Teachers & Writers Magazine Spring Issue 
Writing Through Trauma, excerpt two

The spring issue of the magazine is now out, and features a special section on Writing Through Trauma.  In this special section we asked writers in the schools from programs nationwide to describe their work with children and adults whose lives have been changed by violence, illness, the death of a loved one, or other tragedies. In the wake of the violence that occurred this past December at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, we asked these writers to offer their insights into how words can help comfort and heal in the face of grief.  Last week we posted a piece by T&W teaching artist David Surface on working with veterans in a writing workshop. In this second excerpt, teaching artist Autumn Hayes, from WITS Houston describes a lesson in which she had elementary school students write new year's wishes to the children of Newtown Connecticut.

Reaching for Others: Writing New Year’s Wishes to Newtown Students
by Autumn Hayes

But—how do I know what they want?” Armarde asked, his face a dervish of anxiety. “I really want them to like it.”

I couldn’t blame him. I was at Lockhart-Turner Elementary School in Houston, Texas, working with Armarde and his fellow fourth-graders on an understandably daunting task: each child was to write and illustrate a New Year’s wish for the students of Sandy Hook School in Newtown, Connecticut. The tragic shooting there was only six days behind them—fewer for students I’d already visited at Kelso Elementary—and I had made it clear that these wishes would be mailed out to real people in real pain.

The idea started this September, with an exhibit entitled “Dear John and Dominique: Letters and Drawings from the Menil Archives.” I work at the Menil with Writers in the Schools in Houston, Texas, and I was particularly struck by a series of hand-painted New Year's cards from artist Niki de Saint Phalle. The gorgeous, full-page artworks, splashed with whimsical watercolors, wished pleasures like “friendly monsters in your dreams,” and I knew—in a world of snark and online bullying—I wanted students to see and emulate such kindness, tenderness, and creativity.

Then Sandy Hook happened, and I faced the choice to: (a) pretend that this didn’t affect us and teach revision as planned, or (b) walk the walk and engage 160 children in the messiness of reaching for others.

Fortunately, each class had discussed the events beforehand. Some students immediately struck the meat of the matter: “I wish that Connecticut was here because we are family,” Aniyah wrote. But others, like Armarde, hesitated. What could he, or any of us, offer children so far away, confronting so much fear, confusion, and trauma? What would the children of Newtown really want from us?

Well, nothing. No amount of pretty words or kind sentiments can erase the terrifying memories or bring back lost loved ones, friends, and teachers. But kind words and hopeful sentiments can, I believe, part the dark curtains of loneliness. They can bring small reminders to the survivors—that happiness and life still await them when they are ready, beckoning in tiny, concrete experiences.

And so we talked about this, acknowledged it, for those afraid. We talked about how students in Connecticut are people—people who likely love SpongeBob and grandparents and sticky, sweet things, too—and about how we don’t have to have all the answers, or any. We don’t have to fix things. We can’t. All we have to do is notice each other and show it, to look at each other steadily through all the chaos and say—however possible—“I see you. I care.”

For some, that means sending flowers, gifts, or donations. For others, that means listening. For our band of fourth-graders, that meant sending forward bits of ourselves, our delights, our comforts and hilarities. It meant sending forward wishes for “homemade apple juice to drink when it’s a hot, hot day,” for “a nice little bit of music,” for “a warm sun deep down inside you.” It meant play and poems and prayers. It meant simple compassion—the best, if not the only, thing any of us can really offer in the face of tragedy.