This year we are focusing on the Hospitality Industry as a potential career path with our newest arrivals. Thanks to the Classic City Foundation for funding.

Since the onset of Covid, we've been able to publish two paper. (The top one will come out in November 2022.)

Aghasafari, S., Bivins, K., Muhammad, E.A., & Nordgren, B. (in press). Art Integration and Identity:Empowering Bi/Multilingual High School Learners. Art Education.

Aghasafari, S., Bivins, K., & Nordgren, B. (2021). Arts Integration and Culturally Sustaining Pedagogy:Supporting Bi/Multilingual High School Learners in Biology. Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies in Education, 10 (1), 59-81.

Summer of 2020 I harvested vegetables at camp and delivered them to families in need (click for newspaper article).

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Sahar, Brendan and I at the Art & Education for Social Justice Symposium at UGA delivering our presentation titled: Bilingual Ninth Graders in the Biology Classroom (click for photo)

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Accepting Funds for Art and ELs Project

(click above link for photo and description)

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Engaging ELs in Art to Increase Learning and Motivation at Cedar Shoals High School

Building on a successful partnership that began in the spring of 2019, Ms. Aghasafari and I continued to integrate arts-based projects into the ninth grade, Biology classes at Cedar Shoals High School during the 2019/2020 school year. I love when students have the opportunity to create art based on what they are earning in their classes.

Ms. Sahar Aghasafari is a Ph.D. student in Art Education at the University of Georgia. She has two masters in Art Education from the University of Arizona and Art Research from the University of Tehran, and a B.F.A in Fabrics Design from the University of Tehran. She has more than 8 years teaching experience as a faculty and lecturer at universities in Iran, and she has taught as a full-time teacher at K-12 schools in the United States. Currently, she is teaching Graphic Design at Lamar Dodd, School of Art, at UGA. She has had several individual and group exhibitions in Fabric Design, Graphic Design, Photography, Drawing, and Painting. She has also presented several papers in art fields in international conferences and has several published papers.

Beginning in the fall of 2019, I (Kelli) will co-taught two Biology classes with approximately sixty students total. These students were regular, “general education” students with approximately 30 ESOL students mixed into the classes. Students began the year talking about cells, moved along to genetics, then evolution and end with energy cycles. These dense topics were necessary to learn in order to achieve a high school diploma and to be a well-educated citizen.

We received funds from the non-profit Foundation for Excellence in Education for materials for our ninth graders studying Biology to make art based upon the content they are learning in class. Projects will included illustrating body systems, depicting evolution, and others suggested by students.

Integrating art into science courses is beneficial for students specifically bi/multilingual students who might not be able to succeed or express themselves through traditional teaching methods in science, specifically Biology class. Also, it gives students the opportunity to show their knowledge and engages students in learning, creates excitement, and adds depth to lessons. As students demonstrate their understandings through an art form, their confidence in their work increases, which often unlocks the potential of students who are unwilling, shy, or have a language barrier.

Drawing from the Culturally Sustaining Pedagogy (Nieto & Bode, 2008; Paris, 2012), and Critical Pedagogy, Critical Consciousness, (Delpit, 2003; Freire, 2000; Freire, 1973; Giroux, 1985; Shor,1992; Gadotti, 1994), partnerships such as this promote equality across racial and ethnic communities and ensures access and opportunity to students living in a globalized and interconnected world.

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Central America: People and the Environment (click for photo)

Brendan Nordgren and I were accepted to participate in this four year course on exploring will exploring Central America with a focus on people and environment. Our first summer year (summer of 2019) the institute was located in Nashville on the Vanderbilt campus. The second year of the institute took place virtually from the University of Georgia.

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Family Narratives

Stories have many purposes; they entertain, pass on vital information, educate and influence. Stories told within a family reinforce identity and heritage. After all, as our principal late and great Mr. Manzy often said, we are the stories we tell and retell.

Each year, my ESOL students at Coile, from grades 6 through 8, explored the genre of narratives by looking closely at stories their families tell and retell. Each student interviewed his or her family to identify an important story. Next, after writing an initial draft, the students honed their writing skills through a series of mini-lessons focusing upon what good writers do to create a final draft of their family’s story. Some students then illustrated or brought in pictures to enrich their stories, and some translated the stories from either native languages into English, or from English into the native language.

Writing is a key part of what I do as a teacher and person. I also encourage my students to become writers early in the school year, as writing is the most difficult domain, after listening, speaking, and reading. Beginning in August of each school year, I immerse the students in quality literature that we use as a guide to writing our own stories. We continue through the writing process, including many editing stages, to reach final products. By the December holidays, we usually have written the narrative portion of our book. Then, if students choose to continue, we turn the project into a service learning event whereby we either do outreach or try to educate the public about topics uncovered during the writing of the narratives. I, as their ESOL teacher, am responsible for all literacy lessons needed to write, create, and publish the family narratives. In the past, we have had our family, school, and community celebrations in early May of each school year.

When I taught at Coile, we would culminate each year’s family narratives with a collection of the stories in a book and a celebration for family, school, and community. Although the students that contributed to the book were approximately 35, many other people were involved. At the end-of-year celebration where we would unveil the Family Narratives book, many family members attended, along with several former students who wrote family narratives in previous years with me.

This project was done in addition to homework and projects for other classes. Many people were amazed that middle students want to do extra work, but they loved it! While writing the stories for the book, the students were so engaged in the project that they were eager to boost their literacy skills and so proud to be writing for an “authentic” audience. I measured lots of success with regards to improved reading and writing scores over the years that I attribute to the students' genuine motivation to put their stories on paper for others to better understand them.

Each year I wrote grants to cover the costs of printing the books and always used a locally-owned printer. I always collected permission to publish from parents and students. That way, the students’ work can be displayed. Sometimes the books traveled as exhibitions and have been on display at the Georgia Center for Continuing Education at UGA and at the Federal Building in Atlanta.

Unlike other schools with a wealthier family base, Coile did not have the luxury of having a yearbook. Beginning one year we took up the practice of adding a blank page in the book to serve as a place for students to gather signatures, like the practice of writing in yearbooks. It was a feature the students enjoyed and we adopted it permanently.

At our end of the year celebration, I allowed the students to plan the event. My one stipulation is that all the food purchased had to come from locally owned businesses. I know that when I was a middle school student, I did not know the value of shopping locally. Once I would explain the importance of keeping our money in our community, the students heartily agreed.

Curricularly speaking, the family stories project is based on a mixture of genre study and on Brazilian education theorist Paulo Freire’s transformative pedagogical practice called “culture notebooks” for language minority students. The standards that guided the instruction on narrative elements were a blend of English Language Arts standards coupled with the Enduring Understandings of Social Studies. I also included the WIDA ELL standards into the mini-lessons, in order to help bridge our newcomers to the next level. In addition, this project contained a heaping helping of Luis Moll’s “funds of knowledge”-- the philosophy of honoring the vast knowledge students and their families bring to school, rather than viewing them as having a knowledge deficit.

In 2012 we changed the project to incorporate more of a Social Studies perspective. At the beginning of the year, I asked the students to pay attention to terms we learned in History class and how they intersect with their family narratives. Mid-way through the year, the students wrote a Social Studies term that resonated with them, defined it and either took a picture or drew a picture to illustrate it. The vocabulary words the students chose to define for our “2012 Illustrated Encyclopedia of Social Studies Terms” included: family, independence, democracy, freedom, luck/karma, education, human capital, nationalism, migrant workers, bias, balance of power, civil disobedience, monotheism, hero, culture, immigration, border crossing, ethnicity, undocumented, deforestation, genocide, guerilla warfare, multi-cultural, money/currency, maps, products, Mexicana, saving money, deportations, agriculture, volunteerism, refugee, racism, natural resources, power/justice, community, the Great Depression, traditions, illegal immigration, and worship.

Most of my students and their families are immigrants living in the shadows of society. Many are called illegal, aliens, undocumented. Many don’t even call 911 in an emergency for fear of deportation. In the future will there be a wall on the boarder commemorating the people who crossed the way we now celebrate immigrants who entered through Ellis Island? The Family Narratives project was for and about the stories of my students, wonderful young people full of promise who are neither “illegal” nor “alien.” The book becomes a commemorative wall of sorts. My students have names, families, and stories they would like to share. We produced the book of narratives each year to give these stories to the Athens community, so that others can share the rich oral narratives of our students, too.

“How Much?”

In mid-July of 2007, a family showed up here in Athens with six kids and one on the way. I saw this family registering the children for school when I dropped by the school district’s main office to pick up some materials for the new school year on a hot afternoon. I wondered which schools the children would attend and thought about the promise of an education in this country that symbolizes hope for so many.

The following Monday, my ponderings about which schools the children from this family would attend were answered as two of them were on my roster. A brother and sister; she in the eighth grade and he in the sixth. They had not one word of English between the two of them that first day of school in their new country.

While these two children could not communicate to me their story, as my Spanish was poor and their English was non-existent, other students in my ESOL could tell their tale. I was surprised and confused because these students were straight from Mexico. How did the others know them and their story?

Families that cross the border between the US and Mexico often rely on coyotes, or human guides that help them get across. Coyotes have territories much like businesses; they often travel the same routes, acquire customers from familiar areas and take their human cargo to towns they know.

This had been the case for the family of newcomers, the Castros, I had seen at the school district who now how children in my class. Six of my twelve students in my 2007 ESOL class had all attended the same primary school in Mexico. They were reunited in my classroom.

Some of the families of these immigrant children had migrated a few years before the Castros, who were the last to arrive. All the boys had played soccer on the dusty field in their village. Their parents and grandparents had known each other for decades.

It was as if a tornado had picked up several families in a Mexican village and dropped them in Athens, Georgia. The families knew each others’ stories and were drawn to poultry jobs in our town and transported by the same coyote.

As his teacher, it quickly became evident that Edwin, the sixth grade Navarro, was a natural entrepreneur. Within his first month at school, he took note of two markets within the school that had no supplier: gum and pornography. The 11 year old then set up a gum and candy shop in his locker. The candy he sold was of the Mexican variety. He bought it wholesale from a family friend who owned a small grocery store in Athens. He also sold adult magazines from his backpack. The administrators at our school were quickly onto him though as they began to investigate why so many 8^th grade boys were going to visit a kid on the 6^th grade hall.

The first English phrase Edwin picked up on his own was, “How much?” He took to acquiring items and selling them for a higher price at our town’s flea market, the J&J. Anyone can rent a table at the flea market for a small price (from $5 to $12) and sell wares. There you can find rosters, used tires, fruit, clothing, and jewelry for sale.

Although Edwin had gone to school in his native Guanajuato, his math teacher and I deduced that he had never been exposed to multiplication. For him, the times sign looked like a crooked addition sign. However, this lack of formal math didn’t stop him from turning a profit from items he sold at the flea market.

A year later after he arrived, Edwin, now in the seventh grade, went with classmates and me on a fieldtrip to UGA. It was a first of many for him—even his first ride in an elevator. He enjoyed his trip, but loved the gardens and landscaping most. He stuck many seeds in his pocket that day.

Three years into his new country, in 8^th grade, I learned that in his spare time, Edwin loved to fish. It turned out that he would dig up his bait, borrow a bike and ride to the river on the corner of MLK Avenue and College (near the greenway) to fish with string tied to a plastic coke bottle. When I heard this, I got in touch with Bike Athens, a local non-profit that gives bikes to those in need, and arranged for him to get a free bike. Two Saturdays later, I picked up Edwin and one of his little brothers and took them to meet the folks at Bike Athens. There, they were able to each select a bike from a warehouse of donated bikes and were fitted with helmets (that I have a feeling were never worn).

At the time, Bike Athens was located in the Chase Street Warehouses, a gentrified series of attached warehouses that formerly processed cotton in a bygone era now housed art studios, dance studios, and some condominiums for townie types. The parking situation at the warehouse is mostly gravel and features a working cement factory at one end. There is still a train that passes in front of the studio and the tracks run through the parking lot, a relic of when cotton was king.

After the boys picked out their bikes, the Bike Athens volunteers encouraged them to try them out. The boys put helmets on, at first backwards since helmets were new to them, and then the correct, duck-tail fashion and mounted their bikes. I stood outside the warehouses and watched the little brother do loop after loop circling the building. Edwin, on the other hand, rode his bike to the corner, dismounted and squatted near a bush.

I’d been to the warehouses several times previous in order to attend trapeze performances, a hulla-hoop class and even an art opening or two. In all my visits before, I had never noticed a giant cactus at the end of one of the sidewalks. Although we are in the south, Athens is located in the humid south, not a dry area and not known for cactuses. Yet, there is was, and I’d never paid it any attention.

Not Edwin. He rode to the cactus, got off his bike, and studied the cactus for several minutes. I approached him, and he told me that this spot was a good hiding place for rabbits because dogs can’t get them there. I’d never thought of it before.

A few months passed and I realized that the bike was no longer at his house; he had sold it for a profit at the flea market when he out grew it.

At the time, my sons were close in age to Edwin. Often he would visit our house (sometimes walking the 5 miles between, others catching a ride) to “hunt” in our urban back yard with my two boys. Edwin always had a slingshot with him and has excellent aim! I realized he was a great babysitter. It made sense because he lives in a duplex apartment with his entire family, including several little brothers and sisters plus the babies from his older sisters. He is so good with the little ones that he became one of our primary baby sitters for a few years until my oldest son could serve the same role.

While Edwin was a quick learner and watches all angles to figure out situations, his English was far from perfect. He understood everything said to him, but can’t fully express himself yet. I think it comes from the pivotal age when he immigrated (pre-teen…a little too old to acquire the language super easy) and that when he was in Mexico, as a farmer, he did not have much interaction with people during the day.

Likewise, as a student in middle school, he didn’t fit in totally with the others students. His classmates certainly like him, but called him “old man.” He was not “Americanized” enough for them. He moved more slowly than them, more cautiously, and didn’t wear baggy clothes (some say gang-like). Edwin wore rather plain clothes, not wanting to call attention to himself or perhaps unsure why boys his age would wear their pants sagging to their knees.

As Edwin entered high school, his younger brother continued to play at our house and built a strong friendship with my youngest son. Edwin, on the other hand, had built a small paradise behind their duplex.

He bought a pair of doves at the J & J Flea Market and built a lovely home for them out of chicken wire and discarded pieces of wood. Overtime he added more doves and a couple of pigeons. As a highschool student, he also had a rooster that lived in the neighborhood. He knew where it roosted and would to check on it every evening.

Each time I picked up his little brother to come play with our boys, Edwin was behind his house sitting with his doves, watching them.

I am reminded of a drawing he made when he was eleven years old and in his first year in the US as a sixth grader. (See below for image.) After he drew the picture, he dictated a description to me and I typed it. His words carefully weighed and translated by classmates when he didn’t know the English.

When I consider the habitat for birds he created behind his house in an urban neighborhood, I realize he was replicating his native home.

Edwin is no longer my student; now in his twenties, he is living a fulfilled life as a full-time poultry worker. While he did not finish high school, he went further along the educational path than anyone else in his family. He now works with his father, uncle, and cousins at a processing plant just over an hours drive from Athens. They could work in Athens, but receive a dollar extra per hour at the plant up the road. Edwin is proud of his work and has become the fastest in his crew at carving chicken carcasses.

“This is a picture of my house in México. There are two trees. There is a bird’s nest in a tree. There is a pool for swimming. This is the house. We have a T.V. We have beds in two rooms. We have a kitchen with a stove. Outside we have chickens, 12 dogs, and four horses. We have grass outside, too. We have a big soccer field. It can have 12 people playing soccer with people on the sides watching the game. We have a car.”

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

You’re not going to believe this, but sadly it’s true. Back when I was a doctoral student, my major professor asked us to schedule meetings with her six months out. When something came up and I needed to ask her a question, I’d have to go along with her on her errands to speak with her. The first time this happened occurred when it was time to schedule classes for the upcoming semester. The only slot she had open was while she was getting her hair styled. Now this salon I met her at was SWANK! I’m not saying I can’t afford it, I just wouldn’t. When her stylist was nearing the end, my advisor actually said, “now stand back so I can admire my beautiful self.” The next (and final) time I had to endure an “errands meeting” took place at her OB/GYN’s office. (You can’t make this stuff up!) I had a question and ended up having to go with her to sit through her first ultrasound of her pregnancy. It was that afternoon that I realized that academics can suck just as much as rednecks or any other group that I was trying to get away from.

We're Barely Here

Spring 2015, correspondence with Brian Dunbar, an author of 147 Practical Tips of Teaching Sustainability; we were trying out some of the lessons suggested in his book with my students at Coile.

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Early in my career at the middle school where I work, I tried inspiring the kids to think "larger" by showing them schools designed with children in mind. The pictures I showed them were of light-filled spaces and happy students.

This did not go well and one of the boys spoke up and said, "Why can't we get schools like that? Is it cause we're all black and brown?"

Then the discussion quickly spiraled out of hand with questions like, "Why are there no white kids here? Do they get better schools than us? Even our buses are crappy!"

So, I stopped showing them what else was out there. I guess I was protecting them. Instead, I chose to build them up in other ways.

Eight years went by and then I attended your session in Virginia Beach. It occurred to me that using your maps and with the idea that my students would be able to help other students, I could inspire them into learning green-ways of building schools.

Again, it back-fired.

This is what happened:

When my student say “barely”, it doesn’t have the same meaning as my “barely”. For me barely means “by the skin of your teeth”, or “just in time”, or “hardly”. For my students, “barely” means something that just happened.

For example, If I say, “I barely got here”. I mean that I almost didn’t make it for some reason. Maybe my car broke down, or I overslept and almost was unable to arrive at an event.

However, if one of my students says, “I barely got here.” It means they haven’t been in the space long. Perhaps they just walked in the room.

Once in class, the two meanings merged and the way I use barely, and they use barely, made sense in a context.

It took place when we were doing the Colorado activity. Two important comments came out then. The only three suggestions my students came up with in their brainstorm on how to improve the middle school in Colorado were:

1. No uniforms.

2. Don’t make kids walk on the right.

3. Let them go outside.

I then told my students that there was a time when students at Coile did not wear uniforms and did not have to walk in any lines when walking in the school. My students were surprised and demanded to know why it couldn’t be like this anymore.

I explained that the administrators chose to enforce uniforms and walking in a single file line during student transitions in the hall had to do with bringing order to the school. There were too many fights and many of our students chose to dress like thugs and wore gang-affiliated colors.

I told them that at first I was against both the uniforms and the walking in a line, but that I quickly saw such a positive difference in school behavior almost instantly that I warmed up to the idea. (I didn’t tell them that I thought it was too much like pipe-line-to-prison creepy and still, at times, feel that way when they are walking in lines.)

Fabian expressed his anger that those earlier students ruined their chances of dressing by choice and being free-range in the halls by saying, “We’re barely here.” He meant that they just arrived at our school and don’t deserve the punishments meant for those earlier students.

Realizing that my students weren’t getting anywhere with the Colorado middle school activity, I ended it for the day, and started them on some other work.

I wanted to try the Colorado activity using a different approach. I found lots of images of schools that offer students opportunities to learn outside, to do hands-on activities, such as the ones Brendan had I saw on tour in Virginia Beach. I compiled several photos of green schools designed to provide students with an optimal learning space. I also showed them photos I had taken in the two Virginia Beach schools...of the green house, the electric –shop, the pipes that showed water use, the roof garden, the outdoor learning areas, etc.

My students were livid! "Why do those kids get these good schools and we don’t? Why can’t we go outside to learn?"

Then it came around to race. “Is it because we’re all Latino and black? Is it like separate but not equal, that thing we studied in Social Studies?”

Again one of them (Fernando) said in a barely audible voice, “We’re barely here. We want to have schools like that!” This time he meant "we've barely arrived in this country. We're all immigrants and want to have good schools."

Winter, 2013

Gay Students

My teaching experience includes working with all ages from pre-school, elementary, secondary, to the college level. My titles have included teacher of French, Science, Math, Writing, and Social Studies. Yet, the majority of my career I have spent as a teacher of and for adolescents. I find working with young adults and teens to be the most challenging, yet the most rewarding. It is truly an honor to spend time with individuals as their abilities, identities, and confidences grow and as they become more proficient at being human beings.

One sector of the student population I’m particularly thankful to work with is gay students.

Some folks joke about “gaydar” or the ability to identify a gay person. I’m happy to report that there is a different sort of “gaydar”, too; the ability of gay students to seek out a supporting adult.

Over my teaching career, there have been gay students in my life. I’m not sure how the message gets out that it’s okay to come out to Ms. Bivins, but it happens. Maybe it’s word of mouth, or maybe I emit some vibe that says “I can handle your secret”. However students in need figure it out, I’m glad to be a listener for them.

Sometimes the subject of homosexuality comes up in adult conversation outside of school. People often ask, “What? Middle school? Isn’t that a little too early to be gay?” I then ask them what they were thinking about in middle school. They tend to nod their heads and say, “okay, I understand”. Middle school is hormone central!

Middle school is also a time for students to experiment with identities. Try them on and discard the ones they don’t like. As a child progresses through middle school, they go from a goofy and full of energy in sixth, to a lunatic in seventh with moods swinging from class period to class period, and then in eighth grade, around Christmas break for the boys (earlier for the girls), when a calm coolness settles over them.

Rondell

I often find the edges of being a teacher and being a mama to students. Whether it’s schlepping kids in my car to talking about birth control to kids who are asking for advice, I often find myself there. Wondering what is within my realm to talk about and advise. After all, this is Georgia—conservative to the core with regards to social issues.

According to what I’ve learned through conversations with counselors, I can give advice that I believe to be true. So if a child asks me if he or she is going to go to hell for being gay, I can respond with my true thoughts.

An experience of what I could or should say or not say as a teacher occurred early in my career, actually my very first teaching job as a seventh grade Social Studies teacher . There was a young man who seemed to me gay as the day is long in my second period class. His words were drippy and his movements were dramatic and dance-like. I’ve always had gay people in my life and in my family. For me, it was no big deal to ask him if he was gay or not.

I would normally not ask someone their sexual preference, but this young man was practically begging me to ask him. Following a religious discussion in class when I told the students that I didn’t believe non-believers in Christ automatically go to hell, he raised his hand and asked about the after-life for gay people. These sort of conversations border on blasphemy. I couched my thoughts in terms like this, “I can’t speak for your family, but in my family, we believe …”; “Each person is different and comes from a unique place. This is my personal opinion, and I’m telling you because you asked.”; “Just because it’s my opinion, doesn’t mean that you have to believe it. I want you to figure out what you believe”.

The student in question found excuses to come to my room and stand around after the class when I told him that I don’t think gay people automatically go to hell just because they are gay. After about a week of him standing by my desk, looking like tears were going to flow, I finally asked him if he was gay.

“Ms. Bivins, I have a pass to be here. Um. Do you have anything you need me to do? Do you want me to straighten up your desk?”

“Honey, can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer, but I’m wondering if you are gay?”

“Yes! I think I am. But I don’t want to go to hell, and I don’t want my mama to find out.” Tears flowing.

“Well okay then.” Hug. Tissues and a few minutes of silence following a sobbing session. “Are you ready to go back to class? My next set of students is coming down the hall.”

“Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

That evening, I told my husband that Rondell finally came out. I was relieved and didn’t realize that I would be sitting in the principal’s office the next day.

Mid-way through class, our principal walked into my class the next day. I rarely ever saw this man, as he was trudging through his last year before retirement and looked like he’d been run over by the educational system. He certainly wasn’t wanting any part of this crazy, young white lady whose agenda it was to save the world. (That’s what I used to think, btw, but now I know my students are the ones who saved me.)

He brought with him someone to take over my class while he “had a word with me”.

Out in the hall he interrogated me, “Ms. Bivins, please don’t tell me that you asked a child if he was gay or not.”

“Yes sir. I did.”

“Why in the world would you ask that? It’s plain as day that he’s gay, but we don’t talk about it with him.”

“I was worried about him, sir. Gay adolescents have a high suicide rate.”

“Well, his mama is here and she wants to talk to you. You’re on your own with this.”

Oh. Shit. Right! I’m in Georgia. What was I thinking?

Rondell’s Mama was waiting for me in an empty room called the Counselor’s Suite. She appeared to be in her early 40s, a tall, African American woman. I, on the other hand, was a short blond in her early 20s. We had one thing in common, we both loved Rondell. I took a deep breath and prepared for the worst.

Rondell’s mama began by explaining that she was deeply religious and that her son sang in the choir at their Pentecostal church. It came out that I was raised in a Pentecostal church. Then somehow, this lady and I were on the same side. I don’t understand what happened but she thought I had asked her son that to throw off the girls who were plaguing him.

She said that the girls would not leave her boy alone, and that she appreciated my attempt to keep them off her son. She wanted him to remain a virgin until he was married.

What she was saying was not making sense to me at all. I felt like I was floating above the conversation and was thinking, so am I going to lose my job?

To this day, I cannot trace her train of thought, but somehow by me asking Rondell if he was gay was a signal to the girls to leave him alone. I didn’t tell her that I had asked Rondell in private. I didn’t know what version of the story he told her, and it seemed to be going in my favor. Why clarify it and risk an explosion?

We ended with lots of hugs. She told me that it was so difficult being a single mother raising children and she was thankful I was her son’s teacher.

I’m sure the principal was as confused as I was when Rondell’s mama stopped by his office to thank him for hiring me.

From that moment on, I told myself that under no circumstances would I ask a person if he or she was gay. It’s similar to not asking a woman if she’s pregnant or not. A lady can be nine months pregnant and having labor pains, and I still won’t ask her if she’s pregnant. I’ve seen too many people ask overweight women if they are pregnant when they aren’t. Kids are the worst. If you gain a pound students ask if you are pregnant where I teach. Just like with pregnant women, if I suspect someone is gay, I don’t ask, I wait to be told.

Raul

My classroom is a “safe space”, I tell the kids. They aren’t allowed to put anyone down. Many of my students are undocumented or have other issues that make them different or uncomfortable. I make it clear from the beginning of each school year that our classroom is a place where everyone is welcome, regardless of religion, ethnicity, immigration status or sexual preference.

The atmosphere of the classroom is set early on when we have discussions about how we want our class to be. Do they want a yelling teacher? (No.) Then how will we work without me having to yell at them (which is a norm in some classrooms). They inevitably set their own rules about who can talk and when they can talk). After they come up with their rules, I give them mine to add. Respect and tolerance. I explain that each of us has a right to be ourself in our classroom and I will not tolerate joaning (put downs).

Out in the halls there is another story. I often hear the word “faggot”, “gay”, “wetback” and the “n” word. Students know that I “lose it” if they say those words in my room. And I know the words in Spanish, too. They come to quickly police themselves.

One time our class had a lunch party to celebrate earning high grades. As a reward, they could each invite one friend to the celebration. A popular, football player was invited. At that time in the room was a student who was openly gay, Jesus.

Jesus went to my lotion drawer and was sitting at my desk applying lotion to his legs and was not visible to the popular jock. (I keep lotion, because the students are embarrassed about being “ashy”. I keep it there for them, and for me, whenever we need a little moisturizer.)

Once Jesus stood up after applying his lotion, the popular boy said, “On no. I ain’t staying in here with no faggot.”

Before I could even speak up, the class chimed in, even the boy who had invited the popular classmate: “Chill. This is a safe space. Everyone is allowed to be who they are here.”

Jesus said, “So what I’m gay. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. If you go, that leaves more pizza for us.

The football player thought about it and stayed.

Not all students come out in a peaceful manner. Raulque’s route to coming out was long and terribly painful.

Beginning in the sixth grade, he started some self-destructive behavior. Teachers told me that he wouldn’t do his work. At all. Not even an attempt. I knew he could read, as I had heard him read. And he wrote for me in our “sheltered” ESOL class. So that wasn’t the problem, either. He was perfectly bilingual, although his parents told me he wouldn’t speak Spanish with them even though they didn’t speak English. (Actually, I hear this often about some of my boy students.)

At the time I couldn’t figure Raul. Raul the enigma. I remember sitting one on one with him while he completed an assignment. The teacher had agreed to accept the work, even though it was grossly late. Upon completion, I sent him back to class with his assignment in hand. After dismissal that day, the teacher asked about the assignment. I was confused. As we walked down the hall following “bus duty”, she happened to look in her recycle bin outside her door. There was Raul’s assignment. Complete but not turned in.

Sixth grade was a difficult year for Raul, but seventh grade was worse. He had been a quite, non-working student in sixth but transitioned into a bitter, loud and disruptive non-working student in seventh.

I tried all sorts of approaches to get Raul to behave in class and do his work. I’d tried incentives, phone calls home, and even guilt. During one parent conference I saw that his mother wore a bandage on her hand. I asked her if it was an injury from the chicken plant, la pollera. She affirmed this. I told Raul and his parents that my grandmother’s hands, to this day, are gnarled with arthritis from working so many years at la pollera. I tried to shame Raul in front of his parents by saying that they had come to this country and were working so hard so their kids wouldn’t have to work like that. It didn’t work. Nothing seemed to work.

But Raul had friends. They were the “popular crew” of the Latino variety.

During seventh grade, Raul and his crew began calling everyone and everything “gay” in the halls and in the cafeteria. They were making light of homosexuality, and I didn’t like it. Everything in my liberal body told me to make it better. In the beginning I dealt with the name calling by saying things like, “I know lots of gay people. Big deal. It’s silly that you’re calling everyone and everything gay.”

Then, the narrative changed slightly from gay as a negative to gay is great. I began hearing from the mouths of these popular boys, “You’re so gay, and I love it”. It was most bizarre when they began to embrace the term “gay” and act like they were all gay. It is middle school and strange things happen.

Around that time, near the end of his seventh grade year Raul told me his big secret. He was sent to me yet again for being disruptive in another classroom. It was my planning period, and we were alone in my room.

Nothing about him was outwardly “gay”, and I didn’t suspect it at all!

Since nothing seemed to work for Raul, I wasn’t going to waste another precious planning period talking to him about his need to get serious about school work and stop acting so bad in class.

That day, I sat at my desk and continued working. Raul sat near-by and drummed on a desk and seemed angry. Then he began to speak.

“Ms. Bivins. You know how we’re always calling everybody gay?”

“Yea.”

“And how we say we’re gay and crap.

“Yea.”

“Well. I am”.

“What?”

“I’m gay.”

Oh Snap. I didn’t see that one coming! Suddenly the fog lifted and the truth shone brightly. This is why this boy was so disruptive. He was fighting his secret. In his family, to be gay was the antithesis of being a man. I knew the street he lived on and had visited his cousins that live next door several times. The men were manly and the women were womanly. Everyone fit into their neat gender roles.

“Dang.” I said

“I know, right.”

“You know what? It’s going to be okay. I’ve got lots of gay friends and they live happy, fulfilled lives.”

“I know. You told us.”

“Do you want me to get a counselor?”

“No. I hate myself.”

Then the bell rang.

At lunch, I searched out the Gay Student Alliance on UGA’s campus. I put a call in to them. I explained who I was and was hoping for some guidance with a student. I asked them to please send me information or some assistance. They said they would discuss it and get back to me. I never heard from them.

I also spoke with the counselors at lunch and alerted them. Although several students had come out to me up until this point, I was most worried about this one.

The next day Raul seemed to be a changed man. He behaved in class, did his work, and was respectful to his teachers. It seemed to everyone that a miracle had happened. Other than the counselors, no one knew why.

During my planning period, Raulque showed up again.

“Ms. Bivins. You know that stuff I said yesterday?”

“Yea.”

“I was joking. I’m not gay.”

“Okay honey.”

“I’m not lying. I’m not gay.”

“Raul, I’ll always love you. If you’re gay or not. You can have a good life if you’re gay or not. The way you’re behaving and doing your work in your classes today is a great start!”

“I’m not gay, though.”

“Okay.”

The very last week of the school year, as I was shuffling children out of the cafeteria and onto their homerooms, the “popular” Latino table called me over.

“Hey Ms. Bivins. You know how we always be calling everybody gay. Even us.

“Yes.”

“Well, do you know about Raul?”

“What about him?”

“He’s really gay.”

“Okay.”

“But it’s cool though. We still like him.”

“That’s cool. Everybody needs a good group of friends.”

I wish I could say that the group, and all the others, discontinued insulting gay people now that they, too, knew the truth about Raul. But they didn’t. Not even Raul, who was tortured by his desires throughout his final year at our school. He continued to pick on students who were out about their sexuality; so much so that he even received “official” bully letters home.

My message to him, the things I told him weekly was that as his school mama, and friend for life, I love him for who he is. At times he seemed relieved when I told him, and others repulsed by me because of his own self-hatred. I made it a point to say it at least weekly and in private, of course. I believe that if a kid hears he is loved enough that he will eventually believe it.

Elias

Unlike Raul, there have been other students who had a more seemingly easy time as a gay middle school student at Coile. Elias comes to mind. Perhaps Elias has an easier time at Coile because one of his older brothers’ that preceded him had often come to school dressed like a girl. Although I had never had the pleasure of meeting this brother, I heard he had suffered greatly at Coile. I also heard that their mama was much older than many moms and Elias was her baby. I heard she was crazy about him, and he could do no wrong. Maybe having these allies at home helped balanced the torture from classmates at school.

To this day, everyone knows Elias as “Gay Elias”. No matter if you are talking to his cousins or even former teachers. That is how he is known.

Calling people by a physical descriptor is not uncommon in the cultures I serve. I know Cheesecake, Churro, Catfish, Hamburger, Turtle, and many other descriptors as names. Of all these examples, the students even call themselves these nicknames.

Case in point. I tried tracking down Elias last year because I had a gift for him. He’s long since left middle school and is an adult now. I knew he had always dreamed of becoming a make-up artist. My mama had given me a nice Lancome gift which included colors that I would never wear. I wanted to give them to Elias, as I heard he had a side business of doing make-up for special occasions. Weddings, Quinceaneras, and even just girls that live around him for practice.

Like many Mexican American families in our community, Elias has a large, extended family. When I began asking around for Elias to donate the makeup, I knew that the young man I knew for sure was his nephew had already graduated eighth grade and was no longer at Coile.

So I asked some kids if Elias still lived in Pinewoods. Who? I said his whole name. Still they were stumped. Then I explained, “You know, he does hair and makeup?”

“Oh. You mean Gay Elias.”

“Well, yes.”

“He moved. But he did my auntie’s hair last week. He got skills!”

On and on it went with people only knowing him by Gay Elias, until I was able to track him down. I’m proud to report that he has a thriving business and even showcases his “done up” examples online. I put his information out to my sources on facebook to get his name into a larger pool of potential customers in Athens.

While he was in middle school, I’m not going to say his path was pebble-free as a gay student, but it was certainly smoother than that of Raul.

As I’ve always been drawn to exposing students of all varieties to the world beyond our school and the trailer parks, when he was still a middle school student, I invited Elias to attend a trapeze show with me. I am fortunate to live in Athens, a hip, university town with a continual fresh supply of creativity and artist; there is much in the way of arts. Plus, there are people in our town, such as Melissa Roberts who want to extend the arts out into the community. As the Executive Director of Canopy Studio, a non-profit aerial arts center, she was open to donating tickets to Elias when I told her he has a flair for the arts. Elias was the first in a long line of Coile students to receive tickets to attend shows. Melissa has been more than generous over the years, sometimes accommodating a van full of excited students.

The day finally arrived for the trapeze show. My husband agreed to babysit my youngest, who was three at the time so I could take Elias and a friend he selected to a Sunday, matinee performance.

His house was easy to locate with the Pinewoods neighborhood. It was painted pepto-pink, and like many homes there, had a beautiful garden out front. When I pulled up in my Volvo wagon, I was greeted with barks by what seemed to be a herd of Chihuahuas.

Out of the house came Elias, his friend Monnsie. But, I couldn’t help but notice, Elias was toting a baby on his hip. Whoa. I wasn’t prepared for this.

The lively, and well coiffed, eighth graders piled into the car with the baby. I inquired about the baby, my voice must have seemed hesitant. Elias told me that it was his sister’s baby. He was charged with keeping her while his sister worked at the chicken plant.

I asked what time the shift ended. The baby’s mama wouldn’t be home until the next morning. Was there anyone at home who could keep her in his absence? No. What about at Monnsei’s house. No. They had their own little ones to deal with.

I knew that my husband wouldn’t be interested in watching this chubby little one, who appeared to be about seven months old. I suggested that we reschedule for a show at some point in the future. Tears, or at least near tears, appeared in the eyes of the middle schoolers. After all, I had gone out of my way to drum up how cool this Valentine’s themed show was going to be.

I asked, “What’s her name?”

“Umm. I don’t know. We call her baby.”

At this point in my career, I still asked this question of the little ones I encountered. I rarely ask that anymore because no one seems to know, as all little ones are called “Baby”. Even grandparents often struggle to remember the names of little ones as colleagues ask the baby’s names at parent-teacher conferences at school.

Dang it. Why can’t I say no?

I asked about the baby’s car seat. There was one in the mama’s car at la pollera. Elias said he would just hold her. Oh no. Out of the question. Even though my son’s car seat was front-facing, because he was older, I decided to put baby girl in it anyway. And off we went.

I parked in the gravel lot of Canopy, the trapeze studio, and put the baby on my hip to walk the two eighth graders into the studio. I decided to let them attend without me, and I would watch Baby at my house. I gave them my cell phone and instructed them to call me when it was over.

The teens felt “muy importante” as we excused our way through the line of those waiting to buy tickets to the performance, since we had “will call” tickets waiting for us. When our tickets were in hand, we entered the audience space and were greeted with smiles and hugs by Melissa. I whispered the situation in her ear about the cute Latina baby. She quickly sprang into action, hosting the students and showing them to their prime seats on the front row.

As I was leaving with Baby on hip, who was completely at ease there, I thought to ask for her diaper bag. I ran to Elias. “Where is her diaper bag?”

“Her what?”

“You know a bag with diapers and pacifiers and stuff.”

“Oh. I don’t have one.” Then he began digging in his jeans pocket. “Here. Take these.” He produced a bouquet of lollipops. “Just stick one of these in her mouth if she starts to cry.”

Thankfully, I had diapers at my house. Although she was only about seven months old, her booty was about as wide as those size twos I had stashed in a drawer at home.

Two lollipops later and one diaper change, the phone rang from the teens at the trapeze studio. I drove there to pick up my crew and found Melissa allowing Elias and Monnsie to try out a couple of trapezes. We played there for a while until Baby got fussy, and I was ready for a break. I drove the kiddos home and gave them all, including Baby, hugs goodbye.

Although it had been a hassle, I felt confident that Elias saw firsthand that the world is a great big place with room for everyone. Even people who like to put on costumes and fancy make up and hang from the ceiling.

I appreciate Melissa because since that February afternoon, she has always made the studio a welcome space for Coile kids. She contacts me each time there is a show to ask how many tickets I’ll need.