6. Eleanor #2
I think of my students, not quite ten, but close.
How would they cope in that situation? What support would be there to help a child through something like that?
There’s a school guidance counselor, I know that much, but that’s not always enough.
I wonder how much Juliana had to carry alone.
How much Headmaster Wright had to carry on his own.
That explains a little of why he’s so closed off and pessimistic. That, and whatever happened last year.
“It was,” she says, cradling her coffee cup. “No one understood.” Her sadness gives way to a smirk. “And probably explains why I had a brief rebellious streak after college.”
I’m curious to ask more about this, but the bell rings to signal the end of recess, and we stand. She pauses before going.
“Just… don’t give up on Dad, okay?”
I open my mouth to ask what she means, and she chuckles.
“With the fundraiser, I mean. I know he can be stubborn, especially after what happened last year, but he needs someone to challenge him. He’ll come around, I promise.”
“Okay,” I agree, but I’m not so sure.
“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, leaning in to speak conspiratorially, “I think you and he would make a good couple.” She winks before turning on her heel, and I stare after her in disbelief.
What?
She has to be joking, surely.
A strange laugh bubbles out of me at the thought, and I hurry downstairs to my class.
I pass Headmaster Wright in the hall, looking as sharp and severe as ever.
Every day he’s in a three-piece suit, dark tie, and polished Oxford shoes, the epitome of formality and control, and the complete opposite of me.
Instinctively, I want to duck my head and hide, but I remember my vow not to shrink around him, and instead square my shoulders, sending him a sunny smile.
“Good morning, Headmaster Wright.”
He nods, expression inscrutable. “Miss Hart.” His gaze slides over me, lingering on my skirt. I keep walking, spine straight, as if I didn’t notice. When I reach the top of the stairs, my heart is racing.
I pretend I have no idea why.
In the classroom, I settle the students in for a little journal writing time.
I’ve started doing this each day in an attempt to practice the art of self-reflection.
You’re never too young to learn that skill.
To help them get started, I write the prompt How I’m feeling about the school year on the board, then set a timer for ten minutes.
When the timer is up, Jessica raises her hand.
“Miss Hart, can I share what I wrote?”
I smile, leaning back against my desk. “Absolutely. Everyone is free to share if they like, but no one has to.”
Jessica grins, standing and clutching her notebook. “I’m feeling happy about this year. My little sister started school, and I’m excited to show her my favorite spots to play.”
“That’s great, Jessica,” I say encouragingly. “I bet your sister is glad to have you here to support her.”
Jessica beams as she settles into her seat.
“Would anyone else like to share?” I ask, looking around the class. No one responds, so I turn to my desk, but a small voice from the back row stops me.
“Can I share mine?”
I glance back to find little Andy O’Reilly timidly raising his hand. He’s barely said two words since school started, and I smile warmly at his courage.
“Of course, Andy.”
He hesitates, and I think he’s going to back out, before he finally says, “I feel sad about this year. I miss my dad. He’s not here anymore.” Then he closes his notebook, but doesn’t look up. When I peer closer, I notice he’s crying.
Oh. God.
I cross the room and kneel beside his desk. “That was really brave of you to share. Thank you, Andy. I’m sorry you miss your dad. That must be hard.”
He nods, wiping his cheek, and I reach out to wipe his tears with the sleeve of my cardigan. This explains why he’s so withdrawn. I should have known this. I should have been aware.
“Here you go, Andy.” Sally Bastone places Sheffield, the class bear, on Andy’s desk, and he cuddles the stuffy to his chest.
“Thank you, Sally. That was very kind.” I smile, then turn back to Andy. “Would you like to sit with Sheffield in the reading nook for a moment? You could read him your favorite book?”
Andy nods, and I walk him to the cozy space.
Once he’s settled, I get the rest of the class working on problems via Zearn on their iPads, giving me a moment to breathe.
It’s always hard when a student reveals something personal, and I take the chance to send a quick email to Paige, the guidance counselor.
I’m sure she’ll be able to help, but I’m struck again by the need to do more for these kids.
No one teaches them how to process these big feelings.
How to sit with emotions like sadness and let them pass.
How to ask for help when they feel like they can’t do it alone.
I’m lucky Andy shared today so I can reach out for help, but what if he hadn’t?
I think about Juliana, losing her mom at such a young age. How did she cope? How much better would it have been if she’d had the support she needed in place?
That’s what this school needs. What all schools need. To make emotional safety—emotional literacy—a central focus. It would be the perfect cause for the fall fundraiser.
An idea blossoms in my mind. Tiny shoots at first, tentative and half-formed, but I’m onto something. Something I won’t be able to share until it’s ready. Really ready.
I sigh as I watch Andy read to Sheffield in the safety of the reading corner. I don’t want to give up on the fall fundraiser. On these kids.
But what if Headmaster Wright won’t let me in?