I have worked with children for many years. I've coached children through various crises, from school shootings (school-aged kiddos) to the loss of a parent to changing teachers to divorce...you name it. I've dug deep into how children engage with trauma and grief and while it's not a topic I enjoy talking with kids about, I feel it has made me a stronger teacher, leader, and person as a result.
Today was different.
Maybe it's the anonymity, the distance, the far-flung consequences of the deaths of people they don't know and never will know. Maybe the abstract idea of guns, something they are familiar with but don't quite understand. Whatever the case, today I struggled with this crisis as a parent and as an educator in ways I never have before.
It started with my daughter. My boyfriend gave me a warning before he left for work this morning (I stayed home with June because she was sick this weekend) that something terrible happened in Las Vegas and he couldn't even bear to watch the news about it. Sick to his stomach. So I left the TV off. I checked social media and felt his tremblings; it was atrocious. I let Juniper watch all the ridiculous shows on Netflix she wanted, but I kept noticing that people and animals were dying in these shows - Pocahontas II, the English have guns and the Native People have bows and arrows and they battle. Then she started watching this show about a cheetah cub and his parents, and the dad got shot by a land developer as the animals were passing through a building site.
My anger increased and I became incensed. Why was my child being bombarded with this imagery after I'd so carefully protected her (and myself) from the news? Gun violence, in a child's television show? I felt ill. So I made an appointment to donate blood, partly to get out of the house and partly to feel like I was doing something, and we headed out.
Donating blood felt good, but I didn't feel like June understood the gravity of what I/we were doing. I explained to her in 'kid speak' that there are bad people in this world and we can't always tell they're bad. I explained to her that guns can kill animals but they can kill people too, and she asked me incredulously if there are 'actually people who use guns to kill other people.' I somberly answered yes, and told her about Las Vegas (using safe words) and that some people died and some were injured and that's why I was donating blood. I explained to her what it means for me to have O Negative blood and how I can help everyone, and maybe someday she can, too. I felt a glimmer of hope when she said she would donate blood when she has children so she can take them to learn how to do it, too.
I volunteer at an organization called Circles that helps to lift people out of poverty and teaches them methods for saving and spending to help them learn new habits. I'm the youth program coordinator, so I work there every Monday night with the children of parents and allies while their parents attend their workshop. I had 4 children tonight, ages 4 and 5. Our theme was goal-setting, and we were reading books about making wishes and setting goals and plans for ourselves.
First, we read a book about making wishes, and I realized quickly that this book was written by actual children, their wishes taken down and compiled by an adult. There were simple wishes, like "I wish I had a cat," and "I wish I could get a cool new pair of shoes," but then there were wishes like "I wish everyone has a place to sleep tonight," and "I wish everyone would be kind all the time." I'm sitting here, reading this book to these sweet babes, these young, tiny humans who have not yet been crushed by the unrelenting blows of this world, reading to them about their peers wishing for homelessness to end. Their sweet eyes never left the page, and they contributed their own wishes at the end of the book. Simple wishes, again, about dogs and babies and shoes. I said, "I wish for peace," and they asked me what that meant.
I couldn't even answer them. I finally choked out, "This is peace," and wrapped my arms around their tiny bodies in a hug I was sure might take their breaths away. Looking into their big, unadulterated eyes, I caught a glimpse of something I am reminded of only when working with children: true hope. I've stopped looking for hope in grown humans. We only see the darkness, and even if there is hope, it's clouded, like the sun trying to push through rainclouds on a stormy day. The eyes of tiny humans light up like gems when you read to them, color with them, play with them, dance with them, sing with them - all that beauty that life stifles out of adults as we grow is still deeply present within them. That's what I saw in Juniper when we talked about donating blood when she has children - hope. She's not thinking about what school she's going to send her kids to, or what religion she might subscribe to, or how mass shootings may have increased by the time she has kids. No, she is thinking only of teaching them, demonstrating to them how to save a life.
The tragedy of children in a crisis is that their grief is untouchable and unknowable. Children will weep, yes, to be sure. They will curl up in your arms and let themselves sag into your chest, that safe place where the monsters cannot get in. They will hurt, and they will show it in the worst ways - sleepless nights, sassiness, anger, picky eating, not speaking...they don't yet know how to manage their pain. They don't know how to regulate the way we do. They don't understand compartmentalization. So they will mourn, sometimes for 10 minutes and sometimes for 10 days and sometimes for 10 years, but not like grown humans. That's the tragedy; we are taught, through years and burdens, how and when to grieve. We don't teach children to grieve because how can you teach a thing like that? So we let them, in their own way, on their watch, not ours, because it is the best thing you can do for a child.
The importance of children in a crisis is that moment when you look into their eyes and see their hope that gets slowly worn away with 9-5, panic-filled, worry-stricken, money-driven adulthood. It may feel selfish to slip away into those great big pools of hope, even for a time. You feel like you're stealing it. But they possess it in absolute abundance. Even the children who are homeless, heartbroken, hungry will still light up when you turn on music, or open the pages of a new story. They will lean into you for that kind of deep chest hug that breathes new life into your lungs. The tendrils of their hope will seep in through your pores; you will inhale it like an aroma and it will become a part of you, if only for a moment.
This beauty and tragedy exist together in children, which is perhaps the most beastly of all. We must handle them like fine china, but also like fresh clay.
Hug your children tonight. If you don't have a baby to hold, stop for a moment, dig into the recesses of your adult brain, and pull out whatever shards of hope you have left. Clasp them in your hands, feel their edges soften under your touch, and place them deep into your heart. Hold on. Feel the depths of hope caress your dark places, and stand renewed.
"There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots; the other, wings."
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
