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Letter to My teacher
Makayla Chambers 1/19 Dear Mr. Todney Harris, I remember when the text went over the group chat. “Todd is dead” in bold black letters. The boldest person I knew was being reduced to ten black letters on a white page. I remember how the next couple of moments seemed to pass in a blur. How Daniella left the room crying, trying to hide her face in her jacket. How Fusco had tear tracks on her cheeks. How my face was as dry as a paper towel. How everyone in the chemistry class (including Ms. Zullo) was staring at us wondering what had just happened. How the fire alarms blared within seconds and I wondered, “Have they always been this loud?” How Mr. Rhone asked me If I was okay (his customary greeting towards me ever since we both came to Coop) and how I said “Yeah” even though I (most definitely) wasn't. How it took me 10 flights of stairs and a random announcement over the intercom to realize you were really dead. I have a terrible memory, but that day isn't leaving my memory anytime soon. The last time I saw you was at my eighth grade promotion (not graduation, promotion.) My group of friends had all made plans to come visit school after we left. We knew exactly when we’d visit and who we’d see. We’d come back on one of the many half days high school allotted us. We’d visit Mr. Rich in the band room and annoy him just like we did every day for the past three years. We’d stop by our old 2nd grade teachers and ask them how they’ve been. Visit the 6th grade teachers who put up with our know-it-all attitudes and then go to our eighth grade teachers. We’d say Ms. Julie’s (the vice principal's) name three times and see if she appeared for old times sake. We’d sing the Christmas carol parodies we made about each of you. We’d stop by Ms. Amy’s class and see how the language arts teacher was faring. Then we’d go next door and see you and walk in like we’d never left to talk about the memories we had in your class. About the time you took us to the courthouse and Dontrell asked “Would Judge Judy be there?” About the time you bought a couch when we went on a field trip to Jordan's to go on the ropes course. About you dancing the Carlton, or being the DJ at a dance we had at school. About how you’d let us watch CNN News when you noticed a lot of us were having an off day. Or about how every year without fail we studied slavery in your class and were experts by the time a substitute would come in with a slavery packet as the sub work for the day. We never did come back as group, but I don’t think it would’ve mattered. Mr. Rich left school the year after we left and my sixth grade teacher left as well. You and Ms. Amy were the only teachers we wanted to come back and visit. And apparently you left too, and none of us knew. We never knew you had brain cancer or were hospitalized or how long you had the disease. But the second we found out, we started talking to each other again, making plans like we had never stopped talking, ready to visit you. One thing you were always good at was getting us to talk to each other. And even lying in a hospital bed (your deathbed) you managed to do that without knowing. We were determined to find which hospital you were at, no matter how stalker-ish our attempts made us feel. We asked one of your old colleagues (Ms. Allison) and she told us not to visit you. That you weren't your old self. That hit me harder than the news that you had cancer. How could you not be your old self? The exuberant teacher, always dancing and smiling, ready to impart new knowledge to us. I remember when we were in class and you called your mother so we could talk to her. We had just watched the movie "Selma" and you were trying to stress how dire the situation was during the Civil Rights Movement. I knew you were doing it as a teacher trying to show us the gravity of the situation, but I always admired how willing you were to expose us to your personal life to teach us something new. It hadn’t occurred to me until I started writing this letter that you had a family. A son who looked like a carbon copy of you, but in Timbs instead of dress shoes, and visited after school sometimes. You looked and acted so alike. From the way you carried yourselves to the bald head. I wonder how he’s dealing with all of this. I remember when we got the text over the group chat and the conversation stopped being “when should we visit Tod?” to “when's the funeral?” I remember thinking about how the timing couldn’t have been worse. We’d just ordered flowers and were starting to make plans. It broke my heart to watch as Fusco made the phone call saying we didn’t need the flowers anymore. Your funeral was during a school day in Hartford, so none of us could be there. I’m sorry none of us could make it. I don’t remember much of middle school (and for that I’m grateful) but I do remember you. I remember asking you to squeeze my hand as hard as you could because you did that with the boys to test their strength. I remember going on a crusade about sexism in an attempt to get you to squeeze my hand. I remember buying a whole pack of sticky notes and writing “squeeze my hand” on every one of them to leave on your desk. I remember discovering you wrote a book and seeing that you had one review (you were that one review). I remember coming in the next day with Fusco laughing over the fact that you were your only review. I remember running into your class every day to share some knew conspiracy theory or story I made up. I remember you telling me on countless occasions to write a book. You kept telling me my thoughts were so interesting they deserved to be shared. I remember thinking when you died “I’ll write a book and have you as the first one in my dedications.” I’ll miss you Teacher Man T. Sincerely, Your unofficial favorite student (It most definitely wasn’t Zephaniah) Makayla Chambers |
We're Winning for You, Coach Wells
Makayla Chamber 3/19 I wonder what you were thinking as the driver hit you. How you felt when you were forced into another lane, which propelled you and another driver off the road. I wonder why you were wronged when you did everything right. I wonder why you had to be one of the two dead. I wonder why, once again, Snapchat had to be the bearer of bad news. I wonder how many more times I’ll find out someone’s dead through Snapchat. I wonder if the wrong way driver knows the impact your death has had on my community. I'll miss our lunch line talk and everything else you’ll never be able to do again. You’ll never take another picture of me playing basketball or see me wearing matching socks. You’ll never see me win volleyball tournaments.You’ll never see me walk into your office asking for food or hear me make another cringe worthy joke. I wonder when we’ll get a break. Rest In Peace Coach Wells, we’re winning for you. Letter To My Angel
Destini Washington 11/18 I still remember your soft, warm hands. I remember the wine-colored nail polish you used to wear. I always used to say it matched your personally in a way--“Mysterious.” I remember going from living with you and seeing your face every day to visiting you in a nursing home, seeing your face every week. I try to find the Honey Graham crackers we always used to eat together while watching some show you liked. Now I wish I had paid attention to it because I don’t even remember the name. I remember your laugh from 5 years ago but can’t remember what my math teacher taught me in class 5 days ago. I have vivid images when it comes to you. I try to seek the love you gave me, but can’t find it. I try to find it in everyone else, not completely understanding that nobody can give the love you gave. I remember the dream you had the night before you left me; it was 15 days before your birthday. You had a dream about having a birthday party in a graveyard, not knowing that was your way of saying you had enough. I remember seeing the pain in your eyes but never asking “are you okay,” because I was always happy seeing you. I’m sorry I never asked. I’m sorry I couldn’t take away your pain then. You went from warm to cold in a matter of days. I remember the last time seeing you, lying peacefully with a wine-colored lipstick on to match your wine-colored nails, but this time you were cold. You were silent and still. I didn’t just walk down the aisle and touch you and walk away. I touched you long and silently with tears flowing. While touching you, I thought how the years would be without you. I touched you thinking you’d touch me back. Years later, I’m wondering if you’re proud. Wondering if you’re happy. I’ll forever be seeking the love you gave knowing I won’t ever find it. This is a letter to you, my angel, letting you know that I still remember you, your laugh, the feel of your body, and, of course, your love. Without you, I wouldn’t be as strong and rare as I am today. Love you Grandma. Sincerely, your granddaughter, Destini Jeri…Why did they have to take you? Jai’Dyn Johnson 10/18 I didn’t know why I was feeling so many emotions today, October 11, but it’s because today marks a year they took you from us. I don’t usually post or talk about how I miss you. The day you passed, I found out on Facebook and I didn't think it was you who died. I couldn’t wrap my head around the thought of you being gone. I couldn’t sleep; all I could do was hide away and cry. Seeing you in that casket messed me up so bad. Your mom had a slight see-through cover over you. You would still be here if the ambulance didn’t take forever to get to you. They did you so dirty, man. We had funny moments and those will last forever. I won’t ever be able to wrap my head around you being gone. I’m trying to stay strong for you, but it’s hard. I love you. R.I.P. Rack$. |
The Day My Father’s Life Ended
Ken’nyah Cooper 5/19 On January 12, 2018 my father was shot at a gas station. There were 12-14 bullets shot at my father. He only got hit 2 times, I think, He drove himself to the hospital and they were able to stop the bleeding but couldn’t get the bullet out. My father was laying on his deathbed and was ok for like 5 hours, then he started internal and external bleeding and passed away. My grandmother got a phone call she then called everyone else. I was picked up early from school and brought to the hospital. I was told I was suspended. As I arrived at the hospital I saw EVERYBODY there. I knew somebody was hurt. I wanted to know who was hurt. I saw my mom crying, so I instantly started crying so now I was asking why is everybody crying and what happened? My three grandmothers took me into the bathroom. They said, “Your father was shot at a gas station and unfortunately he did not make it.” I screamed and buckled down. It was news no kid wants to hear. I asked repeatedly, “why why why?” I asked to go see him but they said it was too late. I didn’t believe he was gone, not at all, until his viewing. I really broke completely down after I saw him. I was shaking. I didn’t realize how much love I had for him till he was gone. I didn’t mean that in a rude way, it’s just that he’s been in and out of my life due to jail. He still sent me cards on my birthday, got together with his kids when he was out of jail, and gave us what he could, but we still felt like we didn’t know him enough. Dear Tio Robbi Ioanis Torres 10/18 I’m sorry it took me so long to write this letter. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it before. It’s been over a month since you left us. Over a month since you left me. I can’t tell you how many times I have caught myself staring at your picture. It’s my favorite one of you. The one where you’re standing in front of a wall full of graffiti looking down at the ground with a smile on your face. That’s how I want to remember you. Like the happy and sweet guy I know you were. Not like the name in a news article informing me that I will no longer see you again. Not like the line that reads “Según informó la Policía, Roberto Carlos Alvarado Ortiz de 23 años, murió de varios impactos de balas.” I hate that now when I search up your name the first thing I read is “Double Homicide in Cidra.” That’s not how people should remember you. They should remember you as the sweet guy who was always hard to wake up and who was always cranky when he didn’t get enough sleep. Like the guy who loved his family and the guy, who in spite of what he wanted people to believe, was a child at heart (sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who knew that, though that’s not true). Somehow it has gotten easier to look at your picture on the wall. Now every time I see your face I don’t break down crying and honestly, I consider that an accomplishment. Grandma is going to send me one of your hats and I’m really excited about that. I hope it arrives soon so that I can start feeling closer to you. I know it probably doesn’t make any sense to you. How can a hat do that? But you know, it’s not really the hat itself that will make me happy. What will make me happy is knowing that it was yours. That you wore it and that you loved and cherished it. I promise I’ll take good care of it. I’ll make sure that it is always clean and safe because I know that that hat is the only thing I’ll have from you. And you know what? That thought makes me really sad. How come I didn’t get to share anything else with you? I look around at my siblings and some of them have more of you than I ever will. For example, Mileysha. She has your style. Yeah, I know it’s weird to hear since she’s a girl, but she does. She has that same boyish, cool-guy style that you used to have. Jeremy, he has your build and some of your features. It wouldn’t surprise me if he grows up to look exactly like you. Dylan, he has your height. I know for a fact that he will be just as tall as you. Sebastian, just like Jeremy, has some of your features and when he grows up he’ll look so much like you too. Then there’s me. The one who doesn’t dress like you, doesn’t look like you, and doesn’t even think like you. I’m left right out even though I’m the most desperate to hold on to the memory of you. I love you though. So I hope that my love will fill in the void that I feel. The love that I have for you will never die, so rest assured I will always remember you no matter what. Rest in peace my angel and don’t you worry, we’ll be just fine. With Love, Ioanis |