When I wasn't who the police thought I was...

Right now, I am struggling with just how disturbing the news is. I hear about what is happening in Iraq and Syria at the hands of the Islamic State, and I want to vomit. Then I read the latest new coming out of Ferguson, Missouri, and I want to cry at the reality of race in America.

I don't really know how we're supposed to respond to news of hate, but I do believe, as a follower of Christ--as one who sees reconciliation as quite central to the message of Christ--silence is not an option.

But it's also difficult.

Namely, because I don't live in America, Iraq, or Syria. Moreover, when speaking of America, I am a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Southern girl. Sometimes I feel even ashamed to speak. I don't know how to speak of racial profiling, because I've never experienced anything but the privilege of favorable profiling. Likewise, I feel stunted in my ability to discuss the frustration, anger, and desperation that we see now exploding in Ferguson.

I'm quite simply the wrong person.

Yet as my Facebook wall fires up with mostly compassionate responses toward the residents of Ferguson, there are a few others--mostly from people with whom I grew up--posting angrily. White people. Angry. And it scares me.

Race is complicated, and white people really have few opportunities to experience the full dimensions of its ever-present existence in daily decision making.

There has lately been an old memory that has haunted me a great deal. It's actually a story I usually enjoy telling, and everyone gets a good laugh, but right now it doesn't feel funny.

You see, a few years back, I lived in southern Louisiana, and I frequently made the 14 hour drive from North Carolina (where my parents lived) to my home in Louisiana in a single day. That allowed me more family time, and I was able to get the drive done with all at once.

However, there was a risk to it, because, at that time, there was no available bridge across the Mississippi to the small parish (Louisiana word for "county") where I lived. On the western side of our little segment of the Mississippi was New Roads, my home at the time, and on the eastern side was the much wealthier (and whiter) town of St. Francisville. This meant that at the very end of my drive, I was required to take a ferry from St. Francisville to New Roads. The risk was not leaving early enough and missing the last ferry for the night.

Well, one particular holiday return, I apparently had allowed time to slip by a little too much, and as my car wound through St. Francisville, just miles from my home, I had the heart-sickening realization, I might not make it.

I did what anyone would do: I sped up. Not a lot. But enough. About 10 miles over the speed limit.

I should add that at this point the road I was on could only be going in one direction. In just a couple more miles, it would dead-end at the ferry stop. There was absolutely no other place I could be going. From wealthy St. Francisville. To New Roads.

That was when the lights began to flash behind my car. Shoot, as I glanced ahead, I noticed the speed limit had dropped 10 more miles. My first time ever to be pulled by a cop had to be when I most desperately needed to rush!

I was not afraid, naturally, only frustrated. I did not even notice or pay attention to the fact that I was in a darkened area, where there would be no witnesses to whatever occurred. It did not even strike me as an important detail.

Then as I turned off my car's engine and pushed the break in, I had my first fright.

The police's lights continued blinking and shining, and out of the microphone of the car, I heard the policeman's voice boom, "Will the driver of the car, please, exit the vehicle with the hands in the air!"

Mind you, though I had never been pulled by a police officer before, I had been in the car many times before, and I was well aware I was not being handled normally.

That's when I first realized how dark it was and how the nearest businesses weren't necessarily close enough to be paying any attention. That's when my heart skipped a beat, and I wondered what this officer's intentions were. The officer's orders boomed again. That's when I considered restarting my car and going until I found a well-lit place where others could witness the transaction. But I was also frightened that this man would assume it was a chase.

I was terrified, when I finally complied. I stepped out of the car with my hands in the air, as the officer got out of his car, his hand on his holster.

And then he saw me.

The elderly officer broke into a smile, allowed me to get back into my car to find my documents, and asked me how I was doing. He then quite gently asked me if I had noticed I was going above the speed limit.

I was shaking and terrified. I couldn't transition to his friendly demeanor quite so fast.

The man felt bad for me, when he realized I was trying to catch the ferry so that I could teach in the morning and actually told me to get going again and hurry up.

That was all. No ticket. Nothing.

I was speeding.

But I didn't look like the person rushing to New Roads that he thought I would be. Appearances was all it took to reassure him.

I did, in fact, miss the ferry and spent the night in St. Francisville, rising quite early to cross on the ferry the next morning and meet my students at the school.

Usually when I tell this story, using just the right intonation and a wave of my left eyebrow, everyone cracks up at the point where the officer saw me. I mean, I'm this small little blonde-haired teacher with my hands in the air. It is funny.

Except when it's not.

What if I had been someone else? A different teacher? What if I looked different?

Don't get me wrong, I don't think the officer would have shot me, but... The problem with life is that it's full of split-instant decisions, in which quick observations, inform us, accurately or inaccurately, what situation we're in. In my case, before he saw my face, where I was coming from and where I was headed in had frightened him enough to demand I exit my car with my hands in the air. My face, however, quickly cleared me of guilt. What if it had not?

I've always wondered about that. I know it would not have gone so easily that evening.

Right now, this memory is fresh as I look at the frustration and fear exploding out of Ferguson. I can never know what it feels like to fear police daily, because my face has always exempted me from any extra scrutiny by police. I can't know, but I also can't accept how very ignorant to this sort of treatment white Americans sometimes are. Yes, we can't really know, but we can see bits and pieces of it upon occasion, and it ought to be enough to horrify us and inspire only the deepest compassion and a desire to work to see things change. And it must inform our understanding of what is happening.

There's a great article on The Guardian about what's happening in Ferguson and riots in general that I recommend reading: Check it out. Just don't be silent. And think about that anger.

my Louisianan students

I did not appreciate my students enough the last two years. Oh, I suppose it's all quite cliche to make a statement after the fact, but what I'm trying to say is actually more important than the cliches. Sometimes I became so overwhelmed by the experience, by a very real experience that could also be terrifying at times, that I survived on only my time away from work. That was wrong.

I went into Teach for America and into my position specifically, because I believed every child deserved an excellent education, and I still believe that. Yet today, in reflection, I have become overwhelmed with the truth of my frequent attitude. I forgot to repeat to myself and to my students how much I loved them often enough. I let violent threats and assaults control my emotions and my attitude. I was wrong for that.

My students deserved better. My students were fantastic kids who have the real potential to not just do well, but also to impact the world for good. When I let a threat shake me up or when I became overwhelmed by the facts of my school, I did not make the best choice for my students. I, of all people, needed to be their best advocate. I loved my students, and I still love them with my whole heart. My students can succeed. My students have a chance at a good life. My students will be productive citizens.

Yet these mantras do not simply become true by saying them after the fact. I am not confident that I convinced my students of them always, because I escaped emotionally. I learned something about burnout this last year. Its risk is the greatest when you attempt to escape it the most. I did not face the emotions. I did not take time to meditate and pray. I ran. I watched TV. I surfed the internet. I tried not to think about school or the overwhelming grief I felt over what I watched my students experience and do to each other. In doing so, I prevented myself from appreciating them fully. I certainly developed thicker skin, but it was the wrong sort--the type that is cold and distant. I'm not saying that I was this person all the time, and I think most of my students did in fact know another version of me (a kinder, warmer version), but I regret how often I did distance myself from the pain of the situation. I regret that I did not appreciate their young lives and youthful expressions of the image of God everyday. I regret that I ever feared them even for one second. In my fear, I held back a bit of the love that they so desperately needed.

Rosenwald Elementary is getting a new principal this year, and the school will be receiving a significant shake up. I pray for the absolute best for Rosenwald. This is the year for turning things around and showing the community what an excellent education can mean. This is the year for determining that our students have the potential to reach for the highest positions in American society. Rosenwald, I wish you all the best, even as I will not be there for this part of the journey. Most importantly though, Rosenwald teachers and all teachers who find themselves in the particularly challenging schools in this country, I wish for you the deepest and most profound appreciation of your students, no matter what. Cultivate it, because your students so desperately need your appreciation.

As for myself, I am committed to growing in this area. Escape is not a mechanism I want to embrace.

I suppose to all those who've begun reading this blog again, returning to North Carolina deserves a post.

My two year commitment to New Roads, Louisiana is over.

Even typing those words feels strange. How could it be that I will never again puzzle over how to help BL make friends? or CJ to count backwards? or TD to control his anger? or TB to be brave going home everyday? From this point on, I have no further control over their education. I cannot change whether their next teachers think they're smart or not. I cannot control whether they feel safe at school. Even as my focus needs to steadily turn increasingly to preparing for my work along the Thai-Burmese border, my mind falls ever out of habit on the names and faces of my community in New Roads. I have so many hopes and dreams for them, and I pray that their lives will be full of teachers who also carry their hopes and dreams.

Returning to North Carolina is also something. I haven't spent an entire summer here in five years, and I haven't spent longer than a summer here in eight years. This prolonged returned (such as 2 1/2 months feels to me) carries the added weight of all the bittersweet memories from past summers, when old friendships still provided laughter, conversation, and activity. That is not to say in any sort of melodramatic way that there is none of the above now. Certainly I find laughter, conversation, and activity through my parents, brother, and family friends, but things have changed, and time spent here is now a lot quieter and emptier than ever in times past. I suppose that's the thing about growing up and leaving. Some things you can never return to.

ON A SIDE NOTE: I will be sending out the first trial "update" e-mail for my list for while I'm out of the country to make sure all the e-mail addresses I've collected are correct. If you have not given me your e-mail address and would like to be added to my list, please send me your e-mail address asap. Thanks!

Dear Friends and Family,

 

            Some of you have commented on my very negative Facebook status updates, so I have attempted to reduce those. Not everything I experience is negative. Yet, today I am at the point of admitting how very discouraged I really am. I don’t feel like a good teacher or even like I’m helping my kids most days. The only thing that keeps me in this job is I know that if I quit they’ll be even worse off. God knows, though, that’s not really saying a whole lot.

            At 8:00am yesterday I happened upon two eleven-year-old students trying to strangle each other to death. They both appeared to be within seconds of passing out. I’m convinced that the first one to pass out would not have survived had I not walked up on the incident. The rage and expression I saw on their faces scared me more than almost anything I have ever seen. I realized they each fully intended to kill the other. Usually when I fight happens, kids get excited and circle around shouting, “Fight, fight, fight!” It was the first time where I saw little boys really scared saying things like, “Stop… no, really, guys… stop, you’re killing him… please stop!”

            That’s how I knew something was terribly wrong as I walked to my class, holding my freshly copied worksheets in my hand. Next thing I knew I was running, shoving myself between the two boys, shouting at the two, and shouting at the teachers for more help. One of the boys was my student, in fact the boy that I have worked with more than any other child and seem to spend every spare second of the day trying to imagine how to help him more. I love this child, and I am scared to death of the direction I see him going. Another special education teacher advised me to just count him “lost” in order to ease my own emotional stress levels. That teacher does not understand how deeply I love this boy already and how I can never give up on him, no matter the emotional cost.

            Most days I fantasize on the way to and from work of just driving off, of simply failing to stop until I am far, far from Louisiana. Sometimes I think how amusing it would be to just pass my school, keep going on the ferry across the Mississippi, and to keep going until I find myself 14 hours later in North Carolina, just to leave everything and not come back. I am not going to do this, because my heart remains somehow with my kids, but I will never deny how tempting it is. Sometimes, I just want to forget all of this and pretend I was never a teacher so I never have to feel guilty about leaving, but the reality is that even if I left today, you could never take the memories away. Life forevermore will be impacted by what I’ve seen in the last two months and what I will see in the rest of my two-year experience. I know that when I finish enduring this, I will be able to endure any future career. Graduate school will never be the emotional ride that teaching special education has been nor will teaching in a university. At the same time, every future career will be influenced by this experience.

            Meanwhile, I find myself “escaping” as often as possible. Sometimes I use the television, other times sleep. I realize how dysfunctional it is, but I see the stack of papers that need to be graded, think of all the parents I should probably call, and imagine the goals for upcoming IEPs that I should start writing, and I simply feel incapable, therefore I avoid.

            There are those really sweet moments, like when a child tells me he loves me, or when another child tells me he wants to become a writer because of me, or amusingly when all the students become convinced that I’m sisters with the Asian sixth grade math teacher at school, or even when the regular education kids beg me to take them to my class. I don’t want to ever forget those moments, because they keep me going… and, slowly, I do get around to the grading, the paperwork, and the phone calls. It’s just I’m not doing anything at my best, and there are always so many backwards steps. I wish there was a less painful way to make a difference in the academic lives (and overall lives) of these children. I wish they knew how much I am fighting for them and how much I hope for the best for them. I pray for them, and I love them. I’m scared for them, and I hope for them. I know they can do well; I just hope they realize this too, which is why I continue teaching them.

            So pray for me, because this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, and I am scared of failing, because, for the first time ever, my failure will not be my own. My failure will equally and unfairly become my kids’ failure.

 

Love,

Miss Kara

Yesterday consisted of 13 hours of driving through six states (North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama Mississippi, and Louisiana), lots of oil drills, swamps, and a space center. Today consisted of attempting to meet 160 individuals, unloading my furniture into a storage unit, and listening to the Louisiana Secretary of State talking about Louisiana history and culture (quite exciting!)... oh, and naturally getting lost. Also notably, my friend from paging (Rachael) and I were actually randomly assigned to be roommates for induction! That was a fabulous surprise! :) Overall, it's been a good day, but I am exhausted beyond words and ready to sleep. There are several social activities going on (most people are going to the bar), but I think I will save my social energies for the morning. Today I have simply reached my limit.