On Crying in Class

I cried in class this week. I’m not proud of it. I’m not happy about it. I hope I don’t do it again. But, it happened. There was no sobbing, just some tears and an inability to read aloud for a couple minutes. Not my finest moment.

Here’s what happened. I was reading the last pages of Of Mice and Men to my class. I’d already read those pages twice that day and done fine, but for whatever reason, instead of John Malkovich’s Lennie, I pictured Cooper crumpling in death after a gunshot. I tried to read through these terrible, imagined, pictures, but my voice kept cracking. No rookie to crying, I knew what was going to happen but couldn’t stop it (I tried anyway). So, I stopped and started several times, trying to power through. I tried to say, “You’ll have to finish it,” and couldn’t even croak out those words.

My students got the idea and I heard the rustle of everyone opening their books. Finally, suddenly, I could talk. I was so frustrated; I was on the last page and wanted to read it aloud. I growled at myself and started squawking out the words. Gradually, my voice leveled off and I finished the book as planned.

No big deal, right? It’s not like I’ve never made a fool of myself in class.

Very big deal. I think I’ve only cried in class once in the past two years. I’ve cried in the hall, the restroom, the office, and just about every hiding spot in the building, but not in class. My juniors were freshmen when Cooper died. They didn’t know me at all; most were probably unaware that one of my kids died, and by suicide, nonetheless. They probably thought Ole Mrs. Woods spun out because of a sad ending in a book.

Sometimes, being honest is rough. Sometimes, being genuine is harder than I’d imagined. Sometimes, speaking up and speaking out just about levels me, but I don’t know how we tackle this stigma if we ignore our tragedies, so I stuck to my strategy.

The next day, dry-eyed and mostly-steady-voiced, I started class with an apology and the explanation I owed them. I told them about Cooper and how he died, assured them I hadn’t seen him after death but have these pictures in my head; the story was too close to home. I told them what happened the day before doesn’t happen very often, but it’s just a part of me now. I told them they don’t have to tiptoe around me, that they can ask questions, that I talk about all three of my kids, and that most days I’m just the usual goofy English teacher they are getting to know.

They handled it like the awesome, compassionate creatures they are.

Since then, things have been as normal as they get with 23 juniors the week after homecoming. We’ve written and discussed, laughed and contemplated. If I could go back to the beginning of sixth hour Monday, maybe I’d recognize my own shakiness and adjust my plan. Maybe I’d have them read the crucial chapter to themselves or I’d give the audio book a shot. Sadly, I don’t get do-overs.

Instead, I’m putting a face and a name and a story with a word that’s too often whispered or swallowed. I’m being my broken-but-showing-up-anyway self. I’m chipping away at a stigma, one sneaky tear at a time.

Cooper and my students deserve my honesty.