What is compassion? It is when an individual selflessly makes an effort to help someone deal with
physical, mental, or emotional
suffering.
showing compassion for each other. Someone would fall, and you only heard laughter or a smartass
joke, no one ran to help. More students came to school drugged or drunk, yet no one wrote a note to me
or shared that they were worried about their friend. And yet I do remember a powerful memory of a
whole-class that gave me the space I needed when I was experiencing a trauma moment a month after
our son, Kyle, died of an overdose.
I stood in front of my theatre class, struggling to remember the guidelines for developing a character. Giving up, I picked up my theatre book; somehow, my unfocused eyes found the chapter. But the familiar blurry words had no meaning. My fingers clasped the edges of the textbook, then I froze.
Noise. Somewhere in the classroom, murmurs. Then loud waves of voices crashed into one another in erratic rhythms. Where were the noises coming from? Who was talking? Instantaneously, I followed my familiar routine: I faded, disappearing into my head; my body seemed to lift, floating somewhere above me. I felt like I wasn't even in my classroom anymore.
I fought to focus. My eyes darted from face to fuzzy face, not recognizing one single student. The students seemed to be sitting behind rippled glass blocks. Someone danced some familiar Flamingo steps on my heart.
The boa constrictor knotted in my stomach, and I fought to control my irregular breathing. I took a couple of deep breaths when I remembered what my trauma counselor taught me for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. She told me to be honest with my students when my episodes start. I had to honor the way I felt, notice where I felt the emotion, what it felt like, and then give myself permission to feel. Words stumbled out of my mouth, “Hey, you guys….” I sucked in a couple of rapid breaths, “It’s…it’s happening again. Please, take the noise down a level.”
And just like magic, the static disappeared. “Sorry, Ms. B., we forgot,” Celeste replied. A few other students apologized. They knew my stories: The exodus of our daughter and then a year later the death of our 22-year-old mentally ill son, Kyle, from a heroin overdose.
I sat down and gave myself permission to feel. I took two deep breaths and felt the snake unwind in my stomach. Another deep breath and the vice around my heart loosened, my breathing slowed down, and I looked at my papers on my desk until the words fully came into focus. Breathing a few more times deeply, I finally looked at my students, slowly recognizing each one. They sat like monks, patiently waiting, watching me, not saying one single word. “Thanks, you guys.” I stood up with the textbook in hand, ready to teach. "You guys are awesome."
