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A Small Request: Making Space for Grief and Loss at the Start of the School Year

A Small Request: Making Space for Grief and Loss at the Start of the School Year

Photo by mingche lee via Pexels.com.

By The Educator Collaborative Fellow Lois Marshall Barker

Many students in the south, especially in my home state of Texas, are gearing up to head back to school soon. Teachers are gearing up for back to school PD, curriculum planning, and classroom set-up.

As a former high school English Language Arts teacher and instructional coach, some of my and other teachers’ “go-to” welcome back activities have included writing “Where I’m From” poems using George Ella Lyon as a mentor; playing Jenga and answering light-hearted questions with each pull of a block (e.g., What’s your favourite movie? or Who is currently on your playlist?), creating discussion board posts asking students to list two fun things they did over summer or where they traveled to (with the nudge to add photos); and of COURSE, inviting students to write the dreaded summer reading reflection essay. 

I think that often, we assume there is always joy and adventure awaiting many of our students when they leave our classrooms for the summer. For some students, however, leaving for the summer means work; for some it’s like a coldness; and for others, there are surprises of loss. It’s that loss I want us to think about as we plan our “welcome back” activities for students this fall.

On July 4th, my family and I travelled to upstate New York so my parents could see their newest grand baby. While we were worried our curious, spunky nine month-old might turn us into the subject of some furious travellers’ Reddit Posts, many of my friends across the country were worried about our safety. I did not understand why until we checked into our hotel rooms much later that night.

On July 4th, in Texas Hill Country, torrential rains caused devastating flash floods along the Guadalupe River, whose banks are home to many RV parks and summer camp sites for children. The flood swept away homes, campers, and vehicles. The flood washed away dreams, recently celebrated birthdays, and anticipated friendships. The flood silenced many sweet voices. Complete families grasped on to each other, terrified, knowing that maybe this would be the last time they held each other. 

As the texts flooded my phone, the tears could not stop. I held my girls tighter that night. 

Houston, my hometown, said goodbye to eighteen Houstonians. For some local elementary, middle and high schoolers, their summer entailed following the news hoping their friends would be found alive. It entailed wishing they could drive down to the Hill Country and be apart of rescue efforts. It was sharing photos and sweet memories of their friends they dreaded they would never see again. It was about hearing the news that they wouldn’t see a familiar face when school started in August. It was about tying blue or green or yellow ribbons around trees in their front yards. It was about attending funerals and watching caskets way too small lowered into the hot, hard, Texas soil.

It was a summer of grief.

While we all process grief differently, healing doesn’t come overnight either. And so to my educators, especially my Texas educators, I ask: What space are you holding for students who experienced such devastating loss this summer? How might you start the year differently from the way you may have done so in the past?

In writing this post, thinking of so many young girls who died this summer, I am also holding space for my Palestinian educators and students who have been wracked with trauma watching their ancestral lands and sites reduced to rubble and ash and their people suffer–be killed, starved, and silenced. They, too, need space.

Since October 2023, more than 50,000 children have been killed or injured in Gaza. We are now witnessing many children, many Palestinians, being forced to starve. As a mother, an educator, and a human being, my heart is completely broken. I don’t know how much longer my body can allow me to cry. Cry for every baby that does not make it to a first birthday when my youngest will celebrate hers in September. Cry for every child that does not have the energy left to dream or play or read or imagine their future careers because their bodies are shutting down, and breathing has now become hard labor. 

So again…how are we going to make space for complex feelings when school starts? How can we acknowledge where our students are and offer them a space to find peace, to continue to grieve, to try to heal, to find hope again?

I, for one, do not have the answer. I have ideas, but I don’t know what the correct answer is. I do know there are communities of educators who are well-steeped in trauma-informed pedagogies. I know that the right books can bring healing, and there are so many good ones that can celebrate people being erased, overcoming grief, or finding hope again. Find these communities. Ask questions. Find the books and bring them into your learning spaces.

I leave you with some recommendations:

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