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| Photo Cred: Hannah Peterson |
It’s that time of the year again.
Every morning last I heard the sound of a
rolling backpack being rushed across the sidewalk outside our front door.
My neighbor on his way to school
“Good morning, Miss” without words
The first welcome to each school day
It was often also a reminder that I was
running late to school!
This year I awaited that sound with
excited, hopeful anticipation. The rolling backpack—it’s not just a 90s fad
passed down from the United States. The actual child’s rolling suitcase with
theme-coordinating lunchbox perched on top is much more than trendy. Although
the suitcases are undeniably stylish and functional, what really matters is
what is INSIDE the backpack. What is the student carrying—or rather dragging to
school? In Tacna that backpack holds other quirks—like elaborately decorated
notebooks and pencil cases with black hole capabilities that manage to hold the
entirety of a school supplies store. Even more, my students bring their own
quirks to school. They bring their personalities—developing; their hopes and
dreams—discovering; their ears and anxieties—unsettling. My students carry
their histories and realities to school. All that they are, all that they have
been and all that they will be… everything comes to school.
So each of my kids arrives at their desk as
their whole self. They humbly sit and allow themselves to learn. They allow themselves
to say, “I don’t know. Teach me. Care for me. Take me as I am.” To be a student
requires some degree (largely varying) of vulnerability. I am called to meet my
kids in that vulnerability. I present my whole self, all my inadequacies, and I
humbly ask them to learn with me. I allow myself to say, “Please welcome me and
accept me. Please trust me and let me know/love you. Take me as I am.”
We all bravely say, “Yes.” It’s an act of
faith.
In my work, this covenant between teacher
and student comes to life in a unique and special way. I challenge my students
to communicate in a foreign language. For many students, English class feels
unnatural and uncomfortable. They not only take on the role of student. For
forty-five minutes they take on the role of foreigner or outsider. And for
forty-five minutes I meet them in that grace-full discomfort. I too am a
foreigner. I also communicate in a language that is unnatural to my tongue. As
they are learning how to learn, I am learning how to teach. All
thirty-something of us in that classroom are called to accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.[1]
God gives me the Grace to connect with my
kids in a way that many people do not. I share in their vulnerability. I
partake in the awkwardness of kids and teenagers, and I affirm them. As we walk
together I help them lean into discomfort. As I pray myself to be a bold
participant, I empower and challenge my kids to let their lights shine. I
listen caringly when they bravely choose to let me know them, and I give thanks
to God when they want to know me. I let myself feel the injustices my kids
experience: being talked over, given unreasonable expectations (too high or too
low), deprived of innocence, treated as half-people. I want to be their
advocate, and sometimes they even let me. When Grace touches vulnerability, we
encounter faith.
God, give me the faith of a child.[2]
The faith of a child is a radical trust. My
kids show me their zealous belief when they dedicatedly follow the rules of
their own games at recess; when they belief student government can make a
difference; when they share their dessert at lunch trusting they will one day
be repaid; when they express their opinions and stick up for their friends.
Clearly my faith has also become more radical and my love more unreasonable. I
say that because someone who walks by my classroom does not see the idealism,
beauty and hope reflected in this writing. Actually, in today’s forty-five
minute encounter with the Divine, someone saw one kid swinging from the ceiling
and one kid rolling on the floor.
Diosito fortalece mi corazon[3]
Staying in that room is how I stay true to
the covenant.
Staying
Dedicated
Passionate
Unreasonable[4]
Radically loving
Subversive[5]
Faithful[6]
Our covenant is how we live our faith, and
I believe that a covenant is mutually directional. My students and I are
teaching and learning. Both. Together.
We don’t always get it right. As Dorothy
says, “At times it has been, in the words of Father Zossima, a harsh and
dreadful thing, and our very faith in love has been tried through fire.”[7]
Sometimes we’re left feeling raw and hurt, or at the very least insecure and
uncomfortable. But every now and then we taste the heavenly banquet.
When my kid sits down next to me at a
picnic table during a quiet afternoon. Companionship.
When we collaborate on a school project.
Community.
When my students call me their mom. Family.
When I’m welcomed to school by hugs from
the entire first grade class. Love.
Real communion.
These moments inspire us to faithfully to
show up with our whole selves.
We bravely, humbly allow ourselves to sit
together and know each other.
Misstep by misstep we live and let live.
