What song was it?

I miss having time to read and write. I miss my kids. Nicolai is graduating from college in two weeks. Gabriel has decided, after freshman year, that college is not for him. He thought about being a truck driver because he likes to drive. I once wanted to be a truck driver too. Contemplating the life of open road and truck-stop diners — and realizing that only one of these is appealing. Sabrina finished her sophomore year and went right into doing research this summer, I won’t see her until late August.

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A few weeks ago my students took the SBAC Performance Task (PT). We had to do a classroom activity prior to them taking the computer-based PT.

The main purpose of the classroom activity is to ensure that all students have a common understanding, at a minimal level, of the contextual elements of a PT topic so they are not disadvantaged in demonstrating the skills the task intends to assess.

One of my 6th graders sounded rhetorical, “Don’t we all know what a video game is.”

I heard the unspoken agreement among her classmates. This was unfettered privilege, I thought. Then I remembered something and told them this quick story.

I was already two years out of college and teaching middle school science. Our large district offered a 3-day science workshop — retreat style at the breathtaking Silver Falls Lodge. Two deer came out as if to greet me when I pulled into a parking space. Our first meeting was an evening of social gathering in the cozy Smith Creek Meeting Hall. I knew fewer than a handful of people. The program director took the mic and welcomed us. He said we should sing a song together to begin our fun-filled days of science workshopping. As a way to bond, he added. Everyone agreed and almost immediately broke into chorus. Everyone but me. I just didn’t know the words to the song. Nor have I ever heard of the song. The singing seemed to have gone on for much too long while I stood small and insignificant. I felt like a foreigner. All over again.

One student asked, “What song was it?” I replied, “I don’t know. I didn’t know it then, so…” I ended by telling my students that the director had assumed everyone knew the song. Who we are and what we know are our privileges. Everyone in here may know what a video game is, but we shouldn’t always assume that.

Gabriel — my possible future truck driver — reminded me once that not all his friends lived in homes and apartments. His friend was living in someone’s garage.

Privilege

The word privilege is being spoken and written many times over. Within the past couple of years I’m seeing and hearing privilege used in an undeniably distinct context. (Or it could be that I was unknowingly and partially deaf and blind to this context.) The word is written on cardboard signs, on people’s faces — and no matter what surface it’s on, the impact it has seems unbearable to the canvas that holds it.

I was organizing my classroom yesterday, putting away new supplies, tossing out items that I’d kept for too long. I have enough paperclips to last me two more lifetimes. Elmer’s glue bottles and glue sticks fill up an entire shelf. Same with staples and pattern blocks. And why would I get mad at a kid for not having his pencil — I have a shitload of pencils. I remember feeling a vague sense of shame of not having certain school supplies when I was in grade school. I remember mashing up rice to use as glue.

Kevin was a black teacher-turned administrator at my former school. When his second daughter was born (maybe 15 years ago), he said, “I thank God I have daughters. It’s hard for a black boy to grow up in this country.”

My husband is white. It never occurred to me how white he is until we were walking the streets of southern Vietnam. People looked at us (much more at him than at me) with foreign expressions. I felt safe with him by my side. Although I had no reason to not feel safe. I was back in my homeland — unknown to everyone around me — yet I was thankful to have a personal bodyguard because Hey, I’m with the big white dude.

Graham Smith, age 11. Me, age 11. He said to me, “Go back to your country.” I actually didn’t understand what he said, my Vietnamese girlfriend provided the translation. His expression matched what she said. I’m terrible with remembering even just first names. But I remember Graham Smith.

Michael missed the bus and had no other ride home. I went to the office to see if I may have permission to take Michael home. My vice-principal, Mr. M, reminded me, “Fawn, he just threatened you last week! And no, you may not transport a student.” (Right, when I sent Michael out of my classroom, he said he wished he had a gun.) I said something like, “I don’t think he has a gun on him though. C’mon, I’ll sign whatever papers. The kid needs a ride home.” Realizing that I was ignorant of the teacher handbook, Mr. M got up from behind his desk and approached me, close enough so he could whisper, “A young Asian teacher should not take a black kid home.” I never thought that statement appeared in the teacher handbook, but what struck me was Mr. M, himself a black man, was saying this.

One year the housing committee at my college decided to move our entire floor of student residents to a different building on the other side of campus because it needed our floor for the football players to move in. Upset, I went to the school’s newspaper in hoping they’d give us a louder voice of protest. Near the end of our conversation, the interviewer said to me, “You are very beautiful. For a Vietnamese.”

Poor. Refugee. Gook. Boat people. Foreigner. Young. Asian. Vietnamese.

It’s been a quiet storm for me.

It’s been a violent storm for others.

It was a fatal storm for Michael Brown.

I close my eyes and take your hand. We ride this storm together, and this shall be my privilege.