Well worth a read.
The Suddenly Empty Chair
Michael Morgenstern for The Chronicle
He only missed one day of class. As an instructor, when you look at your roster and see exemplary attendance, one day usually doesn't raise concern. But there's always that little voice in the back of your mind. The one that says, "This kid has record attendance. He's never missed a quiz or an assignment. E-mails when he's going to be late. Apologizes when he is. I hope he's OK."
Then you read the headline: "Student found dead on campus. Police investigating." And your heart sinks.
I cannot explain why, but I knew it was my student. I walked past his fraternity house later that morning. Police cars and TV-crew vans crowded the parking lot. From across the street I watched the dubious displays of grief and mourning from his brothers—young men, sitting sprawled out in tattered lawn chairs in the warm sunshine, some of them shirtless, circling a makeshift memorial of candles, flowers, and unsmoked cigars. Faces buried in their cellphones, the occasional smile, a pat on the back, a shaking of the head in apparent disbelief. He had killed himself several days before one of them noticed the smell and knocked on his door.
My judgment of them is a judgment of myself. I knew Geoffrey, as I'll call him here, but I did not know him. He was 19. That quiet student who floats in and out of the classroom. Asks the occasional question. Turns in flawless work. Never misses a deadline. Scores well on quizzes. Dutifully collaborates with his group. We talked about Texas once. Compared notes on the Austin nightlife. How much I loved living there. How much he would like to. The small grin or smirk at my meager attempts at humor. Insignificant moments instructors share with their students.
What I did know about Geoffrey was that he seemed to be an anxious, high-strung young man. He would walk in, sit at his computer station, and fidget endlessly with the mouse, the keyboard, the monitor, his chair, his cellphone, the mouse again—making sure they were all in the correct position before proceeding to log in and begin his work. He was always clean-shaven, impeccably dressed regardless of whether he was wearing khakis and a dress shirt or a T-shirt and sweats. He wore a Polo baseball cap, and Ray-Bans.
Then came that one day he walked in with bloodshot eyes and stubble outlining his boyish complexion. He continued his morning ritual with precision. I chalked that one day up to the frat-boy nightlife. An all-night cram session. An argument with his girlfriend. I never asked if he was feeling OK.
I used to teach at the middle-school and high-school levels. As a public school teacher, I was trained to watch for warning signs. We were legally obligated and accountable for reporting questionable student behavior to an administrator or counselor. We were required to report suspected abuse to state officials. When a student does come on your radar, whether it is for aggressive behavior, suicidal notes, excessive absences, or even falling asleep in class, you stayed on it. They were minors under our care. You didn't want one to slip through the cracks.
At the college level, things are different. These are "adults" who can presumably take care of themselves. We don't meddle in their lives unless they write papers that encourage or display violent tendencies. There's no precedent for doing anything if the kid just looks tired or worn out.
I recently had a female student who fit that description. Normally jaunty, she came in to class one day looking downright haggard. When I asked her if she was OK, she broke down. She said she was going through some difficult times, but that she'd survive. I let it go at that. A week later she approached me to thank me for my concern. It turned out her parents were divorcing after 25 years of marriage. Being the eldest of seven siblings, she felt immense pressure. We talked for a few moments, and I offered to help in any way I could. She's looking better.
When the police confirmed Geoffrey's identity, I immediately contacted my department head to ask for some guidance, especially in dealing with informing the class the next day. His response reminded me of a line from Robert Frost: "It couldn't be called ungentle, but how thoroughly departmental." He told me to post the phone number and hours of operation for the student counseling center on the board at the beginning of class. He said he would "monitor the situation." I haven't heard from him since.
I was up all night. Considered canceling class. My attempt at a sober and restrained talk with my students the next morning failed miserably. The moment I opened my mouth and said, "Some of you may have heard by now ... " the tears that I had been stifling for two days started to flow.
I had not anticipated this. I couldn't tell if my students were more shocked by the news of Geoffrey's suicide or by this sudden eruption of emotion. I composed myself, apologized for my outburst, and told them to start the quiz. "No one stands round to stare. It is nobody else's affair."
Geoffrey was my student. I was his instructor. I took this relationship too lightly. Students come and go. In all likelihood, nothing I could have said to him would have altered his fate. I tell myself this, but of course I don't believe it. Students come and go, but it's not supposed to be like this.
These young adults are not out of our realm of caring for their emotional, as well as intellectual, best interests. We are not here merely to disseminate information. We expect our students to care for themselves and each other; that expectation should be held for faculty and staff, as well. Geoffrey's death has taught me that my friendship, honesty, and compassion must extend far beyond the boundaries of my classroom. I care for my students. And they deserve to know that.
Then you read the headline: "Student found dead on campus. Police investigating." And your heart sinks.
I cannot explain why, but I knew it was my student. I walked past his fraternity house later that morning. Police cars and TV-crew vans crowded the parking lot. From across the street I watched the dubious displays of grief and mourning from his brothers—young men, sitting sprawled out in tattered lawn chairs in the warm sunshine, some of them shirtless, circling a makeshift memorial of candles, flowers, and unsmoked cigars. Faces buried in their cellphones, the occasional smile, a pat on the back, a shaking of the head in apparent disbelief. He had killed himself several days before one of them noticed the smell and knocked on his door.
My judgment of them is a judgment of myself. I knew Geoffrey, as I'll call him here, but I did not know him. He was 19. That quiet student who floats in and out of the classroom. Asks the occasional question. Turns in flawless work. Never misses a deadline. Scores well on quizzes. Dutifully collaborates with his group. We talked about Texas once. Compared notes on the Austin nightlife. How much I loved living there. How much he would like to. The small grin or smirk at my meager attempts at humor. Insignificant moments instructors share with their students.
What I did know about Geoffrey was that he seemed to be an anxious, high-strung young man. He would walk in, sit at his computer station, and fidget endlessly with the mouse, the keyboard, the monitor, his chair, his cellphone, the mouse again—making sure they were all in the correct position before proceeding to log in and begin his work. He was always clean-shaven, impeccably dressed regardless of whether he was wearing khakis and a dress shirt or a T-shirt and sweats. He wore a Polo baseball cap, and Ray-Bans.
Then came that one day he walked in with bloodshot eyes and stubble outlining his boyish complexion. He continued his morning ritual with precision. I chalked that one day up to the frat-boy nightlife. An all-night cram session. An argument with his girlfriend. I never asked if he was feeling OK.
I used to teach at the middle-school and high-school levels. As a public school teacher, I was trained to watch for warning signs. We were legally obligated and accountable for reporting questionable student behavior to an administrator or counselor. We were required to report suspected abuse to state officials. When a student does come on your radar, whether it is for aggressive behavior, suicidal notes, excessive absences, or even falling asleep in class, you stayed on it. They were minors under our care. You didn't want one to slip through the cracks.
At the college level, things are different. These are "adults" who can presumably take care of themselves. We don't meddle in their lives unless they write papers that encourage or display violent tendencies. There's no precedent for doing anything if the kid just looks tired or worn out.
I recently had a female student who fit that description. Normally jaunty, she came in to class one day looking downright haggard. When I asked her if she was OK, she broke down. She said she was going through some difficult times, but that she'd survive. I let it go at that. A week later she approached me to thank me for my concern. It turned out her parents were divorcing after 25 years of marriage. Being the eldest of seven siblings, she felt immense pressure. We talked for a few moments, and I offered to help in any way I could. She's looking better.
When the police confirmed Geoffrey's identity, I immediately contacted my department head to ask for some guidance, especially in dealing with informing the class the next day. His response reminded me of a line from Robert Frost: "It couldn't be called ungentle, but how thoroughly departmental." He told me to post the phone number and hours of operation for the student counseling center on the board at the beginning of class. He said he would "monitor the situation." I haven't heard from him since.
I was up all night. Considered canceling class. My attempt at a sober and restrained talk with my students the next morning failed miserably. The moment I opened my mouth and said, "Some of you may have heard by now ... " the tears that I had been stifling for two days started to flow.
I had not anticipated this. I couldn't tell if my students were more shocked by the news of Geoffrey's suicide or by this sudden eruption of emotion. I composed myself, apologized for my outburst, and told them to start the quiz. "No one stands round to stare. It is nobody else's affair."
Geoffrey was my student. I was his instructor. I took this relationship too lightly. Students come and go. In all likelihood, nothing I could have said to him would have altered his fate. I tell myself this, but of course I don't believe it. Students come and go, but it's not supposed to be like this.
These young adults are not out of our realm of caring for their emotional, as well as intellectual, best interests. We are not here merely to disseminate information. We expect our students to care for themselves and each other; that expectation should be held for faculty and staff, as well. Geoffrey's death has taught me that my friendship, honesty, and compassion must extend far beyond the boundaries of my classroom. I care for my students. And they deserve to know that.
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