Nothing pains me more as a patriotic American than when people in our country forget our history. To that end, I present Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech which he delivered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on this date 47 years ago. That’s all I want to post today.

I only ask that comments be your own favorite quote from this speech. Mine is in my post title.

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we’ve come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we’ve come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the “unalienable Rights” of “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.”

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we’ve come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, “When will you be satisfied?” We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: “For Whites Only.” We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until “justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest — quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of “interposition” and “nullification” — one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; “and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.”

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day — this will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim’s pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

– all credit given to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Do you remember junior high? It isn’t looked upon kindly by most adults because they hold memories for us that include hair growing from new places, squeaky voices, and a face full of zits. It’s Nature’s Cruel Joke to have our bodies change at the same time young brains are switching over to maturity and we begin to naval gaze and dream about the What If? possibilities. My favorite thing about being an adult and watching such things, however, is that you get to see these creatures (honestly, that is the best word for them) muddle their way through these changes all the while looking cool and ensuring that they’re not entirely alone in the world.

Now that I’m back working at a middle school (I vary between the two phrases “middle school” and “junior high”) I can honestly say that I love both the middle and high school levels. But to work in a middle school you have to be a special kind of person. Not don’t-eat-the-paste special, although that might actually come in handy. But special in the sense that you will take this age group for what if offers. Some of these kids are just KILLING ME WITH THE CUTENESS. For example, our school mascot is the leopard. Many adults proudly wear shirts with our school logo on them and others wear leopard print clothes. (That reminds me: I need to go shopping. A gal can always use a new leopard print pair of shoes! Or a leopard print shirt! A leopard purse! The possibilities are making my head swim!) When we had our 6th grade orientation the principal pointed that out to the students and one of them raised his hand and asked, “When do we get to earn our spots?” and I swear to God I almost ran up to that kid and put a jaunty hat on him and stuffed him in my pocket because THAT RIGHT THERE IS THE ACME OF CUTE. I dare you to find anything cuter.

Since I’m back to doing playground duty I have found myself delving into the jungle with my anthropologist hat on as I watch them carefully. They don’t know who I am yet although some of them have older siblings who’ve had me before. They timidly come up to me and ask if I know their older brother/sister/cousin/family member and then BLAM! We have a connection. Those are the ones whose names I know first and I’m working on learning them all this week. Every student wants to be called by name. That’s not anthropology, either. That’s just common sense. So, as I crouched down on the bench on the playground and did my best Margaret Mead impersonation sans walking stick and cape, I began taking notes in my head.

Those must be the girls who desperately want to be cool. They all matched their clothes with one another.

These are athletes. They’re all discussing who is going out for cross country and what the best running shoes are.

This kid is a loner right now. I’ll watch carefully to see who will come and talk to him and make sure no one bullies him.

One of the reasons I took this job was to do just this. In fact, when we recently went to our administrative meeting as a district the subject of online social media came up and then that dreaded word “blog”. I’m usually the one in the room who takes a deep breath and hunches my shoulders because I just know that there are people in the room looking at me because they know about my writing. “Uh huh” a friend sitting near me said, indicating that I am the elephant in the room that no one is talking about overtly but yeah, we all know you have a blog, Kelly! Here’s the interesting thing about what I discovered about myself at that meeting: when asked if anyone had a blog and whether or not they would publish it knowing that it could be linked to a resume or personnel file I found myself sitting up straighter in my chair.

Of course I would link my writing to my job. I write carefully about my career, my students, and what I learn on a daily basis from the kids in my charge. I write passionately about them, too, and that’s probably why I’ve been offered jobs from schools where the teachers and administrators have read my blog. I am not even lying. There have been emails that begin with “you don’t know me, but a group of us teachers read your blog and we want you to come work here” and every single time I am amazed and honored at the offer.

Another reason I took this current position is that I feel very strongly about cultural representation in my position. Do I think that all schools MUST have a black principal or dean or athletic director because that is what will enable them to make AYP in our quest not to leave children behind? Absolutely not. That puts entirely too much pressure on Black educators to fix the problem of educational mediocrity in this country. But this school I’m in right now actively tries to ensure equality in the students that get to come here (via a lottery) and yet there are no black teachers here. While that dismays me I am quick to say that these students are getting a quality education and while looking over the data of this building early on in the summer I must say how impressed I am that these teachers give it their all to ensure that they are moving students into higher test score categories with their consistently high expectations. What I want to do, however, is to provide equity in who these kids get to see every day. I want all of these students to see a woman of color who is in charge. I want the white kids and the black kids to see that, if nothing else, it is possible to hold such a position and work hard to ensure a public education is of a high caliber.

You know when we have those discussions on race and I argue that I want people to see my color and not tell me they are color blind? It’s because of stuff like that. I need people to see my color. Not judge me by it and ascribe stereotypes, but see it as recognition that blacks are capable and confident to hold administrative positions in education.

The conversations leading up to me coming here were with a friend of mine who is a fellow educator. He’s also black. It went like this:

Him: “Did you know that School X is losing two teachers and both are black and now there aren’t any black educators in that building?”

Me: “W-w-what? Well. Someone should fix that!”

Him: “Yeah. How about you?”

Me: “Dang. I think you just swindled me. Quit hitting me in my weak spot, you jerk.”

It doesn’t matter how I got here, though. It matters that I’m here. Hopefully, I can keep using my voice in my writing on my blog to give a picture of what it’s like in a public school and a middle school at that. In fact, this morning I was joking about having pie for breakfast (pie filled with FRUIT) even though I keep a plethora of fresh fruit in my office as well as granola bars and dried cherries. Basically, I’m an advocate for eating healthy and I see too many students coming to school with NO breakfast whatsoever. It’s like trying to start a car with no gasoline. Have you ever tried to get a middle schooler to learn pre-algebra when they’re on empty?

Two girls were standing next to a teacher this morning and they were talking about how they were hungry and hadn’t eaten since last night. I offered to take the girls to my office and get them apples. The teacher was thrilled that I did that and sent them along with me even though I warned the girls not to let the eating get in the way of learning because I didn’t want to create a distraction in the classroom. Five minutes later the teacher called me on the phone in my office.

“Where did you get that fruit? I have three boys who haven’t eaten yet either and they’re hungry.”

“That’s my own stash but I’m happy to share. I’ll be right down with some groceries.”

It got me thinking, in my Margaret Mead way again, about how I can help students. Sure, we all buy supplies for them. Pencils and folders have flown off my shelves for the past three days because I try to identify who needs them. All teachers do this. But something as simple as eating a healthy breakfast doesn’t always take precedence. The First Lady Michelle Obama thinks this is important. So does Jamie Oliver with his Food Revolution. If you think it is, too, why not take a bag of apples into a school to donate? How about a giant box of granola bars? A bunch of bananas for an entire classroom? Wouldn’t that be an awesome way to give back to your community RIGHT NOW?

Trust me. I live in the jungle. We eat a lot of bananas here.

It’s not like me to shy away from controversy so every night this past week I have had a discussion with my family about Park 51. There have been points made and arguments discussed. I could link to them, but I won’t. But I’m reading a lot.

It’s already all been said so far.

Today, my feelings are all about the Constitution. It is unconstitutional to deny the builders from putting up a community center. It’s also unconstitutional for Governor Paterson to suggest that an alternative to it would be to give them land elsewhere on which to build. Really, Gov? Because I think you’re opening up a whole new can of worms when other religious institutions come knocking on your door for free land. It got so weary for me this week after debating the issue with friends (ok, so it was via Facebook WHATEVER it still ended up being a really good discussion) that my status yesterday on Facebook was simply the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

What I’ve read for this whole week about it consists of my daily news readings, political contributions, and what the rest of the world is saying about the United States. When Mason asked me about it he did so in typical teenage fashion.

“Mom, what’s up with this whole mosque issue in New York City?”

He could tell by the weariness in my voice and the sigh on my lips that I’d been thinking about it, too. We had been discussing it at dinners and at bedtime and whenever it came up on television or the radio or in the newspaper or online. He’s getting it. And that’s really just a part of my job as a parent, is it not? To teach and educate and teach some more. Well, maybe that last part is an overlap of my career choice.

Early on in my career I quit teaching public school because I wanted a varied experience. For four years I taught at a small, private Christian school and that is where I met a great philosopher who also happened to be a janitor. Allen cleaned my room and we met one night and had the most fascinating conversation that it lead to to a phenomenal friendship until he died from cancer years later. (I’ve written about him on my blog before so you can check the archives if you’re so interested.) But I tried desperately to fit in with the teachers and with the church that was attached to the building. At times, it worked and I felt accepted but it seemed that reminders of my being different and definitely NOT like others led me to finally break off and grow up and do my own thing.

But not before I allowed Allen to come to my classroom during the day (he was the nighttime janitor) and teach my class. He read poetry with them and my little 6th graders asked him questions and while he waxed philosophical about things the subject of religion came up and he answered just as I would have him do: honestly. Allen didn’t like to use the term “God” because “Alice” was a prettier name. He didn’t believe in the devil, either, but suggested that it was a man-made manifestation that helped us place blame.

The week after he visited my classroom one of the other teachers told on me (are we adults or what?) for having such blasphemy and un-Christianlike attitudes be on display in this Christian school. In hindsight this was, for me, one of the last straws that made it impossible for me to reconcile the fact that I was using MY OWN BRAIN FOR INTELLECTUAL PURPOSES and the beliefs of the school. I was called into the office with a school board member (also an elder of the church) and questioned about my intentions and what I was hoping to do with opposing viewpoints on their Christian doctrine.

“So, I can’t teach opposing viewpoints? We’re not supposed to let children see another side of things? The authoritative dogma is never to be questioned?”

My questions went largely unanswered. I quit teaching there and Allen became one of the few links I still had to the place. The kids I taught were great. It was the overbearing poor behavior of the adults that made me want to leave.

Yesterday I was thinking back on that story as I was reflecting on something said to me about the Muslim religion. In my lifetime I have gladly attended a Jewish temple, different Christian churches, and a meeting of the Baha’i faith. I was thinking this as I left my house and waved to my Muslim neighbor across the street and smiled at her. The teacher in me wondered how much more I could know.

My mom’s got a brother named Jim who is, by far, the best read person I know. Mom talks about him in reverence and with much respect as he is a man who once read Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses when it was released when the rest of the world seemed to be shunning it out of fear, ignorance, and there were often violent protests due to the fatwa placed on him by Ayotollah Khomeini. I remember this vividly because it was the year I was graduating high school and I was aghast as what he could have possibly written to attract such attention. Here I was just starting out in the world as an adult taking my little 3 year old daughter with me and I was filled with fear.

I have since gotten over that.

As I was traveling around town for work I saw a building that made me pull over. I parked in the lot and sat there for a good 5 minutes wondering what I was going to say. It was the Islamic Society of Greater Springfield. When I went in I met Syed who listened as I stammered out that I am a mom and a former teacher and current assistant principal and I was worried, so very worried about this ridiculous debate that isn’t so much about rights or the constitution but about feelings and holy cow, if ever I understand the feelings thing it’s when I see things like the Confederate flag being bandied about, and oh, I grew up mixed in a Catholic family and my children are of many shades and I’m seeking information because I hate to regurgitate stuff that I hear from people but don’t read with my own eyes and SERIOUSLY, but I really do like to use my own brain and not hand over the keys to my sensibilities or politics to someone else and yes, I know I’m a woman who just came in off the street and you must think I’m a little bit neurotic…

It went on like that. Syed smiled. He knew I was there to learn. When I stopped babbling on in that run-on sentence I simply said, “I am here to learn.”

He gave me the name of a woman who would be happy to talk to me further and handed me an English translation of the Koran. He said to keep it. Syed also gave me 15 videos that might be helpful as I’m learning and asked that I please return them to him. But he didn’t even write down my name or ask to document just which 15 videos he gave me. He handed them over gladly, said that it was prayer time, and I shook his hand and left.

What I wish right now is that the mouthpieces of America would be in the process of learning. Not shouting or screaming or writing protest signs. Not telling me what I should believe or that I am stupid for agreeing that a community center can be built where they have planned. Not talking about of both sides of their mouths.

Whatever prayers come from my lips are this: Please let me learn. Please let me teach my children. Please let there be peace.

Not long ago, but in a land far far away, I got a wild hair to reach outside my comfort zone. Since I already like change and new challenges, I decided to apply for a freelance writing gig. Since I’m already starting work at a new school (a middle school! where the kids are middle schoolers! they are soooo my brand of crazy!) I figured I would go in with a new perspective and write daily about my experiences. That lead to feeling comfortable about my writing, warts and all. Disclaimer: I don’t have an editor for my blog which is why you’ll see typos, but hardly ever will you see something misspelled. You’ll, probably, also, see, too, many, commas. When I’m not sure about the issue with commas I think back to advice given to me when I did my student teaching. The principal of the high school called all the student-teachers together and said, “Remember this: commas are like sex education. When in doubt, keep it out.” Ever since he said that I’ve always wanted to use that line in teaching about grammar, but it never seemed appropriate.

It’s a long story how I even found out about it, but suffice to say that a writing job came open for Teaching Tolerance. I’ve gotten their periodicals for a while and have always been pleased with them. Teaching Tolerance is a project of the Southern Poverty Law Center which was founded by two civil rights lawyers in 1971. After some back and forth with the editor, I got offered the job and will be writing for them on a regular basis. If you don’t see me posting here, I’ll likely be over at  Teaching Tolerance writing about inclusive classrooms, nurturing diversity, and, as always, I will be on the hunt for justice and equality. As usual, I will write from my own experiences, but if you have anything you’d like to see in print (IN PRINT, OMG) (I really hope my new editor isn’t upset about my use of OMG) feel free to pass it along to me for consideration.

Typical of me to make huge changes in my life like this, isn’t it? But it feels so very good to be doing something I love coupled with a topic that is such a core belief for me that it cannot be separated from my pedagogy. Wish me luck!

Several weeks ago I was asked to be an adult participant at one of my former middle schools at their Challenge Day. I had dropped by the school a few weeks prior to Challenge Day and was asked if I would like to be a part of it.

“What is it?” I asked the dean of students who presented it to me.

“It’s hard to explain, but your name came up when we were thinking of who we wanted to invite. It was on Oprah. Did you see that episode?”

“I’m not an Oprah watcher.” I admitted. I didn’t get into all that.

“Well, it’s a nationally recognized program where it’s one day when these two trainers come in and train the adults for 30 minutes before the kids show up. It’s got a lot of activities and it’s meant to help deal with the problems and issues kids have. There is tons of energy and group talking time and we’ve been told to provide all the tissues. Look it up online if you want. You’ll find more information there.”

At this point I was mildly scared but also intrigued. How would these kids, strangers to me and I to them, bond over the course of a day and come to trust me enough to tell me their deepest kept secrets? What could this possibly entail?

I’m glad I wore yoga pants and my running shoes that day. I needed them for all the wild, frenzied physical activities. Dancing, playing volleyball, and basically running around to introduce myself to 100 7th graders who thought that all the adults there had consumed a case of energy drinks that morning in order to be this excited. It wasn’t our fault. The group leader who trained us told the group that whenever they mentioned the phrase, “We’re getting ready to play another game!” we were to act as if we won the lottery or found out that we were going to be the special guest on Oprah or as if we were on the tv show “Extreme Makeover” and we had to show the same excitement those families show when they announce for them to Move. That. Truck. We all did it willingly. Jumping, screaming, clapping. Honestly, we looked like crazed lunatics and wouldn’t you know? It worked. They teach us that in order to get really deep with their feelings we first have to take them really high with our energy.

I regret, however, that I wore mascara that day. Because the tears from everyone flowed and dribbled like a raging river that seemed to have an endless supply of rushing water. It was my own fault, though. I mean, they told us that they’d provide the tissues. I should have known that the waterworks of tears would surge forth.

We’re not supposed to talk about what was discussed that day because it is intensely private and we can’t break confidentiality. The kids in my small group opened up immediately during their concentrated 2-minute talk time. No one in the group is supposed to spend that time speaking except the one who has the floor. There was to be no validation of their feelings, no fixing of their problems, and no interrupting. We all held to that rule. Only one girl spent the entire 2 minutes in tears. She never spoke about what it was she could have shared with us and the other adult leader and I simply offered her tissues and knee pats and it’s okays when we could. There were four kids in my group. Matt, the only boy, was incredibly forthcoming during his 2 minutes. He was such a spaz during the earlier activities that it surprised me as to how sensitive and vulnerable he became.

The games were frenetic and intense. We played a game of volleyball with an enormous blow up ball and the kids, split into two teams, had to stay seated the entire game. Adults lined up around the outside and pushed the ball back into play. We got points for catching the ball and holding onto to it if it came to us and that was hard because the ball was incredibly huge. There was a halftime show where the adult teams had to create a “show” to earn points. Since we only had 30 seconds to come up with it we decided to do the Stanky Leg while they played the song for us and it had been a long time since I made a complete fool of myself in front of strangers, but the kids seemed to love it. They laughed at us and snapped their fingers to the beat and even tried to do the Stanky Leg while they were seated. Let me pause here to say that it looked very much like having a seizure while sitting cross-legged on the floor. None of it, truly, was very pretty to watch. Funny, yes. Pretty, no.

Toward the end of the day we did an activity (a game, and yes, we screamed and clapped and jumped up to express our enthusiasm) that was, apparently, something they did in the movie version of the book “Freedom Writers”. The speaker puts a long piece of tape down the middle of the gym floor (have I mentioned that this took place in a hot, stifling, sweaty, stinky gymnasium?) and reads a series of statements. I believe that it is simply called the Line Game. The statements began benignly enough and became more intense as trust amongst the group members increases. By this time of the day, however, there was an incredible amount of faith in the group.

There is no talking during this ‘game’. No laughing and no joking. If the statement that’s read applies to you, then you simply move to the other side and face everyone who hasn’t moved along with you. In order to provide support we were instructed to show love to those who moved to the other side of the line. Whether it was a smile or a nod or even the sign language for “I love you”, we were to just support. When you’re on the non-moving side and you stay where you are because the proclamations don’t apply to you, then you hold up the “I love you” sign. It says it all. I’m here for you. I see you. I got you. I love you.

It shocked me to see some kids and adults moving across the line. Some of the adults I know as colleagues and I had no idea about the things in their lives that set them to become a moving member of “Challenge Day” and cross the line.

Cross the line if you’ve ever experienced the death of a close family member.

Cross the line if you’ve ever been scared in your neighborhood or even in your home.

Cross the line if you’ve ever heard gunshots.

Cross the line if you’ve ever been homeless.

Cross the line if you’ve ever been bullied. Or even if you have bullied someone else.

Cross the line if you’ve ever experienced abuse.

Cross the line if you’ve ever lived with violence.

Constant movement is going on during this ‘game’. Some people go back and forth multiple times and there were moments when my brain registered the thought, “Safety in numbers” as I watched the bravery and vulnerability of these people. Not just these kids. Or these adults. But, these people. There were tears and sometimes when people moved to the other side a friend would put their arm around them or hold their hand. And, of course, there were signs of “I love you” coming across from the other side. What we all learned was that we have more in common that we thought. You have to reveal some things about yourself in order to see that standing next to you is a person you may have bullied or teased or ignored or been mean to for no good reason. You have to admit your experiences and step out there. Everyone might know, when you do that, that you have shameful episodes in your life and that you have encountered pain and suffering. It is a woefully absent practice in empathy and it’s powerful.

Like everyone else, I moved back and forth across the line. There were times when I didn’t move and stood in my place holding up the “I love you” sign to the kids and adults standing across from me.

There was only one statement for which I was the only person who didn’t move. Everyone else moved over the line and stood there facing me, but I couldn’t lie or fake it, nor would I choose to do so. It surprised me somewhat that I stayed there and it’s not as if there is a lot of time to think deeply about my choices for staying right where I was. Two of the adult friends I knew there, Jenni and Sara, were really the only people who knew why I didn’t move. They both cried while looking directly at me just like I did when I previously saw them on the other side. Do you know that look people give you when they are sorry for what you’re going through? They gave me that look. Even Matt, the young boy who met me mere hours before, saw me standing there alone. He wasn’t directly across from me, but he moved to get there and pushed his way to the front so I could see him. When he arrived he firmly planted his feet and forcefully held his hand up in the air.

“I love you,” he said. Jenni and Sara said it, too. Many other people, mostly strangers, said it as well. They said it with a sign and didn’t speak it out loud at all.

Cross the line if you ever got to have a childhood and be a kid.

I couldn’t move from my spot and I couldn’t cross that line. It wasn’t true for me. I’ve been responsible for so long that I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have burdens and liabilities and functions to perform. Someone else always comes first. Things need to be taken care of. I’ve never known a time when there wasn’t something to do. The I’ll take care of it gene is entirely too strong in me. Be the adult and do the right thing permeate my fibers. And it annoys the shit out of me. Nothing can be done to undo it, either.

But it was healing, even if it was just a little bit, to admit it to them. And it’s a little bit more healing to write it here and share it with you.