My life flows in endless song, above the earth's lamentation.
I hear the real though far-off hum that hails a new creation.
Chorus:
No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?
Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear that music ringing;
It sounds and echoes in my soul; how can I keep from singing?
Chorus
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart, a fountain ever springing.
All things are mine since I am his; how can I keep from singing?
Chorus
It is a Quaker hymn. We actually have those. But it was at the end of a Catholic Mass of Christian Burial, with music from Taize, and Amazing Grace and a Navajo chant at the graveside. And although I knew the words, I found I could not sing this Quaker hymn because of weeping, as Greg's body left the church.
On Saturday I wrote a diary entitled Deep Sadness in which I offered a meditation that came about because the day before I had learned of the death of a young man who had been my student this past year. Yesterday I went to one of the two wakes held at the funeral home, and today I attended the funeral. It was in a large, and modern, Catholic church, and the principal celebrant was a Franciscan. The church is airy, light-filled: there are skylights over the altar to provide a natural lighting, and the stained glass windows are simple panels. And by the end of the service the church was absolutely packed - friends, family, fellow students, some teachers, people who knew him from his work at a camp . . .
I am writing this from a sense of deep loss, of continuing pain, although my pain pales compared to that of his family and some of his classmates. The pain I feel is more for them than for me, for their loss.
When I arrived at the funeral home the immediate family was with the coffin, then extended family entered for a while, then the rest of us were invited in, and we began with a brief prayer service. The coffin was closed, with pictures of Greg on top, and pictures pasted on boards on easels around the several rooms in which we gathered. And at one point a video loop was played, of pictures of Greg put together by his older brother. Greg's dad told me what was in it, but I guess I was still not prepared, because part of the loop was the video he and several friends had done as their final project in AP Government this spring. And one of the final images was of Greg holding up his book from that course and pointing at it.
I knew that Greg had gone to the hospital recently, but only learned the details today. He worked at a camp with younger kids, with whom he was superb. That would not surprise anyone who knew or learned today as did I how good he was at entertaining his many younger cousins. Greg had a long-standing medical condition which led to a sudden episode while he was at camp, and a subsequent hospitalizing receiving the best possible care, with consultations ongoing from several notable institutions. If I do not describe more, it is because even though I name him I still want to preserve some privacy and dignity. His family knows that I will write this. His sister thanked me for my previous diary - apparently one of my students had passed it on.
Sixteen years of life. Despite the health situations it was a rich sixteen years, spent in a family full of love. As soon as his older brother left for college Greg seized his bed, even as he acknowledged missing him. He had two sisters, one older whom I taught, one younger. His older sister advocated for him and Greg became perhaps the first freshman to have a real role on our school paper. As a sophomore he was sports editor, and he was scheduled to be features editor this forthcoming year. Both of the sisters spoke, and both wept as they tried to speak. The older sister read a poem that Greg had written.
We heard about his sardonic wit (an example of how much his father's son he was), and of his love of cartooning. One teacher who postponed his own vacation to come to the early wake yesterday immediately told me about the cartoon Greg had drawn of him, which he kept up in his room all last year. I was never given such a drawing, although more than once I could see Greg doing more than idle doodling in my class. It never kept him from absorbing what was going on, and that sardonic wit came out on more than one occasion.
The other students knew. They had formed through FaceBook a support group, and that is how the word began to spread - from student to student, even before some of the adults who are close friends of Greg's parents knew, the students knew that they had lost a friend. Some of those in the group had not known him before his recent serious illness, but became supportive as they supported and comforted their friends who knew and loved Greg. During the funeral, in the row in front of me was a young lady who had graduated in 2007 whom I knew through musical theater. I found out afterwards that she had worked at the same camp as Greg, had known what had happened at camp, but was on her way to NY because a grandparent had died when she got the news about Greg. She was naturally quite fragile, but also fairly strong for other friends - the students comforted one another. Some had taken off from work to be at the funeral.
As I write this it is mid-afternoon on Thursday. I write this to help me. How? By sharing as students shared with me, as his family shared with all of us.
It is especially hard for young people to lose someone of their own age. One of his closest friends, one who had been in that video with him, had not visited Greg in the hospital because he was sure Greg would get better; what he did not say is that he did not want an image of Greg as less than whole, and that he felt devastated that he had not been able to see his friend one last time. This is a young man I know well, having both coached and taught him. He is one of a number of young people with whom there were hugs, to whom I said that although I had to grieve as well, they could call or email if they needed someone to listen: for better or worse, I live half a block from a hospice and have been trained to help people deal with grief and bereavement. Perhaps I will not have to perform that service for this young man, or for other students, even his sister. But if it is something that I can give, then I am grateful that I have that training as something to offer.
Greg was a typical teenager in so many ways. He was undersized, in part because of his health, but he had a huge heart, as the young people with whom he worked at camp all knew. He was mischievous - I can remember more than one occasion when his sardonic humor could cut right to the heart of things in AP Government.
Greg is the first of my students that I know has left us. He will not be the last. Today I sat with a fellow teacher who talked about losing 4 in one year. I wonder if I could bear that, except that I know that I would have to, for the sake of the children still before me.
The funeral service was beautiful. There was nothing maudlin about it. The Franciscan who led it had a real understanding of Greg. The music and the texts, both liturgical and the homily by the Franciscan and words from the sisters, touched us all. It is a very multicultural parish, and that was reflected in the service, with a variety of languages other than English. And that seemed appropriate for a young man who attended a school as proudly multicultural as ours. Among the students I saw were African-American, Filipino, South Asian . . . And I suppose one could say Greg himself was multicultural, as his mother was born in Trinidad.
His parents asked in lieu of flowers that people contribute to a charity. They have established a fund in support of the newspaper that was so much a part of Greg's life. I have already contributed. The teacher who oversaw the newspaper was there, like all of us feeling deeply the loss of this young man.
Each student who passes through my care is absolutely unique, irreplaceable, invaluable. Our approach to education too often ignores that. And I admit that at times my own teaching seems not to reflect that. I don't know my students as well or as deeply as I should. This loss has reminded me of that, of how little time I have with them and how precious it is. Each enriches my life, even as at times they annoy the living daylights out of me. That was true of Greg with most of the adults around him - he was simultaneously inspiring and provocative, loving and frustrating. He was after all still a normal teenager.
A part of my heart is broken. Another part of my heart has been enlarged beyond what I thought was possible. Both are because of Greg, and his family, and all the students and teachers and others who cared for him. He is no longer a physical presence in our lives. But in life and in his passing he has affected us all, irrevocably.
If you have read this far, I thank you for your tolerance and patience in letting me share. Please understand that I will not be responding immediately to any comments you may choose to post on this thread. I need time to gather myself, and in addition, will be posting this very early on a morning where I must drive more than 4 hours to my political leadership program, which this month meets in and around Danville, near the NC border. Had the funeral conflicted, the funeral would have taken precedence: my students are more important than anything else that I do.
A part of me wants to withdraw from political activity, to do other things, to be more meditative as I advance in this my 7th decade. I do not because of people like Greg. Having no biological children my legacy will be what I am able to pass on to them, how I can empower them in their learning, their ability to act on behalf of themselves and those for whom they care, and the world I leave behind when I pass on. My times with them is always too short, and in this case painfully so, as I will not be able to watch Greg as I watched other students as they continued to grow and to surprise and delight me after they left my classroom.
I cannot withdraw because of the Gregs, all the students whose lives will be affected by what I do or do not do. That is why I continue to teach. It is why I write about my life and what I experience: it is because I want others to know and understand what is at stake. It is not a matter of political preference, but rather of moral responsibility.
And for me it is something more. It is how despite my increasing years I am able to continue to grow, because I spend time with young people who challenge me. It may be the insights I have not considered, it may be the sheer energy they still bring to life which reminds me that I was once young and idealistic. It can be with a wry observation, an impassioned argument, a challenging question. Or most of all, it can sometimes be simply from a life well-lived.
A life too short, but still well-lived.
Rest in peace, knowing we will never forget you.
To Greg 1/28-92-7/31/08
Peace.