Love Letter to My Dead Student
A Chicago teacher mourns a slain student, knowing that he won’t be the last…
By Ann Mastrofsky
In May, someone opened the door to my classroom, stuck in his head and mooed. It was Darrell—charismatic, intractable, and one of my favorite
students. He was seventeen years old and had earned only one high school credit; technically, he was a freshman. Darrell very rarely attended class and when he did, he spent most of his time socializing. He was barely literate, his math skills at the level of a third grader. But when I complimented his efforts, he beamed with pride. He did the best he could, and sometimes his best was outstanding. He earned the highest grade on my semester final.
In May, someone opened the door to my classroom, stuck in his head and mooed. It was Darrell—charismatic, intractable, and one of my favorite
students. He was seventeen years old and had earned only one high school credit; technically, he was a freshman. Darrell very rarely attended class and when he did, he spent most of his time socializing. He was barely literate, his math skills at the level of a third grader. But when I complimented his efforts, he beamed with pride. He did the best he could, and sometimes his best was outstanding. He earned the highest grade on my semester final.I greeted him and he smiled warmly, an impish flash in his green eyes. He and I had bonded early; he liked his middle aged, white female teachers—teachers like me—the best. A huge youth, he towered over me and my neck hurt when I looked up at his broad face and dyed dreads.
I asked him what was up and he shrugged, smiling shyly. I told him to pull up his pants and take off his hat, both of which he did. I asked him if I’d see him in class later and he told me that I would. A few of his friends approached and I ducked back into my room, allowing him the privacy that adolescents and teachers both require. I knew only a Love Letter to My Dead Student – EduShyster:
