On Monday in my Humanities methods course we spoke about the role — and responsibility — of the teacher in addressing current events.
We had a guest speaker, a graduate student from Iran working with my professor as her advisor, who spoke to us about what it was like to grow up in a school system dictated by the Supreme Leader. We sat and listened to her story, to the violence and horror that permeated her childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood — to the despicable acts that precipitated the Women, Life, Freedom protests of last year.
We were then asked to draft a lesson plan that connected to the theme of freedom of speech.
On Monday, when I arrived home from class, I broke down and I sobbed.
When I was a child,
I learnt to count to five
one, two, three, four, five.
but these days, I’ve been counting lives, so I count
one life
one life
one life
one life
one life
because each time
is the first time
that that life
has been taken.
Legitimate Target
has sixteen letters
and one
long
abominable
space
between
two
dehumanising
words.
- an excerpt from Pádraig Ó Tuama’s The Pedagogy of Conflict via
“If your moral compass is attuned to the suffering of only one side, your compass is broken, and so is your humanity.” - Nicholas Kristof via
I won’t always have the words when the world comes crumbling down, as it so often does. I won’t always have the strength or capacity to stand in front of my future students and act like my heart doesn’t get ripped from my chest every time someone dies, every time someone is murdered at the hands of another.
I will, however, always do my best to create a safe space, to hold space for the potential pain that will bubble up and out of their young hearts that are not any different from mine: for they are beating.
I grieve for all those who are having to cope with the fact that the hearts of their loved ones no longer beat. Every single heart matters. Every single life matters.
I remember the day Gramma’s heart stopped beating as if it were but a few short hours ago.
This December will mark six years since that day. This past week, on Thursday, I sobbed yet again because I made the decision to step foot inside the house where she once resided — the house that I worried would no longer feel like a home without her.
I was greeted by these two faces,
and let my broken heart be warmed.
My grandfather is of the generation that thinks that the current generation is too sensitive — that kids these days lack resilience
While visiting him this weekend, I gently urged him to consider a different perspective: What if, what’s really happened is that the younger generations have their eyes wide open? What if, instead of ignoring all of the hurt and injustice that happens all around them — and to them — they see it for what it is? What if, instead of pretending like the harmful systems that prey on the marginalized have nothing to do with them, they instead feel obligated to take responsibility in dismantling them? What if, their sensitivity is their superpower and their willingness to advocate — to not be silent — is a greater demonstration of resilience than ever before?
The corners of his mouth turned toward the ceiling just a fraction, and I noticed.
I’m grateful I overcame my fear of stepping foot inside their home because it truly was a cup-filling visit. His health has been shaky the past year and I would have a hard time forgiving myself were something to happen to him without me making a point to spend some precious quality time together.
Some other heart-warming moments from this past week:
I’m grateful
and
my grateful heart breaks.
Wishing for a world that values peace over retaliation, for a world much different than this.