It was an unexpectedly hot June day. I sat at my kitchen table, most of my brain occupied with an impossible end-of-year to-do list, while a small part reminded me—like an alarm on snooze—that this school year would soon be wrapped up for good. Summer break, a relief.
Probably hunched, I sat rummaging through student writing one last time, with just a few more grades to finalize, when I discovered Nyla’s poem in the very back of her folder.
Calm
The sun is calm.
Every tree in the world is calm.
The rainbows are calm.
Grass blowing in the wind,
Clouds in the sky, and the flowers.
I read the poem through twice, visualizing each line, when a calmness came over me—a calmness that quieted the stress long enough for that small part of my brain looking ahead to the last day of school to grow bigger, feeling less like an alarm and more like the gust of wind in Nyla’s poem, bending the delicate grass and whispering something sweet, like . . .
“You did it.”
Then I did something that I hadn’t done all year. I cried. A relief.
At the start of the school year, I promised myself I would stay calm. Not calm as in free from anxiety or detached from my anger, but calm as in grounded, steady, and clear-headed. Calm—the exact word I chose—had been tucked somewhere deep in my mind, and Nyla’s thoughtful poem brought me back to it.
In September of 2024, amid multiple genocides with no end in sight, in a city struggling to adapt to a rapid influx of migrants, with a triggering presidential election on the horizon and relentless attacks on queer and trans people unfolding, all on a planet facing a deepening climate crisis, it felt as though the first thing I needed to commit to was calm for the 26 first graders about to call me their teacher.
And now, being on the other side of the school year, despite everything unfolding in ways far worse than I ever could have imagined, I realize that I managed to stay calm through it—calm enough to create a feeling of safety and security in my classroom, even when it felt at times like the world wanted me to do otherwise.
Later that day, I found myself wondering: How did I get there? How did I manage to stay calm through it all?
I held on to the idea that resistance lives in the ordinary—that it’s an everyday act.
It took me months to find an answer to that question, as I thought carefully about how certain practices influenced student outcomes—like when Nyla tapped into her heart and wrote this poem. This is where I’ve landed: I held on to the idea that resistance lives in the ordinary—that it’s an everyday act. At a time when people are desperate to control everything—from the books in my classroom library to how we protest to who can walk freely in our neighborhood streets—I remind myself every day that their reach has limits. These two truths can exist at once; their power is not something to underestimate, and they have drastically underestimated mine. They will never understand the depth or breadth of ways we can transform education into a tool of liberation and resistance, a way to claim our identities and craft the futures we desire.
Sometimes it meant trying something new or simply reframing what we’ve been doing all along. Nyla’s poem got me thinking specifically about the teaching of writing in the current environment. My intention is to encourage my students to connect their brain with their heart, a habit that requires some nurturing.
When teaching nonfiction writing, my co-teacher and I not only asked students to write about topics they were experts on but also encouraged them to use the last page of their books to explain why their topic matters—a nonfiction feature present in some of our mentor texts but not often discussed or included. One often distracted and highly imaginative student, Romy, wrote two books, one about the coral reef in Hawaii and one about . . . cockroaches. On the last pages in her books, Romy wrote that the coral reef in Hawaii needs to be protected and that cockroaches, one of New Yorker’s most dreaded pests, are misunderstood creatures. As we sat in our meeting space, looking at her work together, we praised Romy for being brave enough to share with us why she cared. Knowing facts isn’t enough; we have to connect them to what we care about, even if it’s cockroaches.
I also found new meaning in emphasizing the importance of audience. Teaching spelling, handwriting, and mechanics standards can feel mundane, especially when you are someone who gets excited about what kids have to say. But the truth is, having a lot to say is not enough, you have to know how to get it on the page so others can read it. I remind students that there are so many big and small reasons why making our work reach others matters and that achieving this sometimes means finding the right place for the period, knowing exactly when to use uppercase, and walking over to the word wall for a closer look. After all, our ideas deserve to be delivered exactly as we intend them to be.
I have made certain supports available to everyone, without questioning their choice to use them. Over time, I’ve noticed as an ICT teacher that the resources we offer one writer often benefit others as well, even those without formal evaluations or mandates. Writing asks a lot—everything from gripping a pencil to spelling countless words correctly to crafting sentences that tell a sequential story. There’s a shared sense of relief when tools like noise-canceling headphones, alphabet strips reminding students how to write uppercase and lowercase letters, and booklets with sentence starters are always within reach.
This past November, more than half of New York City’s voters chose a new mayor, drawn to his fresh ideas and a campaign that promised benefits “for all.” If it worked for him, why not in my classroom, too? If the goal is for my students to do their best work, why should I question what strategies they choose to help them get there?
I have always known that imaginative experiences help us dream up new realities, but last year, I was reminded that they can help us escape reality, too.
I fostered community in my classroom by offering more opportunities to write together. It can be relaxing to write quietly at your seat, but there is power in coming together to make books. Some of my favorite books are collections of poems or essays from various authors put together by activists and writers. In one of my favorite shared writing experiences with my first graders, we wrote about history; not about wars and presidents, but about the history of the place around us, our school. It is grounding to know how the spaces and people around you have changed over time and we can research this together. Spanning over time from when the building was first constructed in the 1800s, to when school was closed to protect us from an emerging virus, to when new chickens arrived at our school last week, together we created a meaningful piece that can be read by all, over and over again.
I also made a conscious effort to increase the fun. I have always known that imaginative experiences help us dream up new realities, but last year, I was reminded that they can help us escape reality, too. When teaching fiction writing, I ditched my same old stories for my good friend Spider-Ham, a character borrowed from the Spiderman multiverse animated movies. In some stories, Spider-Ham learned lessons that I wanted my students to think about. He ran out of web and sought help from an unlikely ally, the quiet spider. In another story, under pressure, he thought outside the box and saved the drifting duckling with his curly pig tail. Making more space for fun inadvertently created a deeper sense of belonging. Writing workshop became Spider-Ham time and to this day, the first graders who have moved on stop by to ask what he’s been up to.
Discovering Nyla’s tucked away poem caused an unexpected reaction. I’m glad it did. It reminded me that it is who we are and how we teach that matters in difficult times. Whether that means finding greater purpose in what you see as mundane, being intentional about bringing the entertainment, or helping kids to articulate the unsaid in their heart, it all works to create a space where young people feel like they belong. A space where they are valued and can thrive.
What a gift that is. Of course, these things can never replace policies or the people who support the most vulnerable among us, nor can they replace books and curricula—such as ethnic studies—that teach us to hold space for all humans. But like the sun, like every tree in the world, like the rainbows, they can help keep us calm. They can help us resist those that have a false idea of how powerful they really are.
Featured photo by Eugene Golovesov on Unsplash.
