The Singular, Messy Work of Turning Sorrow to Joy

I’ve been wondering: When does pain turn to joy? I wish I could push a button and make it happen.

I am in Canada for a summer hiatus. As I have had time to rest and contemplate and begin to heal from the difficult blow of a transfer in my teaching position from one school to another as of next month, I have been working hard to free myself from the burden of it. I am fortunate to spend my summers on Lake Huron at a family cottage in a place that is my soul reviver, with people whom I love and cherish. I am plain grateful for the time and space that allows me to be here. The quiet that I crave all school year as a high school teacher of New to Country immigrant and refugee students is here in the wind, the waves, the trees, the rocks. And I’m working hard on claiming joy.

I watch my students choose joy as they come to school each day. I watch them intently take notes as I write them on the board. I listen to them read chorally with pride and confidence as we process works of fiction aloud. I see them wide eyed and pleased when they receive an unexpectedly good grade on a paper that they wrote. It is beautiful, really.

But there are certainly tangible moments in my classroom when it is difficult to discern between the loss and the joy of this newfound life that my devoted and hardworking students now claim. I sometimes see their losses clearly embedded on their faces. As refugees, they have lost their homes, no matter how spare. Many have lost parents and siblings to war and famine. Even though they now live in the safety that is Minnesota, they have left behind families and friends, their sense of place, their very own countries, often never to return. Bound up in their loss is sometimes their own very identity as a people.

I look at the wider world and see that the real, true, tangible and gut wrenching suffering that I have recently endured matches that of my students and my neighbors in myriad ways. As my students feel a sense of loss surrounding their homes and their communities in Africa, I, too, felt a deep and abiding loss as I left Apollo High School, my school of nine years, on June 8. Packing up my classroom on the last days of school was nerve wracking. It felt senseless, even, and my anger and denial regarding my situation was pushed to the deepest part of myself. It was exceedingly difficult to leave my supportive and loving community where I built foundational relationships and excellent rapport with my family of students and staff. Locking my door behind me pretty much did me in; I turned in my keys and shut my door on nine years of investment, on my sense of belonging, and on my identity as a teacher who had helped to build a program for New to Country students since 2008. My room, 510, is no longer mine.

But my situation pales in comparison to that of so many: my dear friends who are suffering from cancers and leukemia; friends whose marriages are on difficult ground; the Syrian families who are fleeing famine and ISIS; the children of Nigeria who are being coerced into becoming warriors for Boko Haram. And then there is the pain that my students feel, which shows itself at unexpected moments and to which I now feel more attuned.

Many of them were born and raised in refugee camps or in countries where war and gang strife was rampant enough to prompt their families to the desperate point of fleeing the familiar for the United States. I speak to many of my students who miss the simple life of their Ethiopian or Kenyan refugee camps. They tell me of their old world, where neighbors and families shared everything: rice, pots, water, showers, mats, clothing, and shoes. In the camps, children played freely with pals for hours as they ran about from tarped hut to hut playing hide and seek and endless games of soccer with makeshift balls made of duct tape.

So put yourself in their shoes, won’t you? Think of leaving your family and your homeland for good and heading to a country that you have never laid eyes upon, where you will live out the rest of your days. Think upon leaving your set routine, your livelihood, your identity as a member of a particular group in whatever place you now live. Then mentally set yourself in a completely foreign place where the people speak a different language that you do not understand, where the clothing, religion, food, community structures, housing, transportation, and weather is unlike what you have always known. And you have to learn about it. And you want to fit in, but you don’t know how. And you miss your family in your homeland but you can’t afford to get back to see them and you don’t know when you might. And your grandmother has died back in Somalia and you can’t attend her funeral. And the government in the new land seems to be against you, and you feel loss, loss, lost.

At present, I, too, feel deep loss. I am heading to a new school, and I have not yet laid eyes upon my classroom; this shall be my work in the next few weeks. I am going to have to build a new set of friendships with colleagues whose faces I don’t yet know. I will not be on familiar ground. My darling students from Apollo whom I know so well will not be stopping in each morning to check in, and I am already missing my stellar Apollo colleagues, who have my back and who often know me better than I know myself. And I want to fit in, but I know I’m going to be in mourning. And I feel loss, loss, lost.

And so, as my time of rest and healing in Canada wanes and I ready my mind and heart for a return to a set of new realities, I am putting a roadblock in front of the resentment that has tried to gain a foothold in my soul. I’m working hard on remembering to be grateful for all that I do have and for what I know in my gut will end with positives. I just can’t see them yet, and that’s okay.

Since my own eyes and heart are better attuned to the singular loss of community, I will get to do the profound, hard, and lovely work of helping my students to gain a sense of belonging in their new land as we work together towards becoming comfortable in our fresh identities as Tech High School Tigers. As my students have suffered far, far greater losses than I, it is incumbent upon me to walk alongside them and to share in both their suffering and their triumphs. It is to be my work and my privilege to turn both my students and myself towards the painstaking and delightful results that will follow in our newfound place that is Technical High School. And we will belong, and I know this. And so my pain, their pain, shall turn to joy. May it be so.

Apollo Morning Joe

Being a high school teacher, life gets rolling from the moment one enters the building. I get a few minutes at my desk before the first buses begin to arrive, and then, bam, kids are at the door. I love it. I have my own Morning Joe Show, Apollo High School Version.

Nathan, a junior from my homeroom, is usually sitting outside my door when I enter my hallway. He loves his video games, and is generally deep into one upon my arrival. He scrambles up when he sees me and says an unnaturally loud, “Hey, Teach!” His headphones make it hard for him to regulate the sound of his voice. He is always pleasant, happy to grant me a smile and quick to answer my how are you’s and how’s the game and are you winning questions. Then he settles into his desk in the back corner and carries on with his game.

A minute or two later, Yahye usually walks in. He’s an eighteen year old from Kenya, and proud of it. He was in my class last year, and one of my brightest students. He was the best questioner I’ve ever seen. Asking about thus and such and such and thus, outside the box, big picture questions. I could just see him thinking before he would confidently raise his hand. I should have written down his questions. I know they were stellar, but my 51 year old brain can’t remember them. Whenever his hand would shoot up, I would know the discussion was going to take a fun turn; the other students enjoyed him, too, because they learned from his questions and took delight in the consequent conversations that would ensue.

Yahye comes to see me most mornings to see how I’m doing, to tell me about his latest soccer game, to discuss the weather, or how my children are doing. He wants to know how my classes are going, what we are studying. Two days ago, I was just leaving the room to run some errands as he entered.

“Are you leaving?” he asked.

“Yes, just on my way out,” I said. “Can I help you with something before I go?”

He reached into his backpack, pulled out a warm package wrapped in tin foil, and handed it to me with a grin. “I brought you some sambusa. My mom made it this morning. I know you like it.”

Gold mine! Sambusa is my favorite Somali food. Large, deep fried dough triangles full of minced garlic, onion, spices, and ground beef. There were also some deep fried ribbons of dough soaked in sugar along with the sambusa as dessert. That was dinner last night. It was the most delicious I’d ever had. Bittersweet.

Why so? Well, I have been transferred. After nine years of teaching English Language Learners at Apollo High School, my supervisor and principal informed me a month ago that, for leadership purposes, I’d have to pack up my things and my relationships and head across town to the south side of St. Cloud to the other district high school. Triple punch to the stomach, overwhelming news for the heart and mind.

I don’t want to leave Apollo. I fought the decision over the last month, and was told last Friday that the decision is final. I lost my battle.  I don’t like it one bit.

La de da to new beginnings. I am trying to stay positive, but I know I won’t see Nathan next September. Or Yahye. When I told Yahye in April that I was being transferred, he was visibly upset. He questioned me and wanted to know the reason. I told him I really didn’t know. Which I didn’t. He knew I was upset about the decision, that I didn’t want to go. He told me, “Mrs. Marolf, I’ll pray for you. I don’t want you to go.”

That’s the first time one of my students has said they’d be praying for me. How sweet is that? I just about lost it when he said that. What a love, what a dear.

And he has come back every morning to check in with me, just as he has all year. I am blessed by his sweet presence, his genuine concern, his accountability. He knows that I will miss him. Our morning check-ins are numbered. And that stinks.

I’m going to be shedding lots of tears in the coming weeks. They’ve been brimming forth fairly freely for the past month, usually at unexpected times. Angry, raw, bitter tears. I can’t remember being this angry in a long time. It’s kind of mind eating, and I’m working on releasing it. I know it’s not healthy, and I’m working hard to see the good in it all. But it ain’t easy, friends, when you know you have to up and leave. To pack your bags when your incredible students will be staying. To pack up your classroom when your colleagues, some of whom are your dearest friends, are not coming with you on the next leg of your journey.

And then there is Hamda, another student of mine from last year, who also visits me every single morning. One of my students, Ayan, calls Hamda and me “best friends.”

“I know you are best friends,” Ayan said to us the other day. “She (referring to Hamda) is always here.”

And yes, Hamda is always there. She is a junior this year. She is an aunt, a sister, a student who adores school and its challenges. She works at Walmart for about twenty-five hours per week. I asked her what she does with the money, and she said, “Oh, I just give it to my mom so she can pay for what we need.”

Unbelievable.

Hamda visits me to tell me about what she did last night, and yesterday, and over the weekend. She shows me pictures of her nieces and nephews. Of her cousin’s wedding last weekend. I say, “Which one is you?” because I can’t find her in the photos and she points to an unrecognizably gorgeous young woman dressed to the nines, makeup and hair on point and fabulous.

“Woah!” I say. “Best not to come to school like that. All of the boys will be following you everywhere!”

She giggles and tells me about the U.S. History test that she has today. She rambles on about the study guide that is too hard. About World War II and how we discussed it last year in class and so it’s easy for her because she already knew something about it. And remember “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas” and oh, she loved that book and she loved our class. And how she has to work and go to school and that she has three tests tomorrow and how she will make it all happen? And I’m so proud of her I could scream. And I want to scream, and I want to cry.

I will miss her, and Yayhe, and Nathan. And I will miss walking down the hall saying good morning and how are you’s to everyone I know. It sucks to be transferred. Really, it does.

Pity me, if you will, for a moment. And then wish me well, won’t you? I know that things could be much worse, that I could be out of a job. I need to remember that there are other children on the south side, other friends, other students and colleagues whom I will say hello’s and good mornings to. But it won’t be the same. It won’t be Apollo. It won’t be Yahye and Hamda and Nathan and the rest. I will miss them all. Truly, I will.

To Make My Mom's Dream Come True

Who walks around high school hugging their new math textbooks tightly to their chests for all to see? Surely putting such a thing into a backpack would be a disservice to the precious nature of the object.

Which high school students gather excitedly in their classroom before school on the day that poster presentations are due, chatting passionately about completing their work and how nervous they are about getting up in front of the class? Giddy, elated, butterflies in their stomachs, indeed. But also pumped and even rejoicing because they have a piece of poster board to show off to any who might see.

Who is unabashedly proud of their new backpacks on the initial day of class, pleased by their first ever box of colored pencils, large erasers, shiny notebooks and multicolored folders? Ah, fortunately for me, these are my students.

And who are they? They are fifteen, sixteen, seventeen year olds who happen to be attending school for the first time in their newfound country, the United States of America. They are mostly refugees from East Africa, they are mostly Muslim, and they are mostly a constant source of joy to me (disclosure: they are not perfect people, just like the rest of humanity!). They are Beginning English Language Learners, and they’re also a bunch of smart kids who want desperately to learn the language so they can move on to the next, more difficult class. They are dreamers with high expectations of themselves and their schooling.

We were recently studying the history of the United States, and some of our vocabulary words surrounding our lessons included the following: Native American, explorer, colonist, pioneer, immigrant, and refugee. I taught the students about each of these important groups of people in our country’s history, and we discussed the effects that each group had (and continues to have) on our country then and today. It was a voyage of discovery for my students as they contemplated what it might have been like to have lived here before Europeans encountered North America’s shores. I taught them about discrimination of Native American tribes and cultures, and, when asked time and again whether or not such treatment was fair and equitable, they shook their heads gravely and determined that no, such treatment certainly was not.

We discussed the exploration and colonization of America by Europeans, and the students sat, thoughtful and focused, as we discussed what that meant to the Native Americans’ way of life and culture. We learned about westward expansion, the Lewis & Clark Expedition, and Thomas Jefferson’s vision of a path to the Pacific. The students understood Sacagawea’s role in the expedition, too, and we discussed her bravery and the role that she played in helping the country to grow.

We wrote about whether or not they would have liked to have been pioneers. Demonstrating their kindheartedness, many stated that they would not have liked to have been because “it was not fair that they took away Native American homes and culture” and “I would not like to be a pioneer because I would not like to make Native Americans leave their land.”

Then we delved into immigration and how the population of the nation grew from five million to 23 million between 1800 and 1850. We researched the reasons for this growth and equated it to the immigration that has continued to define the story of the United States, even to this day in 2017 in the form of their very selves. We talked about how people from countries such as Kenya, Iraq, Russia, Mexico, Guatemala, China, etc. have made our nation culturally interesting and varied. We discussed what it means to be a “Nation of Richness” insofar as being a country with myriad groups coming together under the common threads of freedom and democracy, liberty and justice. They listened to one another as they discussed what it is they bring to our nation, and how they will contribute to its richness in the future.

Writing is sometimes difficult for new to country students, so we do a lot of it. One of the assignments that I asked students to do as they navigated our American history unit involved determining whether or not they saw themselves as immigrants or refugees (or both), what it was that brought them here, and why they and their families wanted to come to the U.S. Remembering that these students are Beginning English language learners, some of their answers follow, verbatim.

“I came to America in order to get better life and better education, also a better place to live which has a good weather. And I came to America to get good work and better work with better payment.” ~Fadumo, Age 15

“The reason why I came to America is to get better life and good education and more great life.” ~Hamdi, Age 17

“I moved to America because I wasn’t living with my family and my father. All my brothers and sisters lived in America, that is why I came here. And I came here to continue with my education, to graduate high school and college. And now I am happy to live with my family.” ~Farhiyo, Age 18

“I came to America because there is war going on in my country.” ~Faiso, Age 16

“I came because I need a better life and education, to work. Also my country did not have peace.” ~Khadra, Age 16

“I came to America from Kenya. I came to America searching for safe environment that I can live to have better future and to have a job and to make my mom’s dream come true.” ~Hani, Age 17

These refugees, my students, are here for many of the same reasons that the colonists, the pioneers, and my own immigrant ancestors came here from Wales and Germany: for a better life, for improved opportunities, for freedom, for a chance to live in peace. They have it tough, my dear ones, especially as older teens. After age thirteen, the human brain’s ability to learn language diminishes for various reasons and it’s much more of a challenge for my students to pick up the English language than if they had come when they were younger. They often comment that their younger brothers and sisters, who arrived at the same time they did, speak English better than they do. True, that. Another challenge.

And yet, my stalwart students march into my room with their textbooks held tightly against their chests, their poster boards open for all to see their meticulous work, their nerves tucked into their hearts as they anticipate that moment in front of their classmates and me as they speak up, with power, to present their findings to us all. In their new language, in their new classroom, in their newfound country.

For these children today, it’s about education, a chance for a better life, training for their lives after high school, the joy of being with family after long separations. They are being woven into their unique places in this land, and I expect beautiful things from them as they continue to find their way, as they seek to make a difference for themselves and their families. Just as European immigrants and pioneers stepped foot upon this country’s shores in the 1800’s with similar aspirations, it is my sincere hope that my students, sharp pencils and notebooks in hand, will be able to meet their heartfelt goals in their newfound nation, our United States of America.

My classroom, awaiting my eager students on any given day.

The Outlier

Welcome to my classroom, Room 510 at Apollo High School in St. Cloud, Minnesota. I have called it home for the last nine years, and it, like myself and my students, has been a work in progress. I teach English Language Learners (ELL), and I’m also called an EL Teacher (English Language) or an English as a Second Language (ESL) Teacher. I think we who speak the English language are all learners of it, so I’m a bit befuddled by all of the acronyms. However, what I really do is to teach Beginning English Language Learners, so you could call me a BELL Teacher and then we’d all be confused (do I teach music, too?!).

My students are often a Teacher’s Dream Come True at the high school level. They enter my doors a bit shyly each September, and what I notice above all in the majority of cases is that my students are highly motivated learners. Refugees who have had access to very limited formal schooling, they are just learning to navigate the hallways of Apollo when they come to me in their first or second year in the country. Their eyes, hearts, and minds are wide open to new experiences and they are fresh with ideas of their own to share. They are expectant, willing, and excited to be here. There is most certainly the exception to this rule, as with all groups of children. Not every student whom I have taught has come to me with great excitement! However, I am going to focus on one teen who was excited when he came to school for the first time. He caught my heart on the first day that he walked into Room 510 in 2013.

It takes time for most people to become acclimated to new surroundings, but I am particularly proud of my students who choose to jump right in, head first, to their experiences. Ahmed, now a proud 2016 Apollo graduate, walked into my classroom four years ago as a smallish, thin fifteen year old of Somali descent who was determined to succeed. He was born and raised in the Kebribeyah Refugee Camp in eastern Ethiopia. When Ahmed and his family left Kebribeyah in 2013, the camp was overcrowded. Ahmed and his siblings, whom I have also taught over the past few years, were born and raised in the camp, as is the case with the great majority of my students. The family had waited for years to get their ticket out; the time finally came for them in the spring of 2013. I was more than happy to welcome Ahmed and his family to the Apollo community.

Ahmed and his friend, Mohamed, sat front and center in the first row of seats in my classroom. Since it was their first year in the U.S. and the boys had had little to no exposure to English, I taught them and their classmates for five hours per day in a program that serves brand new refugee students in the St. Cloud School District. We got to know each other quite well during that time! I came to love Ahmed’s easy smile and quick laugh, and he carried his slim self with ease and confidence in the busy hallways. His affection for me and his friends was infectious.

Ahmed was attentive, took notes, and worked diligently alongside Mohamed day in and out, hour by precious hour. Despite his efforts, however, school was a real challenge for Ahmed. While Mohamed took quite easily to English, Ahmed did not. He grappled with reading and writing, having had virtually no schooling prior to walking into the doors of Apollo. I worked hard to meet his needs and yet he continued to struggle. On the last day of school, we went outside to play soccer together as a class. Ahmed ran around all of us on his nimble feet, dribbling like a dream and scoring goal after glorious goal for his team that day. Having coached soccer on and off for fifteen years, I quickly saw that he was a skilled player! I encouraged him to sign up to play for the Apollo soccer team in the fall.

He said, “I think it will be hard. I won’t be able to understand the coach. I don't speak good English."

“There are guys on the team who can interpret for you," I said. "Don’t worry about that. The coach will help you! No problem!” I explained how to sign up in the office.

“Okay, I will see,” he said.

Often, the boys and girls whom I encourage to play after their first year in the U.S. feel that they are not quite yet ready to engage at that level after being here for such a short time. I certainly understand their hesitation, and, prior to Ahmed, none of my students had chosen to take me up on the offer to play for the school team in their second year here. I am so pleased to say that Ahmed became an outlier.

He returned to school in the fall. When I saw him for the first time that second year, he was wearing a broad smile as he said, “Hey, Mrs. Marolf! I made the Apollo Varsity soccer team!”

“What? Yes! I’m so proud of you!”

I wanted to give the kid a big hug, but I am careful around my male Muslim students because their culture dictates that they should not generally have physical contact with females unless they are family. We chatted briefly, and I told Ahmed that I would see him on the soccer field. My son, Grant, plays for a rival team in the area, and I looked forward to seeing Ahmed thrive and prove his mettle without the burden of having to speak in a language that was such a challenge for him.

I had the opportunity to witness his soccer skills on the field throughout the season. It was a source of great pride for him to wear his Apollo jersey to school, and I saw him grow into a self-assured youngster as the season progressed, both on and off the field. He would stop into Room 510 frequently throughout the season to check in with me (he was no longer in my class). Happily, the Apollo Eagles had an excellent season, and Ahmed’s work in the midfield contributed significantly to their success. I cheered for him when I watched him play against Grant’s team (the Eagles won, to Grant’s chagrin!).

But it was a real privilege to watch and follow Ahmed and the Eagles as they headed into the Section tournament. I traveled around our region to follow the team over the next two weeks and stayed after all of the games to check in with Ahmed. He was quick to find me and to chat about each game and his play. Man, I loved the kid. His parents were new to the country, and they did not make it to the games. I was glad to be there for him.

Win by win, Ahmed and his diligence on full display, the Eagles eventually made it to the State Finals. Ahmed checked in with me the day before the big game; I wished him good luck, and he swaggered out of the room, excited for the opportunity before him. We had a school pep rally in order to demonstrate our support for the team the morning of the game. Ahmed grinned and joked with his teammates throughout the rally, happy and full of anticipation as he found himself the object of myriad cheers and high hopes.

Ahmed’s younger brother, Feisal, was in my class that year. The day before the game, I asked Feisal if he was going to go to watch Ahmed play. He sadly shook his head.

“It costs too much,” he said.

The game was to be played at St. Cloud State University, a few miles from Apollo, and I knew what I had to do. I bought Feisal a ticket and asked the Activities Director to deliver it to Feisal without him knowing that I had purchased it. Feisal caught the bus to the game from school, and I saw him there, outfitted in Apollo gear with a broad smile. His pride for his school and his big brother ran deep.

The Apollo Eagles’ fans yelled with abandon for the boys throughout the game. I screamed words of encouragement whenever Ahmed touched the ball or made a good play, my spirit rooting for our Eagles as they kept up against their opponent. It was indeed a glorious moment when Apollo scored the winning goal and became the Minnesota State Soccer Champions in 2014! Ahmed had played with passion and grace, and he relished the moment with his teammates and the adulation of the Apollo crowd after the game. I watched from the second row in the stands as the boys accepted their State trophy, as Ahmed received his own medal.

I took in every second as I watched that boy, a brave soul who chose to face his fears and took a risk to do something that he loved, celebrate with his team. Confidence was stamped firmly upon the heart of a young refugee teen on that blustery October day, a fitting end to a dream fulfilled and realized. 

The 2014 Apollo High School Class A Boys' State Soccer Champions

*Names have been changed to protect student privacy.

Make America Safe Again

I tentatively watched the Trump rally in Nashville this past week. I was particularly struck by a sign that a woman and others held proudly: “Make America Safe Again.” How ironic that at the moment those folks were holding that sign, the latest Muslim Travel Ban 2.0 was blocked by a judge in Hawaii. Indeed, our Constitution was developed to keep America safe, free, and welcoming. I think that the court rulings against the bans keep America safe. But apparently those at the rally would beg to differ. What was at the root of the signs that I saw? How could I better understand their perspective?

I thought, “Well, what does that even mean? What does ‘safe’ mean to me? And what does ‘safe’ mean to those at the rally?” Apparently, we’re on different sides of “safe,” but I don’t think it needs to be that way. I believe that safety depends upon a lack of fear. I have been trying to discern what fear means in the context of this new political era, and I began to ask some questions. So here are some for you.

What is at the root of this fear? Is the root a desire to keep oneself safe? When was the last time you were a victim of crime by someone distinctly different from you, or by someone who was not a citizen? I feel safe in my workplace and my community, where I am surrounded by a multitude of races, religions, and economic backgrounds. Others, apparently, feel threatened. That stinks for them, because who wants to walk around feeling scared all the time? And what could quell that? I think the heart of it is truth.

Is the root of the fear otherness? Have you tried to get to know the other so that he or she will become a someone to you? Taking the time to get to know people who are unlike you politically, socially, racially, and religiously is good work. It opens the door of relationship and breeds safety; it opens the door to truth.

Is the root of the fear a fear of Muslims? Do you know any? I wonder if the people at the Nashville rally who were waving their “Safe Again” signs do. If not, I do wish they would get to know them, that they would take the time to open the window and let truth slide in order to quell their fears.

I know hundreds of Muslim folks. I have taught hundreds over the past ten years, many from Somalia, Kenya, Ethiopia, Saudi Arabia, and Iraq. Not a one has committed a crime against me. Quite the opposite, I’ve been showered with love.

I have a deep love for my Muslim brothers and sisters, and they for me. We have strong bonds and genuine concern for one another. We have taken the time to build relationships, and my Muslim students and friends are one of my life’s greatest blessings. Last March, Trump said that “Islam hates us.”

He said at the Nashville rally on Thursday (referring to immigrants and refugees): “The danger is clear.” That is a ridiculous falsehood. It is an offense to my Muslim students and friends, to me, to my work. Sowing fear when there is nothing to fear is a lie. I’m not much for lies. I’m a truth seeker, and I bet, at the heart of it, so are you.

I believe that to make America safe, we as a collective must be a people of welcome. To make America safe, we must open our hearts and our homes. We need to practice radical hospitality. We need to have uncomfortable, difficult discussions. We need, God forbid, to get outside of our comfort zones. To be willing. To change for the sake of this very broken world.

We need to open our doors, even when it makes us nervous. It's not about how clean our houses are; it's about how open our hearts choose to be. It’s about looking at the girl with the hijab on in the grocery store and smiling at her, maybe even saying, “Hi!” That’s a first step for some of us.

Be convicted, friends. Dig in. Therein, you will find blessing. Therein, the opposite of fear will take root. Therein, truth will find wings.

I believe it is imperative that we stand tall and speak out firmly and, yes, loudly against those who choose to disdain and discriminate against those who may have different ethnic origins or religions from their own. I will do so, and, in the doing, I will work to foster and flame love. I will seek to open the eyes of those who feel unsafe in my community as we work together to build bridges instead of walls. It is much too easy to close ourselves off to those who think differently in this politically charged era, but I pledge to listen and not close myself off from hearing the other side’s heartfelt concerns and fears. I will foster safety, I will seek to assuage fear.

How about you? Won’t you join me in this march to foster and flame truth and, even further, make yourself vulnerable as you seek to flame love for your immigrant and refugee neighbor or coworker? Will you seek to understand the fears of those on the opposite side of the political fence? When we seek these things, fear loses. Then, indeed, America will be a safer place. I hope that you, my friend, will choose to play your part.

Waiting

Do you know many who are experiencing the ill effects of Trump’s policies? The new administration has successfully instilled fear and trembling into the hearts of the forty-five students in my English classes with the latest Travel Ban, Version 2.0. And of course my students are just a drop in the administration’s bucket, just a small snapshot of the millions of the voiceless the world over who are being targeted for discrimination.

I recently asked my immigrant and refugee students, most from Africa, some from Iraq and Saudi Arabia, how many of them were awaiting the arrival of sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Half of their hands shot up, sadness creasing their young faces as they pondered the unknowable. Really? Half? Yep.

I’m not quite sure how the Travel Ban will ultimately play out for them and their families, but the reality is that anyone with “Somali” attached to their name, to their family, to their clan, is feeling attacked right now by the American government. Let’s add “Muslim” to that. And immigrant. And refugee. And dreamer.

Feisal is waiting for his sister, left behind in Dadaab Refugee Camp in Kenya because she is married and has a baby; her new family was hoping to be resettled soon. Hani is waiting for her mother, who sent her children ahead with her sister because she wants them to have a better life. Fadumo is waiting for her father to arrive from Ethiopia. His paperwork is not yet ready. Hamze is waiting for his best friend from the Kebribeyah Refugee Camp in eastern Ethiopia. Waiting. Aisha, age 16, just arrived, having been separated from her mother for five years. Five years of waiting.

Speaking of waiting, many of my beginning English language learners have been waiting for years to go to a formal school. They are incredibly eager to learn about new topics. I finished teaching them about the United States Government a few months ago, just prior to the 2016 election. I taught them about the three branches of government, their various purposes, and the balance of power that our Founding Fathers so brilliantly infused into the intricacies of our union.

My students learned about the Constitution and about the rights that we as Americans have as a result of it (and that they as refugees and immigrants also share since they live here). We talked about freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of the press. Freedom, freedom. It made me proud to teach them about the government, and they understood its basic tenants after a month-long unit. 

When Travel Ban 1.0 happened in January, one of my students raised her hand and asked very succinctly, “What about the separation of powers? Why can President Trump make laws that are not fair? Can’t the other branches tell him to stop?”

This teacher loves great questions.

So ensued a discussion of the rights that the President has to make executive orders regarding immigration. The conversation, while enlightening for the kids, did not change the Executive Order, did not quell their fears, and did not serve to remove the real possibility that, perhaps, they would never see their beloved relations again.

“Will I be deported?”

“Are my papers enough?”

“Will I ever see my _____ again?” 

“Why does he hate Somalis? Why does he hate us?”

We had similar dialogues right after the election in November, and here were more questions, in all their transparent ugliness, again. Heavy discussions, difficult answers, unknowns.

It makes me angry, yes, steaming mad, actually, that this is what my curious, insatiable, intelligent young students must fall asleep with each night. 

“He doesn’t like me. I have rights, too.”

“Will I be safe tomorrow?”

“Will I be treated fairly?”

“Are they looking at me because I’m wearing a hijab?”

Although the balance of powers did step in via the U.S Court System to, indeed, check President Trump’s powers regarding Travel Ban 1.0, he was right back at it again this week with Version 2.0, which was poured out with little fanfare but just as much targeted discrimination and bigotry. In the meantime, each night, my students' questions come back to them, interrupting hope, interrupting dreams. Waiting.

Can you imagine sending a child of your own to the United States given this political climate? Would you want to, even if you had endured life in a refugee camp from the time that your babies were born? Even with little water, meager food rations, no electricity, a tarp covering your makeshift home, little or no school for those growing kids?

I am not sure how to answer that question myself at present, and I certainly do not begin to comprehend the life or the circumstances surrounding the life of a mother in a refugee camp. But I do wonder. Would I want my children and family to be targets of my host government's exclusionary policies?

It is frustrating that my students and their families have to wait now, once again, for their loved ones, and that they must live with the reality that they may not see them again. I am dismayed that they have to discuss, debate, and, indeed, endure the present policies of the current administration and that our government, my government, your government is proudly, tauntingly waving the banner of exclusion. But I am also waiting for a new day, working hard in the face of this reality to fight back and educate those within in my sphere. To grant hope, to empower, to foster peace.

In the waiting, though, my heart breaks for my students. I hope yours does, too.