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.

It's About Love, People

What would drive me to spend my days and hours teaching children who, as teens, walk into my classroom reading and writing in English at a first or second grade level? I hold a teaching licensure in both the teaching of English as a Second Language and in Secondary English (meaning I could be teaching mainstream students Language Arts in grades 7-12). I have a Master’s degree, and I could be teaching at a community college, or as an adjunct at a four year university. Why would I choose to spend time in a high school where the free and reduced lunch rate is pushing into the 70th percentile, where the needs are so great and the poverty, while largely hidden, is indeed the reality for seven of the ten kids whom I walk by in the hallway every hour of the day? There are certainly days and hours when I wonder what and why and how and for what purpose do I tend to my students. The mountains seem insurmountable, and the challenges seem much greater than any small thing I can do in the course of a day, a month, a nine month school year. But if not I, then whom?

You see, despite the difficulties and the troubles that I encounter on a daily basis, there are the children. I spend six hours each day hanging out with teenagers. There are moments when I contemplate, after a long afternoon of dealing with students who have emotional and physical needs that are far beyond what I feel I can reach sometimes, that I question my calling and my vocation. I have a tough day, and wonder, “What am I doing this for? It’s too much. I am tired. I am tired. I am just plain tired.”  

I had a dark day this past week, on Wednesday. My afternoon class has been the most challenging of my nine year career at Apollo High School. This brood of youngsters waited for me to teach them after lunch for the next two hours. We were learning about the inside of the human body, and, as I taught on Wednesday and as I have felt on many days this school year, I felt that my skills were failing me and that I was failing my students. My patience had worn thin, I had had too many meetings to attend, and I felt like my students were just not interested in learning. I told myself that they were not motivated, that my methods were bunk, and that I was not, indeed, cut out for this hard work. I left that day with a dark cloud over my head. I thought that perhaps my choice in vocation was misguided and that, really, I should find something else to do, somewhere else to work.

I went to sleep on Wednesday night exhausted and weary. But I’m grateful for rest and new starts. I awoke the next morning and kicked myself into gear, a fresh day at my feet. I reminded myself of my student population, whom I am serving, what they have endured. A Somali elder had told me and my colleagues some years ago that a new tide of children would soon be entering our doors and that they would, indeed, be the least of these among us. Their parents, victims of the civil war in Somalia, were not part of the educated elite and thus had little monies in their family coffers to get out of the refugee camps in Kenya or Ethiopia earlier. Many of my students come as children of single parents, usually mothers who have lost their spouses to war, famine, or disease. These women are indomitable souls who have waited endlessly for years to reach this place, this land, this Minnesota. They had to loiter and wait and wait and wait on the darn lottery, for their number to come up, for their dreams to be realized, for freedom, for a way out. Yes, a way out, thank God.

And this tide of children, the least of these who have been born and raised in refugee camps, are here. They are my afternoon class, the one that drove me to my knees on Wednesday. These children are a vivid snapshot of the injustice that civil war and turmoil can wreak on the young, and how living in a refugee camp all your life can take its real and heartbreaking toll. Of the 21 students in my afternoon class, I believe that ten of them could qualify for Special Education services. In my nine years at Apollo, I have referred about that many overall to Special Education, so the needs of my particular class continue to surprise and challenge me. Most of these ten youngsters came to me after being in school at Apollo for two years prior. They struggled mightily in those two years, not through any fault of their own but because they are victims of poverty, malnutrition, trauma, and war. The results of these issues are easy to see: a lack of ability to grasp concepts, difficulty focusing, fidgeting, exhaustion, anger and frustration with their lack of progress (as they would love nothing more than to succeed). And so, what to do? How to teach them? I’ve referred many of them to Special Education, but the waiting in that is not going to fix their learning issues today.

And this is where the love enters in and the frustrations and the hardship must be put aside. I had assigned my students to write thank you notes to whomever they wished earlier in the week; they were due on Thursday. Love notes came pouring in like water that day, to me and to my colleagues, to mothers and sisters and brothers. Notes of thanks for patience, and for acts of kindness. Notes of gratitude for food, for homework help, for clothing, and for love spread wide.

And guess which class shed the most love on me? The afternoon, of course! I wept as I read those notes on Thursday morning: “Dear Mrs. Marolf, thank you for teaching us. I love how you teach us. Thank you for helping me to learn new things. Thank you for being so, so kind. I am so happy to be your student. I’m so excited to learn new things every day. I love you. I love you. I love you,” and on and on it went. Love poured out, just when I needed it.

And this is why I step back into the fray, even when it’s hard, even when I feel I can’t take another step. It’s love, people, and it conquers on even the most difficult of days. My steps into Thursday and Friday were lighter, my students focused and at the ready. And I know that it’s the love that will keep me stepping back into Room 510 on Monday, hoping beyond myself that the work I do will endure and make a difference for the least of these, on this very day, and for years ahead.