by Randy Turner
As we talked, a loud “meow” sound came and the excited children ran to their cat that had been missing in action since Sunday evening.
The joy was tempered by a somber pronouncement from Christina Neal. “We have two cats.” I never found out if the other cat had been found.
After talking with the Neals, Ms. Sterling and I continued to East Middle School. We could not get into the building, but we were able to walk up to it. Had we been there a day earlier, we could have looked in the windows and saw the rooms. By this time on Tuesday morning, the windows were boarded up. I would have to wait another week to see how my room had fared.
The auditorium, the heart and soul of our building, was gone and the walls of the gymnasium had also vanished. The only thing that could be seen in the gymnasium was the giant Joplin Eagle.
After the visit to East, Ms. Sterling and I walked back to her car and managed to work our way to the apartment complex behind what was left of the 15th Street WalMart.
I had an ulterior motive for wanting to be with Ms. Sterling in this area. Since the tornado, I had been doing my best, as other teachers in the Joplin School District had, to make sure that my students were all right. Some teachers had reported to the command station at North Middle School the day after the tornado and began the painstaking process of locating all students and staff. I had looked for my students from my apartment, using Facebook, e-mail, and any other tool at my disposal. While scanning Facebook messages for any information I could find, I saw a message that indicated one of my students, a tall, gangly, redheaded boy, had not been seen. The young man was super intelligent, but always a bit combative during our class discussions. He also had more than a little Eddie Haskell in him, generously laying on the “sirs” and “ma’ams” while plotting some new mischief. As Ms. Sterling and I winded our way through the complex, I asked a number of people if they had seen him. None of them even knew who he was.
That did not surprise me. In this day and age, people seldom know who their neighbors are, but I was hoping to find at least one who knew my student.
Ms. Sterling and I came upon a woman and her father, who were removing belongings from a ground-level apartment. I asked about my student and the father also had no idea of who he was, but he had another tidbit of information that eased my mind. He said the apartment manager had said everyone was accounted for. Even as I breathed a sigh of relief, out of nowhere, he said, “But my son died.”
And for the next several minutes, Ms. Sterling and I heard Terry Lucas and his daughter, Terri Bass, tell the story of Chris Lucas, who had been the manager of the Pizza Hut on Rangeline.
Ms. Sterling wrote about the encounter in the Daily Beast:
But we did meet Terri Bass, the sister of Chris Lucas, a 27-year-old former Navy submariner and father of four who lived in this same complex and worked as manager of a nearby Pizza Hut.
When the storm hit, Lucas herded his employees into a sturdy cooler. Then he and another manager huddled into a more flimsy cooler, Bass told us.
Lucas was sucked into the storm. Rescue workers recovered his body several hundred yards from the cooler. He died a hero, his sister said, risking his life for others. “He was a really good brother,” Bass said.
What was not included in the story- Chris Lucas was the father of two small children with another on the way.
I watched Terry Lucas’ anguished face as his daughter told Chris’s story to Ms. Sterling and me. That haunted look, even more than the shell of the brick apartment complex, brought home the true devastation of the tornado.
THE LAST GET-TOGETHER
The tornado had robbed East Middle School of many of its rich traditions, annual events we had eagerly anticipated not only during the two years the building had been in existence, but also during the time many of the faculty members had taught at the old South Middle School.
Gone was the last day talent show and awards assembly, a three-hour program in which a number of students sang Karaoke style, with varying degrees of skill, their favorite songs from Taylor Swift or whoever the popular singer was that year. I had always presented awards to the top students in my communication arts, my top writers, and to members of the two clubs I sponsor, Quiz Bowl and Journalism Club.
The eighth grade choir members always sang one of those graduation-type songs, which typically ended with the girls wiping tears from their eyes and the boys pretending that it is too hot in the auditorium and that is why they were sweating.
The song usually ended with a call to bring choir director Julie Yonkers to the stage where the eighth grade girls presented her with a bouquet of flowers leading to hugs and another steady stream of tears.
Teachers have different ways of saying goodbye to their students. I always handed out thank-you cards with handwritten messages, trying to tailor each message to what that student had meant to the class and wishing him or her a good summer and success in high school and beyond.
The envelope always contained a nickel, as a remembrance of the Cup O’Nickels, an old Associated Press mug I had from my days as a newspaper reporter. A few years ago, I filled it up with nickels and began giving them away as joke prizes in various classroom competitions. It was an instant hit and I have never stopped doing it.
I had not even begun writing the thank-you cards when the tornado hit.
I never had a chance to deliver the corny, but heartfelt sentiment I expressed to them on the last full day of class each year. I always told my students that I would be available for them if they ever needed help with any writing assignments or with any other problems they might encounter.
And then I always let them know the most important part of my message. “You may not be in my class any more after today, but you will always be my students.”
I never had a chance to tell them this. For the first time in my 12 years as a classroom teacher, I would not be able to tell my students what they meant to me.
I had run into several of them at the grocery store or the mall or the public library in the days following the tornado, but the talk never turned to that kind of thing.
Conversation always started and ended with the tornado. “Did your house get hit?” If it did, that question was invariably followed by “Where are you staying now?” and one tornado story after another was shared.
There was no time to talk about anything as mundane as an English class.
About two weeks after the tornado, we received word from Principal Bud Sexson that the students would have a chance to collect their belongings, receive grade cards, and have their yearbooks signed during two get-togethers at Joplin bowling alleys.
The seventh and eighth graders would meet at the Fourth Street Bowl, while the sixth graders would have their final time as a class at the bowling alley on East Range Line.
I pulled into the bowling alley with a sense of anticipation, but also of dread. It would be great to see the children who had brightened my life for the past nine months, but I knew many of them had undoubtedly been traumatized by the events of May 22. Many of them had wondered if they would ever see those friends again. In the days immediately following the tornado, many were not sure if their friends had survived.
So the first order of business, even before they picked up their belongings, which had been removed from lockers and placed in black trash bags, was hugs and the inevitable tornado story.
Some of the students told harrowing tales of survival, while others almost apologized as they revealed that they were not in the tornado's path.
One student, seventh grader Zach Williams, did not survive the storm. Somehow, thank God, the rest of them had made it through.
After the hugging, the next stop was the table where eighth grade reading teacher Andrea Thomas and seventh grade math teacher Areke Worku were distributing yearbooks.
The books did not contain the event that had come to symbolize the school year, but they were a much-needed chronicle of better days.
One student returned a book
she had borrowed from me during our third quarter research project, a biography of Martin Luther King.
I put the book and other things I had been carrying on the table and snapped some photos of students bowling, playing games, or just sitting at tables talking, a simple activity they had always taken for granted, but one that meant so much to them now.
The two hours passed quickly and soon the goodbyes started. Though it seemed like I had seen nearly all of my students, that was nowhere close to the truth. A quick glance at the side room showed stacks and stacks of trash bags, the belongings of students who were not able to make it, teenagers who had literally scattered to the winds, books, clothes, pencils, photos, mementoes that would most likely never be reclaimed.
I helped carry the trash bags to a couple of trucks to take back to North Middle School, the center of operations for East until we moved into our new building in August.
The event may have served to bring some sort of closure to students, but it had the opposite effect on me. It was great to see the students who had been able to make it, but the overall atmosphere was depressing. When I reached my apartment, I put the Martin Luther King biography on a table and for the next few weeks, it sat there. Forty days after that last goodbye, I picked up the book to put with the rest of my collection that I had salvaged from my classroom.
As I lifted it, I saw what I thought was a bookmark, but upon closer examination, I realized it was an envelope. I opened the letter and started reading.
One of my eighth graders had written a goodbye message, one which mentioned many things that happened in the class and even made mention of my status as one of those privileged few who only has a birthday once every four years.
It ended this way:
I hope you keep teaching until you're 25 (or 100, since you are really only 13 ¾). I'm so glad I got to have a teacher like you! I hope you have had as good of a year as I have. I will come back and visit someday to check in on my favorite writing teacher.
It was just one letter, but at that moment, it was the one letter I needed, closure on the school year that never ended.
PLANNING FOR THE NEW SCHOOL YEAR
After our school year came to a horrifying, premature conclusion, I poured my time and effort into the writing of 5:41: Stories from the Joplin Tornado, but thoughts of school and what the next year would be like were never far from my mind.
Our first glimpse of what the new “East Middle School” would be like came during what was termed a “family” get-together in third floor rooms in the Billingsley Student Center at Missouri Southern State University.
I hung around the back of the room with my fellow faculty members as students and their parents made their way through the refreshment line. Except for the handful who had been in Quiz Bowl or Journalism Club, I did not know these students or their parents, but some of them had older brothers and sisters who had been in their classes and were with them.
Though the warehouse facility was originally designed as a spec building by the Joplin Chamber of Commerce, our principal Bud Sexson stressed, "This will not be a warehouse, this will be a school.” a statement that was greeted by applause.
Mr. Sexson gave a brief overview of the facility, showing a diagram of where classes would be held. Among the information presented at the get-together:
-The classes would be about 700 square feet, a couple of hundred feet less than at East, but considerably more than in the old South Middle School.
-The building would not have computer labs, but more mobile I-carts with classroom sets of computers available.
-The gym/physical education facility would be in a building outside of the school, but with a canopy available to keep students from being exposed to the elements.
-Basketball and volleyball practices would be held at East, but basketball games will be scheduled at the other middle schools. Mr. Sexson said he did not know yet whether volleyball matches would be held at East. As it turned out, they would not be. Football games and practices would be held at other Joplin middle schools.
-The district would provide busing for students attending after-school activities. The students would be dropped off at their elementary feeder schools. Adjustments would likely be made for those who have had to move because of the tornado.
-Certified FEMA safe rooms would be available in case of tornadic activity. When East is rebuilt or repaired, Mr. Sexson said, the facility will have a safe area. That message, too, was greeted with applause.
-More after-school activities would be added this year, depending on the students' interest.
-The lockers used at the destroyed East Middle School, all of which had survived the tornado, would be removed and transplanted to the new facility.
Among other items brought up at the meeting:
-Mr. Sexson introduced new Assistant Principal Jason Weaver. Mr. Weaver has taught seventh grade history at South and East for the past decade. He never imagined the challenges that would come with his first administrative position.
When the family get-together ended, I felt a little better about the school year, which was less than a month away, but for the first time, I was not even the slightest bit eager to return to school. I was dreading the first day of school.
THE EAST FAMILY PICNIC
I sat in a darkened room 804, the room that was going to be mine for the next nine months and absolutely nothing felt right about it.
It had taken me nearly two years to get used to the first East Middle School and when I finally did, it no longer existed. I looked at the bare walls of my classroom. I had to admit it- I was in a deep state of depression. It had taken every ounce of energy I had to get out of my apartment, climb into my car and come to this building. At least I had one part of this “family picnic” that I was eagerly anticipating.
I sing with a band that does rock and country covers from the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s, and my band was going to play during part of the picnic. Even that had its negative side, though. How was the East community, after going through the worst tornado the U. S. had seen in six decades, going to respond to a group with the unfortunate name of “Natural Disaster?”
Since depression doesn’t get the job done, I reached into a cardboard box and pulled out a stack of old papers- some of the best written by my students over the years- the papers that had hung proudly on my Writers’ Wall of Fame at East and at the old South.
I had room to put 20 papers on my bulletin board. These would be the papers that would set the bar high for my new students when they entered my classroom Aug. 17. Somehow these papers had survived the tornado, and continued to offer insights into how these young people, some now in high school, some in college or beyond, thought about life during their eighth grade year.
I reread them before I put them on the wall- Amy’s modern-day short story, “Laptop Love,” Dylan’s research paper on Emmett Till, Sarah’s poem that had appeared in a national publication, Steve’s essay on child abuse, Katey exploring the horrors of cyberbullying.
I grabbed the tacks and placed Mary Jean’s short story about a “Jade Tiger,” and then Jessica’s award-winning essay about the American flag on the bulletin board.
Each of these papers brought back memories. With Jessica’s essay, I recalled how the first draft of her paper was 750 words, 500 more than the contest in which the paper was going to be entered. I absolutely detested the idea of that beautiful paper being edited, but she went to work on it for the next few days and returned with a 249-word masterpiece that captured first place in the annual Elks Lodge Essay Contest.
Two of the papers I put on the board were filled with unintentional irony. Laela criticized the antics of the Westboro Baptist Church. A little more than a year later, members of that church protested at the Joplin Tornado Memorial Service, a service designed to bring the community together…a service that meant a lot to Laela, who lost her home, high school, and former middle school in the tornado.
Sabrina R. wrote about the nee
d for each student to have a laptop. Because of the tornado and the generosity of a $1 million gift from the United Arab Emirates, Sabrina and her fellow Joplin High School students all had laptops when they returned to school for the 2011-2012 school year.
The last two papers I put on the Writers’ Wall of Fame did not look like the others. While the first 18 papers had been stored safely away in folders, the last two were on the Wall of Fame when the tornado hit.
At first, I thought they were too battered and dirt-covered to be on the wall, and then I realized that was exactly why they had to be there.
Miranda’s paper talked about censorship at school, with several words cleverly blacked out. Sabrina S’s paper was a touching tribute to her friend, Clayton, who had been killed in a tornado three years earlier.
As I placed the final paper on the Wall of Fame, I heard voices in the hallway. Students and parents were arriving early to receive their first look at our new facility. One girl raced into my classroom and shouted, “Mr. Turner, I’m in your class this year!” and proceeded to tell me what she had been doing all summer.
It wasn’t long before the classroom was filled with students, former students, and parents. The conversations, surprisingly, were not centered on the tornado, but were about the new educational adventure we would be beginning in six short days.
The East Middle School Family Picnic turned out to be a complete success. Carnival-type games were set up outside, as well as various barbecues and food stands. No one even blinked when I introduced my band as “Natural Disaster,” though when I began singing they could quickly ascertain the reason for the name.
I watched with amazement the interaction between faculty, parents, and students, especially my fellow faculty members. I wondered if they, too, had been apprehensive about returning to school, to this particular building, less than three months after the tornado.
Was this a sign of the East community moving forward, or was it just a sign that we needed something, anything, to take us away from being tornado victims and get us back to living again?
