Hope and Anger in 2021

So, how are we all doing on this 37th day of January, 2021?

I just moved a pile of clean but unfolded laundry from my bed to the recliner in the living room because "I'll fold it in the morning." This is the second night I've done this. The same load of laundry. I've picked out socks and underwear and a shirt from this same sad pile for two days because I just cannot. I just shuffle it around. I'll deal with it tomorrow. Promise.

This has been a long, long week. And a hard one.

But I began this morning with yoga (I haven't missed a day in 2021, and I've come to realize that starting my day with it, rather than putting it off until later in the afternoon when there is more chaos in my household, has the potential to shape my approach to the day entirely). And by the time I sat down to log in and greet my students, I could breathe, and it made all the difference.

*

Not everything is terrible.

This week, a few struggling students who have been mightily disengaged or dealing with significant trauma reached out for help, and they have been back in class this week. They even engaged in the chat box. Last night I broke my own boundary of not responding to e-mail after a certain hour (so many of us working from home understand how easy it is to just work all the time; I know I have a hard time disengaging from working and planning and texting and e-mailing during all hours I am awake) and spent a good chunk of the evening communicating with a kiddo who just needs to see a path forward out of this moment. It's so hard, isn't it? To see the big picture, when you're trapped in the small one?

I hope she slept a little easier last night. We're all doing the best we can.

Today I held the viva voce with one of "my" seniors, and it was hands-down the best viva voce I've ever had the privilege of conducting in all my years as an IB educator. I'm still thinking about it hours later. I don't actually even teach seniors this year, but the IB Diploma students write an Extended Essay -- an extended and self-directed piece of research culminating in a 4,000 word paper -- and each student selects a faculty advisor to help them navigate this process. I had the privilege of working with a student I taught in sophomore English two years ago. She's a brilliant young woman and I miss having her in class, so much.

The viva voce is essentially an exit interview, a culmination of the better part of a year's worth of work. It's a mandatory part of the process. Sometimes, I suppose, it feels like a box to check. The advisor asks questions; the student reflects; the advisor takes notes and submits final comments.

But sometimes magic happens, and the student reflects on the process in such a gracious and wise way that the teacher might experience literal full body chills. Literal goosebumps. Because this. This! Is what we want for our students. This expansive grace. This insightful awareness of what matters. It's the process, not so much the product. It's the learning. It's letting the low moments pass and coming through them. It's getting the thing done. It's literally just DOING THE DAMN THING. And it's doing the damn thing in a Pandemic, no less. A year ago, I couldn't have imagined conducting the viva voce from my dining room table while she logged on in her bedroom. Today, we talked and talked and neither one of us wanted the interview to end. I'm so proud of her. And so humbled. She's one of many kids who have made me hungry to learn more and do more and just...soak it up, and listen, and maybe offer a few tiny writing suggestions before getting out of the way.

The magic of teaching is this: I learn more from my students than I could ever hope to teach.

And it's these students who give me hope. Especially now.

*

Two thoughts about hope: My hope should never be their burden to carry, and hope is not the same thing as optimism. 

Rebecca Solnit writes that hope is "a belief that what we do might matter, an understanding that the future is not yet written...Hope looks forward, but it draws its energies from the past, from knowing histories, including our victories, and their complexities and imperfections."

Optimism, she asserts, assumes that all will go well without our effort.

Maybe that's what my friends and family mean when they say I shouldn't be so political. If only we were more quiet. If only we kept (white) folks more comfortable. Why can't we all just get along? God is in control!

*

I find it pretty horrifying -- though not surprising -- that there are still folks in my life who think that speaking out against white supremacy is too "political." 

And I find it interesting that some of these folks were outspokenly contemptuous of Colin Kaepernick because he "disrespected" our flag, or our country. And I'm obviously bringing this up because I have seen NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON who expressed an opinion about "taking a knee" take a stand against last week's insurrection at the Capitol. 

Not. One.

I wonder why? (No. I don't. I don't wonder why.)

If you think I'm referring to you...you're right. I am.

*

I guess I'll just go ahead and admit that I'm afraid for what might happen on Wednesday. My school district has already begun the process of planning ways to handle possible chaos, which should break all of our hearts. And if your heart isn't breaking, or if you're dismissing real and valid fear because you're "not political," then I'm curious: what does your heart look like? Which puzzle piece in Trump's broken America?

Let's Not Embrace Normal Just Yet

"Hi, Juniors," I said on Thursday morning as my kids logged into class. I let them in a handful at a time, so I can greet them each by name, a small gesture that I believe matters a great deal right now. "I'm so glad you're here. And I know today is a hard day, so I want to acknowledge that right away." 

***

I was nine days into my teaching career on September 11, 2001. I watched the planes hit the twin towers from my little apartment facing Pacific Highway, and then I had to go to school. There was a brief announcement over the intercom, but no real guidance, and we were mostly encouraged to teach as normal. I was twenty-two, just barely out of undergrad, and I had absolutely no idea how to do that.

The Sandy Hook Massacre happened on a dark day in December, my son's third birthday. I learned about it at lunch when I heard a colleague screaming. I put on a movie for my seniors and wept in the dark until I could drive across town and pick up my daughter. Teachers muddled through alone, with no guidance, without anyone addressing it with us as a group, until late in January. My paralyzing grief grew into anger, and that has never abated.

Four years ago, the presidency was handed to a white supremacist rapist misogynist racist xenophobic monster, and we watched it happen on a big screen in the library during student-led conferences. We were expected to carry on as normal, even as our students wept in their grief and fear.

I don't believe that carrying on as normal serves anyone.

***

I was I don't know how many days into my twentieth year of teaching when the President of the United States incited an insurrection, when Trump supporters stormed and breached the Capitol and were met with far less brutality than peaceful BLM protestors. 

Listen, those are the facts, and they're terrifying. There is no way to carry on as normal if we want to do anti-racist work, if we want to tell the truth to our kids, if we want to hold space for very real fear and grief and anger and questions.

There is no way I could show up for my kids and not acknowledge the facts.

***

"How are you guys feeling?" I asked my class. 

Usually I have some little thing for them to respond to as they come to class, to pop into the chat box. Where's the best place in our town to get takeout? What's better: coffee, tea, or hot cocoa? What's your favorite thing to do on a Snow Day? But on Thursday I couldn't come up with a cute, silly question. 

"Anyone else just having a really hard time focusing on business as usual?"

Several kids hit the "thumbs up." One typed into the chat: "Yesterday was HEAVY." Another wrote, "I'm still shocked."

A cascade of comments followed: Stressed. Scared. Yesterday was awful. What would you even call it? Everything is off.

"Yes," I said. "Everything is off."

For thirty minutes, I told the kids that I would turn off my camera and mute and they were free to do whatever they needed to take care of themselves. Take a break. Eat a snack. Decompress.

"Don't log off," I said, "but take this time how you need to. And I'm going to turn off my camera, so it doesn't feel like I'm staring at you, but I'm going to be right here. If you guys want to talk to each other, the chat is open. If you want to talk to me, I'm still right here and I'll respond. If you have questions, let me have them. I might not be able to answer them, but I'll try to find folks who can. If you just want to vent, I'm here for that, too. If you're doing okay and really need thirty minutes to catch up on your assignments for class, go ahead and use this space."

And kids did want to talk. They did want to process.

I keep thinking that if it were POC it would have been so much more violent.

THIS.

We're raised from childhood to believe the police and government are there to protect us, but it's depressing to realize that they're not there to protect people who look like me.

I'm just sad. Being a POC of myself, I'm just--I'm sad. I don't get as much backlash because I'm Asian, I guess, but seeing the corruption in the "land of the free" and understanding that it doesn't include us all is just sad. I'm sad. That's all I can say.

I didn't sleep last night.

I'm struggling.

***

My next class isn't as comfortable talking with each other, and they're tough to engage sometimes. I set up a Padlet for them to process instead: What do we know? What do we notice? What questions do we have? What do we need (or what do we want people to know?)

Everything is messed up right now. I'm honestly scared.

Black Lives Matter protests are handled a lot differently than white protests, just saying.

Liberty and Justice really ISN'T for ALL.

What actually happened?

Is it a coup, or not? I guess I don't really understand this. What do we call it?

I have too much on my plate to deal with this.

I want people to know that we're scared and overwhelmed.

It's hard to stay motivated right now.

We're struggling.

***

Never have I wished so desperately that we weren't in the middle of a Pandemic. Never have I wished so hard that it was safe to have these conversations in person.

Never again will I take these face-to-face conversations for granted. Even the hard ones. Especially the hard ones.

***

I lost a friendship that once meant a great deal to me--a friendship I once believed would last a lifetime. 

Or maybe that's not accurate. I ended it.

My friend Tara wrote this week: "Actions have consequences and privilege is real. If you follow me in any capacity then there was a time where I liked, respected, and enjoyed your company. I'll hold onto and enjoy those memories...[but] if you support, encourage, or believe that 'both sides' of [this week's] riot and insurrection are valid, we are no longer friends...It's about goddamned time the reasonable people of this nation started calling out the bullshit when we see it, stepping on toes when necessary, and recognizing that all viewpoints are not valid. Oppression of others and willful ignorance of basic fact does not equal a valid alternate viewpoint."

If you actively promote white supremacy, we are not going to be having coffee anytime soon. Even if there was a time where we cherished each other's company. Even if there was a time when I could look out my bedroom window and see the light in yours.

White supremacy doesn't just dress up in hoods and burn crosses. The fact is that the president's rhetoric deliberately incites violence, and white supremacy allows most of us to condemn violence without examining our complicity. The fact is that trying to do anti-racist work means we cannot look the other way and pretend that supporting the oppression of marginalized communities simply comes down to "politics" or "differences of opinion." I cannot honor or serve my students and give those who support their oppression access to their stories

I've benefited every day of my life from the white supremacy that built this country, and pretending otherwise, ignoring this fact, doesn't honor or serve my students either. And that's the work of my life.