5.30.2022

For the Class of 2022 and a World in Need of Repair

Isn't time wild? The seasons just keep changing and the kids keep growing and once again it's the end of spring and summer awaits. It's graduation season again and this life in a modern pandemic carries on. Here is my offering to my eighth graders this year. 

To the Class of 2022,

I’ve never had a school year when I was unsure we would make it. This year I wondered how we would come back, step inside, breathe together, learn together. But look at us now. Here we are, still in-person. Still here. Still breathing. Together. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of us. It hasn’t been easy. 

I’ve cried more this year than I have during any other school year, and not for the usual reasons. Like my other years of teaching, my emotions have often simmered to the surface, ready to bubble over, but this year, so many of my tears have been tears of apology. 

I’m sorry for all the ways we have failed you. I’m sorry that two years ago we sent you home for two weeks and kept you home for over a year. I’m sorry we couldn’t figure out faster that we could come back safely with masks and testing protocols in place. I’m sorry we let you languish in silence and anonymity, that we didn’t support you and your families more, and that you might still feel alone. 

I’m sorry we reopened our doors and acted like things were the same, that we didn’t give you the time and space to process it all. I’m sorry we didn’t give you the time you might have needed to heal, and instead we dropped you right back into systems that don’t work for so many of us. 

I’m genuinely sorry, but sometimes apologies aren’t enough. Reparations are defined as making amends for a wrong one has done, or the act of repairing something. When my father was your age, a young teenager during World War II, he was incarcerated along with his entire family because of his Japanese Ancestry. In 1992, he was paid reparations and offered an apology. It didn’t heal the trauma of our family’s history or forgive our country’s actions, but it was a step toward justice. 

In the shadow of these unprecedented times, we need to do more than just apologize. We need to repair. Indian author Arundhati Roy says, “How has the United States survived it’s terrible past and emerged smelling so sweet? Not by owning up to it, not by making reparations, not by apologizing to Black Americans or native Americans, and certainly not by changing its ways.” 

There is much we need to repair in our nation, in our cities, our families, our schools, so let us start here. Let’s repair the relationships we have with one another, by apologizing for the times we’ve done wrong, by showing gratitude and thanking those around us for sharing this space with us, let’s offer kindness to one another with a greeting, a pleasantry, a wave or a smile.

So before you head off to high school, I hope you will take a few last moments with the people you came back to school with: these friends and classmates, these teachers and staff. I hope you can offer a smile, a greeting, a thank you because even if these relationships have felt the strain of these uncertain times, of the trauma and grief we are all still carrying, we have shared this experience together. 

And when you start at your new schools in the fall, I hope you will show up to school ready and willing to learn even though these same schools may have let you down. I hope you will be there for one another, that you will take the risk of learning, of building new friendships, and that you will heal and repair. Please forgive yourself and others, remember kindness, and see how if we start reparations here and now, even on this seemingly small scale, we might open up new possibilities for repairing a broken world. 

American author Maya Angelou says, “People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did, but people will never forget the way they made you feel.” I will remember you, Class of 2022, as the ones who helped me step back into the world, who made me feel brave even though it was tough, and optimistic even through despair. Because we’ve started making reparations already.  We’ve spent these months getting to work on a world that is in serious need of repair and we are moving forward. And as Beyonce says, “If you feel insignificant, you better think again / Better wake up because you’re part of something way bigger / You’re part of something way bigger.”

Click here to read graduation speeches for other Emerson classes. 

5.01.2022

Can We Get Along?

The corner of 7th St. and Union Ave., a building is ablaze during the Los Angeles Uprising, 1992; Photo by Ted Soqui, 1992. Courtesy the artist. Courtesy the artist. Photo: Ted Soqui from the California African American Museum exhibit.

Thirty years ago I was a senior in high school and had just turned eighteen. Our choir group took a trip to San Diego for a competition and to visit Sea World, Disneyland, and Knott's Berry Farm. As we drove back home and past Los Angeles, the city quietly awaited the Rodney King verdict. By the time the acquittals sparked the LA uprising, I was back in Bend, Oregon nearly a thousand miles away. 

Now, I call Los Angeles home and on the night of the 30th anniversary, I sat in a soccer stadium near the USC campus watching a women's professional soccer game where almost all of the players took a knee after speaking about their support for racial equality in America. I've been thinking a lot about how much I've changed and how much the world has changed in the past thirty years and how much has remained the same. Here is an excerpt from I Tried: Tales of an Emerging High School Feminist about that day when the news that LA was on fire arrived in Bend. And here is a recent article if you want to learn more about the '92 uprising

can we get along?

After that all-night bus trip and a couple of hours of sleep, I make my way into the kitchen where Mom makes oven pancakes for a late-birthday breakfast. She has NPR on, and I hear LA is burning. Rodney King. Police officers acquitted. Riots. Looting. Violence. 

I try to remember LA. Wasn’t I just there, just a few hours ago? No, we were in San Diego, and then we drove up the coast. I can’t recall seeing much of anything I recognized of the valley where Mom’s family lives, or Baldwin Hills where Dad’s brother’s home looks out at the Hollywood sign. Then, I remember the grainy footage of a man being beaten and photos of his swollen, bruised face. I remember the race of the officers (white) and the race of Rodney King (Black), the use of the n-word, and the excuses people gave for why the beating was justified, “He was on drugs,” “He tried to attack them,” “He deserved it.”  

I remember, two summers ago, seeing Do the Right Thing at the mall a few weeks after it’s release. Some theatres didn’t want to screen it. They feared riots in the streets. Now, there is rioting in LA. 

I drive to school beneath clear blue skies, far away from black smoke rising into haze above the Hollywood sign, Dodger Stadium, and the LA skyline. I arrive at school, and no one talks about the uprising. My classmates haven’t heard about it, or they aren’t interested in discussing it, particularly with me. After all, our school already experienced its own loss this week, it’s prom season, and our teachers want to get a few more assignments out of us before senioritis sets in even further. No one mentions that school is cancelled in LA, that people are dying in the streets, and fires burn in neighborhoods a thousand miles away.   

I think about saying something, starting the conversation. After all, everyone already sees me as a liberal, and a feminist, and a woman of color, but as I sit there in Mrs. Hurley’s class, I wonder if any of the personal stands I take change anyone or anything. 

In the fall, as the Atlanta Braves made their post-season run, I told anyone who would listen that doing the tomahawk chop during volleyball matches was super offensive. People still did it. 

When I heard about a new girl who just moved here from Vietnam, I passed by her on the way out of B Hall sitting on the floor by herself, but I said nothing. What could I say? She barely spoke English. 

When rumors spread about a middle school friend being hit by her boyfriend, I did nothing. 

When South Seas rolled around again, I didn’t say how offensive it was to come in black face, and even though Jamal Finley, the junior who replaced Chad Paulson as the only Black kid at Mountain View, hung a sign in the commons asking if he should wear white-face to South Seas, and nothing changed.

When the Wrangler-wearing boys scrawled KKK slogans across their binders, I said nothing. 

When people said, “That’s so gay,” or when the football guys called each other fags, I said nothing. 

When rumors spread about the girl who slept with him, and him, and him, or talked about the girl who threw up in the bathroom everyday at lunch, or the girl who got drunk and had sex with two guys, I never defended them or talked about what was going on. 

I haven’t changed this town at all, and sometimes I didn’t even try. 

On the day of Rodney King uprising, once again, I say nothing, and the disappointment and anger of my silence simmers inside me. I assume my classmates say nothing because they don’t know or don’t care. That is their privilege. They don’t think about race because why would they? Their families chose Bend. They fled cities, just like my parents did, to live in this utopia far away from urban spaces where cops beat Black men and Korean shop owners defend their markets. This is where I sit in my safe classroom, far from streets where cars are upturned and stores are looted. 

Mrs. Hurley turns on a movie, and in the dark, I fold my arms along the cool surface of my desk, and rest my head on my arms. I’m so tired, but when I close my eyes I see Uncle Yosh and Auntie Suma’s house in Baldwin Hills, just above the fray where columns of black smoke rise up outside their picture window. I remember driving down Crenshaw where Mom always got so nervous, as if someone might attack our car as we drove down the street. I imagine the strip mall we drove past when we went to LA for mochi-tsuki. The view of Los Angeles burning has to be unbelievable from Uncle Yosh and Auntie Suma’s back yard.

What about my parents, this interracial couple leaving Southern California: what possessed my Japanese American dad and white mom to pick this mountain town in the middle of nowhere? The story goes that it was skiing. The proximity of this town to Mt. Bachelor saved their marriage, but I wonder if it was also easier for them to be away from their families. When I’m with Mom’s family, with their blonde hair and blue eyes, living near Simi Valley where most of the jurors for this Rodney King trial live, I feel like an outsider, like at any moment a cousin or Grandpa might say something totally offensive about “those Mexicans” or “those Chinks.” What did they say about us when we weren’t around? 

Then, there’s Dad’s family. We are so white in comparison, because we are only half and live in Bend, void of any Asian community at all. Maybe staying in LA would have been much more complicated. 

If our family had stayed in LA, what could have become of us? Maybe we would be closer to our cousins, to Traci on Mom’s side who already has a baby, or Craigor who is in jail. Maybe we would be closer to the cousins on Dad’s side, Ron and Pam, who were band kids, or John and Rich who played tennis. We would never know, because Mom and Dad kept us from these possibilities and raised us a thousand miles away. 

When I get home from school, Mom is watching the news. There is footage from earlier in the day, shop owners in Korea Town, an area I’ve never heard of, holding guns and defending their shops. 

President Bush announces, “Anarchy will not be tolerated,” but the footage tells a different story. 

“Why aren’t they stopping it?” I ask, and Mom shakes her head. 

“I think it’s too big,” she says, but I don’t understand it. How can people go so crazy? Why are they so angry?  

Mom doesn’t understand either. She grew up white, in the valley, far from the streets we’re seeing on TV. 

I’m unable to comprehend the anger and frustration that fills
the TV screen, but I want to. I want to understand what it feels like to be so enraged. My internal clock is ticking. My days in this town are numbered, and I know once I leave and make my way over the mountains and onto a university campus, I will never come back.

To read more about my high school years growing up in Central Oregon, check out I Tried at Bookshop or your local book seller. 

8.15.2021

First Day of School 2021

As I slid desks across the shiny, clean floors in anticipation for another school year, I was more nervous and anxious than I've been in years. There is still the exciting promise of a fresh start and the tension of meeting a new group of students, but this year hits a little differently. I struggled to see how I could maintain social distancing for 34 students, and I kept coming across relics from the past: file folders and assignments from my last students in the before times back in the spring of 2020. 

I'm trying to stay optimistic. After all, I'm sending my own unvaccinated elementary school students to their first and fourth grade teachers tomorrow. We are all hoping that universal masking is enough. We hope this variant can be kept in check. We hope we can keep our kids healthy. 

But after 18 months of weighing every decision about what to do and what risks to take, it is the letting go that is hardest right now. And maybe letting go isn't the right thing. Maybe instead we have to hold on to the things most important to us. 

We've learned the importance of our physical and mental health over these past months, so we will be vigilant about masking and about holding space for both the trauma and the joy our students will carry into our classrooms. We are aware of the attacks on our public schools, our elected public officials, and our medical professionals, so we will continue to teach and show up for our students. We can see the world shaking in Haiti, hear of the political upheaval here and abroad, and smell the smoke from global fires, so we must wake up in the morning and continue to fight in our small ways. 

The isolation of this past year has caused me to lose faith in so much, but after sliding those desks around, I was able to arrange my room in order to maintain 3-feet distance. When new sixth and seventh graders came in for orientation, they were full of nervous anticipation as well, and we are all feeling so much. I'm certain my students this year will once again restore me to some kind of faith. They do this every year. So as I start back, carrying all of my own trauma and joy, I look forward to the restorative healing a new school year can provide.

For other back to school blogs, click here!

6.08.2021

This Year's Speech for the Class of 2021

How do you let go of something that you never held to begin with? That's how I feel about this year. Still, tomorrow is the Emerson Middle School culmination and here is my speech for our eighth graders. I am so proud of them. They got through the eighth grade during a global pandemic. Wow. 

Class of 2021, 

This past August, we opened the school year like no other. Instead of opening my classroom door, I opened a Zoom and instead of meeting you all in person, I met you through these screens. It was the first day of eighth grade, and I worried you might not come. But you logged on, and you said hi when I called your names. And then, to my surprise, you kept coming. On Zoom. Day after long day.

Back in August, we were still feeling our way through this pandemic. We were hoping for the best and we learned not to look too far ahead. It was too hard to think about the possibility of disappointment, so I didn’t allow myself to think about today, your graduation day. 

But now it is June, and time has a funny way of just carrying on. 

This past November we took time to write novels and it seems like so long ago. Fast forward to April, we paused to write poems in little four-minute increments. Minutes, class periods, days, weeks, months. A school year. 

The musical Rent asks how we measure time: “In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life? Seasons of love,”

Last summer, we stayed home to try to keep our city safe. In fall there was an election and then in winter an insurrection as cases in LA surged, I learned not to ask too many questions of you. Students and families were dealing with COVID, and so many of us were grieving loss.

It has been a long year, four long seasons, but spring is here and the waves of vaccines have begun. Doors have started to crack open again and we have continued to show up in little fits and spurts, to learn, and to be together in these strange learning communities. We made it through this year together, and in ways that are completely unique to this class of 2021.

And now, it’s over. A few of you have come back in person, but most stayed home, and as we reflect on this wild, wild, year, I hope you all measure this year by all you have learned. Maybe your English hasn’t developed the way it might have had we been in school in person, maybe your math feels a little shaky and your science lab skills uncertain, maybe you feel a little soft from no PE running days, but you have made it through a year we will never forget, even though we might like to.

What your learning reflects is a deep compassion. You seem to really understand that the struggle is real and everyone single one of us is struggling through. You know if someone’s camera is off, they probably have a good reason, and that even though someone else's struggle isn’t your own, you can still empathize with their circumstances. 

There is no room for regret for what this year might have been, and as Ralph Waldo Emerson says “It is about your outlook towards life. You can either regret or rejoice.”

With this next season and in all the seasons to come, you get to choose: regret or rejoice. Thank you for teaching me how to see and feel regret and to still choose joy. Today it’s your day. And as Charles Bukowski says, 

“Your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.”

12.30.2020

A Quiet 2020 Blog Review

It's almost here, the end of 2020 which once held the optimism of this whole new decade, right? But what... what in the world happened? 

a group of multiracial people celebrate 2020
When 2020 held so much promise.

To be honest, 2020 feels like a decade all on it's own. I haven't written much here or elsewhere during the past twelve months, but it is what it is. 2020 has helped remind me to let go of things I can't control, and I control very little. 

I'm also done using capitalistic measures to quantify success. Instead of thinking that growth and profit are required indicators of success, I'm more interested in sustainability measures. So rather than looking at reads and site visits as indicators of accomplishment, I also want to consider writing I feel proud of or that helped build community. I know my words are reaching people, so I'm calling this year sustainably successful. 

I posted to this blog six times, but a few post from before this year continue to generate significant traffic, so I'll take some time to revisit those as well in this year review:

A few days ago I shared my publications for 2020. I appreciated the communities that developed around anthologies and was so honored to have CNF, poetry, and fiction anthologized this year. This post also has links to videos of my work and these are a first for me. Reading in public is not my favorite so creating recordings and participating in virtual readings and discussions were huge areas of growth for me. 

I also shared my year of reading which includes many great titles. I'll choose a favorite from each genre just for fun, and if you need more to read, check out last year's list of favorites

Fiction: Nickle Boys by Colson Whitehead
Nonfiction: Just Mercy by Bryan Stephenson
Poetry: OBIT by Victoria Change
Graphic Novel: Pilu of the Woods by Mai K. Nguyen
YA: Hearts Unbroken by Cynthia Leicht Smith

My annual culmination addresses still get visits and the addresses from 2017, 2018, and 2019 garnered reads this year, but the 2020 address got the most reads of all my posts this year. 

At the start of this year, I wrote about the one-year anniversary of our UTLA Strike for the schools our students deserve and about the night before the strike. The actions we took two years ago have kept teachers, students, and families safe during this year. Even though we are all anxious to get back to school in-person, our decision to stay home has saved lives. In case you still weren't sure: strikes work. 

In the face of white supremacy in 2017, I asked for help in this post and many readers returned to it in the face of white supremacy in 2020. 

At the start of the school year, I wrote again about the first day of school, and how this year would be the same and also very different. 

But my top post this year was originally published here in 2017 and captures the Nakada experience with incarceration during World War II. Seeing this as the top post for the year serves as motivation to keep revising Rice Paper Superheroes, my young adult novel about the Nakamura family's wartime experience. 

That's it. Thanks for reading along and wish y'all a safe, healthy, and happy new year. 

12.28.2020

2020: the year in books

I thought I was going to read so much during the lockdown, but to my surprise, the stacks and stacks of books to read kept growing higher and higher. Still, I read and these are the books that got me through 2020. I recommend them all.

pre-pandemic reads: 

In the early days of 2020, I read Jami Attenberg's novel, All This Could Be Yours. It is the story of the Tuchman family during the last days of the patriarch's life. Layers of the Tuchman story are revealed in shifting narrative chapters, and it was nice to escape into a different family's upsetting problems for a while. 

My niece recommended Just Mercy by Bryan Stephenson, and moving forward I will use this book in my classroom instead of To Kill A Mockingbird to discuss race and justice in America. With a variety of cases, Stephenson gives face to those hidden from us, incarcerated for being poor, Black, young, female, and vulnerable. His knowledge and use of the law to change the system inspires us all to end the death penalty and find redemption for ourselves and for those behind bars. 

Internment by Samira Ahmed is a young adult book set in a not-so-distant future when Muslims are incarcerated in camps like the Japanese Americans were during World War II. The plot is strong and for young people unfamiliar with our nation's history of internment, this is a good place to start. 

I listened to Colson Whitehead's Nickle Boys by while marathon training and the abuse and racism of this place left me squirming. A fictionalized account of the Dozier School for Boys in Florida where young men picked up for nothing are brought to their knees by a system designed to kill them. These haunting stories stayed with me much like the ones in Whitehead's The Underground Railroad

Then, in March, we went into lockdown and these were the books of the spring. 

Attendance by Rocio Carlos and Rachel McLeod are poems and journals reminding me to stay paying attention to the world. Poems of women and of the day to day life of writers. 


Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls
by T Kira Madden is a beautiful, haunting memoir from Florida in the 80s and 90s and then brought into the 2000s. Her coming of age in a family, multiracial like myself, but ravaged by addiction and secrets is how I’ll remember April of 2020. 

Kiara demanded to read Pilu of the Woods by Mai K. Nguyen after I sent her and her brother to their rooms one evening. “It’s about feelings. I think you might like it,” she said, and I did. The illustrations are beautiful and the magical realism of this girl stumbling upon a fairy-creature in the woods allowed Kiara and I to have rich conversations about feelings of love and loss. 

Obit by Victoria Chang   These beautiful narrow columns of poem reframe grief and loss. There are so many exquisite lines and new ways of thinking about our parents and letting go of them. Then there are these small poems, little reprieves, sips that allow a break from loss but still sit right next to the grief.  

Pride by Ibi Zoboi is a Bushwick retelling of Pride and Prejudice examining race, class, and re-gentrification. It stays true to the Austen classic in that it is a love story, but also a commentary on what young women experience as they determine their futures in America.

The vignettes in Carmen Maria Machado's In the Dream House unfold over time like a complicated piece of origami with careful creases made across many years. The author looks back on a relationship brimming with abuse, and hopes to smooth the paper and examine how each fold brought her to the end and to find love again. 

Linked short stories in Once Removed by Colette Sartor capture moments in women's lives filled with

texture and tension. Sartor deftly drops us into the lives of fully-rendered characters and asks us to hang out. We spend a few days with women seeking solutions within themselves and from the world. I haven't read a story collection that kept me this engaged in a very long time.

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong is a letter to the narrator's mother. It travels from Vietnam, flashes back to wartime and then forward through the narrator’s (Little Dog) young adult life. There are so many beautiful sentences and haunting moments but my favorite is: “Again and again, I write to you regretting my tongue.” It’s amazing how well he captures the inadequacies of language.

On the Come Up by Angie Thomas was such a good YA book to read post as we grappled with the role of police in our schools and in our world. Thomas captures a young woman coming of age struggling with her identity and artistry within a climate that is so harsh toward her as a Black girl.

Hearts Unbroken by Cynthia Leitch Smith is another YA novel narrated by a young Native woman, new to her Kansas suburb and exploring who she is as a partner, a writer, and a Native woman. I learned about Frank Baum’s racist anti-Native stances which further complicates the idea of there being no place like home.

These are the poetry collections/chapbooks I read as part of the Seeley Challenge this year. I vow to spend even more time with poetry in 2021:

bone by Yrsa Daley-Ward
be/trouble by Bridgette Bianca
Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz
Love, Love by Victoria Chang
Unaccompanied by Javier Zamora
How to Exterminate a Black Woman by Monica Prince
For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf by Ntozake Solange
The Long Clot of Love by Lituo Huang
Heart Like a Window, Mouth Like a Cliff by Sara Borjas 
Death By Sex Machine by Franny Choi
The Blvd. by Jenise Miller
HOMIE by Danez Smith

If I thought the beginning of the pandemic was tough on reads, the end of 2020 brought my reading to a near halt. 

Never Look Back
by Liliam Rivera is a retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice set in the Bronx. I love these characters and the ways Rivera blends love and politics and the ancient and the modern. 

The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson Ok, listening to this epic work of nonfiction over the last few months of quarantine should maybe count as more than one book. I learned so much about the great migration across decades from south to the rest of the US. What a triumph of research and narrative. Mom wanted me to read this. It was one of her last recommendations to me and I’m so glad I finally got to it. 

The Book of Delights by Ross Gay This is another book, a little like Attendance that started the year, that I'm reading in sips for a long while. Another great reminder of how to stay aware of the ways we're seeing the world. 

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban by JK Rowling Reading these again but this time with the kid. 

And that is my year in books: 

12.22.2020

Publications in 2020: A Year of Anthologies and Virtual Readings

This year has been many things, but for me as a writer, it's been a year of anthologies and recorded readings. 

First is the ACCOLADES: A Women Who Submit Anthology which included my poem, "Camp Stories," originally published in Kartika. This anthology launched at AWP in San Antonio in March. I had my flight and housing booked, was ready to go, but with the news of COVID accelerating, I cancelled my plans to go. The anthology launched beautifully in my absence and I even recorded an IG reading of the poem. 

Next up was Mom Egg Review's "Home" edition which took on new meaning as we spent so much time around the house this year. This essay, "At Home in America" is actually about a trip to Oregon and driving around in circles in Sunriver and thinking about what Bend means to me, my family, and the next generation. I read this one for MER's virtual reading as well. 

A short story and my only fiction publication this year was "Infamy" for Made In LA: Volume III: The Art of Transformation. This community came together in ZOOM spaces several times in 2020 during a launch party and a discussion of book stores and beaches with Small World Books in Venice. 

Wrapping up my 2020 year of anthologies was my poem "Instructions for Surviving a Modern Pandemic" which appears this beautiful Alternative Field publication In Isolation: an anthology

I had a couple of essays come out this year as well. "California" an essay excerpted from Through Eyes Like Mine, was published by Nasiona for their section on being mixed race. "Vegas Indulgences," as essay about proportion and sexual assault in a place where the scale of everything is off appeared this spring in Lady Liberty Lit

As the pandemic kept us all home, the other essays I published this year involved the passage of time, our evolving communities, and writing through hard times. "A Meditation On Time" and "Writing Through Despair" appeared in Women Who Submit's Breathe and Push column and "Community in the Time of COVID" was published in Cultural Weekly. 

I had the opportunity to participate in the Deschutes Public Libraries' Know Us series by. speaking about growing up multiracial in Central Oregon. You can view my conversation with Liz Goodrich on youtube. 

Other poems published this year include: "How Do We Count Our Dead?" in Bitter Melon Poetry's Stay Home Diary, and "Meditation on the Morning Spent at the Soccer Field" and "Family Haiku" both in Tiger Moth Review's Issue 4

Thanks to all the readers, editors, and publishers who worked hard to continue to bring art forward during such trying times. I am so honored to share my thoughts and stories with you all. 

8.19.2020

The First Day of School 2020

Y'all, I've been writing first-day-of-school blogs for a long time. 

I almost didn't write one this year because nothing seems to matter, but then I watched Michelle Obama speak, and I felt something I haven't felt in such a long time, something these Obamas seem to be able to provide for us precisely when we need it. She gave me hope. 

So I'm here, on the night before the first day of school, the first day when I will see so many of my students and although this year feels so different from so many others, it still holds is hope. 

There is so much promise in a new school year, and I just want to do my students and this moment justice. My students and their families deserve schools that truly invest in them and their education. We can take this pandemic and make sure the education we provide is better. We can make certain our concern is more rooted in people and how they are doing and what they need and how we can help. We can amplify voices from our country's history and present who demand to be heard. We have so much work to do. 

My kids both have their first days of school tomorrow as well, and during this unique time, I will get to see them through it. So many of my other kids, my former students are wading through their first days and it isn't what any of us imagined. 

It will still be hot in Los Angeles. There will be people getting sick and dying. There are so many worrying about power, and access, and food, and housing, and exposure, and we will show up in these little boxes on networks that spread across the city in ways that keep us from being in closed spaces together.

Your names will be called and you will answer and be marked present. We will consider who we are and the stories we have to tell. We will breathe through the first-day uncertainties and have our first day of school.

Look for some light around the edges: a smile, a kind gesture, a promise. Keep your eyes open. It might be hard to find, but I'll be looking for them all day long. Hold them all up, small or grand. Lift up all the signs of  hope. 

5.16.2020

For the Class of 2020

For the past five years, I've written graduation speeches for my eighth graders. This year's graduation speech was a little different, mostly because the end of this year has been so different. But here it is, my model for my current eighth graders. It has me thinking so much about all of the graduates and all of the graduations worthy of celebrating. So before Obama and all of the other amazing graduation speeches get made, here is my offering. 

Class of 2020 Graduates,

You made it. You are here, but I’m not ready to let you go. 

You didn’t get all of the moments this year had in store for you; didn’t get all of those lasts: last Academy Day, last projects, last dances, last field day, last classes, last days of school. Well, we had these lasts, but we didn’t know them while we had them.

Instead, we’ve had something else. We traded in classrooms for Zooms. We learned how to connect with one another through a screen instead of face-to-face. We searched for the motivation to get up every morning to head to school without even opening the front door, and to complete assignments that you might learn from but that couldn’t hurt your grade if you chose not to complete them. You had to get used to so much change so quickly.

A graduation celebration 1992 of four racially ambiguous kids
High School Graduation: June, 1992. 
Greek philosopher Socrates said, “The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new.”

You are here, and you have helped build something new.

It isn’t what we expected, but it is ours and we are here to celebrate because you have earned it. You put in two and a half long years on campus: days learning and growing, struggling with teachers and classmates, watching the clock and waiting for that 3:00 bell. And each and every one of those days in all of those classes count.

And now you’ve survived something new. For twelve weeks you have shown up in so many new ways. You found your way onto on screens and into chats. You turned in assignments, checked in with friends and teachers in new ways and adjusted to new ways of being at home with your families.

You read the news and felt anger, anxiety, fear, and loss. You witnessed tragedy from near and far. You worried about friends and classmates and endured constant change and uncertainty.

American author Maya Angelou says, “If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude.”

You have done this. You have taken this unprecedented situation and learned about yourself as people and as students. You’ve learned what to do with hours upon hours upon hours at home. You have grown up in these few months and learned more than we could measure inside the halls of our schools or the walls of our classrooms.

Our school’s namesake, Ralph Waldo Emerson says, “The way to mend the bad world is to create the right world” and you, the class of 2020 are truly making your own path. You are carving out new experiences and are already shaping a new, post COVID-19 world.

I might not be ready to let you go, but you are ready. You know how quickly everything can change and your adaptability during this time has inspired me. You have brought me hope. So thank you. Thank you for sharing so many of these long-short days, your thoughts and dreams of what tomorrow might bring. 

You have helped mend the bad, and I cannot wait to see the new, right world you help create.

1.18.2020

The UTLA Strike: One Year Later

A panoramic view of the crowd in Grand Park: downtown LA.
One day five of the UTLA strike in 2019, it finally stopped raining. We all showed up at our schools for morning picketing and although our negotiations team was still hard at work and a resolution was not yet in sight, the clear skies made the day feel different.

One reason was that at our site, NEA Vice President Cecily Myart-Cruz was on the line with us that morning. She has taught at Emerson for years, had served as the UTLA West Area Chair, and was a prominent leader in UTLA leadership's Union Power team. She had asked me if I wanted to speak at the downtown rally that day about class-size. I said yes, and this is the speech I was honored to present in front of City Hall and the massive crowd of educators and supporters in Grand Park. It's only 350 words; just five minutes on stage, but it is a moment of Los Angeles beauty I will never forget.


A large crowd of educators and supports at a strike rally
The view from the stage...
My name is Noriko Nakada. I’m a parent of a first grader at Grandview Elementary School and a teacher at Emerson Middle School and a proud UTLA West chapter chair.

Look at this crowd. I have been standing with you shoulder to shoulder in the rain, on the line, on the train, in our streets across this city, and all I can say is you are beautiful. 

Ten years ago, I sat in the street on Beaudry. It was 2009 and the district was handing out pink slips like sticks of gum. UTLA had to do something. We were tired of the district balancing its budget on the backs of UTLA members. We wanted smaller classes and more support services: school librarians, nurses, and counselors, so we staged a one-hour work stoppage, and a small but mighty group of UTLA members sat on the street in front of Beaudry and we were arrested. It was all we could do. It was something small and mighty.

Now, ten years later, there is nothing small about our mighty, mighty union!

Where we got to see some of our favorite teachers!
And guess what we are still fighting for? Smaller classes. This year my eighth grade English classes average 40 students, and that's lessrthan Ms. Shanley's math classes down the hall that have 50 students. Teachers and students, we know what 40 looks like, but for all of our parents and community members who don’t know, this is what 40 is: Abby Amy Chris David Akira Ashley Darius Eres Ethan Evelyn Grace Gabe Henry Irish Irene Isabelle Jordan Jojo Juliet Julia Jose Kailyn Karla Kiara Leslie Laila Luna Mia Marcus Maya Nicole Neve Reece Riley Sophie Seth Veronica and Zach.

And that’s just fourth period.

They are the ones we are fighting for: more of us to serve more of them, so at the end of this we can all breathe in our classrooms and be able to say 20 or 25 or 30 names a little slower and get deep into the work we do which is to TEACH.

And soon, very soon, we will be back to teaching because I believe that we will win. I believe that will we win. I believe that we will win!