Death of a Student

In the fall of my first year as an elementary school principal, a 3rd grade student was killed. He was a boy with a bright smile and a big spirit who made friends easily. He wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was at home, in his bed, on a school night.

This particular boy -- let's call him Cameron -- lived in an apartment in subsidized housing. The neighborhood had a reputation for criminal activity, but gang violence was a relatively new phenomenon. On the fateful evening, however, some gang members drove through the apartment complex and sprayed the buildings with automatic gun fire. One bullet ricocheted off of 3 different surfaces before lodging in Cameron's throat. Cameron could not call for help. When his mother returned home from the late shift at the plant, she went to kiss him goodnight. She found Cameron lying in a pool of blood in his bed.

As a school, we went through the normal procedures of grief counseling for Cameron's classmates and friends. Cameron also had a number of cousins at our school. Our assistant principal delivered a compelling speech at Cameron's funeral. We planted a tree in Cameron's honor, and planned to have a ceremony the following spring when the crepe myrtle blossomed.

I can still remember the day before the scheduled ceremony. I walked outside near the playground where the tree had been planted. The tree looked pathetic, with no leaves and seemingly no life. I found our head custodian and we watered the tree as much as we could throughout the day, hoping for the best.

The next day the family was coming. And in a rural area, when they say the family is coming, that means the family is coming. We planned for a large group of 20-25 guests. Some of Cameron's friends were writing poems and stories to honor his memory. With the help of the music teacher, all of the 3rd graders had been practicing some special songs for Cameron. I went home the night before the ceremony worried about the dead tree and hoping it wouldn't ruin the event.

At this point in the story, let me interject: I am by no means a religious person.

The next morning I hustled out to the crepe myrtle. To my surprise, it was in full bloom and beautiful. A robin had made a nest there, complete with three blue eggs. We quickly set up chairs for our guests, who soon arrived.

The kids sang their songs and read their poems and stories. They were perfect. At the end of the ceremony, without prompting, they silently formed a long, curling line. One hundred 8 and 9 year-olds, one by one, took their turn hugging Cameron's mother. Standing, with tears streaming down her face, she gratefully accepted each one.

Since that time, I've dealt with other student deaths. In every case, the children inherently empathize and understand how to ease others' grief. When people talk about "kids these days," I hope they can see the big picture. As adults, we need to remember to tell children when we're proud of them.