Dear Joe,

As we are coming up on Valentine’s Day, I thought it high time I reach out and let you know how much I adore and love you Joe. Of course, I’m no home-wrecker, so let’s be clear, my love is strictly platonic. Besides I respect your Dr. Jill too much to turn your head. Undeniably, ever since you stood on the main stage and then stepped into the Oval office, I’ve been swooning. It’s more than your aviators or the way you roll up your sleeves with that cool let’s-get-to-work-attitude, but neither of those styling choices hurt. Who doesn’t love a man that knows how to get the job done and looks like a badass doing it? Oh Joe, Americans are so ready for someone smart and skilled and reliably ready to clean up the mess after four years of that incendiary would-be-King who lost the election yet lead a mob of ignorant and deceived to desecrate our Democracy and declare him Emperor. But to hell with that failed insurrection, just come on into our day to day and do your reuniting thing. Welcome you beautiful dish, President Joe Biden.

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Say Their Names

Say their names as you scramble your eggs, as you walk to grab your coffee, as you start your work day. Say their names when you hug your mom or your son or your neighbor or your uncle. Say their names as you end your day in bed with your partner. Say their name when you start your car or brush your teeth. When you say your prayers say their names. When you preach. When you teach. When you dance. Or cry. Or talk to your grandmother. Or the cop who pulls you over. Just keep saying their names until this ends and even then chant them out loud. Burn your incense, light your candles, and say their names.

As we let those names linger in our air, let us also remember that, “Since Jan. 1, 2015, 1,252 black people have been shot and killed by police, according to The Washington Post’s database tracking police shootings; that doesn’t even include those who died in police custody or were killed using other methods” (A Decade of Watching Black People Die).

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Starry Nights

As I embark on a Shakespeare unit with my students, nine graders reading Romeo & Juliet and AP Lit reading Hamlet, we start with questions. Questions Elizabethan thinkers might have pondered in 1598; questions we still ponder in 2018. I am struck with our timeless preoccupation over destiny: Are we the masters of our own fate? I ask students to think and write about their beliefs on this topic. Certainly, these teens, like those penned by Shakespeare, want to believe they are, indeed, in control of their outcomes, while I, I who have screamed up at the Heavens in distress, frustrated by the unpredictability of chance, those ‘why me’ moments; “O, I am Fortune’s fool” situations. As if we are pulled by strings invisible to our own hands. Just when we want/need/hope for a different outcome we must settle for what is… but as I look across the classroom at my students, into their hopeful eyes, their exuberant optimism, I see their uniform belief that yes, they are masters of their fate. They aren’t phased by headlines or politicians’ lies; they see their own trajectory as it slants up and beyond, straight into the starry night. Straight into heaven.

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