Circumstantial Racist

There is a statute of limitations on circumstantial racism. It ends the day we collide with the realization that in our ignorance, our privilege has plowed someone over. If in that moment we retreat, what once was circumstantial becomes premeditated.

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 I fled the scene of my first teaching job in Baltimore City, accused of being a racist by the principal.

Those of you who know me now may find this surprising.

YOU??!!

Global Citizenship teacher?
Muslim student association sponsor?
Diversity conference planner?
Multi-cultural education trainer?
Restorative Justice facilitator?

You?!

For you who know this intercultural work that I’m always deep in the thick of, you may see this accusation of racism as proof that no matter what a white person does in contexts of color, they will almost inevitably be accused of racism.

But for others…particularly people of color, you will likely be asking a different question:

Well….were you? Racist?

My answer may surprise you.

How could I not be?

Born in the Ozark foothills, raised in a transition zone between rural and suburban, liberal arts educated in Garrison Keillor country in the upper-Midwest, the first time I lived in an area that was not disproportionately white was when I moved to Baltimore after college.

In my first teaching position I worked across the street from central booking, caddy corner to a cemetery, surrounded by infamous drug corners captured by The Wire, and cast in the very real flashing blue lights of police cameras.

Now how in is any 23 year old white girl supposed to make sense of all that? How likely is it that most 23 year olds regardless of color can have the historical, political, social, economic, spiritual perspective to understand the causes and consequences of such a stark human reality?

So…was it true? Was I racist?

Of course I was.

But not on purpose.

I was not raised in a context of deliberate and cultivated bigotry. I was raised in a compassionate Christian household where, above all, my mom insisted our faith was rooted in caring for the most vulnerable in our community. She was a champion for children. She hated bullies and would confront them in schools, church suppers, and super-market aisles. Despite the socially conservative constraints of the Bible Belt, she was bold enough in 1988 to reject the callousness of trickle down solutions and vote for Dukakis.

Her 8 year old staunchly republican daughter was appalled.

Her 36 year old progressive daughter couldn’t be more grateful.

No, my racism was not by personal design. It was by systemic proximity (or more precisely a lack there of) from neighbors who’s narratives could disrupt the mass media education I was getting from Law and Order and the nightly news.

Structural racism does not just keep people of color out. It keeps people of the pale in.

We move through an insulated existence where there IS such a thing as normal. Where there ARE absolute answers. Where you CAN trust authority.

And then at some point we come to the edge of our enclave. With our gaze off in the distance on our endless horizons, we step off the curb we didn’t expect into a pothole we didn’t see, twist our ankle, and collapse in the middle of oncoming traffic.

You want to know why white girls are always crying?

We weren’t raised not to.

And now we (overly) protected lily-white children have wandered into a world full of struggle our communities gated us from seeing.

3 years ago I took a group of public high school students on a study abroad trip to rural England. It was a group that reflected the diversity of their school and country from skin tone to head-covering.

During the day, they visited schools in pastoral settings. At night we would cook together in the kitchen where we would process the discoveries of the day. Many of their conversations with their British peers circled around race and culture.

When Miles told yet another story about yet another English kid comparing him to yet another black celebrity he looked nothing like, he laughed and said…

“You have NO idea how racist you sound.”

As we washed dishes together I asked. “Why do you think it feels so different to you to talk about race here? Why doesn’t their ignorance offend in the same way it would back home?”

After a few jokes about all the things that sound better with a British accent, Chloe was quick to put her finger on the difference.

“If you don’t know about race in America, you just haven’t been paying attention.”

These kids in North Yorkshire growing up amidst sheep farms, they were nestled snug in their culture. Where would they have ever had a chance to make friends with a black kid who could call them a racist?

I could identify. I grew up around sheep with Midwestern drawls. None of them black.

But unlike my planned community of the past or the physical spaces of the present, the virtual spaces most of us occupy today are NOT gated in the same way. There’s no way to not pay attention…unless you’re averting your eyes.

There is a statute of limitations on circumstantial racism. It ends the day we collide with the realization that in our ignorance, our privilege has plowed someone over. If in that moment we retreat, what once was circumstantial becomes premeditated.

Don’t flee the scene. We must bear witness. And then we must decide whether to aid and abet or become first responders.

Despite the risks.

The wounds are deep. So is the fear.

Apply pressure.

Hold.

 

Odd friends of Ramadan

Transformed by curious couplings during #Christians4Ramadan

Tonight, on Ramadan Eve, I finished two books, both of which were given to me. One by my daughter. One by a first year teacher.

A month ago, my daughter came home from Pre-K4 with I am Malala in her Ninja Turtle backpack.

Holding it up to me in two hands, like a stone tablet.  She said earnestly, (Ivy says most things earnestly) “Mommy I want to read this!”

She’d found it in the fourth grade classroom and I can only assume connected immediately with the tranquil gaze of Malala on the front cover.

“Umm…I want to read that too, five year old,” I said bemused. “Guess this is our first mother daughter book club.” We let Kip join too because…top bunk privilege. At bedtime, for the last month, we have been reading about Malala, Pakistan, Swat Valley, the rise of the Taliban, her Father’s activism, her own fight for human and children’s rights…and her love for Ugly Betty. Kip and Ivy have both been surprisingly riveted, only occasionally petitioning for a respite with Star Wars Rebels or Rosie Revere. After they become drowsy to the wisdom of Malala, I choose my late night profundity from a different direction.

Early in the school year, my colleague Andy (who had actually been a student at the school where I began teaching) asked me “Do you identify strongly with Leslie Knope?”

I gasped and grabbed his arm…

“Do YOU identify me with Leslie Knope?” I asked with rhetorical Leslie Knope-like eagerness.

“Umm…well that all depends…I guess some might see her as a little naïve.”

If by naïve you mean hopefully exuberant as she fearlessly charges into the world with blinders on to the peril towards herself or others but equipped with a bastion of binders to protect her…I guess I can see that.

I should mention here that my spirit animal is Leslie Knope riding a unicorn.

Andy took it all in stride and very thoughtfully presented me with Amy Poehler’s memoir, Yes Please, as a Christmas gift…which I finally finished today. I wish this pace could be explained by 1,500 pages, small print and no pictures…but the book is only 329 pages long and is laced with Polaroids, hand scribbled notes from 8 year old Amy, and large margins with riotous side-notes from  friends and colleagues. I have added to these with annotations of my own (should you wish to borrow my copy).

As I drink wine and write this, these two books sit next to me, the authors both gazing at me with challenge and expectation. I don’t think I seek out these kinds of peculiar pairings to be deliberately provocative. I’m just a reluctant sorter. They would seem an odd couple to anyone else…but to those who know me, this will likely not come as too astounding. The spiritual humanitarian alongside the hilarious hedonist. Sounds about right.

Ram-odd-an

I will write more specifics about my strange affinity for these powerful women and the lessons they have taught me in the days to come, but for tonight, I accept their odd juxtaposition in my life and their company into Ramadan just as I hope you will accept the oddity of an educational mystic once again inspired and cleansed by her pilgrimage through this holy month.

I don’t have a logical or convenient filing system for the world or the people in it. I don’t reject these curious couplings when they happen. When my daughter hands me book, I accept. When the first year teacher hands me a book, I accept. When a kid asks me to sponsor the Muslim Student Association…I accept. And then I also accept the possibility that, perhaps, we were supposed to co-exist all along. Become friends. Transform each other. Make the other giggle.

I think Malala and Amy might do some giggling together. I think I might join them. And you? You’re invited, too.

Giggle.

Accept.

Lullaby for Baltimore

A year ago, I wrote this as we mourned for the pain of our city. A year later, she stirs, wakes, begins to rise.

Tonight, my children are sleeping, but from my roof I can see buildings burning. My children are sleeping, but I can hear the constant hum of helicopters and whine of sirens.

Still…my children sleep.

Other mothers in this city do not know where their children are.

Other mothers had to leave their houses, leave work, leave safety and plunge into the unknown to retrieve their children. They had to worry whether their children would make it home safe on the public busses that shut down and stranded students all over the city. Other mothers live near those burning buildings.

Other mothers have already lost their children.

Tonight before bed we talked to Grandma and Grampa, we played dress-up, we brushed teeth, put on pajamas, picked out stories. Ivy picked out Do Princesses wear hiking boots? Kip picked Professor Wormbog in Search for the Zipperump-a-zoo.

I needed a story, too.

I chose He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands, by Kadir Nelson. I used to sing this book to my children every night. It was a gift for their Baptism. The Inscription from their Uncle Ben and Aunt Sarah reads, “Dear Kip and Ivy, on the occasion of your baptism, we are reminded that you are indeed in good hands, large and small. All our love…”

This beautiful book…

These beautiful children…

This beautiful city…

Yes. Beautiful.

Make no mistake, she will rise. Do not judge her by the color of her flames, but the content of her character.

Her story will unfold not in the destruction of the night but in the creation of the days and weeks and months and years to come as we plunge into the unknown searching for her, determined to bring her home, bind up her wounds, hold her close, whisper prayers in the dark as she rests.

She is in our hands.

Sleep, my love.

Sleep.

Communion versus Conversion – Love and a cup of tea

 “Be careful! You might convert.”

Islam, it turns out, is not contagious…despite warnings I have received to the contrary.

Over the last two weeks of patchwork Ramadan, I have been meditating on what it is that draws a person to a particular faith.  I have been listening to On Being Podcasts about Islam, tweeting my inquiries to @interfaithRam and @EidPrayLove, and re-reading the Sufi poetry of Hafiz and Rumi.

For my more conservative Christian friends, this might raise some concerns. Won’t this exploration inevitably lead to my conversion?

I have never heeded the warning that exposure to other folks and faiths will somehow weaken my own identity. Consequently, I tend to move towards those who I perceive to be the most “different” from me.

I love you THIS much (world)!

Before I faced the Muslims, I faced the Mormons.

Like much of America, I grew up with more than a few prejudices against the “Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” Some of these came from the pulpit. Others came from South Park. I took them with a grain of salt, though, because the Mormons I went to schools with…were pretty great. Jared Moore, in particular, didn’t strike me as bound for perdition. He was kind, goofy, and gave really good hugs.

As I got older, my primary critique of the faith was not the logical fallacies (because, let’s be honest, mainstream Christianity has its own eyebrow raising, big fish swallowing, death defying tales to explain). Rather, my greatest critique of Mormonism was the shunning.

I had friends who because they would not accept the theology of Mormonism, their families rejected them. I had friends who could not witness the marriage of their siblings because they weren’t allowed into the Mormon temple where the weddings took place.

When it comes to my faith, my litmus test is pretty simple:

Does your faith make you more inclusive or exclusive?

If the former, Amen.

If the latter, get thee behind me.

Still, I would meet Mormons who were wonderfully generous, kind, devoted people and I would try to reconcile their open hearts with their closed doors.

So I asked a Mormon colleague out to coffee…

I mean hot chocolate…

…err, Chamomile tea?

She relished the opportunity to be able to talk about her faith. I relished the opportunity to ask her questions about everything from Caffeine to underwear.

And guess what else. I didn’t convert.

My desire to share tea with Mormons or Ramadan with Muslims doesn’t spring from a need to convert but a need to commune.

Let's be friends...

English teacher alert: we need to talk about prefixes.

I. Love. Prefixes.

Suffixes, too.

I love how breaking down a word into its elements reveals old stories and new meanings.

“Com-” has always been a favorite of mine. With. Together.

“Con-” on the other hand is trickier. It can mean “with” (as in “Chile con Carne”) but it can also mean “against” (as in “Pro and Con”).

So I can be “connected” but I can also be “contrary.”

And while I have had to answer people’s questions about the possibility of conversion, what has really been of greatest interest to me is my deep desire for communion.

Conversion is rooted in “truth”. Verily I say unto you. Verify. Verdad? Add “Con” to the front and the idea of conversion might be understood as turning towards truth. “Transforming.” Conversely… it might mean the opposite.

Communion, on the other hand, is more straightforward. Communal. Community. It has to do with fellowship. Sharing. Literally “with one-ness.” This is also a term entangled with my Christian roots.

The first communion was Jesus’ last supper. Sitting together with his friends and family, preparing to face his mortality, he ate with those he loved. Broke bread. Shared wine. This simple act is the grain from which the rest of Christianity emerges and evolves.

Ironically, communion has also become a major point of contention in Christian history. Blood has been spilled over the body and blood.

Who can give it? Who can take it? Who is welcome at this table?

My husband is Catholic. In the theology of Roman Catholicism only priests can create the Eucharist and only confirmed Catholics can receive it. (Although SEVERAL priests, who will remain nameless, have joyfully shared communion with me in full knowledge that I was not Catholic).

At my friend Cara’s Episcopal church, on the other hand, “All are welcome at this table.” Instead of lining up, we circle up. The congregation comes to the sacristy at the front of the church, forms a circle, and anyone can partake in the bread and wine.  I crave eye contact when I take communion.

The best thing about Ramadan is the communion that comes at sundown. There is water to quench your thirst, food to assuage your hunger, and LOTS of “with oneness.” Chatting with the Imams wife. Watching the kids alternate between playing and eating. Learning that “There’s an App for that” and downloading “Muslim Pro” on my phone complete with call to prayer push notifications!

During Lent I wrote a Blog post I called, “The Other F Word”. It was a reflection on the four letter “F” word that should be our greatest concern: Fear.

“Fear is the mind killer.”

“Fear not, for I am with thee.”

The greatest of these is love...

Fear makes it hard to see. Hard to love. Hard to breathe. Prejudice is rooted and rotted in fear. The only way to uproot it is through exposure. Through moving towards that which we fear.

Breaking bread together.  Sharing the same table. Making eye contact.

Sitting with my Muslim (or Mormon) Brothers and Sisters is not about changing my faith. It’s about changing my heart. Expanding it. Making it bigger. Less ruled by fear and misunderstanding. More ruled by love and compassion.

“Perfect Love casts out fear.”

Who are you afraid of?

Love them.

It starts with a cup of tea.

“You got a date a with a date!” – Ramadan with the children of Islamth

It is Iftar at the Makkah Learning Center. I sit next to my student Anaum as an older women speaks to her and gestures to me. I assume she is speaking in Urdu, the language of Pakistan. When the woman walks away I whisper…

“What was she saying?”

Anaum whispers back…

“I have no idea. Every time she talks to me a just smile, nod, and say…Gi!”

“Gi,” in Urdu, means “yes.”

And this, my friends, is why I love learning alongside Muslim Millennials. Often they seem just as confused and bemused by their culture and religion as I am, and that’s just fine by me.

Anaum and Rabia, my Muslim Millennial guides at Makkah Learning Center...
Anaum and Rabia, my Muslim Millennial guides at Makkah Learning Center…

As the accidental sponsor of the Muslim Student Association at Arundel High School, I was in a near constant state of inquiry. My students, in turn, were in a constant state of amusement at this Midwestern white girl who was skipping blithely down the cultural-religious fault line of American Muslim Identity. (For a more in depth explanation of how I took on this role, refer back to #Muslims4Lent inspire #Christians4Ramadan).

Who’s in charge here??!! Was a frequent refrain at our Wednesday meetings. It couldn’t possibly be me. I mean, I know next to nothing about Islam.

5 pillars. 5 prayers. No pork. Submit. Did I get everything?

Consequently students from Pakistan, Sudan, Iraq, Bangladesh, Nepal, Egypt were thrust into the role of “experts” because whatever the limits of their own understanding, they certainly knew way more than this girl.

What happens if you can’t pray 5 times a day?

What constitutes and acceptable Desi profession?

Can you be a good Muslim in a mini skirt?

How does your faith differ from your parents?

Kosher and Halal aren’t the same thing?

Anaum has served as my particular spiritual guide as I began to bumble my way towards #Christians4Ramadan…

RamadanTexts1

RamdanTexts2

This brings us back to my first Iftar. Thank goodness Luwaila brought me back that Abaya from Sudan as a souvenir, or I would have had NOTHING to wear. As it was, I threw it on over my tank top, swapped my ball cap for a scarf, and Tah-dah! I blend right in!

A quick costume change in the car and I'm ready for Iftar!
A quick costume change in the car and I’m ready for Iftar!

(On a side note, can an Orioles ball cap work as a head covering in a pinch? Or is this haram? ‘Cuz it totally matches my Abaya.)

Rama-yep or Rama-no? #GoOrioles #BeMore
Rama-yep or Rama-no? #GoOrioles #BeMore

Anaum meets me at my car, adjusts my head scarf, explains that the fixture on top of the building lit with Christmas lights is a minaret (I mean, I knew it couldn’t be a Christmas tree), and leads me to the girls side of the divided tent where we will have Iftar.

I sit looking longingly at the bowl of watermelon in front of me.

“You got a date with a date!” She jokes as I take a selfie.

Date with date

Some of you certifiable adults and sanctioned Islamic experts out there may feel that teenagers teaching about the faith should itself be Haram. After all, what must my impression of Islam be when left to the theological understanding of Muslim youth?!

But I will tell you unequivocally, if NOT for them, I would never have begun to face my own fears and prejudices about Islam, never begun to reach out to Muslims in the schools and community of Maryland, and certainly never embarked on #Christians4Ramadan.

Thank them or blame them, your kids are why I’m here.

Sara shows us what Desi love looks like at our
Sara shows us what Desi love looks like at our “Blend Arundel” sidewalk chalk party…

Anaum leads me by the hand through what would otherwise be a prohibitively intimidating experience. She explains that the opaque tarp used to divide the men from the women used to be transparent, but a new Imam came and has more firm interpretations of these divisions…

“So now if you want to see your Bey, you gotta meet him in the parking lot!”

It’s commentary like this that humanizes what seems like a very foreign experience. She shows me where to take of my shoes in the mosque,  she jokes about the folks trying to cut in line for the food, she warns that we’re not allowed to have the pizza that sits next to the naan.

“Apparently that’s only for kids under 10. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Her theological grasp of what is going might be a little thin. When I ask her to translate the call to prayer, she can’t quite remember. The older women next to her quickly jumps in to explain.

But give me a choice between Anaum and  Imam? I will pick the Anaum every time.

When I was in college, I was a member of the Carleton Bible Study Fellowship. This was a group completely led by students. Brandon Yerxa had founded it and was a senior when I met him. We met on Tuesday nights, read a passage, and then proceeded to discuss and debate, laugh and shout our way through these passages. Some of us were older than others. Some of us (this girl) had grown up in denominations where you memorized bible verses. Some of us weren’t Christians at all; just exploring our options.

Carleton Bible Study Fellowship 2001
Carleton Bible Study Fellowship 2001

Occasionally amidst this ecumenical chaos Yerxa would attempt to assert SOME divine authority. We called these his “bottom line” moments. But even these interludes of dogma could be easily obfuscated by the fact that…he was 22 and wasn’t the boss of us.

What might make pastors, priests, rabbis, and imams uncomfortable (lack of a centralized authority figure) was the very thing that made this sacred space welcome to the searching souls within.

There is a place for certainty…but there probably should be more places for confusion. And if we don’t make room for those spaces of doubt and questioning, young people inevitably forge them elsewhere…like in the shadows of the parking lot.

Islam, your children have led me. Clothed me. Fed me. Taught me. Forgiven me. Loved me.

Luwaila has not only bought me an Abaya, she loaned me her Obama Swag to wear to the inauguration...and let me keep it.
Luwaila has not only bought me an Abaya, she loaned me her Obama Swag to wear to the inauguration…and let me keep it.

I have also watched them do this for each other as they struggle to understand the religious and cultural riffs even within their OWN faith communities. It is easy for me to believe that Heaven AND Earth belongs to such as these.

Amina Love

All faiths have their “bottom lines.”

As I delight in my date, I will sit with the kids, smile, nod, and say…

“Gi!”

#BeMoreCircles – Baltimore’s Summer of Peace

I often wake in the morning with ideas and insights my subconscious labored over in the night. This morning I came to consciousness with my son’s little body curled against me…and the  image of dialogue groups scattered throughout the city throughout the summer in public spaces around public events.

Intentional, accessible conversations and reflections on the fringes of First Thursdays, or during Concerts in the Park, or after the public pools let out. All summer we will be gathering together. As we do, we will be wondering how to reconcile the beauty of humans together (which we see daily in our city) with the chaos of humans together (which we saw on Monday).

Why not wander towards each other so we can wonder out loud together?

#BeMoreCircles

Building bridges between communities, between generations, between races. Just. Between. …seems to be at least ONE solution towards the #OneBaltimore we are beginning to see emblazoned on poster board and message boards around our city and throughout social Media. To some, this may seem idealistic or unattainable, but there is a long standing method that facilitates this process…

…Speaking with each other.

Not speaking to or at or even for but WITH.

Too often when we gather with crowds, we go with our friends, and we stay with our friends. There’s nothing wrong with that, except that there is not a mechanism or space to make or invite new meaningful connections with others, even if we wanted to. Open spaces for dialogue surrounding public events could change that.

Summer of Peace
At my high school, we created community in the public space of our courtyards through sidewalk chalk and the question: “What does a blended school mean to you?”

So how might this look?

I can imagine myself trekking up to the Pagoda on a Sunday afternoon, finding some shade a decent distance from the concert stage, laying down a few more blankets than I need, and propping up a poster that simply says “#BeMoreCircles :Speak and Listen here”. People wander over. Share some snacks. And get to wondering.

Perhaps we have weekly “Points to Ponder” suggested on a #BeMoreCircles Facebook page. Perhaps we’ve established weekly themes, so there is some continuity between these organic conversations that might pop up around the city. And perhaps afterwards people can take their insights from that physical meeting and share them in that virtual space. Continue the connections there. Build upon these new relationships.

For some this may feel like TOO much. For some, not enough.

Think of all that might go wrong!

What if someone just takes my snacks?

What if someone sits down and never leaves?

What if folks start arguing?

What if..

These are fair concerns. Something else to consider is the simple fact that even if we are gathering in public spaces, we are gathering in “our” public spaces. We are venturing to the events in “our” park, but we are likely unaware or uncomfortable venturing into “other people’s” parks. Are they safe? Am I welcome?

Something like this takes courage…and perhaps at least a little training.

I might mention, here, that I have a degree in conflict resolution, training as a multi-cultural educator, and have spent hours in and beyond the classroom locally and internationally sitting with groups of people and asking questions around culture, creativity, and conflict.

I only say this to acknowledge that the commitment to peacemaking is indeed a long journey and we are all at different places as we seek to understand the roots of conflict in ourselves and our fellow human beings.

But on a picnic blanket adjacent to a concert seems like a safe place to start.

If you are intrigued by this possibility, reach out. I’ve tagged a number of my peacemaking sisters and brother in this post hoping to get a conversation started. Asking what we need. Who we might partner with. How we might train folks quickly for a Baltimore Summer of Peace.

#BeMore in the Classroom

If we can solve it in the classroom, we can solve it in the world.

This is what I have come to believe after 12 years in the American classroom. It was reaffirmed Monday as I watched children in backpacks hurling rocks at the “rule of law.” People (young and old) don’t attack communities of which they feel a part. They attack communities from which they feel estranged.

I started teaching in Baltimore city when I was 23. Over a decade later I remain certain that though schools didn’t cause the VAST majority of problems our students bring with them to the classroom, there is no better place to begin solving these issues not FOR the students…but WITH the students. Mind your pronouns. They matter.

Over the last few days I have been inundated with love and questions from present and former students about this event. Today I received the following email from a former student that illustrates the tremendous roll civic classrooms can play in the lives of our young citizens:

Yesterday on my way to school I had a lot of thoughts and emotions about what is happening in Baltimore and I wondered which class I would be able to express my feelings. I walked through my day in my head and I got really sad when I realized I’m not taking any classes at UMBC where I can have that close connection with the students and faculty like I did in Signature. I kept thinking back to the day we had in class after the Boston bombing and I remember everyone expressing their feelings and Gaby crying and everyone understanding where she was coming from. I think when a traumatic event happens, it’s good to have a community around you that you feel comfortable enough to express your feelings with and I think that’s a big part of what Signature is; a caring and understanding community.

I feel really grateful that I got to experience this community. The people that I met along the way helped me grow as a person and taught me numerous lessons, but most importantly to always listen to what someone has to say even if you don’t agree with it because you might be able to learn from them. I’ve been thinking about the people rioting a lot and there’s no way I can fully understand the pain and suffering they’ve been experiencing for years but I do sympathize with them. I also don’t blame the people who are rioting. I realize it is not the most productive way to handle a situation, but then I remember that when I’m stressed and angry and bottle it in for a long time, I do end up exploding after awhile (aka, my meltdown in the Signature office senior year). These people have been oppressed for decades, I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of pain and anger they have in them. But I’ve been wondering if there was a place for these people to be heard and properly express their feelings without judgement, like we had in Signature, what kind of a difference that would make in their lives.

Public schools are public space. They are where America meets itself. They are the first society where our young citizens learn how to become active or disengaged. Empowered or helpless. Every teacher (whether they realize it or not) is the community organizer of their classroom reinforcing or renovating the social infrastructures of that their students will go on to replicate in the world beyond.

Arlington Declaration

It is time we understand the classroom as a direct reflection of the community it serves. It is time we recognize both teachers AND students as CIVIC engineers. It is time we start pursuing COMMUNITY core, not just the Common Core. It is not about propaganda or politicizing the classroom. It’s about understanding the classroom as the microcosm of the society we will live in 20 years from now.

Rebuild the classroom, rebuild Baltimore.

Here are just a few glimpses of students seizing their citizenship in the classroom…

Declaration of Sig-Dependence 

“The People” vs “Some People” – Transitional Democracy in the Classroom

People like you can learn to Listen, too

The Fabric of Society is Woven in the Classroom

Muslim Amercian (sp?) Idenity (sp?) and the power of imperfectly wonderful youth