
I love what I do. I love working with
some of the most challenging kids in the district – they make me a better
person.
But sometimes, and not often, there is a
shock wave through my house, the epicenter of which is my school. During those times my family has learned to
rally around mom because she needs a little extra love.
Right
now there are shock waves galore going through my house – the epicenter is Victoria
Thank you to my family. I can’t do what I do with out you.
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