Election day, 3 p.m. I am sitting in my early American literature course. We've just had a guest speaker leave; he's an incredibly powerful advocate for equality in our city and is a former colleague and friend of mine. He's also a large, African-American guy with an infectious smile who embodies kindness. He was there to talk about the legacy of slavery in our country and, more to the point, our city, the students just having finished reading Frederick Douglass's powerful autobiographical Narrative of the Life of an American Slave.
During our conversation, the issue of Black Lives Matter arose. Our guest discussed the idea that it's truly about all lives mattering. As I was half-expecting, a white student described a situation in which he went to a party in southern Iowa where he and his friend were the only white people there. He cleaned up the story for class, but afterwards, he told me that it was worse: he and his friend felt threatened to the point of near physical violence until they left. Back in class, though, he made his point: can't black people be just as racist as white people? I looked at our guest and imagined the inner turmoil he must have been feeling. As a person who refuses to play poker mostly because I don't have the face for it, I know my feelings were clear for anyone who looked at me. There's a difference between racism and prejudice! were my first thoughts. Our guest, however, still radiated kindness as he said, simply, "I'm very sorry that you had to go through that experience. It sounds scary." Ah, perspective. This student wasn't wrong; his experience was his experience, and our guest acknowledged that. Another student jumped in with an experience she had and we moved on.
After he left, I thought about his response as we continued our conversation, and, though no one talked overtly about the election (and I didn't encourage it, not feeling ready to put on an unbiased mask), one student, a woman in her 30's, said, "You know, we can talk about this stuff, but what difference does my one voice make?"
I looked around and saw other people nodding, and I said, "You know what? NO. I patently reject that sentiment." The students laughed; they'd heard me "lay down the smack" like this before and knew I came from a place of respect.
Then I asked, "How many of you have been out in the world working before coming back to school?" Over half of the students raised their hands.
"How many of you are still in high school?" Two students.
"Listen. What this is all about is choices. You made a choice, and not an easy one. Those of you who were working? You made a radical choice that you wanted more. Those of you still in high school? You wanted the challenge of being among minds who are taking on complex problems, so you made a choice. Even those of you 'traditional' students are here because you chose to be.
"You probably are in this class because you needed literature credits. When you signed up for the course, did you imagine that we'd be sitting here, having such deep conversations not just about the symbols and characters in the literature, but about life? This is happening because of YOU, because of your willingness to make a new choice and be open to creating a community in this classroom.
"And me, as an English teacher. Do you really think that I'm here because I want you to learn how to write a thesis statement or not use 'they' when you really mean 'he or she'? NO! I'm here to get you to think more deeply about things, and when you're willing to engage in that because you've said 'YES' to broadening your thinking by taking these types of courses, I am inspired. As an educator, the experiences we have here have a profound effect on my ability to do this work every day. It's my hope that you will keep saying 'YES' to learning more and thinking deeply and creating community because that's when you'll see how much your one voice matters."
If I was holding a microphone, I would have dropped it.
I got emotional during my speech. Tears came into my eyes and I told them I was feeling these emotions because they were giving me hope. I was proud of them and the community we made.
I didn't know what I would be feeling the next morning after a restless night sleep and the news that Trump had won, forcing me out of my bed at 5:30 for a hard run to clear my mind. As I headed up a hill, my legs felt it but kept moving, and I thought about the student who had a bad incident with a group of black kids. It occurred to me that what my student walked into was not an angry hive, but a community of people that had formed to hold on to each other, to be a safe space in a world that hasn't seemed safe to them.
Our guest speaker's words echoed in my mind: I'm sorry you had to go through that experience. It sounds scary. I felt those words in my heart: "It sounds scary." The antidote to fear is knowledge, and collective knowledge creates power. Later that day, I met with people from my larger community, people who think deeply about issues and who care for one another and are reaching out to all people. It wasn't right that my student felt fear in his experience at the party; it indeed sounds scary. But it's scarier to allow a bad experience, either his personal bad experience or what many of us feel is a bad experience of this election, to close us off from still reaching out, reaching out and connecting and creating the community where all feel safe.
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