Photo by Aliyah Jamous via Unsplash
F R E E
And cry some more
So much pain to purge
Before I can begin to feel joy...
But it will come
As sure as a rising sun
Got to go through, though
Photo by Lou Batier via Unsplash
For the record, I am not ok. I have survived teaching in 2020 and am on holiday break. I should feel elated. I should feel relieved. I feel neither. I am slowly beginning to process all that I have endured and am still enduring.
Sometimes I just need more than to be believed.
I shouldn't have to explain to you what just happened from my perspective. If you are my friend, you should already know. If you are my friend, it should have hurt you as much as it did me. Are we still here? Are we still not really friends?
I need more than an apology.
Why was your apology private? Do you realize how often well-meaning people apologize to me? In private? What do you fear in making it public? How do I believe you are sincere when it isn't?
More than a vow to step up next time.
Next time. Again, I must wait for the next time. Will you even recognize the next time?
Now that you know, will you do anything to address the harm? What is your plan for changing the system?
I need you in solidarity from jump.
We have been here before. We have had this same discussion before. You can not claim ignorance. Perhaps it is my turn to claim lack of will.
You will need to prepare yourself when you enter the arena with me. Your privilege prevents you from needing to prepare. Your lack of preparation is killing me with every instance, every interaction. I am left hanging on a limb alone, absorbing the blows while you watch.
So there it is. I have already told you I am not ok. Now what? What will you do? You know what I want.
Will you come through this time?
The following is adapted from the Opening Address given at the EF+Math All Hands Event,
Photo by Leighann Blackwood via Unsplash
In her book Beloved, Toni Morrison wrote:
Definitions belong to the definers,
not to the defined.
For me, that resonates as someone whose position as a Black woman and as a classroom educator often causes me to be defined by others. Therefore, I situate myself through my own acknowledgements.
To acknowledge is to accept, to admit to be true, to admit something exists. Acknowledgements set the context.
I acknowledge that the land I am on today called Georgia is the unceded land that once belonged to the Cherokee Peoples, land that they were forced to leave behind. I further acknowledge that my ancestors were stolen from their homeplaces to work this unceded land. I ask a blessing from the Cherokee Nation and from my enslaved and free ancestors whose countries of origin and native languages are unknown to me. May our time today be fruitful.
Personally, I acknowledge that although I am a healthy and employed educator, I am dealing with chronic trauma. I have been teaching remotely for the past ten weeks, enveloped in the inevitability of returning face to face, in a state without mandated social distancing and wearing of masks. Educator colleagues around the country are expected to plug the now obvious holes in systems to return to a “normal” that never was.
As a Black woman, I am very aware of anti-Blackness that surrounds me. My adult children live and/or work in cities of recent highly publicized murders and arrests of innocent people that look like them. Again, to begin with acknowledgements shows that context matters. It is important to acknowledge the lens through which we act and feel. That allows us effectively exchange messages.
Greetings, Everyone. Welcome. My name is Marian Dingle and it is my privilege to open this event. You’ve heard the repetition of the word acknowledge, used in several disciplines. In mathematics, we often hear of the practice called notice and wonder. The noticing is the acknowledgement. In the standards of mathematical practice, the very first practice begins:
“make sense of the problem”
The engineering design process begins with defining the problem. There is a problem that is acknowledged. Nothing begins without it. Even the scientific method begins with the formation of a research question, which, put another way, is a problem to be solved. As the saying goes, you can not solve a problem without first acknowledging there is one.
For many here, this is not your first equity workshop. We have been here before. Recent events have caused us to become fluent in the language of diversity, whether we were ready or not. Some questions to consider:
What do we acknowledge?
Are we able to say the words racism and white supremacy in mixed company?
Are we speaking up in real life and not just in these designated spaces?
Are we aware of the systems in which we operate? None of us are immune.
When do we acknowledge it?
Do we wait for something to happen before we march or are we proactive?
Do we wait until someone else does or when it is convenient?
Where do we acknowledge it?
At Thanksgiving Dinner?
Who do we acknowledge?
Do we stick to people we know or are we open to those who challenge us?
Why do we acknowledge them?
Do we have to have personal experience or proximity to a marginalized person?
Because there aren’t enough of us around for that.
How do we acknowledge?
Are we reluctant to put ourselves out there?
The time is past due for action and those actions won’t occur without this first step of acknowledgement.
What is the problem of my lifetime? That keeps me up at night? It’s that even becoming an educator with my eyes wide open, I was not able to prevent racial trauma of my own children in their K-12 experiences. That try as I might, in all the contexts in which I have worked, students who look like me continue to be at the bottom of every list. And unless you believe that these children are naturally inferior, it should keep us all up at night.
I do not wish suffering upon anyone. But. If you are not writhing in pain right now, please acknowledge the privilege you have in not doing so.
This work is life work. It is not to be contained in the EF+Math box. It is not a skill to achieve and you will resume your life as before. It will change you, I think, for the better. This work will take your lifetime. You should acknowledge that.
Photo by Michael Henry via Unsplash.
It is the eve of Week 2: remote learning with my coteacher and 26 fourth graders. Week 1 of 2020 was more difficult than Week 1 of my first year teaching, 22 years ago, and believe me, that week was rough. There are so many reasons for this that I won't go into. If you are an educator, you don't need me to.
I am writing this for you, my educator friends who have not yet begun this year. This summer, many of us dealt with our own trauma, sickness, death of loved ones and acquaintances. We tried to imagine what to expect as our districts and schools were deciding how to do school. So many of us learned new tools, curated new resources, all to be prepared for what we had not yet done. It is what we do. We prepare. I get it.
And this is why I am compelled to tell you this now, after completing my first week. You know how they say that you can't really prepare for the SAT? Yes, I know there are prep classes, and this helps with format of questions, and general knowledge. BUT. Those prep classes are based on a bank of knowledge gleaned from those who have taken the test many times. Pandemic teaching Part II is a complete unknown. The test items are not predictable like the SAT. There is no format. At some point, you will have to draw upon all the knowledge you have obtained from many areas of your life. Some days were unending triage.
I have friends who are struggling with making the correct moral decision. Do they choose to teach remotely and care for their health? Or should they choose to teach in the building and tend to their students' needs? Should they keep their own children at home for their learning, knowing that other parents are not able to make this choice? Is it cheating to actually put yourself first if you are an educator? Is that in the handbook? Doesn't it conflict with the section called "Sacrifice Yourself At All Costs"?
Ready? Here is what I know.
You did not conspire to create these conditions. None of us did. While I know that you are busy looking for the right answer to your moral dilemmas, and the right platform and right tools, none exist. And that is not your fault. The first week may very well feel like an ER for which you were not trained. Yes, I know. It sucks.
You absolutely cannot hold yourself responsible for this. Please remember to forgive yourself continually. You will address each issue as it comes. That is your best. It will look different because your best is now limited by conditions you can not control.
I also know that while it is difficult, you will also get through it, because that is what we do. You will find the words you did not know you had, the expertise to troubleshoot unique situations, and the grace to extend to those who need it most. And you know what? You will receive that grace in spades. IN SPADES. Those around you will always remember what you did for them, all the effort you put into planning. Your families will see you. And it will be enough.
Remember this, please.
Photo by Carolyn V via Unsplash.
I have awesome friends.
It seems no matter how much I receive
In hugs from family
It doesn't last long enough
So much death
No one wants to discuss
They deny it will come to us
We are "strong" and pretend
But that is violence
The violence of silence
That we perform
On each other
And now the violence continues
This time in my own home
I feel it
Others feel it
It is worse than in March
There was so much time to prepare
The strongholds are much tighter now
We try to comfort each other
And phone calls
How can you give what you don't have?
Photo by Dave Adamson via Unsplash
Five months. Five glorious incredible months with my 21-year-old son home. This gregarious social butterfly was summoned home at the end of his Miami Spring Break. Hunkered down to resume virtual school work. With few distractions, he earned the best grades of his college career so far.
I couldn't have been happier. I got to see my son months earlier than I had thought, and without an internship that would take him out of the state. We spent a summer together, as he did not socialize nearly as much as normal. No job (UberEats was not worth the risk), but lots of video games, and of course faithful workouts.
We talked about so many things - social issues, education, politics, finance, religion, sex. He schooled me on the new spirits and we experimented with mixed libations. Mother and son, but also friends with deep history. We talked of risking your life for those you love, death, joy, advocating for yourself and others. And, I made sure he knew that his life has worth far more than a football player, that he had choices. He can walk away from anything. No judgment, no questions asked. And still, he chose to return to school.
He is an adult. I cannot dictate his moves. He must make his own decisions. As his mother, all I can do is love him enough to give him the best knowledge and wisdom I have. And I did. It is his life.
I can rest easy knowing that I left it all on the field.
Photo by Hannah Wei via Upslash.
The phone rings. It is late. The voice on the other end immediately apologizes for the hour, but there is something else. I hear the pain. Then silence. Then, the news that my friend has lost her mother. That like mine, succumbed to a long bout in the hospital. With her sister now also gone, I was the first call. She knew I would understand.
I did the only thing I knew to do. I cried, too. I helped with logistics, took care of whatever details she would entrust to me. And I did it happily. And wished I could do more. I loved her in ways that I did not know I could - because that is what you do when your friend loses their mother. The feeling of aloneness is vast and easy to get lost in. She would not be lost on my watch.
That was years ago, and I figured that this is simply what adulthood is now like. But then, my 21-year-old son got that call last week. In a pandemic. A college friend had lost his cousin unexpectedly. Someone who was as close to him as a brother. Sam described to me the wails of pain that came from his friend. He still remembers.
Tomorrow, Sam heads back to his college campus. In a pandemic. Although it is not my choice, what my daughter has taught me (from refusing to move from NYC in a pandemic) is that his childhood home is not his real home anymore. He is an adult, who was on loan to me for a time. He has done everything he needs to do to be healthy, and he needs to finish this last chapter of his life - finishing his senior year of college and two degrees. Right now, his home is in another state. After graduation it will likely be a different state. This is parenting. This is life.
I respect his need to care for his friend. I get it. He is me, just a better version. The way he loves is forever. A loyalty that seems more mature than his years. His bond to his friend was already deep, and now it is deepening. Soon it will be in person, despite my misgivings. After all, I think about him maintaining his health constantly.
But I also am reminded of every testimony I have. Every one that he has. We have been blessed and delivered from some dire circumstances. I will trust Him now, also.
Photo by Nick Fewings via Unsplash.
In four more weeks I will be in a building
That will not be disinfected with regularity
Not because of staff
My colleagues, families, and students will be in our building
No masks required
The collection of droplets in the air may be lethal for us
Especially when you consider how people have been living
But there is no consideration
We are teachers
We serve the children
We will just have to fill in the gaps, as usual
Buy thermometers to take temperatures
Buy cleaning products to disinfect classrooms
Wash hands frequently
Only one staff bathroom
Kids bathrooms run out of soap
And paper towels
Be a team player
But don't make colleagues social distance
Be a team player
Teach extra kids when colleagues are absent
Because there will be no subs
And my increased risk is not a concern
But we must have school!
Because babysitters are a must
Not because education is a must
No school is bad
I say: Why can't we do all virtual school?
They say: What about the businesses?
To which I respond:
Who will be left to patronize them?
Photo by Aaron Burden via Unsplash.
I refuse to believe that being concerned for my own safety is selfish. It is not. Being made to feel this way is nothing more than gaslighting. Since when is the overarching concern for human life unnecessary? Why does it have to be balanced?
I am a proud educator of children. I have found success in doing this in person, and recently, and to a lesser extent, through virtual means. Being an educator is part of my identity. It is my passion. However, I do not think my need to educate should supersede children's need to survive. I think that is selfish.
The way we have always done it - capitalism and a "booming economy" - this will have to be rethought. We simply can not have schooling used as babysitting while parents work to fuel the economy. That model will not work in a pandemic. Perhaps this, too, is part of what we always knew, but is glaringly obvious now.
We must begin to care for each other. We really never have on a large scale.
Photo by Robin Benzrihem via Unsplash
You came into my space with no mask
Knowing you could infect me
Knowing that if I get sick I would die faster
Knowing that so many of us have lost loved ones
Because someone decided
That wearing a mask was
How nice it must be
To treat people as replaceable
You have no idea
What humans know
How humans behave