As we've watched the rapid spread of COVID-19 these past several weeks, I've grown increasingly concerned for some of my students -- the incarcerated individuals I teach through the Second Chance Pell program. For over a year and a half, I've guided small groups of students as they study writing and literature. Through online discussion forums and multiple essays, these men -- old and young -- have inspired me as they squeeze an opportunity for all it's worth. They read extra pages, ask probing questions, push for extra feedback. Their lightbulb moments are frequent and focused as they look towards their future outside of the walls of a prison. While the pay isn't great (is any adjunct work?), I would do this job for free. (Please don't tell my supervisor.)
Over the weekend, however, I received word that the current group of students would be the last for a while. These students have faced a myriad of complications over the past several months: reduced hours in the computer lab, lack of access when the facility goes on lockdown, loss of research privileges because someone else abused the opportunity. Still, they pushed through, using the time and tools they were given to cobble together an education, many of them taking classes for the first time in decades. They learned to manage an online learning platform and textbooks; they shared insights about Walt Whitman and Flannery O'Connor; they wrote profiles about their mothers and baby sisters and their own struggles with addiction. They overcame. Of all of the obstacles they faced, however, this virus has proven to be their most formidable foe. As their institutions took necessary precautions, locking down anytime someone had a fever, my students lost access to our classes because they couldn't reach the computer labs. While I know that shutting classes down for now is the right thing, it didn't stop my tears as I graded their final reflections and essays today. These students are always humble and thankful, and this last group was no exception. Here are a couple of favorite lines I read this week: "Writing again has reawakened my thirst for knowledge and hunger for understanding, and I am famished." "Thank you, Ms. Witt, for your help during this tough time for our country and world . . . You have little idea what it means to me that I can attend college." "With what I learned in the 7 weeks of this composition class will stick with me forever and the time and effort I put in to this class has paved a way of good feelings and pride for actually stepping up and doing college classes." "I’m positive that this course has helped me and others get what we needed to continue forward, and strive towards our goal of being a college graduate." Read those words and think of those men, making choices to transform their lives and seize new opportunities. Then think of them in facilities where the virus is already spreading. If you'd like more information, here's a starting place: NPR article about the spread of COVID-19 behind bars The Daily podcast episode about one man's attempt to get released from Rikers Island as the virus spread Ear Hustle podcast - start from the beginning and learn about life in San Quentin The New Jim Crow - a necessary read about mass incarceration in our country
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A wise friend recently told me that we don’t have good days contrasted with bad days. Every day has good and bad moments. I’m trying to reframe my thinking in that way. Yesterday I sat cocooned in the backyard sun for hours, indulging in the comfort of divine prose. The laughter of my youngest son as he played driveway basketball with my husband interrupted the constant birdsong. That was a good moment. For lunch I slathered butter on a thick chunk of homemade French bread. With dinner last night I indulged in summer in a glass: a gin and tonic with a fresh squeeze of lime. Those were good moments. Today the sadness fogged around me as soon as I woke, unwelcome. Just out of my peripheral view, it’s there, a version of the truth of this new life. Eventually I escaped to the backyard to cry. That was a bad moment. I lost my patience as I tried to help with Spanish homework, eventually slamming the fridge door shut in frustration. That was a bad moment. Last night we tumbled onto the sectional for the new basketball documentary on ESPN. During commercial breaks we shared favorite scenes and munched on monster cookies. That was a good moment. When I walked into the dining room this morning, I noticed my spindly tomato plants, growing from seeds, stretching towards the sun. That was a good moment. As I scrolled through social media, I saw images of protests bookended by first-person accounts of medical professionals fighting the virus. Simultaneously I felt anger and fear and sadness. That was a bad moment. Yesterday during online worship, I studied the faces of the worship band, singing one of my favorite songs. Tears sprung at the corners of my eyes, and I looked away. At once my heart ached to put my arms around my friends and also swelled with a deep love for Jesus and his followers. That was a bad/good moment. Do you have any good or bad moments you care to share? “How was your nap?” I ask as he walks to the kitchen where I’m preparing dinner.
“Good. Like every other nap,” he replies with a smile, rummaging through the cabinets and the refrigerator for a snack. I’m at the counter, chopping an onion. He hugs me from behind. If the weather allows (for him, that means above 55 and sunny), he will spend some time outside working on his basketball shot. Earlier in the day I could hear him straining through some situps and pushups in his room. “Mom, will you take some pictures for me?” he asks later. He’s been customizing shoes, painting them as a tribute to Kobe. Like me, he loves the light at the end of the day. We walk outside where I take several shots of him from different angles so he can post them to social media. He’s hoping to start a business. “I can’t wait until this is all over,” he tells me at least once a week. This boy lives for basketball, and while his school season was finished, he was just gearing up to play on his favorite team with official practice set to start in early April. That obviously didn’t happen. Then the rec center closed. Thank God for our driveway hoop. “Stop it, bro,” I hear his laughing voice echo up the stairs as I work in the mornings. He’s in his bedroom below, on a video chat with a friend from school. They are supposedly collaborating on homework, but I don’t intervene if they steer off course because I’m so glad to hear the joy in his voice. They talk about shoes and NBA stars; when I’m not listening, I’m sure they talk about girls. I never thought I would be so thankful for technology. While his brother is reluctant to talk about matters of the heart, this boy wants to talk about deep topics all the time, even when I’m exhausted after a day of teaching online, helping with homework, doing laundry, and preparing three meals. How do you know God is real? How do I know what my future holds? How can things like the Holocaust happen? Those are a few of the topics we've covered in the last few weeks. He loves with this deepness and intensity, too. Sixteen is straddling a canyon, one foot in childhood, the other firmly in adulthood. Someday soon life will provide the push that gets him fully to the other side. Until then, I’m happy that he still calls me “Mama” and then raucously croons the next line from “Bohemian Rhapsody." I'm always happy to sing along. “Wake me at 7:59?” he asks each night as I head upstairs to bed. He’s perched in front of his PC, ready for some Fortnite or NBA2K before his bedtime. I kiss him on the cheek.
“I love you,” I say as I leave the room. “I love me, too,” he laughs. And then after a pause, “No, really. I love you.” Sometimes he asks me to come back for a hug. The next morning I peek in as he sleeps, noticing shadows of the 7-year-old I tucked into the bottom bunk eight years ago when we adopted him and his older brother, new parents with zero years of experience on our resumes. I also see a whisper of the man he will be in his broadening shoulders and shadowy facial hair. Fifteen is mythology, a centaur age -- half boy/half man. After waking (at the requested 7:59), he stumbles out of bed to the yellow kitchen bench and starts on his online schoolwork while I make breakfast. Occasionally asking for help, he’s usually done with one of his four classes before school would have started (8:30) before the virus. Eventually I head upstairs to my office where I check in with students and respond to some writing or, if I'm feeling brave, work on my own writing. He continues to work, coming up to ask for help with a journalism assignment or to snuggle with Rooney. “I’m so popular,” he jokes, grabbing his phone from the charging station by my desk and scrolling through notifications. He’s mostly self-motivated and independent, a self-proclaimed homebody who is happy that I can no longer invite random guests over for dinner on a weekly basis. Of course he’s a teenager who misses his friends, but armed with snacks, video games, and driveway basketball, he could live this “stay-at-home” life indefinitely. “Rooney, you’re my favorite family member,” he declares, winking at me as he walks back downstairs. Despite living in the same house, we have a lengthy text thread full of Brooklyn Nine Nine gifs and dog memes. Sometimes I watch him play a video game. If he’s in the mood, we take a neighborhood walk with Rooney or do an ab workout in the basement. While I know we’re not supposed to name Enneagram types for others, I think he’s a 5, a curious thinker who is disinclined to talk about emotions. I’m a 2, an empathic helper, creating some conflicts for us. His joking style is witty and sometimes barbed. It can cause me to double over with laughter in the kitchen as he teases Chris, but other times he will accuse me of being “sensitive” if I’m not in the mood. He’s not wrong. It’s a dance we are learning to choreograph together as he recognizes when he’s stepping on my toes and I practice steps that aren’t always my preferred style. Most of the time, though, we're at least dancing to the same music. Open a document.
Watch the cursor blink. (What if there is someone on other end sending Morse code in those blinks? Does she need help? What can I do?) I can write. I will help by writing: gather some words. Sentences can help, but any words will do. Let her know she's not alone. But first. Open a new tab. Time to check the news. When this all first started, every day felt like a new century with enough news to fill a World War. Now, the stories bleed together, trickles of facts, stats, mask patterns -- creating pools of doctors' warnings, desperate parents, death counts. Too much. Return to the blank document. Find solace in the emptiness. But that blinking cursor still calls for help. The white space stares. A gaping mouth. A never-ending cave. The bottom of the ocean. An overflowing morgue. Maybe that girl behind the Morse-code cursor needs advice: Where should I order takeout from? Will the store have flour this afternoon? When will life return to "normal"? Will my parents stay healthy? Will my kids be okay? But you don't have those answers. Take a deep breath. She's still there, blinking, waiting for your words. They matter. So does she. Bring her to life. Begin to write. I miss my extended family.
I don't miss wearing makeup. I miss seeing my students on campus. I don't miss my bleak underground shared office space. I miss going out to restaurants. I don't miss finding parking. I miss walking around our lake. I don't miss the weird guy who would sometimes yell at people. I miss hugging friends at church. I don't miss the awkward handshakes with strangers. I miss watching my kids play basketball in weekend tournaments. I don't miss the entrance fees. I miss my kids having a school routine. I don't miss the social drama that one experiences there. Dear Wesley from the Lumineers, This is a love letter of sorts, but I'm writing it with my husband's permission On Friday, March 13, we were scheduled to see you play at the Xcel Energy Center in St. Paul. My husband and I met at a concert over 17 years ago, so live music is kind of in our relationship's DNA. Your concert was on our bucket list of live music. In anticipation of your show, we listened to your new album, iii, on repeat. In the kitchen, while we worked, in AirPods as we exercised. That music became the soundtrack to the end of our winter. At the time, we were dealing with a difficult parenting situation, and the tragic family story interwoven in that album became cathartic. We watched your videos on repeat, too. Your music, sad as it was, gave us hope. Eventually you postponed the show as COVID-19 spread. My feelings of uncertainty and fear of the pandemic overshadowed my sadness about your show, though. We would see you again. The last few weeks, collectively, have been hard. I'm safe at home with my family, but I'm scared for the future. I'm grieving missed opportunities. Many days feel like Groundhog Day. I don't need to list all of my worries here; I'm sure you have your own. Yesterday, though, you provided a gift. As I browsed through Facebook, I saw your face. And your guitar! You were doing a live show to raise money for restaurant workers. I called my husband upstairs, and we contributed some money, settling in as you played song after song, long past the scheduled 30 minutes. Great music often makes me cry. Soon tears were flowing down my cheeks as you sang "Angela." Home at last.... You shared the story behind "Gun Song," and I thought of my own dad, sheltered in place with my mom on my childhood farm in Iowa. Things I knew when I was young... "Ho Hey" took me back to kitchen dance parties with my adopted sons when they first joined our family eight years ago. I belong with you, you belong with me... You even threw in a cover of Coldplay's "Green Eyes," a song that will forever remind me of the season of falling in love with my husband. You're the one that I wanted to find... So thanks, Wesley. For the more than $25,000 you raised for restaurant workers and for giving us exactly what we needed yesterday afternoon. We hope to see you in the fall. Stay safe. Love, Kim |
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September 2020
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