Within days of hatching the idea, I had a team of passionate, creative, committed professionals who believed wholeheartedly in the mission. At our first meeting, we drafted ideas for a logo on the back of a coaster and we settled on a name. We would call it “Classes 4 Classes,” with a subtitle of “Kids Pay It 4ward.” We were on our way.
Around the same time, I received a letter from the principal of the school in Tennessee.
“Dear Kaitlin,” she wrote,
I just wanted to let you know how thankful I am for the inspiration that you have been to so many people in our school. Our students are super excited about receiving the wonderful gift of a mimeo system. But, even better, the students are so enthusiastic about the opportunity to help others.
In addition, one of our parents is talking to the other people in her nursing class, about becoming a caring class, so your idea is spreading to other age groups as well.
Although I know that our job as teachers is to prepare our students academically for what lies ahead, I believe that instilling love and caring for others is an even greater obligation.
Thank you for the opportunity to do this.
I returned to school with renewed energy and my therapist’s mantra: “Action is healing.”
Standing for What’s Right
My diary of what happened next is something I have never shared. I do so here with mixed emotions, but for the sole reason that I believe good comes from truth. Someone, somewhere, will benefit from it. Perhaps by thinking twice before rejecting outright the suggestion of another. Perhaps by being more open and inclusive when making a decision that affects many. Perhaps by being reminded of the importance of humility and respect, and how everyone is entitled to be treated with kindness and consideration.
My hope is that telling this truth will also set me free from the judgments of those who assumed they knew the circumstances of the conflict with our superintendent, but really had no idea what took place. Free from the hurtful words of critics who condemned me for abandoning my students when I did not abandon them. Anyone who knows me knows I never would.
There’s a saying that goes, “Always speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.” My voice is shaking as I write this.
Toward the end of January, after a month of reiterating my requests for my kids, I was pulled out of my classroom and into a meeting with the superintendent and the director of human resources. I was told that, once and for all, they would not implement my ideas and if I wasn’t okay with that, I needed to take a break. I walked away stunned. Our former principal, who had given her life trying to stop the shooter, had a motto: “Be safe, responsible, respectful, and prepared.” That’s what we lived by at Sandy Hook, and that’s what I was trying to convey to my first-graders by asking for things that would allow them to feel more secure in the classroom. I thought I was doing what every good teacher does: advocating for my students. Yet here I was being given an ultimatum: stop asking or leave.
I took a night to think about it, and then called the human resources director to say I wasn’t leaving. My students had already been through enough upheaval without losing their teacher, too. “And if I am leaving, you will need to tell the parents of my students that I am going against my will,” I said. She said she would get back to me. Later that afternoon, I got the verdict. The superintendent had decided to let me stay.
“Let” me stay?
I was angry. I felt as if I was being treated like a malcontent. I had never been difficult or a complainer. Before the shooting I’d had little to no contact with the superintendent and my relationship with our principal at Sandy Hook had been warm and affable. Now it seemed as if my continued quest for what I believed was best for my first-graders was being interpreted as disobedience. I tried to make sense of it all. After what our community had been through, everyone was dealing with heightened feelings that we didn’t quite know what to do with and I was no exception. The magnitude of the tragedy was reflected in the scope of people affected by it and the range of emotions we were experiencing. Triggers were everywhere. People had their own ways of coping, but how could anyone know “the right way” to deal with such an inimitable event and all of its terrible implications? There wasn’t a blueprint for how to deal with what we had all been through. I tried to understand the stress the superintendent was under, but I also couldn’t help but feel under siege.
Not a week later, a co-teacher was brought into my classroom, despite my earlier decision that I didn’t need one. She was a lovely woman and eager to help, but there wasn’t much for her to do. My mom and I had things under control and she had been a real comfort to my kids. After the co-teacher had been with us for a few days, I was called to the office and told that she was capable of assisting me with whatever I needed, and my mom would have to pack up her things and leave. I was heartbroken to have to tell my mom. After all she had done for us, no one in the administration even thanked her when she left.
Then came the straw that broke the camel’s back. A former professor of mine, Dr. Douglas Kaufman from the master’s program at UConn, contacted me and offered to come into my class to conduct a writing program for my students. His idea was to help them write a class book—nothing to do with trauma or tragedy, just a nice kids’ story—and maybe even get it published. His thought was that after all that had been taken from the kids, the writing project would give them back a sense of control and a strong feeling of accomplishment. And he offered to do it out of the goodness of his heart. What an opportunity, I thought. Dr. Kaufman’s credentials were impeccable. In addition to being the associate professor of curriculum and instruction at UConn’s Neag School of Education, he had published well-received books about literacy and teaching and teacher-student relationships, and he presented his work at educational conferences around the world. The man was in such demand, and he was offering himself to us for free.
I thought it was a brilliant idea and floated it to a couple parents, who agreed. So I composed a letter to send home with my students. Dated February 19, 2013, it read:
Dear Family,
I am so excited to share with you an amazing opportunity that our class is going to be a part of! My grad school professor Douglas Kaufman reached out to me to see if he could be of service. Dr. Kaufman is involved in the UConn Writing Project, and goes into K-5 classrooms to get kids excited about writing and illustrating. His passion and excitement are truly contagious. I asked him if he would be willing to come in to our classroom to write and illustrate with us, and his answer was “Absolutely!” He is currently on sabbatical, working on his own writing publications. His first day with us will be Tuesday, March 5. He will most likely come two days a week for the duration of a month or so. During this time he and I will be co-teaching and helping the students to harness their ideas into one clear vision. They will be writing a class book. Dr. Kaufman will then bring this book to other elementary schools he works with and share it with them! I just know our class will be so excited to write and illustrate with Dr. Kaufman. It will be such a positive experience, to write with an author. If you have any questions please contact me anytime!
Before sending the letter, I sent an e-mail to the administration that explained my plan to bring the professor in and convey how excited we were to begin. When I didn’t hear back, I sent a second e-mail. The vice-principal called me to her office. No go, she said. The professor wasn’t trained in mental health, so he couldn’t come to our class.
My face flushed with incredulity. In my wildest dreams, I hadn’t anticipated that this initiative would be turned down. “I don’t understand why everything I’m asking for for my students is being denied,” I said. “First, ways to make them feel safe. Now a writing workshop? Which has everything to do with giving them a positive experience?” My frustration bubbled over and spilled out. “Our old school and leadership came from a place of ‘Yes! Yes, we can,’” I said. “Now I am living in a world of �
��No.’” With that, I turned and walked out of the office and back to my class.
Shortly afterward, I received notice that I was to report to a meeting with the superintendent at the board of education offices on March 5, the same day the writing project would have begun. I sought the counsel of a union rep, who advised me that, because the superintendent and I were at a standoff, and chances were good that she wouldn’t change her mind, I should agree to take a few weeks off to give us both some breathing room and the conflict time to simmer down.
Still, when the meeting came, I walked into it with high hopes. I had to believe the superintendent would finally agree that we needed to do whatever was necessary to help my students to move forward—and the writing project would have been a positive experience that had nothing to do with the tragedy. We greeted each other cordially and she proceeded to once again recite my list of requests. “I’m not giving them to you,” she said. “If you’re still not okay with it, you need to take a leave.” To say I was angry would be to grossly understate my feelings at that moment. My very reasonable requests had been repeatedly met with such an adamant negative response and it didn’t make any sense to me. All I could think was that my kids’ well-being was being turned into a pretext in a contest of wills. But a contest needs two to compete, so I decided to remove myself right then. My students were too important to me to allow them to get caught in the crosshairs of bureaucracy and I could never agree that they didn’t need extra consideration. “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about the things that matter,” Martin Luther King Jr. once said. I knew our needs mattered even if no one else agreed. “I completely disagree with you, but I have to comply,” I said.
The conditions of my leave were that I was to stay away until I was ready to accept the superintendent’s terms. In the meantime, I was to have no contact with my students. I couldn’t even return to my classroom to explain that I would be gone for a few weeks. I never got the chance to say good-bye.
The mother of one of my students wrote me afterward. I have her handwritten note framed on a table in my living room.
Kaitlin,
There are no words to thank you for what you have given us this year. No gift can come close to repaying you or showing you how grateful we are to you for your actions. You will forever be a part of our hearts and we will always remember not just your actions but how hard you fought for our kids. I hope one day you and Nick will have kids and you will understand the enormity of your gift to us.
I wondered if that mom understood the enormity of the gift she had given me.
Going Back
My plan was to be back in the classroom by April 1. I was certain that even though my requests were easily refused, the parents of the students’ wishes wouldn’t be, and I was certain that they would take up the safety argument where I left off and advocate for my immediate return. Meanwhile, when I contacted Dr. Purcell to tell her what had happened, she was bewildered, and wrote the district a letter on my behalf.
The letter, dated March 21, 2013, said:
Kaitlin Roig sought my professional help following the Newtown massacre.
As is evidenced by her response to this horrific event, Ms. Roig is resilient and reacts with incredible speed and judgment in the face of crisis. She came to see me determined to take all the necessary steps to deal with the trauma she experienced, begin the healing process, and return to her job as a first-grade teacher at Sandy Hook Elementary School.
When one experiences a trauma such as what happened in Newtown (and specifically in Ms. Roig’s classroom) the unthinkable has occurred. As a result, what previously felt safe no longer does. In such circumstances, taking specific and concrete actions to further secure the environment is necessary if healing is to occur. For this reason, Ms. Roig and I devised a “safety plan” in preparation for her return to work.
. . . I do not release my patient to return to work until she and her students’ needs have been met. Given the magnitude of the trauma, her requests are reasonable and necessary . . . She needs to know that she can work in a reasonably safe environment and can provide the same for her students . . .
After her requests are met we will then be in a position to determine a return to work date for her.
Thank you for your attention to this critical situation.
For the rest of that month, I kept myself busy with preparations for the April launch of the Classes 4 Classes website. I was usually in meetings with our new executive board, or working with our Web designer, writing and rewriting content for the site and making sure all of the parts were in the right place. At least a couple times a week, I traveled to New York City to share our vision for the nonprofit with executives and solicit corporate support. My goal was to set everything in place for the launch before I returned to school in early April, because after that I would need to give my full attention back to my kids.
I heard in various ways that the parents of my students had, indeed, been lobbying for a safer classroom and for my immediate return. Hardly a day went by that I didn’t get phone messages, texts, and e-mails asking when I would be back, and offering bits of information about what was being done on my behalf. All of the messages offered a similar sentiment: “We need you back. Our kids need you back.” I was so grateful for the dedication and loyalty of my students’ parents. We had developed strong relationships from the beginning of the school year, and those ties only got tighter after the tragedy. Their commitment to their children and their support for me was sustaining during those weeks I was away. They had been actively advocating for what was right, just like I had. Other teachers also felt that the district needed to do more to make the students feel safe, but, after seeing the administration’s response to me, they decided not to pursue their requests.
The first and second weeks of April came and went with no word. It occurred to me that the district could be running out the clock. Only six weeks remained in the school year. Around that same time, I heard the troubling news that the family of one of my students had endured a personal hardship. What else would this poor child have to endure? I wondered. I contacted his mom to say how sorry I was that they were going through such a difficult time, and asked if there was anything I could do to help. She responded immediately that a visit with her son would be beneficial. “He would love to see you,” she said. “He’s been asking for you. He’s been wondering if you’re okay.” Of course he was, I thought. I’d vanished from his life with no explanation because I hadn’t been allowed to return to my classroom, not even to say good-bye.
We made arrangements to meet for lunch two days later, on April 13, at the local Friendly’s restaurant. The whole family came and we had a wonderful visit. Afterward the mom texted me: “Thank you so much,” she wrote. “He has been all smiles and singing since you left. I think just knowing you are REALLY okay is what he needed. He is so happy. Thank you.”
I texted back, “I am so glad. That makes me so happy. Please tell him how much I loved having lunch with him.”
“Oh, he knows,” she responded. “He was so happy that you sat next to him. You are very loved. Stay strong and change for no one. We all love you.”
“Means the world to me and I love you all, too,” I wrote.
Of course, it occurred to me that the terms of my leave were that I was to have no contact with my class, but that never entered into my decision to have lunch my student and his family that day. A child I cared about was suffering and I needed to be there to support him and his family. But the superintendent didn’t see it that way.
In early May, my therapist received her response.
The superintendent was satisfied that the school district had provided the proper safeguards for the students and nothing further needed to be done. When I felt ready, they would be happy to discuss my return to work date.
I received my own letter from the superintendent the same day, letting me kn
ow that she had heard about the visit with my student, and reprimanding me for breaking a condition of my leave. Before I could return to my classroom, she wrote, I would need to be evaluated by an independent medical professional.
The superintendent had waited more than a month to respond to the matter of my reinstatement, and she’d done it one day before leaving the district. I was aware that, months before the shooting, a majority of the board of education had voted against extending her three-year contract, but I had no idea she’d decided to leave early to take a job in a nearby town. I read about it in the local newspaper and I was stunned. That week was “the official end of her stormy five-year employment in town,” the story in the NewsTimes in Danbury said.
The letter to me was one of her last acts as our superintendent. I read and reread it, probably four or five times. The way I interpreted it, the issue had gone from a disagreement over safety to a question of whether I was fit to return to the classroom. The findings of my therapist, who had more than twenty years of experience in her field, were dismissed and my advocacy was being painted as instability. Why was my character and mental health called into question when neither had ever been an issue before? All too aware that the school year was winding to a close, and anxious to get back to my students, I tossed the letter on the table and began searching for, as was requested, “a medical professional to ascertain that I was able to return to my teaching duties.” I decided to seek two opinions and made appointments for the following week. Both did evaluations and passed me with flying colors. To sum up their findings: I was not suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I was acting with prudence and in the best interest of my students. I was perfectly fit to return to school.
Choosing Hope: Moving Forward from Life's Darkest Hours Page 11
