Late Parade

The first question was easy. 

My colleagues and I  were nearly done with our final training session. It was dark outside of my classroom, not only because it was December, but also because it was late. We were wrapping up many hours of professional development after a full day of being actual professionals, so I was grateful for easy questions.

"How many of you can call yourselves a 'person of color?' If you are among that group, type 'IN'! If not, type, 'OUT'!"

The speaker was eminent educator for those of us who work in bilingual education: Dr. José Medina. In case you neither Tik, nor Tok, he is a force for linguistic justice in public education. Besides very practical strategies for language teachers and learners, he emphasizes equity for all students who experience marginalization in the classroom. His fabulous and engaging personality reached across the Zoom connection that evening, making sure we were as involved as 10 or so people seated at their respective electronic devices could be. 

My most prominent hue being the blue veinery, criss-crossing my fairly fair skin, it was easy to type "OUT" in the chat comments. My colleagues and friends in that meeting mostly counted themselves as "IN," and we were on to the next question.

"Now! How many of you count yourselves among the LGBTQ+ community? Same thing! 'IN,' if so, 'OUT' if not!"

As I watched "OUT" after "OUT" pop up in the chat, I realized I was about to out myself, by typing "IN."

Which felt simultaneously obvious and irrelevant. I mean, look at me. 

Obvious.

But, also, look at us.

Life, with my husband, and twice the kids you see in this photo brings me more joy and love than I could wish for. I would not change anything about it. Asserting that another aspect of myself be known and announced has always felt irrelevant. Nobody asked, so who cares? Except, someone just asked.  

In answering that completely unexpected and ironically binary question, I not only knew that I'd be lying if I typed "OUT."  

I also knew I would also be hiding behind my family; playing coy with haircuts and bowties when other people risk their safety, jobs, homes, families, and lives for being truthful in moments just like that one. 

I would be betraying what I have always taught my own children about human diversity, about being brave enough to be truthful, and knowing that the people in your life desperately need the most honest version of you.

 "I" then a deep breath and, "N."   

Before I could think about it, I submitted my comment with a click on *Enter,* while trying to appear nonchalant in front of my webcam. 

Nobody cares. Obvious and irrelevant, right? 

Then, why were my hands shaking? 

The meeting ended soon afterward. I put on my coat, grabbed my bag and keys, and left my classroom. Motion-sensing lights in the dark hallway popped on, one by one, bathing my way in white light, as I walked to the exit. 

A growing stillness settled within me. 

My car waited in the nearly empty parking lot. I got in, started the engine, and selected a playlist for the drive home. The music started and the heater was warming up when I turned onto the highway and sped toward town. 

Breathing felt easy and my thoughts were simple. It's hard to explain. I felt like I finally owned all of myself. June could not be further away, but I felt, well,   

proud.

(Thanks to Golden Hour Images 2 for the beautiful photos.)

Just To Doing It

 Most balls don't go, BOING! BOING! BOING!, do they? 

But these do.

Especially when there's a six-year old astride one, driving it like a bucking bronco across a shiny gymnasium floor. Oh yeah, and there are twenty other six-year olds doing the exact same thing.

O! The boinging! The giggling! The squealing! The shouting! 

This is why most elementary students love P.E. When else would things get this zany? 

Their laughter bounced brightly off of every surface of the room. Their shiny squeaky energy reached us, even though we were sitting far away, just watching.

On the clock, I was okay with it. My new job, as a 1:1 assistant for a young student with special needs, brought with it a fast friendship. I enjoyed every minute of work at a school, but I was a grown-up after all. We are okay with sitting and watching kids wear themselves out. 

Also, Anni's safety was all that mattered. Other kids could get band-aids and ice packs if they suffered a playground or P.E. mishap. I could not abide any bumps or bruises on my watch, so, I happily followed the directions to take her to P.E.. "She can watch the kids play." So that's what we did.

We also watched kids practice writing letters in shaving cream. We watched them paw through the contents of a substance table We watched them giggle together under a rainbow-colored parachute. We watched them bounce-race on red rubber hoppers. 

And that's not all we did. We smelled the crisp, clean foam. We heard the rattle of beans and glass pebbles in plastic scooping cups. We noticed the undulating silk that all of her friends suddenly disappeared under. We sensed the completely contagious glee of bouncing boingers. Vicarious fun is still fun, right? 

Caught up in the action, Anni started to bounce on my lap, her only sound the squeak of her rubber chewy as she chomped excitedly. That squeaking stopped for a second as she held the chewy aloft, pondered the merry little ball-riders for a moment, then stated emphatically, 

" I want TO DOING it." 

By then, MPS had taken her speech away, except for a few surprises. In the month I had known Anni, I had only heard her say "picklepicklepickle," which, I'm totally down with pickles, so that was cool... Nevertheless,  I did most of the talking when we hung out.

 Degenerative diseases make for constant changes and adjustments, but we had just met. Non-verbal Anni was all I knew before that moment. That moment she changed everything, which is just what she does.

Short-term impact: 

We went to get a red ball for her as I proclaimed loftily, "THEN YOU SHALL TO DOING IT!"

The ball stayed mostly stable, wedged between my feet, while she bounced up and down. I clenched it like crazy and clutched her underarms, terrified that she might miss or fall or just cry because the whole thing was a terrible idea. Instead, she giggled and went boing for the rest of P.E.

Afterward, I was as red as a hopper, damp with sweat, and exuberant with triumph. 

Long-term impact:

That feeling stayed. Those words stayed too. They came to mind every time she and I watched kids do something fun. Those words also made me a little mad at myself for being so cautious in the beginning. Of course she wanted to be a part of the fun! What kid doesn't want what all the other kids have?

Anni didn't have to say anything to me to convince me that she was fun and sweet, I could tell right away. 

But, she did have to tell me to stop making her watch kids live the life she wanted to live. She did have to tell me to take chances, to be creative, to ask for things, to invent solutions, to work with colleagues, to expect special treatment for a special kid, to ask for it without apology. 

Away from her, her words still ring in my head like a million giggles bouncing around a gym. Since then, there have been similar moments, sitting and watching, waiting and wanting to doing it. Her affirmation that spectating is insufficient, left its mark. Some of the chances I have taken are based on that lesson she taught me. With one sentence, one day, she changed everything. 

That's just what she does.