Fifty Minutes
On Tuesdays, after recess, we gather around the rug
and sit in a circle. I see the faces of
my students, red from running outdoors and I watch their eyes. Their eyes hold wonder and curiosity behind
their dark pupils. For fifty minutes, we
read poems and short stories. We study
pieces of art. We share our
feelings. We laugh. It is my favorite part of the week.
In circle, we talk about Malala, her fight for
education and the fact that she was the youngest person ever to win the Nobel
Peace Prize as a teenager. We talk about the past and how segregation
used to be a way of life. We talk about
other young writers in elementary school, Langston Hughes, Elizabeth Alexander,
and what it means to be brave. My students don’t understand hate or the idea
that one group of individuals is valued over another. They simply, but simply is not the right
word, they unapologetically see faces.
Faces of friends, family, and people in their community.
These 50 minutes a week are more than a way for me to try out new writing prompts, they have become a time for small moments of healing. In these 50 minutes, I hear students talk about friends, the struggles of others, and the way they believe the world should be run. They speak with empathy, a sense of wisdom that, as adults, we cannot fathom but must have sensed when we were younger, and they speak with humor. Always, without missing a beat, the students make me laugh. “You give me hope,” I say to my students. “In such a scary and isolating world, you give me comfort because I know you will go on to do good things,” I continue. I know that the ones who can't grasp how our world was ever split up into white and black, the ones who cried when we had to cut down a pine tree in front of the school, the ones who run over to a friend who is crying to simply sit next to them and be with them, all of them will go on to do good. Whether their deeds are large or small does not matter to me. The tasks they will take on, whether it is fighting for human rights or a smile for a stranger, will be done with heart, with innocence, and without a sense of judgment or critique. Regardless of whether or not they can solve algebraic equations or write grammatically correct papers, they will be kind. This is my mantra, my hope.
These 50 minutes a week are more than a way for me to try out new writing prompts, they have become a time for small moments of healing. In these 50 minutes, I hear students talk about friends, the struggles of others, and the way they believe the world should be run. They speak with empathy, a sense of wisdom that, as adults, we cannot fathom but must have sensed when we were younger, and they speak with humor. Always, without missing a beat, the students make me laugh. “You give me hope,” I say to my students. “In such a scary and isolating world, you give me comfort because I know you will go on to do good things,” I continue. I know that the ones who can't grasp how our world was ever split up into white and black, the ones who cried when we had to cut down a pine tree in front of the school, the ones who run over to a friend who is crying to simply sit next to them and be with them, all of them will go on to do good. Whether their deeds are large or small does not matter to me. The tasks they will take on, whether it is fighting for human rights or a smile for a stranger, will be done with heart, with innocence, and without a sense of judgment or critique. Regardless of whether or not they can solve algebraic equations or write grammatically correct papers, they will be kind. This is my mantra, my hope.
When I was younger, my dad would often say to me: "You kids have so much more to worry about than I did at your age." And I was always sort of confused by his statement. Hasn't life always been challenging, whether you grew up in the 1950s or the new millennium? The past had race riots, long wars in foreign lands, and customs based on prejudices. Today? Well, today, we have the same. Except, when I sit in group with my students, I know their childhood reality is even more challenging than my own. My students now know the safest corner to hide if there is an active shooter in our building, they know that just because they are at school, surrounded by adults who will do all they can to protect them, they may not necessarily be safe.
Earlier today, I was on the phone with my father-in-law, talking about politics and stories of despair on the news. At one point I blurted out, "It's best to not to watch or listen to the news too much these days. It brings you down, makes you sad." And, as I said those words I felt a pang of ignorance. Yes, it is important to take care of your own well-being so that you can go through life without too much baggage on your shoulders, but at the same time, I knew I was letting down my students. If I didn't do something, big or small, to make the future a little safer, a little brighter for my own students, how could I expect them to bring me hope? Hope for exchange of complacency wasn’t fair to my students.
We all know that we need to take better care of each other, and that the earth is in need of repair and respect. The question I have is how do I do this? Not only for my own family, but for those who sit in a circle with me every Tuesday. The ones who get angry when they learn others were hurt and the ones who, in the future, will be tasked with the question of why didn’t anyone take the steps to make things right, especially when the answers were so impossibly clear?
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