Month: April 2025

The Day After

“Have you talked about the election in any of your classes today?”

Most heads shake no. Interesting. 

“Do you know who won last night?”

Now a few heads nod. A few voices venture an actual response: “The Liberals.” 

“Right!” I push on. “Great! So… who knows the name of the Prime Minister?”

Hmm… harder. Murmurs move around the room. Maybe it starts with an “M”? Someone is sure there’s a /k/ sound. One confident student says “Not Trudeau” and everyone laughs. 

“Mark Carney,” I tell them. A few fingers snap, a few heads nod. Yes. Yes, that’s right. They knew that.

And now for the tough question, “What else do you know?”

I know I teach English, not Civics, and I know these students are only 14 and 15 years old – far from voting age, at least as far as they’re concerned. Still, last night was a federal election, and I believe that school must be about more than the assignment of the moment. In fact, in the last few years I’ve come to recognize that a big part of my personal “why” in teaching is to help students become thoughtful citizens. I want to help them learn to think deeply. I want them to believe in their own inherent value and to understand the value of others – and of compromise. In a world that tells them that they are valuable mostly as consumers, I want them to feel agency. So here we are, talking about politics in English class.

A few minutes later, we’ve put together some basic facts: the Conservative Party actually performed very well last night, even if they didn’t win; this means the country is divided; the NDP, which is more liberal than the Liberals (“that’s weird”) lost official party status; the Green Party still exists; people’s votes mattered because the vote in many ridings was close.

Someone asks if the Conservatives are “against human rights.” I assure the students that they are not.

Someone asks who I voted for. That’s private. Why? I explain the idea of secret ballots and the idea that someone like a teacher might have undue influence, even unintentionally, on students. Nevertheless, I acknowledge my bias and encourage them to challenge me if they think differently than I do. 

Someone asks when the next election is. We talk briefly about minority governments and why that makes the date of our next election a little less predictable.

The class, usually extremely energetic, is somewhat subdued. I know they know some of this information already, and I know that sometimes inviting the outside world into the classroom can feel odd. Their focus holds for three minutes, maybe five, and then we’re back to the regular routines – requests for pencils, for water, for the washroom, for someone to move their desk, to pay attention, to “say that again” to “just be quiet already”.

Still “Mark Carney” stays written on the board until halfway through class when we move on to brainstorming evidence from our book. If I’m lucky, some of them will remember his name and how we talked about the election, even in English.

The student (prose poem)

April is Poetry Month, so I’ve been occasionally stopping over at EthicalELA to participate in Verse love and write some poetry. The people who write there are incredibly supportive, which encourages me to keep playing even though writing poetry intimidates me. Today’s prompt suggested writing a prose poem (a poem that looks like a paragraph but reads, somehow, like poetry), something which has fascinated me for a few years now – ever since I discovered Nicole Stellon O’Donnell’s book of poems You Are No Longer In Trouble – specifically, the poem “Marriage,” which makes me giggle. Here, see what I mean:

Marriage

The rash of weddings at recess continued until Mrs. Provencher had to give a talk. You are third graders. You cannot be married. Parents had called to express their concerns. The margarine tubs full of violets in your desk were bouquets and the flower girls had carried them, stems pressed into foil pilfered from the kitchen drawer. She can say what she wants, but you were married to Doug M. all those years ago, bound by asphalt promises over the screech of the swings’ metal chains.

Margaret Simon suggested that we use Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello’s prose poem, The Houseguest as a model and personify an emotion, so I gave it a go. Here’s what I wrote.

The student

Curiosity pops into your classroom before the first bell. You are writing the date on the blackboard – neatly, in the upper right-hand corner, in cursive. You finish, then place the chalk in its tray. Next, you connect the cord to your computer then cast about for the remote control. Curiosity discovers it over near the bookshelves and brings it to you. You continue your morning routine, aware that Curiosity is watching: straighten the student desks; sift through the papers. You want to settle in, but Curiosity has found the magnetic poetry in the back corner and is busy creating crude verses – and cackling. You hesitate, trapped in the fun house mirror as you pretend not to watch Curiosity who is pretending not to watch you. Should you interrupt the word play? Stop the game? Once, you would have sidled up next to Curiosity and, snickering, added an “s” to “as”. Once, you would have scrawled the verse on the walls in permanent marker. Once, you would have grabbed Curiosity’s wrist and run out of the classroom before the bell, after you had both arrived early. Today, you quietly allow Curiosity to continue writing poetry.

Thank you, Sen. Booker

One thing about writing later in the day is that sometimes I can catch an unexpected moment that might otherwise slip by. Tonight, I am writing in the moments after Senator Cory Booker broke the record for longest floor speech set by Strom Thurmond in 1957. While I realize that many people in the US and the world will not know or care that this has happened, or maybe they won’t recognize how impressive this is, Andre and I called the boys into the living room so we could watch this historic moment as a family. 

While Senator Thurmond, a segregationist, spoke to prevent the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1957, Senator Booker is speaking “with the intention of disrupting the normal business of the United States Senate for as long as I am physically able…because I believe sincerely that our country is in crisis.” As I write, he is still speaking, still saying important things, still imploring citizens to pay attention as he speaks in protest of “actions taken by U.S. President Donald Trump’s administration.” 

Here in our house, Mr. 16 is in the middle of research for an essay on the historiography of the Civil Rights Movement, so he knows that, despite the way we often speak of it as mostly the actions of small group of leaders, it was truly a movement of everyday people, of mothers and fathers and workers and students. He is beginning to understand that ordinary people have power when they work together. He is, I hope, beginning to understand true citizenship. It’s hard for them to imagine, I think because my children have never known a world where a Black man cannot be president or where they cannot date or befriend or marry whomever they wish. My children believe that people are inherently equal and understand that while racism exists, it is something we can and should push against. It’s hard for us to remember how much has changed in a short time.

Cory Booker is speaking to draw attention to the fact that President Trump’s administration is rolling back many rights and bringing into question many others, to point out that many of their actions are unconstitutional. Around the world, we are seeing similar autocratic movements and democratic backsliding, and it is, frankly, frightening. Even writing this with an eye to publishing it on my little blog makes me nervous: we know that immigration agents are now asking people applying for a visa to provide their usernames for social media platforms. I’m a US citizen, but I live outside the country. Will I be allowed back in if I voice dissent? Some will scoff at the question, but Sen. Booker’s speech is part of what ensures that I will be – and that my children, half Canadian, half American – will be, too.

I took a picture of the kids watching Sen. Booker as he set the record. Mr. 14 declared the moment “not picture-worthy” and I am, unsurprisingly, not allowed to share it. Maybe my children will be right: maybe this moment will not be that important because civil rights will never be called into question again. Maybe we’ll forget the picture and the moment and the feeling of crisis that has led to it. Even if we do, Sen. Booker’s feat will help us remember that American ideals of justice and equal rights are foundational – “all men are created equal” – and worth fighting for. He will help us remember that ordinary people are the ones who have to stand up. Hopefully, tonight, my children heard that message; hopefully, other people did, too.