"A Teachable Moment

         I enjoy substitute teaching because it changes almost daily. I completely control the schools where I work, the grade levels I teach, and even the teachers I sub for. Sometimes, my days don’t progress as smoothly as I’d hoped, but most of the time I enjoy the fact that I get to satisfy the educator within me.

         A few weeks ago, the assignment I took turned out to be different from what was “advertised”. Instead of teaching a fifth-grade class for the entire day, I found myself changing grades every ninety minutes. I started with the older kids and ended my day with first graders. When a principal makes this kind of modification to the schedule, I simply go with the flow. I don’t mind a little unexpected variety to my day.

         When I arrived at a second-grade class, the teacher instructed me to finish a science activity she had in progress and then to shift the students into a social studies lesson. It wasn’t long before I projected the text on a lesson about Phillis Wheatley. I read to the class that she was taken from her family and home in Africa and brought to the states as a slave when she was seven or eight years old.

         And the assignment within the book stopped at that moment.

         “What do you mean, Mrs. Chapman?” one girl asked. “Were her mom and dad with her?”

         “No. She was brought to the United States and sold to a family in Boston.”

         “But she was little. Like us.”

         My eyes smarted. My throat constricted. “I know.”

       The same little girl continued in disbelief, “But weren’t there those things back then to protect her?”

         “Things?”

         “Those things. Rules. Rules that say you couldn’t do that.”

         “Laws? You mean laws?” My heart weighed down.

         Every educator hits those points in instruction that whatever you say becomes a lesson that the children will carry with them, possibly for a very long time. The lecture or instruction becomes unique and pulls away from text or curriculum. We refer to this as a teachable moment.

         “Our laws are supposed to protect people, but some laws were unjust. Wrong.”

         Another student joined in, “So the laws let people have slaves? How could that happen?”

         Another boy popped out of his seat, “My dad had me Google slavery! We read all of this stuff together. But you know what it all came down to?” He drew a huge dollar sign in the air, “Money!”

         The classroom teacher slipped into the room as he made this proclamation. She couldn’t ignore the tears that smarted my eyes as I continued speaking about the concept of chattel and repeating again that just because something was legal didn’t mean it was right or just. From her vantage in the back of the room, she listened as this room of seven and eight-year-old children grasped that these horrendous happenings occurred to someone close to their own age.

         I glanced down at my schedule and realized I needed to move onto the next class on my list. As I gathered my tote, I listened to the kids bombard their teacher with more questions and knew she’d chuck the remainder of her lesson.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Fear is the Mind-killer”

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” 

Frank Herbert--Dune

          When in my twenties, I carried this litany from Dune in my wallet. Faced with living alone for the first time in a new place while attending college, my personal anxieties dogged me. On bad days while riding the shuttle to early morning classes, I would whisper these words. When I worried that I wasn’t as smart as everyone else thought, this recitation calmed my soul.

          When in my thirties, I carried this litany (now worn and faded) as solace whenever I felt I failed as a wife, mother, daughter or sister. The dread of not measuring up to the expectations of my principals or peers wrapped me into doubts that eased if I chanted this invocation. 

          When in my forties, my father died. The world tilted. I faced one of my worst fears and survived. Somehow, carrying the little scrap of paper seem unnecessary. The words, permanently etched in memory, offered comfort and soothed my grief. 

          When in my fifties, my life narrowed down into the nightmares of my mother’s Huntington’s disease. Every day filled with uncertainties as I dealt with the horrific symptoms of this disorder. To be honest, I hid from many of my fears. I wasted energy running away from them. I forgot the power of permitting them “to pass over me and through me.” 

          Now I begin my sixties. And I need to carry these assurances with me once again. I’m printing them out on a crisply new piece of paper and folding them into my wallet. Although committed to memory forty years ago, I need them to be concretely within my grasp. I face a different challenge today as a madman dictates our political reality. I must not let his mental illness paralyze my ability to reason and resist.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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"He Wasn't Cruel"

He wasn’t cruel—

         But he owned her

Possessed her body

         (not her soul-for she had none)

She was a toy for his whims

         A reward dangled before his sons

He demeaned her through his subjugation

         Degraded her

                  Kept her impotent and isolated

Took her hope and sold it to the highest bidder

He wasn’t cruel—

         But he denied her the power of choice

Stripped her to the bones of despair

         Controlled her mind

                  Consumed her life

Yes,

         He wasn’t cruel

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“What’s in a Name?”

         I unexpectedly found myself deep in the morass of racism last night when one of my in-laws posted a Wikipedia link about Robert E. Lee. She proclaimed that one of our local high schools bearing the general’s name shouldn’t have its name changed.

        Her argument was that Lee fought honorably for “states’ rights.” When I and another family member pointed out that he led secession from the United States to protect the immoral act of slavery, she countered that he struggled with the issue and felt states’ rights to allow citizens to own slaves superseded the rights of those slaves. She rationalized that slavery wasn’t even the main issue, but that economics drove the states to draw up their declarations. Then she added the statement that she’d read somewhere that Lee wasn’t cruel to his slaves.

         Think about this.

         In the year 2017, someone I know has stated that states should have had the right to maintain the institution of slavery.

         My brain went bat-shit crazy! Fortunately, the other person in our Facebook exchange began attaching very accurate sites with concrete evidence—the actual Declaration of Secession for each Confederate state. Every single state either referred to slavery directly, or inferred to the institution by mentioning “property.”

         I’ve read tons of complaints recently about the “negativity” that overwhelms social media; and how people want their feed to be positive and up-beat. I’ve had a rule over the years that I don’t go onto someone’s page and pick fights, but when I saw that pile of shit last night I realized I cannot and will not stay silent.

         To be truthful, until now I’ve never given much thought to the names of any of our local high schools, but honest reflection tells me that our Robert E. Lee High School should have borne the name of someone like Grant. These Confederate leaders fought for a dishonorable and immoral cause—and they lost.

         The proliferation of tributes to these men suggests agreement with their beliefs by those of us who’ve allowed this practice to continue. The time to correct this misconception is now. The mindset that these men heroically fought for a noble cause needs to be countered with diligence and fortitude. 

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman