My own personal Then & Now

When I woke up this morning and turned my computer on, all I was thinking was "Ugh. I have so much work to do, but I'm going to power through and get at least half of it done today." I was optimistic about the writing I was going to do, the editing I was going to get done for the journal today, the reading I was going to accomplish, and the lesson planning I was going to get done. But when I sat down at the computer to get started, the first thing that popped up on my homepage was "Los Angeles Riots 20th Anniversary: Then and Now." I read the article and saw the updates about many of the people who were involved in the Riots, and now I sit here thinking about my own Then and Now.

Then (April 29, 1992, Location--California):
I was senselessly helping my classmates build a makeshift fort out of our desks wondering when "the rioters" were coming and what was going to happen to all of us when they got there. From what I gathered from my teacher, there were people coming for the sole purpose of attacking my school. They were coming to get us. They were the rioters. Every single time I hear that word--riot, or any derivation of it--even today, my stomach does this little flip thing and I momentarily feel like I'm going to vomit. I wasn't as scared about what was going to happen to me (or my classmates, for that matter) when the rioters arrived. I was completely terrified about what was happening and what was going to happen to my older and younger sister, who were only two and three buildings away from me, respectively. I wondered if they were scared. I wondered if they were crying. I wanted to be with them so badly at that moment--to hold their hands and just wait.

I thought about my mom, too. I knew she was several blocks away, working from home. For some reason, I didn't think she was in any real danger because school and home seemed so far away from each other and whatever was coming to get us wouldn't even be near her. But I was worried about her because I knew she must be worrying about us and I didn't want her to be sad.

I knew my dad was in the safest place of all of us (which wasn't necessarily true). He worked in a high rise building downtown, which was a far better fortress than the one my classmates and I were putting together. He was so high up, I knew nobody could touch him.

When the day was over, nothing really happened in our immediate area. A teacher had to escort me to my mom's car when she arrived to pick us up. Normally, I would just walk down to my youngest sister's kindergarten classroom to get her, then we would walk together to Mom's car. My older sister was far too cool to be seen with her two younger sisters, so she ususally walked alone to our mom's car. I frantically told the teacher that we had to pick up E (younger sis), and she calmly walked with me to the kindergarten building. E seemed unharmed--I wouldn't know until more than a decade later that the teachers in her classroom told the kindergartenders that there was a tiger from the zoo that got loose and was prowling around, so they had to stay inside to be safe. When all was said and done, we were safe, but the idea that my sense of safety could be breached so easily has forever changed me.

Now (April 29, 2012, Location--Kansas):
I am a graduate student and teacher. I have spent the majority of my life in classrooms. Every single time I walk into a new classroom, I rearrange desks in my head to think of how we could all hide if we needed to, think of escape routes (like how a jump from a second floor might occur as safely as possible), and how the doors/windows/etc. could be blocked if something were to happen. This has always been in the back of my mind, but it was reinforced after the Columbine High School shootings.

When bad things happen to my sisters and I'm not around, I always wonder what they're feeling and I wish that I was there to just sit with them. Anything can set this off--a few years ago, my younger sister's long time boyfriend broke up with her & all I could think is that I hope someone is there with her so that she's not alone. When my mom got sick last year and I was two states away, I wondered if my sisters were scared. I wanted them to be there for each other--to not be alone.

I think about the issues with race, gender, identity, sexuality, socioeconomic status, etc. and how some things have changed from twenty years ago, but most things have not. I think about what will start the next riot. Although complete terror barely scratches the surface of what I felt twenty years ago in my second grade classroom, I don't blame people for feeling whatever it is they feel (anger, rage, hurt, etc.) that causes them to riot. I don't blame them for rioting at all (although let me be clear--there's a different in rioting because of inequality and rioting because your basketball team won a national championship). Do I want things to be this way? Absolutely not, but I recognize that sometimes push comes to shove when people feel trapped.

Most recently, I've been thinking a lot about the Treyvon Martin case. What happens if George Zimmerman is aquitted? What happens if he's not? I don't want a little girl to be huddling in her second grade classroom behind some overturned desks somewhere in the middle of Florida wondering if and hoping with every fiber of her being that her family is okay.