No one in teacher school ever prepares you for certain days. When you’re working on your credential, they tell you what to do when students act up, or if they are having a hard time, or how you should sculpt a lesson that accommodates all. But they never tell you what you should do when one of your students dies quickly and tragically.
Three years ago to this day I was called into the principal’s office to find other teachers crying and sobbing. The principal told us that Danielle Murillo, our student, had been killed in a car accident the previous night, along with former student Jessica Leffew, who was not our student. There weren’t a lot of particulars yet–who knows, maybe there were, but no one was focusing very well–and the principal was wondering if we should tell students. We all figured in this day and age of Internet that nothing stays hidden long, so Danielle’s parents gave us their approval to tell students.
This was an APN class, one that shares senior students for a block of Gov/Econ for a period and English for the other. My teaching partner Marc Pioch (who taught the Gov/Econ side) and I had left our rooms unattended and our students didn’t know how to read us when we came back, since my partner was visibly shaken and couldn’t speak to them at that moment. That left the job to me.
When I started speaking it was like a dream, staring at students, many who I had known for two to three years. They smiled at were somewhat cheery because they thought we were up to something, which we sometimes were. But as I kept talking–God only knows what the hell I was saying–the smiles and cheer turned to tears and sobs and shock and grief.
This was Danielle. She was many things, but she was definitely a friend to many. She had so many levels of friends because she was that girl who could fit in with different groups. Plus, she and about 12 other students and Marc Pioch had just returned a week ago from an APN trip to Costa Rica, where she had made even more friends. A social media queen, a purveyor of many styles, someone who didn’t back down to others and never had an opinion she didn’t share. Danielle was that girl who was unapologetic about who she was, and others loved and respected her for it.
Her death didn’t make sense to anyone who knew her because she was always the person that was so full of life. Surely this was a mistake. Come on, Stover, tell us that this is just a horrible psychological test to measure our sympathy and empathy. Where do you have her hidden?
Everything was real, though, and newspapers and news outlets were already running with the story. Because Danielle and her friends were coming back from a 420 music festival above Santa Barbara, there were many rumors about the impairment of the driver and his passengers. Of course, since they were young and coming back from a music festival with 420 attached to it, they had to be drunk or stoned or both. Toxicology would come back with nothing on this assumption by others.
The district immediately sent many grief counselors to North High, and any students who wanted to could come to the library and meet with them. All the APN kids, probably around 70+ at the time, were there, too. Kids were sad. They cried. Some were horribly shaken. But, after a short while, students started talking to one another. The counselors sat there, unused by students. They made announcement here and there about how available they were for everyone, but students didn’t bother. It’s not like they were being mean–Danielle and Jessica had so many different friends that were brought together in the library that students just wanted to hang out and talk to one another. They did just this until after school was out, which was one of the most positive student moments I had ever seen at North High.
Though I didn’t show hardly any emotion at school–I felt that was my role as teacher in this case–it was awful at home. I would do homework, and the house would be quiet, and in those softer times I would think and reflect and remember all the things that made Danielle the special person she was. Music was about my only refuge, but even then, a slow song, or one that hit a certain lyrical note would get my mind running again, and I would feel horrible for her family, for my students, and for anyone who had to deal more personally with this than I did. But, man, the quiet was awful, and was so the antithesis of Danielle, which made it even worse.
By the next day, Marc Pioch had gained his footing and was already setting up a school vigil for the two girls. He organized it down to students doing pretty much everything, from the eulogies, to having a student host, to creating a soundtrack for the evening. The only thing I really helped with were the eulogies, as two of my students knew they should run them by me for this occasion.
The night of the vigil was another one of the most positive moments ever at North High. Over 600 people were there, from teachers, to students, to family, to anyone who may have heard the story. The gym hosted the first part of the vigil, complete with music and eulogies. My current and former students gave their eulogies to Jessica and Danielle and, even though I had proofread them the previous day, I can easily write that what they said, along with the way they carried themselves, was one of the most powerful things any student at North High has ever done. I don’t know how many other students could have been so serious, funny, specific to each girl, and professional, all in the face of what had happened and what was happening around them.
The night ended outside with candles, more speeches, and balloons being released. People stayed a long time, too, once again telling stories, crying, laughing, and dealing with everything the best way they could. I don’t know how Danielle or Jessica would have felt about the evening, but everyone there was a part of something, whether they knew it at the time, or not.
I was one of the last three people there. It was me, Marc Pioch, and our current principal Dr. Ron Richardson. We didn’t have to say much to each other because, I think, we all understood what had just happened and how incredibly our students rose to the occasion. And though Pioch is gone from North, I will always share that time with him.
Today brings back sadness, though. Even though so many positive moments came out of this, from students coming together to an unspoken understanding that ran through teachers and students, there was still the untimely and tragic death of a student.
It is quiet right now as I type this and my mind returns to the song that came out at the time that fit so well for my place in all this. Rest in paradise, Danielle. You meant so much to so many. https://youtu.be/59mDoc8vZj0