Message to a Friend

(Signs of the Times is a work of fiction based on true events. Views expressed are the author’s own. Viewer discretion is advised.)

Dear Alexiy,

There was a gunman in my neighborhood yesterday. I know this is small for you, but I need your help.

I can’t remember if Baba told you, but I’m a teacher. Mostly 10-year-olds. I love seeing them learn, grow, and settle differences. But they’re fragile. Especially after COVID lockdowns.

I know you’re a teacher, too. You have a much harder job than me, though.

Here, in Brooklyn, when news of the gunman reached the school admin, we sheltered in place. We locked the doors, closed the blinds. No one in or out.

I didn’t know what was happening yet. I told the kids it was a drill. That worked for a few minutes.

It was sunny outside. Remarkably warm in April. One kid came up to me and asked when they could play outside. I said soon. Then another came and asked to use the bathroom. I told her to be patient.

Then I checked the news: Mass Shooting on Subway Near Sunset Park. That’s my neighborhood. That’s my school. I started to shake.

I tried playing games with them. I tried talking about music or movies they liked. I tried reading a book but my voice quivered. Nothing was working.

I could see the worry on their faces. The whispering. The rumors. I was losing control and the kids knew it.

We got the all-clear eventually. I didn’t tell the kids what happened that day. I’ll leave that to the parents.

But how do you do it? With the sirens and thousands of gunmen walking your neighborhood? The jets screaming overhead?

Do you play games with your students? Are you even in a physical classroom?

Do you talk about the invasion? The rage? The loss?

Do you ignore it and provide comfort? How do you do it?

I know our trauma is not the same. All I can say is I feel just an ounce of your pain and it is terrifying. I walked away at the end of that day. You cannot.

For that, I am sorry. I am sorry I’m even writing you to ask for your help. To lend your emotional labor. To teach me how to move on when you’re still stuck. There. In the thick of it.

How do you do it?

Loving,

Marina