Teachable Moment

The students are strapping homemade signs to their bicycles as we wait for the protest parade to begin. The signs say, “Black Lives Matter,” “Justice for George Floyd,” and “I can’t breathe.” Their words blur in the pouring rain.

Lightning cuts bright across the dark morning sky. I hold my breath, counting the seconds before the thunder.

I don’t know anyone. This is not my high school, and these are not my students.

We are told to cycle in front of the cars, to set a slow pace. The students stay slow as we leave the high school parking lot. A police car pulls a U-turn in front of us, then speeds away.

I do not know the route, so I follow the students. After turning right onto Lake City Way, the students’ excitement takes a hold of them and they pedal fast ahead. Before I know it, a girl is in the left lane of the busy road, and a boy is in the right. A car revs its engine and speeds past in between them. I shriek, then shepherd the kids to the shoulder.

A teacher who knows the students catches up and admonishes us to move more slowly so that we are in the safety of the six-feet-apart spaced crowd.

I feel scared. But I have put myself in this situation. I chose to be biking on a busy road. I chose to be outside in a lightning storm. I could make different choices and be safe. I can hold my breath at lightning, knowing I can inhale again.

Rain hits my face as I look at the posters with George Floyd’s face, with the names of the other victims. They did not share my privilege. They were never safe.

“Lauren,” I hear a cheerful voice call.

Waiting at a red light, I turn around and see a friend I hadn’t seen in months ride up on his bicycle. I smile, it is so good to see him, to be out of quarantine for a bit. I prattle on about things that have nothing to do with the protest. I am so excited that I do more talking than listening.

We turn a corner and back track on Lake City Way. Now we see the line of cars that have joined the parade. The line is so long I cannot see the end. The passengers wave signs. The drivers honk their horns and shout out their support.

It becomes too loud to keep up our conversation, and I begin to feel embarrassed about my saccharin chitchat. That because of my white skin, I don’t have to think about race or injustice unless I choose to. When I see the signs with the victims’ faces, I don’t see a resemblance to my own family. I don’t have to live with the fear that my father, mother, sister or brother could be murdered just for their skin color.

The high school is within sight. There are still cars leaving the parking lot, the line of protestors is longer than the entire protest route.

I think of my own high school, only a couple of miles away. How it is so segregated it might as well be the fifties: the honors classes are mostly white students while the general education classes are majority black and brown students.

As a teacher, I have been complacent with the system of tracking that benefits those that already have the most privilege and harms those with the least.

A shout interrupts my thoughts. In front of the school students are shouting chants as a call-and-response. A young girl shouts, “Whose lives matter?” to which the students respond, “Black lives matter!”

The girl’s voice is ragged. She must have been shouting for over an hour and a half. But still, she screams with her whole being, as though she can scream the world into submission, as though she can scream people into acting decent.

I have been complacent with racial injustice in my role as an educator. After years of hearing about systemic injustice and instances of violence, I have acted as though the world is broken beyond repair and there is nothing I can do.

The students pump their fists in the air. They shout together as one voice, full of both anger and hope. They haven’t given up. They believe they can make the world better.

I don’t want to let these kids down. I’ve got to try to do better.

With the pandemic closures, I have more time to reflect upon my career teaching in a racist system. One small action I will do next is to write a series called “White Teacher Fails.” I want to share mistakes I’ve made as a white teacher of POC. I hope that making my mistakes public will spare others harm.