Last night I had a nightmare. I was finishing out my last weeks in my classroom, and the teacher who was hired to replace me kept taking down my decorations and bulletin boards without my permission. Eventually I had to interrupt her to say, “Seriously, can this not wait until I’ve finished the year?" I guess I’m having some insecurities about being replaceable. I’m probably not alone in this. We want to think that we are the only ones who can do our jobs this well. I want to believe that even after I’ve packed up the books of my classroom library, next year my students will look at each other with a sigh. “We really miss Mrs. Witt.” And some might. I’ve had so many sweet students express their sadness that I am leaving. But the truth of the matter is that the new teacher will be fabulous and the days will march on, and Okoboji and I will go our separate ways. That’s life when we make big changes. In case you missed it, my family and I are moving north -- to St. Paul, Minnesota, to be exact. This decision has been in the works for years, really. Chris and I have always dreamed of living in a city, and we are so excited for the opportunities this experience will present to our two sons. In case you missed the beginning of our love story, Chris and I first met at a concert in Kansas City. Since then we’ve loved live music and ethnic restaurants and art museums. Our new metro home will provide ample chances to experience all of those and more. Of course we’ve also enjoyed our time in Okoboji. The school, the community, our family…so many aspects that we will miss. I’ve cried about leaving my sister and her family, my classroom and colleagues, my students and my house with ample square footage. (City life will require dramatic downsizing. And for those who have asked, we are not choosing a suburb.) For years Chris and I have whispered in bed at night about this one life we’ve been given. We’ve expressed fears that we will wake up one day and realize that we’ve missed all of the chances thrown our way. So we’re taking this leap. From a house with three living spaces and room enough to turn cartwheels to a bedroom barely big enough for our furniture and a detached garage. (The horror!) From classrooms and sports teams where my sons are sometimes the only kids of color to a fabric of racial and religious diversity. From Iowa to Minnesota. From known to unknown. The next few weeks will be filled with packing and purging, remembering and refocusing. We will work on looking forward to new adventures and leaving this home with grace and goodness.
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The word “essay” first entered our language in 1597. It comes from the French verb essayer, “to try.” Today I try to capture in words my recent feelings regarding race in Middle America. Let’s start with a conversation I had with my oldest son. He’s 13 now, with the muscles and build of a young adult. He walks with the weight of extra burdens not cast on many of his peers. He’s had trouble this year with a classmate who carries a heaviness of his own. At one point this student made fun of my black son for the color of his skin. My son reacted in his own heavy way. Heavy seems to be the word of the day. Black parents often refer to “The Talk” that they must have with their young kids of color. This isn’t about the birds and the bees, however; this is about survival. How do you respond to the police? How do you handle yourself when faced with confrontation? How can you take measures that, while not guaranteed, will hopefully keep you safe? So in our own heavy moment at home, we have our version of The Talk. (Think about how strange that must feel for my son. We look like the oppressor, not like him.) We tell him that of course he wants to respond when hateful things are said. Lashing back is in our nature. But he must learn to control the anger. The white boy will instigate, and you will be caught. It’s the law of the land. My husband compares it to basketball, the language my son understands best. One player pushes another, but the push back gets the whistle for the foul. I call on the powerful words of former First Lady Michelle Obama. Let the classmate go low, but you must always rise high. You have no other choice. And perhaps the saddest fact of all? We took this child from a country where he was the majority. Where the color of his skin allowed him to blend in and was never the ammunition forced into the weapon of childhood bullying. And we brought him here. Here. Middle America. Where just last week I had to push pause during a short documentary on the Civil Rights march from Selma to Montgomery in 1965 because a handful of my 10th and 11th graders couldn’t control the giggles and suspicious sideways glances every time the n-word was uttered. Here in my home state, Steve King, who says “we can’t restore civilization with someone else’s babies,” routinely wins elections and the support of white supremacist David Duke. This is also the Middle America of my childhood. Of leisurely bike rides around town with my best friend when our number one priority was having enough change for candy at Casey’s. This is the Middle America of rolling farmland and highways straight like an arrow. This is the Middle America where I first encountered Jesus and had my first kiss and received my college degrees. I love this place. But this is the Middle America where every year, still, in 2017 my two sons face racist remarks in school. It’s the same place where a student told me that she didn’t experience racism in our high school, saying, “Well, just from my friends, but we all know it’s a joke.” It’s the same place where the Confederate flag is routinely featured on screen savers and in the backs of farm trucks. (For those who need a history refresher, Iowa was a Union state.) I don’t know what will bring about change. Last week when we watched the documentary on Selma, I simultaneously marveled that just a few decades ago blacks were denied the right to vote and mourned that we still have conversations today about the motivation of new voter ID laws that most directly impact minorities. I look at the fact that Loving v. Virginia invalidated laws against interracial marriage in 1967, and now 50 years later my husband and I can adopt transracially without fighting in court. At the same time, I look at the racist garbage posted on Facebook and Twitter, sometimes by my students, and think that 50 years hasn’t afforded too much change. I see pockets of progress around me, but I also see the dark corners of Middle America; I peek under the rug where we don’t like to sweep, and I see remnants of a segregated past, an unspoken “know your place” that hasn’t gone away. And there it is. I’ve tried as Francis Bacon first did in 1597. I haven’t made a clear point. I haven’t drawn any strong conclusions, but I'm trying. I’m sure I’ll try again tomorrow. And the next day and the next day. I’ll try until I get it right. This month's existential crisis came in the form of Esther. (Is it normal to have a monthly existential crisis?) I've heard the story of Esther since I was a young girl. Esther, the beautiful queen destined to save her people. Today Pastor John taught on this story again, and I've been emotional since. Mordecai, Esther's uncle, persuades her to act on behalf of the Jews who will otherwise be exterminated at the hands of Haman. Mordecai says, in one of the book's foundational verses, "For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father's family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?" (Esther 4:14). For such a time as this... At lunch after church I was distracted. "Esther had a real calling on her life," I said to Chris, "a true Purpose." 'Yes," he replied. "But she didn't know that when she became queen." And he was right. She didn't know right away, but she eventually knew. What if I never know? I had a snow day on Friday and found myself doing some deep cleaning and organizing. In the bottom drawer of my nightstand I found a roll of black and white film that Chris had taken before we were married. I stared at those pictures, trying to remember what I was like at 22. My skin was so smooth with no wrinkles around my eyes. I had not yet decided to become a mother by adoption, and I had yet to lay eyes on my two beautiful sons. I was finishing up my teaching degree, and as always, I loved learning. I stayed up later and said yes to more adventures. I wore thrift store t-shirts with cut-off camouflage pants. I believed there was a Purpose for me. Soon I had a vocation: English teacher. And I've had moments where my work feels like a passion, but I wouldn't say it's ever felt like Purpose. I felt a hint of that purpose during my summers working with youth at camp. I've felt similar hints when I've met with young girls for Bible study. And of course there's always been my dream to be a back-up singer. I don't need the fame and spotlight of a lead singer; no, just give me a mic and let me sing harmonies. Likewise, I read the work of professional bloggers and think, "Oh, I would love to do that," but that's not my calling either. I'm always living in my head, asking all of these big questions and not often getting answers. Maybe I'll never know my "for such a time as this." Maybe my purpose isn't saving a whole people group like Esther. Maybe it's being a mom and teaching students about Orwell and helping young writers find their voice. Or maybe it's something totally different. Or nothing. Or everything. See what I mean? Existential crisis. My personal and professional lives overlapped in the power of the prodigal son. It was the assigned reading for College Comp II, a part of our chapter on analysis. This is a class all about close reading and writing. It comes with a heavy serving of reading and discussion. Maybe you know the story. Father has two sons. Younger son takes money and runs. Lives the party life. Finds himself destitute and living with pigs. Literally. Comes home to rejoicing father. Older brother is peeved. Still, celebration ensues. "This is a story about bad parenting," a student remarked. I nearly spit out my tea. "Can you explain more?" I queried. "Sure. The kid didn't learn a lesson. The father gives and gives and gives. The older son has every right to be angry. How does the dad expect the son to learn from his mistakes?" A lively discussion followed. We talked about grace and forgiveness, about cultural context, about the importance of character placement. (Just why is the older son there? What is his role?) We talked openly about how our own parents might shape our interpretation, and my students looked for my input as the sole mother in the room. "Well, you know," I began, "in my house we mess up every day. In big ways and little ways, myself included. When my kids come to me and say they're sorry about something, my first response is always to hug and kiss and forgive. Then I move into teaching and correction." "Oh, in my house that was always opposite," the same student who initiated the conversation reflected. That same night as I sat in church, I thought again about the parable that I've read hundreds of times and heard dozens of sermons about. While many of my students connected to the older brother, I always find myself relating to the younger son, maybe because I've been the one messing up so very many times. Unlike the younger son, it seems like I'm always drifting away, not necessarily running at full speed. But then I blink and discover I'm away from my Source, the One who really loves and welcomes me home. (Oh, I do so love the love of Jesus.) I sat in church and reflected on my own parents, the ones who first introduced me to that deep, deep love of Jesus around the oak kitchen table as Dad read devotions. The parents who took me each week to sit on the stark wooden pews with a soundtrack of rumbling hymns that taught of "streams of mercy, never ceasing." My parents always sided with grace. Family folklore tells the story of the night I missed my curfew. (I'm sure my siblings can also recite the details by heart.) I was sitting in a friend's yard on a perfect summer night when I saw headlights coming down the road. I had already missed my midnight curfew by at least an hour. "It's my dad," I joked. And it was. He cranked down the manual window and said four words to me: "Get your butt home." And I did. I learned from that lesson, too. I wasn't berated or shamed when I got home. I was first hugged because my parents had been worried that my car was in a ditch on a gravel road. Yes, there were consequences for my actions because I had broken the rules. But I was corrected in love. Grace always won. This lesson will come back to the classroom, too, because I label this as a teaching blog. I hope I'm known as a teacher who sides with grace. This morning two senior boys came into my classroom on the day our Kate Chopin literary analysis is due. Our school has had district-wide filtering and network issues this week. These boys had both been victims with no access to their first drafts. I could have said, "I'm sorry, but there will be a penalty for your actions." And maybe I should've. But I will forever be that young girl in an old church singing, "Let that grace now like a fetter bind my wandering heart to thee." So instead I said, "I understand extenuating circumstances. I know the tech is up and running now, so try to get it to me by the end of the day." And each boy smiled and said, "Thanks, I will." So that's my response today, too. "Thanks. I will." Today to start the new year in my classroom, I introduced my students to Naomi Shihab Rye's poem "Burning the Old Year." I reflect on this poem each year at this time, and my hope is that my students can take something away from it as well.
Last night at our small group at church we talked about King David and the results of his sin. Yes, he repented and received forgiveness, but he also suffered consequences for his sin for the rest of his life: the death of his infant son, the rebellion and death of his son Absalom, the rape of his daughter Tamar. The list goes on. Yes, David was a great and mighty king, but his story also teaches that our actions do indeed have consequences. How does this connect to teaching? I'm getting there. This week I gave a vocabulary quiz over 16 words from Of Mice and Men. We discussed these words, created associations for them, and quizzed ourselves using Quizlet flashcards. One particular student received a low score on the quiz and immediately asked, "Can I retake this? I forgot to study." I get similar questions when students earn a low score on an Article of the Week reflection. "I forgot to do this until last night. Can I resubmit it?" "I didn't get that done, so can I turn it in later this week?" Our school has various policies by department. Some teachers allow retakes no matter what; other teachers allow retakes after some kind of "corrective" work. Other teachers don't allow any retakes. I've struggled with this decision. On the one hand, the ultimate goal should be learning, not just getting a grade. With that perspective, then, I should allow retakes in the hopes that redoing the Article of the Week reflection or retaking the vocabulary quiz will lead to greater understanding and mastery of the material. And from a Christian perspective, I'm also showing my students an extension of grace. On the other hand, I see more and more what it is like to live in a world where it seems there are no consequences. In a world of post-truth and fake news, it feels imperative to teach my students that their actions ultimately do have consequences. What am I teaching them but to game their way through the educational system? "Sure, it maybe took me 18 tries, but by attempt #19, I aced the test." And should that student earn the same grade as the student who studied throughout the unit and knew all of the words by test day? Today I struggle with these questions. I recognize that this is a broader philosophical question, not just the simple question of "Do I allow my students to redo assignments and retake quizzes?" In the meantime, I'm grateful for any feedback my 12 readers could provide. At some point in your school career you were probably made to read Steinbeck's classic tale Of Mice and Men. Each year it is a favorite unit of my students. I read several parts aloud, and my students grow to love Lennie. We laugh at his simple mind and dream along with him. While many students know of the ending before we get there (thank you, The Middle and Family Guy!), many others are shocked by the abrupt and discouraging outcome. We like happy endings best, don't we? As we wrapped up with discussion today, I introduced my students to Robert Burns's poem, "To a Mouse." In the second-to-last stanza we find the allusion for the novella's title: "But little Mouse, you are not alone, / In proving foresight may be vain: / The best laid schemes of mice and men / Go often askew." I quoted a translated version, but you can read both here. In a nutshell, a farmer is plowing in his field when he runs over a nest of mice, causing him to reflect on the gossamer fabric of our lives. My coworker Angela was called away on a family emergency today. I went next door to watch over her class for a few minutes, and I couldn't stop thinking about just how damn transient our lives are. Angela had been planning a relaxing break and time with family, and suddenly she was whisked into the bleak unknown. It's true for all of us, isn't it? We plan, we scheme, we hope, we dream, but ultimately, one turn of the wheel or one call from the doctor, and it all goes up in smoke. Depressing, isn't it? That's the heavy mood that hung over my classroom today as we discussed the dream of Lennie and his rabbits. "Does that mean we stop dreaming?" I asked my students. Their reaction was split. "Does it even really matter?" some wondered. I won't stop dreaming. I know that. But I also know that I'm going to hug my boys a bit closer when they get off the bus this afternoon. I'm going to tell my husband just how much I love him, and I'm going to walk away from this building for the next five days reflective and wondering. And in the meantime, living. Maybe it's because we're all in desperate need of a break. Maybe it's because I haven't had any added sugar or alcohol for more than 30 days. Maybe it's the supermoon. I've just been out of sorts a bit this week, and today I finally got a fed up with caring more than my students do. Remember the book Miss Nelson is Missing by Harry Allard and James Marshall? I have an alter ego, too. She showed up today, but not in the form of a substitute. During my first years of teaching in Missouri, a student gave me the nickname Miss Honey because I was so sweet. I'm not making this up. And the fact is, I rarely lose my cool in the classroom. This isn't a humble brag like you might say in a job interview, though. I openly tell my students that I rarely get angry, and they will hardly ever hear me raise my voice. I just don't think it's worth the spike in blood pressure. This can be a weakness, though. I'm too nice. I get too lenient with deadlines. I'm reflective to a fault. If students aren't doing their work, I overanalyze until somehow I've decided it's my fault (sometimes, yes, it is, but not all the time) and then readjust lesson plans and schedules. Today, however, Miss Honey lost her cool. It started 2nd hour. Every day for the entire year we've done the same thing when the bell rings in English 2. We settle into our seats with independent reading books and read for ten minutes. This is routine, but for nearly every single day this year, I've had to provide the same boy with a gentle reminder. That's usually all it takes, but this week he, too, has been out of sorts because of some drama in his first hour class. Today when he was whining and avoiding his book at the beginning of class, I sternly said, "I've had enough of your whining this week. Either pick up your book and read or head to the office. I'm done." He chose the book with a side of heavy sighing. Then fifth hour rolled along. Four students were scheduled to give informative presentations on a dream destination. We've worked on the project for nearly two weeks, and they've known since Monday that their day was today. Three of the four informed me at the beginning of class that they weren't prepared. I sighed heavily and reminded them that their grade would be reduced as we discussed at the beginning of the year. Then I walked down the hall to quickly commiserate with another teacher. "Make them give it," she said. So I did. I walked back down to my room, told the prepared student to get ready to present, and told the other three to march across the hall to the media center and do some last-minute preparations. They would present after lunch. And they did after much heavy sighing of their own. I'm guessing a few of my students in other classes had choice words to describe me today, too. Several of my English 2 and American Novel students have not been doing their assigned readings in Of Mice and Men and To Kill a Mockingbird. I've seen them waste provided class time, and I've read their responses that sound shockingly like Sparknotes. So today I gave a quick reading "quiz." I printed out the Sparknotes summaries for the chapters they had several days to read, and then asked them to point out at least three inaccuracies or missing details in the chapter. I saw lots of nervous glances and read several hilarious answers. After the "quiz" we talked about what they miss when they rely only on online summaries. It probably wasn't a lasting lesson, but for today, I felt some satisfaction. I'm sure the teaching gurus who write the books with the perfect strategies and ideal classes would not be pleased with my methods today. I apologize to Penny Kittle and Kelly Gallagher and the other mentor teachers that I try to emulate. Today was not my best day. Miss Honey will TRY to return tomorrow, but if she can't, she will surely be back after Thanksgiving. Today I learned that Oxford Dictionaries selected “post-truth” as their international word of the year. Post-truth: “relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief.” In other words, the truth is no longer relevant. I could’ve told you that. I blogged a few weeks ago about my attempt to push students to choose unbiased sources. The very next week a student from that class handed in a paper. At the bottom, right after his list of biased sources, he wrote, “There really isn’t such a thing as an unbiased source anymore. I can find truth on these websites, too.” Apparently, truth is subjective. I always knew that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but now truth is, too? Just today I read that many Trump supporters planned to boycott Pepsi over fictional remarks made by the company’s CEO. Where did they get this misinformation? From a biased source, created just to trick people. Many of these sites are run by teenagers in Macedonia. You might think that part is made up, but really, it’s not. These savvy teens make fake websites with catchy political-sounding names, and then they make up crazy-yet-believable stories that get clicks from users on Facebook. That’s our world. Teenagers in Macedonia make up fake news stories that influence voters. And also my students. So what is my role as an educator in this world? I need to help my students re-engage with objective facts through relevant reading and lessons on bias. I also obviously need to teach them empathy. We also need to get started in preparations for the Smarter Balanced assessment next year. And by the way, the only student in my English 2 classroom yesterday who knew what the word “omniscient” means was Albert, the foreign exchange student from Spain. If you’re my Facebook friend you might know that my husband and I recently just finished the #Whole30Challenge. That means we went 30 days without any added sugars, dairy, grains, and legumes. Oh, and no alcohol. (Yes, we survived the election without alcohol.) However, our 30 days are up, so I might just have to raise a glass soon to “post-truth” and this crazy world we now live in. Or at least I'll raise a glass to John Keats and his "Grecian Urn." That's a Truth I can stand behind. My students recently wrote letters of the next president. I thought I would do the same. Dear Future President: This morning I was reminded of a song I love, and it is the message that I want to implore you to remember. The message will sound simplistic because it is. The song is titled “Everyone’s Beautiful,” and that’s where I want to start. Our country feels more deeply divided than it ever has in my memory. I have my theories as to why this is, but I know you’re busy, so I won’t share them here. I do want to share what I think can fix that. It can be summed up in a word: empathy. Empathy will help us remember that everyone is, indeed, beautiful. I’m teaching my high school students the beauty of To Kill a Mockingbird right now. I hope you know the story. The main character, Scout, develops empathy for others throughout the story because of lessons her father teaches her, lessons about walking around in someone else’s skin, learning from others’ experiences. You don’t need to know my whole life story, but I will tell you this: I had an idyllic childhood with loving parents and extended family and a strong educational foundation. My world lacked one essential element, though: diversity. My friends were like me: white, Midwestern, Christian, and heterosexual (or so I believed at the time.) It may have not been explicitly stated to me as a child, but I grew up knowing to vote Republican. Because my world looked just like me, I thought that WAS the world. That changed. Now here I am, decades later, the white mom of black children with gay friends and Buddhist friends. I’ve traveled outside of my Midwestern bubble more times than I can count on all my fingers and toes. Every one of those people, every single experience expanded my world. It’s no longer white, Midwestern, Christian, heterosexual, and Republican. And it’s better because of that. My worldview changed because I now love people who are different than I am. (Now here's a lengthy side note on faith. It’s worth noting that I’m still a Christian. My relationships with Buddhists and agnostics didn’t sway my beliefs. However, I want to live in a country where my friends feel they have freedom of their religion as well. I hope you realize that you can’t legislate salvation, as much as some well-meaning Christians might wish you could. The rest of the lyrics from “Everyone’s Beautiful” mentions that redemption is found “down deep in your [God’s] eyes.” Redemption isn’t found on a ballot or scrawled on a piece of legislature. I’m not sure where that faulty idea came from, but it’s a permeating, poisonous one.) Maybe what I’m suggesting is a book club where the Syrian refugee and the Midwestern farmer join together with some other folks to read To Kill a Mockingbird. I guess that’s probably not feasible, so what I’m asking you to do is this: help our country remember that we’re not all the same, and that’s a good thing. I recently saw a poll that suggested the majority of Republican voters thought life was better in the 1950s. But Mr. or Madam President, my transracial family would not exist if it were the 1950s. One of my favorite former students would probably still be living in the closet, and my role as a working mom would be the exception, not the norm. Personally, that’s not a way of life I would like to return to. My encounters with the exceptional diversity in this country tell me that America is still pretty great. This all means that you’re assigned a task that I’m sure feels nearly impossible; you must make decisions that are in the best interest of a wide range of people groups. For a long time the direction of our country was driven by white men, but that is no longer the case. You need to do your job accordingly. That means you’re representing the white man, the black man, the Jewish woman, and the Muslim refugee. That’s a tough task, and I sincerely hope you’re up for the challenge. After all, we are all beautiful. Thank you for your time. Sincerely and respectfully, Kimberly Witt |
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September 2020
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