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I’ve never been into poetry. I definitely don’t write it, and I don’t really read it. But this came tumbling out of my head, and I think it’s a poem. It’s the product of lots of thoughts and conversations I’ve had over the last few weeks. Or the last ten years, depending  how you count it. I wish I could show you the faces of all the students that were floating through my head while I wrote… Anyway, I want to share.

 

Dear Unbreakable Student,
Can I tell you what I love about you?
I love that you’re loud.
I love that I can’t get through a lesson plan, because you
have something to say about everything, and you
have a question about everything.
And every question leads to another question.
My answers are never enough for you—
Your curiosity never satisfied.

I love that your words tumble out
louder and faster
than even you can keep up with.
I love your lack of filters.
You say what you mean,
and you don’t wait for permission.

I love that you don’t walk, but run.
You’ve got places to go,
Paths to follow,
Things to do and try and experience.
Even if you don’t know exactly where you’re going,
You know you want to get there
Right now.
Can’t stop
Can’t wait
Can’t sit still.
Energy and passion
rushing and buzzing
through your body
Plowing past anything and anyone
that gets in your way.

I love that you put on a tough front,
A strong face, a fight face,
a face that can’t be messed with;
Without ever losing your soft center,
Your kind heart, your gentle heart,
your heart that cares so deeply, it hurts.

I love that you can’t be lied to.
You don’t have time for the easy, comfortable answers;
You’re here for the ugly, naked truth.
You can take it.
The only thing that will make you flinch
is insincerity.
You can see right through it.

I love that you challenge me.
I love that you make me think,
make me laugh,
make me cry
Sometimes all at once.

And I worry.

I worry that when you come to school,
We all tell you to
Sit down, and
Shut up.
Don’t be so difficult,
Get back in line, just
Sit down, and
Shut up.
Stop interrupting, and
Listen to me. Just
Sit down, and
Shut up.

I promise you
that it comes from a good place.
Because we care,
we tell you to
Sit down, and
Shut up.
We want nothing more than your success
in school
in life.
So we keep telling to you to
Sit down, and
Shut up.

And I worry.
I worry that we’re wrong.
That isn’t what I want for you.

I don’t want you to sit down.
I want you to stand up!
Rise up!
Stand out!
I want you to stand, and
Stand for something
Stand for what’s good, and true.
Stand for others
Stand for you
Stand for the things you know
Will make our world better.

I want you to stand up.
Stand up against the status quo
Stand up against oppression
Stand up against oppressors
Stand up against the darkness that clouds so many eyes,
but not yours.
Stand up to those who would have you
Sit down, and
Shut up.

I don’t want you to shut up.
I want you to speak up!
Speak out!
Shout out!
I want you to yell so loud,
they have to listen.
I want you to scream so long,
they can’t block you out.
You thoughts matter.
Your ideas matter.
Your feelings matter.
Your story matters.
And the whole world should hear—
make them hear.
Go ahead and holler in the ears
of those who would have you
Sit down, and
Shut up.

I don’t want you to sit down. Not really.
But when you do,
Sit with your eyes open
Sit with your ears open
Sit at full attention
So you don’t miss anything.
Sit to listen and read and learn.
Take everything in.
Make some of it, part of you.
But not everything.
You’ve got to figure out
What to accept,
What to reject,
What to push back,
So that you’ll know when it’s time to
Stand up.

I don’t want you to shut up. Not really.
But when you do,
Listen carefully,
so carefully,
to what others are saying
and how they say it.
How do they get people to listen?
How do they get people to care?
What are they really saying, and
Not saying?
Pay attention to other voices,
because you too have a voice.
And when you use that voice,
When you speak up,
You had better have something to say.
People won’t keep listening all day.
So when you speak up,
You had better make it count.
When you speak up,
You had better give everyone else
Something to talk about.

Dear, Unbreakable Student,
I don’t want to change you
Not now, not ever.
I’d rather stand by your side,
On your team, and
Have your back
While you claim your power.
Our world needs
You and your power.

Dear, Unbreakable Student,
Don’t ever let them break you.
Don’t ever let us break you.
But if there’s a time when you feel
like you might be broken,
Just take a breath,
A slow, healing breath,
And come back better than ever—
Refusing to stay broken.
Refusing to ever
Sit down, and
Shut up.

I’ve always liked a phrase that my friend coined (or borrowed? I dunno) years ago, “Feelings aren’t a democracy.” Feelings aren’t wrong. I don’t believe in telling people how to feel or not feel.

That said, I’m going to make an exception right now. Sorry-not-sorry. I’m going to defy my own rule, and tell you how you should feel….

You should feel deeply and personally hurt by Donald Trump.

You should feel attacked. He didn’t have to attack you personally. He’s attacked “your people.” He’s attacked “your own.” He’s attacked us, all of us, over and over again. Being attacked hurts. It’s personal.

Because guess what? When Trump started his campaign by bashing Mexican Americans, he was attacking Americans. He wasn’t attacking “them.” He was attacking “us.” When he attacks Muslim Americans, he’s attacking our own. When he attacks women, he’s attacking all of us.

It doesn’t matter which subgroup of the American population he’s attacking in any given moment, these are our people. United we stand, right?

We all know that instinctive fury that takes over when somebody hurts our family member, close friend, or other loved one. Even if that person annoys us and is hard to get along with, we still want to protect them from danger, because they’re our people. Deep down, we care about them, and we care deeply. Every single one of us should be feeling that same hurt, anger, and instinctively protective fury over every one of the countless attacks Trump has made on our people.

(If being part of the American family isn’t relevant or important to you, then how about the human family? That has to matter.)

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Maybe it’s more natural for me to feel hurt by Trump, because so many of the attacks have been extremely close to home.

Somewhere in the deluge of his attacks against everyone under the sun, I think some have almost forgotten about how shamelessly he mocks and belittles people with disabilities. But some of us can’t forget. Some of us will never be able to forget.

We know, of course, about the time he insulted and mimicked the reporter with arthrogryposis. It’s irrelevant whether Trump realized at the time that the man had a diagnosed condition; the point is that he saw a physical difference, something outside the narrow spectrum of “normal,” and his instinct was attack! mock! belittle!

Maybe even more telling than his original insult, was his response afterward: “Nobody gives more money to Americans — you know, the Americans with Disabilities Act—big act. I give tens and tens of millions of dollars and I’m proud of doing it.” Huh?? What is that even supposed to mean? Does Trump think the ADA is some sort of charity that he gives to? This and other quotes have him trying to convince us that it’s out of the goodness of his heart that he puts ramps and elevators in his buildings. Except that accessibility isn’t a kindness; it’s a legal requirement. I don’t owe any more gratitude for the accessible entrance that was built inclusively for me, than you owe for the MANY inaccessible entrances that were built exclusively for you.

Or maybe the dollars he’s referring to are settlement money for all the times he’s been sued for ADA violations? It’s much harder than you’d think to successfully file an ADA suit. That law is getting weaker and more loopholey all the time. But Trump’s violations have been egregious enough to hold up.

Most recently, reports are coming out of Trump mocking Marlee Matlin, the talented and Oscar winning Deaf actress, for her disability. Apparently he repeatedly called her the R word, and was demeaning to her face and behind her back.

When Trump sees a disabled American, all he sees is a target. I’m not sure he realizes  we have the right to vote. If he did, surely his platform would address disability issues in some manner, right? But it doesn’t. We’re nowhere to be found on his website. There isn’t much record of him discussing disability, although I did manage to find a quote from 2011 where he addresses “the disability racket,” complains about the number of people who “claim disability,” and rambles on about the cost to tax payers.

Guess what? I’m a disabled American, and I vote, and I pay my taxes. (It seems pretty likely at this point that I pay more taxes than Mr. Trumpbucks.) I work hard, and I’ve definitely  done more this week to make America great than Trump ever will. So I don’t appreciate being ignored at best, and at worst, treated as the butt of a joke and a manipulative drain on the economy! It’s a president’s job to represent me and my interests. It’s a presidential candidate’s job to court my vote. I’m ready to be courted! Wine me and dine me!

(Psst, if I were unable to pay taxes for whatever reason, it would still be their job to represent me. My worth doesn’t come from my financial contributions.)

Both ADA (accessibility law) and IDEA (special education law) were passed the year I started kindergarten. I’ve been blessed to grow up in the best possible time in American history so far for the disabled. Not that it’s been sunshine and roses–we’re still light years away from sunshine and roses. But you know what isn’t light years away? Pre-1990. That’s still close enough that I can taste it. I know how close in time we are to a world where I wouldn’t have got the education that I did. Where I wouldn’t be able to enter the buildings and ride the buses that make up my world. Where I definitely wouldn’t be living and working where I am, and most likely would be locked away in some institution. That terrifying alternate universe is never far from my mind, and it’s never far from my reality. It would take very little for my entire world to come crashing down. One policy change could easily do it.

I hate feeling vulnerable. Don’t we all hate feeling vulnerable? The Trumpian world I suddenly find myself in leaves me feeling more vulnerable and afraid than I’ve ever experienced as a disabled American. And not just because of possibilities and hypotheticals of what he might or might not do in office. Because of what he’s already done. Because he’s already pointed a finger at me, and labeled me as weak. Because he’s already given the world permission to laugh at me, to disrespect me, to put me down. Because even though I spend every day trying to teach kids that “difference is just fine,” Trump has a wider audience, and he’s told them exactly the opposite.

It’s not ok for a person who wants to be our country’s leader to make me feel this way. It hurts. And if I’m hurting, and my community is hurting, that should make you hurt too. We’re your people.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

I want to write about how Trump has hurt me as a woman. But I don’t feel like I can say anything on the topic as powerfully as Michelle Obama did. So if you haven’t watched her speech yet, do yourself that favor. It’s worth the time.

All I’ll do is repeat: It’s not ok for a person who wants to be our country’s leader to make me feel hurt and vulnerable. To make all women (#YesAllWomen) feel vulnerable. Even if all allegations past and present are false (and there’s no way they’re all false), the way he openly speaks about women is more than enough harm done.

It hurts. We’re hurting. And you should be hurting with us.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Then we go out a degree, to where Trump’s not talking about me, but he’s talking about people I care about…. I’ve addressed it before: here, and here, and maybe even here. But I don’t feel like I can say it enough. Trump’s America, you’re scaring my kids. You’re hurting them. And that hurts me more than I can express.

I should be trying to convince my students to pay attention and take an interest in the election, the way my 7th grade teacher did. (I vividly remember watching the ’96 DNC, RNC, and debates because of you, Ms. Fell!) But I don’t have to tell my kids to pay attention, because they can’t stop paying attention. Instead, I’m trying to shield and distract them from the worst of it. I’m trying to nurse their wounds. I’m trying to help them feel safe and valued, despite the nightly news telling them the opposite.

A new batch of Americans finally decided “that’s enough” last week when Trump bragged about groping women. And to that new batch, I say welcome to the light side. But my kids and their families have been Trump’s punching bag since day one of his candidacy. They’ve been relentlessly attacked  this whole time. They hear again and again that they don’t belong here. So many of my kids are going through life without roots, without feeling like they belong anywhere. They’re hurting.

Our community is hurting. Our people are hurting. We should all be sharing this pain.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Jesus said to “love one another” and “mourn with those that mourn.” The Mayans said “in lak’ech.”

I’ve been having a hard time lately coming up with words for what I’m feeling. This year has been so…? Every time I turn around, it’s more…? So I’m just…?

Words are hard.

I finally came up with a short sentence, though, that describes a pretty big portion of what’s been bothering me in 2016–it’s hard to like people

This isn’t me, for the record. I generally like people! That might not always be obvious because I’m definitely an introvert–scared of big social events, terrible at small talk, big fan of Friday nights with Netflix. But I do like people.

I like deep conversations, getting to know who people really are, what drives them. If I don’t like someone yet, it generally just means I need to dig deeper. I like to sit back and observe people. I like to lean in and love people. I grew up going to church with the most delightfully quirky congregation, and I learned to enjoy all the spice and variety that humans have to offer. (Suddenly, it makes sense that I feel so at home in “keep it weird” Portland….) Long before I knew where exactly my career path would take me, I knew that it would have to be a job that involved working with people, helping people. Other things in life try to get in the way, but people have always felt like the most important priority. Things are just things, but people are people.

I like finding connections with people and appreciating how we’re similar. I like learning more from what makes us different.

I’ve always liked people.

Right now, it’s really hard to like people.

So hard to like people!!

People of my generation-ish, do you remember when we used to ask ourselves how we would have behaved in Nazi Germany? Or how we would have behaved when the Civil Rights movement was fighting Jim Crow? Or how we would have behaved when Mormons were being violently expelled from the United States? Remember when we used to wonder which side we’d have taken?

Do you remember? Because I don’t. I don’t think I ever asked myself those questions. I just assumed that I would have been the “good guy” in each scenario. That I would have stood by the people being dehumanized, and seen them as more than “other.” That I would have loved instead of feared. I assumed any rational person would be the good guy. I couldn’t fathom who these crazy people in history were that supported the obvious wrong over the obvious right.

I miss that innocent, ignorant bliss. I miss when the “bad guys” were just people in the history books, most of them nameless and faceless.

Now they’re my neighbors. Now they’re everywhere. They have names, faces, and I’m supposed to love them.

Politics and election years have always been divisive, but we all know this year is more than that. I’ve seen bad politicians before, and bad presidents, and people who I strongly disagree with. But this is the first chance in my lifetime to witness a true, through-and-through Bad Guy seeking power in my own country. There’s no question that history will remember Trump as an embodiment of evil. Our grandchildren are absolutely going to be asking us the same questions that the kids are asking now, “Why?? How?? Why did you let this happen??” I’m afraid that I’ll only have the same pain in my eyes and lack of satisfying answers for those kids as I do for the current ones.

Is it even necessary to recite the laundry list of evils again? Sigh. Let’s make it quick…. Trump got his initial campaign momentum by calling Mexican immigrants criminals and rapists. In practically the same breath, he proposed banning Muslims from entering the US. For those already in the US,  he suggested deportation, tracking systems, and shutting down mosques. Every time he talks to or about a woman, he objectifies her; he even speaks sexually about his own daughter. He made fun of the reporter for his physical disability. He attacked the Muslim parents of a fallen US soldier. He’s advocated for torture of not just enemies, but also their families. He cheats people out of money owed left and right. Trump University was entirely invented to swindle money from vulnerable people. He brags about how easy it is in his position to assault women…..

We all know I could keep going. But let’s stop the list there, and state the obvious: Trump hates Americans.

Yes, he’s also the lyingest liar that ever lied. And yes, he’s verbally trampled all over the Constitution. It’s easy to argue that he hates American values, ideals, and laws. But remember, my first priority is the people, so let’s keep in the front of our minds that Trump hates Americans. Black Americans, brown Americans, female Americans, Americans with handicapped parking passes, Americans in hijabs…. Trump hates Americans. It’s not a secret. It was never hidden or sugar coated. Since the very start of his campaign, we’ve all known that Trump hates Americans.

And here’s the thing. No matter what happens in the election next month, the damage is already done. It’s not going away any time soon. Because Trump isn’t spewing his hate alone in a vacuum. There are Americans eating up every word, and proudly waving Trump signs. And there are Americans who aren’t fond of him, but they’re holding their noses and voting for him anyway, because they think there are bigger threats than a president who hates Americans. They’re willing to tolerate the hate.

We’ve now seen our country’s population in a very unflattering mirror, and we can’t unsee it. And as offended, disgusted, repulsed, and nauseated as I am by Trump hating Americans, the truth is that he’s made it so much harder for me to like Americans.

I’m struggling to like the people who excuse Trump’s behavior. I don’t know how to like people who are ok with blatant racism, sexism, and so many varieties of hate.

When I repeat comments my students have made about Trump or the political climate in general, people act surprised. “Wow, s/he’s that aware of what’s happening?”

Are you kidding me?! It’s the air my kids are breathing. They can’t turn it off, step back, or ignore it. Not just Trump, but all the people who think he makes good points, are everywhere–attacking them, harassing them, threatening them. “You don’t belong here” is whispered, implied, and screamed at them by peers, by the tv, by the adults who are supposed to be keeping them safe and modeling how to function in society. They’re terrified of this election, and with good reason. But no matter how the election ends, they’re going to have to keep existing in a world that’s taken giant leaps backward and given people permission to spew hate in their direction.

I don’t have kids of my own, but I do have mama bear instincts that kick in when “my” kids are threatened, hurt, or treated poorly. Those instincts have been raging for the last year, with no end in sight. And I don’t know how to like people who are complicit in attacks on my kids!

Let’s not forget that I’m also one of those Americans Trump hates. I’m a woman, I’m disabled, and I’m a teacher in a public school. He wouldn’t hesitate for a second before describing me as a sexually repulsive drain on the system.

His judgement wouldn’t even bother me too much. But what about all his supporters? They either see me the same way, or are ok with stepping back and letting others keep me down.

It’s so hard to like people!!

I have a long running list of topics I’d like to blog about, and this school year is making it almost impossible to find the time to write. But every time I do make the time, this seems to be what comes out. I have to keep processing, and I have to keep doing my small part to speak against evil. So I can look the kids in the eye tomorrow, and fifty years from now.

I really wish I could go back to easily, naturally, by default, liking people.

(Song playing in my head as I wrote: “History has its eyes on you……”)

 

I’m intentionally posting this a few days before September 11th, so that it won’t be perceived as a response to anyone in particular who chooses to share that day…. I’m usually too busy with the beginning of the school year to voice many of my 9/11 thoughts, but I always think about it. It’s a day of mourning that I feel even more intensely as time goes by. Obviously we honor and mourn the lives lost. But I feel like those individuals weren’t the only losses that day… I feel like my generation lost a lot of our innocence, and our country started losing our grasp on what it even means to be an American.

Every year, among the reflections on September 11th, I see people speak nostalgically about how our country “pulled together” in response to the attacks. How there was a great sense of unity in the days that followed. But as much as I want that to be true, I just don’t see it that way. Even at the time, I didn’t see it that way.

I was in my senior year of high school, and working on our school’s newspaper that semester. A month or so afterward, I remember writing an editorial for the paper about patriotism. (Part of me wishes I could see a copy of it now, but most of me is glad I don’t have to cringe at younger Kristine’s words… So if anybody weirdly has access to those archives, please don’t share them!) I was really bothered by how trendy patriotism had become. Flags on everything. Everyone was making a quick buck by marketing red, white, and blue. Consumers felt like they were taking a stand and fighting terrorism by wearing tshirts bedazzled in stars and stripes.

I remember struggling to write the editorial and articulate why it bothered me so much. It’s not that I was anti-flag; something inside of me just felt like the entire concept of patriotism was being cheapened, and something else was being missed. My instincts said  there were bigger issues to be grappled with, questions to be asked, values to be examined, stands to be taken… I don’t think I ever successfully figured out what those bigger issues were at the time, but I sensed them there, buried under an enormous pile of flaggy paraphernalia.

(Incidentally, I recently learned that the earliest flag desecration laws, passed between 1897 and 1905, were intended to keep the flag from being used for commercial purposes or political campaigns. Using our nation’s symbol for personal gain was considered unpatriotic.)

Maybe in 2001 I didn’t have the language to talk about what I was seeing, because I hadn’t experienced anything like it before. I was a raised-in-the-90s kid, and my world seemed like a pretty good place. The economy was good. War was something we read about in history books. I knew racism wasn’t dead, but I thought we were quickly heading in that direction. I had my religion; other people had theirs; and I only knew it as a positive force in any of our lives. Maybe the 90s weren’t really as idyllic as I remember them, but it was easy to believe from my little bubble. The world’s major problems felt so far away, in the international news segment, far removed from my world.

Then it all broke. The happy world I’d always known, where everybody holds hands and chases the American Dream together, was gone. And it happened so fast!

Suddenly, Americans turned their backs on each other. Anyone who looked like they might be either Muslim or Middle Eastern became the enemy. In August, they’d been Americans like any other, but in September, they became dangerous. One day, they were just living their lives like any of us; the next, they carried the burden of an entire nation’s fear, anger, suspicion, and hate.

I was shocked, scared, and saddened by the September 11th attack. But I was no less shocked, scared, and saddened by the series of attacks that we made on each other afterward. The attacks — variably physical, mental, and emotional — that our Muslim, Middle Eastern, or I-dunno-they-just-look-like-bad-guys neighbors had to endure. Technically, I did know that Americans were capable of this; I’d studied the Japanese-American interment camps of WWII. But that was our grandparents’ world! I thought we’d learned from our history, and become a nation of better people. I couldn’t believe the same racist blame game was happening right before my eyes.

Except I’m using the wrong verb tense. Those attacks aren’t in the past; they still happen. My naive 2001 self might have assumed it would all settle down, but look at our country today…. While my high school self didn’t know modern America could be so deeply divisive, today’s high school kids don’t know it any other way.

When we were all trying to make sense of the attack on the twin towers, I remember being baffled at why Al-Qaeda called us an anti-Islamic country. I’d never had reason to give Islam much thought one way or the other before. It seemed like such a wild accusation against my united-we-stand country. #ePluribusUnum

But here we are, 15 years later, and it feels like the terrorists are winning. Every time they attack, whether it’s a legitimate terrorist or a lone bad actor, we respond by lashing out at our Muslim community. We’re letting the bad guys mold us into the monster they always said we were. Which provokes further trauma and terrorism. Rinse and repeat.

If anybody had asked my teenage self to define “American,” I would have thought it was a crazy question. An American is someone who lives in America–what else could it possibly be? I thought the United States was like the Olive Garden, “When you’re here, you’re family.” But for the last 15 years, I’ve felt the question buzzing in the air. I’ve seen the hierarchy emerge, where some people are considered “more American” than others. I’ve seen those with darker skin pigmentation, or those who identify as any religion but Christian, forced to carry a higher burden of proof as to whether they’re truly American. Whether they truly belong.

Late 2001 was when I started hearing debates between civil liberties and security, and feeling pressure to choose a team. Again, this wasn’t the America I thought I knew. I thought we could have both. Maybe I was naive, but I thought the US aimed for a healthy balance between the two. That balance was thrown dramatically in 2001, and now I live in a country with fewer civil liberties than ever… and I don’t feel any safer. Who’s winning?

I’m afraid I don’t look back on September 2001 with any warm and fuzzy memories of unity. I only remember it as the day our communities splintered. As quickly as we plastered the flag across our tshirts, our hearts started forgetting what it means to be American. So, here we are, and I have to look to the future instead. I have to hope that we can eventually come back together, remember why we’re all here, and what ties us together.

In honor of School Eve, which some people refer to as Labor Day, I’m having a small party with my laptop and some pumpkin spice hot chocolate. We’re gathering to welcome Ms. Napper back, and say goodbye to Kristine. It can’t be a long party, because Ms. Napper has a to-do list that’s seventy miles long. Laptop is keeping us all honest by leaving Charger at home, so the party can’t possibly outlive Battery’s life.

They say there’s nothing like the first day of your first year teaching, and they’re right. I’ll always remember the off-the-charts anxiety that I walked in with that first day, no idea what I was getting into…. These days, the first day anxiety is because I know exactly what I’m getting into.

Anxiety isn’t nearly an all-encompassing enough word to describe it though. The truth is, if there’s a feeling, I’m feeling it. All the feels.

I know by now that there’s room in my heart for countless hundreds of kids. I had three student run-ins just this weekend–one who will be in my class again this year, one who is just now leaving me for high school, and one that graduated high school already. Every one of them made my heart smile! Also, every one of them saw me and reached out to connect before I even saw them, so I think that means Ms. Napper is doing something right. (Although I guess I don’t know how many other kids might have seen me this weekend and hid….)

There’s a very real part of me that loves the first day of school. A perk of teaching ESL is that I get many students for more than one year, so the first day of school is like happy reunion time. “Hello!! How are you? How was that summer Cali trip? How’s your new baby sister? Do you have pictures? Love those new shoes! When did you get so much taller than me?” Even with the new 6th graders, there are usually a few shades of family reunion, “Wait, you’re Maria’s cousin? Does that mean you’re Brandon’s little brother? I love your family! Haven’t I met you at conferences before? You were tiny then, but if I remember right, you weren’t shy….”

There’s some magic where we all like each other more on the first day of school than we ever have before. A little magic happens over the summer, and the kids are slightly more mature. They’re refreshed, full of hopes and goals for the school year, because this is the year when they’re going to get their act together and fix whatever habit was holding them back last year. It’s good energy, and I try to make the most of it. Also, now that it’s a new year and they have a new set of teachers to figure out, I’m the familiar face, and there’s nothing more comforting to the nerves than a familiar face. We don’t have to start back at square one in my class; we can pick up where we left off. We already know each other’s strengths and limits; we know how far we can push, and where we should tread lightly. We have a bank of shared memories and struggles and inside jokes to pull from, and they make us stronger.

I really do love my kids, and it’ll be great to see them this week.

All those goals and hopes and dreams they’re coming with? I have them too, for the kids and for myself, times a thousand. Here’s where the anxiety starts creeping in. I have a million and one ideas for how to better teach and support my students this year, and I want to make them all happen. I spent all last year pushing, pushing, pushing to get my schedule set up a certain way this year,  believing it would allow me to do better work. After a little more pushing last week, I got my way! My teaching schedule is (almost) exactly what I’ve been asking for. And that’s great, but it means now there’s even more pressure. I have the structure and the responsibilities that I requested, so now it’s on my shoulders to make the most of those opportunities.

My kids deserve the best, and I want to give it. My colleagues too. I work with so many incredible people, and I’m sure I spent more time than I should have last week just chatting with many of them, but you know what? Enjoying socializing too much with your work family seems like a pretty good problem to have. I know that my fellow Whitford teachers also want to give their ESL kids the best they’ve got, and as a specialist, I want to support them in that. It’s part of my job, and with increased staffing this year, it’s back on my priority list, as it should be.

“My job is to serve the public, not save the public.” A very smart educator friend told me that years ago. She’s right, and I believe it in my head, but it’s hard to convince my heart. No matter how many good intentions I’m overflowing with, my supply of time and energy is still limited. So limited! I’ve reassured my newer teammates a hundred times that every year we come into this job with a thousand goals, and we accomplish like six of them. The other 994 get put on next year’s list, along with three hundred more that we think of over the course of the year, and that’s ok, not a reason to beat ourselves up. But secretly, I’m telling this to them because I need to hear it myself. The unmet goals eat at me. My shortcomings taunt me. My failures, insecurities, and unsolved problems are always in my peripheral vision. Because those things aren’t just about me, they all come with the faces of kids I love and want to do better by.

My greatest wish is to be able to spend time being both Ms. Napper and Kristine on a daily basis. That’s what people don’t understand about teaching when they make comments, sometimes in bitterness and sometimes in fun, about how “It must be nice to get summers off.” Let’s set aside the fact that I’ve never had an entire summer where I didn’t work, mostly unpaid hours. Even if that weren’t the case… Summer is when I find Kristine again! I miss her during the year. It’s exhausting to go all year without ever clocking out. This job follows me every minute of the day. If I’m not working, I’m feeling guilty for not working, and feeling the weight on my shoulders getting even heavier. We’re set up for failure, because the to-do’s aren’t just more than anybody could do in an 8-hour day; they’re more than anyone could do in a 24-hour day. And none of it’s menial, mindless work. It’s mentally and emotionally draining. I would try and explain how physically taxing it all amounts to for me, but I can’t even put it into words anyone would understand. I know that teachers aren’t the only workaholics around, but I don’t think it would be hard to make the case that we’re the lowest paid workaholics.

I say all the time that I have no idea how people manage to be both teachers and parents. Endless respect for those who do. I’m barely even coherent when I get home every day. I can’t imagine having anything left to give to my own kids.

This year is particularly frightening for Kristine, shoved back into her summer closet, because Ms. Napper (re)started a master’s program. I’m glad it’s happening, and it’ll hopefully be done in a year. But it’s another huge time commitment. Another energy commitment.

I’ve been really trying to find small ways to let Kristine out during the school year. That’s why I joined PDX Vox and let the choir thing back into my life in 2015. I’m not giving that up! I refuse. Singing makes me happy, and my choir community is just the greatest group of people. But even so, it’s a struggle every Thursday night, when I want to be fully engaged in rehearsal and the people around me, but my brain just won’t keep up.

Same reasoning went into starting this blog last January. I almost forgot how much I need writing to feel like myself. It gets all those thoughts and feelings that swirl around chaotically in my head, and puts them somewhere external, tangible, and manageable. I need this! And I’m afraid that personal writing, meaning this blog, will take a back seat this year. If I’m sitting with my laptop, the school work, and the other school work, is always going to feel more pressing. I’m not saying goodbye, because I hope to keep making time for my blog this year. But I’m afraid it might be a ridiculous hope.

I hate feeling my own thought processing slow down during the school year. It’s only been a week of preservice, no students yet, and I can already feel it happening. My brain gets smart but my head gets dumb. I can’t hold onto a thought long enough to complete it, and it just turns into a mess up there.

I’ll post this in the morning, as I head off to First Day #1. (6th graders come for the first first day. The 7th and 8th will join us for the second first day.) Ready or not, it’s here. My head and heart will be fully in the game, and it’s going to be a good year. I’ll do my best not to beat myself up for all the ways I don’t succeed this year, and I hope others will be kind and forgiving with me as well. I won’t have much left to give outside of school; I tell everyone that “I’m really only a good friend in July.” But please don’t allow me to rely too heavily on that excuse, because I also need friends the rest of the year.

Pumpkin spice and scarves and boots will have to be enough for me now. Luckily, Kristine and Ms. Napper both share those not-even-guilty pleasures.

Last week I loaded Harry Potter and the Cursed Child onto my kindle app, excited to read it on the train ride to my parents’. I didn’t expect it to live up to the original series or anything, but I figured it would be a fun read, and what could be a more perfect place to read Harry Potter than a train? In my head, I was basically rocking Platform 9 3/4.

I’m not gonna lie–the first couple pages had me cringing a bit. The dialogue felt a little clunky, and I just wasn’t sure I’d be able to get into it…. But the plot picked up quickly, and I felt myself getting sucked into the adventure. I kept reading. It was like when you see an old friend after years apart, and it’s a little awkward as you’re trying to figure out this new person. You kind of see glimpses of the person you remember, but aren’t completely sure whether you’re still friends… But then you work through the awkward and find your new rhythm, because you remember how much you actually love each other. That was me and the Hogwarts gang. They’ve changed, and I’ve changed, but being reunited feels so good.

I didn’t fully appreciate just how appropriate the time and place was for reading this new Harry Potter, though, until the next day as I read the last few pages. By that point, I wasn’t just reading for plot anymore; I was fully wrapped up in the humanity and heart that our wizard friends offer, feeling all the feels. Suddenly, I realized that I was sitting in the exact same spot–my bedroom at my parents’ house–as the last time I read a brand new Harry Potter book.

When I both eagerly and reluctantly read the last in the original series, it was July 2007, and I was a hot mess. My parents had just moved from the only house my family had ever lived in. I’d just graduated and left BYU. Being a person who doesn’t handle change well, it really threw me to be uprooted from all the places, and most of the people, I’d ever known as “home,” all at the same time. I was interviewing for jobs, but didn’t know where or if I’d land. The future was a foggy black hole. I had a shiny new teaching degree, so I was interviewing for teaching jobs, but I’d hated student teaching. I wasn’t at all convinced that I had what it takes to be a decent teacher, and I was pretty sure I’d never be happy doing it. But what are you supposed to do when you’ve just invested five years and a zillion dollars into a degree you then think was a mistake? Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was a great way to escape reality for a day or two. But then it ended, just like every other era in my life had just ended. Did I mention I was a hot mess?

A couple days after finishing Deathly Hallows, I interviewed with Whitford. The job was different than all the others I’d been applying for, but it also felt so much more right. I wanted that job. And I got that job.

And then I blinked, and it was 2016, and I was back in that same room, reading Harry Potter. There was never going to be more to Harry’s story, but it turns out “never” was a strong word. (I prefer #always anyway…)

I was never going to make it in teaching, but here I am, about to start year ten, and I’ve done more than just survive teaching. I’ve lived it, slept it, and breathed it. I’ve found passions and areas of growing expertise within my teaching world that I never would have guessed. I’ve amassed a list of hundreds of kids–not all of them such kids anymore–who I love dearly. I can confidently say that I’ve made a difference for at least some. I laugh every day. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake…

I was afraid I’d never find a place that felt like home again. But I dropped my roots onto Oregon soil, and they like it there. It’s still a struggle sometimes to be alone and feel like I actually belong in a place with no family. But it’s a really good place, filled with really good people. I have communities that I’m grateful and proud to be part of. I have friends and connections that I treasure. And as half the country, unfortunately, seems to have discovered, Portland is just really cool!

I was sure that my parents’ new house in the middle of nowhere was never going to be home…. and, well, that’s still mostly true. I can’t visit without getting homesick for our real home. But, funny thing, becoming an aunt has helped a little. There’s been life and memories attached to the house now. That’s where I spent hours cuddling those sweet babies. I just spent a week hiding, seeking, and running around like a crazy person with my cutie pie niece in all random corners of the house. This is a house they’ll look back on nostalgically someday when they’re remembering their own childhood. My 2007 self didn’t imagine ever caring much about the next generation in Harry Potter’s world. And had no idea how deeply in love I’d be nine years later with the next generation in my own family.

The first time I finished Harry Potter forever at my parents’ house, I couldn’t see where my life was about to go, and it terrified me. This time, as I finished the turns-out-it-wasn’t-forever Harry Potter, I had to smile about all the unexpected directions it’s taken. If I had been able to see my future, I wouldn’t have recognized it. How could I have recognized the 32-year-old version of myself who would color her hair like a peacock, earn an IMDb page, become a minister-by-the-powers-of-the-internet, write stuff on a blog that eleventy billion people would read, and occasionally ask herself if life in Nebraska would be so bad? (Ok, there aren’t that many regular readers of my blog…. But some days it feels like it.) And who knew that version of me would be reading a new Harry Potter book?

Life is weird. I should stop trying to predict it.

This really, really isn’t what I wanted to write about this weekend. But after pushing through and doing all of this weekend’s have-tos, I’m finding this to be the only thing I can write about….

Like everyone who calls Mukilteo home, I’m thinking about the shooting that happened late Friday night. I don’t want to write the details; you can read about it at the link, or plenty of other news sources.

My peer group and I are reeling. We didn’t know the people involved, but shave off a few years, and we would have known them. We basically were them.

They went to Kamiak High School. So I’m remembering Kamiak. I remember feeling pretty safe and protected from the world most of the time; we were 90s kids in an idyllic town overlooking the Puget Sound, and I don’t think lockdown drills were a thing yet.

But you know what else I remember? I remember the bookends to my KHS years–freshman year was Columbine (Remember how that was a tragedy we’d never imagined, not “oh no, another school shooting?”), and senior year was 9/11 (Remember how that felt so impossibly surreal and nobody knew what to do next, instead of “Here come the pundits, seizing another chance to make the same political arguments as always, and everybody will have added a filter to their profile photo within an hour…?”). The world wasn’t safe then either, and we were just starting to realize it. We were teenagers, still kids, and we didn’t know what to do with that kind of fear. But we were also teenagers, on the brink of becoming adults, and the world was asking serious questions about how to become a safer place while maintaining the freedoms we treasure as Americans… and we were starting to realize it would be our responsibility to answer them.

You know what else I remember? I remember the choir room. The safe space. When life was too much to deal with, choir was always comfortingly predictable. Always the same people, in the same routines. We went on a retreat in the woods every fall, sang the Messiah and Carol of the Bells every winter, and went on some big trip every spring. We made beautiful music and memories together. It’s almost cliche to refer to the “choir family,” but I realized how extended that family is when I went back to visit several years later. The kids didn’t just follow all the same routines I remembered, they’d heard of my class! “You were one of the blesseds?!” Yes, I was. Yes, I am.

The shooting involved choir kids. That means they’re extended family. When I watch videos of them singing, I just have to close my eyes, and I can see my own generations of choirlings, plain as day.

You know what else I remember? Coming home from college in the summers, and reuniting with friends. Having people to “catch up” with made us feel a tiny bit adult, while falling into old patterns made us feel like we’d never really grow up, or maybe wish that we didn’t have to. Exactly the same as these college kids were doing Friday night. On the same street they were partying on. The only thing separating us from them is time.

You know what else I remember? The Harbour Pointe LDS Church building. I went to church there, youth activities there, early morning seminary there. I got to know God there. I felt the love of being part of a giant church family there. It was a refuge.

It was also the gathering place for kids and their families after Friday night. It hosted a vigil on Sunday night.

You know what else I remember? Every single mass shooting since I became a teacher. Every lock-in, lock-out, lock-down, whatever they’re calling them this year, drill since I became a teacher, all of which stir up memories of those shootings. Because now it’s not just about feeling unsafe; now it’s worrying about the safety of the kids. Kids who I love like my own. Kids who trust me to keep them safe. Kids whose families trust me to keep them safe. And on a regular, day-to-day basis, I do a pretty good job of it. Most kids feel safe enough in my room to express themselves, to make mistakes, to have fun, to ask for help, to try things, to share bad news, to share good news, to be themselves. But what about when I can’t keep them safe? What about the stuff I can’t protect them from?

Those kids in Mukilteo had some of the same teachers I had. And those teachers are living one of my nightmares right now.

You know what else I remember? Every kid I’ve taught that was holding onto some deep and unresolved issues. Emotional issues, psychological issues, issues that clouded the light in their eyes. Kids who got everything I had to give and services from those more qualified than myself, but it never seemed like enough. They might be the bullied, or the bullies, or both, or neither. Kids that were hurting somehow. Kids that might be capable of hurting others one day, especially if they have easy access to a weapon. I hurt for them when they were my students, and if the worst should ever happen, I’d hurt for them then too.

Those same Mukilteo teachers are living that nightmare also.

I don’t know how to end this post. A plea for better gun laws? For better mental health services? To stop hate and remember love? Do I express my love for the communities that I’ve found homes in? Do I express my faith that God is still with us? Hope for a better tomorrow? Despair for how the todays feel like they keep getting worse? Condolences to the families and those close to them?

All of those things. But… I don’t have closure right now, so I can’t write closure. Just… here we are.

A friend reminded me that I forgot a chapter in my guide to dressing like Portland… I neglected the rainbow chapter!

I’ve always been a lover of the rainbow… My elementary school drawings included a giant rainbow across the sky every single time. I once dressed as Rainbow Brite for Halloween–and that wasn’t  elementary school, but in my 20s! Colors make me happy. They always have.

Portland is a rainbowy city. And I love it. I love living in a time and place where people can be who they are, and love who they love, and generally not have to hide or fear. I know there are mountains of complicated politics and religious beliefs complicating that statement all over the place, and I don’t have all the answers to all the things. But I do have a simple happiness in other people’s happiness, and love for love. I’m anti-hiding, anti-bullying, anti-fear. And I feel like that’s a very Portland way to be.

So when things happen that make my world feel less rainbowy, kind, and loving, when I see my LGBT friends and neighbors hurting… there isn’t much I can do about it. But I do like to wear one of these Portland outfits, as a bat signal of love to anyone who needs it. Because, really, who doesn’t need a bat signal of love sometimes?

There’s the prismy rainbow dress….I almost forget how much I love this dress! It needs to come out more often. Also, I’m going to have to do red in my hair again sometime….

When I want to be even brighter and bolder, but also warmer, there’s the rainbow sweater. Worn over a black dress in this photo, but it goes with pretty much anything and everything. And I love it. There’s also a rainbow headband happening here, just in case there wasn’t enough rainbow… The world needed a lot of love that weekend, so I did what I could. (I was definitely in need of a fresh color job in my hair though. Looks like some severely faded purple with roots for days…)

I can be a straight girl who decks herself out proudly in rainbows. Because I am Portland…. Or at least I dress Portland. 🙂

So now that I’ve been on Portlandia and shoulder the responsibility of representing my city, I’m perfecting the art of how to dress like Portland. I don’t mean how to dress like Portlanders dress; I mean how to dress like the city itself. If Portland were a person, this is what its wardrobe would look like. It’s time to document this style journey…

The project began when I was randomly invited for the audition. I had no idea what a person wears to audition for a tv show, but after a little facebook crowdsourcing, I came up with this…

We don’t carry umbrellas in Portland, or anywhere in the Northwest. But we can wear them ironically on our clothing. This umbrella print skirt is one of my favorite things, especially when I pair it with a notice-me-yellow top. (We don’t get enough sunshine in our Vitamin D deprived city, so I like to do my part by providing the sunny yellow.) And the outfit absolutely needed these shoes–normal people would call them brown Oxfords. I alternately refer to them as my hipster shoes, my old man shoes, or my American Girl doll shoes.

And accessories are important, so let’s not fail to give credit to the quirky cat necklace.

I don’t know exactly why this outfit needed a quirky cat necklace, or why that fits the Portland theme. We’re really more of a dog loving city. Maybe when I wear it, people think it’s a dog? Whatever, it just felt right.

Having discovered my love for umbrella skirts, I came across this LuLaRoe maxi, and had to have it. There wasn’t even a choice in the matter; it just had to happen. The umbrellas and the raindrops and the utter essence of Portland…. I stuck with the bright yellow on top. I think it’ll be cuter with red flats next time, but it’s very hard to talk myself into wearing anything but boots in the winter.

You have to zoom in to appreciate the full value of this skirt. The blue umbrellas have tiny unicorns on them!

 

Portland is a unicorn of a city. Magical, mythical, you can’t believe it’s real, even when you’re looking right at it. (Although it does have the ability to stab you. And it’s pretty white….) This Portland unicorn sticker lives on the side of my chair (thanks, Powell’s), and is another one of my favorite things.

 

 

My mission to dress like Portland continued when I fell in love with these leggings, which my friend said reminded her of the PDX carpet. There can’t possibly be another city in the world that loves its airport carpet with the same fervor that Portland loved this one. The carpet may have been replaced a couple years ago, but it will live forever in our hearts… and our tshirts, socks, mugs, key chains, and all varieties of merch. I have a pair of earrings that another friend says are reminiscent of PDX carpet, so obviously I had to wear them with the leggings.

And this outfit was born.

I am PDX.

Fun fact: I also wore that chambray shirt on Portlandia, only buttoned, and the costume department deemed it “very Carrie.” So, the outfit scores a couple more Portland points.

Next. For the last six years, I’ve had a fashion rule for myself: nothing with a bird on it. It was too cliche; I just couldn’t do it. Sometimes I’d find really cute things, but with a bird, and I’d get mad at Portlandia for taking birds away from me. When I fell in love with this shirt, I felt the familiar irritation rising… and then I realized, things have changed. Portlandia is part of me now. I not just can, but should own something with a bird on it. So I bought the shirt, enjoying my new fashion freedom, and saved it for the day my episode would air.

Since it was an occasion, I had to go all the way with my theme, and wear bird earrings too.

Hummingbirds are kind of my spirit animal. They just speak to me. And for some reason, I’ve stumbled into learning the word “hummingbird” in three indigenous languages, plus, of course, Spanish.

For Portlandia day, Carolee got in the spirit by wearing her bicycle scarf. Portland loves bikes even more than it loves putting birds on things! We tied ourselves together with the scarf, because sharing also feels like the spirit of Portland.

I’m told that by sharing a scarf, we may or may not be married in Hawaii. I haven’t investigated this alleged tradition. But Carolee’s husband is a cool guy, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me being her Hawaiian spouse. It feels like an oddly Portland arrangement.

Keep Portland weird! But not ugly. 🙂

I tend to  believe the future is never really coming. Does that mean I’m still mentally a teenager? Maybe. I usually have a mental calendar that goes to the next break from school, and then ends. (If I were Mayan, you’d all have 2012 style crises about six times per year.) That means I’m likely to enthusiastically agree to anything you ask, as long as it’s far enough in advance. Whatever it is, it sounds like a great idea, because deep down in my heart, I don’t really believe it’s ever going to happen.

And then I’m always wrong, and the day of reckoning comes.

Last summer, it seemed like a great idea to say yes when Portlandia texted me out of the blue, and asked, “Hey, random person who’s never even thought about acting before. Want to audition for an episode?” And it seemed like an even greater idea to say yes when they actually gave me the role! I feel like those are the kind of adventures that you don’t think about; you just say yes and go along for the ride.

My attitude from the first text message was, “Hey, this will give me a story to tell later.” And I’ve definitely told the story! I feel bad for certain people who must be so tired of hearing it. I don’t usually bring it up, but everybody else asks about it. So the people who spend the most time around me, end up hearing about it all the time.

Sorry-not-sorry, I guess. This part’s been fun! I love having a good story to tell. It’s fun to get a little attention. It was a crazy experience that I never dreamed I’d have, and I’m sure nothing like it will happen again, so while it lasts, I’m smiling and enjoying the moment.

But up until now, I’ve had all the control over the story. Everybody knows my version of events, and that’s it. For all anyone knows, I could be making the entire thing up!

That ends Thursday…

Well, more like Friday. Who watches TV live anymore? At 10:00? On a school night? Not even to see my own acting debut. Guys, I’m old.

This is the part where it feels like possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had!! I have absolutely no idea what this scene is going to look like. I could be completely cut out and laying forgotten on the editing room floor. Or…. I could look and sound like a complete fool. I probably do. I didn’t know what I was doing! I didn’t know what to do with my face, my hands, anything. When I’m nervous, my voice gets even more high-pitched and irritating than normal. Who wants to listen to that? Ugh…. And in front of the world? Other people will see this! Didn’t I consider that last August??

No, not really. Because in August, I didn’t believe in February.

I’ll miss this whole phase of the Portlandia story, when nobody’s seen anything and it all feels imaginary. After this week, it’s entirely possible that I’ll never want to talk about it again.

Or I’ll run away to Hollywood and dedicate the rest of my life to my acting career.

Definitely one or the other. 😉

(This Thursday night on IFC, Portlandia episode 6.6!)