Four years ago, I wrote this:
I stand at the door of my fifth grade classroom with my brightest possible smile. This task is no small or easy one. I have fourteen ten-year old’s walking into my room on Wednesday, November 9th, 2016. Each one of them, Muslim.
What is it like being ten? What is it like being ten and overhearing adult conversations about a candidate who says weird things about Muslims? What is it like being ten, being Muslim, being in an America that chooses to be led by this very candidate?
Honestly, I have no idea what this is like.
I am surrounded by these young faces- and all I can read as I overhear their childlike conversations today is confusion. All their questions begin with “will he…” or “is it true that…”
I did not watch the election results. I did not hear the speeches of victory or concession. I slept through it all. Because my task is harder than yours. I have to face my ten-year old’s in the morning, and offer them answers that I do not have, with a confidence that blows my own mind.
My scrolling through newsfeed, my crawling out of bed, my breakfast, my drive to school are an experience of rummaging for words that my students will believe.
As they sit down, waiting for the day to begin, I cannot begin it for there are hearts to heal, and minds to put at rest.
You are in a safe place, I say.
You are with safe families, I say.
You are in a safe country, I say.
When the founding fathers wrote the constitution, I say.
There are checks and balances, I say.
There is rhetoric, I say.
There are laws to protect us, I say.
I speak with an enacted confidence, a shrug of shoulders, a smile that convinces my ten-year old loves.
That was all.
It does not matter, that I argued each line in my mind as I spoke.
It does not matter, that I knew the farce too well.
Two years ago in fifth grade, I boldly created a theme of study called Children in Conflict focusing on the lives of children across the globe in various types of struggles whether they be political, social, economic, or personal. One of the books I taught was Hana’s Suitcase, drawing parallels to what singling out of religion would look like.
Last year I boldly taught Hana’s Suitcase again, a story about a girl who dies in the Auschwitz concentration camp during the Holocaust. My students repeatedly confirmed if what happened in the book was illegal now, they asked if it was at all possible that anyone could do such a thing like put a yellow star on someone to point out their religion. I had reassured them that of course it was illegal. Nobody would stand by the gibberish of a person calling out for this kind of bigotry, now.
This year I have lost all boldness.
This year, I will not read Hana’s Suitcase to them. I will break down and cry like a mother in agony if I do.
For Tuesday has broken me.
Over the last four years those fears were confirmed, those questions still loom, those parallels to historical oppression ring truer still. When a leader heads a rally and pauses for 13 seconds to let the “send her back” chants of hatred, animosity, and bigotry escalate against the “Other”, the world shrinks a bit more. How much burden of resilience are we asking of children again? How many times must Hana pack her suitcase? How many more do we add to the 500 torn away from parents for it to be enough?