It is obvious. We are hurting. I sit each morning sipping a
mug of tea in front my laptop scrolling through the news and realize anew the
world is wounded. From my place of privilege, I observe the current situation
of civil unrest unfold in images and words. Brown skin, red stains, black paint,
white banners, and the words, “I can’t breathe.” Acts of solidarity and calls
for justice resound across several continents as we realize that no matter how
far we’ve come we still have so much further to go. I mourn the absence of
steadfast commitment to human dignity and loss of regard for the beauty of a
beating heart and the individual soul that emanates from within. Where do we
begin to heal the wounds of elitism become manifest in racial, social, and
economic prejudice? Perhaps the answers
to our utterances of desperation to a higher power can be found in shared
places such as a third grade classroom.
It’s 8:10 on a
Wednesday morning. I’ve already been up for three hours, arrived to work,
prepped the boards in my classroom, and listened to my seventeen students
recite their prayers in the straightest of a line they could manage. I stand in
the doorway and usher in a string of eight and nine year old's bundled in winter
jackets ready to begin the day. Towards the end of group comes Maya, eyes
downcast. I sigh. I’m already ready for Friday and it looks like it going to be
a rough one for her today. Pulling the hood off her head, I put my arm around
her and wish her good morning. She shrugs me off. Lord please get me through.
What will it be today? A scene of instances previously
played out come to mind. Maya sitting unresponsive at her desk for the first
fifteen minutes of class with a blank journal open in front of her. As her
classmates write one to two pages in improving cursive, Maya remains with her
head on the table, expressionless, my kneeling beside her desk offering prompts
and words of encouragement, not doing an ounce of good. Maya, alone at her seat
with the hood of her winter coat covering her face despite the almost
uncomfortable heat in the building. The rest of the rest of the class sits on
the floor for guided reading and discussion of chapter eleven of Pippi
Longstocking. Maya, working in her math group suddenly lashing out at another
student for saying the answer before she does. I’m filled with a sort of dread.
Same line, same students, same door, another day. The hood of that awful leopard trim coat is
up. I gently pluck it off and pat Maya’s back. This time, instead of cringing,
she looks at me, her eyes pooling with tears and I see it: the bruise on her
cheekbone and puffy, lacerated lip. My blood pressure rises as I say, “Tell me
about it.” And she does. Maya’s older half brother had been expelled from
school where he was living with his father and was now back with her and her
mom. His struggles sought release in a blow to Maya’s face. What words of mine
would suffice in such a moment? Six came
to mind. “I love you and you matter.” My arms, wrapped tightly around my body
in the futile attempt to keep myself warm that winter unraveled to hold the girl
inside the ugly coat. Maya’s world had just become mine.
I would never be fully able to comprehend her experience;
Maya’s girlhood so different from my own. But I could notice and compliment her
fresh braids, oiled with coconut, every Monday. I could give her extra time in
the line of students that crowded my desk each morning while I took roll to
share their exciting updates since I’d last seen them fourteen hours ago. I
could share enthusiasm about the new dress Maya’s mom was going to buy her that
weekend and the Jamaican patty that was stowed in her lunch pail. I could tell
Maya, the nine year old who stood almost eye to eye with me, how proud I was of
her for mastering a new karate move in her after-school program. This was the
world we shared.
One girl taught me what love does. Love is hard, it’s
uncomfortable, it hurts, and love also heals.
