How does one begin to clean up the blood of infinite possibilities, of innocent laughter, of boundless joy from the classrooms and school hallways where (insert growing number of children) have been executed this year, not for their sins but ours?
Bullet holes through bulletin boards, blood covering the desks, blood seeping into the carpet ... blood covers our own hands. The sanctity of school my generation and previous ones enjoyed has been usurped by those same generations' desire to exist in fantasy. A fantasy that money and guns will keep us, especially our children, safe, as if dollars make bullets impervious as if there were an economy of safety. In reality, our children are less safe and they know and feel it. "Mrs. Rembert, there are no safe places, anymore" However, we'd rather live in a nearly 16 million dollar fantasy funded by the NRA that convinces us and our legislators that guns will save us from magical dragons and dangerous people. We believe to survive the number one cause of death for children in the United States is to brandish a bigger, badder potion in the form of a weapon. We believe in a mythical land where sawed-off shotguns, assault rifles, semi-automatic weapons and handguns galore will save the day. Yet, at the conclusion of such fantasy, the magic of the classroom turns into a baron wasteland with half-full rosters and forever empty seats. "In reality, we, the people of the United States, own more guns and have more gun violence than any other nation. Our guns are not making us safer or more free. We can not have it both ways. We can not reduce gun violence with more guns; just as we would not seek to reduce heart disease by adding more unhealthy food into our diet or reduce pollution by adding more pollutants." Our allusion of safety paralyzes us in a praying position. We send our thoughts and prayers to the latest victims and their communities. We hope and wish for change. We seek to allocate blame while more blood seeps onto the school courtyard. We resume our daily lives forgetting that for some there is no more recess, no more calculus, no more lunchroom banter. In 2022, there were 303 incidents involving guns at school with 273 victims, injured or fatal (Riedman, 2022). It behooves us to understand that guns are becoming a norm in school violence. When mass shooting events occur, the school closes long enough for the police to process the scene, the lives lost are commemorated and then we all continue on as if the blood on the desk never happened. We wall off the sites of death and injury in our hearts and in some cases (Santa Fe High School) literally to hide our pain and pretend all is normal. Honestly, there is not going to be any closure, no real commemoration, no continuing on if there is no real resolution and reform. "The call is coming from inside the house. Educators, it's our time to answer--to start lobbying as hard as the NRA, to safe ourselves and our students." As an educator, I've been through enough active shooter drills, discussed school violence enough, processed our collective feelings after each event of mass murder with enough students and heard enough irrational non-solutions (see list below) to know that anxiety and fear have outweighed action.
As an educator, I've practiced my wait time and still, there's no response. No response to kids gulping down a waffle, kissing their parents and running to the bus stop at 7am and having their blood color the walls of a classroom before noon. No response to some kids returning home spattered in the residue of the murder of their classmates---forever changed by trauma, their innocence lost. My fellow teachers, this affects US, and we must ready ourselves to address the societal factors that contribute to gun violence, including easy access to guns, lack of mental health resources and systemic oppression that disproportionately affects marginalized communities. We can no longer allow others to dictate our safety. We must raise our collective voices about one of the most pressing issues of our time. If you're interested, let's connect and organize for the myriad children and school personnel who've lost their lives over the years, including the 23 people killed and injured as a result of school shootings to date, the children and personnel left reliving the tragedy and countless incidents to come. Sources: Gun ownership by country 2023. (n.d.). Retrieved March 29, 2023, from https://worldpopulationreview.com/country-rankings/gun-ownership-by-country Riedman, D (2022). K-12 School Shooting Database.
0 Comments
Andre Maurice Hill was putzing around in the garage working on a vehicle late night/early morning on a Sunday. He was shot as he held his hands up and walked toward Ohio police officers called about the rumbling happening in the garage. He lay on that cold garage floor dying for approximately 5 minutes without being administered any potential lifesaving aid by the officers who instead told him, "Don't move, dude."
Casey Christopher Goodson was shot by police as he attempted to enter his home with a Subway sandwich. His body spilling into the doorway and his keys dangling in the door of his grandmother's home for her and two toddlers to witness. Breonna Taylor was awoken after midnight when the police began ramming her door in. They shot Breonna five times and shot ten times blindly into the apartment she and her boyfriend shared. They were not in the correct apartment. On November 22, 2014, Tamir Elijah Rice, 12 years old, was killed within TWO seconds of Ohio police arriving at a park that Tamir was playing in. Yesterday, the Justice Department decided not to prosecute the officers who killed Tamir within TWO seconds of their arrival at that community park. Mass murderer, Dylann Roof, gunned down and killed nine people who were worshipping in their church. The police chief described the mass murderer as "polite" and "quiet" when the mass murderer was apprehended unharmed--no shots fired. Police officers went to Burger King to get the mass murderer a burger when the mass murderer claimed hunger. The police walked right by teen killer, Kyle Rittenhouse, who was brandishing a gun the killer had used on two victims. Christian groups raised $500,000 for the teen killer. The killer's family has raised $60,000 selling merchandise toward bail. The killer has donations totaling almost a million dollars according to some news outlets. Terrorist, Anthony Warner, drove an RV and exploded it on the streets of Nashville on Christmas day. His girlfriend had alerted the police of the terrorist bomb making a year prior. Her lawyer confirmed with police at the time that the terrorist "frequently talks about the military and bomb-making." The attorney went on to state he believed the terrorist knew how and was capable of making a bomb. As a follow-up, police knocked on the terrorist's door got no answer and left. That's the epitome of privilege! As 2020 winds down, I have been thinking more of Andre, Casey, Tamir, Breonna, George, Roxanne, Ahmaud and the so many more. I have been thinking of the resistance to simply saying "Black Lives Matter" and the anger and resistance to the mention of white privilege. I have been thinking of the books purchased this summer some of which remain unread or discussed. I have been thinking of those who remain ghostly silent to matters of injustice. I have been thinking of the Proud Boys, standing back and standing by. I have been thinking of the former church friend who said people should be shot in the streets if they are found committing voter fraud. I have been thinking how systems continue to function as if Black folk are unworthy, evil villains who are up to know good and not deserving of humanity or empathy. It's an old, tired trope used to justify slavery and yet it remains and all of the above contribute to its societal permanence. It is what allows us to lay dead unjustifiably at hands that offer no medical attention. Allows us to be slaughtered in our place of worship without a fundraising campaign or even a burger. It's a privilege to be viewed as you are. I hope you see that. I hope you talk about that. I hope you work to do your part to eradicate racism in 2021. *Check out the video that clearly and effectively defines white privilege. Accepting reality has been a struggle for some as of late. As the reality of Dr. Jill Biden's expertise and achievement has been recently called into question, I walk in her shadow having been accepted into an educational doctoral program. I have wanted to do this for so long (see my post a couple of years ago when I was rejected) and today seems unreal. However, the reality is ... THIS IS HAPPENING! The reality is as I am entering a new phase; one where I could be attacked like Dr. Biden for being a woman seeking higher knowledge, one in which the system, its institutions and the educators who tirelessly work to make them run are too often devalued. When I decided I no longer wanted to pursue my Oprah dream of television journalism, my gift found me--teaching. I shifted from the lure of gifts under seats to public service. I was told quite often that education was a form of philanthropy. The reality is you give and give generously and expect little in return (compensation, especially but respect generally). I recall being told repeatedly by veteran educators that, "We're certainly not here for the money." This refrain emboldened principals to use educator's passion to extract as much as they could using "do it for the kids" and "lucky to just have a job" to tease out the fumes we worked on. In reality, it is not the work of "pass me a scalpel" but it's surely life saving. I believe that about education because I've seen that. It's the reason I persist in a field where the riches aren't coming and most times neither is the gratitude. I persist because I believe education can be transformative and liberatory. It is the reality the person who called Dr. Biden ‘kiddo’ most needs in order to learn, to grow and change for the better. I'm ecstatic to begin an educational journey paved by many, women especially, before me. It's no small feat to serve young people daily without asking for much in return, as an aside we need to have discourse about why that's okay, and still move forward and further into that work. It's not to be called Dr., although you should be, it's to serve more, to give more. Thanks, Dr. Biden for your service to education as I follow in your footsteps. Dr. Rembert is a reality soon to come. In my classroom, I ask students to refrain from responding 'I don't know.' I reply that 'surely there is something you know or a question you can ask rather than giving me such a generic maxim.' Those three words just seemed like such an easy way out--a cavalier response. Recently, I find myself repeating the very phrase that I've banned in my classroom because truly right now, I don't know. I don't know if things will get better or worse tomorrow. I don't know if the food in my freezer, spilling off my countertops and jammed in my refrigerator will be enough. I don't know if I will see my son play varsity volleyball or send him off to prom or attend his high school graduation. I don't know what to advise my daughter who is a college sophomore about paying for her empty college apartment since the school has gone online for this semester and she'll have to pay for it without a campus job. I don't know if this pandemic will impact my husband's real estate business and thus a huge chunk of our livelihood. I don't know how and where to place myself emotionally in the midst of information chaos and concern for folk. I don't know if my profession can return to business as usual when students return to our classrooms. I don't know why it took a pandemic to illuminate concern for children who rely on school for a good meal and safety, and I don't know that we will address this concern after the pandemic is over and 'normalcy' is restored because we tend to erase that which is uncomfortable. I just don't know, and the uncertainty of the above is only bearable because the don't know's shape my do knows.
I am that person who hates to ask for directions. I always feel like I can figure it out; sometimes I do and other times I end up costing myself time and adding frustration. As I examine why I am reticent to simply ask someone to show me the best way, I realize my fierce independence, pride and desire to figure it out has left me lost in a lot of areas of my life. I have been wandering for awhile--destination unknown unable to ... "Follow the drinkin' gourd" Faith: For the past few years, I've been wandering in the desert with no hope of finding the promised land. Sometimes I have felt like a spiritual "none" (apparently I am not alone as a study conducted by National Geographic concluded that "nones" are one of the fastest growing "religions"). Where I'd once enjoyed a extremely strong faith and took comfort in it, I had grown just as comfortable roaming the desert--dare I say I reveled in it a bit. Telling myself, I could, at least, control the separation from my faith since I could not control the pain and agony of the losses I'd suffered. Last year, I decided to pull the car over. Still not ready to get out and ask for help, instead I would stop and reorient myself. By choosing to stop my cycle of spiritual doubt and anger, I patted myself on the back because I could remain in control as I examined my spiritual path. I realized recently I was still not going anywhere. I was just stuck in neutral. Last month, I decided to chuck the self-navigation out the window and really asked God to lead me. I gave up my morning social media check for a time of introspection (prayer) and stopped fighting so hard against faith. I have learned ... "The old man is waiting to carry you to freedom." Career: Can I just be real? I don't know what the hell I ultimately want to do in and for education. I thought I had it figured out--in fact, I was speeding in what I thought was the right direction based on the route others had taken but that turned into a dead end. It's hard to follow other people's path --I could end the sentence there--but especially when you don't know your own final destination, so I have had to pump the brakes. I have had to swallow my pride and admit I have no idea what I want to be now that I am truly a grown up. That honest dialogue with self, outside of the expectation of others and self-imposed pressures, helped me make the decision to reroute. Still don't know where the many roads I am now on will lead me, but I am choosing to allow myself to take many stops along the way to take in the sights. It has seemed aimless and been straight exhausting at times as I have been trying to do everything in an attempt to find my happy place, but the detours have been so worth it. All roads are leading me to better understanding of my passions and self ... "Well the river bank makes a mighty good road. Dead trees will show you the way." Having done some real introspection to be in a place of peace about the direction of my life, I could go on and on outlining how by forgoing my pride and desire to figure it all out, against my natural inclination, I am finding spiritual and financial freedom (and many more). And it's easy ... "If you follow the drinkin' gourd." Being okay letting go of things, of giving up on the dreams others have for me and even the dreams I have previously held is the best change I have ever made for myself. Realizing that stopping to ask for help when I need (and don't we all) is not a sign of weakness or ignorance, it is the ultimate sign of strength and confidence. A confidence innate to my DNA and the reason I titled this post "Follow the Drinking Gourd." f you don't know the song or cultural history of "Follow the Drinking Gourd," you can find it here. Today is my birthday. I remember as a kid waiting on pins and needles for January 16th to arrive each year: planning what I was going to wear (a few years I adorned a birthday sash--overkill I know), making a list of birthday wishes, waiting for a call from my cousins who were always first to call. It was all I could do to contain my excitement. This year I forgot about my birthday. I seriously forgot it was my birthday week. How does one go from waiting for a day with bated breath to forgetting it? Could the answer simply be, Life? This adulting thing is NO JOKE. I wish I could say I have mastered it. I wish I could say I was waiting for the clock to strike midnight, so I could greet 44 years old with open arms. Nope, I was mouth open long sleep on my left side as not to aggravate my bad back or broken elbow (these are the types of injuries of a 40+ year old). Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the number 44. I am not experiencing the anxiety I felt turning 40 (I had lost it then!) I am learning to care less about the opinions of others and to live to please no one. I have learned to talk less and smile more (which ain't easy might I add). I am enjoying the person I am (and the person I am BECOMING --if you don't get that reference close this tab and lose my web page)! I can say I have hit the prime of my womanhood: You can't tell me I ain't fly. I know I'm super fly! And still, I am not rejoicing or even lamenting adding another year. There is so much I still need to do! That little fortune teller fold-able I made when I was in about 4th grade (the age I am in the picture above) that told my life story has a few fortunes left unfilled. I think I forgot my birthday this year because I was less focused on the calendar change and more focused on life change. I got stuff to do. I have goals to meet, lands to conquer and dragons to slay, so I can storm the castle, take the throne, collect my jewels and adorn my crown. Ma, You bore the weight all the heavy things from carrying children to lifting your family out of a living wage. You bore the weight of secrets and lies of judgement and prejudice of being an assertive, smart and dynamic black woman. You bore the weight of a pregnant teenage daughter of college tuitions of debts (emotional and physical) on your back. You bore the weight of making it of now thinking you're too good of who does she think she is of white men belittling you of black men underestimating you. Bore the weight of past. Bore the weight of pain. I wish I'd lightened the load more for you Took the invisible jug you balanced off your head and let you take a long drink from the river of life without having to carry it all. This summer having all the kids home has been so good for my soul.
Today, June 7th means everything and nothing. Makes no sense right? I agree. Two years ago today made no sense to me either. It is, itself, a day of contradictions. It was not a surprise, but I was stunned. It is one day, and yet it was a lifetime. It has been two years, and it was yesterday. I truly am wrestling with how I am suppose to feel, think and act today. The one who gave me life lost her life on this day. And as I write this, I realize I hate that terminology... lost her life. What does that even mean? To me, its use implies being able to be found or retrieved (think lost and found) and is therefore a misnomer in the context of death. I digress. Should I think of her more today? Impossible. Everyday for the past two years, I have at some point in a 24 hour span not NOT thought of her. That's a fact. I look in the mirror and see her (more than ever lately) or I say something she always said or I retreat into memory. Everything: On June 7, 2016, an extremely intelligent and insightful mother, wife, daughter, sister, grandmother, aunt, cousin and friend closed her eyes to this world. And as a result, there is a gaping hole in my universe. Nothing: One day dare not define Beverly Ann Bradley-Flanagan. Were I to dwell on June 7, 2016. I would miss some June days on Prospect Ave in Chicago on the deck or in the pool splashing and talking as she picked some vegetables from her illustrious garden or helping her roll out a blanket and grab the footballs for an impromptu lakefront barbecue off 67th & South Shore Drive or on Danas Path sitting with our feet in the pool admiring the backdrop of gorgeous flowers forever in bloom on Cape Cod or watching the deer retreat from the forest preserve into the backyard from the sunroom as one of her grandchildren rode around the room on a tricycle on Notre Dame Street or sitting on the back porch on Kingston Avenue with her arms around me and our heads leaned back looking at the sky with no words, only love flowing between us. Surely, June 7 will always be a paradox of my everything and nothing. Absurd you say? Really consider it. Omniscient. Omnipotent. Omnipresent. Savior. And that's just Oprah. Who saved Alabama from Roy Moore? Who is leading the charge to seek justice for their dead sons and changing the trajectory of what it means to mourn while birthing activism? Who is calling the President out on his bull at every turn and every time? Who started a movement to uncover pervasive misogyny? Who stares in the face of those who refuse to acknowledge her greatness and blatantly question her beauty? These brave black women persisted and continue to persist in the face of fear and doubt. Like any deity, they understand their power and know the outcome of their efforts is for the greater good. Sacrificing. Taking the lashes. They are saving us. All of us. That is nothing but God. Nothing absurd about it. How can I harness my own goddess energy (the energy of Serena, Tarana, Maxine, Sybrina, etc.)? What am I brave enough to do in spite of fear and doubt for the greater good? Those are tough questions; the type of questions I typically run from or like a friend told me today, those are ones I cover with a band-aid instead of addressing. A Goddess, product of the divine, doesn't cower. She stands alone with herself and listens to her heart. She dreams big and then bigger because like Liberia's former President, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, once said "The size of your dreams must always exceed your current capacity to achieve them. If your dreams do not scare you, they are not big enough.” It is time to bravely stand and walk boldly knowing the Gods have paved the way. This post is inspired by this line from Angie Thomas' young adult masterpiece The Hate U Give: "Brave does not mean you're not scared. I means you go on even though you're scared." This is my 8th day of writing as part of 100 Days of Summer Writing. |
AuthorDocumenting my evolution by filling in space and matter one word at a time. Archives
March 2023
Categories |