A Post to Process My Own Grief

Image via Freeimages.

Yesterday I public-cried in the art section on the fourth floor of the Barnes and Noble in Union Square.

I had just found out via facebook that my middle school band teacher, Mr. Tyler, had died.


There's no manual for this kind of loss. It's not quite as close to the heart as losing, say, a sibling or a child or a grandparent or anything like that. But it still hurts.

He seemed so full of life when I knew him well. Granted, that was 13 years ago, and also you probably have to be super energetic when you're dealing with middle schoolers, but I guess some part of me never really believed he could die, you know? Yes, he was old, but I never really thought about it. So it was a shock to read on my phone that it had happened.

He was a great teacher. He really fostered a love of music and the arts in all of his students. For me, when I wanted to learn to play tenor saxophone, he stopped taking breaks at lunch and instead I went into the classroom at lunch so he could personally teach me. When I nervously confessed I wanted to sing in the seventh grade talent show but didn't think I could do it by myself, he was the one who encouraged me to try out. And when my step-uncle shot himself and I broke into tears in band class, he was the one who let me cry in his office.

I'm not the only former student with stories like these, though my classmates' stories are not mine to share. But the point is he really made it a point to care about his students at a pivotal time in our lives. Middle school was rough for everyone. (Well, for everyone I know anyway.) At that time in someone's life, they really need an adult to believe in them. Mr. Tyler was that for us.

Still, at first I felt like I had no right to this sadness.

I mean, I hadn't even seen the man for, what, two years? Three? The last time I had seen him, we had passed each other in a grocery store in San Jose, exchanging a few awkward hellos, he congratulated me on what was then my still-semesters-away graduation from university, but that was it. We weren't close anymore by any definition of the word.

But I think that's part of why I felt so sad. The man died before I could tell him how he made that much of an impact in a very pivotal time of my life. I should have told him. Maybe not in the grocery store that day but I could have written an e-mail at the very least.

Sarah told me, "He was a teacher. I think he knows." I hope she's right. I still wish I had said something.

Old friends, some of whom I haven't spoken to in over a decade, are coming out of the woodworks on facebook to grieve together. I guess because who else would really understand the same way? We're all reeling from the shock, it seems. I wish I was catching up with these people under better circumstances.

There's still no news about a memorial service. Even if his family will choose to have one that former students can attend (and who knows if they will?) I'm on the wrong coast for it, so I wouldn't be able to go. I guess that's part of why I'm making this post. It's my own memorial service.

I called my best-friend-since-middle-school Ashley after I stopped crying, sitting in the photography section of that bookstore. We had met in his class, after all, and she knows me better than most of the other former-classmates who had been messaging each other all over facebook. She also has always been really good about helping me deal with grief. I don't know if it's because her mother was a grief counselor for a time or if it's just because she knows me that well.

But on the phone with her, in the middle of me trying to work through my sadness, she said something along the lines of:

"I still remember the time he told us about when he was walking with his hands in his pockets, tripped and fell, and busted his chin open because he couldn't free his hands in time. Even now, I still don't walk with my hands in my pockets because of that!"

I couldn't help but giggle a little at that, adding, "Remember the time he brought out his piccolo trumpet and we all lost our shit because it was so tiny?"

"Remember watching 'Good Burger' in his classroom during finals?"

"Or 'Surf Ninjas'!"

"Or the marching band episode of Spongebob Squarepants!"

This went on for a little longer. She instinctively knew what I needed was to laugh through the grief. To remember the good times I did have with the man.

I do like to think he'd be proud of who I've become. Who we've all become.

Rest in peace Mr. Tyler. You will be missed by many.
 -Nym-

UPDATE: A San Jose radio station posted this lovely tribute to the man.