I cannot believe we are here again. Last time I spent 4 long years being furious. Now I resist the pull of anger, determined to not to be poisoned. I am angry but also, I am grieving the lost glimmer of hope for social justice. The truth has been made clear: this country is controlled by the very rich. White men who only care about themselves. They won. Now they plan to close the door, batten down the hatches. The despicable silver-spoon billionaires now laugh at the rest of us.
I vow to do what I can to let love fill the space where anger wants to live. I will love, stand with and protect my daughter and other young women, people of color, the LGBTQ community, immigrants and refugees. Those of us who care must now protect and love each other more than ever.
On Wednesday morning after learning the results of the election, I wanted to pull the covers over my head and hide all day. Instead, I kept the commitment I’d made to read to students in a nearby city. When I arrived at the school, I randomly picked one of the titles selected for the volunteer readers. I chose The Oldest Student: How Mary Walker Learned to Read by Rita Lorraine Hubbard and was assigned to read to a class of 5th graders.
The teacher welcomed me and told me her class is bilingual and not all the students speak English. She would help as necessary. I introduced myself, and could see from the children’s faces that most did not understand me. I speak no Spanish. So I read slowly.
One boy, more confident and fluent than the others, chimed in where he could to translate key points. Clearly he had taken on the role of a good leader and was keen to share the joy and wonder of the book with his friends, translating what he could understand so they too would at least get the gist of the story. Every bright face followed along as I pointed at the illustrations.
The story is a true and amazing one. Mary Walker began life as a young child slave forced to pick cotton. She was freed with her family at 15, worked to help her mother support her siblings, married and raised her own children while always working. She never learned to read. Pausing after each depiction of Mary’s life I asked them: can Mary read? And they answered: NO! Mary finally did learn to read when she was 116 years old! I asked then: can Mary read? And the class gave me a resounding YES! They got it. The room thrummed with an air of understanding and awe as much at Mary Walker’s longevity as her late life accomplishment. Ah, the joy of reading!
And the tears. While reading, I sometimes felt like crying. Because of the story line, because of the election results, and because I imagined that the hardships suffered by Mary Walker are probably not unfamiliar to these children’s families. Their parents struggle to feed, clothe, protect them as parents do. Most do this at all costs. I’d wager a good percentage of that class, maybe even all, are undocumented and we know what that means. What will 2025 hold for these children?
Judging by the level of their English, I think most are recent arrivals. Perhaps some came through the horrors of the Darien gap – a terrible trek of terror and misery that so many families endured to get here. Hoping for a better life for their children. Hoping for LIFE. During the years I worked in Bosnia and Croatia during the war there, I witnessed the desperation of families forced to flee a home, their roots. Imagine leaving your language, your family, all that is familiar and comforting. No one leaves their home unless they must.
Here we are. On the brink. The American people have spoken and now have what they want. But not all of us. Not these children, not me.
