A Tragedy Far Greater Than Mine
We tend to think of tragedy as those awful moments by which we can chart our lives. Thankfully, for most of us, those moments are few and far between- a one to five occurrence at most. But for a lot of "my" kids who live on the White Mountain Apache reservation, tragedy is commonplace. It comes knocking so often that eventually they just leave the door open. It becomes an expectation rather than a fear. It is always around the corner.
Death, tragedy's best friend, strikes young and hard on the reservation I love. It isn't a thing reserved for grandparents or the occasional accident. It happens monthly. It affects people weekly.
Young people on the reservation die in numbers that are unacceptable. The youth suicide rate on the reservation I love is 13x higher than the national average. That is beyond heartbreaking. In my four years working there 3 girls in their teens were brutally murdered. One woman was killed just a few yards down from our youth center while we were hosting a movie night. It wasn't an accident. And those were just the murders I was somehow connected to.
Death and tragedy happen so often on the reservation and it breaks us down, those of us who love, or live in, that beautiful land. Just a few weeks ago a teenage girl died by suicide. This morning I received the devastating news that one of the first girls I knew on the rez died in a car accident. She was in her early twenties.
I have a picture taped to my desk at work of that first group of kids I worked with in the summer that changed my life. These were the kids who introduced me to their culture, their traditions, their heartbreak, and their joys. They were the kids I traveled to Missouri with for a conference, and the kids I spent the summer getting to know better. I looked down at it this afternoon, lost in thought and heartbreak, to see her smiling back at me. She was one of ours. And she is gone too soon.
I hate that death is a thing. I hate that it happens so often on the reservation that I love. Sometimes I feel that my heart will jump out of my skin when I think of the rez that adopted me. I miss it every day. I feel guilty being so far away when there are so many amazing young people that need a reminder of hope in this continuous onslaught of tragedy. I feel helpless not being able to hug my kids and tell them their worth.
I am returning in May to celebrate a bunch of "my" kids who are graduating high school. It will be one of the proudest moments of my life watching them walk across that stage. Those kids have survived and they have thrived. In the face of adversity and hardship, unexpected trials and heartbreak, they have refused to give up. They have pushed forward. They have become leaders. They are my pride and joy. If my whole life's purpose was just the years I spent working with them, then my life was worth it. They are the best kids I know.
Beyond that trip in May I don't know what my work with the reservation is going to look like.
But I do know one thing.
It isn't over yet.
Death, tragedy's best friend, strikes young and hard on the reservation I love. It isn't a thing reserved for grandparents or the occasional accident. It happens monthly. It affects people weekly.
Young people on the reservation die in numbers that are unacceptable. The youth suicide rate on the reservation I love is 13x higher than the national average. That is beyond heartbreaking. In my four years working there 3 girls in their teens were brutally murdered. One woman was killed just a few yards down from our youth center while we were hosting a movie night. It wasn't an accident. And those were just the murders I was somehow connected to.
Death and tragedy happen so often on the reservation and it breaks us down, those of us who love, or live in, that beautiful land. Just a few weeks ago a teenage girl died by suicide. This morning I received the devastating news that one of the first girls I knew on the rez died in a car accident. She was in her early twenties.
I have a picture taped to my desk at work of that first group of kids I worked with in the summer that changed my life. These were the kids who introduced me to their culture, their traditions, their heartbreak, and their joys. They were the kids I traveled to Missouri with for a conference, and the kids I spent the summer getting to know better. I looked down at it this afternoon, lost in thought and heartbreak, to see her smiling back at me. She was one of ours. And she is gone too soon.
I hate that death is a thing. I hate that it happens so often on the reservation that I love. Sometimes I feel that my heart will jump out of my skin when I think of the rez that adopted me. I miss it every day. I feel guilty being so far away when there are so many amazing young people that need a reminder of hope in this continuous onslaught of tragedy. I feel helpless not being able to hug my kids and tell them their worth.
I am returning in May to celebrate a bunch of "my" kids who are graduating high school. It will be one of the proudest moments of my life watching them walk across that stage. Those kids have survived and they have thrived. In the face of adversity and hardship, unexpected trials and heartbreak, they have refused to give up. They have pushed forward. They have become leaders. They are my pride and joy. If my whole life's purpose was just the years I spent working with them, then my life was worth it. They are the best kids I know.
Beyond that trip in May I don't know what my work with the reservation is going to look like.
But I do know one thing.
It isn't over yet.
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