The Worth of a Life

This is going to have  nothing to do with photography and everything to do with everything we never want to deal with.

I'm going to be extremely frank as I write this.

This weekend, I took nine students to Dallas for the Texas State Beta Convention.  The weekend was great.  There were speakers, skits, talents, and about 1,300 high school students from across the state.  All the students were extremely well-behaved, although my group was, of course, the best of all of them.

"Unfortunately" is the most understated transition word I could use at this point, but I know no other.  Unfortunately--devastatingly--between our last two events, a "General Session" and the annual dance, a student fell several floors in the hotel and was killed.  Unfortunately--devastatingly--this happened inside, with several hundred students and other hotel guests nearby.  I'd give anything to change the fact that my students were among those close enough to understand what had just happened.  

As a side note, the hotel employees, local emergency workers, and all hotel guests responded admirably.  None were disrespectful, all were upset and concerned, but none erupted into panic.  Respectful, and as calm as possible, all treated the moment, and every slow and aching moment after, with the utmost reverence.

I won't go into the details of the emotions and reactions of what happened in the moments after.  Suffice it to say, mourning began quickly.

Within the hour, we had checked out of the hotel and were driving home, back to moms and dads who could hopefully explain and love and hold better than I could.  And the car was silent.

And I didn't know what to say.

By the grace of God (I do not say that flippantly), I was calm enough to drive.  I was eerily calm.  I found a few things to say.  Perhaps I should say that a few things were found for me to say.  We talked about how it was okay to be sad, or maybe not as sad as other people in the car.  That it was okay to cry, or talk about something else, or just be really quiet.  That everyone would react differently, and with different timing, and that we would all respect that.  That their friends at home would not, could not, understand, and that we should not hold that against them.  That this was a unique experience, and unique grieving would be necessary to get through a "recovery," of sorts.

We tried to think of something to do for his family and school, with little luck.  There's nothing to do.  Except show them love and respect.  We all agreed that respect was vital.  We would always treat that night, its memories, and its future implications with respect.

And all the way I drove, I thought of different funerals I'd been to, for accidents like this.

Amanda.  I was a freshman.  We'd played softball together the year before.  

Sue.  A friend's mom.  We were about to be seniors in high school.

Stephen.  A K-12 classmate.  I was a freshman in college.  

David.  This school year.  An athlete at Jeff's school.

And oh, the pain we all felt in those days!  The ache of regret and confusion, the burning of anger.  The frustration of the world continuing to turn.  The guilt of wondering, if mourning was so painful for me, what about people who actually were close to these individuals?  None of these people were my family members.  None were my best friends.  None were found in my contact list.  The deadening realization that these funerals would continue.  

And so we grieve.  We grieve for human loss, we grieve for a lack of a sense of completion.  We grieve for a family that will not feel whole again.  We grieve for a community who has lost a son.  And I also grieve for my students, who now know that every moment is thisclose to tragedy.  


I yearn for the reunion of this young man and his family, and believe it will happen one day.  I cry out for the loss of innocence of so many young people.  Now they know the worth of a life.  It's a heavy burden to carry.

Here is my xanga (remember that?) post from October 2005, after we buried Stephen.  Thanks for reading all these words.

Sunday, October 23, 2005

It's funny, the worth of a life. Immeasureable, for sure.  But in casual, discussion-type settings, the idea is tossed around so loosely.  We're able to discuss it so flippiantly, like it's no big deal.  What is the morality of taking a life, taking one's own life, etc.  Throwing around quotes, "isms" this and that, we come to a conclusion--or more often, not--and move on with life.  But there's another side to all this, a side filled with incomprehension, confusion, love, sadness.  I just don't get it. I was just thinking about how we don't really value human life until it's gone.  About how sad it is that I haven't even hardly thought about a friend in months, even though we'd spent the last 12, 13 years growing up together--but I hear of his death and find myself crying, wanting the world to stop for just a second, because that's what he deserves.  Then I thought again--how can I think every day about everyone who matters to me?  There are so many people who, upon losing them, my heart would break--but I don't call all my friends and acquaintences Then I got hold of myself.  Of course I have the right to miss him in death!  Not everyone is made to be my bestfriend, your bestfriend, and everyone else's best friend.  We all appeal to different people on different levels.  The friendship we had was great--not much more than surface-level, a "Hey buddy, how are you doing?" kind of thing, a dance at homecoming kind of thing--just because I never went and heard his band play or hung out with him outside of school (except Boy Scouts stuff when my brother was a lot younger...) doesn't mean I can't miss him.  I should miss him!  We were friends.  Period.  The level of relationship between two people does not dictate emotions, if they're appropriate or not, etc.  The fact is, we were friends.  I valued him in life, period.  I value him still.  Period. I thought I'd feel better than this.  Oh well, step by step.  I'll be back in Howe soon, guys. I do love you all.

xoxo Bec