When the Political Is Personal*

 — By Krista Taylor

(*While in general, this is not a political blog, the impact of this election runs deeper than mere politics. It has affected me as both a teacher and as an individual. I share my thoughts here with the understanding that they exclusively reflect my personal experience, and not necessarily that of teachers in general. If you are looking specifically for strategies to implement in your classroom related to the election, I recommend Jennifer Gonzalez’s blog post After the Election: A To Do List )

It was 8:35 am on November 9th, and the bell had just rung to release students to classrooms as I was frantically wiping the tears off my face.

“What are we going to say to them?” I desperately asked Beau, my teaching partner.

He just looked at me blankly and shook his head.

The shock hadn’t yet worn off. A mere 24 hours earlier, I was delightfully ensconced in a ballot box with my daughter, giggling joyfully while filling in the box next to the words “For President: Hillary Clinton.” I had tears on my face then, too, but those were tears of a different kind.

My entire family had stayed up late to watch the election returns come in. I wanted my children to be part of this incredible moment in history. Earlier that day, my in-laws, who live in Rochester, New York, had attempted to pay their respects at Susan B. Anthony’s grave, only to discover that the line to do so was more than an hour long. There were so many celebrants who wanted to honor the journey for equal political rights that began in 1921 with the passage of the 19th amendment giving women the right to vote. In no small part as a direct result of the passion and courage of Ms. Anthony, tonight that “highest and hardest glass ceiling” would finally be shattered as America elected our first female president.

Our historic moment, however, was not to be. As the night wore on, and one state after another turned red, the celebration that had seemed so certain grew increasingly dim. By the time I went to bed after 1 am, the results were clear. My husband tried to talk to me, to offer consolation, but I was beyond words. I simply couldn’t understand how this was happening.

img_1421
Riley with Bill Clinton at the AFT Labor Day Picnic 2016

The next morning, I didn’t know what to say to my children. What could I possibly say to my 16 year old daughter, whose greatest dream is to become an international diplomat, who campaigned door to door for Hillary, and who had tears in her eyes as my husband told her that Donald Trump had won the presidency.

What could I possibly say to my 12 year old son, who struggles to handle disappointment of any kind, and who turned rageful eyes on his father upon hearing the news.

How could I explain that our country had just elected a man to the highest office in the land who ridiculed people with disabilities, spoke of women by noting that he could just “grab them by the pussy,” and discussed without compassion the deportation of Mexicans and the building of a physical wall between us and our nearest neighbor?

I didn’t know what to say to the children at my breakfast table, and I didn’t have any greater clarity about what to say to the children in my classroom.

Somehow I got myself to work. I was in complete shock. I still had no words. As I walked into the classroom Beau and I share, he took one look at my face, and gave me a big hug. That did it. I was immediately overcome with sobs.

And then the students arrived, and I had to wipe the tears from my face and pull myself together.

The mood in the classroom was subdued. We opened by showing the day’s clip from CNN Student News, an unbiased reporting of the results of the night before.

Upon its conclusion, Beau looked at me and said, “You say things now.” This is our cue that means, “I need you to handle this.”

My mind was spinning. I knew I needed to be as unbiased as possible, but I also knew that I needed to be honest. And I knew that my students would need my guidance. How could I manage to cover all those things? I fell back on what I know to be true in all challenging discussions with children – ask them what they need to know.

So I said, “What questions do you have?”

Their responses nearly broke my heart.

In each of my classes, I had an African-American male student raise a sheepish hand. When called upon, they each said very nearly the exact same thing.  “This is probably a stupid question, but . . . is it true that he’s going to make all the Black people go back to Africa?”

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Maple Grove, Minnesota; 11/9/16

The relief was palpable at my response, “No, that isn’t true.”

This question was born out of misinformation, but it comes from a fear of sending people back to where they came from, and that concern is real and valid. It wasn’t just the students in my room who were worried about this. Many other teachers reported the same question being raised by their own students.

And there were so many other fear-based questions:

“Can President Trump call for a ‘purge?’”

“Is he really going to build a wall?”

“Is it true that he made fun of people with disabilities?”

“Is he going to start World War III?”

“Do they really have to give him the nuclear codes?”

“Can he be impeached?”

“What about assassinated?”

I defended our political system as best as I was able. I reminded my students about the system of checks and balances, the three branches of government, and the limited powers of the commander-in-chief.

I asked them if they had ever said anything in anger, frustration, or without thinking. In response, I got a resounding, “yes.” I told them that while I was deeply bothered by some of President-Elect Trump’s statements, I wanted to believe that his words could have happened in this same way. I told them that doesn’t make it right, but it could help to make it understandable.

I told them that presidents don’t act alone and that we have many people in Washington who will be advising President-Elect Trump, and that as he learns more and is influenced by others, he may have different views. I told them that impeachment is a very serious thing and would require that he act in a way that violated the law while in office. I told them that assassination is a terrible tragedy for any country and something that would not even be entertained in our classrooms.

I reminded them that nothing would change in what we do in our classroom, or in our school, where we uphold the concept that “Everybody does better when everybody does better.”
And I told them that I was having a really hard time understanding this outcome and what it means.

I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing by engaging in these conversations with my students, so it was reassuring when mid-way through the day, my daughter sent me this article What Do We Tell the Children? Tell Them First That We Will Protect Them

In response, I sent her this:

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Excerpted from Hillary Clinton’s concession speech; 11/9/16

More than anything, I needed my daughter to hear Hillary’s incredibly gracious and inspiring words telling her that this election didn’t have bearing on the goals that she had for herself.

Even if I didn’t believe it myself.

In quelling the fears of my students — and in many ways I felt like a liar in doing so — I found anger. Anger at a society who would elect a man whose words made them feel so afraid. Anger at the, perhaps unintentional, legitimization of a movement that calls itself the alt-right – verbiage that we can’t allow to distract us from the neo-Nazi, white-supremacist message it purports– this shameful bastard child of White America.

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Durham, North Carolina; 11/11/16

How do we begin to confront and silence that hate? What do we do about that? How can anyone make an impact against that?

Parker Palmer writes eloquently on this topic here: Start Close In

He writes, “We need to get over it so we can get on with it — the never-ending work of embodying and enacting love, truth, and justice. There is real suffering out there among people who can’t get over it, and we need to stand and act with them… These are big and daunting problems. But as I move toward them, I’m inspired by David Whyte’s poem, ‘Start Close In.’ It reminds me that when I try to start big, it’s probably because I’m seeking an excuse to get out of doing anything. The big stuff is beyond my reach, at least at the moment. But if I start close in, I’ll find things I can do right now,”

“Start Close In”

by David Whyte

Start close in,
don’t take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step you don’t want to take.

 Start with
the ground
you know,
the pale ground
beneath your feet,
your own
way of starting
the conversation.

Start with your own
question,
give up on other
people’s questions,
don’t let them
smother something
simple.

To find
another’s voice
follow
your own voice,
wait until
that voice
becomes a
private ear
listening
to another.

Start right now
take a small step
you can call your own
don’t follow
someone else’s
heroics, be humble
and focused,
start close in,
don’t mistake
that other
for your own.

Start close in,
don’t take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step you don’t want to take.

Start close in.

This was the same conclusion that I had reached through the course of my post-election day grief, and that evening I came home with new resolve.

I finally had the words to speak to my own children. I told them that our work would be in speaking up for those at risk. That as white people of privilege, we had a moral responsibility to speak up against injustice wherever we saw it . . . in words, in deeds, and in wallet. To stand in the way.

When my son asked me what I meant, I was able to powerfully clarify for him. Stephen was one of my students who asked about being sent back to Africa. Evan and Stephen had been in the same 6th grade class together last year. My voice broke when I said, “Stephen thought that because Trump was elected, he might have to go back to Africa. We must not allow anyone to ever feel like they are unwanted, or that they do not belong here. We must stand in the way any time, and every time, we see something that might make people feel that way.”

So that has been my way forward. To stand in the way.

In post-election America, we are being called upon by some to come together, to accept the results and move-on.

I don’t agree. I’m willing to accept the results, and while I respect the rights of those who are demonstrating against the election results or calling for “faithless electors,” this is not where I stand. Donald Trump won this election; we have no evidence that it was “rigged.”   However, I also think it is a mistake to meekly accept this as our “new reality,” or as some kind of “fresh start.”

We must be vigilant. We must be prepared to stand in the way.

But what does that look like?

What does it sound like?

I was quickly provided an opportunity to practice.

Just a few days after the election, my husband was upset about a comment made on a friend’s Facebook post by someone we don’t know. This is what it said: “no more apologizing for being born white in America” Blake was bothered that our friend hadn’t directly responded to it. He told me he was considering “unfriending” this person, so he didn’t have to see any more comments like that. I said, “You can’t do that. Vulnerable people can unfriend others for hurtful and offensive comments, but those of us with privilege carry the responsibility of confrontation, of engaging in the conversation.”

He thought about this for a moment, and then said, “Okay, that’s great. So why don’t you? You’re friends with him, too.”

Yes. Right. That.

I took a deep breath, and wrote this in response to the comment:

“I don’t know you, but I do know that being born white in America automatically brings with it a certain level of privilege, and I find it hard to believe that anyone is in a real (not just perceived) situation where they feel the need to apologize for their whiteness. There are, of course, many forms of privilege. I don’t know how many of the categories of privilege apply to you, but I ask you to self-reflect on that. I, too, am over-all a person of privilege. However, I teach in an urban, public school and my students are predominantly African-American and often living below the poverty level. It’s not easy work, but I love what I do, and, more importantly, I love them. As a person of privilege, I stand with them, and I am committed to speaking up on their behalf wherever it seems necessary.”

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Wellsville, NY; 11/10/16

I received a lengthy reply that, among other things, included many comments about perceived discrimination against white people, “WE ARE SHAMED by being born here and not black or wear a turban. that’s racism and “white shaming” It wont be tolerated anymore we now can stand up and demand equality.”

Instead of turning away, I continued to engage.

Our exchange was quite lengthy, and I do not think that I changed this man’s mind, but that wasn’t my goal. My goal was to challenge his thinking and his assumptions, and to push back publicly against the notion that these ideas are acceptable or common.

I think there is a great temptation during times of distress to circle the wagons – to insulate ourselves within our classrooms and communities and focus on that which is directly in front of us. This is understandable, self-protective behavior, but history has shown us the incredible risk in isolating ourselves from “the other,” and the dangerous de-humanizing that often comes with other-ness. If nothing else, this election has shown us how fragmented we are as a society, and it has left me contemplating the role of teachers. Teaching is an art, and we have been gifted with it. We know how to convey information. And, perhaps, more importantly, many of us walk pretty fluidly between two worlds – the world of privilege and the world without it. This provides us with a unique opportunity to tell our stories, and in so doing to shine a light that banishes the distance from “the other.”

Perhaps the best outcome of my conversation with a complete stranger on Facebook was the heart-felt discussion it prompted with a dear friend. He and his wife were uncomfortable about critical comments they had received from others. They had seen parts of my above exchange on social media and, as a result, involved me in dialogue about the election.

This was hard. David is my husband’s oldest childhood friend. His wife and I have spent many hours exploring best parenting practices. I witnessed the births of all three of his children. He voted for Donald Trump.

Mostly I just wanted to yell at him, “How could you?!” But what good would that do? He knows how I feel about politics. I know how he feels.

But my students are afraid.

Of course David didn’t intend for my students to be frightened by the election of Donald Trump, but it is the reality of the situation. How could I continue to look my students in the eye if I didn’t engage in this conversation? Better yet, how could I work together with those who cast a ballot for Trump to address what makes my students feel afraid – no matter how uncomfortable it makes me?

This is what it means to “start close in.”

David, Let’s start with what’s most important. I love you and your family. Now moving on, I disagree entirely with your political beliefs and values. We don’t have to talk about that right now. But here’s what we do have to talk about right now. The only way that I can live with these election results and still face my children, and more importantly, my students – for it is they who are most at risk — is to commit myself wholeheartedly to speaking out against prejudice and injustice. But here’s the thing. To conservatives, I can be readily discounted as just another hippie liberal. Guilty as charged. You cannot. All I ask is for you to stand with me on this. Your voice matters more than mine because as a supporter, you have far more sway than I do. I invite you to publicly speak against those that are engaging in hateful actions. everywhere it pops up — which is a thing that is happening. I invite you to pledge to do whatever you can to ensure that women are treated with respect and as equally capable as men, to take care of immigrants to this country who are law-abiding, to refuse to accept the ridicule of people with disabilities, to protect people of color from being stereotyped and judged, to support those who have less than you do. I know you’re hurting from the criticism of those who don’t understand your choice — believe me, I am hurting, too. But there are places where we can come together.

And his response:

Hey K. I love you and your family too. As to your invitation, I of course hold it important to defend against those things. For now, I just want people to understand that whether they agree with my choice, it doesn’t mean I was careless or heartless or in any way less conscientious as they were with my decision. If I could put Jed Bartlett into Trump, I would. I wasn’t given that choice. And as scared as you are of someday watching tanks rolling down Fifth Avenue and gathering up minorities (imagery), I have my own concerns that are built on more than just a little thought, research, and soul searching. I want you to know that I hear you. I don’t think you’re calling me names. I don’t think you’ve found a way to reconcile my choice with being a good person either, but I don’t think you’re calling me names. I respect you, in some ways uniquely so. Believe that. But I don’t interpret all these events the way you do. Love, Me.

David’s words were what I needed to hear to know that while we see things very differently, we still share much of the same heart, and that while he made an election day choice that I will likely never fully understand, he, personally, hadn’t, and wouldn’t, betray the values that were critical to both of our families.

This is “starting close in” . . .  and standing in the way.

It is uncomfortable, but as Bryan Stevenson says in his powerful video, “Confronting Injustice,” we must be willing to “get uncomfortable.”  Remembering the fear on my students’ faces gives me courage. Their questions were, in many ways, naïve, but they were not baseless. My students are afraid because scary things have been said. We do not yet know exactly where this election will lead, but we do know that it has given a newfound boldness to hate. Since Donald Trump won the Presidential election, there has been a dramatic rise in incidents of racist and xenophobic harassment across the country. The Southern Poverty Law Center has reported that there were more than 700 incidents of intimidation between the election, on November 8th, and November 16th, targeting blacks and other people of color, Muslims, immigrants, the L.G.B.T. community, and women.[1]

So, as each of us figures out what this election ultimately means for us, for those close to us, for those different from us, for our country, let’s remember to “start close in” by engaging with each other and having those difficult conversations in all areas of our lives. We must also be prepared to stand in the way whenever necessary. My students, their families, and so many others like them, deserve this from us.

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Yan, Holly, Kristina Sgueglia, and Kylie Walker. “‘Make America White Again’: Hate Speech and Crimes Post-election.” CNN. Cable News Network, n.d. Web. 26 Nov. 2016.