15 sept 2004
Hope at School
by Debra L. Dornfeld
I just got back from my second-grade daughter's [public] elementary school, where the first-,
second-, and third-graders put on a choral concert for their parents. I gotta be honest,
the music was not so great (it was lucky there was piano accompaniment, or the tunes
would have been unrecognizable), although the xylophone and maraca players were able
to maintain a discernible beat. But I find myself tearing up as I watch these kids—the shy ones, the
exuberant ones, the fidgety, the giggle-prone, and the quiet.
On the stage, I see the children of Hmong, Ethiopian, Mexican, Colombian, Eritrean,
Oromoan, Kenyan, and Somali immigrants (the word is out that our school is
respectful of Islamic families, so the rows are sprinkled with little girls
in veils and long dresses). I see Native American, African American, and European
American kids. I see dark hands holding light ones, tiny white arms around skinny brown shoulders.
I see the little girl who, when her mother went to China to adopt her, was
so malnourished and underweight, the question was: will she be retarded forever?
And here she is in second grade, thriving. I see her face light up when her
mom comes in the auditorium. I see the dad in the audience with the mohawk
hair, the many piercings, the Dublin accent. I see a mom in her power suit,
taking time off from work. I see the lesbian couple from down the street, the
Native American family, the African American dad, the Hmong parents. Hope is
in such short supply these days, so I'm writing this to remember that these
kids just don't see each other the way I do. They don't see the differences,
they just see "Oh, that's Khalali, that's Becky, that's Por Lee, that's
Ahmad." They haven't learned, yet, to put each other in those limiting
little boxes that we grownups use so automatically. With luck, they never will.
This concert is a nice interlude from the news of the day, an island of sweetness in the middle of my sorrow. To be honest, if I didn't have kids,
I think I would implode from all the grief, pity, shame, and rage I've been
feeling lately. Or I would have jumped off a bridge.
But they keep me sane, whole, alive: when I watch my children and their peers,
I am able to summon the will to at least attempt to hold joy in my heart, as
well as grief; humility, as well as shame; compassion, as well as rage.
(F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "The test of a first-rate intelligence is the
ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain
the ability to function." Well, I don't know how I'd rate my
intelligence, but I believe I'm developing a first-rate heart, what with learning to function while holding twenty or thirty conflicting emotions in it)!
Debra L. Dornfeld was born in Minneapolis in 1955. In her own
words: "I lived in Chicago, Atlanta, and Kansas City before I was 5. We ended up in Osseo,
MN (my mom's hometown). In 7th grade, we moved to Florida, but my dad
was the only one who liked it there, so he took a cut in pay to come back to
Osseo. I was there until I graduated from High School. Attended the U of M
(Morris and Minneapolis), as an undergrad and graduate student. Discovered
what I liked the most about my graduate program in Counseling was reading case
studies and sitting in on counseling sessions. I loathed actually doing the
counseling. Worked as an advisor at the U for 8 years after completing my Master's
(advising wasn't quite as loathsome as counseling), then quit when I had my
first child. I'm still home even though both my children are in school now.
I write, garden, walk, read, daydream, and do occasional housework.” |
