Drenched. Entrenched.

I have just returned to school in the midst of a snowy spring storm. My raincoat is dripping wet, and after I check back in, I see you in the hallway on the way to the sanctuary of your office. You are just as beautiful as you have always been. Curly dark hair, almond eyes, always ready with a smile or a defensive remark, whichever is necessary in that moment.

I spent the morning at a district training telling my new colleague: I will be blunt.

It somewhat reminds me of the title to an equally brutal movie, There Will Be Blood.

You ask, “How are you?”

I want to say: “My colleague experienced a family loss this morning and felt too compelled by this work to leave.”

I want to say: “Four voicemails and emails and two and a half hours later, I am just returning from getting my 101.6-fevered child from school. From fixing her the lunch she missed. This after walking, rushed, down the senior hallway only to listen to this remark: ‘I don’t know why all these teachers are abandoning their posts when there’s a huge line of seniors still waiting in the auditorium. This happens every year.'”

I want to say: “This is not OK. We are not OK. And you need to listen to us.”

Instead I say, “I am fine. How are you?” in a robotic monotone.

And you catch my glimpse. It is the same glimpse you gave me years ago when we sat at the back of those ridiculous meetings and mocked the administration (remember the half day we spent learning the acronyms? And we added at the bottom: WTF ROTFL LOL TIBS??). It is the same glimpse you gave me when we got a new superintendent, and after her first fabricated PowerPoint, you stood up, stomped out, and said, “I’m done with this district.” And you were. You had the guts to stand up for what you believed in and stomp out new grounds in a place that mattered.

But today, it is a rainy-day glimpse. It is a dark-as-snow-on-May-18th glimpse.

I want you to read Ameer’s letter. I want you to hear Isra’s plea at 3:15 about how, despite her impending graduation and officially checking out, she plans to come to class tomorrow because she misses us. I want you to know why two of my colleagues have quit. I want to talk to you.

I want you to read every inch of my eyes as I look at you, as I rush to open the squeaky 1924-door and sneak up into the safety of my classroom.

I want my new colleague to believe me when I say, “Don’t get me wrong. I love her.”

I want those words to be true.

I want you to make them true for me again.

I want you to explain to me where your voice is. Where your gumption is. Where that fearless warrior is.

I want to see you. To hear what the real reasons are for eliminating the course I have developed for four years. The course where my students feel safe. The course where they prosper.

I want you to feel these snowflakes on your cheek. To understand the gap that lies between us now, between the senior hallway, the rude remark, the unexpected spring storm, and the sun that surrounds your beauty.

I want you to catch my glimpse.

My raincoat is dripping wet. I want you to feel these tears. I want you to shiver. To care. To be the poem I wrote for you. To be drenched in the reality of this sudden spring snow.


I Cry for his Loss

i cry for the card, for his loss,
 for his Iraqi-Syrian past,
 for all the burning hours of summer school
 where he committed himself
 to finishing high school in three years.
 
 i cry for his words, for his loss,
 his inescapable self that has hidden
 a kind face in a chaotic classroom,
 his sly smile catching my every
 snuck-in witty remark
 (even when no one else could).
 
 i cry for the system, for his loss,
 shuffled by our government’s wars
 between homelands that stole his home,
 for his pride in Iraqi architecture
 that he may never see again.
 
 i cry for his future, for his loss,
 for how unequivocally kind his soul remains
 after all he has witnessed in twenty-one years,
 for his brothers who wait under his watchful shadow,
 for our country to give him a chance.
 
 i cry for his words, for my loss,
 to not have his presence in my classroom,
 to have the nicest thing anyone’s
 ever written to me
 disappear with a graduation ceremony.
 
 i cry for the world, for their loss,
 for robbing refugees of their rights,
 for keeping the beauty that is him,
 that is within all of them,
 from sharing their strength
 with all of us, inshallah,
 for a brighter tomorrow.
 

Bilingual Rainbow

that moment at school
 when a domestic violence reference
 does not register
 as a violation of human rights.
 
 that.
 
 that is a teachable moment.
 
 let them write their stories,
 their poems,
 their lives poured out on paper
 in a language that sifts through their minds
 like Lucky Charms marshmallows,
 where finding the right words to describe the trees native to their homelands,
 the pain of fleeing war,
 the parents who missed even grade school,
 is like finding that rainbow marshmallow,
 the brightest and sweetest:
 the words,
 the art,
 that will save them.
 
 for today, at least.


 
 
 

This is All I Have For Now

Hope for today: a new student came to my advisory. A Syrian refugee who has been here for 20 days. He could not communicate very well in English, but another newcomer from El Salvador who’s been here for a few months was able to help him with signs and support. He also took pictures on his tablet of everything I handed out and was able to run the words through an app that translated the words to Arabic. And, through the tablet translation, proudly told me at the end of class that he speaks three languages: Arabic, Turkish, and Kurdish.

I wonder what else he has stored behind those questioning eyes? I can’t wait to find out. And I’m so glad he made it through the Trumpocracy.

#standwithrefugees #standwithimmigrants

The Last Plane

Red hair, green eyes, tall and sure of himself, he peeks into my room, searching for a familiar face after lunch. I have seen this look before, as my students often seek their native-language counterparts.
 
 “Who are you looking for?” I ask, the after-lunch crowds raucously meandering around our conversation.
 
 “I am looking for you. I am a new student.” His accent is smooth and meticulous, genteel and articulate.
 
 “Oh, OK. What’s your name?”
 
 “Arvin.”
 
 “Where are you from?”
 
 “Iran.”
 
 “Iran? … And… how did you get here??” But I have to look away because the tears are already in my eyes.
 
 “I boarded the plane on Friday morning. I was in the last group of Iranians to come.”
 
 I want to continue the conversation, but I can’t. I can’t because the tears will fall. I can’t because I have to teach for the next ninety minutes. I can’t because every waking moment of my life since this election, since this inauguration, have become a cycle of servitude. Of serving this need or the next, of wishing for this and receiving that, of hoping for the best and seeing the worst.
 
 Instead I tell him where to sit and hand him a hard copy of I Am Malala. We will listen to the lilting Pakistani accent from Audible today as we continue to highlight human rights violations from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (we will highlight thirteen incidents in three chapters; we will connect media suppression and fascism and women’s rights to an education too closely to our lives; we will hear Fazlullah’s rants with an American accent).
 
 My weekly volunteer returns from the library after a time with a group of students. She meets with my Iranian student to explain to him his role in the group as they create posters connecting Malala’s experiences to the UDHR. He fits in well and tells the group he cannot draw very efficiently, so can he please have the role of interpreting the quotation from the chapter and connecting it to the UDHR document?
 
 He has been here for five days. He got in on the LAST PLANE.
 
 After class, my retired-white-woman volunteer asks, “If he just got here from Iran, how come he can speak English?”
 
 And that is when I decide.
 
 I have to start here. Right in this moment. With this woman who drives one mile from her upscale mansion in Cherry Creek North to “make a difference.”
 
 “Pretty much all of the students who come here learned English before they came. Usually only the refugees have interrupted schooling. But most countries start teaching English when the kids are in kindergarten.”
 
 I swear her jaw drops ten inches. She wants to say something, but she doesn’t have the words to describe her ignorance.
 
 “Oh…”
 
 And now you know, I want to say. But I don’t. I don’t cry when I want to, because I have to be strong for them. I don’t tell her that Trump’s America is not my America, not Arvin’s America. I don’t tell her that the combination of students in this room represents the values of our country better than most Americans I know. That a red-headed Iranian entering my classroom five days past an executive order banning Muslims is as beautiful to me as Ziauddin’s tears in the New York Times documentary as he sees Swat for the first time in three months (which we watch at the end of class).
 
 Instead, I say, “Thank you for your help. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”
 
 And that is all I can do to resist.
 
 All for today.