A Safe Place

It’s been a long, crazy winter. First, there hasn’t actually been a winter. One snow day early in January and it has been smooth sailing. It’s actually been kind of spooky with all the warm days. I would attribute that to global warming, if that actually existed. (She writes sarcastically.)

Secondly, three of our four children are in transition, transitioning back to Kentucky without definitive plans, no cash on hand and with a total of 4 cats. Lucky for them they are all cute with giving hearts and sacred dreams.

Walter and I have realized that no matter how old your children may be, their transition equals our sleepless nights and countless rounds of the “What If” game. We’re old and any interruption of our dog walks, crossword puzzles and Jeopardy viewing can send us into a tail spin.

Anyway, in the old days, before Prozac and Grace (both my dog and the holy kind), my “safe place,” more often than not was my classroom. In Room 206, I find my sanctuary surrounded my 25 loud children, eager for chicks to hatch or reading a fantastic book together.

For the better part of six hours, I get to close the door and live in an alternate universe. A world where we make rules together, like use kind words and take turns and go to the bathroom when you need to pass gas.

During my divorce, even during those scary infant days of my recovery, walking into my classroom was like walking into church for some. I knew there was no judgement, we could talk through our problems, that forgiveness and love would live to see another day.

So this time, when change and uncomfortableness made its way into my heart and mind, I breathed a sigh of relief. This was a slam dunk. Now I had Prozac, Grace AND this sacred space called Room 206.

Talk about being wrong.

Over the winter, while I was busy assessing standards, creating common formative assessments, graphing outcomes and continually unpacking and frontloading – the new catchphrases in the world of education – Donald Trump’s Great America had slithered its way under our door, bringing the vile into the holy.

During an altercation over a pair of scissors, one of my boys told a friend that she needed to take her unibrow and go back to Mexico. He informed her that “Trump is building a wall and you need to be on the other side of it.”

Now, keep in mind, that he is a beautiful blonde hair, brown eyed boy who has a tender heart and is going through a brutal custody battle of his parents making, and this vile spewed forth from this tender and innocent mouth. With his anger and frustration building for days, his feelings found no true words so he resorted to the words of his parents and president. (sit with that for a minute. He was only repeating the words of his parents and our president!)

Trying to show as much bravado as one can with a chip on his shoulder weighing more than he does, he defiantly continued, “Maybe I am a racist. I mean, no one likes me anyway.” With that statement, he was suspended and eventually moved to a different classroom so his victim could feel safe and he could start with a clean slate. I hope that actually happens.

Next day a text message from an angry parent is sent to my co-teacher, Bonnie, and me expressing her dislike for the person her son chose to research during our unit on “People who have made a difference.”

Her son had chosen to research Malala. Malala is a young woman from Pakistan, a Muslim, who spoke out against the Taliban over girls not being permitted to go to school. Her opposition resulted in her being shot and her family fleeing to England for safety. She has received a Nobel Peace Prize and continues to speak for women and education around the world.

Back to the text. Her son would not be studying a Muslim girl from Pakistan. She expected him to be assigned an American, maybe a president. Thankfully, I did not actually see the text until the morning after she sent it. Bonnie on the other hand read the text as she was going to bed and spent a sleepless night.

I was left speechless, which rarely happens, along with a broken heart and an infinite amount of frustration.

I’ve tried to find the middle ground of this new administration. I honestly have because people that I love and care for voted for Trump, and it haunts me to know that these good, faithful folks cast even one vote that caused a little boy to confidently tell a fellow classmate to get on the other side of the wall, or a mother to be brave enough to demand that her son would not be learning about a little girl from Pakistan.

I know their positions on gun control, coalmining, abortion, sexuality caused most of them to vote against Hillary Clinton rather than for Trump, and while I don’t agree with their politics, I understand their fear about changes that sometimes seem to threaten their personal way of life.

 I also know that they believe I am a bleeding heart liberal with a confused moral compass and that they pray for me to find the right path, and I know that their prayers are without malice and with hearts full of love.

And, they are partly right.

I’m so far left that it’s probably hard to see me from the middle, but my moral compass is right on point. We follow a Christ that teaches that love is more important than guns and jobs and 401ks and even the enforcement of the religious beliefs we hold onto so desperately.

I get it; it’s just easier to wrap our head around rules than to understand a love with no boundaries and few earthly examples, except for Gandhi and my mother.

While I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about the next four years of the Trump’s presidency, besides calling my representatives, sending letters, and protesting, I’m still in charge of Room 206 and I’ll spend the next 4 years stuffing the cracks with acceptance and love and understanding. I’m going to make sure that the sacredness in our room will crowd out any of Trump’s America that tries to slip under the door. Who knows, maybe the sacredness will even make its way to the hall and right out the front door.