Creating a New Normal This Fall

For many of us, deep loss marked the 2020-21 school year. We yearned for a return to “normal”. We missed the camaraderie and connection with students and colleagues. We lamented the ability to use certain instructional strategies (group work, chalk talks, gallery walks, etc.) that were no longer safe or feasible in this new environment. I too found myself grieving for the past. But, being the practical person that I am, I returned, time and again to one truth.

“Necessity is the mother of invention”.

Growing up in a missionary family, our lives subsisted on the generosity of strangers, on hand-me-downs, and on the miracle-working power of a sewing machine and duct tape. If there’s one thing I know how to do well, it’s how to turn nothing into something. I know how to hustle for resources and find a way when there seems to be no way. This mentality is what kept me afloat so many years working in low-income, high-needs schools. 

It’s this skill set that kept me grounded when school closed in March 2020 and the phrase “quaranteaching” entered my vocabulary. I shared my transition to remote learning in my post, Rona Ramblings Part I. Over the past 18 months, we’ve seen necessity drive innovations in medicine, healthcare, food service, technology, and so on. I love witnessing the creativity and evolution of nearly every industry. We should be proud of the rise of tele-medicine, the increase in hands-free payment options, the innovation in cleaning technology, the ability to enjoy block-busters from the comfort of our living rooms or even the thriving sales of e-books. 

All of this is context for why I’m so adamant about not returning to a pre-covid “normal”, particularly in the realm of education. As my podcast co-host, Megan Holyoke, commented recently “going back to a ‘normal’ school year reminds me of those who clung to the ‘Make America Great Again’ slogan.”  And, in the same way we interrogate the sentiment behind MAGA, I think we should question our own desire to return to teaching and learning of the idealized past. 

What was so “great” about learning pre-covid? How well were we serving our students? Who was the center of the classroom?  Who benefited from the policies and practices of our school system? Who’s voices were we listening to? Who was left out? Who was institutionally marginalized?

After a summer that was far too short, the new school year has arrived. It’s here. The tweets, posts, and published musings of a return to pre-pandemic times are moot points. Here’s why.

First, you cannot have a traumatic event that impacted everyone on the planet and remain exactly the same. While one may argue that each person experienced trauma conditional on factors such as race, socio-economics, or geography, no one was left untouched. There is no “return to normal”. There can be creation of a new normal but the pre-trauma period is forever altered. Our memories will fill the pages of many books to come. We will (hopefully) reflect on our experiences in such a way that real growth will occur.  Pretending this was an insignificant blip on the timeline of life, does us no good. We cannot go backwards. Stop trying to erase this moment. 

Second, why tho? Was pre-pandemic education and schooling actually that terrific, joyous, and easy? It wasn’t. Let’s stop pretending. Students weren’t engaged 100% of the time. Our prom wasn’t that spectacular. Just because we had a sweet spreadsheet to manage our standardized testing routine, doesn’t mean that it was benefiting students and staff. Do we really want to MEGA (Make Education Great Again) our upcoming school year? I don’t think so. And I hope you cringed when you read that last line. 

Our memories of the past are tinged with a nostalgia that distorts the truth. 

I refuse to accept last year as a loss (more on that in a future blog post) and go back to some bygone sense of reality. 

Full disclosure ya’ll. I do not believe this pandemic is over. If you don’t believe me, check out the Delta variant memes or this Time article. However, as we begin to see a light at the end of this very dark tunnel, we need to confront our tendencies to glorify the past. We must release the old routines and structures we cling to. Instead, we ought to anticipate the uncertainty and prepare for the unexpected of the new school year.

In effort to do that, here are a few of the steps I’m taking to mentally, emotionally, and physically prepare myself for trash can fires of the fall.

1. Make a plan A, B, and C. I am engaging in a thought experiment that places me in a range of teaching conditions. I’m thinking about my desk space if I teach from home. I’m preparing for how I will eat safely on campus if I’m in-person. I’m envisioning how to partner students for collaborative work with social distancing, revisiting keys to success in a hybrid environment, or if I’m teaching in a concurrent model. I’m practicing speaking with a mask that is comfortable and matches my work outfits. I’m anticipating ways to distribute and collect student work. 

2. Keep My Personal Routines. Much of last year was tolerable because I reorganized my morning routines (coffee, prayer, journaling) and my weekend habits (one day dedicated to my mental, emotional, physical and spiritual health). I call my parents every two days. I schedule Zoom dates with my sisters and some college girlfriends. I’ll continue to find joy in exercising, skating, and cooking. 

3. Plus It. Through collaboration with my grade level team, emails with colleagues at my old school, and random voice notes idea-sharing with teacher friends across the world, I have some incredible lessons and corresponding handouts from last year. I’m capitalizing on this work by tweaking or expanding my use of certain tasks. While 5Es framework and hyperdocs were intended to design online learning they are just as relevant this year. I’m adding to my already curated list of best practices and resources for teaching in a pandemic. If you don’t follow Dr. Cailtin Tucker or aren’t familiar with Global Online Academy, go bookmark them right now. 

4. Yes...And...I’m not joining an improv team nor am I approaching this year with toxic positivity. As my friend Camille Jones says, we can do hard things. I may grumble, cry, and drink a couple glasses of vino, but in the end I will face whatever reality is in front of me with as much determination as I can muster. I’m looking at each situation with a “yes/and” mentality so that when I face a mountain of hardship or what seems like an impossible task, I will be able to put one foot in front of the other. Yes, this is tough...and who can I bring along with me in the struggle?  Yes, this schedule sucks...and how can I maximize student interest and class time for deeper learning?

5. Stay Woke. If you’ve read my work before or listened to the podcast, you know I’ve got a speech about educators who pushed equity and justice to the background this last year. Folks stay making excuses for why they cannot engage in the inner or outer work of making the world a better place. The pandemic shone a big, bright spotlight on inequalities across the school system. Anyone who paid attention could see this coming. And now, as the light grows dimmer or fades away, we cannot go back to the “normal” habits of ignoring what is hanging out in the dark. If anything, we should be motivated to fill these gaps and find real solutions for the troubles that plague our schools. If education is not prioritized within pandemic response plans, when will it be?

As we head into a new school year, I hope you are ready--ready to resist a MEGA mindset and commit to creating a better educational experience for each of the students entrusted in your care this year.

Combating Everyday Anti-blackness

I spent the first sixteen years of my life in the Philippines, Hong Kong, and China. My first experience with anti-blackness was in the form of not-so-subtle racism. I was little and my family pastored a church in the Philippines. My local friends used the word negro to describe the very dark-skinned northern Filipinos. Even at a young age, I picked up the negative tone in which that word was used. Simultaneously, I received messages that Black Americans were “cool”, especially if they were rappers or athletes. And that’s basically all I knew. Despite having close friends from over 15 different countries, I had only one Black friend in high school. Although my history books discussed slavery, I watched hours of Patrick Swayze in North & South, I sobbed while reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and my first celebrity crush was Will Smith, I really didn’t get it. Not unlike many white people today, I believed that racism was mostly a thing of the past and anti-blackness was mayhaps exaggerated. I’ll admit that it wasn't until college, when I came to the US, that I really saw, with my own eyes, the way that Black students were treated on a predominately white campus in wealthy Orange County.

Being aware of racism and being aware of anti-blackness are entirely different things.

In retrospect, I think I often conflated anti-blackness and all anti-people of color activities. You know, racism is racism. My life experience growing up in Asia exposed me to racist, anti-brown and anti-black language, but I really think it wasn’t until I started reading more about American history, married into a Black family, and worked with Black youth in public schools that the subtle and not-so subtle ways anti-blackness manifests in our society became real.

It’s in the way educators discuss Black student behaviors in contrast to white student behaviors, or the way they accept Black gregariousness on a football field but not in a classroom. It’s in the surprise that Black males are earning As & Bs in AP classes or the expectation that a Black boy doesn’t like reading. It’s in the way Black boys are perceived as older or Black girls are seen as less innocent than their white peers. It’s also in the way that white people say the word Black awkwardly. It's in the way that white athletes get away with behaviors while Black athletes are chastised and berated for the same thing. It's in the presumed innocence of a white middle aged shopper and the guilt of a Black teen buying a snack for the walk home.

Anti-blackness is both on the surface and embedded in our infrastructure.  If you've never noticed it, it's probably because you haven't had to. As white people we have the privilege to downplay or straight up ignore the ways racism manifests towards Black people in the United States.

In her book, White Fragility, Robin Diangelo explains it this way. “Anti-blackness is rooted in misinformation, fables, perversions, projections, and lies. It is also rooted in a lack of historical knowledge and an inability or unwillingness to trace the effect of history into the present.” If I were to speak for all white people out there, I’d say it is the former that drives our ongoing “othering” of Black people and the latter as to why we continue to allow such horrific actions as the killing of unarmed Black men and women by police officers. Our ignorance and apathy towards our racial history is an integral part of our white identity.

I recently read Carol Anderson’s White Rage: An Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide which challenged me to see our racial divide as a timeline—one large story. For white people, it’s far too easy to see history in pockets, isolated events that really don’t add up to anything. Seeing it as pieces allow us to ignore the larger puzzle. We stay divorced from our own history and blissful in our blindness, making excuses for systemic racism.

As I write this, I’m reminded of when Angela Davis’ said, “in a racist society, it is not enough to be non-racist, we must be antiracist.” It’s not  enough to not be anti-black, I need to actively work against anti-blackness. I need to proactively combat my internalized anti-blackness and actively speak out about the ways our society shapes the narrative against Black people.

So how do I do this?  I certainly don't have all the answers and this is a long journey I’m on, but here are a handful of things I’m trying to do.

First, I’m trying to unequivocally believe Black people. In the same way we’re calling on society to “believe women”, if a Black person tells you what they have experienced, believe them. I know I've dismissed the experiences and stories of anti-blackness (even from people I love). I want to believe it was always done unconsciously, but I'm not sure. As much as it shames and hurts me to reflect back on this, it's not as painful as the impact of my doubt on those relationships.

Second, I’m trying to be better it to interrogate my own thinking and internalized racism about Black people. Since anti-blackness is part of the fabric of this society, it's also part of me. I think the biggest ways I've combated my unconscious bias it to face it. I'm trying to reflect more. Listen more. Read more. I think one of the quickest ways to deal with our biases is to be in community with someone we don’t understand or don’t have a shared lived experience---be it someone of a different religion, race, etc. You can’t continue to think of someone as “other” or “less than” when you are face to face and in the world together.

Third, actually care about Black lives. It’s not enough to wear my Black Lives Matter earrings. I need to actually care about Black lives all around me. One way to do that is to take time to learn Black history...which is also our history. My niece is a young Black girl who is just starting to attend school. I’ve been buying books for her about smart women that look like her. I always skim the books before I wrap them up. I’m a little embarrassed to admit how much I’ve learned. But, at this point, I’m making up for lost time. It’s 2019. I can no longer make excuses or justify my lack of knowledge about our racial history.

Fourth, another way to fight feelings or attitudes of anti-blackness is to immerse yourself in Black excellence. We need to surround ourselves with narratives about Black people that aren’t centered in whiteness and fear of “the other”. I don’t mean pretending you’re woke because you listen to Childish Gambino or read Becoming. And I’d also caution against buying into Black exceptionalism. As a child, I learned about George Washington Carver and Frederick Douglass but their stories were told in a way that I later learned was “white washed”. We need to find, collect, and share counter-narratives about Blackness. A pro-black stance doesn’t mean you will rid yourself of your anti-blackness, but I do think exposure can help usher in authentic paradigm shifts.

Lastly, publicly address anti-blackness when you see or hear it. This might be when you hear a passive aggressive comment about the Black family laughing loudly at the restaurant, when your  your colleague say something weird about their Black students, or when someone is trying to steal black joy at the movie theater. It might be responding to someone’s nonsense on Twitter or challenging your teacher friend about the way their voice changes when they talk about their Black students.

I think the biggest hurdle in fighting anti-blackness is getting white people to realize it exists. I’ll end on a final thought from Diangelo “Our need to deny the bewildering manifestations of anti-blackness that resides so close to the surface makes us irrational, and that irrationality is at the heart of white fragility and the pain it causes people of color.”

My Resolve: Supporting Women of Color in Education

As I previously wrote, I am the white woman I am today because of women of color. One of the primary reasons for this is that I was raised in countries and cultures that valued, honored and actively sought to put women of color in leadership positions, particularly in the church and in community organizations. As a young woman, I thought this was typical but as an adult I understand every place has a unique set of cultural values and norms. When I think about changing the culture of places that don’t value the voices of women, specifically women of color, I am reminded that cultures are dynamic. Although it feels easier said than done, cultures can change through the interactions of people, their ideas, their stories, and even through their conflicts.  

While only 18% of teachers in the US are teachers of color, I maintain hope, that we are making some progress to include more diverse voices in teaching. In Washington state, our Professional Educator Standards boards is developing “Grow your Own” pathways. There are programs like The Martinez Foundation and Educators Rising who are mentoring young people of color into the teaching profession. On a micro-level, there are principals (like mine)  who intentionally recruit teachers who reflect student demographics. At Lincoln, I’m lucky to work with a staff who is racially, linguistically, and culturally diverse. Not only do I learn from these teachers, but our students can see Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Black, Latino, and Pacific Islanders in positions of leadership and authority in our school.

All this to say, in 2017, it’s more important than ever that students of all races see more women of color in teaching.

I know. This isn’t a profound idea nor does this address the problem with the lack of men of color in education (I’ll post about that later!).

As both a solutions and action-oriented person, I realize that if  I want to work with more women of color then I need to do something about it on systems and personal levels. I must support these women as much as possible. I am trying to do this through my leadership at Teachers United, my role as a mentor teacher, and my work with students.

On a systems level: Last year, I led a policy team for Teachers United that researched ways to support beginning educators. One of the primary ways to support beginning teachers of color (TOC) is to create a school culture that is inviting where TOCs feel welcomed and an integral part of the community. This means they are part of teaching and learning. This means seeing these teachers at instructional leaders, not disciplinarians. This means white teachers should work alongside and even step aside for TOCs to lead the work. Read the rest of our policy recs here. These recommendations are a starting point and need to be implemented by districts and schools everywhere. However, if I want them to be adopted elsewhere, then I had better be willing to apply them in my own school.

On a building level: This is where my role as an experienced teacher kicks in. My classroom is always open for a discussion about teaching. I intentionally support three local university teacher prep programs through classroom observations and have informally supported many pre-service teachers. However, in eleven years I’ve only taken on two student teachers. Because I am neurotic about teaching, judgy about who I spend countless hours co-planning with, fearful of screwing kids up, and certain that education is life and death for many of our young people, I want to make sure that I’m ready to give/receive from a student teacher. Increasingly over the last five years, I’ve felt compelled to be more actively support potential TOCs. If I want to see more teachers of color in the classroom, I need to use my classroom to cultivate that. That conviction coupled with the reality of having only so much energy (and the above neurosis), I’m more selective about who I take on as a student teacher. I think I’ve settled on two requirements for my future student teachers: they are students at The Evergreen State College or they are young women of color. Sure this makes me a snob and it’s not like I’m dismissing up and coming white women, but with every potential teacher candidate I think who do I want to work next to in two years? Who do my students need to see in front of them?

The long game: My other scheme to increasing the number of teachers of color, especially young women of color, is a three-pronged “inception” strategy. First, I keep an eye out for young women of color displaying those teacher skills like corralling an unruly table group or carefully and patiently explaining a concept to a partner. I strike up a nonchalant conversation to test the waters. “Have you ever thought about being a teacher because…”  and then we talk about what she wants to do for a career. Stage two entails a shift from subtle hints to explicit statements. “You’d be a great teacher” I throw out there. “Wow, you seemed really comfortable explaining that to the class--you should be a teacher!” I exclaim. “You remind me of Professor X from the Xmen. His pedagogy was on point” (nah, I’ve never said that one). The final stage is constant badgering. This is for the student who isn’t even in my class anymore but whenever I see her in the hallway I make a move with comments:

“Have you figured out what class you’d teach?”

“Do you need a letter of recommendation?”

“What teacher prep program are you applying to next year?”

“Wouldn’t it be great to work together one day?”

I bug the student for the next three years of high school every time I walk by her in the hallway. Does it work? Eh, I have yet to see, but fingers crossedl (to be fair, this is a new strategy and two of my targets just graduated this year!).

This interchangeable white lady can’t do everything to fix the systemic barriers for recruiting women of color. But, I can try to inspire young women of color to be my future colleagues and eventually replace me completely (heeey, retirement, I see you).

Educators Can’t Ignore Immigrant Rights Issues

Who can focus on Okonkwo’s motivations, SAT prep, or how to write a rhetorical analysis essay when you’re worried about whether or not your family will be picked up in an ICE raid at your apartment complex? Certainly, not any student who is directly or indirectly impacted by Trump’s executive orders on immigration (read this annotated NPR analysis of the January order or NY Times take on the revised travel ban).

Some educators think that students are over-reacting, that ICE agents won’t arrest parents or someone who is minding their own business, or that a school cannot be raided. These beliefs stem from misinformation and--to a certain extent-- chosen ignorance. After all, it’s pretty clear that immigrant rights are under attack. Yet hiding behind our citizenship privilege is much easier than searching the internet for data to triangulate or trying to understand why a student from a mixed-status family might be breaking down in your classroom.

If we care about students, then it’s worth taking the time to do what teachers do best--learn and advocate!

It was the desire to know more and to protect our students in an emergency that led my co-teacher, Monique LeTourneau, to appeal to our district school board shortly after the first executive order was signed. This resulted in a declaration from our board and a letter from our Superintendent announcing that Tacoma Public Schools is a safe zone for immigrant students. But many of us knew this wasn’t enough. Our students weren’t feeling safe. Parents were keeping their students at home. And fear was coming to the surface.

We knew we needed to do something else. Ideas evolved over collaborative lunches. The end result was a multi-pronged approach--to move what we could influence and control. As teacher leaders we knew we could speak with our principal to make an emergency plan and meet with our classified and certificated staff to ensure we all understood the basics of the issue and how to protect students. In our building we are implementing the advice from the AFT handbook. Meanwhile, my partner and fellow educator Nate Bowling began to dream of a teacher town hall where 100 educators could receive legal advice for how to support our undocumented students.

That dream came to the fruition. The Tacoma Education Association provided the space to meet. Nate and Monique compiled a stellar panel with representatives from the ACLU, Washington Dream Coalition, and Northwest Immigrant Rights Project. They shared their wisdom and knowledge and answered questions for the 130 educators in attendance and over 3,000 online viewers of our live feed.

My Takeaways from the Teacher Town Hall:

1. Immigration enforcement isn’t new. The Obama administration deported more immigrants than any previous president.

2. While the law is consistent, it seems like local authorities and laypersons alike don’t know what it says. There is a ton of misinformation circulating, but experts like the ACLU are current on the issues. Read and know your rights.

3. Enforcement of immigration laws seems left to the interpretation of enforcing authorities. I learned that it’s a federal misdemeanor to enter the US without documentation, but you can be in the US without official papers and it’s not a crime (CNN explains it pretty well here). Furthermore, authorities such as ICE and the local police department could interpret the notion of "criminal" completely different and enforce immigration laws in contradictory ways.

4. Always get a lawyer. While the state is not required to provide a lawyer (even if you ask for one), a lawyer is the only one who can really do anything for an undocumented person in custody---not parents, friends, or advocates...only the lawyer. It's recommended to keep an immigration lawyer's contact on hand.

5. Mixed status families experience a unique kind of fear due to the fact that they will literally be ripped apart with parents and children being separated from each other.

6. It will probably get worse before it gets better. Nuff said.

7. You can't do this work alone, but you can't wait for someone else to do it. We are in unprecedented times in our country. We cannot allow fear and uncertainty to immobilize us. Rather, we must maintain hope and organize for what we know and believe is right.

The last few months I’ve been inspired by my colleagues who strive to keep abreast of the changes in immigration policy in order to alleviate student fears and prepare to protect these children. I encourage you to do the same by organizing your own forums or reaching out to your school district to make a statement in support of your immigrant and refugee students. Start by reading the materials and watching the video from our event.

Woke-ish Interchangeable White Ladies March Together

For some, getting “woke” happens at a specifically horrific moment in time. For me, it’s been a gradual process, like a slow climb up an arduous, winding path on an active Volcano.  Each step leads to a new realization, a new awareness, and a new sense of urgency.  Most recently this coincided with the inauguration and subsequent protest. It was obvious I was not the only one feeling compelled by the recent events in our country as almost every city who hosted saw four to ten times as many participants as expected. While exact numbers are shaky because Facebook RSVPs are hokey and no one predicted a response like this, clearly people were waking up. You could feel the awakening in the rush of excitement and the spirit of hopefulness surging like current through the park. Men, women, and children of all ages; white, black, brown, and beige armed with signs of defiance and declarations of resolve. We were here for one thing: to support women. In Seattle that support looked 130,000 different ways.  The official Women’s March Platform elaborates on everything from ending violence against womxn’s bodies, to reproductive rights and environmental justice. Despite the organization’s attempt to include all womxn, it's far from perfect. Whether you're a critic, a participant, or both, here’s why I marched and will continue to do so.

I march because sexism still exists in 2017.

From the wage gap to explicitly sexist and violent language from our politicians, sexism is thriving in America. If you haven’t noticed it, talk to a woman. If for some odd reason a white woman can’t tell you, ask a woman of color because, y’all, it’s different (see the next bolded statement below).

Many, myself included, have internalized sexism and act upon it without even knowing it.  In the span of the time that it took me to get from Tacoma to the rally, I had a barrage of thoughts that reflect the normalization of gender roles in our society. Let me recount a couple. First, I was concerned that my male  friend felt comfortable marching with us. Then, I joked about how at least at a womxn’s march we know we can find anything we need in the many, many, many purses, backpacks, and diaper bags present. Later, I chuckled at the thought of our cycles being in sync. Clearly, I need to slap myself and challenge my own thinking and internalized sexism.

I march because racism is alive and well in our country.

Courtesy of Google Images

You only need to drive across town or pull up Google to see that we still have drastic social and economic disparities in this country. From household wealth to prison sentences, we have a significant problem with systemic racism (if you want a long, historical perspective and have a few hours, go watch the documentary Race: The Power of Illusion). Burying our heads in our phones or our homogeneous places of worship won't stop it. In fact, let's stop pretending that racism wasn't a factor in the recent elections. Let's stop pretending that white women, who voted against their best interests as women, contributed to between 56-63% of the Trump votes, and this is a tremendous (or should I say HUGE?) problem. The cognitive dissonance one must experience to vote as a woman for Trump reminds me of Stockholm syndrome. How did so many women forget/ignore the copious insults, shaming, and blatant misogyny? Was abortion really the number one issue for these women? What about being pro whole life? To be fair, many of the nice, white, middle-class ladies who marched last month might have stayed home and refused to vote. While the consequences of their actions might only indirectly affect them, the advancement of these women is intricately linked the advancement of all women. As Marianne Cooper from the Clayman Institute for Gender Research at Stanford says, "gender is not lived in isolation--it is intimately connected to one's race, one's sexuality, one's social class, and to one's ethnicity." It is a privilege for white women to ignore this intersectionality and we (white women) must be called out on our hypocrisy. It’s not enough to wear pink hats and attend a low-stakes march; we must take responsibility for our choices and the ensuing ramifications.

I march because people in power are scared when the oppressed gather in solidarity.

This sign (to the left) made me laugh, cringe, and then feel proud.  It’s simultaneously a clever Shakespearean reference, a commentary on the voicelessness of women, and a warning to those who seek to oppress the voice of a significant portion of the world’s population.

As my crew walked to the rally, we passed many nervous-faced dudes who anxiously looked towards the park and signs promoting girl power. Why were they afraid? We chuckled, but I think their reaction is indicative of something greater.

Throughout history people in power try to squash the voices of the “weaker”.  From anti-slavery marches, to Vietnam or Iraq anti-war rallies, or even Black Lives Matter events, today protesters are continually characterized as emotional, irrational, violent, or fringe. In fact, what they are afraid of is that we will break the status quo. They are afraid that the charade is over and that their position in the world is threatened and thus they must respond by spinning a narrative. She’s a nasty woman. Those protesters are animals.  They’re mad because their candidate lost the election. They’re emotional and can’t think clearly. They just read fake, opinion based news. They wouldn’t know a fact from their butt hole.

I march because dissent is patriotic.

I’ve always been argumentative. Blame it on nature or that my parents raised me to stand up for myself and those around me. The freedom to dissent is our First Amendment right and when we extend critique based in knowledge, facts, and research we are making our nation stronger. This kind of dissent isn’t just arguing for argument’s sake as some are won’t to do. It’s not offering #alternativefacts. What I'm talking about is the kind of dissent that holds us accountable. When society says slavery is the natural order of man, dissent calls it out. When the world says it’s okay to kill unarmed black men, a dissenter must say no, Black Lives Matter.  

We cannot and must not remain silent about the injustice towards those around us. It doesn't matter if you are “directly” affected by it. You are benefiting from this system.

I march because I have the privilege and therefore the responsibility.

Courtesy of FB

For me, this woman’s sign says it all. If you've been given privileges by society, you have a moral obligation to use them for someone besides yourself. If you are a person of faith--whatever you believe in-- this is even more so. You have a responsibility to a higher power to live your life with purpose.

I would rather err on the side of supporting the hungry, the thirsty, the homeless, the poor, or the outcast and be wrong than live blissfully, ignoring the concerns of the world, and end up on the wrong side of history.

Get woke and stay woke.

Trumpression: What One Interchangeable White Lady Felt After the Election

The results of election night cast a long, gloomy shadow across my household, my classroom, and my life the past month. Despite the influx of blog posts and Facebook activism, many people (white people *cough, cough) don’t seem to understand why this is a big deal. It’s not enough to point out that it’s concerning to have a leader with no experience in politics, no understanding of American government, or human rights. It’s an understatement to say that I’m angry that we’ve accepted a man who consistently demonstrates misogynistic, racist, xenophobic behaviors and ideals to be our president-elect (I’m not here to argue with you if you don’t agree with those labels).

As a woman his power concerns me because at best we now have a president with a cavalier attitude towards sexual assault who consistently objectifies women’s bodies while insulting their brains. At worst, I have a new president who will work to pass laws that continue to keep me paid poorly and take away my reproductive rights.

As a white woman who cares about my family, I fear for the future of the people I fiercely love--my husband, my brother-in-law, my sister-in-law, my biracial nieces and nephews,many of my close friends, and certainly my students.  As a white woman who cares about intersectionality, I believe that “an injustice to one is an injustice to all”. More than ever those of us with societal capital must wake up and use our privileges to fight for those whose rights are threatened or increasingly under attack.

So when I thought about our future and looked out across the sea of black, brown, beige, and white faces the day after the election, I felt panic. I felt fear. I felt rage. And...I felt hopelessness. I suppose I maybe kind sorta feel a tiny bit of the daily terror that many people of color, many LGBQT, or religious minorities face EVERY SINGLE DAY.

I just couldn’t follow the advice of all the well-meaning articles. Tell your students you’ll keep them safe. I can’t keep them safe from being deported. I can’t keep a kid safe when someone is spitting on him or calling him the N-word. Tell your students that many people are frustrated by the economy. Yes, because despite his approval ratings, Obama may actually be the president who actually positively impacted. I think not. I found some solace and support in the advice from Teaching Tolerance, including being honest with your students about potential impact of race and class in society. In the following weeks, I’ve pulled myself off the couch, thrown away the tub of ice cream, tossed my shoulders back and faced my students. I’m embarrassed to admit how much Dave Chapelle, Chris Rock, and SNL nailed it with their election night skit. I don’t feel hopeful, but I do feel resolved.

Now, more than ever white women--especially white educators--need to grow some ovaries and be the allies we know we can be and we need to be. Clearly, we've got some serious problems manifested in the 52-62% of “us” who voted for Trump (that's a blog post for another day). For now, we need to examine our privileges and use what status or voice that provides.

Allyship looks different in 2016 than it did twenty years ago. We need to look to the past for courage but look at the present for direction. There’s a place for marching. There’s a place for demonstrating. There’s a place for donating that hard earned cash to an organization reaching a community I don’t have access to.

In the classroom, I’m determined more than ever to challenge myself to be a culturally responsive ally, who embraces the interchangeable white lady challenge and equips my students to the best of my ability. I regularly ask myself the following questions:

Is my classroom a space where all my students feel safe? Are students reading about contemporary issues that matter in their lives?  Are my students practicing seeing from different points of view? Are we sugarcoating world problems or exploring their complexities and solutions?  How am I developing empathy across racial and cultural differences in my classroom?Am I practicing what I preach?

Goals for a New School Year: #ObserveMe

Note: I started this site for more personal musings on education but I also write for the Stories from Schools blog. Here is an excerpt of a recent post on my goals for the upcoming school year. 

I first spotted the #ObserveMe hashtag on a leisurely scroll through my Twitter feed. This piqued my curiosity. Who’s observing me? What are they observing? As I spiraled down the internet, I found that Math teacher, Robert Kaplinsky, is challenging educators to rethink the way we pursue feedback by making it easy and immediately obtainable. It’s simple. Make a form that says something like “Hi I’m ____. I would like feedback on the following goals:_____”. There is no right way to set up your #ObserveMe sign. Then, adjacent to this invite place a reflection tool. From reflection half-sheets to QR codes connected to google spreadsheets, a teacher can embrace any way that is easy (and I’d argue most meaningful) for them to receive this feedback.

I discovered that while #ObserveMe isn’t quite trending yet, it’s catching fire even at the university level. In teacher prep, some professors are using it as a way to model to preservice teachers the need for a clean feedback loop. Today's teachers are constantly working to fight the isolation that can happen in this profession. We are also always looking for ways to improve and receiving meaningful feedback on our instructional moves is hard to find. Here’s what I like about Kaplinsky’s challenge to teachers.

It increases the frequency of feedback. With #ObserveMe, I don’t need to wait for my administrator’s scheduled visit. I don’t need to wait for end of unit or end of course student reflections. I don’t need to wait for my instructional coach to find time to come into my classroom. I don’t need to wait for a colleague to get a sub so they can meet with me about student learning. In fact, this has the potential to give me more, real, immediate feedback from a variety of perspectives than anything I’ve seen this far in my eleven years of teaching.

For more click here.