Dear Parents,
I assume your little ones have told you snippets about the shocking events at today’s brunch. No doubt you are concerned and confused. As the only kindergarten parent in attendance, I’ve been inundated with phone calls asking what really happened.
As many of you know, I’m a counselor at Swedish Medical Center, specializing in post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I went to New Orleans after Katrina and still make frequent trips to Haiti. With the permission of Head of School Goodyear, I am writing both as a parent and PTSD counselor.
It’s important to root our discussion in the facts. You dropped off your children in front of Galer Street. From there, we boarded the bus, and Mr. Kangana drove us to the Queen Anne home of Audrey and Warren Griffin. Despite the rain, the setting was lovely. The planters were full of colorful flowers, and the smell of burning wood filled the air.
A gentleman by the name of Ollie-O greeted us and directed us to the side entrance, where we were asked to remove our raincoats and rain boots.
The brunch was in full swing. There were approximately fifty guests in attendance, who all appeared to be enjoying themselves. I noted palpable tension coming from Gwen Goodyear, Audrey Griffin, and Ollie-O, but nothing a kindergartener would be able to detect.
We were led to the sunroom, where Mr. Kangana had set up his marimbas the night before. The children who had to go potty did, then kneeled behind their instruments. The shades were drawn, leaving the room quite dark. The children had difficulty locating their mallets, so I began to raise the shades.
Ollie-O materialized and grabbed my hand. “That’s a nonstarter.” He turned on the lights.
The guests packed in for the performance. After a short introduction by Gwen Goodyear, the children started in with “My Giant Carp.” You would have been so proud! It was going delightfully. About a minute in, however, a commotion erupted in the backyard, where the caterers were.
“Holy s—!” someone shouted from outside.
A few guests reacted with good-natured titters. The children hardly noticed, they were so absorbed in their music. The song ended. All the little eyes were on Mr. Kangana, who counted them into their next song, “One, two, three—”
“F—!” someone else shouted.
This was not OK. I dashed through the laundry room to the back door, with the intention of shushing the raucous caterers. I turned the handle. A strong, dull, consistent pressure pushed the door toward me. Immediately sensing a terrible force of nature on the other side, I attempted to close the door. The inhuman force wouldn’t allow it. I stuck my foot against the bottom of the door. I heard an ominous creak. The hinges began pulling loose from the frame.
Before I could compute any of this, the marimba music suddenly stopped. A series of pops and pings erupted from the sunroom. A child squealed in distress.
I abandoned the threat at the door and hurtled to the sunroom, where I was met by the shattering of glass. The children were running, screaming, from their instruments. With none of their own parents to run to for comfort, the kindergarteners collectively burrowed into the crowd of prospective parents, who in turn were trying to squeeze through the one small door leading to the living room. It’s a small miracle nobody was trampled.
My daughter, Ginny, ran to me and hugged my legs. Her back was wet… and muddy. I looked up. The shades were now eerily raised of their own accord.
And then came the mud. In it sloshed, through the broken windows. Thick mud, watery mud, rocky mud, mud with beveled-glass shards, mud with window muntins, mud with grass, mud with barbecue utensils, mud with a mosaic birdbath. In a flash, the sunroom windows were gone, and in their place, a gaping, mud-oozing hole.
Adults, children, everyone, was trying to outrun the wreckage, which now included furniture. I stayed behind with Mr. Kangana, who was attempting to rescue the marimbas he had brought with him as a young boy when he emigrated from his beloved Nigeria.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the mud stopped. I turned. An upside-down billboard was flat against the hole in the sunroom, forming a dam. I have no clue as to where this billboard originated, but it was bright red and vast enough to cover what had been a wall of windows.
PRIVATE PROPERTY
NO TRESPASSING
Galer Street Gnats
Will Be Arrested
and Hauled Off to Gnat Jail
By now, the guests were flying out the front door and screeching off in their cars. Mud-caked servers and chefs were milling around, viciously whooping as if this were the most hilarious thing they’d ever seen. Mr. Kangana was swimming in mud, scooping up marimbas. Gwen Goodyear was in the foyer, trying to keep a brave face as she handed out Galer Street gear. Ollie-O was in a semicatatonic state, uttering nonsensical phrases like “This is not biodegradable — the downstream implications are enormous — the optics make for rough sledding — going forward—” before getting stuck on the words “epic fail,” which he kept repeating.
Most incredible, perhaps, Audrey Griffin was running down the street, away from her home. I called after her, but she had turned the corner.
I alone was left to care for thirty traumatized kindergarteners.
“OK,” I rallied. “Let’s everyone find their boots and raincoats!” I recognize now this was the wrong thing to say, as it only drew attention to the impossibility of such a task. Further, these children were in their socks, some even barefoot, and there was broken glass everywhere.
“Nobody move.” I collected every cushion I could find and laid a path out the front door to the sidewalk. “Walk on these cushions, and line up against the hedge.”
If there’s one thing kindergarteners understand, it’s how to line up. One by one, I carried each child down the street to the bus, which I drove back to Galer Street.
This is why your children were returned to you shoeless, jacketless, covered in mud, and full of fantastic stories.
Now let me speak to you as a PTSD specialist.
“Trauma” can be loosely described as any event a person experiences which he perceives as being a threat to his life. This can take as little as 1/18th of a second. In the immediate aftermath of trauma, children might demonstrate fear or confusion. I took the time to carry each child to the bus so that I had the opportunity to physically connect with them. Research has shown how healing touch can be immediately following trauma, especially with children.
During the walk to the bus, I was able to listen, express curiosity, and simply “be” with each child. I was also able to observe them for early indications of PTSD. I am happy to report that your children appeared to be coping very well. Their greatest concern was whether they’d get their rain gear back, and how it would be returned to them. I answered every question as honestly as I could. I told them we’d do our best to recover their belongings, which would probably be dirty, but the mommies would try to clean them.
The good news is this was a single traumatic incident, and therefore the chances of developing PTSD are minor. The bad news is that PTSD can surface months or even years after an event. I feel it is my responsibility as a doctor to let you know some symptoms of PTSD that may occur in your child:
worry about dying
bed-wetting, nightmares, insomnia
reverting to thumb sucking, baby talk, and diaper wearing
physical complaints for which there is no underlying physical cause
withdrawal from family and friends
refusal to attend school
sadistic, violent behavior
If you notice any of these symptoms now or within the next several years, it is important you immediately notify a specialist and tell them about the events at Audrey Griffin’s house. I’m not saying this will happen. The chances are very much against it.