Sunday, September 17, 2017

When tragedy strikes in other places, we need to lift up those in harm's way

From yesterday's Briefing:

I suspect that I'm not the only human who feels emotionally drained these days.
In the past month, we've been exposed to a long list of heartache and peril.
The first blow was shocking violence in Charlottesville, Va., where people actually re-created some of the most horrific scenes from the 20th century, carrying torches, spewing hatred and marching against an entire group of people based on their skin color. One man rammed his car into a crowd of anti-white-supremacist protesters, killing one woman and injuring 19 others.
We were still grappling with the aftermath of that tragedy when Hurricane Harvey stormed through Texas and Louisiana, disrupting lives and devastating communities. There was no time to breathe before Hurricane Irma marched through the Caribbean and Florida.
In the middle of those disasters, fires have ravaged the Western U.S., Mexico City was rocked by its most powerful earthquake in a century, and India, Nepal and Bangladesh have been hit with deadly floods.
Violence continues at the hands of humans, as well. The United Nations has warned that Myanmar is committing ethnic cleansing against Rohingya Muslims, who are fleeing the country for Bangladesh in crushing numbers. Plano is still reeling from the mass murder of eight people watching football in a home Sunday night.

All of the news, this soul-crushing news, hasn't even affected me directly. I haven't been injured or forced to flee my home. I haven't had to make hurried decisions about what to save, what to leave behind. Yet my heart aches for my neighbors — all of them, in Rockport and Houston, in Barbuda and Key West, in Oregon and Montana, in overcrowded refugee camps.
What can we do?
We can give money to nonprofits that we trust to deliver resources in an equitable and timely fashion. (I've chosen to give money through my church for Harvey relief. I have faith, based on research, in the umbrella organization that receives our contributions.)
We can support nonprofits that support people in need. (I have a friend who teaches English to refugees in Dallas. I can't volunteer with her group right now, but I can send money occasionally to support her work and the precious people she serves.)
We can, if so inclined, pray for the people in harm's way, for the people who commit violence, for the people who are helping tear down and rebuild, for the children who are trapped in crisis, for leaders who don't act in the best interest of people.
We can start to recognize the humanity in each and every soul on earth. We can try to carry someone else's burden, just for a little while. We can listen when people want to share or cry.

We can speak with kindness to our crossing guards, police officers, store clerks and colleagues. We can assume the best first, discarding altogether our cynical inclinations.
We can step into our communities with courage, speaking up for people with small voices or no voice at all. We can politely but firmly name hatred as hatred and insist on civility.
We can recognize that no class of people, no race, no religion, no culture is immune from natural disaster or violent whims of people in power. We rely on one another to swoop in and scoop up. We need one another to tear out molded drywall and to clear debris from land, to provide shelter and to share resources.
We need to give thanks for whatever blessings we have, dig in for sacrifices to lift up our neighbors and expect that our work on behalf of others — here at home and across the globe — will in turn renew our spirits.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Saturday, September 02, 2017

My first weeks in middle school prove not much has changed since 1982

From today's Briefing:

Sixth-grade me
Awkward social exchanges. Evolving identity crises. Asynchronous growth spurts.

I have returned to middle school. Willingly. Cheerfully, in fact.

In the past few weeks I've made the transition from elementary school teacher to middle school teacher. I'm at the school down the street, where the fourth-graders I once taught are now sixth- and seventh-graders. We're growing up together. And while I adore elementary school culture, with homerooms and Friday morning assemblies and recess every day, I'm feeling right at home with lockers and pep rallies and P.E. every day (which requires no whistle from me).

In some ways, I've been preparing for this role since 1982, when I started sixth grade at Belton Junior High. My life at home was often challenging, but I was soothed by the hours I spent each day at school.

I loved everything about it: changing classes, making new friends, singing with the choir. Most of all, I adored my teachers. They were my refuge.

Mr. Finney conducted his singers with passion. He told goofy jokes. He asked interesting questions and remembered answers and made strong connections with his students.

Mrs. Emmert taught math with passion. She talked quickly. Chalk flew from her fingers onto the green board. She had high expectations for her students, and we didn't want to disappoint her.

Mrs. Creek taught reading and writing with passion. She encouraged us to explore multiple genres. She pushed us to write with clarity. She celebrated our progress.

Those adults were heroes. I've carried them in my heart for 35 years, and those fond memories helped lead me to my own middle school classroom.

Of course, life is significantly different today. My students can't imagine a world without smartphones. (Some don't even fathom the concept of a home telephone.) They have no understanding of a television that receives four channels via rabbit ears and needs to be changed with a manual dial. They've always heard the words "social" and "media" smooshed together.

Yet preteens are almost exactly the same today as in 1982.

They visit in the hallways.

They get flustered when their lockers won't open.

They want to be recognized as individuals, and at the same time they want to completely blend in with the crowd.

They laugh at goofy jokes.

They rise to high expectations.

They blossom when an adult celebrates their progress. 

They are mercurial creatures, each and every one. 

Some people are slightly frightened of a mass of middle-schoolers (I myself and slightly frightened of a room full of kindergarteners), but I'm fascinated by them. They are forming strong opinions and express them with vigor. They are a developing a sense of self-awareness, trying to figure out where they belong, which group they should join or which group they should create. 

They're a little like puppies with long limbs and big paws: eager to move and explore, yet still unsure of how everything connects and how much space they take up in the world. 

Every middle school student deserves a Mr. Finney, a Mrs. Emmert and a Mrs. Creek to provide levity, define boundaries and encourage excellence. I'm thrilled that I get the chance to pay homage to these heroes.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.