True Story

Last week at religious school… 

Two seventh grade boys asked if we could take a moment or two 

to talk about something that happened at their school that afternoon.

Of course.

They shared that someone carved a swastika into a bathroom stall –

so large that they have to replace the entire wall.

I asked them how they felt. 

They both muttered, “Really scared.”

All I could say was, “That’s fair.

I’m so sorry, that’s so awful, and I’m so glad you shared.”

And they nodded. 

And I nodded.

And the rest of the class nodded.

Sharing an impromptu moment of silence in a way.

We acutely understood each other’s heartache that day; every one of us clearly hearing all the words we didn’t say. 

We just needed to feel with each other for a little bit. 

To share the pain. To honor it.

Then, moments later, they were all back to being seventh graders. 

Talking over each other, sitting in inventive positions in their chairs, tossing around fidget toys. 

Someone is suddenly, inexplicably, on the floor… the usual noise.

And we kept going with the lesson, too, because we all knew exactly what we needed to do. 

After all, we’ve been living these moments forever. We hold space for each other, and we move through it together. 

It’s written into our texts, our culture, our history, our blood, our advocacy, our children, our passion, our fight. 

Our infallible ability to always see the light. 

We replace the bathroom wall. 

We hang up new posters. 

We get back to class.

We lift each other up from the piles of broken glass.

Yes, we all knew exactly what we needed to do.

I can only pray that, one day, our children will no longer have to.