On Casseroles and Back to School

Starting a new school year is always an emotional casserole. Am I excited to meet new students and reconnect with returning students? Yes. Do I love staying up late and sleeping in? Also yes. I mostly-jokingly whine about getting up early (and early is relative); I know it’ll only take a few days to adjust. I had a long and valuable summer break and I really can’t (shouldn’t) complain about having to return to weekday adulting.

This year’s emotional casserole has a bit of mystery, much like my actual cooking. For the first time since Cooper died (on the fourth day of school that year), I will have students who weren’t in high school when my world fell apart. Maybe they don’t even know about Cooper or that he died by suicide. I’m sure I’m overthinking, but we all know I can’t help myself.

I know I’ll eventually tell them, because at some point, there will be an anecdote I have to share or a connection to something we’re reading. We talk about the tough stuff in my room. If we don’t, how do we deal with life? How do we destroy a stigma if we don’t address an issue? So, we talk. I know we’ll talk, and I have never glossed over Cooper’s battle; I won’t start now.

Gradually, I’ve grown into being this person. I’m still adjusting to Tonya of After and I think I always will, but this is who I am. Last year, I truly cried in class as I tried to read aloud the last part of Of Mice and Men. I’d made it through that section twice already that day and I’d made it through two years without more than watery eyes in front of my class, but my 6th hour juniors saw first hand what happens when, in my mind, Steinbeck’s dying Lennie turns into my dying son. I explained and apologized the next day and, as usual, the students just rolled with it. Another time, much later in the year, we had music going as we worked, and Shawn Mullins’ “Lullaby” started to play. I said, “Nope. Nope. Can’t do it,” and skipped to a different song, then told the few kids who noticed my reaction that “Lullaby” was the song that was playing when I finally opened Spotify on Cooper’s phone. I can get through many things, but not that song.

So, I’m growing into this person—this advocate, this face of grief and perseverance, this very real woman with sometimes-ugly and almost-always-genuine emotions—and my students end up witnessing the growth and occasional setback. Life ain’t always pretty, folks.

My first test of what to tell them comes next week; the third anniversary of Coop’s suicide is Thursday. Right now, my plan is to try to work that day. I don’t feel like vomiting or digging out my Ativan when I think about working, but I still have a week to freak out. I thought I’d try to work last year, too, but the vomit matrix decided I should stay home. This year is different. I have unknowing students and a new principal who knows but wasn’t in the district three years ago. Three years seems so much more than two years.

I don’t know what I’ll do, what I’ll say, how I’ll handle this new year. I do know I’ll honor and respect Cooper; I will protect his dignity, but I will not deny his truth or my reality because here’s the thing—if my honesty can help even one student, then the discomfort of opening my heart is worth it.

Yes, this year’s back-to-school emotional casserole is different from previous years’ casseroles— again, similar to my literal casseroles. It’s full of not-so-complementary, not-so-secret emotional ingredients. I’ve overthought this casserole as much as I can. Time to throw that 9×13 pan in the oven and hope it’s passable.