"under His wings..."

"How can you run
when you know?"

Today on Facebook, a friend shared this video of Crosby, Stills, and Nash's  "Ohio."  It is still a chilling reminder of a day I will never forget.

It was Monday -- a beautiful, early spring day in rural New Jersey. I was in typing class when our Assistant Principal came to the door and called our teacher into the hallway. He returned ashen-faced and visibly shaken. He announced that when the bell rang we were to go to the school auditorium.

I remember looking down at the rows and rows of "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" that I'd just typed, as a warm up for that day's dictation. When I looked up, there were tears streaming down our teacher's sideburn-framed cheeks. I was terrified. We'd lived through the Kennedy, King, and Kennedy assassinations, what could possibly evoke a teacher's tears -- again?

I looked across the room and questioningly caught a friend's eye. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. I returned to my typing, but all I could think about was, "what now?" The windows were open and the scent of peonies wafted in on a soft breeze. To this day, the scent of peonies is the scent of paradox.

After the bell sounded for a change of classes, we filed into the hallway and made our way like lemmings towards the auditorium. For some reason, I needed to find my sister. She was a year younger, but she was my rock. I thought if I could sit with her, whatever news we were being gathered for would be less frightening. But when I finally caught sight of her, she was on the other side of the auditorium surrounded by friends.

The room was eerily quiet. We didn't talk as we waited for the principal to take the stage. When he did, although his suit was its normal crisp perfection, he seemed disheveled. He ran his hand through his hair as he paused at the microphone. It made me feel frightened. Like when my mother cried, or my dad sat staring out the window after paying the bills.

Before he spoke, he cleared his throat, paused, and cleared his throat again. Then he explained that there had been a terrible tragedy at a university in Ohio. The National Guard had opened fire on protesting students and four of those students had died. Others had been injured. We were instructed to return to our next period classes.  I noticed that our principal's shoulders shook - I assumed he was quietly weeping - as he left the stage with his head down.

We were in shock. We'd never heard the story of Kent State - it hadn't happened yet.  It wasn't in our rolodex of possibilities.  We'd heard of recently graduated classmates being killed in Viet Nam, but this was in Ohio - only two states away.  We'd never been exposed to news of our own government killing college students.  We were so close to being college students ourselves. For me it was only two years away. For the youngest among us, four years. We didn't speak, we didn't move. I remember thinking, "this is what shock feels like."

This was 1970. There were no trauma counselors. We were dismissed from the auditorium and told to go to our next class. At the end of the day, we boarded school buses for home, changed into gym clothes for track practice or field hockey, or we made our way to the same auditorium for play rehearsals.

It felt like walking through water. We had no further information. We wouldn't have any more information unless our parents let us watch the nightly news, on one of three channels at 6 o'clock. The newspaper wouldn't arrive until morning. There was no cable news, no internet, no online resources, no Facebook posts, or breaking news updates. Just the 6 o'clock news and the morning paper.

Had there been a coup? Had war been declared in Ohio? Were children -- and yes, we still thought of our friends in college as children -- now the enemy of the state? Was the consequence for disagreeing with your government, death by firing squad?

It would be days before we saw photographs. It would be months before we'd get anything more than cursory information. It would be years before we'd know how that day in May, would change the landscape of our collective experience as students - and parents.

The massacre of student protesters on a grassy knoll at Kent State University would alter the course of history. Within a week millions of high school and college students went on strike, others marched in protest at the Capitol, and many of us wrote out our grief in poetry, songs, and essays.

As with the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, I turned to a resource I'd come to trust -- my Sunday School teacher. I had to wait six days, but I knew she would give me a spiritual way to process what I'd been living with for almost a week.

On Sunday, she too was still shaken by the event. I loved that she wasn't stoic and matter-of-fact about it. Her response was honest. She told me that she'd been praying all week about how to talk with us about what had happened in Ohio. And then she asked us how we had been feeling. She didn't tell us how we should feel.

I don't remember all of what we discussed that morning, but I do remember leaving church with a sense of courage about standing up for what is right and good. I also left with her encouragement to memorize the 91st Psalm. And I did. It has stood the test of time. It reads:

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and fortressL my God; in Him will I trust.

Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flight by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that casteth at noonday.

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked.

"Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

For He shall give His angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways."

Over the next two years I would participate in a number of protests, and this Psalm would be my marching song. In the ensuing years it has been my companion whenever I have felt threatened or afraid. I do not run when I know that something needs facing. I stand with angels -- who have charge over me, and mine, and all.

offered with Love,

Kate

This video from Dan Rather's report on the event is helpful in understanding what happened that day  "Kent State." 

"Free to be...you and me..."

"…Every boy in this land grows to be his own man
In this land, every girl grows to be her own woman
Take my hand, come with me where the children are free
Come with me, take my hand, and we'll run

To a land where the river runs free
To a land through the green country
To a land to a shining sea
To a land where the horses run free
To a land where the children are free
And you and me are free to be
And you and me are free to be
And you and me are free to be you and me"
-     The New Seekers

I was a new teacher with my very own class of 6 to 8 year old little boys who had been institutionalized for developmental disabilities.  I was hopeful and eager.  I couldn't wait to make a difference.  It didn't matter one bit to me that only one of my guys could speak in full sentences and only three were out of diapers.  I was a TEACHER!!  It was the only profession, outside of motherhood (and someday being a civil rights attorney), that I had ever aspired to. 

From the time I was 10 years old with five younger siblings I was, in my spare time, "Mrs. French" (okay, sidenote:  there was a little boy in my fifth grade class whose last name was French and I thought it meant he was French, which seemed soooo cool, so I stole his last name for my teacher-self).  Mrs. French would make all her siblings (who were young enough to think she was really a teacher just because she said she was) sit on the floor in her bedroom and learn to count and add.   Mrs. French would read "Green Eggs and Ham" out loud with Oscar-deserving expressed animation.  Mrs. French would prepare little sandwiches for her students to eat in the "lunch room".  Mrs. French was firm, but nice.  In my mind, Mrs. French was "practically perfect in every way"…or so she thought her students thought her to be.

By the time I finally became a teacher I had an arsenal of Mary Poppins-like tricks stored up my sleeves.  I had years of hopes and expectations for my "someday" students.   I had more than a life-time of dreaming about blackboards and chalk, Dr. Seuss and Curious George, practiced Palmer-method penmanship and hand-made grade books filled with A- and C+s perfectly written in little graph-paper boxes.

But my new classroom of boys weren't able to sit down long enough for even one page of the antics of a monkey named George, and they would never take home a report card filled with hard-earned letter grades and glowing narratives. These little boys (and their little girl counterparts in a neighboring building) would never leave the institution their parents had committed them to.  These children might learn to make eye-contact and eat properly with a spork, but they were not expected to ever be trusted with pencils and chalk…much less handle a book with gentle respect.

My first few days were harrowing.  I carefully edged myself along the cinderblock walls that lined our classroom, keeping everyone, and everything, in sight.  A randomly hurled chair had landed my predecessor in the hospital for months and I didn't have any desire to start collecting disability at 21 years old.   

One day into the second or third week, I suddenly realized that when I sang hymns to myself (in order to calm my own fears) they calmed down too.  And then I noticed that they really liked the soft scent of the baby powder I wore and would gather around me each morning...not to bump into me mindlessly, but because they wanted to be near me...I started to look forward to my days with them.  Yes, they were as scattered and un-focused as baby chicks in a barnyard.  But they were sweet and eager to please and there were so many things they needed to learn just in order to live in-community with one another and the staff that cared for them.  It wasn't long before I knew that I had to let go of every starry-eyed image of what I thought my life as a teacher would be like, or I would never be able to fully embrace the class that I had been given.

My professional goals for myself as a teacher, however, stayed the same.  I would be consistent, calm, persistent, joyful, and enthusiastic about the curriculum.  I would be respectful, kind, fair and honest with my colleagues.  I would be innovative, inspired, thoughtful and creative in my use of learning tools and materials.  I would be expectant, patient, understanding, honest, loving and clear with my students.  I would teach according to their learning…not expect them to learn according to my teaching.  I would participate in a student-centric learning environment…rather than a teacher driven one.   All that really changed was what I thought the outcomes had to look like. 

When I let go of academic milestones like "counting to 10, sounding out all consonants phoenetically, and completing a 10 piece puzzle in less than three minutes", and accepted new milestones like "was able to let go of anger, did not become frustrated with himself, allowed himself to be helped"…I became the kind of teacher I didn't even know I could hope to become.

I spent my early teaching career in one classroom after another within this institution working with a full range of developmentally challenged children.  In each setting my goals and expectations for myself as a teacher never changed…they evolved…but never changed.

When a cross-country move necessitated a change in schools, I left with a heavy heart.  I had learned to love teaching in a way I never imagined.  My next teaching assignment was with high functioning gifted and talents students.  But my goals and expectations for myself, as a teacher, never changed. 

"Free to Be - You and Me" (I hope this link is a fun trip down memory lane for some of you) was an album I would play every morning in those early days of teaching my little group of 6 through 8 year old boys.  I would sing and dance around the classroom like a butterfly, a bouncy "Tigger", a wood sprite, a crazy bumble bee, or a silly bear before we started our long days of repeating simple tasks hundreds of times over and over again.  It's lyrics would remind me that there isn't just one way to be…there are hundreds of thousands, millions and zillions of way to be.  My job was to help them discover the best "me" they could be that day.  It was as much the same for my little guys who were learning to hold a spoon, as it was for my gifted students who were taking college prep calculus courses in the 5th grade.  

This is still my favorite thing to do…
Kate

Heroes

It seems, these days, that many of my heroes are quite a bit younger than I am.  I realized this one morning when I was feeling decidedly uninspired and one of my Sunday School students' Instant Messaging tone rang through on my computer letting me know that she wanted to chat.  I pushed myself out of the comfy chair in my office and shuffled over to my desk, thinking of how generous I would be in having this “chat” with her instead sitting in the sun like a cat and praying about the depression-like feelings that were again descending around my shoulders like a damp fog along the ocean on a summer evening.   But was I brought up short. 

This 19 year old Mother Teresa was just "being in touch"  to let me know that she had been praying for the world and God told her to check up on me.  Check up on me????   My first reaction was how bold...here was a teenager checking up on me, her Sunday School teacher and the Christian Science practitioner she herself often called for healing through prayer.  But my second response was awe.  At her age I would no more have had the courage to follow through on that message from God…much less praying for the world before I went to school.  I swallowed deeply and decided to be honest with her.  Thank you, I began, I needed to be woken up from the mesmerism of dark thoughts and personal doubts seeping into my day by her tender care.  My young hero offered to pray for me and within about 24 hours I was not only free from some of the depression-like symptoms I had been struggling with off and on for about a year, but I began to find some spiritual clarity in direction about difficult decisions that I had been struggling with and avoiding for some years.  This young woman taught me much that day about Christian courage.

Another young hero is my friend, Dee.  Dee is a nickname given to young man whose large family moved to the United States from Africa in order to enroll he and his siblings in a school where character education is still being pioneered a century after it was first founded.  Dee, although an excellent student and athlete who would have been eagerly received at a number of colleges and universities following his graduation from high school, chose to enlist in the United States Army rather than accept scholarship and grants that he was extended in order to help fund his younger siblings education and assist in supporting his family.  Dee is a man of great humility.  A man who would never "put himself out there" and yet his integrity, humility, strength and grace were recognized by his superiors during his basic and specialized training and he was recommended for a commission to West Point based on these qualities alone.  Six months earlier Dee wasn't even a citizen of the United States, today his is serving this country in Iraq while waiting for his orders to “show up” for his first term at West Point.  When he called from Fort Hood Texas to let me know that he had received his commission he asked me to be discreet in sharing his news as he didn't want to seem less than humble in speaking about this extraordinary unfoldment of good in his life.

Heroes aren’t always people we look up to…sometimes they are people we haven’t even had the grace to look at…who…for whatever reason…become central in our lives.

The Good Samaritan represents that kind of a hero for me.  The man who is left wounded on the side of the road probably wouldn’t have chosen the Samaritan as his good buddy, but he never had a greater model of human heroism than the man who only days before would have been a stranger and a foreigner to him…a nameless face on a rocky path.

So…today as I go about my day…I am going to look for heroes in unlikely places.  I will try to listen to a child with more expectation that this may be the very voice of God in my life…and maybe, just maybe I will hear that message of forgiveness, mercy, or tender care that my heart is crying out for…or maybe I will be given a reason to smile…a hug on the run….a offer to take my hand as we cross the street …these too would be the gifts of a young hero to the broken-hearted or the wounded…

Where will you find a hero today?







K.