Yesterday marked the last day of the darkest 6 weeks of the year.
The cold snap wounded the rosemary bush, but enough of the lettuce hung on in the cold frames to share with friends tonight. Winter around here is hard on all of us, but the light is returning to put the pieces back together again.
Halfway between the solstice and Imbolc, back into November light. And we’re still here.
Chuck was the first adult I called by his first name. I was five.The next adult I called by his first name did not happen until I was an adult myself.
Chuck was a United States Marine Corps helicopter pilot, and a friend of my Dad, a Unites States Marine fighter jet pilot. Both flew off carriers.
Chuck went to Nam; my Dad did not. My Dad did not go because he had an emotionally disturbed son who did not talk, so he stayed stateside. (Turns out that emotionally disturbed son was more deaf than disturbed, and eventually learned to talk well enough to become a doctor.)
Chuck got shot down. He came back home. He had a scarred face, and looking back now I do not know if it was from shrapnel or acne.
My Dad left the Marines in the mid sixties. Chuck stayed in. I was not terribly sophisticated about politics when I was six years old, but I wondered why Chuck stayed in the Marines. I even asked him when my Dad wasn’t listening. (Don’t think my Dad would have tolerated that, and I didn’t much like getting hit.)
Chuck gave my brother and me a toy aircraft carrier that released depth charges. It’s how I learned about depth charges.
My Dad would tell us that Chuck was the worst chopper pilot ever. It was a joke. But Chuck went to Nam anyway.
The last time I saw Chuck told me why he went back–he was haunted by the soldiers he left behind. And the war, which I was told was “bad,” got real complicated for this 6 year old.
Chuck tried to save one too many soldiers, and he got shot down again. And killed. I imagine the ones he went to save were killed that day, too.
“Looks like the National [White] Teacher of the Year awards are back in full effect. I figured (and may have even predicted!) in 2016 when three of the four finalists were teachers of color that pendulum would swing back quickly. ::heavy sigh::”
I came back with something flippant, along the lines of
“What will it take to make you people happy?”
It was meant as sarcasm, but I soon deleted it, because, well, I feared it might be misunderstood. Or maybe I feared it would be understood, a *wink wink* as an ally.
But here we are.
In 2016, three of the four finalists for the CCSSO Teacher of the Year Award were people of color.
Since then, all of the eight finalists have been white.
Of those, only two are even brown-eyed. (I’d be more specific, but I’m a tad color blind–in the physiological sense, not the I-am-better-than-you-as-a-non-racist *we* carry as our shield.)
This year’s finalists are all worthy. That is not the issue. That is not a defense.
And yes, the teaching profession has a remarkable lack of melanin and y chromosomes. (*We* pretend not to notice, unless you’re a black male teacher, in which case it is expected you will go save young black men.)
The finalists mean well, they do good work and work hard, and they fill the role of saviors that make for good stories. Still….
Listen up, *my* people.
Mandy Manning is the Washington State Teacher of the Year and one of this year’s finalists for the national award. She helps refugees adapt to life in the States, and talks about a boy from Tanzania who undergoes a remarkable transformation under her guidance. I have no doubt she is that good at what she does, and that she works hard at doing the right thing.
“District leaders, campus resource officers, community members of color, and professional writers have also visited my classroom. The visits help my students learn about school and city rules and laws, cultural expectations in terms of behavior and hygiene, our school system, and how to express themselves effectively.”
On its face, that makes a nice soundbite, but it bothers me, because it’s what *we* do, what I have done, and what so many allies continue to do. That “community members of color” is separated from the others is telling.