No Problem

Board games, homemade pretzels, and a couple of good books, Winter Break, that oasis in the middle of the year of public education, is winding down, and as it does I look back over the mounds of crinkled wrapping paper, the soot in the fireplace, and more holiday dishes than anyone should ever have to wash up, and I’m overcome with gratitude.

…and…

Cleaning the garage, taking the elderly cat to the vet, and the car to the shop, Winter Break is more than just hot chocolate and gingerbread. These two weeks away from work offer the obligations of life a chance to get resolved. They’re an opportunity to go to the gym, catch up on laundry, and whittle away at the to do list that has spent the fall growing from a seedling into a stout tree.

Both relaxing and getting work done is a balance as tough to find (for me anyway) as the missing bulb in a string of lights, and it’s something to strive for during these short days and cold nights. For the kids, the freedom from homework, the luxury of late wake ups, and ample time to go to the movies or read a novel for fun have made the two weeks heaven. For us over forty crowd, just having time to connect, whether going for a walk around the lake or covertly wrapping presents in the bedroom, is time to be savored.

This year my folks visited us here in Oregon. In their eighties, they brought a very grounded energy to the house. While the rain fell and a fire popped and flickered in the fireplace, we played King in the Corner (a card game my own grandma had taught me), watched the cats explore new laps, and listened to music.

Screen Shot 2018-12-29 at 8.01.13 PMOn this winter’s playlist was No Problem, a 1980 album by the Chet Baker Quartet. Listening to Baker’s horn, Norman Fearrington’s deft drumming, Duke Jordan’s piano, and the heartbeat of Niels-Henning Ørsted Pedersen’s bass is a lesson in cool. No Problem is no Kind of Blue or Take Five, but the album’s easy sound felt perfect this December.

As comfortable as the quartet sounded together, I know that to make music that swings with such a relaxed gate doesn’t happen easily. Their work in the practice room, the years of experience each musician brought to the sessions, and the confidence that comes from knowing that preparations are complete are the ingredients needed for such a success.

To sound as relaxed as No Problem only happens after hours and hours (and hours and hours and hours) of anything but relaxed preparation. Gold from sweat, that sort of thing. Kind of like being an educator.

I hope my fellow teachers, counselors, administrators, and staff are preparing to return to school renewed and rested, ready to embrace the opportunities that 2019 will offer. What those will be is anybody’s guess.

Some, I’m sure, will conform to that old Edison quotation: “opportunity is missed by most people because it comes dressed in overalls looking like hard work.” The peace that comes from Winter Break may just provide the space I need to welcome that overall clad possibility when it walks into my office.

Other opportunities will, I hope, come from some of the seeds planted this fall, as the fruits of early labors begin to appear in the spring thaw. Good friends and creative colleagues, students, and families will present other opportunities, and I’ve been in the business long enough to know that these personal invitations to make a difference often matter the most. A few may come about out of tension and stress; these opportunities to solve a problem or turn something around are often the hardest and most rewarding.

Like a good jazz album, for any results to be positive I understand that I need to bring the right mindset to my work, an openness to improvisation, and a willingness to work hard. This isn’t easy, not always, but …Winter Break.

I return to school in a different mental space than I when left campus a couple of weeks ago. Will the second half of the year be without challenges or heartbreak? I’d be foolish to promise as much. Will the new year bring stress, and tears, and lots of hard work? Almost certainly so. But looking ahead, to the start of a new semester, a spring of unexpected adventures, and on to graduation in June, I feel buoyed by Winter Break and ready for what is to come.

And my answer to those inevitable difficulties, that hard work, and the surprises that don’t bring good news, I hope will be delivered with the ease and optimism that comes only after lots of preparation and the right state of mind, the kind of practice that Chet Baker et al. brought to the album of my season. I enter the year with confidence (but as little hubris as I can muster) and my answer to those challenges of 2019, said with hope, a belief in good, and quiet determination will be: no problem.

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“Be kind like Rahul and confident like Ruby”

As the dad of an extroverted ten year old boy and thoughtful thirteen year old girl, with a wife with a clear sense of perspective, there isn’t much to watch on TV that we all agree on. Sure, Doctor Who is a hit, but truth be told my wife sneaks peeks at her computer while the TARDIS is hurtling through time and space. When the kids were younger Expedition Unknown was a winner, though once she realized Josh never finds what he’s after my oldest’s interest cooled appreciably. When the World Series was on three of the four of us were up to watch a few games, but for consistency the only series that always wins the day is The Great British Baking Show.

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Together we’ve binged the show, side by side on the couch, popcorn in hand all this fall, and over Thanksgiving break together we devoured the most recent season.

What strikes me about The Great British Baking Show is its overwhelming sense of kindness. On the show, beneath a literal big tent, contestants from across the UK bake and bake and bake everything from familiar shortbreads to exotic and odd dishes out of British history.

It’s a competition, but not as cutthroat as many American cooking programs seem to be. Over the weeks contestants strive to do their best, but can be seen helping each other, encouraging each other, and presenting a sense of camaraderie that swells up to meet the tears and heartbreak that comes under pressure.

Everyone is welcome in the baking tent. Age, ethnicity, sexual orientation, physical differences, choices in style, the diversity of all these make a richer picture of humanity, even as all are focused on creating art …edible art, of course… and participating in what comes across as a grand adventure and rollicking good time.

But that good time isn’t without hardship. No one can bake perfectly every time, and whether it’s mixing up salt and sugar or making an ambitious attempt that falls short, there’s something metaphoric in these bakers’ onscreen world. On The Great British Baking Show, as in life, everyone wants to do well, has doubts, fails, and has the ability to come back.

A sensitive lot, it’s not unusual for contestants show tears after being told they didn’t do well, but over and again they gather themselves and “crack on.”

My kids, seeing these tears, pursed lips, and determined nods saw in the bakers something from their own lives. While they haven’t been told specifically that their doughnuts are over decorated or their biscuits too wobbly, they have been in school for years and have felt that sense of sadness and frustration in subjects that don’t involve sugar or spice.

How healthy then for them to see adults, some like them, some wildly different, wrestle with disappointment. How great too that they see other adults around them supportive, generous, and kind. “It’s just baking” was a refrain from more than one contestant, and while it is, maybe for those of us watching it was also something more.

For educators like me, sentimental and sometimes silly, The Great British Baking Show offered some lessons I’ll take back to my work next week.

The two professional bakers making the decisions about who won and lost offered judgement that was honest (I think. Heck, I can’t taste the cakes). Criticism seemed tough, but was often accompanied by encouraging words (the sponge may be doughy, but the mango passion fruit hazelnut ganache, or whatever it is they’re talking about, tastes great). Contestants took the feedback with a nodding sense of acceptance, knowing, I think, that it was delivered in such a way as to guide them to better things.

The critique that was offered was always specific and situational, meaning they may have burned those biscuits, but the next bake has the potential for greatness. Leaving the amateur bakers with hope was as important as pointing out that the puff pastry leaked butter on the pan.

Screen Shot 2018-11-24 at 2.18.31 PMWhen the hosts, two generous hearted comedians, Noel Fielding and Sandi Toksvig, announced the “star baker” they seemed to do so with pride, and when they had to say who came out on the bottom they exhibited caring, even as they broke the news. Hugs ensued.

Even more, the hosts showed an ability to insert humor into the high stress situations of the baking competition. With a hug or clever comment they helped crack the tension and allowed the contestants to breathe, laugh, and regroup. Like great teachers (and counselors, and secretaries, and even principals) they showed that laughter can help create an atmosphere where progress is possible. Without humor, without heart, it would just be a competition. We seem to have enough of that. It was a clear lesson for folks like me who have the opportunities to bring balance to what can be a high stress world of middle and high school.

I’d be naive to imagine that every day at school could be The Great British Baking Show, but the spirit of the program, the exuberance, celebration of differences, and kindness on display are things that I can take to my work and encourage in those around me.

Screen Shot 2018-11-24 at 2.22.09 PMAnd then, at bedtime on the night we watched the final of the last season, I overheard my wife talking with my kids and I realized that it was more than just communal TV time or one sentimental educator’s musings on how to apply something he saw over vacation to school.

My wife and kids were talking about the people they’d been introduced to throughout the program: painter Terry, whose artistic vision (he did a 3D face sculpture?!?!) outpaced the time allowed on almost any challenge; Dan’s love for baking for his partner and his kids, and joy in this opportunity to break out of the under-appreciated challenge of being a stay at home parent; Kim-Joy, who my son observed would be a natural at my little art school; and the welcoming couple who’d taken Rahul as one of their own family when he emigrated from India.

Their pyjama conversation was about those little moments when as an audience we were reminded that The Great British Baking Show isn’t about baking, it’s about humans.

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And my wife, who is far wiser than I am, and far, far more able to connect and make a meaningful point brought it back to our own kids when she told them: “Be kind like Rahul and confident like Ruby.”

Good advice for us all.

After Issue #200

WARNING: This post is about Moon Knight. For my constant reader looking for education related content, a peek at the history of my school, or some sort of musing about being a principal, stop reading now. Come back in a week and you’ll find a post on teaching and learning, or ACMA, or art. That said, to anyone willing to swoop into this post on their glider capes, I whisper “welcome” through my cowl mic and up to the moon copter. I hope for you, maybe, this post inspires a nod of acknowledgement to a nerdy kindred spirit.

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They’re cancelling Moon Knight again. As a fan, and an avid one at that, I should be bothered I suppose, but having weathered the decades long starts and fits of the silver and jet avenger I half shrugged when I heard the news, vowed to enjoy the final couple of issues of the very strange current run, and pick up the collection from the Sienkiewcz and Moench years that comes out in January.

199By then someone new will have thought about what to do with my favorite superhero, made a pitch to Marvel, and started plotting the next incarnation of the Fist of Khonshu. Perhaps it will even be good.

For any devoted Spiderman fans, a monthly (or some decades even weekly) issue of their fellow’s comic book has been a steady staple since 1963. Peter Parker was slinging webs long before I was born, and looks to do so uninterrupted long into the future.

Moon Knight?

Starts. Fits.

Sure, Moon Knight is a little weird. Resurrected by an Egyptian god, multi-personalitied, a bit more violent than a good superhero should be, Moon Knight makes Bruce Wayne look well adjusted.

And…

Screen Shot 2018-10-03 at 10.37.53 AMHe’s a masked vigilante with a (mostly) steady love interest, a daughter, and a slew of charismatic friends. With the exception of the exceptional Ellis and Shalvey run, Moon Knight is more interconnected with real world characters than most folks who wear capes. Diner owner Gina and her boys, Frenchie and his partner, Crawley and the flies buzzing around his shaggy head, Moon Knight’s world is populated by diversity and rich with possibilities.

That his three personas don’t always get along, his relationship with his god is unhealthy more often than not, and his relationship with Marlene (a complex character in her own right who has only begun to be explored) is as complicated as it is may be part of the reason for the interrupted history of a character not easy to pin down.

There are those who say they’d like to see Moon Knight in a movie or a Netflix series. I guess, but which Moon Knight?

Maybe it’s my age, but I’ve come to realize that I care less about hoping for an incomplete cinematic version of Moon Knight and more about the next incarnation of the Fist of Khonshu that will show up in a comic book.

That could be a few months from now, or a few years from now. And that’s okay.

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What does any of this have to do with anything? My very kind frequent readers know that my posts tend toward celebrating something positive or trying to make sense of something a little less so. This little ditty, they’ll comment, is just about Moon Knight.

Yes, and…

I think that there is something in my attitude toward this quirky hero that holds true for life writ large.

MKIn this world, the real one, not just the Marvel universe, there are cancellations and interruptions. There are optimistic beginnings, difficult endings, and lots and lots of weird stuff in between. There are days that the world feels wrong. There are days it seems to soar.

And time after time, when the universe hasn’t quite turned out like we wish it had, or we’re looking out the window after something important has ended, we find that just outside is something new, some wild creative approach that we never thought about and now can hardly wait to see happen.

Life, especially a creative life, isn’t always constant, or easy, or uninterrupted. Joy cycles through life, waning and waxing, dark always replaced by illuminationkind of like the moon.

Off the Grid

It was 100 degrees out and the water in the North Santiam felt like heaven. Rushing by, sun sparkling off the rapids, the river was much as I remembered it from fishing trips in high school. It was mid-July and my son and I had packed up the tent, his fishing pole, and some snacks his mother would frown on, and headed into the woods for a summer camping trip.

For educators like me, July is an opportunity to renew, disconnect (at least for a bit), and take a deep breath between the crazy rush of graduation and the exciting potential of the first day of school.

July is for educators what Tintern Abbey was for Wordsworth.

Describing that place of nature and retreat, and what it meant to him in the long time he spent away from Tintern Abbey, Wordsworth told readers of his poem:

These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and ‘mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration…”

Like that old English poet, I know I’ll look back on this trip to the river and feel “sensations sweet” during those “hours of weariness” that find us all “‘mid the din” of our workaday world.

One of the biggest differences between July and the rest of the year is pace. There is certainly work to be done, both tying up loose ends from the year before and planning for the year ahead, but for many of us this middle month of summer allows time for reflection, learning, and a refocusing on what really matters. That’s a lot easier to do in the middle of a forest than it is at a desk or amidst the rush of daily life.

Being someplace where my phone displayed those marvelous vacationary words “No Service” meant not only an opportunity to spend time with my son, but also a chance to put the outside world on hold for a few days, put energy into building a fire, finding the best way down to the river, and exploring the world without computerized navigation.

Unplugging for a while helped me shake off the stresses of incoming email and piles of work to be done. I knew I’d get back to those emails and that work soon enough, but separating from them allowed me the energy and perspective to do so with a clearer head and focused mind.

For all of us who work with students, a time away from campus can help refresh and renew us in a way that nothing else can. Knee deep in the river, looking up at towering evergreens and a sky so blue it feels like it’s from a song, I was reminded of myself as a person, not just a principal. Paradoxically, by August I think that will make me a better principal.

As I sat by the North Santiam watching my son tangle his line in the rocks, sentimental fool that I am I thought of Tintern Abbey and knew that:

…here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years.”

I hope educators, and students too, everywhere are able to have a few Tintern Abbey moments this summer and return to school in the fall rested and filled with renewing memories.

Star Wars Nerds

Screen Shot 2018-07-10 at 6.35.26 PMI met Darth Vader in the lobby of a car dealership in 1978. He strode in, large as life, black cape trailing behind him, uttered a few words to the collected youngsters, and left us each with an autographed picture. It was awesome.

The world has changed around us since the late 1970s and my encounter with the not quite so ominous Sith Lord, something that’s as true in public education as it is in life.

For my own son, just a little older now than I was when I met Darth Vader, Star Wars means Legos, video games, and plastic lightsaber battles with friends on the lawn. Looking back on my simple but sturdy action figures I know that the notion of Star Wars Battlefront or a realistic laser sword that extends when you flick it open would have blown my eight year old mind. For my son those are part of his childhood landscape.

I got a glimpse into his more modern world last month during my son’s 10th birthday party. My wife is the master of kid parties, ice cream cakes, crafts, and favor bags that drop jaws. My minor role ever since we started putting on kidstravaganzas has been scavenger hunts. Drawing on years of Pirate Weeks and Space Weeks, I put together clues and ciphers that led the kids from one place to the next in pursuit of a final prize. At this birthday party, one stop on the hunt involved the boys putting together a puzzle of Poe Dameron, then realizing they needed to flip the completed puzzle over to read the next clue which had been scrawled on the back in Sharpie.

As my son and his friends hunted for pieces and fit them together I overheard them talking. “I’m a Star Wars nerd,” my son said before joining a chum in a detailed juxtaposition of the new trilogy and the original.

What would they think about meeting someone dressed in a Darth Vader costume at a car lot?

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Like my son and his friend, I’ll confess to being a self identified “Star Wars nerd.” I’m mature enough to not get worked up by the new movies, or even the prequels. I watched Solo in the theater and enjoyed it. I’m forgiving when it comes to Star Wars stories (from the old comic books to the next generation of films) because it seems to me that every step along the way they celebrate imagination.

The power of imagination is something that can transform a Toyota dealership into a viable place to meet a space villain. It can make a scavenger hunt at a birthday party feel like an adventure worthy of Sherlock Holmes. It makes childhood magical, and has the potential to make education relevant, fun, and engaging.

Sometimes I think: maybe school is not enough like Star Wars.

Rediscovering that autographed 8 x 10 back in a dusty box in my parents’ garage prompted the memory of what it felt like to be a kid and to be moved by the unexpected. I realize as an adult that surprises like that don’t happen by accident. My folks had gone out of their way to take me down to the car dealership. Someone had worked hard to make sure that Darth Vader was tall, looked and sounded “real,” and would leave every kid with something they could keep. At our best, we educators do something similar.

We work hard, we plan, and we ask ourselves how we can inspire and engage our students. When we’re successful we see our kids connect to the material and with each other. We see growth and wonder. We leave them with something that matters.

Emphasizing the imagination in our classrooms and at our schools (our students’ and our own) has the potential of improving our kids’ engagement with classes and community. Celebrating the imagination, whether it’s through a class project, a school activity, or an artistic enterprise is a way of helping our students see what is possible, know what they create matters, and understand that they can make a difference. This matters now more than ever.

Increasingly the stress of the world encroaches on our campuses. The news brings word of threats from a thousand directions, and whether it’s student protests or increased incidents of kids contemplating self harm, the reactions from our kids are real.

Recently my son and I watched The Last Jedi, an epic that merged my Star Wars and his. There were Luke, Leia, and Chewbacca. There were Rey, Finn, and Kylo Ren. And sure nostalgia made me happy when I saw Yoda, that marvelous puppet, on screen, but it was when I heard the wisdom of a new hero that I was most moved.

Intrepid Rose, that splendidly brave soul, after saving fellow hero Finn’s life, reminded him that the way forward was “not fighting what we hate, but saving what we love.”

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Words far more relevant than a long time ago or a galaxy far, far away, and how wonderful that they weren’t said by another white male character.

Like my son, I’m a Star Wars nerd, and with him I value the wonder of a child meeting Darth Vader, the imagination of putting together Legos, and the perspective that we live in a complicated world made better when we put our focus on what, and those, we love.

Summer Dinosaurs

Summer here, it’s time for some must needed renewal. Even for those of us who love what we do, education is a profession that demands energy. To do it well means not scrimping on engagement, taking time to do things right, and giving of ourselves in the service of something great. The pace, never slack, seems to pick up as the school year rolls on, bursting into an outright sprint by the time April turns into May.

This wild rumpus is amazing, filled with adventure and often the unexpected. But sometimes, as emotions run high and the rush of the world makes it difficult to keep perspective, those adventures take us to places where the opportunities to make a difference feel more like climbing a mountain than walking on the beach.

Lost WorldSummer means beaches.

For me, in addition to the literal visit to the coast, renewal comes from familiar quarters. Family. Good books. Time in nature.

A recent trip to Lincoln City provided just that renewal. Poking around a little used bookstore I happened upon a book that had dodged my reading life for decades. I’m a confessed Sherlock Holmes fanatic; from my easy chair I’ve enjoyed hours on the moors with Arthur Conan Doyle tracking the footprints of a gigantic hound, but I realized that I’d never formally met Professor Challenger, the hero of his 1912 potboiler about a plateau in South America where the Jurassic Period never ended, The Lost World.

It was time to chase some dinosaurs.

Now pterodactyl pursuit is not an activity for the school year. Too many pulls on time and real life stresses vie for attention. The real world gets in the way of many a ripping good yarn.

Being a principal means finding a way to display fortitude while discovering renewal in little gulps. The long days and daily responsibilities, as positive as they can be and as filled with possibility as they often are, demand attention, and the reality of knowing that at any minute the phone might ring with news from campus or our school community. This could cut short a night out, or turn a weekend into a workday.

But, ah, summer.

Summer is a time for dinosaurs.

So I put aside planning for a long afternoon, left off the work that I’ll be better able to tackle with the fresh perspective that comes from a little time away, and left the bookstore with a paperback of The Lost World.

Back on the beach I read Doyle’s epigraph:

I have wrought my simple plan
    If I give one hour of joy
To the boy who’s half a man,
    Or the man who’s half a boy.”

How important it is for those of us who work with kids to allow ourselves to revisit the feeling of youth. Taking care of ourselves is not always something we educators do best, though to be our best selves it’s something we need to do.

Sometimes that’s time with family, a hike, or paddling a kayak. Sometimes it’s allowing ourselves to follow footprints in the sand that might belong to a gigantic hound …or maybe a dinosaur.

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Internment

“Inside an old warehouse in South Texas, hundreds of immigrant children wait in a series of cages…” -Associated Press, June 18, 2018

One of the most powerful conversations I ever had as a principal was with Tak Sugimoto, an alumnus of a high school where I worked, who had been interned as a boy in the 1940s. His family was of Japanese descent, and in the height of post Pearl Harbor fear they were taken from their homes in Encinitas, California and placed in custody in an internment camp in Poston, Arizona. He described what education was like there: a makeshift school, students under terrific stress, and a system that punished families for simply being of a non-white heritage deemed threatening by the government.

Poston

A hearty nonagenarian, Tak brought a profound wisdom to the telling of his story, and an unexpected sense of peace that was decades in the making. The corrupt nature of Japanese internment, the systemic racism, and the nation’s cruelty had wounded him, but not broken him; he lived now a strong, balanced man. Experiences like those he described had destroyed other families, ruined childhoods, and been a high water mark for intolerance and governmental cruelty. When I talked with him two years ago, he was optimistic that his country had learned from those mistakes.

As Tak spoke, I thought back to my friend Doug Kamon, whose parents met in a different internment camp, The Gila River War Relocation Center in the middle of another Arizona desert. At the end of every year we worked together Doug would present his family’s story, providing our students his own familiar face, making the details of this tragic time even more immediate to them. As Doug talked about his young parents and his grandparents, not all of whom survived the camps, students sat silently, listening to this man they knew so well and his connection to a past some would choose to forget. Many students found it hard to believe that Poston or Gila River could really have happened in the United States. More than a few considered themselves lucky that they didn’t live in times like those.

Both Tak and Doug’s parents were interned with their families. They struggled under harsh conditions and did their best to survive a system that marginalized them for no reason other than their ethnicity. In school in the camps the kids from the Sugimoto and Kamon families did their best in an environment filled with stress and anxiety, and went home to parents who could hold them tight and reassure them that they had the strength to persevere. These were terrible times, but they were together.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve thought a lot about these stories, and imagined what it might be like for the kids who don’t have parents to comfort them in times of duress. As an educator I know the importance of supporting every student, both academically and when it comes to mental health. It’s common knowledge that students face very real challenges, wrestle with complicated emotions, and struggle to stay healthy in US schools. Most of these students have adults to go home to and a greater sense of certainty than those kids whose home life is so uncertain. For kids who are deprived of that support, the risk of both short and long term harm is profound.

There are times when I feel helpless in effecting change beyond the walls of my own school. Here I can get to know kids and families, I can encourage kindness, build systems that promote care, and potentially make a difference. Even with all that, sometimes it’s really difficult.

In the greater world, where I am a participant, not a leader, I feel even more challenged when faced with situations that put kids in harm’s way. I am not a lawmaker, and as much as I write them, I struggle sometimes to believe that my voice matters. I do my best to stay optimistic, but seeing tragedy rise unexpectedly and impact kids keeps me up at night. Literally.

Willa Cather captured my anxiety when she wrote:

When kindness has left people, even for a few moments, we become afraid of them, as if their reason had left them. When it has left a place where we have always found it, it is like shipwreck; we drop from security into something malevolent and bottomless.”

“When kindness has left people…” What a terrible phrase. “When it has left a place where we have always found it…”

I want so much to believe that kindness can return, where we can all feel secure and not “drop into something malevolent and bottomless.”

Then I remember Tak and I hope.

I hope, and I wonder. Seventy years from now, who will be the alumnus who talks with a principal about her experience with internment? Will she have Tak’s wisdom or perspective? Will she share his strength? What will her story say about the the country that imagines itself to be a place where one can always find kindness?

A lack of kindness underscores the stories of Japanese internment that I know. There was a time when heartlessness toward others, describing them as something less than human, informed our country’s willingness to lock away the innocent. Tak was a kid, not a spy. Doug’s parents weren’t threats; they were people doing their best.

As an educator I need to believe that we learn, we all can learn, from our mistakes. I need to hold hope as a value, and live as if kindness is stronger than cruelty. In those shipwreck days I’m wise to look to survivors for inspiration, focus on nurturing kindness in every way I can, and be willing to reflect on what more can be done to help.

Reality is powerful. Optimists sometimes doubt. Internment of children is internment of children. Hope will win the day.

I hope.