I acknowledge that mine is probably not the voice Michigan teachers and students need to hear in this moment.

 

But White silence, and especially the silence of White teachers is not acceptable, either. So since I have been given this platform, I will use it to make sure every teacher and every student knows where I stand.

 

Teaching is, and always has been, inherently political—not partisan, as some would try to make it seem, but political—and teachers make decisions every day that impact our students’ learning in political ways.

 

Students are watching us; they see the decisions we make about the books they are asked to read, and the history we choose to present. They notice the people, ideas, and events we present as “important,” and those we choose to leave out, intentionally or not. And they see when we choose not to talk about current events like the murder of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and so many others because “it’s too political.” Guess what—NOT talking about them is a political choice, as well.

 

My district—and many others—often say that, in education, “all means all.” And I do believe it is every educator’s responsibility to show up and stand up for all of our students. 

 

But right now our Black students need us to be better. They need us to do the work and to show up for them. They need us to see them and hear them and say—out loud—that yes, Black Lives Matter. Because all can never mean all until the lives, experiences, and bodies of our Black students matter.

 

So as a White person and educator who can never understand the experience of living as a Black person in this country, I promise to continue to read and to learn. I promise to listen more than I speak, and speak when my voice is helpful to ensure that alongside our calls for diversity and equity, we also seek justice for our students and communities.

 

I would like to use the rest of this space to amplify messages and voices I have been following and reading for the past few years in my own journey to become anti-racist. I hope you find them helpful.

 

Dr. Ibram X. Kendi @DrIbram, author of How to Be An Anti-Racist

Ø  This is the book I read, but I am also currently reading Stamped: Racism, Anti-Racism, and You because it is written for young adults.

Ø  Recently Dr. Kendi was on Brené Brown’s podcast, Unlocking Us.

 

Robin DiAngelo, author of White Fragility: Why it’s so Hard for White People to Talk About Racism

Ø  I read this first because it came recommended and I didn’t know where to begin. I just knew I had to begin.

 

Michael Harriot, @michaelharriot has taught me so much history I didn’t know, and added context to the history I thought I knew.  

 

Bettina Love’s We Want to do More than Survive: Abolitionist Teaching and the Pursuit of Educational Freedom speaks directly to the heart of what it means to be a teacher.

 

Season 2 of the podcast, Scene on Radio called “Seeing White,” helped me see the deep through-lines from the roots of racism to what is happening in America today.

 

The 1619 Project podcast is an oral telling of the project itself. You can also read it here. This series helped me to see the deep history of how racist thinking and racist policies infect every part of our country’s governance, education, healthcare, city planning, and, of course, policing.

 

Paul Gorski’s work at the Equity Literacy Institute should be required teacher PD, but let’s just start with this piece entitled Avoiding Racial Equity Detours. You will see yourself, your school, and your district in these “detours,” and it will blow your mind. Paul solidified for me so much of what I couldn’t figure out how to name.

 

I discovered Val Brown @ValeriaBrownEDU on Twitter, and I have become a little obsessed with her wisdom, humor, and deep understanding of what needs to change in our schools. The chat #ClearTheAir (@ClearTheAirEDU) is where I have learned what to read, what questions we need to be asking, and how to find allies in this work. Full honesty—I’m not great at jumping into the chats, but the books they have discussed have made me better. One example: The Essential Conversation: What Parents and Teachers can learn from Each Other, by Sara Lawrence Lightfoot, which I’m planning to re-read before school starts.

 

There are countless other pieces and people I could add, but this is the work we can all do. To close, this piece by Cortney Ariel for Sojourners sums up a lot of my own learning, and would be a good place to start if you are just leaning into this work: “For Our White Friends Desiring to be Allies.”

 

Black Lives Matter, my friends. Our students need to hear us say the words.

Dear First Year Teacher

Dear First Year Teacher,

Lately I’ve been seeing some incredibly thoughtful and beautiful letters and examples of outreach to kindergarteners, 5th graders, high school seniors, and support for teachers in general (this last one has the grace we all need). Every time I see one come across my news feeds, I read them, share them, and appreciate the love and care that went into each one.

But lately I’ve been thinking about you, first year educator. What must you be feeling and thinking right now? I mean, in our wildest nightmares we couldn’t have imagined this. Everyone says your first year is hard, but come ON. This is excessive. Teaching actual live children right in front of you is challenging enough, and now you have to figure out how to teach them from your apartment/house? And on top of that, you’re trying to connect with kids who may have no access to technology, are feeling lost or confused or angry, or maybe just don’t feel like connecting with their teachers? It’s a lot to ask for us veterans, let alone for you, just starting out on this path.

So I found myself thinking back to my first year as a 23 year old high school teacher in 1998.

 

"My people" after our Homecoming assembly "through the decades" lip-sync dance in the fall of 1998 at Rochester High School. My head is poking through in the second row, and yes, I AM wearing a wedding veil.

I taught world history and language arts 10, and I remember constantly vacillating between feeling like I sort of had it under control, and feeling like a complete idiot who knew nothing. I cried a LOT that year. In my car, in my apartment, in my tiny little basement/storage room hunched over my Apple Macintosh desktop computer late into the night…ahh, the memories. I was also lucky enough to be hired in at around the same time as more than a dozen other new (or new-ish) teachers, and they quickly became my people. In fact, I married one and still consider two others among my very best friends, but I digress. 

On April 20, 1999, I had probably spent the day doing my best to teach my kids (while also leaning on those friends of mine for advice and laughs) when we heard about the mass shooting in Colorado at Columbine High School. Our country had never experienced anything like this before, and as a very young teacher I had no idea what to do, or what to say to my students. How could this have happened? Could it happen here? So I did what I had learned to do, and I went to my people. We talked to each other about how to talk to the kids. We leaned on each other, and we made it through that together.

A month later one of those incredible people, my co-worker and friend—a talented, brilliant, generous, funny, young teacher—was killed in a tragic car crash. And again, that little band of brand new baby teachers is what got me through those months of shock and loss and grief. They steadied me and had strength when I did not, and I returned the favor for them. We still miss her.

I want to tell you that what you are feeling right now—what we are all feeling—is grief. We have LOST things. We have lost opportunities to teach, to help our kids, to attend their graduations, go on their field trips, and see them accomplish their goals—and those are just all of the work related things. Many are also struggling with the loss of friends or family. And YOU have lost a lot, as well. All of the learning and growing you’ve done this year was just starting to pay off. Spring is when you start to feel like maybe you’ve got this. You know your students, you’ve found your people, and you can even fix the copy machine. All of that counts as loss and it is ok to grieve it. Loss is loss, and the most important loss is always your own. Brené Brown talks about this idea of “comparative suffering,” which is the idea that one loss is worse than another, so those of us suffering a “lesser” loss should stay quiet and just be thankful we aren’t suffering more. Don’t do this to yourself. You have lost out on a lot and I, for one, am deeply sorry for that loss.

I hope, at the very least, you have taken some small measure of comfort from finding yourself in the same boat as people who have been teaching for years. Very few of us know what to do or how to do it in this new remote learning world, so we really are right here with you, fumbling through awkward Zoom meetings, calming parent and student fears, managing emails and assembling packets. But more than that, I hope that you—like I did all those years ago, and still do today—have leaned on each other during this time. I encourage you to stay connected to other new teachers—lift each other up, and make each other laugh. Ask questions when things don’t seem right, and reassure each other when someone is struggling. Acknowledge each other’s grief and loss and sadness and confusion through this. Borrow ideas from people you trust, and try your very hardest not to compare yourself to others.

You may feel alone sometimes, but my hope for you is that you find solidarity and comfort in knowing there is a community of educators out there feeling what you’re feeling. Because in many ways, as the 2019 Montana Teacher of the Year points out, we are all first year teachers now.