Losing Jenny

I don’t cry very often these days. As an adult I am aware of so much sadness around me on a daily basis, I could probably cry nonstop…I’m currently following three CaringBridge sites where close friends or their family members are battling cancer, and I know many others who have suffered loss lately…so I usually try to control my tears and work hard to think positive thoughts. Until a few days ago, the last time I really cried was when I saw the first pictures of the Sandy Hook victims. When those adorable faces started floating across my television screen, I sobbed, gasping and choking in disbelief.

So usually my tears wait for situations like that – unbelievable and insurmountable events that cannot be handled any other way.

Until last Thursday.

Last Thursday I cried again – slow sad tears that came out of nowhere while I was sitting in my car outside a middle school. Sixty beginning teachers were waiting for me to speak to them on the difference educators make, but two school districts away, my “Little Jenny,” my “Jenn-ee-furr,” was packing up six years of teaching and leaving our school for another adventure. Our lovable little “Miss F” (now “Mrs. H”) was leaving. Our horse-back-riding, rock-wall-climbing, salsa-dancing ball of passion for teaching hormone-ridden eighth-graders-with-an-attitude would soon be gone.

I sat right beside Jenny when a group of teachers interviewed her in 2007 for an eighth grade English/Language Arts position. She charmed us with her cheerleader personality, her just-graduated-from-college energy, and her literacy and technology expertise. That next year I was her mentor, even though in so many ways she mentored me, one day sitting at my computer explaining instructions for entering grades in a new program. We met every day during our planning time while I tried to help her navigate those first year teacher waters, insisting that she really try to leave the school before 9:00 PM every night. (She was very dedicated!)

We shared troubled students that we really cared about – kind of like two parents who know that they’re the only two people in the world who feel the same way about a child. One of those students broke our hearts, and Jenny was the first person I contacted when I found out. I knew she alone would understand how I felt.

We shared cheerleaders (Jenny was the real coach; I was the “foster” coach when she couldn’t be there.) I wrote her recommendation letter to graduate school – the same program where I honed my own literacy skills. I watched Jenny excel there and bring her skills back to share with our staff and students. We also traveled together from the mountains to the beach, girl trips to celebrate birthdays and bachelorettes, and we attended tea parties, swap parties, and Halloween dress-ups.

I was there when Jenny fell in love. It didn’t take me long to realize that the salsa instructor she brought to our community literacy program (we worked with our Latino students and their parents on literacy skills) was more than just her dance teacher. And I not-so-discreetly used my phone to take one picture after another at her wedding, immediately posting them online so her new husband’s family in Ecuador could see them.

When I left my literacy coach position, it was Jenny who took over. I purposefully left her my classroom library and my love for working with teachers on reading.

There is no need to share the intimate details of Jenny’s departure from our school. Suffice it to say she’s found another opportunity that is better for her and her family. I was there – play-by-play – as she made the painful decision to leave. I had to reach deep inside to offer her sound, objective advice.

And I will say this: a year ago I wrote our state legislators and told Jenny’s story. I talked about a bright, inspirational teacher who, for four years, earned the salary of a first year teacher. Even though she had assumed many leadership positions – grade level chair…literacy coach – she was still being paid the same amount she was paid the day she walked in the door. In my letter, I appealed to those who have the power to help us attract and retain amazing teachers like Jenny. And I warned them that one day she would be gone.

That day has come. So as I sat outside that middle school on Thursday waiting to speak to new teachers, I cried over losing Jenny.

Then I pushed my tears aside and went in to tell those teachers about the difference they make in their students’ lives.  And I was thinking about the students that Jenny touched during her short teaching career.

I’ll miss you, Jenn-ee-furr.