As most of you know, I was born and raised in a very small
rural town in South Mississippi. I’ve posted on this before here, and you know
I “puff up” when others say negative things about my beloved home state. On
several days throughout any given week, I miss so many aspects of that life.
This past week was one of those weeks. I ached for this tiny town and the people who will always be family,
“my” community. The ache started from news of a terrible tragedy that took the
life of one young man who was just starting out his adult life at school at
Mississippi State University. I was heartbroken. I was heartbroken even though
I do not know the family personally. See, that is the beauty of my home town.
There is a connectedness. Everyone knows each other or “of” each other. You can
identify a family by asking “Who’s your dad/mom?” We celebrate together. We
mourn together. We raise each others’ children. When one child passes, we
mourn as an extended family. I still feel connected although I am 2000
miles away on the opposite coast. After news was received of this loss,
Facebook instantly filled with offerings of condolences and assistance to the
family. Several people, whether friends, acquaintances or strangers to this
family, changed their profile pictures to this image as a visual token of
support and encouragement.
Just the visual representation of seeing this picture all
down my newsfeed made my heart both ache and swell with gratitude. I’m so
thankful towns like this still exist.
Thinking of this brought back memories that are always at
the forefront of my soul. My first job was as a Speech Pathologist for that county's
school district. I loved it. I loved every minute of my work day. I loved every
child that passed my way. I loved the parents, all of who dropped off their children
in our care and never second-guessed our intent or actions. We were figures in
children’s lives whose parents demanded and expected to be respected. Some of
the children at my schools came from modest to low income households. Some lived in houses
that would rival a 3rd world country. Lives were filled with hurt
and need but also with love and respect. I always had prizes for good behavior and children could
trade in a punched token “card” for any tangible prize or other options. Many of those
children who were like an "underdog" in school chose each and every time the reward of eating with me at the “teacher
table.” The tangible toys that they did not have at home or the special candy
treats they rarely got were passed over. As I even say this, my eyes fill with
tears as images of their little faces come so clearly. We ate together, often just the two of us, away from the other teachers and students. I loved
laughing at Little “C” stick a chicken leg in her mouth, and I kid you not,
pull it out as a clean bone. One swoop.
Little “W” would sit oh-so-close to me, our chairs touching, as we rolled
up our rectangular shaped pizza and ate it with grease rolling down our hands.
No words were even needed. Little “W” also “somehow” always won a quarter when
he beat me in a speech game and I’d watch him toddle through the lunch line and
buy an extra milk with it. I die. These are the greatest stories of my life.
I can say with certainty that it was during that job that my
destiny and identity of who I am was solidified. It was there than I began to
see that while I cannot do everything, I can do some small things that have a
ripple effect that I may never know. It was there that I had my “1 single
moment.” Much of who I am today and how
I perform my job and various roles can be traced back to 1 single moment. I
remember it as if it were yesterday, even though it was probably 13 years ago. I
had completed one year of work and was disappointed having been denied admission to the
Master’s program for Speech Pathology. I signed on for another year. It was at the
beginning of that year that I walked into the front office to learn that the
father of one of our school’s children had been killed earlier that morning. I was
devastated when it was confirmed that it was the father of two of my precious
clients (siblings). I wrote a card to the mother and I loved on the children more than usual.
We played more games. We hugged more. At the end of the year, I asked the kids
to recast their favorite events or memories from the year. My “1 single moment”
came as Little “C” started to say, “You respected my Dad even though you never
met him. You thought he was a great man and you could tell by how he raised
me and who I am.” He was reciting, months later, the words that I had written to his mother.
In response to the question of “What will you remember about this year,” this
sweet boy answered “You were there when my Dad died.”
“C” taught me so much in that 5 minutes. I was speechless. I
realized my supernatural ability to make a mark on the world for the better by “seeing” one
person at a time, for taking the moment to put the words in my head onto paper
so that they could be read over and over again until they were memorized and
internalized. Since that moment, I pass on thoughts that come to mind as
encouragement. I know that in most cases I’ll never know their impact or ripple
effects. I don’t need to know. “C” had already shown me that kindness
matters, and I was lucky enough once to know it and that is enough.
So, Lucedale, I grieve with you and the Barker family.
To those children, teachers & parents at Rocky Creek & Benndale, thank you for making me "me." You taught me my greatest lesson.
With gratitude,
Danielle
