My Country and Me

I was raised to believe that I was growing up in the greatest country in the world. It wasn't a statement of opinion, but was presented as a fact, backed up by historical evidence. We were the good guys. We saved the world in WW2. We were always on the side of the just and the right. Anyone could be successful. Everyone had rights and freedom and the chance to become whatever they wanted to be if they just worked hard enough. It was a wonderful way to grow up. It felt secure, safe, and real. I was taught that I was among the most fortunate, simply because of the country of my birth.

When I grew up and started reading, listening, watching, and thinking for myself, I saw this for the fairy tale it was - a beautiful fairy tale based on exaggerations, narrow perspective,  good lighting, and flattering mirrors. One that I needed to look beyond in order to see something closer to reality.

Yet I continued to believe there was a kernel of truth to it all. I believe that our country, like all countries has always been imperfect, but that the true fortune was living in a country that encouraged its citizens to find, call out, and remedy those imperfections. 

I believe that the ideals that the nation was built on do exist. 

I believe that there are citizens and officials at all levels who want to be a power for good, who work to care for our citizens, and who desire and strive for peace in the world.

I even believe that they exist in both parties. While we might disagree on what is best for people, I believe that most people do want what we each believe to be the best for our country. 

Or I did.

Now that belief is disappearing at an unimaginable rate of speed.

A man, a president, has referred to himself as a king. 

He has tried to overturn one election and has already made allusions to remaining in office beyond a second term. He has said that the rule of law doesn't apply to him because he is saving the country.

He has openly sided with a dictator whose critics have a bad habit of falling out of hotel windows or getting poisoned. He has disrespected, antagonized, and abandoned our allies, all but spitting on the ideals that my uncles and grandfathers fought for, while embracing those that they fought against.

He has allowed someone who nobody elected, whose name never appeared on a ballot, to bully congress and worm his way into our most sensitive information. He has allowed that same non-elected person to gut programs that feed children and provide medical care, to cull the funding for research that aims to cure diseases and prevent future ones, to fire lifelong public servants based on race, identity, or sex, to end careers on a whim.

He has filled cabinet positions with an astounding lack of knowledge, experience, or wisdom, endangering our health, safety, and wellbeing.

He has threatened states who don't teach what he wants taught, as well as the free speech of college students, even using the truly un-American phrase, "illegal protests." He has threatened to imprison Americans for the crime of protesting.

He talks of selling off our national parks, calling for deforestation and unfettered mining and destruction. He is allowing billionaires to profit off of our country while selling out everyone else.

He thrives in hatred, fear, and chaos, holding nothing as sacred save himself and the almighty dollar. 

But somehow he is still loved. He is revered, even worshiped by his followers. He seems to be unstoppable. His party, whether drunk with power or frightened for their jobs or safety, stand by and do nothing, while billionaires use their limitless funds to buy silence, complicity, and favor.

So, is it over? Is that the end of the US? Has the global good guy of my youth become the new villain? Have our tribal natures brought us to such depths that "owning the libs" is worth throwing away the entire Constitution, the entire rule of law?

And what of "The Libs"? What can we do? How do we fight a behemoth? Do we march? Hold signs? Boycott businesses? Make phone calls? Post on social media? The hopelessness feels overwhelming, the task daunting. 

For me, and for now, I will write, since that is what I know how to do. I will try, in my small way, to convince others that this is not ok. Meanwhile I also still cling to hope. I hope that people will see what is happening. I hope that someone will draw a line and hold it. I hope that our system of checks and balances will hold. I hope that this will not cause the suffering that seems inevitable. 

Mostly, I hope that our children are wiser than the generations that came before. And that our country survives long enough for them to save it. 

The Best

The Best Visits    

are ones

where I don't turn the radio on

 in the car ride home

because 

I don't want to break

the spell.

Choosing instead

to bask 

in friendship's lingering glow.

Smiling to myself

while replaying 

snippets of conversations.

Chuckling

at remembered laughter.

Extending the feeling.

Making it last

Just a

 little bit 

longer.

Remember This

It was an ordinary vacation dinner

Sun streaming through my daughter's hair

with live music,

My mother laughing, basking in her granddaughters' smiles

and beautiful scenery,

The girls chatting, teasing, laughing together

a light breeze, 

My father's face glowing in the evening light

and a setting sun

 My husband, relaxed and smiling

when it happened.

A veil lifted.

Past, present, and future

washed over me at once.

Memories 

mixed with the knowledge 

that this, too, would be just that.

And suddenly

my heart saw the overwhelming truth:

This ordinary moment
is special.
And it is fleeting.
Pay attention.
Someday you will long for this..

Feel it. 
Absorb it. 
Remember it.

I wanted to freeze time,

to grab it and hold on tightly.

But alas, instead

I blinked back tears. 

The music changed,

and time moved on.

Winter Sun Haiku

 The bright winter sun

Warmth on a snow covered world

Brings the hope of spring

                                                                               

This time last year, I wrote a note to 2020. I thanked it for the gifts it gave amidst the turmoil, waved it away, and asked that 2021 would be kinder. I'm not sure whether or not that worked out. 

2021 was a weird one. 2020 was strange, but 2021 was weirder - and in some ways, harder too.

When we began the year, we were still at home. We were teaching virtually, learning virtually, and working virtually. By the time the New Year rolled around, it was getting old. We were hoping for the light at the end of the tunnel, and although we didn't know when it would be, we just knew it had to be getting close. After all, how long could this really go on?

When we began the year we were looking forward to a new president and an end to political nonsense. We hoped that the crazies would be taking a back seat. But instead, they got louder and tried to overthrow the government, leaving the giant task of repairing all that was nearly lost, and in some cases, trying to replace what had long been broken.

When we began 2021, we thought Covid would be gone in the spring, then everything would be better. And it was...

for a while.

In March, vaccines became a reality, and we thought, "Here it is! The end!" But then people didn't want the vaccine. So we hoped it would be enough if we did our part. We hoped could chase it away - will it away.

And it looked good for a while.

Summer felt normal.

For a while.

But then the virus rebounded, and we cancelled our trips and put our masks back on.

In September, school started and we hoped it would be a typical year, but, no matter how happy we were to be there, it was anything but typical. People had forgotten how to be together, talk to each other, and work together. Kids needed to re-learn how to play together. Teens needed reminders to look up from their phones and look one another in the eye. People were hopeful and confused and excited and hurting all at once. We were supposed to be back to business as usual, and we tried. We adjusted expectations and made allowances. We guided and supported, and were so grateful for how far we had come. We celebrated every single bit of "normal" that we had. And it almost felt like enough.

And then the headlines returned, with graphs and numbers and warnings. Events were once again cancelled. The search for masks and Clorox wipes was replaced with a search for at-home test kits and hopes that this wave will be shorter or less severe. 

So why has 2021 been weirder? 

It's weirder because it sometimes feels like 2020 didn't exist. It was a lost year that often gets forgotten in conversations, or skipped over in memories. It's weirder because we're in a fake new normal in which we pretend that everything is the way it was, but nothing is. It's weirder because we still can't even agree about what we've been through, let alone how to deal with it. We live on a constant tightrope between overreacting and under-reacting, desperate to let our guards down but still afraid to do so.

Last year, as I bid farewell to 2020, I thanked it for the gifts of quiet and togetherness. What will I thank 2021 for? Vaccines, face-to-face conversations (even masked ones), hugs, moments of joy, celebrations, and glimpses of a new normal. Progress.

I hope that, in 2022, we will be gentle with one another as we recover from all that we have been through. I hope that we learn from it. As we eventually emerge from this uncertain time, I hope that we will step into the light of possibilities with a sense of determination, joy, and and above all, kindness. I hope that 2022 will bring health, gratitude, and peace. I think we're ready for that.

Modern Life and the Mysterious Blue Van

    Every generation has its own fears. I grew up in a small town where life was mainly uneventful in terms of major news. Our tv news came from New York City, and our local paper was mostly filled with high school sports and local politics, with world events mixed in. It seemed like the kind of town where nothing remarkable would happen. And yet, every year or so, the halls of the school and the playgrounds would suddenly fill with reports of a mysterious man in a blue van (always blue) who was lurking in our streets, ready to scoop up random children with promises of puppies or candy. Nobody actually saw the van, but a lot of kids seemed to know people who did. Stories of the blue van were both terrifying and exciting. I remember standing at the playground fence searching behind the school. I looked with a mixture of fear and dreams of the glory that would come from being the one to catch him. (The fact that our playground fence faced a forest with no roads in sight never crossed my mind). Eventually, after a few days or weeks, the stories of the blue van would run their course and we would return to our regular, less scary and slightly less exciting lives. 

    Last week there was a concerning social media post about my children's school. School officials and police handled the situation and deemed it not to be an actual threat. They informed parents and students of the situation, and it seemed to be done. No big deal, nothing to see here. Then, the following day, there was a Facebook post from a parent who had heard that "many people" were keeping their kids home from school the next day because the students didn't feel safe. Others chimed in agreeing that this was true and expressing their dismay at the situation. As I read the post, a block of ice formed in my chest. Instantly my mind started to reel. Was it safe? Did those students know something that the rest of us didn't? How could we find out? Would I be a fool for sending my kids to school, or an over-reacting, hysterical parent if I kept them home? And was it worth the potentially horrific consequences if I made the wrong choice? The questions formed a nonstop loop in my head, punctuated with mental stories of worst-case scenarios. I monitored Facebook all night. I considered asking the girls, but since neither of them had mentioned it, the last thing I wanted to do was project my anxiety into their minds. 

    This anxiety wasn't new for me. My children were in kindergarten when the Sandy Hook shooting happened. Although we shielded them from that story for years, I have been very aware, through their entire school lives, that there was the potential for my children to be shot at school. For the first few years, I froze every time I heard a siren during school hours. Eventually I was able to move those worries to a back burner, but unfortunately, as they got older and without my knowing, the girls developed fears of their own. Just a few weeks ago, someone at their school mistakenly hit a wrong button and released an automatic announcement indicating a lockdown situation. It was remedied within seconds, but in that short time some students had run to the woods to hide. We talked about the event, including how the students had stayed there for some time after things had cleared up. When I joked that maybe they had wanted a little break from school, my daughter stopped, looked me in the eyes, and said, "No, Mom. They were scared. There isn't a single high school student who isn't scared every single day that they're going to get shot at school."

    The girls did go to school on the day in question, and everything was fine. They noticed that some kids had stayed home, but weren't overly concerned. That morning I managed not to act like I was sending them off to war as I left for work. I had a cry in the car and tried to use my anxiety strategies to ground myself in probable reality instead of worst case scenarios. It was during this time when I suddenly remembered the blue van of my childhood. I realized that it still exists, but now the mysterious man has been replaced by an angry kid with a gun. That was oddly comforting. It reminded me of kids and rumors and the ease with which they grow. Also that they are usually only loosely based on reality.

    The comparison isn't that simple, though. Our blue van rumors grew out of a vague awareness of a story that someone saw on the news or an after-school special. Today's kids see reports and footage from school shootings all too often. We worried about a mysterious bogeyman with a baseball cap and sunglasses. They worry about the people in their math class or cafeteria. What must that do to kids? And what must it do to a community - when the perceived threat comes from within? What have we, as a society, done to our children?

    So, where does this leave me? On one hand, kids will be kids, rumors will fly as rumors do, and most of the time it isn't a reason to worry. So that's good. On the other hand, we live in a country where we expect our children to learn in a place where they worry, not without reason, that they might get shot because some other kid has a bad day and access to a gun. We can choose to overlook the fear or stuff it down, but what we are asking of our children, and ourselves is truly awful. And for some reason we live in a society that doesn't seem to want to do anything about it.

The Rest of the Story

 Last week I wrote about where I'm from. It was a series of beautiful memories, all of which were real and true. 

Today I was thinking about myself as an aspiring antiracist teacher. I keep turning the phrase over in my head, wondering what, exactly it means, and what I need to do to reach that goal. One part of learning to be antiracist is exploring your own identity, hence the poem. 

I used to think that I grew up in a time and place that was free from race. But that is just not true. I grew up in a town where I could name (and probably still could today) all of the Black families in town. I knew who they were and who they were related to. I can still tell you the name of the only Jewish student in my grade, and I remember that when a Jewish family moved in on my street some neighborhood kids drew on their garage doors with soap and egged their house. I didn't understand why. Because they were different, I guess? I went to a public elementary school where every classroom had a decorated Christmas tree in December, and made Easter baskets in the spring, and we never thought to question it. I saw stories on the news about the black and brown people living 40 minutes away in the Bronx, and I learned that they were different and scary. Even in high school, I remember looking at my Black friend's (yes, singular) skin, and wondering if it was different from mine somehow, and also assuming that her only choice for a prom date was the Black boy who had moved in the year before. I never even thought to ask if she liked him. 

And, at least one time, I was more than just complicit. 

When I was in third grade, I did not feel like I was privileged in any sense of the word. Our family didn't have a lot of money. My clothes were clean, but they were never cool, and I was always kind of a rumpled mess. We were poor, although I never really knew it, since it seemed like a lot of kids were in the same boat. I sat in the back of my third grade classroom, next to a girl named Samantha, who was Black. What I most remember about her was her hair. Now I know that it was natural. Then, I just thought it was big. And when she put her head down on her desk, it came over onto my desk too, and that bothered me. (Of course, as a kid, I never asked, or even wondered why she always had her head down). So, I asked her to move. But it kept happening. Finally one day, I told her to move, and she was frustrated by that, and I think she may have said, "Or what?"

And I replied with a phrase that I had heard boys and big kids use, but which I honestly didn't really understand. "Meet me on the bus."

I don't really know what I expected to happen. I had never been in a fight before, and never have since. When I sat down next to Samantha on the bus that afternoon, her sixth grade brother and his friend immediately  started chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" And then, next thing I knew, she was hitting me. I never hit back. Instead I started to cry, and the bus driver broke it up. The story, in my mind and in my family became about how the "bad girl" beat me up. 

The moment I remember most of all, and which fills me with shame, was when we were sitting in the principal's office the next morning. I had never been to the principal's office before. I was what I would now call a "young" third grader. I was immature, but I was a rule-follower. In my family, I was known for being unable to tell even a small lie. 

But when the principal asked what happened, that's exactly what I did. I lied. I said that I didn't know why she started hitting me. When she said that I instigated the whole thing, I denied it. I never admitted to saying, "Meet me on the bus."

I never doubted that the principal would believe me, and I was right. 

I know that it wasn't malicious on my part. I was a kid who got in over my head, and I was afraid to admit it. But I wonder how that affected Samantha? How did she feel when she was telling the truth and the principal didn't believe her? I certainly never gave that a thought.

When I think of white privilege, that is the first story that comes to my mind. I don't know if the principal believed me because I was white, or if there was any repercussion at all for Samantha. Maybe he felt that he had given us a talking to and it was over. That's not the point. The point is that I, who was a terrible liar, expected him to believe me. And whether I knew it or not, I expected him to believe me because she was poor and black, and I was white. 

Samantha moved away sometime that year, before coming back in eighth grade. When I saw her I remembered our history and tried to avoid her. One day in math class, she looked at me, half smiled, and said, "Hey! Didn't I beat you up once?" I must have turned twenty shades of red, but I admitted that she had. She laughed, and we became friendly after that until she moved away again. Not friends, but friendly. I never apologized, though. I wish I had. 

So, how does this affect my journey now? I don't know, but I think it's important to acknowledge and realize that what felt to me like a race-free society was not. It's just that my race and my culture were so prevalent that it felt like the default. I'm sure it didn't feel like it was race-free to Samantha or others who were not in the majority.