Short article about my French Teacher.
Hello everyone… out there, wherever that is.
Normally I write fiction, and it usually involves a little bit of brutality because that’s what makes a story intense, but it also moves it an inch or two away from reality. Stories about murders are often uncomfortable to read, even when you know it’s fiction.
I’m sitting here behind my keyboard trying to be as poetic and profound as I always try to be, but I’m finding it impossible. I’ve got a boat load of friends on facebook right now who don’t really understand how to feel. I guess I should be clear.
On the way home from Sam Ash Music in New York City, I got a text message from a friend of mine asking if I’d heard the news. Well, no. I hadn’t. Apparently my French teacher of three years had been murdered in her home in Newburgh alongside her husband. So said Recordonline.com. I got all the information second hand from friends and spent the next hour in the car next to my mother wondering how to tell her. If she freaked out, it would mean I was going to also, and I didn’t want to.
Telling her, she was fairly horrified, and I asked her if it was alright that I just slam a pair of earbuds into my ears and ignore the world until we got home. She touched my head comfortingly, but I didn’t want it. I just wanted to pretend like I was invisible, which might not be totally original or inspired, but it’s fucking true.
I sat staring out the window drumming along quietly to a few songs trying to think about my new cymbals in the back seat that I was incredibly grateful for but couldn’t give a shit about at that moment. My dad was waiting in front of the house when we got back, but he didn’t know yet. He asked about my cymbals, and I acted the crap out of a brief role I can only describe as “Zen”. I didn’t smile, I didn’t frown, and my mom waited until I was inside to tell my father, because I couldn’t bear breaking the news twice.
I’m still having trouble processing it. My friend Jake who always has something smart to say doesn’t want to talk. My friends Alex and Iram who always seem to be calm are flipping out. Several of the girls in our 12 student level 5 french class have cried themselves to the point of headache, and none of us really know how to react, or if meeting up tomorrow at the local pizza joint is going to help.
Ever have that dream where something tragic happens to your school, whether you be a graduate or not, and all you see are people crying? I hope everyone cries, or at least everyone knows. Speaking with Ashley from French on Facebook a matter of minutes ago, neither of us knew if we’ll be able to walk into room 151 or 173 or whatever the fuck it is on Monday. I keep seeing police crime tape wrapped around the door to the classroom which is horrifically ironic because just this morning I peeled off a strip of crime scene tape from the door to my bedroom, having grown tired of it.
My mom is knocking on my door asking if I want something to eat. Funny how helpless I feel.
Jake’s status on facebook read something about wishing he had been a better french student.
Melissa’s status read “R.I.p mme. Kojtari. I’ll remember you forever.”
My status just read, “Oh man…”
For all the dumb jokes about Madame Kojitari that Jake and I told each other, and for all the stupid things we did in class, she was an awesome person to be around. I never liked her teaching, and I won’t pretend to now, but I grew to love her because more than any other teacher I’ve ever had, she was a real class mom, and almost always lead her class as a democracy.
I don’t have anything else to say, so I’ll just leave it at that.
Peace. Leave a nice comment, it’ll help.