My dear friend lives with a torn heart. One piece is here, while the other is still in Iran.
She tells me a story of why her family left a country she loved, the comfort of family, the laughter of friends. My Farsi is only enough to ask politely for tea. Her English is enough to build her a life, a business and a raft of new friends here, but not enough sometimes to convey the complexity of an entire life. Farsi is a language easily spun into shaded nuances of expression, while English must be hammered to that purpose. We rely on our hearts to bridge the gap, the hearts of mothers who fear for their children. The subtleties of our stories are told in the way we grip our cups, the tremble of a lip, an indrawn breath, and how tightly we grasp each others’ hands when the stories bring back our fear.
Her daughter and my daughter are similar. They eat history voraciously, like baby birds, using the knowledge they consume to grow their feathered independence, the skills they will use to fly our nest one day. They want to know everything, their curiosity searches for the truth, the gleaming nuggets hidden in the dross. And they want to discuss what they have learned. They cannot abide lies. And our daughters will make themselves small for no one.
There is pride, a fierce pride, in children who turn their face toward truth like sunflowers. But there are also consequences. Both daughters, mine and hers, found their consequences in history class.
My daughter’s teacher was using a discriminatory term, and initially when she brought it up, he disagreed. The conversation was uncomfortable, to say the least. She came home and cried. But she genuinely liked and respected this teacher, so she sent an email explaining more about the history of the word – and what it meant to her personally. And after a day – an email came back to her. Her heartfelt, truthful words had made the teacher think, to reconsider – and changed their mind. She will save that email until she dies. The situation was not perfect, but despite being initially wrong, the teacher’s courage to admit their mistake demonstrated a strength of character and humility that belongs to the best of educators. They encouraged her bright light even when she didn’t fit in, even when she challenged the status quo, even when she questioned them.
And I truly believe that this is what education should be – a place for fierce, clever young minds to grow. Do they know everything? No, but nor are they always wrong just because they are young. In school, children should be able to safely learn to search for evidence, to value the exploration of truth, and practice respectfully disagreement about the interpretation of the facts. It should be a safe place to learn to gracefully admit when the evidence shows you are wrong, and to gain the confidence to hold your ground when you are right.
My friend’s daughter did not experience that same encouragement. When my friend speaks, I can only look at her. At this moment, the room is crowded, and there are other noises, but they do not matter. Her voice is low and intense, and her mouth is tight, a fire burning in her heart for the unfairness, even now – perhaps for always. One day, she discovered her daughter had been forced to sit in the back of the class. Every class. Why? Because she had asked a question, one that the teacher did not like. One that revealed her brave young heart knew more than the teacher - or more than the teacher was willing to admit - about history. If this story was about one petty teacher, then this story would be nothing – my friend and I would never have met, because perhaps she never would have left, to come so far across the seas to meet me.
But the story only starts with the small-minded tyranny of one teacher. It continues with a van, waiting outside the school. Thanks be to all that is good, the story does not end with that van. Instead, they are here, where her child is alive and well and smiling.
Her child is brilliant, strong, and hard-working. Canada is lucky to have her. I am grateful to have my friend. We have shared many hours of stories, laughter and tears over her kitchen table.
But now my friend fears and hopes for those she loves that are still back across the sea. She wants to be there, with them, united. The fire that ignited at the pointless cruelty of her daughter’s experience burns in her now for every daughter that must sit at the back of the class, every daughter who has a van waiting for her when her voice is too loud, her hair uncovered, or the expression on her face too defiant.
What is one life against the endless turning machine of the world, with its hard heart and harder hands? One tiny leaf of kindness or humanity, swirling in the riptide of fear, anger, violence and control. I do not know if there is a universal standard, a quantitative value that can be assigned, a certain judgement. I know that we decide – we decide where the line is that cannot be crossed.
And in the class of history, I know we are better when we listen to the voices of those fierce independent daughters.
She tells me a story of why her family left a country she loved, the comfort of family, the laughter of friends. My Farsi is only enough to ask politely for tea. Her English is enough to build her a life, a business and a raft of new friends here, but not enough sometimes to convey the complexity of an entire life. Farsi is a language easily spun into shaded nuances of expression, while English must be hammered to that purpose. We rely on our hearts to bridge the gap, the hearts of mothers who fear for their children. The subtleties of our stories are told in the way we grip our cups, the tremble of a lip, an indrawn breath, and how tightly we grasp each others’ hands when the stories bring back our fear.
Her daughter and my daughter are similar. They eat history voraciously, like baby birds, using the knowledge they consume to grow their feathered independence, the skills they will use to fly our nest one day. They want to know everything, their curiosity searches for the truth, the gleaming nuggets hidden in the dross. And they want to discuss what they have learned. They cannot abide lies. And our daughters will make themselves small for no one.
There is pride, a fierce pride, in children who turn their face toward truth like sunflowers. But there are also consequences. Both daughters, mine and hers, found their consequences in history class.
My daughter’s teacher was using a discriminatory term, and initially when she brought it up, he disagreed. The conversation was uncomfortable, to say the least. She came home and cried. But she genuinely liked and respected this teacher, so she sent an email explaining more about the history of the word – and what it meant to her personally. And after a day – an email came back to her. Her heartfelt, truthful words had made the teacher think, to reconsider – and changed their mind. She will save that email until she dies. The situation was not perfect, but despite being initially wrong, the teacher’s courage to admit their mistake demonstrated a strength of character and humility that belongs to the best of educators. They encouraged her bright light even when she didn’t fit in, even when she challenged the status quo, even when she questioned them.
And I truly believe that this is what education should be – a place for fierce, clever young minds to grow. Do they know everything? No, but nor are they always wrong just because they are young. In school, children should be able to safely learn to search for evidence, to value the exploration of truth, and practice respectfully disagreement about the interpretation of the facts. It should be a safe place to learn to gracefully admit when the evidence shows you are wrong, and to gain the confidence to hold your ground when you are right.
My friend’s daughter did not experience that same encouragement. When my friend speaks, I can only look at her. At this moment, the room is crowded, and there are other noises, but they do not matter. Her voice is low and intense, and her mouth is tight, a fire burning in her heart for the unfairness, even now – perhaps for always. One day, she discovered her daughter had been forced to sit in the back of the class. Every class. Why? Because she had asked a question, one that the teacher did not like. One that revealed her brave young heart knew more than the teacher - or more than the teacher was willing to admit - about history. If this story was about one petty teacher, then this story would be nothing – my friend and I would never have met, because perhaps she never would have left, to come so far across the seas to meet me.
But the story only starts with the small-minded tyranny of one teacher. It continues with a van, waiting outside the school. Thanks be to all that is good, the story does not end with that van. Instead, they are here, where her child is alive and well and smiling.
Her child is brilliant, strong, and hard-working. Canada is lucky to have her. I am grateful to have my friend. We have shared many hours of stories, laughter and tears over her kitchen table.
But now my friend fears and hopes for those she loves that are still back across the sea. She wants to be there, with them, united. The fire that ignited at the pointless cruelty of her daughter’s experience burns in her now for every daughter that must sit at the back of the class, every daughter who has a van waiting for her when her voice is too loud, her hair uncovered, or the expression on her face too defiant.
What is one life against the endless turning machine of the world, with its hard heart and harder hands? One tiny leaf of kindness or humanity, swirling in the riptide of fear, anger, violence and control. I do not know if there is a universal standard, a quantitative value that can be assigned, a certain judgement. I know that we decide – we decide where the line is that cannot be crossed.
And in the class of history, I know we are better when we listen to the voices of those fierce independent daughters.