Today my heart shattered into a million pieces of stain-colored glass.
My students, with despondent faces, entered my classroom. The air was heavy.
“What’s up guys?”
“What’s going on guys?”
“Is everything ok guys?”
One brave student:
“Miss, did you hear about the shootings?”
“Miss that happened right by my house. I’m scared to go home.”
“Yeah, by mine too.”
I step over my fragmented heart, walking like a circus performer across a knife-tight-rope. Except this is no circus. This is war.
“What can I do?”
From the cavern of my heart, a tidal wave of grief pours down my cheeks. I hope it reaches their souls. I hope in its liquid sorrow there is love and peace and light and just one iota of safety.
Because what can I do? I come home to my safe mountain home, filled with joy and security. They go home to a Baltimore in their backyards, a Ferguson in their front, and a Middle East minefield embedded in their minds.
What can I do, against darkness? What can I do, against injustice? What can I do, against fear? What can I do, against the color creeds that crescendo into senseless slaughter?
As I write this, they write too. Some exploration of written protest, words against oppression.
Will the words be enough?
What can I do?