Before I tell this story, before I unwind it to reveal the raw truth, I want to admit my cowardness. Because I wouldn’t have written the poem, I wouldn’t have spoken the words, I wouldn’t have done any of it in this way if I was brave enough to ask:
How do you feel about Michael Brown?
It was haunting me that first week of school. As I worked in my classroom, as I met my new students, as I paced the halls. Alerts on my phone kept reminding me of Ferguson, and I wondered … I just … wondered.
The question burned on my tongue as noise rose while the students laughed, ran, and jumped at recess, while Ms. B, Mrs. Henderson, and I jabbered on and graded papers. It haunted me as I waved goodbye at the end of the each day and hello at the beginning. Just ask, I told myself. But an appropriate time never seemed to come.
I went home over Labor Day weekend, filled with hope and despair, joy and sorrow; it seemed that an adrenaline rush crept into every moment, every memory, and my hands shook with the weight of it.
That’s when I wrote the poem. It came to me the way Ruth Stone would get a poem, (according to Elizabeth Gilbert’s TEDtalk.) I was working on lesson plans when I felt and heard it, barreling down on me like a thunderous train of air.
I’m not sure it’s appropriate or sensitive, all the things I say or feel about life in my classroom. I don’t understand what it’s like to grow up like many of my students. But sometimes I’m not sure that matters.
I host a Bible Study at my house on Monday nights. We eat dinner and toss our ideas about verses around the room. Last night we talked about 2 Corinthians 6, which has this uncomfortable section of scripture about how unbelievers and believers shouldn’t be yoked, and it led to a raw and honest discussion.
“Maybe it’s saying we have to be careful about who we’re yoked to,” I suggested. “Because when you’re yoked you are bound to someone in a common direction and burden.”
“I don’t know, Lydia,” Anya told me. “I’m from a different world than my students, and so we don’t come from the same place and our burden is different. Our burdens are different, but we’re bound together and our direction is the same.”
The poem is my struggle, my burden, my own frailty, and I know that my students would bare their souls in another way. But I’m convinced that because I have been yoked with them, we will move in the direction of a shared dream. It won’t be easy. It won’t be perfect. But that’s okay. This work that I do in the classroom is not solely about educational equity and test scores – it’s about understanding, empathy, and peace.
Below are the words to: Glory. Glory. Hallelujah.
This story is colored by the rhythm of a copier, pushing and pulling paper in time with the rhythm of my beating heart.
The first week of school is a kaleidoscope of colors and images, fleeting moments and overstimulation, sleepless nights and names blurring with faces.
I called Michael Edward, Michael Brown six times in class on Friday. Each time he looked at me, eyes wide with confusion. It took me till Saturday for me to realize that I was calling him the name of a boy shot by the police.
Ms. Pitts had left early that Friday, and I had Marion Ramsey in my room. Marion, whose father was killed in a drive by this July. How can I teach him that violence does not solve violence? Is there a way I can jam the gears that pull pain up and around again?
I’m always listening for the copier to choke on the paper. When it does, I take apart the machine, reach my arms into the crevices, spin the rollers under my hands, just like Ms. B taught me. Later, I will find ink coloring my fingers. You can’t heal brokenness without touch, and you can’t touch something and leave unmarked.
I went to Mrs. Henderson’s church this Sunday, the Sunday before school started. The message was about God’s guidance through fire, through brokenness, through pain. Afterwards, she took my hands in hers. “You’ll never know how much this means to me,” she said.
Jamison can’t read. When he takes his medicine, he’s a zombie. When he doesn’t, he’s running his hands over the ground as if he can read the soul of the earth. Once, after recess, he dropped grass in the hallway. I tried to have him pick it up, but it took too long. He was too slow. We didn’t have a broom.
I’m praying as I fall asleep that I will become a warrior for my students while demons try to steal them away. Just Thursday I saw the “1”s littering the page of their test scores, and if it is true that prison cells are built by literacy rates in minority children, I am on the front lines of a war.
Ricky cries easily, talks slowly, and exudes differentness. But when he answered in class, cool Tyron flipped around in his chair, grinned, and gave him a high five.
Don’t mistake my children for felons. Don’t mistake the ink-smudges on my hands for filth. Don’t mistake this pain for hopelessness.
Glory. Glory. Hallelujah.
Glory. Glory. Hallelujah.