"You remember that?"

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is no laughing matter. I regularly hear people joke that they have PTSD from some ordinary unpleasant experience. Or that they’re “triggered” by things they simply don’t like. I can’t remember if I’ve ever done this, but I think I’m not above such things. I just don’t do it anymore, and I call people on it, as gently as I can muster, when they do it.

I have PTSD. I don’t know if the anxiety and depression I often experience are just part of that, or if they would qualify as separate diagnoses themselves. I also have fibromyalgia and chronic pain syndrome, and a degenerating disc between my C6 and C7 vertebrae, which has led to problems with my right arm and hand, especially two of my fingers. So I have pain and mobility issues, and the fibromyalgia is almost certainly the result of the PTSD, given how long it has been a part of my life.

Something happened when I was six years old. I’ll get to that in a minute, but first, it’s important for you to know that, while I kind of remembered the events all my life, I never really was conscious of them or spoke about them until I told a friend when I was 25 years old. And then I did nothing about any of it until I was in my forties and told another friend and then my husband. In October of 2015, a year after my mother died, I finally went to get help, and I was diagnosed with PTSD. I was about to turn 45, so that means almost forty years passed between the initial traumatic incident and me finally getting help. Nearly forty years of carrying and burying trauma causes anxiety and inflammation in the body. Hence, the fibromyalgia.

Now I will explain about the initial traumatic incident, sometimes referred to as an “index trauma,” that got me here.

Tommy lived down the street from us. He was always a weird kid. He was ten years older than I, the same age as my sister. When I look back on growing up where I did, Tommy was just always a neighborhood fixture. Weird, getting in trouble, later drinking and doing drugs, and much later just wandering around town in a pretty messed-up state. He always made me uncomfortable. I generally wasn’t remembering what he did, just that he was an unsafe person.

For a long time, I could only remember sketchy details. But they were always SO specific, and SO real, that I knew they were true, even if I couldn’t completely string them together into a coherent memory. It was almost as if I had watched a movie, but kept falling asleep and waking up at different places and only seeing the occasional scene. I could picture this little clubhouse type structure, in the driveway of their yard. I remember there being an upper level of some sort. I remember pages from pornographic magazines on the walls. And I knew, though I can’t say how because I couldn’t actually see it in my mind’s eye, that people were tied up. Was I tied up? I can’t be sure. I also remember walking up the hill toward my own house. I remember the police being there at some point. I remember my father being upset and angry. I remember that my brother was there too.

I just held this information, these memories, in some part of myself that I never knew existed. Somehow, I always knew but never really remembered. I can only imagine that the sudden death of my friend Billy in November of 1995 opened something up in me. It was his widow I told about these memories, one night while we were driving around and hanging out after Billy died. I described out loud what I could remember, speaking about it for the first time. Billy’s death, and how I learned about it, was the first traumatic event of my adulthood. It would be echoed over a decade later within my own family.

Losing my father in late March of 2008 was also very traumatic for me. The way I found out was hard. Our phones had been switched off and charging overnight. I awoke to multiple voicemails on our landline (we always kept that ringer turned off) and both our cell phones. I knew that was bad. When I finally got a hold of my mother, I remember that I was standing in the middle of our kitchen, on my husband’s cell phone because mine was still booting up or something, and I just started screaming and crying. I remember it well because I had flashbacks for months afterward. Dozens of times a day at first, then several times a day, then a few times a week. It gradually tapered off, and I remember thinking -- and even saying to some close friends -- that it was almost like what I imagine PTSD to be like. But PTSD was for veterans and others who had experienced war, right?

My mother’s illness and passing in 2014 was a different experience. We learned in early June that she had terminal cancer, and we had no idea how long she had. She died in early October. Four months from diagnosis to death. And it was grueling to watch. And most of that I did from the other side of the continent. Grieving opens up old wounds. A year later, in October of 2015, I found myself recounting every bad thing that had ever happened to me, including some other stuff from childhood and adulthood, to a psychologist. He diagnosed me with PTSD and prescribed trauma education group classes, which I attended weekly for probably six to eight months before moving into a smaller cognitive processing therapy (CPT) group made up of people I had gotten to know in trauma ed.

When my brother came to visit for my son’s baptism in May of 2004, I had tried to ask him about what had happened to us. He shot me down, saying “that was a long time ago.” So that was ten years before I got my diagnosis. In June of 2012, as I was packing and cleaning my classroom before leaving for another job, I called my mother to ask about what had happened. She simply sounded surprised when she said “you remember that?” I tried calling the police department of my hometown, but couldn’t find out anything. I asked my two oldest siblings. Neither of them knew anything about what I was talking about. When I was in CPT in 2016, I called my brother and found out what had happened. For some reason, he was ready to tell me about it then. And soon after that, I contacted the friend of his who had also been there and got a few more details confirmed. I was right. I was there. It really happened. But it didn’t happen to me. It happened to them.

I don’t know why, back in what was likely the spring of 1977, my brother (age 10) and his friend (age 11) were hanging around with this 16-year old neighborhood weird kid. But, annoying little sister that I was, I was following them around. I don’t know what all transpired. But at some point, these two boys were tied up and I ran for help. Up the street toward home. Were the police already there? Had they been trying to find out where we kids had gone? Were they called after I went for help? I know that my father apparently smacked Tommy around a bit and threatened his father, that if Tommy ever came near us kids again, he would kill him. (The father? Tommy? I don’t remember.) I found all this out from the two boys involved, my brother and his friend. But a part of me, somewhere deep inside, always knew.

It might not seem like a big deal. I mean, for a while, I felt better knowing it hadn’t actually happened TO me. But I learned in trauma education that we should never compare our traumas. Sometimes people are traumatized by what they’ve witnessed, and not even things that actually happened TO them. And I have learned since then that this still lives inside me. When I feel unsafe, when I am triggered, I am a frightened six year old again. I am alone and I need help and I don’t know what to do.

Fast forward to May of 2019, just a few weeks before I am sitting down to write this. I love going on my school’s senior trip. I had been twice before, when my own advisees were seniors on the verge of graduating. I volunteered to go again, despite having freshman advisees now. It’s an awesome trip. It wasn’t until we were there that I remembered the stage hypnotist show. It made me uncomfortable last year. All day that Monday, the dread within me grew. I looked forward to dinner with my colleagues at a local Belgian restaurant, but walking back to the resort meant heading back for this show. I sat at the back. When the gathered audience of kids began to stand for a better view, I didn’t arise from my chair. I didn’t even want to be there. There comes a point in his show, I recalled from the previous year, when the hypnotist has the subjects imagine themselves watching the funniest movie ever, followed by the saddest movie ever, and then the scariest movie ever. As this was unfolding, even though I couldn’t see the hypnotized students or their reactions, I became increasingly agitated. I had to go. I got up and walked out before “saddest movie” could change to “scariest movie.” I felt very removed from myself as I left. This was in an upstairs meeting room setting, and I went downstairs to sit outside. But I could still hear the reactions of the audience of kids. I had to get away. I took off for my hotel room, and parked myself on the balcony, facing the ocean and trying to let its roar comfort and calm me.

I had been crying a bit before escaping to my balcony, but now I was a mess. I hoped that the ocean would drown out the sound of me. I had duties assigned to me, but I wasn’t going to be of any use to anyone. I texted my colleague with whom I was supposed to oversee karaoke, something I had been looking forward to. I told him I wasn’t well and couldn’t be there. I waited a while. Being alone meant no one could see me in this state, but being alone is the worst for me when it’s like this. Being alone, when you’re a frightened six year old trying to find help, is terrifying. It’s isolating. It doesn’t feel safe. I texted another colleague about when a friend’s duty leading the poker game would be done, or whether it was. This colleague was kind and gentle but couldn’t really tell me anything. After a bit more isolation, I texted another colleague who I knew would be able to come to me, and who would understand without judging. (It’s not that I really think any of my colleagues would judge me; it’s just that when you’re at this place I can’t really even describe, you do a kind of high-speed risk management of “who can I trust?” that doesn’t make sense when you’re not massively triggered and reliving trauma.) I had her find my roommate and get let in to my room.

She sat with me for a while, I don’t know how long really. I told her everything. I told her the quick version of what I’ve recounted here, plus a few things I’m not including for privacy reasons. But I have another friend at work who knows everything, and whom I trust implicitly. They sent for him to come help me.

I wish I could put into words what was happening to me. Even thinking back to it and trying to describe it has me close to tears in Starbucks, and that is NOT cool. There I was, wrapped up in my hoodie and under a blanket, burning through a box of tissues and crying incessantly. And I couldn’t even explain why. There is a level of being terrified that goes beyond words. It takes over your entire being. You can’t feel safe. This is why I don’t watch scary or violent movies or television shows. I can’t even handle intense suspense in entertainment media. I didn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed by my ugly crying and my feeling and acting like a child. Like a six year old.

I had to have my friend stay with me until my roommate could return after checking in the kids in our assigned rooms. My friend and I both missed a chaperone meeting and the rest of our duties for the night. I ended up explaining some of it to my roommate. I could NOT be alone. She was awesome about it all.

I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, and that this happened to me because of something that wasn’t my fault, that was done over forty years ago when I was just a kid. But I am still struggling with how it feels to know that something outside yourself can trigger in you such a visceral, uncontrollable reaction, and that you have to be able to completely depend on other people just to feel safe.

I have PTSD. It causes me anxiety about things that other people don’t even notice. Even though I am trying to walk places (like walking to and from work four days a week) for exercise, it’s hard for me to walk out in public alone. When there are panels or plates or manholes in the sidewalk, I can’t step on them. Anything that is hollow underneath could collapse underneath me. It’s not safe. When someone behaves in an unstable way around me, such as one of the many homeless folks around my school and on my walk home, it puts me on heightened alert, in a way I suspect other adults don’t experience. Loud noises, such as the bang of a barista emptying a garbage can just now or a muscle car revving as it tears by, terrify me. When I travel, as I often do for professional development and a board of directors on which I serve, it’s really hard for me to be alone, especially in the hotels at night. I struggle with insomnia, at home and when I travel. I always have to have my keys and phone on me, and the doors of my home and car always have to be locked. These things had been improving in some ways over the past year, as I have gotten more exercise and been getting more help. But they’ve also been harder in some ways. Because when you work on stuff like this in therapy, which I attend weekly, it opens up a lot of hurt that you have to confront instead of burying.

I’m not sharing this to get attention for myself. I can get all the attention I want. I’m an educator, well known in my field, fairly smart and funny, and a good singer. What I want people to pay attention to is the fact that many people around them are struggling. We go to work, we shop for groceries, we plan trips, we go to the movies, but we are still struggling. We walk down the street, and that may be a struggle. We ask for help, and that may be a struggle. We try not to be a burden, and that’s definitely a struggle.

I’m sharing this because there is a stigma around mental and emotional health that is literally killing people. No one would ever think that what happened when I was six was in any way my own fault. And anyone who thought my inability to just shrug it off was a character flaw would be recognized to be a complete jerk. In 1977, working class people didn’t put their possibly-traumatized kids into any kind of treatment. They just didn’t talk about it ever again. They didn’t tell their older kids. They just got on with life and figured the memories would fade. My parents can’t be faulted for my not getting the help I needed. But it’s 2019 and we know better now.

We can teach like we know that a bunch of the kids in the room have experienced trauma. We can love like we know our friends and colleagues are carrying around some heavy stuff. We can live in this world in such a way that doesn’t trigger other people or make them feel threatened or unsafe.

Until recently, most people who know me would not have imagined that I carried around this baggage for most of my life. I present as confident, happy, successful, and effective in my life and my work. But sometimes I’m not any of those things. And now you know why.

Reflection on Minecraft Game Design summer school class

This summer, I taught a two-week Minecraft game design class for the first time. This was an elective class as part of our school's Summer Institute. I taught two sections: one in the morning and one in the afternoon. The students were aged 10 to 13, and were incoming 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. Out of 37 students in the two classes combined, only seven of them were students who attend my school during the school year. I normally work with high school students and teachers, but I have a lot of past experience with middle schoolers. This was a refreshing opportunity to return to working with kids this age.

This Custom NPC teleports you to Nathan's and Matthew's game.

Now, I say that I taught this class. However, it's more accurate to say that the class taught me. I decided early on that I would not try to be the authority on anything in this course. Compared to most kids who play Minecraft, I really don't know all that much about it. I have only dabbled with things like command blocks, Custom NPCs, and redstone. Who has the time to devote to learning how all of these things work? I'll tell you who: 10 to 13 year olds.

I also don't have all that much experience with game design. I mean, there was that one class on games and simulations in my master's program, but that was a long time ago. I happened to find a really good article at GamaSutra that talked about thirteen essential principles of game design. I used this article as a basis for explaining important things to consider in my students’ game design. They knew a lot about the types of games that one could create in Minecraft and the kinds of activities people like to do in Minecraft. So, of course, I let them take the lead there too.

Several games required that you change from creative mode to survival mode before playing.

We started off by playing a tutorial world together, and then changing that world’s server to survival mode. On that server, they could build their community, and learn how to work with each other, and find opportunities for collaboration. I inadvertently found out that the way they behaved on the survival server gave me a sense of how much I could trust them with on our creative server for each class. Whereas the one group of students behaved respectfully toward one another on the survival server and showed me that I could trust them with PVP, fire and TNT, and other dimensions on their creative server, the other group struggled to be respectful to one another in their survival server. They snuck into each other's houses, took each other's things, and destroyed each other's creations. So, for most of the two-week period, the latter group was not allowed to have as many privileges on their creative server. We had many discussions about how they could earn back my trust and gain those privileges; however, as a group, they struggled to come up with creative solutions to this problem.

As the students began to generate ideas for their games on the creative server, I was introduced to new terminology for me, such as spleef games, and the concept of creating an escape room that players would have to solve puzzles to get out of. Although I knew their ideas came from watching YouTube videos of others’ creations, I was also delighted to see the unique spin they would put on each different game they would try to create. Most of them did not want to be seen as ”ripping off” something that everyone else had seen on YouTube.

Many students used Custom NPCs in their games. This one provides the player with help.

We didn't have too many mods on our servers, but we did have Custom NPCs. We also had ComputerCraft and ComputerCraftEDU, and the students got a chance to play Turtle Island by Mike Harvey. This gave them a chance to see how Custom NPCs and command blocks and other functions were used in a game setting. This also set the students up for new problems that they wanted to solve. For example, a student wanted to be able to have a player's game mode change from creative to survival when they entered the game area, and then change back to creative at the end of the game area. This led to discussions about how to do this with command blocks, and a lot of collaboration from the students solving the problem together. I just sat back and listened. When they had come up with a solution, I described the process as I had observed it. I also pointed out to them that I did not know the solutions to their problems, but that I had confidence in their ability to come up with it themselves.

This pattern continued throughout the remainder of the two-week period. A student wanted to create a Custom NPC that would teleport a player from our spawn area to that student’s game that he had created. Again, I was going to be no help here. I described the problem, we talked as a class about some ways to solve that problem, and I referred them to what we had seen in Turtle Island. Before long, one student had spent some time experimenting and had created the Custom NPC we needed. I was then able to direct the students’ attention to this Custom NPC, and show them how to inspect it to find out how the student had done it.

By this point, the kids had gotten into the habit of talking to each other to find out how someone had done something. They could all see each other's creations, so they got ideas and then new questions from one another. I kept reminding them that I was not going to be very helpful, but that I wanted to learn from them as well. So I would present questions to them, asking if they knew how to solve a problem. I ended up finding out that there were several students in the class who were much better teachers than I was.

A parkour game created by one of the pairs of students

I also talked to the students about the concept of engagement in the learning space. I informed them that I had gone around the room recording audio with my phone for short periods of time. The students had not even noticed me, as they were so focused on what they were creating. I told them how excited I was to see how engaged they were in what they were doing. I asked them to compare their experiences in this class with their everyday experiences in classes during the school year. I asked them if their traditional classroom situations were as exciting and engaging as what they were doing here. They did not want to seem to throw their regular classroom experiences under the bus, as it were. But they admitted that everyday school is not as engaging as self-directed, self-driven, project-based problem solving like they were doing for this class.

Again, I do not take credit for this. All I did was to set a problem before the students, give them a platform in which to create solutions, and get out of the way. Of course it helps that they were using Minecraft as the platform, and this was something they were already excited by. Almost all of the students had played Minecraft before, and for many of them it was their favorite game. I know this because I gave a survey on the first day of class asking about their experiences and comfort levels with various things we would be doing in the class. I also took a survey at the end of the class. In it, I asked students to rate how much new learning they had gotten on each of a number of topics. On a scale from 1 (“no new learning”) to 5 (“AMAZING amounts of new learning”), both playing Minecraft in survival mode and playing Minecraft in creative mode averaged 3.03.  Other notable results were ratings of 2.81 for redstone, 3.61 for command blocks, and 3.75 for custom NPCs.  I felt pleased that students, overall, felt they had learned a lot.  Many students said that what they would change about the class was that it should be four weeks instead of only two. (Give me strength!)

This team used signs to remind players to use the command blocks to change their game mode and return to the server's spawn point.

All in all, I found it to be a very rewarding experience for my own Minecraft learning, and the kids really got a lot out of the experience.  Next summer, I hope to offer the class again, but I will likely hand it off to someone else to teach, simply because I don’t really have the time to devote to it.  Also rewarding for me was the positive energy I felt from the kids as they learned on their own terms.  The adult in the room (I guess that’s me) didn’t try to take over or get in the way of their own discoveries or efforts.  This reminded me that I want to be more like that during the school year with my older kids.

Images are all screen shots from screencast videos, made by students in the class, in which they shared the games they created.

Every Picture Tells a Story, Don’t It? (Chapter 1: June 1997)

Last month marked twenty (20) years since I got my first tattoo.  I decided I would celebrate this anniversary by telling the stories of each of my tattoos.  If you talk to anyone who has ink, they can relate how each piece has its own story.  There’s some person, place, or incident tied to each permanent piece of body art for most people.  That’s the case with me, so here begins a series of blog posts recanting those tales.  Get ready to learn a lot about my personal life.

Most people have never seen this tattoo, as it is on my left hip.  It’s not really something that shows in polite company, unless we are at a pool or the beach and I am partaking of swimsuit-wearing activities.  There isn’t just a story behind the artwork itself, but also how it came about.

In March of 1997, I left my now ex-husband.  At some point in the months leading up to that ultimate split, I had mentioned the idea that I was considering getting a tattoo.  My then-husband declared, “As your husband, I FORBID you getting a tattoo.”  Yeah, he forbade it.  So it was sure as hell going to happen once those words were uttered aloud in my presence.  This marked the turning point in my decision to leave in a lot of ways.  I’m definitely more vocal and steadfast NOW in my feelings that my body is MINE to decide what to do or not do with, but I think this little interchange sparked that idea into my 26 year-old mind.

I knew I wanted a Tasmanian Devil.  Now, this goes against what I fundamentally believe regarding tattoo art.  Don’t get your face or neck inked.  Don't get something offensive and/or that you will end up regretting. Don’t put someone’s name unless it’s your parent, maybe a sibling, or a human you created/helped create. Don’t pick something that is trendy or tied to a certain period of time in pop culture.  These are my rules.

But Taz was my nickname in the co-ed fraternity I co-founded, and the Tasmanian Devil was our mascot.  So I pretty much felt like that was what I wanted.  Never since have I gone with such little firm idea of what I wanted permanently affixed to my epidermis.  But hey, I was a baby in the body art world at the time.

So I talked my girl Smitty (my college BFF Chris) into going with me, and we looked in the phone book and stuff (hey, it was 1997, and Yelp was not yet a thing) for a tattoo place.  We went to one close-by in Bound Brook, NJ, but we didn’t get a good vibe there.  I can’t remember how we ended up settling on Tattoo 46 in Dover, NJ (I thought it was on Route 10, but it turns out it was this one on 46) -- given that she was in Manville and I was in Clinton, so it was quite a hike by car -- but that is where we ended up.  I also can’t remember how Smitty decided she would get her navel pierced.  But she did.  And I didn’t like any of the Taz art they had on the wall or in the books, so we actually left and went back a couple nights later, because I realized I knew which depiction of Taz I wanted.

You see, some years earlier, when I was in college I think, my mother had bought me these pajamas that were a t-shirt and boxer-style shorts, and the shorts were festooned with all these Tasmanian Devils, arms crossed over his chest, wearing stars-and-stripes boxers.  So when we returned to the tattoo place, I had those with me.

I held the little mini-tail of hair (it was 1997, after all) at the back of my head, and I whined “ouch, ouch, ouch” the entire time the guy did the tattoo . . . until he finally said, “Shut up, Diane.”  (Later tattoos didn’t hurt nearly as much.  But of course, in the intervening period, I’d had a c-section and some yucky follow-up surgery related to it, so my pain threshold was in completely new territory by then.)

So, within three months of leaving my ex, right around Flag Day of 1997, I had a new piece of body art.  Smitty later had to ditch the navel piercing, as it kept getting irritated and infected when her short self would spend summers on ladders painting houses, as poor teachers like us were sometimes found to do, for, like, the foods and the rents.

Shortly after this incident, I moved out of my apartment because I had decided to move to California.  My stuff went into storage, and I slept on my folks’ couch for a few nights before my parents, my aunt, and I headed to England for a trip.  On my first night on the couch, Dad had already gone to bed, and Mom and I were up talking.  I said to her, “Can you keep a secret?” And she eye-rolled, because she knew this meant “can I tell you something you can’t tell Dad?” and she remarked, “Do I want to know?”

So I showed her the tattoo and she eye-rolled again, remarking that we would not be telling my father.  And then, after a pause, she asked, “Is that from those pajamas I bought you?”  And then I think she eye-rolled again when I told her it was.  I think she felt somehow complicit in my “crime.”

It gets better.

We went to Britain, and I showed all my friends and family members, except my Dad, one by one, my new tattoo.  This involved pulling one side of my jeans down to reveal my left hip.  I even showed my two aunts (Dad’s sisters), the older of whom was scandalized.  That was my Auntie Reta.  A proper English lady if ever there was one.  My other aunt, Dad’s sister Eileen, was the opposite personality.  She was bawdy and loved to laugh -- LOUDLY.  She was usually saying things that left the rest of us scandalized.  So, we were all having a meal at the local pub, The Old Oak in Coupe Green, Hoghton, Lancashire, when my Auntie Eileen suddenly says, “So you might as well tell your father about your tattoo, Diane.”  Oh, the looks around that table just then.

So I had to take Dad outside the back door of the pub and show him my new ink.  I don’t think he was happy, but he didn’t really say much.  I think part of him was proud it was a patriotic image.

And here it is, having taken up residence on my left hip for two decades now:

Resistance Under the New Regime

Friday was a hard day for me.  I wore all black, from head to toe.  I had planned to do so since the day after the election.  Despite making the conscious effort to avoid all coverage of a certain person (whom I will not name) getting a rather highly-publicized start to a job in Washington, DC that day, I had to listen to parts of the coverage being played in a classroom near my office.  That was unpleasant.  I ended up spending part of my day chatting with students and a counselor who stopped by my office.  Another colleague stopped by to check in on how I was doing.  That felt good, but the day was still somber.  Let me tell you why that is.

Almost twenty years ago, I left an abusive marriage.  I then moved across the country, from New Jersey to California, to make sure I never had to bump into him anywhere.  I wanted to start a new life, far removed from everything about him.  I’ve kept tabs over the years, and seen more evidence to support my decision to get as far away as possible.  Let me tell you about my ex.

He bankrupted himself, and me, and has since filed bankruptcy at least one more time.  He has been taken to court by the government for tax evasion.  He has made his money by tricking other people out of theirs, with empty promises.  He was a womanizer.  He cheated on me.  He was emotionally and financially abusive.  He overspent and was extremely irresponsible with finances, and didn’t seem to care about who would have to clean up his mess.  He touts himself as a deeply religious Christian man.  He forbade me to get a tattoo (I now have five.)  He body-shamed me and any weight I gained, despite being more overweight than I was.  He tried to cheat me out of half the proceeds of the sale of our house, because when we married, he lied about putting my name on the title of the house.  There are other things that happened that are far too personal to share here.  But you need to know that his facial expressions, mannerisms, and vocal patterns were hauntingly like a certain person who just moved into the White House.  The sneers, the gestures, the voice raised in perpetual anger: I am all too familiar with these tactics.  I know what someone like that is capable of behind closed doors.

Every time I have to see, hear, or watch the new occupant of the White House, I am forced to face my abuser all over again.  I moved across a continent to get away from that, and I have been very successful in establishing my new life free from that horrible burden.  I learned from that experience what I would never put up with in my life again.  I started from less than nothing (thanks to that bankruptcy) and I have done very well for myself.  I have a family and a great career.  I overcame the effects of my abuser.

So like I said, Friday was hard.

Saturday started out quiet.  I walked to the light rail station alone, wondering how the march in San Jose would go.  I wondered how many other cities in America would also host marches.  As I approached the station, I saw the platform full of people.  My heart raced just a little.  That’s a lot of people, I thought, and while I am not a fan of large crowds, I’m not phobic, so I walked on.  As I got closer, I found that people were figuring out how to buy tickets, and there was a line.  I’ve never seen so many people on that platform, and I’ve never seen a line so long to buy light rail tickets.  Everyone was friendly.  There were a bunch of pink hats and signs with lots of different messages.  Everyone was helpful.  I was starting to feel really good about this.  A train came by.  It was too full for any of us to get on.  Another train went by, southbound, and it was clear that people had gotten on farther north to ride to the southern terminus (one stop beyond mine) to just be able to get on a train.  Uh oh.

We were able to get on the next train, but it was tight.  For the next several stops, people got on to what was already a packed, standing-room-only train.  It was mostly white people.  Lots of women, but quite a few men too.  It occurred to me that a majority of them had never used public transit before.  There was this one black man in my car, next to whom I stood for most of the ride in, who had to be feeling a little weirded out.  He just looked like he wanted to get where he was going.  But after a few stops, he spoke to a few of these first timers.

When we finally poured out at the Santa Clara Street station, it was clear people didn’t know where to go.  But I did, so I stepped around people, some of whom were trying to find the friends they had come down with, who had gotten into different cars of our train.  I thought about getting a bottle of water somewhere, but I also just wanted to get to City Hall.  it was amazing.  The police and volunteers were all friendly and helpful, and worked really hard to keep people safe and within the designated areas.  It was PACKED, but everyone was so cool.  No one got out of hand.  Everyone made room for each other.  We read each other’s signs and shirts, snapped pictures, smiled, high-fived total strangers.  We joined in with each other’s chants.  Parents tried to keep their kids from getting cranky.  Friends spotted each other.  Lots of people were on social media, checking in, trying to share the moment or their location or both.  Instagram couldn’t handle it for a while there.

A friend from work texted me and I tried to find him, but I ended up finding another friend instead, so I walked with her and her friend, and met two of their students.  No one was violent.  No one was angry . . . just fired up for change.  I no longer felt the somber despair of the day before.  I felt hope, for the first time since November 8th.  I was surrounded by tens of thousands of people who I could tell are committed to not lying down and just taking whatever the federal government tries to throw at us.  We chanted “Si se puede” and “yes, we can” and “this is what democracy looks like” and “this is what a feminist looks like.”  We walked along 4th and through El Paseo de San Antonio.  When an ambulance needed to drive through a street we had to cross, my new friend jumped out and helped the lone traffic officer by yelling “ambulance!” and using her body, arms stretched out, to let everyone know why we had to stop for a minute.  People were like, “yeah, priorities.”

Store windows had posters in them too.  Kids and parents stood along the route with signs.  A few bemused folks leaving a gym were like, “okay, that’s a lot of people…”  But no one was scared.  No one felt threatened.  I felt empowered.  “America,” I said to myself, “we are going to be okay.”  As long as we keep at this, of course.

We got to Plaza de Cesar Chavez amid the fitting cries of “Si se puede,” and there were speakers and poets and local politicians, sharing their vision for how we can spread this energy into action.  Along the paths that only weeks before had been lined with Christmas trees and holiday decor for Christmas in the Park, there were now easy-up tents with tables full of local activism groups, sharing information and helping people find out how they can make a difference locally.  I stopped by LGBTQ+ Safe Place for Youth to pick up some materials for my school’s GSA. (Gender Sexuality Alliance)  There were a few food trucks.  Along the route, I had met up with several colleagues from the school where I work.  I briefly bounced between them and my friend I had been marching with.  Later, I just wandered alone for a while, listening to the speakers, taking pictures of signs, petting a dog I met, and taking it all in.

This is not typically the way I spend a Saturday.  I’ve never really been an activist before.  I thought of my parents a lot throughout the day.  My Dad, always a Republican, would not have been okay with how things have gone.  My Mom, always a Democrat, would have wanted to march.  Part of me, sadly, was glad they were not around to see the past year in this country.  Part of me was sad that my Mom was not walking beside me.

I thought of my students, many of whom are the children of immigrants.  Most of their parents arrived here on work visas.  Some of them walked here and were undocumented.  I thought of the kids I know in the GSA.  It’s hard enough for them to be open about who they are.  Some can’t outside of the safe spaces in our school.  They must be so worried for the future, on top of their very real everyday anxiety.  I thought about my Muslim students.  I never know what to say to them.  How much do they fear?  How much support do they believe they have from the rest of us?  I thought about all the students of color I know.  How can they pretend they don’t know about all the terrible things a certain “politician” has said about them and their families?  How much must it hurt them to acknowledge that they heard him? That they’ve read what he’s said and done, and they see all these other Americans telling them to “get over it” and “you lost.”

I am in a position of immense privilege, and I know it.  I am a heterosexual, cisgender, Christian, white American female.  I was born here.  The only “strike” I have against me in the New Regime is my gender.  It could be so easy to just go along with things and pretend that it won’t affect me.  But the very thought of that turns my stomach.  I look into the hopeful faces of our future every day when I go to work.  I have to stand up.  I have to march.  I have to find a way to make a bigger difference than I already do.  But most of all, I have to keep loving these kids, and their families, and the strangers around me every day.

We can’t let the evil and the falsehood win.  Yesterday helped me believe that I can be a part of the resistance.

Election Reflection

My mother and father were immigrants to this country. They didn't flee persecution, but they did come for a better life in the United States. Growing up during and after World War II in Scotland and England, things were not always easy, but they certainly had it way better than many of our nation's immigrants. My immigrant parents came to this country as white English speakers, whose accents were met with delight rather than derision. The same is true for my immigrant husband (from Scotland).

My parents were proud Americans. They loved this country. They were also proud of their British/Irish heritage. No one ever made them choose. It seemed they were the "acceptable" kind of immigrants. My parents loved America, and they VOTED. Every year, every election, no matter how big or small, how significant in other people's eyes. They voted. They believed it was their duty as citizens. I grew up visiting the polls with my mother. I was shown first-hand how important a duty, responsibility, and privilege it is, as an American, to vote.

My father passed away in March of 2008. He never got to see our nation's first African-American President take office. My mother did. But then Mom passed away two years ago. She never got to vote for the first female candidate for President (but I KNOW she would have).

Our area has permanent vote-by-mail voting. We always drop off our ballots rather then sending them in the post. In honor of my parents, I voted over a week ago. In honor of all the immigrants, perhaps especially the ones who have been made to feel unwelcome, or who have been expected to throw away their heritage, blend in, and pretend they aren't from somewhere else, I cast my vote for the candidate who cares about ALL people.

I hope you will honor all of our nation's immigrant ancestors, as well as the people who were brought here against their will in ships, and the ones who were driven off their lands, and the future Americans who will risk everything they have, including their lives, for a taste of our freedoms, and VOTE.

How I Use Remind to #teachsmall

When I heard about this hashtag and idea “#teachsmall,” I wondered to myself, how do I “teach small” with my own students?  What does “teach small” even mean?  And then a former student, a young lady who just graduated high school after having my Digital World class in her final semester, answered the question for me.

My pocket buzzed, and I took out my phone.  Now that Madi had graduated, we could be friends on Facebook, and so she sent me this message over Facebook Messenger:

Just like I had done for them all semester using the Remind app, this former student saw something relevant to what we had studied and used in class, and she shared it with me.  Of course, I then sent it (via Remind) to all the students I had last year in both semesters’ Digital World classes.  By the next morning, that message had received three stamps: two stars and a check.

So then I scrolled back through some of the messages I sent my DW students and my group of advisees over the past few months.  I found myself chuckling out loud at the memories.  

For me, #teachsmall has meant sending the kids a funny meme as a way of reminding them of something coming up in class.  

It has looked like a group selfie of our advisory every time we’re together, shared with them using Remind.  This became especially poignant when the kids learned that one of the group would not be in our advisory next year.

#teachsmall has meant contacting the kids when I am not in school to share with them what I am doing at a conference that relates to what we’re learning in class.

And it has meant staying in touch over summer vacation, sometimes just to tell them I miss them.

Now, some people may balk at my communication with students.  They may judge its appropriateness.  I can live with that.  When a former student’s eyes light up and she greets me with a smile and a high-five every time our paths cross, I know that my communication choices made a difference in forging a caring relationship with a young person.  When another former student stops by my office almost daily for candy, but spends most of the time talking to me about daily life stuff, and -- that one time -- even explained to me what aspects of economics I was witnessing in a class Minecraft experiment (because he had taken economics and I never did) I am reminded that those connections we make with students are what sustains them.  And what sustains us.  What sustains me.

I became a teacher because I love students.  Even now, as a majority of my job involves working directly with teachers more than their students, I relish my own classes, my advisory, and the times I go into other teachers’ classes to work with their students.  Young people bring a fresh energy and enthusiasm -- and let’s face it, I work in a high school, so also sarcastic wit -- to each day and each experience.  I frequently remind teachers that serving students is the sole reason we became educators (or it should be).  But another reason, I admit, that I became a teacher is the way the students serve me.  They remind me what it means to attack each day like the adventure it is.  And “teaching small” has enabled me to keep in touch with that.

So, how do I #teachsmall? I use the Remind app to update my students, send them reminders, let them know I am thinking of them, make them laugh at something I know only we will “get” because of that thing that happened in class that time, and sometimes ask them questions to which they can “stamp” their replies.  This year, I can begin to use the Chat feature to carry on a private-but-safe conversation with a student when needed when just one more kid needs to bring back that permission slip. Or when that one student seems to be a little off-kilter and I can privately check in and let him or her know I have noticed and I am here if they need help.

I like to think that #teachsmall has a synonymous hashtag: #dailysmile

The Two Americas

Here I am, sitting at LAX, one of the busiest airports in the country, and possibly the world.  My one-hour flight has been delayed by about three hours, so I have some time to sit around and people-watch while I wait.  Two Los Angeles Airport Police officers just walked by.  One had a massive rifle.  So that's a thing.

I have been on dozens flights in the past year and a half or so, and I've been to at least fifteen different airports. One thing I see in just about every airport is a class divide that is almost always along race lines.  People of all races travel.  But the majority in most airports are white.  Not surprising, given our country's population demographics.  But the majority of people doing seriously hard work, likely for low pay, are people of color.

I stopped to get a pizza and soda here today.  The woman scooting by with a cart of water and soda bottles to replenish at the counter was Latina.  All the cleaning workers and food service workers and various attendants here and there have skin much darker than mine.  This is something we are accustomed to.  Perhaps too much.  Because when the caucasian gentleman sitting near me finished his beer and pizza, he got up and left his mess for someone else to pick up.  He had to walk past multiple garbage cans to leave the little food court area.  But his assumption, likely, is that it's someone else's job to pick up after him.  (For the record, I bussed my own space, thankyouverymuch.)

I see this at supermarkets too, and it's a pet peeve of mine.  People bring their shopping carts out to their cars, empty their purchases into their trunks, and leave the carts where ever they damn well please.  Yes, it is someone's job to come out and get the carts.  But can't you make someone's day at work a little easier and smoother by putting your cart in one of the designated places for them?  It also helps keep everyone else's cars from getting dinged.

On that note (helping others have a nice day at work), what about treating people with respect, kindness, and dignity while they're doing their jobs to serve you and your needs?  I smiled, made eye contact, and spoke with the woman who was carting all those beverages in to restock.  I made way in the line for her cart to get through.  The young lady ahead of me helped move some water bottles to their intended location in the cooler before I could reach them.  Am I telling you this because I feel I deserve accolades?  No.  I just think it's common sense to be nice and help people.

The airline worker who checked in my bag was super helpful to me today.  She woke up this morning, I am sure, being Black in an America where people are still getting shot for looking like her in the year 2015.  I couldn't locate my email with my confirmation number, although I was already in the express bag check lane, and she politely took my ID and got me all set in mere moments.  I thanked her twice, called her ma'am, and wished her a great day.  I've seen people in my many travel experiences forget such basic manners because THEY'VE GOT PLACES TO GO, DAMMIT.

And let's not forget to dress comfortably when we travel.  Don't think I haven't noticed, white teenaged girls of America, how you fly in pajama pants and a skimpy tank top, rolling your eyes, and keeping your earbuds in, when young black men are wearing chinos and a polo shirt and smiling and thanking and calling everyone sir and ma'am, maybe just so they will be shown some respect.  If that ain't white privilege, I don't know what is.  White youth can do pretty much anything in this country, it seems.  But if a young black man sags his pants, we get national news media asking "where are the fathers?"

White people can pierce and tattoo the hell out of themselves (present company included on the tattoos), but a Mexican dude gets his baby's name on his arm and he's a banger.  White guy dresses scruffy and grows an out-of-control beard, and he's a hipster.  Black or brown guy does it, he gets arrested and/or assumed to be homeless.

No lie, a blond girl just walked by in blue socks (no shoes) with pot leaves on them.  Would a Black girl even dare?

This is what I am saying.  We live in two Americas.  And they happen parallel, side-by-side at the same time, everywhere you go.  Sometimes they are separate.  Do you think I will ever find myself in the neighborhood where many LAX food service workers live?  I wonder how often they find themselves at some of the nice restaurants I got to eat in while I've been in LA this week.  But more often than we realize, we find ourselves sharing the same space.  Too many people who look like me just seem to breeze through airports, supermarkets, shopping malls, movie theatres, seeing right through the people who work hard to make their time there clean, pleasant, and convenient.

We have certainly come a long way in this country, but we still have so far to go.  White privilege is a thing.  It doesn't make white people evil.  It means we've had it really good for a really long time.  Usually on the backs of people with darker skin.  We don't have to stop being white.  We just have to stop acting like it hasn't done us any favors.