RALEIGH — A sweetMississippi townismourning the death of one of its sweetest students.
A little over 1,000 people call Raleigh, a place nestled in Smith County, Mississippi, home. Where Magnolia Driverunsthrough the heart of downtown, the road isdotted withpastel-colored storefronts and red-brick government buildings for half a mile. It’s a sleepy place wherechurch bells ring out at noon and cicadas chirp, drowning out any other sounds.
Maybe it’s collective grief of 13-year-old M'Kayla Robinson’s death that’s rattled Raleigh quiet. Or maybe the town'salways been this way.
Raleigh High School, home of the Lions, prides itself on education standards, its football team and well-mannered students. The majority won’t graduate college, instead they’ll work pipelines or on farms. That’s normal for kids raised in areas like Raleigh, the Smith County superintendent says.
This is where eighth-grader M'Kayla went to school.
Administratorsat Raleigh High never had to worry about M'Kayla. Since she beganseventh grade there last year, hernamenever caused them anguish, never crushedtheirhopes and dreams.She gotstraight As and followed rules.She was a joy to parent, to teach, to hang around with.
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When COVID-19 took M'Kayla’s life on Aug.14, everyone said her namewith a kind of hushed and horrified sorrow. Raleigh. Smith Countypicked up on it. Then all ofMississippi. And then, the nation.
Over 600,000 people across the U.S. have died of coronavirus-related causes since the first deaths were confirmed in Feb. 2020; of those, there are about361 confirmed COVID-19 deaths of children. Since the virus crept into Mississippi 18 months ago, the state's reported five pediatric deaths, two in 2020 and three in 2021.
All deaths shake us, but M'Kayla's, a bright studentin a pleasantMississippi town, isparticularlytragic. Not only did she die too soon, she left the world quickly.
It was just a month-and-a-half before her 14th birthday.
The perfect kid
Justin Waddell can't put his finger on exactly what his daughter topped her strawberry ice cream with, but he knew when she visited him in Joliet, Illinois over the summer, Cold Stone was her go-to creamery.
It'sminutia like this that pop into Waddell's head when he thinks back.
M'Kayla loved the color purple andripe kiwis. She played the flute and answered to "KK." She was the stereotypical eldest child, with two little brothers, 1 and 5, and her mom Mykel Robinson's only daughter.
"I never had any trouble out of her, she was the perfect kid," Waddellsaid. "She was really ahead of her time. Her mom was in the Army … so she had to mature real quick."
He speaks for family and friends at a time when it's too hard to talk about M'Kayla. And he wants to correct the record.
The teenager had spent most of her life in Seattle, enamored with fashion and always on a search for the thickest book she could find.
When he took her to the library, she'd rush to find Harry Potter books, hundreds of pages dense. He boughta sewing machine for his only child anddaughter,a"girlie-girl," he said. The budding fashion designer.
The only time she ever stirred up discontent was when it came to her clothing, and when she got old enough to command conversation, she'd turn to her father and say: "Dad, just send the money and I'll pick clothing out."
When Waddell talkedabouta social media post by Raleigh High SchoolLion Pride Marching Band DirectorPaul Harrisoncalling M'Kayla the perfect student, he began to smile.
"The teacher said that all of them loved her, they said if they could've had 30 of her, they would've had 30 of her," Waddellsaid proudly.
No one could've predicted a sore throat, in a normally healthy but unvaccinated teenager would, in just days,lead to her deathwhile beingmoved for better treatment to Jackson.
In the days following her death, people who knew M'Kayla, and those who did not, have called her an angel. In Waddell's eyes, KKwas aprincess.
Waddell's sure of it:"I couldn't have prayed for a child that good."
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A district left up in the air
Sitting in hiswood-paneled office, face partially covered with a blue mask and hand rapidly clicking a pen, Smith County SchoolDistrict Superintendent Nick Hillman made apragmatic decision not to talk about who M'Kayla was.
"I didn't know the little girl," he said.
But Hillmandoes know the fear ofparents and grandparents who call him worried that their family willbe exposed to COVID-19.
Smith County, where Raleigh High School'slush green campus is located, has a population of under 16,000, but has reported over 2,000 COVID-19 cases and 40 related deaths. It hosts one of Mississippi's lowest vaccination rates, at only 22%.
Many of the district's students are too young to get the vaccine, but that didn't stop the district from offering free vaccinations when theschool year startedAug. 6. Since then,four people have signed up.
Before the COVID-19 delta variant swept into Smith County, catapulting case counts, Hillman had hope students could return to normal and get back on track.
But two weeks into the new school year, nearly 700 students and 42 staff werequarantined. Ninety-four students have tested positive for COVID-19. M'Kayla was never quarantined because administrators said she wasn't reported as being in close contact at school with someone who had tested positive for the coronavirus.
The district decided to closethe doors to its four schools starting Aug. 23 fortwo weeks. Students will not learn virtually during that time. Chronic broadband connection issues and less-than-ideal virtual learning won't suffice, Hillman said.
When the district's school board took a vote on whether itwould requiremasks for students and staff, board membersmade mask-wearing optional. That's not what Hillman wanted. And he's not afraid to say it: he wanted kids behind masks.
Four days into the school year, the board reversed its decisionafter case counts among students and teachers skyrocketed.
"You can't win," Hillmansaid, speaking of the balance between keeping kids safe and following the wishes of parents.
Raleigh High School Principal Staci Hughes doesn't feel guilty when she makes a decision that directly benefits her students, but outrages some parents.
Hughes, who's had the top post at the high school for three years, knewM'Kayla. The eighth-graderwasconscientious, bashful and sweet, she said,pausingto add, M'Kayla wasn't a kid who was called to her office. The good ones never are.
The day the news of M'Kayla's death flooded through the school, Hughes said counselors met with students andspoke with the eighth-grade class about the stages of grief. A close friend of M'Kayla's told Hughes she'sgrapplingwith whether she can return to the school building after quarantine, the memory of M'Kayla too strong.
"When someone dies, people don't want to mention their name," Hughes said, sitting across from Hillman in his office. "It's OK to laugh about a memory and not always be sad."
But these are teenagers. Young people growing through a pandemic.
Grief after the loss of a student isn't something they were ever supposed to learn at school. There's no curriculum for heartbreak.
On Thursday, the entryway of Raleigh High School was pristine. No school bells sounded. A group of students moved quietly inside. There's no memorial for M'Kayla. Hughes saidthe football team is planning to make a sticker embellished with her initials to put on their helmets. The school will have a balloon release in M'Kayla's honor at their first football game.
If there's a first game.
Have a health story? Or a health-related tip? Send it along toshaselhorst@gannett.com, onTwitter at @HaselhorstSarahor call 601-331-9307.
