Feathers, Feelings, and the Sixth Grade Reckoning
Field trips are the academic equivalent of parole—students count down the days like inmates awaiting release. So when I announced our Oceanography Unit would culminate in a beach day at Padre Island, the classroom erupted like someone had just yelled “free pizza.” Thirty-two sixth graders, armed with bagged lunches, swimsuits, beach towels, and enough sunscreen to embalm a whale, boarded the bus with me—their slightly frazzled, second-year teacher who had not yet learned the art of saying “no” to chaos.
The plan was simple: educational beach walks, shell collecting, journaling, and maybe a few teachable moments. What actually happened was more “Lord of the Flies meets Baywatch.” The beach walks turned into full-blown sprints, with kids racing the waves like they were auditioning for a Nike commercial. Shells were hoarded like Fabergé eggs, and Polaroids captured blurry limbs mid-cartwheel and one unfortunate shot of me yelling into the wind like a deranged lighthouse keeper.
By mid-morning, I’d said “Stay out of the water that’s above your waists!” so many times I considered recording it and playing it on loop. Lunch was a Hitchcockian thriller—thirty-two kids battling seagulls with sandwich crusts while I tried to lead a journaling activity. Some students reflected on marine ecosystems. Others wrote seagull revenge fantasies. One entry simply read, “They have no fear.”
Then came the moment that will forever live in infamy. A suspicious huddle of giggling students caught my eye. I approached. They scattered. What remained were two very deceased seagulls and the unmistakable scent of “this is going to end my career.” Juan, bless his honesty, confessed that Miguel had brought Alka-Seltzer tablets, convinced they’d make the birds explode. Apparently, this was something he had learned from his father. (His father? Sweet Jesus!) Apparently, I was now starring in a very special episode of Dateline: The Alka-Seltzer Chronicles - A Beach Tale.
I herded everyone back to the bus like a cowboy with a broken lasso. The ride home was eerily silent. Rosario, ever the brave one, leaned in and whispered, “What’s going to happen to us?” I replied, “Sit down, Rosari,” because I was still deciding between a total meltdown or turning in my resignation.
Back at school, the principal greeted us with her usual chipper tone, which vanished the moment she saw my face. I looked like I’d aged ten years and seen the ghost of tenure past. We returned to the classroom in silence, the weight of dead seagulls and questionable choices hanging over us like a fog machine set to “guilt.”
That night, I wrestled with how to salvage the situation without becoming “that teacher who emotionally scarred a generation.” The next morning, desks were gone. In their place: a rug, a rocking chair, and the kind of ambiance that screams “we’re about to unpack some trauma.” I read Jonathan Livingston Seagull with all the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor. By the time I hit the metaphysical musings on flight and freedom, tissues were circulating like popcorn at a movie theater.
The sobbing that followed wasn’t cinematic—it was the hiccupping, red-eyed kind that comes from realizing you may have accidentally participated in a bird-based tragedy. We talked about choices, consequences, and the ethics of beach behavior. We laughed. We cried. Someone confessed to almost being swept away in the ocean because he hadn’t followed the waist deep rule.
Looking back, it’s hard to believe this happened over forty years ago. And yet, that day lives on in my heart and mind. That’s the thing about empathy. It doesn’t erase the mess—it sits beside it, hands you a tissue, and says, “Let’s talk.” And if Empathy on the Rocks has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the most meaningful connections come not from perfect plans, but from the beautifully botched ones. Especially when they involve seagulls.