Dear Faculty and Staff,
All week I have felt afflicted by a malaise—part dread, part fatigue—that transcends the characteristic February blues. It's safe to say, despite way too much time on the Internet, I have not “processed” the Valentine’s Day shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. In all my scrolling, I cannot tell you what I seek. I did not think I could feel worse after Newtown, but I do because it no longer feels like a freak occurrence to have children killed in school, to have teachers give up their lives to try to protect children
I have spoken several times to the Upper School, urging them if they see something to say something. It feels hollow. I have no real reassurance to offer. We have practiced an evacuation drill and learned, that morning, of places in the building that did not hear the alert. We put the broken speakers on a list to repair as soon as possible. The drill, itself, frightened adults and children. As we walked down Lyman Blvd. towards Fairmount on that curiously balmy day , an older man walking a dog murmured, “I’m so sorry you have to do this.” Me, too. We did not come to work in schools because we ever considered whether or not we would need to stand between a shooter’s bullets and the children in our care. We did not, very long ago, consider how we would evacuate children or lock down or shelter in place if there were to be an active shooter in our schools. And now we do. I am heartened by the sparks of activism we see young people expressing in Florida and across the country. I am proud of their eloquence and passion and worried that their efforts will not be powerful enough to effect change. I told the Upper School faculty on Thursday that we will, as a school, support our girls in joining national protests. We must. We want them to live the mission and values of this school; that means raising them up to use their voices and to seek change. We will, of course, not compel any student to take part in those protests. I'd like to believe all parties could join together in agreeing it makes sense to restrict the purchase of the kind of weapons that are designed to kill as many people as possible, but I recognize in this polarized climate that my wish may be naïve. Perhaps students, idealistic, brave, hopeful, will prevail. History shows us how many movements—lunch counter sit-ins, the courageous youth who resisted during WWII, Kent State—began in the hands of young people.
Contributing to my sorrow is the fact that last week, a colleague of mine, the Head of Harpeth Hall School, died very quickly. Stephanie’s breast cancer, vanquished fourteen years ago, returned. By the time they figured out why she was feeling poorly, it was too late. She leaves a daughter who is a sophomore in her school and a whole school who loved her. The swiftness of her death feels like whiplash; just this morning, I realized we were supposed to present together at a conference in June about how we’ve undertaken facilities master plans.
Yesterday, I spoke on a panel in the Key Bank tower about how to make our schools more inclusive, more welcoming of many kinds of teachers, children and families. I looked out at this bright-eyed group of mostly young people, who want to teach. Never have I wavered in my own passion for teaching, for making a difference. It is a privilege to spend time in the presence of children, in the presence of our smart, resilient, creative, funny, brave colleagues. But this month has been heavy. It’s important to make space for all of our feelings, for joy and possibility and for feel and the overwhelming sense of responsibility we all feel. Take time this weekend to check in with how you are feeling. Do something for yourself—you do so much for other people every day at school. Give yourself permission to take a nap, go for a run, linger over a cup of coffee, order pizza instead of doing the laundry or prepping another lesson. Take care of yourself. Reach out to an old friend. It’s my best friend, Meg, with whom I started my teaching career at Northfield Mount Hermon in 1982, who I called this week. Being connected helps us feel less lonely. Don’t wait. Maxine, a minister who preaches in our little summer church in Eagles Mere, closes many services with these words from Henri Frédéric Amiel:
“Life is short. We don't have much time to gladden the hearts of those who walk this way with us. So, be swift to love and make haste to be kind.”
I want us to focus on what is essential in school—learning, empowering girls to change the world, to claim their voices and to be kind.
In the midst of all this gray, I feel fortunate to be among you, to have the Early Learners agog in my office on Friday, to spend time with the girls in African-American Roots and in 8th grade English. Thank you for the privilege of working with you. Thank you for the million ways in which you buoy me.