Updated: Aug. 22, 2015
Originally Published: May 19, 2015
As I walked into the lobby of my apartment building, I was greeted by my neighbor, who had some shocking news: “Your student received the death penalty,” he said. For a moment, I was frozen, emotion flooding over me. Tears filled my eyes, and I struggled to comprehend the weight of his words. Eventually, as we made our way to our respective apartments, I managed to express that I didn’t agree with the death penalty for Dzhokhar, even though I believed he deserved a significant punishment for his horrific actions.
In the days leading up to the verdict, I was haunted by the thought of Dzhokhar’s potential fates. Sometimes I wondered if life imprisonment might be a more torturous option than death. I was reminded of Oedipus Rex, where the protagonist yearns for death, but his true punishment is exile—a life burdened by the knowledge of his sins. Yet, throughout the trial, Dzhokhar displayed little to no sign of remorse or regret.
That afternoon, I turned on the television to hear the verdict being discussed. I appreciated the care with which the jury had deliberated, assigning the death penalty only for those actions that they deemed solely Dzhokhar’s responsibility: the decision to plant a bomb at the Boston Marathon finish line, leading to the tragic deaths of Martin Richard and Lingzi Lu. In a moment of reflection, I pondered how Dzhokhar, separated from his brother, still chose to carry out their shared plan.
By around 4:30 PM, as I came to terms with the jury’s decision, I found myself weeping—not from anger, but from understanding. I thought of a dear friend whose family had survived the bombing, enduring unimaginable pain and loss. They, like many others, were against the death penalty. I sent her a message, letting her know I was thinking of them, acknowledging the unneeded tragedy of that day, and expressing the hope that we could all move forward.
At 5:00 PM, I realized the verdict had been delivered at 3:00 PM, after school hours for my colleagues at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School (CRLS). I felt relieved that they didn’t have to process the news while teaching. While many of us had never met the Tsarnaev brothers, the trial felt relevant to our entire school community, connecting us in an unexpected way.
This connection explains the intense emotions surrounding this case. It’s why I refer to Dzhokhar and his brother by their first names. Unlike historical figures like Timothy McVeigh, who are always referred to by their full names, my students remain kids in my eyes, regardless of their actions. I often find myself reminiscing about the younger versions of these adults I now see before me.
So, when do kids stop being kids? It’s a question that often leaves educators pondering. I’ve had to remind myself that Dzhokhar, though still young, is an adult responsible for his actions. Yet, I can’t help but feel sorrow for the path he chose. Many of my colleagues have noted the difficult circumstances he faced growing up. While it’s easy to sympathize with him, I find my heart aching more for his victims. Life can deal unfair hands, but that doesn’t justify taking lives.
This brings us back to the role of teachers in public schools, especially those serving economically disadvantaged students. How do we respond to their struggles? Often, by the time they reach high school, students have mastered the art of concealment, guarding their feelings closely. I’ve seen many students fluctuate between wanting help and fearing vulnerability.
Some kids leave their worries at the school door, using it as a safe haven. Yet, those struggles are often more impactful on their lives than we realize. When students do open up about their difficulties, we can sometimes only offer a listening ear and guidance on making better choices.
We are not to blame for what we cannot see or change. Dzhokhar’s actions are not our fault, though we may wish we had done something to prevent them. It’s a haunting “what if” scenario—if only we had been able to connect with him during his time at CRLS. Ultimately, we wish the events of April 15, 2013, had never occurred, driving us to be better educators, even without guilt.
We must remember that it’s essential to be attentive to our students’ lives beyond their academic performance. We strive for all students to feel included in the community we cherish. We cannot turn a blind eye when they show signs of distress or self-destructive behavior, especially when those influences may stem from outside our school.
Despite our best efforts, we cannot guarantee a safe environment for our students or those around them. It’s not solely our responsibility. Still, we push forward with the hope that our endeavors will positively influence our students’ choices, recognizing that our sadness is rooted in our shared humanity with Dzhokhar.
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In summary, the story of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev serves as a complex reflection on responsibility, the role of educators, and the deep emotional ties we have with our students, even when their actions lead to unimaginable outcomes. We must strive to foster connections and understanding in our classrooms, always hoping to make a positive impact.