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. 

Where I'm From

I am from a brown, cedar shake house, set back from the road.

From the shade of the front yard oak tree, 

and the thrilling highest branches of the Windy Tree out back.

I am from the creek and the woods

and riding bikes around the neighborhood.

From sledding down the driveway and swimming in the pool until my hair turned green.

I am from a nurse and a construction worker

who left in the dark early mornings 

but always sat down to dinner at night.

I am from, "Get your elbows off the table," and "Eat your vegetables."

And also from staring at my vegetables until long after they grew cold.

I am from 10:30 mass,

Third pew on the left-hand side, just in front of the choir.

I am from The Group, 

a friend-family with its gaggle of unrelated cousins 

playing in basements, running through campgrounds, and eating crumb cake after church 

while our parents talked and drank and laughed.

I am from Anne Murray, John Denver, Billy Joel, and Kenny Rogers,

And from making up dances in the basement with my sister.

I'm from huge, Brooklyn, Sunday family dinners 

And Grandma's round house on Shickshinny Lake.

I am from Girl Scouts, CYO Basketball, and CCD.

I am from the second chair of the flute section

and the cast of the school play. 

I am from magical Christmases.

I am from family,

I am from love.

I am from Home.

A Gloomy Moment

Another fall. 

Another holiday season on the way. 

Another year passing.

Time is going too fast. 

I want to celebrate every moment and enjoy. 

But today I feel like I am mourning.

Mourning what has already passed. 

Baby days and toddler days and preschool days and big kid days.

Play group and soccer games and bedtime stories.

My Little Pony and Lego, American Girl, make believe.

Somehow I am already mourning the now. 

Teenagers and high school and all that comes with it. 

(Which is silly because it really just started). 

I feel like it will all be ending much too soon.

Then I remind myself... 

Not ending. 

Changing. 

But it feels like ending.

And the truth is

that I'm not sure I know who I am without them.

People survive this.

EVERYONE survives this. 

Just another phase of life. 

But the one I always looked forward to

and waited for

and planned

is on its final years.

The truth is

that I never thought about what comes after.

It's Hee-eere

The Current State of Things:

• One of the girls' friends just tested positive for Covid. My child is scared, I am nervous, we're all worried. 
• Yesterday we received a letter saying that since September 1, forty-one covid cases have occurred at their high school, with eleven in the past week. 
• Then, this morning, I checked my work email to see that someone at my school has tested positive. Fortunately I wasn't a close contact. But who's to say that I'm not a close contact of a close contact, someone who may test positive next week?

I feel like there is an invisible enemy surrounding us. For eighteen months we have worked to create a strong, protective barrier. We have followed the rules. Our family quarantined faithfully and for longer than many. We stayed remote for the bulk of the past school year. We are all vaccinated. We gave up a trip to see my parents and visit our beloved beach this summer. We haven't eaten inside a restaurant yet. We wear masks, even when we are in the minority.

And yet, it feels like the defenses are breaking down. The enemy is persistent and it's coming from every direction. 

I hate it.

We are still feeling the effects of the sacrifices we made. I see it in my kids' mental health and social lives. I feel it in the lack of travel and new experiences. I feel it at work, as a constant, irritating presence that makes sure that nothing is ever simple or straightforward.

I just want to let kids be kids. I just want to feel like we can let our guards down and feel free. 

I am so tired of all of it.

I'm not even really afraid of the disease itself anymore, but of the havoc it could wreak on our lives. With the amount of schoolwork my kids have every day, how could they survive a week of missed classes? What if it effects basketball, the thing that Katy has waited for for almost two years, or theater, which Maggie has waited for with equal longing? How on Earth could I miss however many days of school? I don't even know how I would plan for that. And those are the little things. What if we inadvertently spread it to someone more vulnerable? 

It's a lot to think about. A lot of worry.

It's exhausting. 

But I refuse to give in to the fear. We will not cancel our lives again if we don't need to. We will be careful. I will try not to worry too much, and we'll keep living our lives, hoping that the barriers hold for just a while longer.

Learning to Surf

     I am fifty years old, and for the past three weeks ninth grade has been kicking my butt. The high school is huge. The classes are harder, friendships are changing and getting more complicated, lunch is terrifying, everyone is suddenly focused on who's dating who, life is more competitive, and social media is suddenly the center of everything. It's just a lot.

                                                       And I'm not even in high school.

    I am the parent of two first-year high school students. I consider myself lucky because they still talk to me. They share their daily ups and downs, and at the moment there are a lot of both. Every day is either the worst day ever or the best day ever, and as a sensitive person, I often feel like I am actually living through it myself. 

    Last week a funny thing happened. One child had just had the worst day ever. It was epically bad. It involved copious, loud tears that rivaled the worst toddler tantrum I had ever experienced.  There were exclamations about unfairness, how bad EVERYTHING is and (of course) how I would never understand. I absorbed every bit of it. 

    It was awful. I barely slept. I went to work the following morning distracted and worried. I spent the day picturing different aspects of what might be happening in her day. I vented to a few friends, and I waited anxiously for the evening, when I could hear how bad it was and help her work through it. But when I texted her at the end of the day to see how she was,  I received a one-word answer.

 "Fine."

    Later I discovered that the day had, in fact, been better than fine. Life was good. Things were working out. In fact, it was "a GREAT day." I was relieved, and I felt a weight lifted. As we were talking that evening and laughing about how much better life was, I told her about how a friend had helped me through my stress that morning. What she said next shocked me.

    "That's great, Mom. What were you stressed about?"

    I think my mouth may have literally hung open. Really? Hadn't we just survived the worst day ever? And then it hit me. We hadn't. She had. 

Mind. Blown.

    It struck me at that moment. I am here as an observer, a driver, a confidant, and a supporter, but this journey isn't mine. It was a sad realization, and yet also a relief. I have already had my high school experience. I survived it once and came out in one piece. And I don't have to do that again.

    And yet, the waves keep hitting me. I am the one in the car when the breakdowns happen, or sitting on the edge of the bed listening to every detail of the worst day ever or the best day ever. The highs and the lows all come my way, and I love it, but it is hard.

    So, I have decided that I need to learn to surf. I need to face the waves of their lives with the knowledge and life experience that tells me that behind every low is another high, and another, and so on and so on. I need to remember that the hardest parts of my own life probably taught me the most and had the biggest effect on the person I became. While my girls are in the raging waters of teen joy and angst and can't see the big picture, I need to stay on the surface - for them and for my own self-preservation. I need to keep perspective. So, my personal mantra, and what I'll be attempting to do for at least the next four years is simply...

                                                     Surfing the waves.

 

My Classroom Haven

The world feels tough right now. 

Covid, Afghanistan, racism, the loss of women's rights, voter suppression, gerrymandering, hurricanes, fires, climate change. The list just seems to go on. For the first time in a long time, I am choosing to be ignorant of the news. I know,  It's terrible, but sometimes it's just too much. It all feels so overwhelming and sad - sometimes hopeless, and definitely helpless. So lately I've been turning off the news, choosing podcasts, books, and music over NPR, turning my gaze away from the negativity that fills my social media feed - preserving my own mental health, guiltily aware that I'm privileged to even be able to do that.

Last week school started. For a lot of people that might just be one more stress added to the list. For me, it's almost exactly the opposite. Part of that is because I work with people who are  kind and supportive, and part of it is that I just love what I do. Teaching makes me happy. But this morning, as I forced myself to read the news, I realized that it's more than that. 

My classroom is my haven. In a world where I sometimes feel like I can't control anything, I can control this - a society in miniature. In my classroom what I do matters. It is a world in which I get to set the tone. I get to decide that right will be right, and truth will be told, fair will be fair, and that kindness will always win. I work to make sure that no matter what is happening in the world, for 6 hours a day, the members of my community feel safe and secure. Little did I know that by creating something for my students I was also giving it to myself.