A few summers ago I took my camera and headed on a little tour of places I like to visit and snapped a lot of photos. I don’t get to play around with photography as much as I want, but I have a little collection of favorites. The red door of the First Presbyterian Church in downtown Springfield is vibrant and stands out to me. The church is known for being the family church of the Abe Lincoln family when they lived here. Actually, this church houses the pew his family purchased (don’t get me started on that one) (or church, for that matter) and the Lincoln worshiped at the previous church before they moved the congregation and the pew to the new church.

I really liked the detail on this door so I tried to do a close up.

On the side of this building there is another door which, clearly, is no longer used. The wording of how they describe the fact that the door isn’t functional tickles me so much that I use it as a euphemism when thinking about other things that just “don’t work”.

This door not open. There’s just something about that phrase. Seemingly, it applies to so much and I just couldn’t get it out of my head after reading the comments on my writing about race. In fact, every time I even think about issues of race and realize the lengths we have to go for understanding of it in this country, this saying comes to mind. This door not open. With racism, it remains closed until someone walks up to the side of it and says, “Yes, I’ll open it and I’ll walk through it and talk about it because there has to be a way in somehow.” For me, the way in was just to tell a simple yet complicated story of my dad. Listening to the comments (and I’ve listened because I kept reading them aloud to friends or anyone who wanted to talk about it the last few days) have shifted something in me.

One commenter, Caoilini wrote, “It would have caused a pang before being a mom, sure, but now it sets off a whole range of intense emotions. And a fierce determination to teach my children how not to be like those bigoted fools.”

Robin wrote, “I actually want to share this entry with all of my White friends who have family that are clearly racist, but excuse their racism with “Well, they’re from another generation, you understand that, right?” (when that generation is the Baby Boomers) or “Well, you have to understand that they’re never around any Black people, so of course they’re going to be nervous around you.” What am I? An alien? Did Black people just descend onto earth like District 9?

Maybe if they read this story – even if it’s just for a minute – they can walk a mile in your shoes (and your family’s shoes) and realize that ignorance really is a choice, not something you’re born with.”

Aviatrixt said, “We are taking over. I might not be of the same mixed heritage, but I can tell you, we are taking over. Whatever that means.” Mr. Lady echoed her sentiments: “People like us ARE taking over.”

Maybe the only comment that got an audible laugh from me (followed by a Hmm, Maybe I Will) was from Kelli from South City Confidential who wrote: “I fucking love you. Write your memoirs, already.”

Both Liz from Mom-101 and Deb from Deb on the Rocks mentioned that being able to “pass” isn’t limited to light-skinned blacks, but also to Jews and Lesbians and anyone in the Other category.

Finally, a childhood friend of mine, Meeghan, wrote this: “Hey Kelly, I remember when we took you guys camping with us when we were little, you and I were in line to ride a water slide and some kid called us Niggers. That was the first time I was ever called that. I remember it like yesterday though.”

Sadly, I remember that day with Meeghan all too well. What began as a simple camping trip with family friends that included two Black fathers, two White mothers, and four mixed daughters ended up being a painful time because it smacked us right in the face. It was the same trip I got a scar on my foot from falling from the ladder of the water slide, but the other scar cut deeper. Like most people, I remember every single time I have ever been called a nigger. It’s not a memory that goes away and it is a sting that you bury and hope it stays behind a door that will never open until someone bursts through it by flinging that slur around. Eternally, you wish it wouldn’t spring open, but it does.

You wish that racism remains a door that “not open”. That door open, and every time we all speak up about it then maybe it’ll finally, firmly, stay closed.

There’s just no way right now to sum up all the things that I experienced yesterday when reading the phenomenal comments left by readers on my post “I’m Black Irish and I’m Proud” because, well, it is just too much at the moment. The comments sticking out to me are the ones where readers just know that experiences like my dad’s aren’t uncommon, where we find ourselves in the movement to get beyond or even begin talking about race, that the young are also to be called on the carpet when they spout off hateful slurs, and that Jews and gays also find themselves in uncomfortable “passing” situations where they are incognito because you can’t SEE Jewish heritage or sexual orientation/preference. For the last one, I suggested to Deb on the Rocks that she use the term “incoglesbo”, but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet on whether or not that will work.

The one thing I have time for to post today was brought up to me by two people as an alternative to confronting ignorant, vocal racists in public. Adrian Piper, an African American artist who “passes” created these cards to speak all the words for her when she comes into contact with racism:

Dear Friend,

I am black.

I am sure you did not realize this when you mad/laughed at/agreed with that racist remark. In the past, I have attempted to alert white people to my racial identify in advance. Unfortunately, this invariably causes them to react to me as pushy, manipulative, or socially inappropriate. There, my policy is to assume that white people do not make these remarks, even when they believe there are no black people present, and to distribute this card when they do.

I regret any discomfort my presence is causing you, just as I am sure you regret the discomfort your racism is causing me.

Let me just co-sign on that one, too. I believe everything Piper has written and will be ordering some of her cards so that she may make a profit off of this genius idea. Originally, I would have conceptualized this as: “Dear ignorant asshole, screw you.” but I’ve got to be better than that. I mean, I’ll think that, but I won’t say that.

In fact, I think anyone who is “other” ought to do exactly the same and create their own.

Publish at will.

Yesterday I came into contact with a racist.

A table full of them to be exact. My contact with them could have gone much better on my part. But I’m cynical about this sort of stuff having grown up light-skinned enough to “pass”. I come by that honestly. Now, my father, on the other hand, is much darker than I and his sister, one of my favorite aunts, is a lovely caramel color and if you were to see the whole family lined up you’d find every conceivable shade available. To me, this is a beautiful sight.

I could have politely interrupted their loud (no, really, this was ridiculously loud) conversation about all the “Pakistanis” and “Blacks” and “foreigners” that are taking over and how they’re everywhere. There were plenty of hateful things that came out of their mouths and each time they said something I responded back. Loudly. But not directly. Only the woman heard me and she obviously got them to pay attention to the fact that they were bothering other patrons around them. Eventually, they left.

It is a terrible thing, this being able to pass. There is the strange position I’ve found myself in that shocks me, it always shocks me with a jolt, when someone starts speaking this code that they are sure you understand. They lean in, pull you into their circle of trust, and then betray it. They assume you agree with them. You must! You look white! So you probably totally understand their racism!

Mind you, these older people probably felt justified in being able to have their conversation in public because they’ve always talked like that. Before you go defending their bad behavior let me say this: It’s 2010. TWO THOUSAND TEN. In the year of 2010 my President is Black and so is theirs. THE PRESIDENT. IS BLACK. (Or MIXED. MULATTO. Whatever.) The Civil Rights Movement happened in their lifetime. I sincerely hate it when people excuse them with, “But that’s their generation. That’s what they grew up with! They don’t know any better!” Instead of doling out pardons for their racism let me suggest that they ought to be embarrassed that they’ve lived through all of that and still haven’t learned anything from it. Let me propose that they’ve have multiple opportunities to learn from their lives in America and have managed to have their racism forgiven time and time again. Let’s just all take responsibility for that.

One time when I was dating a guy in college he took me home to meet his parents. I was nervous because I was a 19-year old girl/woman who had a daughter by then and he was a single, college-aged boy so it concerned me that his family would be upset by that. Unfortunately, I was focused on the wrong thing. What they were upset about in regards to me was that I was Black. That is what bothered them about me when they first met me. From hearing this boy tell me about his family I was shocked because it didn’t seem like they would be like that. I had to ask him, “Let me get this straight. Your brother is married to a Korean woman and your sister is a lesbian and your parents have a problem with ME?”

Before I digress too far let me just say I ended up marrying (and divorcing) him and that I gave his family the whitest damn grandchildren ever produced. Seriously. They’re nearly transparent.

My father, also of the generation of people in question, is getting older. He’s reached his 70s and doesn’t like to live in the racism of his past. Rarely does he talk about it. But there are things about him that are so progressive and innovative and he’s always, in my mind, been that way. His sister once recounted a story that made my sisters and I see him in an entirely new light and, in some ways, sort of explained him to us. He was young, maybe 10 or so, and he was going to get a new pair of shoes. Back in the day (it’s kinder to use that then to tell you just what decade in which this occurred) that was a big deal. New shoes? That was luxurious! Normally, my dad wore shoes until the soles wore off and then put cardboard in them repeatedly until it was finally time for a new pair. His father was supposed to take him shopping and he went downtown to where he, my grandfather, was working at the time to meet him and be taken to the shoe store.

I never met my grandfather on my dad’s side. He died before I was born, but I know enough about him to know that he “passed” for white in the early part of the century. He got jobs as a “white man” and was hired because he looked white enough. When my dad went downtown to get my grandfather that day he waited and waited for him to come out. He never did. Finally, he asked for someone to get his dad in the shop and another worker (a manager? an owner? I don’t know.) brings my grandfather to the front of the store because this kid is claiming to be his son and he’s been out there waiting.

This kid. My father. Who is dark. Who is Black.

“This nigger kid waiting out here says he’s your son.” That word, and you know which one, always jars me when I hear it told in this story.

Until, of course, I hear the part where my grandfather shakes his head back and forth and replies: “I’ve never seen him before.”

When my aunt told this story my dad was quiet and my hand flew up to my mouth and I searched my sister’s faces and we all sat still and cried. And we’ve never really spoken of it and he might not like that I’ve shared that story in writing but it has to say something about our family and our place in this country that it’s even an experience worth recounting. I think this is true especially since people’s feelings on race are still not at a place where we can talk comfortably about it. Granted, the fact that my grandfather denied my father as his son so he wouldn’t lose his job happened a long time ago and these old, white racists sitting at their table in a public restaurant next to me are from the same era. All parties lived through the same decades even though they lived vastly different lives.

Last week, my dad called me on St. Patrick’s day to wish me luck and a good day. Come on. This Black man had a daughter with an Irish-German woman and named her Kelly and my sisters are named Tracy and Erin. We kind of have to celebrate, you know?

I’d like to think that there are more like me and my family. I’d like to think that I’m normal. Maybe even that people like me are taking over.

Whatever the hell that means.

Lately, my posts about education are getting more and more frequent. There is also, of course, the creeping in of posts about pregnant girls that lead naturally back to my own pregnant teen years. It’s hard to miss that the word “years” was plural. The more I do that the more I get questions (via email or messages) about whether or not it’s okay that I write about my work. I’ve been called “gutsy” and “brave” for writing about my job and people wonder how I fly under the radar at work. Truth be told, I’m not under the radar. Plenty of people know about my blog and read it. Including the superintendent. I mean, I don’t think he hangs on my every written word, but he brought it up to me recently at a dinner with book publishers we both attended. Every boss I’ve had knows about it because I just go ahead and throw it out there.

Hey. I write. On the Internet. With readers. It’s very Internetty. Don’t worry if you don’t “get it”. I also write using lots of parenthetical statements, so just ignore me if that’s not your thing. (But don’t lurk forever.) (Lurkers who never comment freak me out just a little bit.) (Especially if they only like to email me their comments.)

I’ve been asked recently if I’m worried about losing my job, but not because of the writing. Just because of all the things going on in education. For instance, there’s the Rhode Island superintendent who just fired all the high school staff due to low test scores. Or the letter from Bill Maher calling for the firing of parents, not teachers. To say that education is a battlefield right now is not giving the issue its due. But parents are pissed. Teachers are scared. And students are, as usual, getting shortchanged. Our own district has proposed budget cuts that calls for 50-some teachers not being offered a job again next school year in their current positions and having all administrators (including yours truly) take a salary freeze.

Personally, that last one will hurt. Quite a few people are dependent on my salary including my children and my mother who is without health care – the other hot issue at the moment. Apparently, some people think I make too much money but that’s not really the point of this post.

Whatever option comes our way out of the four that are proposed by federal government (1. closing the schools, 2. using a restructuring/transforming model by replacing the principal, 3. firing all staff and rehiring up to 50% and 4. becoming a charter school) will hurt. It’ll be a hard pill to swallow because we don’t choose to leave students behind. Many of them come to us already behind and our job, without the aid of the community or any planned social structures, is to bring them up to speed.

I could go on and on about how teaching is hard. There’s no doubt about that. Some stories help spur me on like the Englewood Urban Prep Academy for Young Men in Chicago because it’s about digging in and doing EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to make students successful. It’s not beyond our reach, it’s just that we, the collective “we”, don’t want to do that work because we get caught up in protecting ourselves.

This is not a popular opinion. I’ll get lambasted for saying it because it will appear like I’m insensitive to teachers.

If you’re in this business of schooling students then I hope you know we’re in this together. We get what we get. Parents aren’t keeping their better children at home. They’re sending us the best they have. What we see when we get them isn’t what we’d like to see.

If you’re going to go into teaching you’ll get unmotivated, hard to like students who have short attention spans. Your content that you teach won’t be relevant to them. They won’t care one iota about it. They’ll be disorganized and selfish. When you mention that you have to get through the body of knowledge and standards and benchmarks their faces will turn blank and they’ll just keep blinking until you say something that matters to them. The fact that you have units to get through and tests to give are not what keeps them up at night. Your lesson plans are not their concern. Your homework will be completely uninteresting to them. Your lengthy lectures will not necessarily inspire them to turn their lives around in a split second.

I’m terrified that schools are doing business the same way and expecting different results. Or maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re resigned to the fact that the blame starts and ends with the students and their parents.

I’m absolutely worried about my job. Probably not in the same way you think.

It wasn’t a question I anticipated. In truth, I don’t suppose that I’d ever really hear it. The emphasis being on the word “I”. I never thought that I, Kelly, would ever hear this question. Not because it’s a stupid question and yes, there are stupid questions. There are also ignorant questions. There are ridiculous questions. This one topped all three of those.

In the context of someone actually asking the question it must also be said that there really was no context. There was no reason for someone to ask this question because it wasn’t relevant to what we were discussing at the time. We meet, as teams, each week to discuss teaching and learning and part of the reason I’m there is to frame the learning for teachers. When I work with educators outside of my building it is sometimes in the role of consultant. For lack of a better term I guess I would say that I facilitate meetings. Each week I work with the Teaching and Learning team to determine the professional development for teachers so that we can stay abreast of scientifically-based research practices, introduce them to the teachers by providing examples and defining the expectations, and help their own learning to become skillful and proficient in teaching.

This question came out of nowhere.

Speaking to the group as a whole this teacher walked in our meeting and asked this seemingly arbitrary inquiry.

“What are we gonna do with all these pregnant girls?”

She sounded exasperated when she asked it, like she’d been irritated by it. Like she was weary of these pregnant girls. As if we’d had a rash of girls who had just come forward en masse to exclaim that they were pregnant.

When she asked it she was looking directly at me. AT ME. As if, because of my title or position, I was to answer this question for the entire group of teachers sitting together because I was leading the group and could offer some insight as to what we would “do” with all these pregnant girls.

“Other than, um, educate them with the free public education we offer?” I asked her.

“Well, there are just so many it seems. They can’t fit in my desks and…” she sighed and her voice trailed off as if I didn’t give her the answer she wanted. All the while she is talking I can feel my veins exploding and a twitch forming in the left side of my body and then I lost control of my bowels and my head just popped right off my shoulders and rolled onto the floor while my brain silently and slowed screamed, “WHAT. THE. HELL?”

Perhaps it wasn’t really the word “hell”, but you get my drift. It cut me off at the knees, this question. It struck right at my heart and the aim was true. Instantly, I was 15 years old and I got a glimpse of what teachers, when behind closed doors from students, said about me.

Oddly enough, I have the answer. I mean, I suppose I already gave it to her, but she didn’t like how I responded.

I know exactly what to “do” with these pregnant girls. How about we teach them? How about we educate them so well that we encourage them to go off to college with their babies? What about encouraging them to be responsible parents that can work and be productive citizens that contribute to society? Then, we could embolden and stimulate their knowledge and get them to further their education by getting a Master’s degree in education. Would that work? Is that okay with you? Because if they do really well and work hard at that then maybe, just maybe, they could work their way up and find themselves leading YOUR professional development.

That’s definitely the right answer.