Death of a Teacher: Part 4

The gripping conclusion to the Death of a Teacher series.  Read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 before Part 4.  It makes more sense that way.

Death of a Teacher:  Part 4

Since KIPP Charlotte could not afford to hire substitutes, it was burdensome for a teacher to be absent, since an absent teacher’s workload fell on co-workers.  For that reason, Mr. Asaad made it a point to be at work, sick or not.  On the rare occasions he knew he would be absent, he planned it out weeks in advance and coordinated coverage for all his classes and duties.  Which is why everyone’s feathers were ruffled when he didn’t show up to work on May 17^th, 2011, the same day his students were taking the North Carolina state high-stakes Math test.

            It was quite a big deal for Mr. Asaad to be absent, and it being the day of his end of grade test made his vacancy all the more odd.  There was no message for the office workers and no message for either of the principles.  He was M.I.A.

            Mr. Plume sent me a text message mid morning.  “I’m surprised Mr. Asaad isn’t here today.  His kids are taking the Math EOG.” 

            “Agreed.  Weird.” I replied.

            “Not weird…spooky.” he texted back.

           

            The following morning, May 18^th, he did not show up again.  No one had heard from him.  Mr. Asaad and I were good friends, to the point to where I invited him to my wedding, so I sent him a text message thinking that if he would reply to anyone on staff he would reply to me, even if he were playing hooky.  Two hours after sending the message, and I still received no response. 

            Mr. B, one of the principals, and Mr. Brown, the sixth and seventh grade science teacher, decided to leave campus during their shared planning period and go to his apartment to scope it out.  Mr. B shared their findings during a whole staff meeting at the end of the day after the kids had left.

            The staff meeting was held in my room at 5:30, and everyone promptly gathered, huddled in anticipation, awaiting some answers as to the whereabouts of our beloved coworker. 

            Mr. B began, “Today Mr. Brown and I went over to Mr. Asaad’s apartment.  The first thing we noticed was his Dodge cruiser in the parking lot.  We walked to his door, knocked, but didn’t hear any answers.  At that point we called the police and waited for a while.  They came, and knocked on the door, hoping that were Mr. Asaad inside, he would respond to them.  But nobody answered.  So the police called the landlord and the landlord came over to open the apartment.  The police went inside, and Mr. Brown and I waited at the doorway.  What they discovered…well…there’s no easy way to say this…”

            I suppose we all knew what Mr. B was going to say.  But the weight of those words, when spoke, were so heavy. 

            “Mr. Asaad passed.”

            The room went catatonic.  I heard several subtle gasps heaved from teacher’s guts; eyes coiled; legs tingled; heads bowed. 

            Mr. Asaad passed. 

            Immediately, I thought of my grandfather.  He was sitting in the back yard of my parent’s house in Louisville when he died.  He came to visit us for my brother’s graduation from medical school.  While sitting on back porch, he had a heart attack, and fell face down against the iron-grated outdoor table.  My brother was the first person to see him lying there, and he tried to revive him, but it was too late.  Did Mr. Asaad die a similar death?  Did he have a heart attack in his bedroom?  Did his poodle Kenya lick his face and try to revive him as he lie on the floor?  Was he found face up or face down? 

            All these questions.  Rushed my mind.  Then came the flood.

            We all sat together in my room – possibly seconds, possibly minutes – until someone began to cry, someone who was sitting close to me.  It was Mr. Khosravi, whose classroom was directly across the hall from Mr. Asaad’s.  Mr. Khosravi used to send kids to Mr. Asaad’s room when they were disruptive in his English class.  Now, where would he send them?

            Mr. Khosravi melted against the wall, blubbering, pushing out pain in silky tears.  He was the first to openly weep.  Then Ms. Meyers, the seventh grade Grade Level Chair began to cry too.  Her tears were soft, curdling, falling onto the fingertips of teacher’s who sat beside her, rubbing her back to comfort.  After that, the floodgate opened, and nearly all eyes were wet.  Everyone deals with loss in different ways, but even I was teary eyed; I who had been given the ‘Ice Award’ several months early for my constant poker face composure.  I lifted my glasses every minute or so to wipe away the tears before I lost it.

            I sat in silence, looking around at my co-workers, wondering when Mr. B was going to say something more.  He hadn’t really spoken since he released those painful words, Mr… Asaad… passed.  Or if he had, I hadn’t noticed.  Eventually, Mr. B was the first to leave the room.  He got up out of his seat and walked out the door, leaving all of us alone in that heavy heavy room.  Mr. B would later tell me that it was the worst meeting he ever had to conduct.

            After he left, no one else got up.  We all just sat there for a very long time, many teachers holding one another; others just sitting, staring into themselves, arms crossed, wiping there eyes every so often.  Then eventually, we all began to trickle out.  I stayed for a while, not wanting to leave, knowing that when I did, the water works would come. 

            At about 6:30, I tossed my laptop and binders into my carrying case, and walked as quickly as I could to my car.  In the parking lot, a parent spotted me.  She yelled, “Goodnight Mr. Stich!” with a smile.  Neither the students nor the parents had been notified at that point, and I didn’t want them to see the puffiness under my eyes and cause alarm.  I quickly waved back, conjured up a fake smile, and continued to my car, whereupon I flung on my sunglasses as fast as possibly could, and drove home.

            When I got home, the good cry I had anticipated came to pass.  Thankfully, Kendra wasn’t around.  I don’t like crying in front of anyone, even my wife.  However, my dog Kima was there, and she looked at me curiously, cocking her head sideways, not understanding the sounds the odd human creature was making.  Not understanding that I was crying for the guy who had indirectly taught her to piss in the house. 

            Thinking about that made me cry all the more, and laugh a little.

           

            The next day was the hardest because we, the teachers, knew we had to tell the students.  As a precautionary, the administration brought in several grief counselors.  We wanted to be ready for all varieties of mourning, to make Mr. Asaad’s passing as easy as possible on the kids.  We waited until the very end of the day, got the entire seventh grade together in Ms. Meyer’s room, and got the entire eighth grade together in my room.  It was decided that the fifth and sixth graders would be notified by mail since Mr. Asaad had not taught any of them directly.  The seventh and eighth graders, however, were Mr. Asaad’ students, and they would be hit hardest be the news.  The principals met with the seventh graders first, and when they broke the news the seventh graders didn’t believe them.  One boy even yelled out, “You’re joking, right?”

            Before long it was our turn.  Mr. B and his co-principal entered the eighth grade group meeting and solemnly told the students everything they had told the teachers the day before. 

            The room was silent. 

            In two years of teaching those same kids, I never saw them as quiet as they were that afternoon.  Much like the teachers, the kids reacted in different ways.  Some shut down, while others openly burst into tears.  Mr. Plume said to the whole group, “Some of you are going to want to cry, for others it may not hit you for several days, some of you may even laugh at first.  I just ask that we all withhold judgment.  Everyone is going to deal with this on their own time and in their own way.” 

            I was glad he said that.  Many of the kids had already experienced loss and were all too acquainted with it’s turbulence, but for others, this was the first time, and they were having trouble understanding the complex emotions involved.  I recall one particularly troublesome student name Neko reacting in a very unusual way.  This kid had been suspended at least three times for slapping students across the face for no particular reason.  He was impervious and unmoved by the school’s attempt at discipline, and seemed rather emotionless altogether.  However, I saw a new side of Neko that day.  After our group meeting, he went to the back of the classroom, and wrote a eulogy to Mr. Asaad that read:

           

            I don’t normally feel much emotion, but today I’m stricken.  I cannot believe you are gone.  You, who whipped me into shape more times than I can count, are no longer with us.  I feel I will cry when I get home. 

            When his Dad came to pick him up, Neko took the letter and thumb tacked it to the wall in the hallway.

            After a few minutes together, we broke off into smaller groups, so the kids could have some space and grieve in a more intimate environment.  I went with the all boys group across the hall to Ms. Leslie’s class.  In that room was Keyshawn, Langston and Jacory.  Their shock was transparent.  Langston sat slumped in his chair, staring aimlessly at the floor.  Jacory silently cried to himself: never weeping, but tears dripping from his eyes no less.  Keyshawn cried for a bit too, then got up from his seat and went into the bathroom.  Mr. Plume went in to check on him, and found that he had written something on the boy’s bathroom mirror with an Expo marker, “R.I.P Mr. Asaad.” 

            Other kids from other classrooms followed Keshawn’s lead and took Expo markers and wrote Mr. Asaadisms and little notes to him all over the modular unit on white boards, bathroom stalls, and windows, to the point where nearly all the glossy surfaces had something written on it.  The phrase that appeared most: What’s your major malfunction?

            Back in the boys group, we sat soundlessly for a while, until I broke the silence by suggesting we do something constructive with our grief.  I asked the guys to share stories about Mr. Asaad. 

            Kahari was the first to speak up, “Once, last year in Math class, I was failing at the end of first quarter.  Mr. Asaad pulled me aside after class, told me I could do better, told me that he was disappointed in me.  He said it would be one thing if I had tried my hardest and gotten that grade, but he said he could tell I didn’t.  I was settling.  From then on, I tried harder, and he really pushed me.  I ended up with a much better grade because of that.”

            Then another boy named Tony spoke up, “You know, I know this is sad, and we’re all not feeling good right now because we’re missing Mr. Asaad.  But I don’t think we should be really sad about him.  I mean, I don’t think Mr. Asaad would want that.  He would want us to be happy, kind of celebrate his life and move on.  So we should be kind of happy.”

            Just then, one of the boys yelled, “Give me one!” and in unison, the rest of them banged their desks, boom boom clap boom. 

            “Give me two!” 

            The kids responded, boom boom clap clap boom boom clap boom. 

            “Give me three!” 

            Boom boom clap clap boom boom clap clap boom boom clap boom. 

            Then the boys threw their fists up in the air and yelled “Whoo!”  It was a cinematic moment, something that – dare I say – seemed to come straight out of a Hollywood movie about an inner-city teacher who made a tremendous impact on this lives of his students.

           

            A week later, after students, parents, and school stakeholders had been informed of Mr. Asaad’s abrupt death, we held a memorial service after school in his honor; the purpose being to celebrate his life and dedication to the field of teaching.  Mr. Asaad’s family had flown in from Barbados and bumped back their flights to depart on Friday so they could attend the Thursday evening memorial.  Before the service began, an African-American woman who looked vaguely familiar approached me.  She was dressed in all white, had a hoop nose ring, and a pearl colored cloth wrapped around her hair.  She was Mr. Asaad’s fiancé.  She handed me an envelope.  I thanked her for whatever it was and expressed condolences for her loss.  She said, “It happened so suddenly.  Thank you.” and she walked away smiling.

            I was curious to see what was inside, but I waited until after the ceremony.  On the way home, while stopped at a stoplight, I opened it.  Inside was a picture of Mr. Asaad: his head shaved, dressed in karate uniform, posing for the camera.  The back of the photograph read:

            Stich!  You were his best friend.  The only one he had at that place.

            I had no idea I was his best friend.   

           

            A month after his passing, I had a dream where I was sitting in a large, orange and yellow cafeteria.  It was filled with people.  I sat down to eat, and I saw Mr. Asaad a few seats down from me, talking with people I had never seen before.  When he saw me, he turned and smiled his great white smile.  I told him that he had everyone fooled, because everyone in Charlotte thought he was dead.  He laughed.  It was his plan all along, to fake his death to miss the last week of school.  We both thought that was pretty funny. 

            Then I woke up.