Basic kindness

“Mom,” he says, “there’s some lady outside who needs water.”

Mr. 17 is back from soccer practice, standing in the front hall, holding an unfamiliar water bottle.

I blink. What?

“She was going to use our hose. She was walking down our driveway. She seems really thirsty, so I told her I’d get her some water.”

Our house is not large, so he’s already in the kitchen by the time he finishes this uncharacteristic rush of sentences. I hear ice cubes clink against metal, then running water. He lopes back towards the front door, screwing the lid onto the water bottle.

Before he goes out, he pauses and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. He looks at the water bottle in his hand and looks at me. “Do you have maybe $5 we can give her, too? So she could buy some water or something? She seemed really thirsty. Everybody should have water, you know? It’s like, basic.”

I nod, find my wallet, and hand him $5.

“Thanks, Mom.” He hugs me, takes the water bottle and the money, and disappears out the front door. I catch a glimpse of him handing someone the water. She has certainly seen hard times. Seconds later, he’s back inside, saying, “Oh, I’m going to [my friend’s] house. They’re waiting outside. I’ll be home later.” He looks around for a bathing suit, finds a towel, and he’s gone.

And I’m left, quietly stunned.

My children don’t follow the news. I wish they did, I guess, but the news these days is so often unsettling that I don’t push. Sometimes at dinner, we bring up various topics for discussion, but mostly our teens are happily ensconced in a world that is immediate to them. Mr. 17 probably doesn’t know that right now the world is arguing about who is or isn’t providing aid to people in Gaza, pointing fingers and laying blame while allowing children to starve. I doubt he’s seen the images that make my stomach hurt. He certainly doesn’t know that I was just talking to a friend about feeling helpless, overwhelmed and almost constantly unsettled. And yet, when someone was in our front yard, thirsty, he got her water and gave her a little more than she asked for. He did it without even pausing. I am stunned by his easy kindness, by his clear statement: everyone should have water.

Worldwide solutions are, of course, far more complicated than this interaction; but really, the idea that everyone should have water (and food) seems like a reasonable place to start.

I bought you a book

She had grade 9 English with me and, though it’s hard for me to believe, she’s in grade 12 now which means we’ve been smiling at each other and saying hello in the hallways for three years. In seven weeks, she’ll graduate, yet it was only a few days ago that I realized I’d never told her the story.

Oddly, I’ve told a lot of other people the story: how we were both new to the school; how she was quiet but eager; how she finished reading a book then asked me shyly if I had any books about Asia. She didn’t even ask for something set in Bangladesh – her home country – just anywhere in Southeast Asia. Oh, how I wanted to say yes! I scoured my bookshelves – my classroom library suddenly seemed so paltry – but I could only come up with one, and it didn’t really fit: it was really about a girl living in the US who was dealing with issues of sexuality. The 14-year-old in front of me wasn’t ready for that book; she wanted something that reminded her of home.

I was sad to have to tell her that I didn’t have anything, really. We found another good book, and she continued to read, but I couldn’t shake my disappointment. I looked online to find books about Bangladesh. I checked out Samira Surfs from the public library – too young, too refugee-focused. I found books set in Pakistan, books by white authors, books for adults…

As the school year continued, I had to confront a sad truth: my classroom library was designed for a different student population. At my new school, the books I had didn’t reflect the students in the room. I knew I needed to address the problem, but I also knew I needed money to do it.

At this point, I applied for a classroom library grant from the Book Love Foundation (founded by Penny Kittle). I asked two senior students to write me a recommendation; they also helped me with my video. And then… I won a grant! Oh, the books I bought – books set in places around the world. Sports books and fantasy books and realistic fiction. Graphic novels and novels in verse and memoirs with main characters from places my students knew and I did not. And yes, a book set in Bangladesh.

By the time the books came in, she was in grade 10 and our paths rarely crossed, so I didn’t think to tell her what she had inspired. Last year, I barely saw her at all. This year, though, our schedules overlap, and I see her often. And this year, I finally realized that I’d never told her about the books. So, last week I told her. She was startled. She didn’t remember asking for a book and she was surprised that I remembered where she was from. She blushed a little and we went on our way.

Then, a few days later, there was a knock at the classroom door. Could she come in? Could she see the books? I showed her what I could find on the shelves, but I had to laugh: so many of the books that I would have offered her if only I’d had them then – Amina’s Voice, Amina’s Song, Amira and Hamza, The Last Mapmaker – weren’t there because they’re being read by current grade 9 students. Still, I showed her Saints and Misfits, and Love from A to Z, and The Patron Saints of Nothing – and listen, it’s not perfect, but oh how she smiled.

Three years later, her request and the Book Love grant have changed everything.

(If you are interested in information about applying for the grant, feel free to reach out to me – though honestly the link has all the information; if you are interested in donating to the foundation, please don’t hesitate. All kids deserve to see themselves in good books!)

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.

Dinner conversation, outlined #SOLC25 27/31

We went out for burgers with our kids tonight to celebrate a birthday. The Works isn’t fast, but their burgers are delicious. While we waited for our food, we talked; when the burgers came, we kept talking. Once we were home, I was stunned to look back on our meandering conversation and to realize how interesting I find my teenage children. When did they get this curious about the world?

I can’t possibly write it all up, so I’m taking (more) inspiration from Sherri and trying an alternative format. Here’s an outline of we discussed:

Andre’s run today
1. his longest since pre-children
2. how far the rest of us have run
  1. I have run the farthest (yes, I’m bragging)
What the Bank of Canada does
1. The state of the internet when Andre worked for the Bank
2. It was rudimentary
Why the drama teacher was late to class
1. This is unclear
2. Maybe she was creating a seating plan?
3. She still does not know the names of everyone in the class
  1. It is six weeks into the semester
4. She now has pictures of the students with their names
  1. It’s not obvious that this is helping
When the next set of article summaries is due
1. Monday
2. This will require good time management
Camus
1. He is an existentialist
2. This was not required reading
Jesse Thistle
1. He spent a lot of time in his memoir recounting his experiences with addiction
2. He met his wife after he got clean
  1. Because falling in love with an addict would be hard
  2. She was from the same town he was
  3. They now have children
Being cancelled
1. Is it being cancelled if, like Joseph Boyden, you misrepresent yourself?
  1. Did Joseph Boyden actively misrepresent himself or did he not understand the gravity of what he was doing?
Race – biological or cultural?
1. The idea of race as a cultural construct is very difficult to fathom
  1. It’s hard to see culture when you’re in it
2. Andre and I provided (frankly) thoughtful examples
  1. The children were unconvinced
  2. But they listened
Why Google’s AI summaries are untrustworthy
1. Which teachers have discussed this in school – mostly English and Social Science teachers
2. hilarious examples from our children
Tariffs
1. Why targeting the auto industry might be effective or ineffective
2. Why countries are or are not banding together to oppose the US
Illegal actions by the current US President
1. Including interfering in private industry, like specific law firms
2. Also telling a university that its students cannot wear masks during protests
  1. Which seems a bit much
Group chats
1. Signal vs WhatsApp
2. Why would you add a journalist to a government group chat?
3. Why would the US bomb Yemen?
  1. Who are the Houthis?
The efficacy of protests
1. Some of these seem deeply ineffective to the children
  1. One protest was declared “annoying”
2. The children are not convinced that protesting Israel/ Gaza is effective – on either side
  1. Institutions outside the affected area have financial interests in what is going on
    - Including weapons
Civil disobedience
1. Examples from Gandhi & India
2. The US Civil Rights Movement
  1. Rosa Parks was effective
  2. Perhaps we need to watch some movies about this because it sounds really interesting to the kids

Dinner ended.
WHEW!

Par, pars, parsh, parch #SOL24 6/31

“Hey Mom! Can you come help with my English writing?”

I’m supposed to be doing my own writing – this writing, to be precise – and I’m still knee-deep in grade 9 projects, but he knows I won’t say no. Mr. 13 is an excellent writer – effective vocabulary, interesting sentence structures, good grasp of punctuation – and he is dyslexic. Years of Orton-Gillingham-based tutoring means that he reads well and knows how to make good use of extensions like Grammarly or Language Tool, but when push comes to shove, he still benefits from a once over by someone who’s not dyslexic. Also, he knows I like to read what he writes.

He’s reading his sentences aloud under his breath as I plunk down next to him. “Um… I need a word for like ‘kind of was related to the point but not 100%.'” My eyes widen as I try to figure out what on Earth he’s talking about. “Oh!” he snaps his fingers, “got it: partially!”

He types parsley.

He keeps going, then circles back to fix it. Parshly. Spellcheck suggests harshly as a replacement, so he changes it to parchly – and the new suggestion is archly. “Um, Mom?”

“Partially means ‘in part’ so it starts with the root part,” I say.

“Part isn’t really a root,” he interrupts. Then, “sorry.” He would know. He knows Latin and Greek origins of words; he understands spelling rules in ways I have never had to.

I laugh, “Just start with part.” He does. I break the word down orally so he can hear all the syllables, then I spell. “Now i a l…” I pause because he is looking at me like I have two heads. Finally, I reach over and type the word.

He stares for a long second, then shakes his head in wonder. “There is no way that word looks like /parshully/. I would never have guessed that.”

And he wouldn’t have. Which is why I was so angry last night when I found one of his old math tests where the teacher has circled his attempt at the word “isosceles” and written “Really???” with multiple question marks. He brushed it off – “I mean, she did tell us we had to be able to spell all the terms” – but she doesn’t see how hard he works to spell these words.

But now he’s moved on and is enthusiastically excoriating someone’s weak debate argument. He doesn’t need me again until the end, when I do a check for capital letters and other words that spellcheck didn’t get. This time, he’s mostly good. I ruffle his hair and head back to finish my own work.

I wish all teachers could understand his truth – the kind that looks good on the surface but is working awfully hard to stay afloat. “Isosceles,” I mutter, and his exasperated voice trails behind me, reminding me to let it go. “Mom!”

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.

Uneasy

The only reason we were even in that part of the school was because I was leaving early for an appointment and wanted to pop into the mailroom on my way out. The screeches and thuds emanating from the boys’ washroom on the second floor were impossible to miss; the noise careened around the hallway, echoing loudly. My colleague and I rushed forward, then paused at the entrance. Laughter, for sure, but also chaos and, possibly, destruction.

“What’s going on in there?” I raised my voice to be sure they could hear me, but I stayed well back from the door. Simultaneously, I sent my colleague to call the main office and tell them what was going on. Suddenly, a wet face with damp hair peered around the corner. His eyes got big, and he ducked back into the bathroom. Seconds later, he appeared again.

“Sorry, Miss.”
“And… you all need to be done,” I replied. “Time to get out.” I said the second part loudly so that whoever was in the bathroom could hear me.

A different young man appeared, apologizing, “Sorry, sorry. We were washing up for prayer.” He moved down the hallway towards the prayer room.

(Though I am not Muslim, I will explain here my understanding that Muslims must make wudu before they pray. This is a purification ritual. The boys were in the bathroom for this purpose.)

A moment later, his damp friend peeked out of the bathroom again. Laughter came from inside. Now I was frustrated. “Time to get out,” I repeated, loudly. More laughter. “Get out,” I said again.

One by one, boys came out of the washroom. I know them by sight because they pray daily and, occasionally, I supervise the Prayer Room. “Go on,” I instructed. I was firm, but not unfriendly. Washrooms are not for wrestling.

One young man muttered under his breath, “You need to show some respect.” I took a deep breath before replying, “I am showing respect; I am also asking you to leave.” He disagreed with my self-assessment and repeated several times that I was not respectful. I allowed him his opinion because I cannot choose how others see me. By this time, my colleague had returned, and the students moved off in the direction of the Prayer Room. I let out a big breath.

I turned to my colleague. “Was I disrespectful? I wasn’t disrespectful.” I wasn’t sure if I was asking or telling. My mind was already moving back through the encounter. Nope, nothing disrespectful. Polite and firm. And my colleague was there for most of the interaction. Good.

As we went towards the office, we met up with a male teacher who had been sent to see what was happening. I explained. Then I explained to the secretary so that they could pull camera footage of the hallway to see who had been causing such a ruckus. Then I explained again to the VP. Finally, my colleague and I headed out; I still had time to make my appointment.

I left school feeling vaguely uneasy. The young man definitely thought I was being disrespectful. Would he complain? Would he insist? If he did, would I have any recourse? I wasn’t sure.

Later, as I walked home from my appointment, I paused and leaned down to take a picture of some flowers. I had been aware of a man walking slowly behind me, but I hadn’t entirely registered his presence. That is, I hadn’t registered his presence until I straightened up from my photo just as he tried to pass me on the sidewalk. I jumped, surprised.

A tall, slender Black man held up his hands. “Sorry! Sorry! I thought I could get by before you finished.” He backed away a step, hands still in plain sight.

“It’s my own fault,” I smiled, trying to reassure him, “I’m forever slowing down for flowers.” I smiled again.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he replied.

“No, really, my fault.”

We were stuck there, awkward, for a moment. One of us had to move first, but we were going the same direction. I decided to cross the street – even that choice seemed fraught – letting him continue his meandering walk without my obtrusion. As he left, I recognized how threatened he must have felt by me, some white lady whom he had unintentionally startled. He had no idea what I might do, who I might call, what I might say. I have never before been so painfully aware of myself as a potential menace.

Then, just ahead of me, he, too, crossed the street and walked up the sidewalk towards what I assumed was his home. He turned and saw me behind him. I wanted badly to be friendly, but I don’t get to decide how others see me. Still, I had the choice to reach out.

“I think we’re neighbours,” I said. “I live just there.” I pointed down the street.

We exchanged names, chatted briefly about how long we’ve been in the neighbourhood, shared vague pleasantries. I shook his hand, and I left, hoping that he didn’t still feel uneasy.

Call them by their name – or whatever

Yesterday a new student joined my class. He showed me his timetable to confirm that he belonged in this room, and I asked him his name. He replied with the name written on the paper, then followed up with, “but call me xxx”. So I did.

I know there’s a lot of fuss right now about teachers using the name students ask to be called. (Brief background: in the US, some people are demanding that teachers inform parents when children ask to change names or pronouns; some people are demanding that teachers not do this, in part to protect vulnerable students; Canada’s laws are different, but the same issue is cropping up.) Just before school started this year, a colleague in my school board posted a thread on Twitter about why we should use students’ preferred names, and spiteful commenters piled on, calling the teacher a “groomer” and worse. I was astonished by their ignorance. Well, maybe not astonished – I’m too old to pretend that I’m not a little cynical about the outrage; but I found it, at a minimum, fatiguing.

Here’s what they don’t know: teachers have long used students’ preferred names. I’ve been calling students what they want to be called pretty much forever, and I have never – not once – phoned a parent to let them know about it. My first memory of this is from years ago when a student asked to be called Kronos. Kronos! My instinct was to say no, mostly because this 8th grader was decidedly neither the king of the Titans nor a god of Time, but before I could say a word, the teacher standing next to me said, “Ok.” So we called the child Kronos. We didn’t phone home or worry about report cards. We just called him Kronos until he asked us to stop.

In that same school I had a student who went by Sarah while her family called her Sally. I’ve had students ask me to call them by their nicknames, middle names or last names (there are a lot of Emmas and Mohammeds out there; sometimes these name changes are a godsend). Before parent-teacher conferences, I often ask students what their parents call them, so that I can communicate effectively.

For a lot of young people, names are a good place for a bit of experimentation. When we were little, my sister wanted to be called Christy instead of Kim. I have no idea why. I grew up in the South, so I knew plenty of kids whose first names were someone else’s last name – Madison, Perrin, Riley come to mind. When I was in my early teens, I longed for a name that could be mistaken for a boy’s. I blame Little Women for my dreams of being called “Jo” or “Alex” while behaving in unladylike ways. Later, I was awed when Shannon Faulkner took advantage of her gender-neutral name to become the first woman to enroll in the then all-male Citadel. Meanwhile, my aunt and uncle named my cousin Andrew, insisting that he not be called Andy; this worked fine until someone started calling him Drew. These days, he answers to either.

In the classroom, I’ve had students use a gender-neutral version of their own name, use a name frequently associated with the opposite gender, and use a name that, frankly, no parent in their right mind would choose. (I think most of us would try to talk our kid out of “Kronos.”) Sometimes their parents know; sometimes they don’t. It’s never really been an issue.

Look, I’m not naive: I know that people are using the name issue as a proxy for homophobia and transphobia. They say “name” and mean something else altogether. They’ve worked themselves into hysterics over this and decided that when teachers respect a child’s request to be called by a certain name or pronoun, something terrible will happen. In all my years of teaching, calling a child what they want to be called has never – not once – made a child feel less welcome; it’s never interfered with their learning; it’s never made them unhappy. I have 26 years worth of experience suggesting that using a child’s preferred name or pronouns won’t change who they are – but it might make them feel a little more like themselves.

So, when a child asks me to call them a particular name, I say “yes”. Why wouldn’t I?

What we discussed

My friend’s tweet caught my attention this morning as I stared down another school day: pictures of her students thinking and writing about the juxtaposition of the Queen’s funeral and Powley Day. She and her colleagues had worked together to devise a wonderfully thoughtful series of prompts about this, prompts designed to help them think about equity and Indigeneity and the importance of historical thinking. Their lesson went well; the students did some powerful learning. Even as I admired the elegance of the work, I felt a quick stab of jealousy, then a sense of deflation: I had failed to talk about either topic with my classes. Not only that, teachers had been explicitly told that we had to address both of them. One direction came from the Ministry of Education, requiring a moment of silence; the other from our school board, requiring sharing information about Powley Day.

I exhaled, warm breath across my hot tea, and wondered how I had missed this. Then I remembered. We hadn’t discussed any of this because my Monday morning class opened with a discussion of murder. There had been a fight – maybe gangs? – and a knife. Two people were badly injured; one person died. I say “people”, but my students said “kids” or “guys”. No one involved attended our school, but somehow many of the students in the classroom knew or knew of several of the young people involved in the fight. There was a video. They had seen it. The fight had taken place near-ish to the school. Some students had been near the fight. Someone’s family was close to the family of one of the kids involved.

The details are all still pretty confusing for me – after all, I learned about this at 9:30 on a Monday morning, and all of my information was coming from 14 year olds. Or, as one student piped up, “I’m still 13, Miss!” The conversation swerved through the classroom, pausing at stops I could have predicted – should we watch videos of someone’s death? – to stops that took my breath away – “If you’re in that sort of situation, don’t call the cops. They could say you were involved. Just get away.” Over and over I reminded students that we had time to talk, that we wouldn’t rush this, that they needed to listen to each other, slow down, take turns. One boy – Mr. 13 – said, “Wait! This is just like that book some of us are reading. ‘No snitching. Always get revenge.’” Heads nodded seriously: they didn’t need to have read the book; they know the rules. I made a mental note to get out more copies of Long Way Down (and sent another blessing in Jason Reynolds’ direction – that book. Just… wow.). Someone wondered how a kid not much older than them might end up killing someone. I brought up Romeo and Juliet – Tybalt, Mercutio, Romeo. Young men, hot tempers, knives… Someone had read that last year – yes, they said, yes, this has been happening for so long.

Slowly, slowly the conversation settled. Someone asked, almost plaintively, “but what are we supposed to do?” Someone else replied, “Make sure this doesn’t happen again.” Someone snorted, “Of course it will happen again.” Someone said softly, “Make sure it doesn’t happen to us.” Quiet descended. They looked at me.

And what could I say? Only the truth: “I don’t know what to do next.” I offered options. I suggested playing the same quiet reading music I play every day and, well, getting lost in another world. That’s what they chose. Books came out. No one fussed. One student, then another, called me over to say, “Miss, I have seen worse: or “Miss, in my country…” I heard stories that I will not share. They were reassuring themselves that things would be ok. Ten minutes passed and we all kept reading. Eventually I noticed people starting to shift their weight, and we went on with class.

All day, each class wondered and worried about the fight, the boys involved, the police. All day, we created the calm we could. As the last bell rang, I knew I had done enough; we had found our way through. Monday was over. Tuesday would come.

So, no, we didn’t talk about the Queen or Powley Day – heck, my first period barely touched on any lesson I had planned. And I know that’s ok. And yet, I need to remind myself that social media – even that of people we admire wholeheartedly – can be insidious. I know this; we all know it. Next step: remember this lesson first thing on a Tuesday morning when Monday has been so hard.

Amplify their voices – Slice of Life 26/31 #SOL20

Sat, Feb 29 – EdCamp

A group of educators sits in a crowded, uneven circle in a university classroom, talking about equity and inclusion in education. The only teacher wearing hijab speaks up: “I get stuck because I’m NOT the white educator, and I don’t want people thinking I’m trying to push an agenda… I get emotional thinking about it… I don’t know how to navigate that.”

Wed, March 25 – Zoom meeting

A group of educators gathers online to talk about racial equity detours and how to avoid them. Near the end of the hour, the only black male teacher speaks up. He talks about “not being afraid of my blackness” and says, “I would never, ever, EVER think about doing a black history show at my school because if I do it, I know what it’s going to be and I feel uncomfortable making my white colleagues feel uneasy.”

Thu, March 26 – Google Hangout

A group of educators meets online to discuss the memoir From the Ashes. The author, Jesse Thistle, joins us and says that, although he is terrified to speak in public, “I force myself to do it because people are listening, and I remember a time when no one was listening at all.”

I listen. I realize that I have been unaware of the ways in which we – I – have not listened to these voices. My stomach hurts as I acknowledge how much I have been part of silencing. I did not understand hijab as a choice. I saw full expression of black culture as threatening. I believed racist, colonialist lies about Indigenous people. The people who said these things are not older than I am; they do not live in other places. They are my peers, and I have been complicit in ignoring their voices. This is hard for me to think about; it is hard for me to write. I am writing it because I must own these truths. I must look at my attitudes for what they were; I must understand so that I can change. I have overlooked, ignored and even hurt the very people whose voices I thought I valued.

I am listening. People I respect and admire are saying that their voices are not being heard, that the skin they are in dilutes their ability to speak their truth to others.

I am using my privilege, my platform here, such as it is, to amplify their voices. People of colour in my community are not speaking their full truths because it makes us – it makes ME – uneasy.

Listen to them – please, listen. Let us all work to dismantle a system that forces people of colour to muffle their voices.

If you are a person of colour and you feel misrepresented by this post, please let me know. I am doing my best to listen.

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