Updated: August 22, 2015
Originally Published: May 19, 2015
When I stepped into the lobby of my building and made my way to the mailbox, my neighbor across the hall greeted me with startling news: “Your student received the death penalty,” he said. For a moment, I was frozen, overwhelmed with emotion. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I sensed my neighbor might not fully grasp the depth of my feelings, as I struggled to comprehend them myself. Eventually, as we walked back to our apartments, I managed to express that I hadn’t wished for Dzhokhar to face death, even though I believed he deserved a serious punishment for his horrendous actions.
In the days leading up to this moment, the thought of either potential punishment for Dzhokhar horrified me. I often pondered whether life in prison might be a more torturous fate than death. I thought back to the tale of Oedipus Rex, where the protagonist, tormented by his own deeds, yearns for death but is instead condemned to a life of exile. To live in the shadow of one’s own sins can be a heavier burden than death itself.
Yet, during the trial, if Dzhokhar felt any shame or regret, he kept it hidden.
Once I was home, I turned on the television, tuning into a multitude of commentators and legal experts discussing the jury’s verdict. I was struck by the care with which they deliberated; the death sentence was reserved for specific actions that they deemed solely Dzhokhar’s responsibility — particularly the decision to detonate a bomb among innocent spectators, leading to the tragic deaths of Martin Richard and Lingzi Lu. Although separated from his brother on that fateful day, Dzhokhar chose to follow through with their plan.
Around 4:30 PM, a wave of understanding washed over me, and I found myself weeping — perhaps because I could finally accept the jury’s decision. I thought of a dear friend whose son and daughter-in-law were severely injured in the bombing, losing their legs and undergoing countless surgeries. They, like many in their family, were against the death penalty. I felt compelled to reach out, and quickly sent her an email: “Thinking of you, reflecting on what didn’t need to happen, and knowing that your family and all of us will move forward from this, though there’s much to ponder.”
By 5:00, I realized the sentence had been announced at 3:00, after the school day had ended for my colleagues at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School (CRLS). I was relieved they wouldn’t have to grapple with this news while teaching. While many of them didn’t know the Tsarnaev brothers personally, some had taught them, and the trial reverberated through our entire school community. After all, they were our students, and we were their teachers.
This personal connection is what stirs such deep emotions and sadness within us regarding this case. I often refer to Tamerlan and Dzhokhar by their first names, a stark contrast to how I refer to figures like Timothy McVeigh. This familiarity reminds me of the youthful potential I saw in them, making it difficult to reconcile the adults they became with the kids they once were.
When do children stop being considered kids? It’s a question frequently debated in educational circles. I have to remind myself that Dzhokhar is now a man, albeit a very young one, and I feel a deep sorrow for the path he chose. But if he isn’t the sole problem, then what is? Colleagues have often discussed the unfortunate circumstances he faced growing up. Yet, while my heart aches for him, it aches even more for his victims. Adverse circumstances can lead to profound consequences, but they do not excuse violent behavior.
This leads to the ongoing challenge in public schools, particularly those serving economically disadvantaged students. How much can we, as educators, truly do? By the time students reach their late teens, many have mastered the art of concealing their struggles. In my experience, I’ve seen numerous students oscillate between seeking help and shutting down, revealing only glimpses of their true selves.
There are those who arrive at school ready to leave their burdens behind, seeking refuge from their struggles. Despite the potential we see within them, their pasts often wield a greater influence over their lives than we realize. When students do confide in us, we strive to create a safe space where they can discuss their choices and consider how to shape their futures positively.
Ultimately, we must acknowledge that we cannot be accountable for what we cannot see or grasp. We are not at fault for Dzhokhar’s actions, even if we wish we could have intervened somehow while he was at CRLS. The “what ifs” linger painfully, reminding us of our desire to have prevented the tragic events of April 15, 2013. This compels us to improve, even in the absence of guilt. We are reminded of our responsibility to engage with our students’ lives beyond mere academic achievement, to cultivate a sense of belonging in our school community, and to respond actively when we notice signs of self-destruction.
Yet, we understand that even with our best efforts, we cannot guarantee a safe environment for our students or the community at large. We move forward, hopeful that our actions will have a positive impact. Our sadness persists because we are all part of the same community that includes Dzhokhar.
In closing, these reflections remind us of the complexities and challenges we face as educators, and the need to remain vigilant and compassionate in our approach to all students.
Summary
The author reflects on the emotional turmoil surrounding Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, a former student sentenced to death for his role in the Boston Marathon bombing. As a teacher, she grapples with the complexities of responsibility, the impact of socio-economic factors on students, and the ongoing need for compassion and awareness in education. The narrative emphasizes the importance of engaging with students beyond academics and recognizing the challenges they face.