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.

Both Sides Now

 

We watched the movie CODA this week. It was a powerful movie with some wonderful music, including a beautiful rendition of Joni Mitchell's Both Sides Now. Since watching the movie, I have listened to that song many times, sung by many different artists. Each brings a different tone and a different feeling to the song. (Emelia Jones' rendition from the movie is my favorite). 

What is it about, really? Is it about point of view? Loss of innocence? Growing up? Growing old? Or is it that as we grow and change and even become jaded, part of us still sees the fantasy? Even as we learn that love and life can be hard, part of us wants to remember and feel the magic, and maybe we can. It reminds me of a poem that I read when I was much younger. I don't remember the whole thing, but it was from the point of view of an old woman, who says something along the lines of, "I'm still the young girl who loves horses and flowers." We carry all of our past selves with us. 

So why am I feeling such a connection to this song and this idea now?  Listening to it on repeat like a lovesick teenager, I feel at once happy, wistful, and sad. I think back to my childhood and my kids' childhood, surrounded by the rose-colored light of nostalgia. Am I having some sort of 50 year-old midlife crisis? Maybe. Or maybe the combination of the girls growing up, trying to work my way back into my career, and living in a troubled, complicated world in the middle of a global pandemic are working together to create their own crisis. Either way, it feels like who I am in the world is changing again, and it has left me feeling sensitive. 

As the song says, "...something's lost and something's gained by living every day." We learn, we change, we grow, and that's ok. In the words of Glennon Melton, "Life is Brutiful" It's brutal and beautiful all at once. And in the end, we still won't have figured it all out. Maybe the key is to keep a hold of the magic. 

Both Sides Now

By Joni Mitchell

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
Looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and they snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way that you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
And you leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take and still somehow
It's love's illusions that I recall
I really don't know love 
Really don't know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say, "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

Oh, but now old friends they're acting strange
And they shake their heads and they tell me that I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

It's life's illusions that I recall
I really don't know life
I really don't know life at all