Character Shines Through
Two weeks ago one of the kindergarten teachers at our school was hospitalized for problems related to uncontrolled high blood pressure; he died of kidney failure two days later, at age 42. He had taught pre-k, junior-k and senior-k in his nine years on the faculty.
For the past two weeks the student body has been encouraged to write letters or draw pictures in Mr. L's memory. Last week's newsletter, filled with wonderful and touching reminiscences, was dedicated to him, and an enormous bulletin board at the entrance to the school has been filled to the edges with affectionate tributes. Some of the kids made remarkably lifelike drawings of him, complete with broad smile and dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, and decorated with math symbols. Classes created enormous wreaths, easily four feet wide, made from cut out handprints, memorial notes and tissue paper flowers in every color. Saturday's funeral, filled with joyous music and celebration of a life that touched so many, lasted nearly three hours.
Yesterday the entire school participated in a memorial service. When I arrived all the students and faculty were lined up neatly outside the entrances to the gym, standing perfectly still and completely silent. Nobody twitched, nobody moved, nobody even whispered. When I saw Robespierre I waved and he slowly put his finger to his lips to warn me not to speak. All the kids wore earnest and solemn expressions; clearly they'd been coached in appropriate behavior but not threatened, as the teachers stood quietly beside them showing no evidence of the hypervigilant severity you'd see on the faces of adults who expect troublemakers to erupt at any moment. We stood nearly ten minutes until every class had arrived and taken its place in the line; then the doors were opened and several hundred adults and children solemnly entered, starting with the youngest classes, and stood silently in the areas marked out for each grade with traffic cones. Mr. L's family were seated at the front of the room, to one side of the stage.
Once everyone had entered, the students and faculty sang a song that everyone learns from the youngest grades, with new lyrics added (at the suggestion of one of the students) to celebrate Mr. L. After a stirring gospel song called "If You Could See Me Now," and a poetry reading by one of the parents, all the kindergartners were given white helium balloons to release, which floated to the ceiling.
The entire time there was not one giggle, not one reprimand, not one inappropriate movement or comment from any of the children. Even children who had no reason to know Mr. L, who'd never had him as a teacher or who'd come to the school after kindergarten, and children with a limitless supply of ants in their pants, behaved more politely than some adults I've seen at funerals.
I see this sort of behavior all the time at my kids' school. Students hold doors for adults and each other, and if you hold a door for a child he or she will thank you pleasantly. Behavior at school assemblies and performances is much more civil than you might expect from kids so young. I love what this school does for my kids. We are so lucky to have landed there.
For the past two weeks the student body has been encouraged to write letters or draw pictures in Mr. L's memory. Last week's newsletter, filled with wonderful and touching reminiscences, was dedicated to him, and an enormous bulletin board at the entrance to the school has been filled to the edges with affectionate tributes. Some of the kids made remarkably lifelike drawings of him, complete with broad smile and dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, and decorated with math symbols. Classes created enormous wreaths, easily four feet wide, made from cut out handprints, memorial notes and tissue paper flowers in every color. Saturday's funeral, filled with joyous music and celebration of a life that touched so many, lasted nearly three hours.
Yesterday the entire school participated in a memorial service. When I arrived all the students and faculty were lined up neatly outside the entrances to the gym, standing perfectly still and completely silent. Nobody twitched, nobody moved, nobody even whispered. When I saw Robespierre I waved and he slowly put his finger to his lips to warn me not to speak. All the kids wore earnest and solemn expressions; clearly they'd been coached in appropriate behavior but not threatened, as the teachers stood quietly beside them showing no evidence of the hypervigilant severity you'd see on the faces of adults who expect troublemakers to erupt at any moment. We stood nearly ten minutes until every class had arrived and taken its place in the line; then the doors were opened and several hundred adults and children solemnly entered, starting with the youngest classes, and stood silently in the areas marked out for each grade with traffic cones. Mr. L's family were seated at the front of the room, to one side of the stage.
Once everyone had entered, the students and faculty sang a song that everyone learns from the youngest grades, with new lyrics added (at the suggestion of one of the students) to celebrate Mr. L. After a stirring gospel song called "If You Could See Me Now," and a poetry reading by one of the parents, all the kindergartners were given white helium balloons to release, which floated to the ceiling.
The entire time there was not one giggle, not one reprimand, not one inappropriate movement or comment from any of the children. Even children who had no reason to know Mr. L, who'd never had him as a teacher or who'd come to the school after kindergarten, and children with a limitless supply of ants in their pants, behaved more politely than some adults I've seen at funerals.
I see this sort of behavior all the time at my kids' school. Students hold doors for adults and each other, and if you hold a door for a child he or she will thank you pleasantly. Behavior at school assemblies and performances is much more civil than you might expect from kids so young. I love what this school does for my kids. We are so lucky to have landed there.
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