Conversations with my six-year-old daughter typically range from the mind-numbing topics of “if you were a unicorn, what kind of unicorn would you be?” or “when was the first time you spelled the word orange?” or even “how old will I be when my sister is 47?”
But sometimes, there’s a spark of brilliance I didn’t know was possible. Occasionally, we will discuss the idea of heaven, and what she imagines it will be like, or how she feels like God is in her heart; concepts that even I can’t quite grasp, she holds tight and knows them to be definitive.
On May 1, I made the decision to take her to the State House with me for the SC for Ed march. I don’t fancy myself very political, I like to keep my views to myself, and feel like discussing most topics is like a violation of privacy, I don’t often throw my hat into the ring for fear of being controversial, adversarial even. However, as a public educator for the past nine years I couldn’t sit this one out. I couldn’t miss this conversation. I couldn’t let my voice go unheard this time.
The days prior to the rally were tense to say the least. I had a great deal of inner turmoil trying to decide if I should stay at school with my students, or if I should go and do what I could to enact a change that we so desperately need.
On Monday of that week, I decided what would make me feel the happiest would be to stay at school, and let my colleagues represent me while I and many of my fellow teachers who felt the same way “held down the fort” – but, I still wondered, am I doing the right thing? On Tuesday, the decision was made for me; schools were cancelled. I put in my absence, and had one issue left to weigh out.
Do I take my oldest daughter, or do I leave her?
Sure, I could have found a sitter, or left her with a friend. My parents were in town and willing to help. But something told me that I wanted her beside me. After all, wasn’t this rally for her? Wasn’t it for the students and their futures? So, to the best of my ability, I explained to her what we were going to do. It went a little something like this:
“Mommy and a lot of other teachers are going to the State House on Wednesday to show that there are a lot of people who think that the way schools are need to change.”
“What kind of things need to change? I love my school!” she adamantly replied.
“Well, some of classes are little too crowded. We need more guidance counselors like Ms. Terry and Ms. Johnson in our schools. There are a lot of tests you have to take. We need things like more supplies to help you learn. Lots of things could be better.”
“This sounds like an adult conversation, Mama. Can’t we just go to EdVenture?”
I believe, at this moment, I turned on the radio to drown out my thoughts and avoid the conversation. Wednesday morning, as we were getting ready, I told her we were going to wear red.
“Why do we have to wear red, Mama?”
“Red for Ed, sweetie” I replied.
“What’s ‘Ed’?”
“Education, Elizabeth Ann. Just go put on a red shirt, and let’s get going.”
She came out in a brand new red sundress and sandals. I explained to her we were going to be marching. More confusion ensued. An outfit change followed. I continued questioning my decision. I brought her to the crowds, and she was immediately overwhelmed with all the people. I, admittedly, was distracted, trying to find my colleagues, figure out where to go, where to register, and didn’t focus on her for a few moments.
After marching along the perimeter of the State House grounds, she told me this was really far. She told me she was ready to go home, she asked me about 352 times when were leaving. She was enveloped by the crowd, and couldn’t see much of what was going on most of the time. But, she heard me cheering, she heard me clapping, she heard me talking to my friends and colleagues about what was going on. She took it in.
After two hours or so, I finally gave in to her demands, and we left. I did my best to lead her through the crowd of people; many smiling at her in approval, nodding their heads in appreciation. There was a palpable feeling of unity, there was a link between all of us.
In a moment of desperation, I agreed to take her to her favorite restaurant to buy myself a few more minutes at the rally. When we arrived, the line was long, and we made our way to the counter. A family from the school where I teach came in behind us, and the mother began to ask me about my morning. I explained how great it was, while my daughter tugged at my shirt and asked if she could order for herself. At that moment, I began to feel guilty for taking her to the event. She would have rather been at the park, or at home playing, or maybe even at school.
Then, a man in line in front of me asked “What was everyone doing? What was it for? Is it just for teachers to get more pay?”; I did my best to be confident and articulate, and I explained that it was more than that. It was teachers gathering to show that we have a voice, and that things have to change in order to teach our children the way they deserve to be taught. I gave him statistics, I quoted what I had read up on. All the while, she was proudly ordering her lunch and seeming to pay me no mind.
The man in line didn’t really respond, and I tried not to go into too much detail. But, I wanted to be sure, that if he was telling someone, maybe his wife, or his children, about his day that day that he could tell him that he met a teacher, and she explained why they were at the State House.
We walked through the rest of the line, proceeded to get our food and drinks, and sat down. After a few moments of silence between us, which is a rare occurrence, believe me, Elizabeth Ann took a big bite of her favorite meal, and said “Mama, I’m proud of you. I’m glad you’re a teacher.”
Maybe she was listening after all. Maybe she was watching me, just like she always is. Maybe she will remember that day as the time she went with her mother to fight for something that she believed in. And maybe one day she’ll fight for something she believes in too.
