Last Fall, I landed a 30-hr/week job as a Kindergarten teaching assistant with one of the large metro schools here. I had worked in the neighborhood of my assigned school a few years back and was aware of the demographics and what that might mean for the students I would interact with daily. I knew, or at least assumed based on past experience, that this job would be a place that stretches me because this side of town was so different than my upbringing. I knew I wouldn't fit in, even if I didn't mean to stand out. But I was excited to do this job well, regardless of the challenges I might face.
My students, for the most part, were from low-income families, often with just one parent, and in many cases, they were already considered to be at-risk children. Almost all my students were people of color (non-white). The school itself had been reinforced with community programming, services, and intervention programs to help support families with whatever their daily struggle was. As a young, middle-class, white, educated woman, I stood out like a sore thumb. My flaming red hair didn't help. :)
Within days of starting my job, I attended a training to specifically address the needs of our students who have experienced trauma. I did not realize, when I took the job, that a vast majority (over 50%) have experienced a traumatic events such as the loss of a parent, sibling, home, or close relative, or worse (abuse, homelessness, or neglect). This was partly why the community had focused on this school when delegating financial resources in recent years. It was just a matter of days before I came face-to-face with the manifestation of the facts I digested at the training.
A week into the school year, a student came in sobbing and unable to speak. The guidance counselor, close behind, explained that the child had seen a relative murdered last night. On no sleep, no idea of what to do with her emotions, and no one to turn to, she completely fell apart when the counselor left. I scooped her up and held her shaking little frame, praying to God for some kind of wisdom for how to handle that level of anxiety in a little one. No words came, only tight hugs, and eventually she calmed down enough to eat breakfast. I found out later that she was homeless and this house was one of a handful of places she and mom would land between shelters. I found it hard to sleep some nights, wondering why that sweet, innocent girl doesn't have a safe place to sleep every night, or a bed to call her own. At five years old, she's faced more trauma in a week than some face in a lifetime, and she did nothing to deserve it.
During those initial weeks of class, building relationships with students, especially students of trauma, is HUGE for their classroom success. The introvert in me had to spend every last "relational dollar" so that I would "earn" their trust enough to speak both truth and tough love when needed. By age 5, some of these kids had internalized phrases they heard over and over, so much so, that it hindered their learning before they ever really started.
Several times my job of re-teaching a lesson to a student shifted more so into counseling the student on their capabilities. Students would say things like, "I can't, teacher, I can't. This is too hard. I'll never get it. I'm just stupid." I would reassure them, "You're not stupid -- your brain is growing and learning new things and it's okay to not know, but we always keep trying." Usually, this would result in another try, and another failure, after which they'd yell something like, "See!? I can't! I'm dumb, teacher. I'm a stupid a** kid." There it was -- the lie. The phrase that somebody said, probably in a different context and maybe not even directly at the student, but it stuck and it dug down deep into their minds: you are not enough.
In snapshots like the one above, usually, the child would eventually learn the task and high praise would be given -- not so much for completing the task, but positive reinforcement that they are capable of doing hard things. It was AMAZING how much these little accomplishments would change their attitudes and willingness to keep learning. They are profoundly impacted by the responses of those around them. I learned to speak the love language Words of Affirmation not just as a teaching tool, but as relational super glue. These kids needed to know they could count on someone, even if it was only for a season.
Then, November 8th happened. I walked into school that day still a bit shell-shocked at the outcome of the election myself. In my classroom, the two lead teachers I worked for were laying on the ground, tears streaming down both faces. One of them said, "I love being a teacher, but I do not want to be here today. What the h*ll are we supposed to say to these kids?"
By this time, I'd figured out many of the kids' stories, not just in our room, but around the school as well. Many students' families were on government assistance programs. Several were children or grandchildren of illegal immigrants. Most had moved homes more times in 5 years than most people do in a lifetime. I had not calculated what November 9th would look like if Clinton didn't win. The fear of being evicted, deported, homeless, or endangered was very real to many of these students -- and they personally did nothing to deserve it. I prayed, and then walked down to the cafeteria. A few older students were crying. Many of mine, too young to understand, asked, "Ms. Jacque, why are all the big kids sad?" I don't remember what I said -- my heart and mind were still trying to find the strength to face what was going to be a very rough day for everyone.
Once upstairs, my lead teacher explained to the students that today, she might not be very happy and might even cry a little bit, but that it wasn't because she was mad at any of them. She explained that last night, everyone in America got to choose who the next president would be, and that she didn't like the person that won. This was enough information for some, who were curious about the big kids' sadness, to put the pieces together -- maybe the big kids were just sad he won, too. After a few seconds, one of the quietest kids in the class sheepishly asked, "Teacher, why does the orange man hate us?" Heads whipped back to the teacher, whose eyes filled with tears, and before she could say anything, another piped up, "Yeah! My mom said we're gonna get sent away! " An eruption of, "What!?" and "Yeah, my abuela, too!" and "But what about me?" followed. I felt like my heart would physically collapse on itself. In those moments, there are no words.
The next 7 hours were filled with a palpable anxiety throughout the school. At recess, our 3rd grade buddies (the grade we share playground space with), were in no condition to protect the Kindergarteners. Several were red in the face and eyes from crying all day. The students with already short emotional fuses were especially touchy and there was nothing to be done about it. Their hearts were feeling something their minds couldn't verbalize, and the best course of action was to let the emotions run their course and to continue speaking truth: you are smart. You are capable. You can do hard things. I love you and care about you, even if you get this answer wrong.
November 9, 2016 will forever be my worst day in the classroom. But it pales in comparison to what my students were experiencing. I've been a white girl in a brown country -- I know what it's like to feel like most people are watching you, like you don't belong, or like you're not quite as safe-feeling as you're used to, even if no real danger is present. But even in a brown country, my life was never really in danger. If something really awful had happened, I had 25 (white) expats in my phone who would all gladly come help. I had legal residential standing that protected me, even in a corrupt national government. And if it ever got really politicially unstable, I came from a country and family with enough resources to just book me a flight and get out before danger struck. I stood out in a crowd, but never did I feel like the government itself was out to get me, chase me away, and tell me to go back to my homeland and freeload somewhere else.
What a terrible feeling it must be, for these 5-year-olds who have already experienced trauma, to feel, think, and believe that the single most powerful person in the world not only knows their family's greatest fear, but that he detests their personal existence. I can't even begin to imagine how that would make a kindergartner feel. They didn't know his name, but they knew, "the orange man hates us." I know the folks in Washington fight their own battles, but they don't always feel the impact their decisions have. On November 9th, teachers across the nation were on the front lines of political warfare -- and every one of us felt it. That is profoundly upsetting to me.
Kindergarten taught me a great deal, but one of the key take-aways for me was the realization that the kids are ALWAYS WATCHING, and almost always listening. Kids don't always know the whole story, but when there's tension and conflict, they feel it just like anyone else. And then, they watch. They observe how conflict is handled -- what's okay to say, is it okay to physically react?, do we just walk away? They absorb every bit of it... and then, when their circumstances mirror it, they repeat it back. Anger is met with anger, disrespect is met with disrespect. So, Ghandi was on to something -- "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
In our current political climate, it seems there are no right answers, only more arguing and lots of click bait. I'll admit -- it's really overwhelming to think about how we will ever reach global resolution, peace, and calm. I'm deeply unsettled about how much talk there is about nuclear warfare. But here's what I do know -- each of us have choices to make in our everyday lives, even if we aren't sure how to navigate politics. In all reality, I have little influence on the overarching political themes of today, and honestly, even if I had influence, the immigration laws and governmental support systems are such a mess, I wouldn't know where to begin exercising the influence. Where I DO have influence, though, is with students. So, my choice today is to focus on the kids, regardless of where they come from.
For me, November 9th has become one of a handful of reasons I continue to work with kids. In 2013, I was introduced to the JAZ home in the Philippines -- a home for girls rescued out of impoverished, abusive, or high-risk areas for human trafficking. They did nothing to deserve the life they were born into. Back in 2014, NBC aired a series on the children caught in the Syrian conflict. I had a similar reaction: they did nothing to deserve this. Working in upper-middle-class suburbia has triggered that same response, but out of very different circumstances. Generally speaking, (yes, I know it's not quite this simplistic...), the students I work with now have done little more or less to deserve what they have than my students in the inner city. In all cases, the children are completely subject to the choices and consequences of their parents' actions -- not their own. Likewise, all former generations have been dealt that hand: you were born somewhere during some time period and had some amount of resources available, so go make the best of it! We don't get to choose where we started life, but we do get to choose where we finish and how we get there.
I've been watching a sermon series by Louie Giglio on People of the Fine Print. It details stories in the bible of people who aren't the superstars of Christianity. In many cases, they are everyday people who were faithful to God and diligent with their lot in life. Their small, yet sacrificial acts of obedience to God are what paved the way for the big shots to do what God had for them to do, which ultimately shaped history and propelled God's love forward. God built them to need each other, even in the little things. The same is true here -- we cannot allow differences to divide. Life is meant to be done together, regardless of how visible your assignment from God is to others.
Our kids are watching, and much like my student on November 9th, they probably have some questions they'd like answers to. I know I won't always have the answers, but I also know that part of my calling in working with the next generation is just to listen. Sometimes, what students need is the freedom to say what's on their mind without fear of backlash or silence. Everyone has a perspective. Everyone has a story. Everyone has their own interpretations about their story and the stories of other people. But no one is more or less loved by God, even if their story is very different than ours. No one is any less human because of the country their ancestors were born in or the religion they practice. And when we don't like the stories that others have to tell, it should cause us to respond in love -- not in hate, not in fear, not in anger.
Even though I want all of humanity to know God's love and peace (because it's AMAZING!), I don't get to force people to believe it or do life my way -- that's not my job nor my goal in following Jesus. My goal in life is that when it's all said and done and Jesus calls me home to Heaven, the trail I leave behind will be a sea of students, all headed different directions to gather more people, to hear their stories, and to bring them closer to Jesus by doing life together in the ways they're most gifted. I hope that my name is only a footnote on the epic stories God will write for them to chase after His glory on earth. Right now, that sea of students totals about 2900. My life is not my own -- it's meant to push forth the name of Jesus. I hope this has been an encouragement for you to look at your life. Where do you have relationship and influence? Whose story needs to be heard? Where do we need to invest so that our next generation is protected from the evil that is pervading the headlines today?
I'll leave you with a final thought: I'm in a class right now that is really challenging me. The latest chapter I read from Mike Wilkerson's "Redemption" focused on forgiveness, with the operating definition of forgiveness being that "all prior debt or wrong-doing has been absorbed." When we choose to forgive others, we absorb their debt or wrong-doing in such a way that it prevents and protects further damage from being done. The natural response to any infliction of pain is to withdraw and maybe fight back. But what if we stood between those stirring hate and the completely innocent and chose to forgive -- to absorb -- their wrong-doing, all while confronting the lies they've believed? Maybe its idealistic. But we can't know unless we try, and at the very least, we would have done the right thing. I want to be known as someone who did the right thing, even if it wasn't easy. You have choices...and the kids are watching.
My students, for the most part, were from low-income families, often with just one parent, and in many cases, they were already considered to be at-risk children. Almost all my students were people of color (non-white). The school itself had been reinforced with community programming, services, and intervention programs to help support families with whatever their daily struggle was. As a young, middle-class, white, educated woman, I stood out like a sore thumb. My flaming red hair didn't help. :)
Within days of starting my job, I attended a training to specifically address the needs of our students who have experienced trauma. I did not realize, when I took the job, that a vast majority (over 50%) have experienced a traumatic events such as the loss of a parent, sibling, home, or close relative, or worse (abuse, homelessness, or neglect). This was partly why the community had focused on this school when delegating financial resources in recent years. It was just a matter of days before I came face-to-face with the manifestation of the facts I digested at the training.
A week into the school year, a student came in sobbing and unable to speak. The guidance counselor, close behind, explained that the child had seen a relative murdered last night. On no sleep, no idea of what to do with her emotions, and no one to turn to, she completely fell apart when the counselor left. I scooped her up and held her shaking little frame, praying to God for some kind of wisdom for how to handle that level of anxiety in a little one. No words came, only tight hugs, and eventually she calmed down enough to eat breakfast. I found out later that she was homeless and this house was one of a handful of places she and mom would land between shelters. I found it hard to sleep some nights, wondering why that sweet, innocent girl doesn't have a safe place to sleep every night, or a bed to call her own. At five years old, she's faced more trauma in a week than some face in a lifetime, and she did nothing to deserve it.
During those initial weeks of class, building relationships with students, especially students of trauma, is HUGE for their classroom success. The introvert in me had to spend every last "relational dollar" so that I would "earn" their trust enough to speak both truth and tough love when needed. By age 5, some of these kids had internalized phrases they heard over and over, so much so, that it hindered their learning before they ever really started.
Several times my job of re-teaching a lesson to a student shifted more so into counseling the student on their capabilities. Students would say things like, "I can't, teacher, I can't. This is too hard. I'll never get it. I'm just stupid." I would reassure them, "You're not stupid -- your brain is growing and learning new things and it's okay to not know, but we always keep trying." Usually, this would result in another try, and another failure, after which they'd yell something like, "See!? I can't! I'm dumb, teacher. I'm a stupid a** kid." There it was -- the lie. The phrase that somebody said, probably in a different context and maybe not even directly at the student, but it stuck and it dug down deep into their minds: you are not enough.
In snapshots like the one above, usually, the child would eventually learn the task and high praise would be given -- not so much for completing the task, but positive reinforcement that they are capable of doing hard things. It was AMAZING how much these little accomplishments would change their attitudes and willingness to keep learning. They are profoundly impacted by the responses of those around them. I learned to speak the love language Words of Affirmation not just as a teaching tool, but as relational super glue. These kids needed to know they could count on someone, even if it was only for a season.
Then, November 8th happened. I walked into school that day still a bit shell-shocked at the outcome of the election myself. In my classroom, the two lead teachers I worked for were laying on the ground, tears streaming down both faces. One of them said, "I love being a teacher, but I do not want to be here today. What the h*ll are we supposed to say to these kids?"
By this time, I'd figured out many of the kids' stories, not just in our room, but around the school as well. Many students' families were on government assistance programs. Several were children or grandchildren of illegal immigrants. Most had moved homes more times in 5 years than most people do in a lifetime. I had not calculated what November 9th would look like if Clinton didn't win. The fear of being evicted, deported, homeless, or endangered was very real to many of these students -- and they personally did nothing to deserve it. I prayed, and then walked down to the cafeteria. A few older students were crying. Many of mine, too young to understand, asked, "Ms. Jacque, why are all the big kids sad?" I don't remember what I said -- my heart and mind were still trying to find the strength to face what was going to be a very rough day for everyone.
Once upstairs, my lead teacher explained to the students that today, she might not be very happy and might even cry a little bit, but that it wasn't because she was mad at any of them. She explained that last night, everyone in America got to choose who the next president would be, and that she didn't like the person that won. This was enough information for some, who were curious about the big kids' sadness, to put the pieces together -- maybe the big kids were just sad he won, too. After a few seconds, one of the quietest kids in the class sheepishly asked, "Teacher, why does the orange man hate us?" Heads whipped back to the teacher, whose eyes filled with tears, and before she could say anything, another piped up, "Yeah! My mom said we're gonna get sent away! " An eruption of, "What!?" and "Yeah, my abuela, too!" and "But what about me?" followed. I felt like my heart would physically collapse on itself. In those moments, there are no words.
The next 7 hours were filled with a palpable anxiety throughout the school. At recess, our 3rd grade buddies (the grade we share playground space with), were in no condition to protect the Kindergarteners. Several were red in the face and eyes from crying all day. The students with already short emotional fuses were especially touchy and there was nothing to be done about it. Their hearts were feeling something their minds couldn't verbalize, and the best course of action was to let the emotions run their course and to continue speaking truth: you are smart. You are capable. You can do hard things. I love you and care about you, even if you get this answer wrong.
November 9, 2016 will forever be my worst day in the classroom. But it pales in comparison to what my students were experiencing. I've been a white girl in a brown country -- I know what it's like to feel like most people are watching you, like you don't belong, or like you're not quite as safe-feeling as you're used to, even if no real danger is present. But even in a brown country, my life was never really in danger. If something really awful had happened, I had 25 (white) expats in my phone who would all gladly come help. I had legal residential standing that protected me, even in a corrupt national government. And if it ever got really politicially unstable, I came from a country and family with enough resources to just book me a flight and get out before danger struck. I stood out in a crowd, but never did I feel like the government itself was out to get me, chase me away, and tell me to go back to my homeland and freeload somewhere else.
What a terrible feeling it must be, for these 5-year-olds who have already experienced trauma, to feel, think, and believe that the single most powerful person in the world not only knows their family's greatest fear, but that he detests their personal existence. I can't even begin to imagine how that would make a kindergartner feel. They didn't know his name, but they knew, "the orange man hates us." I know the folks in Washington fight their own battles, but they don't always feel the impact their decisions have. On November 9th, teachers across the nation were on the front lines of political warfare -- and every one of us felt it. That is profoundly upsetting to me.
Kindergarten taught me a great deal, but one of the key take-aways for me was the realization that the kids are ALWAYS WATCHING, and almost always listening. Kids don't always know the whole story, but when there's tension and conflict, they feel it just like anyone else. And then, they watch. They observe how conflict is handled -- what's okay to say, is it okay to physically react?, do we just walk away? They absorb every bit of it... and then, when their circumstances mirror it, they repeat it back. Anger is met with anger, disrespect is met with disrespect. So, Ghandi was on to something -- "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
In our current political climate, it seems there are no right answers, only more arguing and lots of click bait. I'll admit -- it's really overwhelming to think about how we will ever reach global resolution, peace, and calm. I'm deeply unsettled about how much talk there is about nuclear warfare. But here's what I do know -- each of us have choices to make in our everyday lives, even if we aren't sure how to navigate politics. In all reality, I have little influence on the overarching political themes of today, and honestly, even if I had influence, the immigration laws and governmental support systems are such a mess, I wouldn't know where to begin exercising the influence. Where I DO have influence, though, is with students. So, my choice today is to focus on the kids, regardless of where they come from.
For me, November 9th has become one of a handful of reasons I continue to work with kids. In 2013, I was introduced to the JAZ home in the Philippines -- a home for girls rescued out of impoverished, abusive, or high-risk areas for human trafficking. They did nothing to deserve the life they were born into. Back in 2014, NBC aired a series on the children caught in the Syrian conflict. I had a similar reaction: they did nothing to deserve this. Working in upper-middle-class suburbia has triggered that same response, but out of very different circumstances. Generally speaking, (yes, I know it's not quite this simplistic...), the students I work with now have done little more or less to deserve what they have than my students in the inner city. In all cases, the children are completely subject to the choices and consequences of their parents' actions -- not their own. Likewise, all former generations have been dealt that hand: you were born somewhere during some time period and had some amount of resources available, so go make the best of it! We don't get to choose where we started life, but we do get to choose where we finish and how we get there.
I've been watching a sermon series by Louie Giglio on People of the Fine Print. It details stories in the bible of people who aren't the superstars of Christianity. In many cases, they are everyday people who were faithful to God and diligent with their lot in life. Their small, yet sacrificial acts of obedience to God are what paved the way for the big shots to do what God had for them to do, which ultimately shaped history and propelled God's love forward. God built them to need each other, even in the little things. The same is true here -- we cannot allow differences to divide. Life is meant to be done together, regardless of how visible your assignment from God is to others.
Our kids are watching, and much like my student on November 9th, they probably have some questions they'd like answers to. I know I won't always have the answers, but I also know that part of my calling in working with the next generation is just to listen. Sometimes, what students need is the freedom to say what's on their mind without fear of backlash or silence. Everyone has a perspective. Everyone has a story. Everyone has their own interpretations about their story and the stories of other people. But no one is more or less loved by God, even if their story is very different than ours. No one is any less human because of the country their ancestors were born in or the religion they practice. And when we don't like the stories that others have to tell, it should cause us to respond in love -- not in hate, not in fear, not in anger.
Even though I want all of humanity to know God's love and peace (because it's AMAZING!), I don't get to force people to believe it or do life my way -- that's not my job nor my goal in following Jesus. My goal in life is that when it's all said and done and Jesus calls me home to Heaven, the trail I leave behind will be a sea of students, all headed different directions to gather more people, to hear their stories, and to bring them closer to Jesus by doing life together in the ways they're most gifted. I hope that my name is only a footnote on the epic stories God will write for them to chase after His glory on earth. Right now, that sea of students totals about 2900. My life is not my own -- it's meant to push forth the name of Jesus. I hope this has been an encouragement for you to look at your life. Where do you have relationship and influence? Whose story needs to be heard? Where do we need to invest so that our next generation is protected from the evil that is pervading the headlines today?
I'll leave you with a final thought: I'm in a class right now that is really challenging me. The latest chapter I read from Mike Wilkerson's "Redemption" focused on forgiveness, with the operating definition of forgiveness being that "all prior debt or wrong-doing has been absorbed." When we choose to forgive others, we absorb their debt or wrong-doing in such a way that it prevents and protects further damage from being done. The natural response to any infliction of pain is to withdraw and maybe fight back. But what if we stood between those stirring hate and the completely innocent and chose to forgive -- to absorb -- their wrong-doing, all while confronting the lies they've believed? Maybe its idealistic. But we can't know unless we try, and at the very least, we would have done the right thing. I want to be known as someone who did the right thing, even if it wasn't easy. You have choices...and the kids are watching.
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