This week, we muddled through our first week back to school. I spent my days sorting, organizing and cataloging books in the library–still disheveled from the book sale we hosted before break–chatting with my co-worker and occasionally popping into classrooms to deliver Lexia awards for students who’ve leveled up. I made plans for resuming literacy interventions, new schedules, new lineups.
This week, on Sunday, the Trump administration invaded Venezuela, abducted the president (dictator?) and his wife….confiscated oil tankers…they say the U.S. will “run Venezuela." We dragged the kids with us to stand on a street corner and hold signs, “No Blood for Oil,” “Imperialism,” “Congress Do Your Job.”
This week, Tuesday night, E had terrible stomach pain and nausea, he couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to be alone, so I sat with him until he was ready to lay down again. The next day, I stayed home with him so he could rest and we could see what his body was up to. I brought stacks of books home to label and we watched Star Wars: The Last Jedi.
This week, on Thursday, after making sandwiches with our 3rd to 6th grade community service club at school, I learned that an ICE agent shot a woman in the face. She'd dropped her six-year-old at school earlier and pulled over to record on with their phone when they saw ICE agents doing their thing, terrorizing an otherwise quiet neighborhood. After shooting the unarmed woman, the agents blocked anyone who sought to give her aid, they did not move their cars for an ambulance to reach her. They let her die and be hoisted out “like a sack of potatoes,” according to one eyewitness. The president and his disciples immediately defended the agents, praised their courage, sent in the FBI to take over the investigation.
This week, on Friday, I joined my friend and pastor to hand out breakfast bags and sandwiches to unhoused folks downtown. We talked about how excited our kids were for her son’s birthday party that evening, “N says he likes Minecraft and 6-7,” I told her. She laughed, “That’s accurate.” I wondered aloud whether I was feeling nausea because I’d caught E’s tummy bug or because of our world right now. I went straight home to make a sign, “GET. ICE. OUT.” I thought I would go to a demonstration after heading back up to the school for a couple of meetings. But before I was in the car a text chimed: “N has a 101.1 fever and needs to go home.” “I’m on my way,” I typed back.
This week, on a seemingly endless Friday, I was once again home with a sick kid. She wanted to know if she could still go to the birthday party and cried and cried when I said no. I made her a nest on the couch and rummaged the cupboard for an off-brand Gatorade pouch, turning on Winnie the Pooh to soothe her while I called into the meetings I was missing. Once I was free, we snuggled and I asked her what she thought about when she felt sad for missing the party? What had she been looking forward to? She had a picture in her mind of ice skating with her friend, having fun. “It’s so disappointing,” I said, “I wonder what we can do here that will feel good.”
I wanted to exercise and to work, but she wasn’t interested in playing alone. We built a magnetic tile amusement park and let our characters loose in it. She created a preschool of dolls (and me) and taught us to read and write, “to” and “the.” She was patient through our mistakes. I’m not used to spending a lot of time sitting and playing and making believe. I looked at the sign I’d made early, lying uselessly on the couch. I surreptitiously checked my phone for updates on socials and news apps. I looked at my daughter, so absorbed in the world she’d made, so satisfied with our shared presence and I reminded myself to let go. I reminded myself that what I work for, what people fight for and die for was happening right here and now. I was in my own home. I was holding my child’s heartache with her, fostering her joy, being present and alive for her.
This week, I read that Israel has killed over 420 Palestinians–despite a so-called ceasefire–Moms, Dads, children, newlyweds, all brimming with life and possibility before having it abruptly, brutally crushed. When I make the mistake of reading facebook comments, there are a nauseating amount of people who postulate perversely about who deserves to live, to die, to mourn. Some do it carefully, equivocating, but most are coarse and callous untroubled by their casual acceptance of cruelty; thinking perhaps they are funny or tough or clever while very evidently being none of the above. I confess, it is very tempting for me to insinuate that these are the people who should by lying in mass graves, or under rubble, or left to bleed out in their cars. But that type of logic defies the bedrock point: no one deserves that. There is no “should” for such violence, no justification exists that is right or reasonable or will ever result in any good. It is the very attempts to justify that are as revolting as the acts themselves. There is a gaping lack of reverence for lives lost if those lives don’t mirror your own values or promote your own agenda.
I’m writing this on Saturday morning. Our kids are excited to be “king for the day.” The traditional way we celebrate Epiphany in our pseudo-Catholic house–whoever gets a slice of cake with a baby hidden inside is king. This year they decided to share the honor. I don’t know what will happen today, but I’m here for it. I hope they will be just and merciful rulers.
