Her name was Ruby. She was one of mine. A sophomore. I offered her one-on-one support in my academic lab as an intervention tier for kids who needed extra pushes in the right direction.
I see her face, and I hear her voice. Long jet black hair and dark frames. Super bubbly and talkative and always beefing with her teachers.
“Mrs. G., I like coming here. You cool, Mrs. G. Like you listen to me and don’t judge, you feel me?”
“Yah, I feel you, Ruby. Show me your essay, show me what you got.”
She would, with pride, whip out her laptop and slide it to me. She’d smile and watch as I read. She wasn’t a bad writer; she had a way with literary devices.
“You likie?” she whispered.
“I likie,” I responded.
She’d end up talking my ear off most days, and I’d let her. I appreciated her confiding in me. Her attendance was spotty, though, so I’d see her in spurts. But when she came, I felt her presence. She was so sweet and respectful. She always greeted me and would ask how I was doing. She wound up bringing to the lab a friend in trouble. I’d sign him in with positive attendance and help him too. This was last school year.
This school year, I thought she’d stop in, but I didn’t see her.
During Thanksgiving week, staff members received an email informing us that a Morton East student, Ruby Navarrete, had died the prior weekend. My mind froze. I whispered to myself, “Is it her, my Ruby from last year?” A second email confirmed it. I asked how she passed and learned she was killed in a shooting at a party in the city. The wrong place. The wrong time.
I swiftly left my room and waved to security to watch my class. I went to the room of a trusted colleague and friend. A full panic attack commenced.
Several staff members surrounded me and encouraged me to breathe. My colleague Ritz just held me as I wept. Semi-audible words spilled out: “She was just a baby.” “Her mom, her mom, Dios mio.” My eyes were closed tight. My principal touched my shoulder and whispered, “I need you to breathe, kid.”
I was taken in a wheelchair outside, where a crisp breeze and the afternoon sun roused me. I made it home in a colleague’s car.
The evening was a blur. My family rushed to my aid, and texts and calls came in from my school community.
My reaction points to deeper wounds that still need healing. My experiences teaching in struggling parts of Chicago for many years, the panic and angst over gun violence, still rattle my insides like maracas.
I tried to take the message to Washington this summer, to spread awareness about the lives of my students and what it’s like to be a teacher in an urban setting. Such are the stark realities of living and teaching in environments more susceptible to tragedies like Ruby’s. Will the situation ever change? Can I bang my wooden spoon on pots any louder?
Ruby marks another student of mine lost to gun violence. The shooter isn’t in custody. “Justice for Ruby” goes the beating drum of my heart.
The next day after finding out is always the hardest. I zero in on my student’s favorite seat. My imagination places them there.
I worked in Chicago’s toughest neighborhoods. I’m now a Title 1 teacher in Cicero, but my school isn’t removed from these issues, which are all too familiar to communities of color. As a Latina, a teacher of color, I have a problem with this; these issues shouldn’t be normalized. I’m deeply committed to my school community for its heart and grit. We need more resources, systemic change and support at the state and federal levels.
Ruby’s funeral was excruciating. A sea of students, staff members and her family members gathered. She wore a crown, her hair long and flowing. Catholic chants and songs filled the air. Touching her hand, I whispered that I’d use my voice for change, somehow, in some way. I meant it.
This is what teachers and school communities go through when they lose a student to gun violence. I will continue to tell these stories.
I came back the next day to school and reported for duty. I will be back every time. This, I pray.
____
ABOUT THE WRITER
Sofia Gonzalez is a teacher at Morton East High School in Cicero, Illinois.
