*Trigger warning: mentions gang violence
Before getting licensed, I was an intern at Head Start, (a program of the United States Department of Health and Human Services that provides comprehensive early childhood education, health & mental health, nutrition, and parent involvement services to low-income children and families) working with preschool-aged children and their families. One child (we’ll call him Mario, although that isn’t his real name) had witnessed his uncle shot and killed in front of his house because of gang violence, resulting in an obsessive fear of guns and death. Mario talked incessantly about death, asking if he would die or if his friend would die, or if that person over there would die; with me, and in the classroom, he constantly wanted to pretend he was shooting 'bad guys' or getting shot himself. Although this kind of play is common with this age group, the way Mario obsessed about death and dying, I could see that he was trying to make sense of his uncle’s violent death. Before meeting with Mario, when I’d talked to his mother, I found that she was too devastated herself (it was her brother who’d been murdered) to talk to Mario about what he’d witnessed.
In our play therapy session one day, I asked Mario questions about what happens when someone dies, “Has anyone ever talked to you about death?” “Have you been to a funeral?” He knew nothing about death except the horror he had seen; and, without any understanding, it played on a loop in his mind, causing anxious behaviors (hyperactivity, inability to focus or relax, aggressive outbursts, etc). When I started to explain funerals, I saw him settle down a little, paying great attention to what I was saying. Suddenly, he leapt up with a brilliant idea and said, “Let’s pretend we’re shooting bad guys, and they shoot me, and then you have a funeral for me.” I was hesitant what this could stir up for him, but eager to help him process in any way I could, so I agreed.
We began the scenario with his usual hyperactivity and intensity, but as soon as he ‘died,’ he lay down on the floor, arms crossed on his chest, lying perfectly still while he waited for me to start the funeral. “Say nice things about me, Miss Valerina (the children at Head Start called me Valerina the Ballerina),” he directed, as I’d told him that’s what happens at funerals. I knelt over him, saying nice things about him, while he lay there, more calm and still than I’d ever seen him before. I felt the energy shift in the room, as if something deep and transformative were happening. I kept talking, sharing genuine, heartfelt messages of how I admired this young boy, all the while feeling the intensity in the room building, and trusting the process.
Finally, I came to a gentle stop, unsure what to do next. Mario opened his eyes, jumped up, and said, “That was cool. Now let’s play grocery store.” I was confused at the abrupt shift, unsure if the ‘funeral’ had had any impact. But I trusted the process, played grocery store, and let it go. The next week, I talked to his mom and teachers. His mom asked what I’d done because Mario was no longer obsessing over death, no longer as anxious, and was sleeping without nightmares. Teachers reported that he was more calm, and less aggressive with other children. In future sessions, Mario still played shooting games with ‘bad guys,’ but he no longer obsessed about death.
I can’t explain what happened in the room that day. What I suspect is that by having some understanding of death, a ritual to give closure, and a safe space to fully explore his feelings, Mario resolved the trauma he’d witnessed. I’ve never again ‘had a funeral’ for a client, and I certainly didn’t get that training in grad school, but I’ll never forget the transformation I witnessed that day.