Month: October 2023

Outdoor toys

“Put the ball away!” I call over my shoulder as I head towards the classroom door. There’s a ruckus in the hallway that needs adult attention, a teacher visiting from Korea who has just arrived to watch today’s class, and two kids in the back of the room who are bouncing some sort of ball between them – maybe a lacrosse ball? Unclear. I trust that they’ve heard me and step into the hallway. Moments later…no, not moments, seconds… seconds later, I return my attention to the classroom, just in time to hear glass shatter.

They’ve broken one of the fluorescent lights. On the ceiling. 

Everyone is silent. Then, they are not, “What happened?” “You two are idiots” “Why don’t the lights have covers anyway? They’re supposed to have covers.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The three boys in the back row are now sitting amidst a scattering of broken glass. I move them to the front row. A little overwhelmed and a little overstimulated by the chaos they’ve caused, they can’t quite stop laughing. I try to remember that this is a normal reaction, but I am annoyed. I start the timer for silent reading – the sound of ocean waves fills the classroom – and call the office to request a custodian.

That sorted, I head to my desk & rifle through a drawer until I find my blank cards. I walk to the front row and put one in front of the main offender. “What’s this for?” He’s aiming for an innocent look, but it’s ruined when he starts to laugh again. “Apologize,” I say tersely, “to the custodians.” He doesn’t argue.

When he’s finished, I pass the card to his friend. I check it over for appropriateness, then return it for signatures. 

It takes the custodians two passes to find all the thin shards of glass littering the back of the classroom. After the second sweeping, the boys ask if they can move back to their original seats. I don’t mince words, “No.” They don’t ask again.

****

Once the final bell of the day rings, a young person comes carefully into the room. “Um, Miss,” he starts, “can I have my ball back? I swear I won’t bring it to school again.” He is not one of the two culprits from the morning. I hold back a smile as I solemnly hand him his ball. “Thanks for keeping it at home.”

****

As I write this, my very own 13-year-old walks through the living room, dribbling a soccer ball. “Put. The Ball. Away,” I say.

He complains a little and tells me how unreasonable this rule is, but I do not budge. I am certain that balls are not indoor toys. The boys in my life, apparently, do not agree.

“Oh!”

I’ve just finished taking attendance and am closing my computer so that I can read along with my class when I hear a muffled gasp from the middle of the room.

“Oh!”

My eyes snap up. Is something wrong? A student has her hand over her mouth, eyes wide as she stares at her book. Her friend shoves her own book – newly started – to one side and leans in to see what’s on the page. The reader’s eyes are wide. She starts to dog-ear the corner but then, just before she creases the fold, she flips the page. Both girls’ eyes dart back and forth as they read quickly down the page. Another intake of breath then, heads together, they hold a whispered conference.

One of them looks up and catches my eye. I nod. I know this book. I know where they are. It is, in fact, gasp-worthy. The student takes a deep breath, then dives back into the story. Just last week she told me that she usually abandons books long before she gets this far, but not this one.

Page finished, her friend reluctantly returns to her own novel. If I had to bet, I’d say that Dear Martin will soon be flying off my shelves. For now, though, there’s at least one reader in the classroom who needs to finish this book.

Heartstopper

I’m at the back of the classroom, trying to choose which title to use for today’s book talk. My hand is hovering over Heartstopper. I want to tell the students about this fun and accessible graphic novel about a cute high school romance – and hey! There’s a Netflix adaptation! I love the series, and am sure that some of the students will love it, too. 

Still, I hesitate. I know that some of the students will not love Heartstopper. In fact, some of them may be offended that it’s on the shelves at all. If I share this book in today’s book talk, they will, at best, giggle and blush; maybe they’ll look away; some will be quite upset. All of this because the cute romance is between two boys.

As a teacher, I want the classroom to be a space where all students feel welcome. I imagine a space where they feel confident that they will be able to learn, where they feel safe and respected.  But already, even as I type this, I can feel the tension in my stomach because this vision – the room where everyone can bring their full self and thrive – is largely a dream. Reality rests on some seriously rocky ground.

Two weeks ago, across Canada, a group of people protested to “protect our children from indoctrination and sexualization.” Many students “walked out” of (well, most simply did not attend) school. I was shocked, though I shouldn’t have been. Conservatives – from the leader of the national Conservative Party to Ontario’s Education Minister – have been ramping up their attacks on LGBTQ+ people for several years. In early September, the Premier of Ontario told a group of supporters that schools are “indoctrinating” students on issues of gender. 

But queer people exist. Our schools welcome people – students, staff, parents – who live and love in all sorts of ways. [I have stared at this paragraph for many long minutes now. Long minutes plus almost two weeks. I want to write this, but how will I say what I mean? I don’t know. I have to remind myself that this is a very small blog, that I am writing mostly for myself, that I am trying to be a teacher who writes which means being a teacher who experiences what my students experience: a blank page, a blank mind and, sometimes, a fear of writing or a lack of words. I *will* write this tonight. I *will* hit publish.] I guess what I want to say is, LGBTQ+ people are people. They love and are deserving of love. They live and deserve to be allowed to live full, rich lives. 

The walkout and the subsequent acts in our school – the defacing of pride flags, the hate(ful) speech in classes – profoundly unsettles many of us. There are tears in the staff room; tempers are short. The Rainbow Youth Club is nervous about meeting. Everyone’s edgy.

Days later, at our staff meeting, two powerful voices help staff refocus. “Be careful,” they tell us, “not to jump to conclusions.” “Lead with curiosity,” they remind us. “Remember that some of our students have recently arrived from places where merely discussing these issues could have serious repercussions. As best as you can, when faced with statements that you might categorize as hate, ask genuine questions.” I am humbled that people whose very existence is being attacked are reminding us to be kind, curious, teachers. 

The speakers help us find balance between the human rights of all people and the right to freedom of religion. We can practice our religion here, read our religious texts, attend any house of worship. We do not, however, have the right NOT to learn about other practices and peoples in our public schools. We may not discriminate against others who do not share our beliefs. They remind us that all children deserve to see themselves reflected in the curriculum, and that statistically, whether we know it or not, someone in our class is probably LGBTQ+. They deserve to be seen.

That night, on social media, I share a post: a person holds a sign that says, “Classrooms that erase QUEER identities are erasing truth and beauty and joy.” The next morning, I wake to a message from an old friend: “I was erased.” 

And now I’m at the back of the classroom, trying to choose which title to use for today’s book talk. My hand is hovering over Heartstopper. I think about my friend and about the presenters. I think about students past and present, about friends, family and other loved ones, all of whom identify as queer. I think about students who will feel uncomfortable and (hopefully not, but maybe) unwelcome if I choose this book. I think about how much we change – how incredibly much we all change – over the course of a lifetime. I cannot know now what someone will believe in a week, a month, a year. I cannot know who anyone will love. 

I’m an English teacher. What I know is stories. Some stories you’ll like; some you won’t. They may make you cry or laugh or rage. You may read a story that you’ll want to throw across the room in anger, or one that you’ll always keep within arm’s reach because you feel so seen. If you’re lucky, you’ll read them all. So I pull out Heartstopper and lean it against the blackboard. Because everyone’s welcome here.