MOA

Even though I avoid it, I can feel its massive presence. It's there, on the way to where I may be going, the center of a web highways, casting sticky, silvery threads to capture unwary passersby. I quickly punch down the accelerator, lest I become its latest victim.

"I live in Bloomington," I tell people. If they're not from the Twin Cities or Minnesota or even the United States, their brows may furrow. But their faces always clear when I say, "You know. The Mall of America. We live near the Mall of America."

It's popular. I have had friends and family visit whose central aim is to shop there. My home and hospitality run a poor second to an indoor roller coaster, Legoland, and every store they don't have near their homes. I suppose it's a little like living near the pyramids or Mount Everest. But I don't mind. As long as they don't make me come with them.

My kids used to go to school near the mall, and one of their teachers continuously railed against the soul-sucking evil of the place. But that man turned out to be highly susceptible to evil himself. He became head of the school, abused his power to purge those who questioned his authority, and replaced them with loyal family members. So, perhaps his views can be discounted. Or perhaps it was the mall that led him astray.

When my sisters came to town last week and wanted to go to the mall, I was surprised to hear myself say, "I need to do some shopping. I'll go with you."

It's changed a lot. Many years ago, when the amusement park was called Camp Snoopy, and my kids played with legos, I used to go there once in a while. After all, winter in Minnesota is very cold and long, and it was worth the risk of a little soul-sucking evil to tire them out without having to put four kids in snow pants, boots, hats, mittens and jackets. Last week, I wasn't even sure how to get to the parking ramps. The exits looked different. There were hotels in the way.

When I stepped into the entrance, it all came flooding back. The never ending windowless hallways filled with florescent lighting that failed to completely conquer the darkness. The weight of it all. The ricocheting energy of so many people.

The noise. It was the noise that made me want to turn around and leave. I was immediately transported to the time we took out-of-town guests to the mall, and I got a terrible migraine. There is nothing worse that an indoor amusement park for a throbbing head. But I was on a mission. I needed to meet my sisters and get the job done.

I looked around to get my bearings. To my left, I saw a sign on a plain metal door. It was the name of the school where I work. I knew we had offered English classes at the mall for employees and nearby residents, but that program had been discontinued a couple of years ago.  I was surprised to see the sign still up. I turned to my right. Victoria's Secret. The window was filled with a huge photo of a woman in lace panties. It must have been culture shock for some of the new immigrants coming to learn English.

Once I figured out where I was, I began to walk. Verbs flew at me from every store I passed. Need! Want! Save! My determination wavered. I knew what I was there for, but what if I really needed something else, too?  Something I hadn't thought of. Something that I would regret not buying. Something—God forbid—that I would need to come back for. And it would be on sale. A good deal. Before I knew it, I would be browsing. I would be buying. I would be weighed down with shopping bags.

But my sisters know me. By the time I met up with them, they had already zeroed in on where I needed to go. They had even done initial reconnaissance. They enlisted a sales person to help with the specifics, and I bought nearly everything she suggested with the credit card I opened at the store.

The next time I drive by the mall, I'm going to step harder on the gas. It's a very dangerous place.

Stop!

"Protesting is when you see something wrong, and you want to stop it," I told my adult English students. "A march is when lots of people walk together in protest."

Born in 1959, I grew into consciousness as the Civil Rights Movement came to national prominence. The Vietnam War protests were the backdrop of my adolescence. By the time I went to college, Reagan was president. We signed petitions to pressure our administration to divest from companies with ties to South African apartheid. No one marched in the streets.

Since then I have used my voice. I wrote letters to the editor, a few of them published. I became politically active, as a donor and volunteer. I made countless calls to hostile strangers to defeat an effort to legalize discrimination in our state. I visited my state legislators to make sure they heard me. But I have never used my feet. I have never marched.

When I first heard of Black Lives Matter, it made sense. "Stand up," I thought. "Tell your story. People will listen." Because that has been my experience. I spoke up, and a mere four years later, my church became more inclusive. I gave a letter to my state senator and later she read it on the senate floor. I was heard. I am white.

Black Lives Matter wasn't heard. The killing continued. So they came to places where people were already gathered. They came to the Mall of America, and it didn't bother me. I hate shopping there. They came to the State Fair. I was annoyed. I love the State Fair.

"They're not doing it right," I said. "Annoying people won't change anything. They need to tell their stories. That's how we defeated the marriage amendment."

Then came Alton, Philando and Dallas. Black Lives Matter walked onto an interstate near me to stop traffic. It didn't go perfectly. Anti-police rage led to injuries. Many people were annoyed.

"They're doing it wrong. They shouldn't be allowed to disrupt so many lives. People need to be places."

I've been teaching American history this summer. It's English class, but we teach the language through a variety of topics. We began with the Native peoples, then European arrival. After studying independence from England, we looked at American expansion. Next came the Civil War and the Civil Rights Movement. We had just finished comparing Cesar Chavez and Martin Luther King Jr., when Philando Castile was killed fifteen miles away. I realized with a jolt that I had taught my students the history of race and violence in this country.

"Now you can understand why this is happening," I said as if that were possible.

But it's not possible. So maybe Black Lives Matter is doing it right. Maybe standing in the middle of an eight-lane highway and refusing to move is the only thing left to do. You may not stop the next bullets being unloaded into a man who is only frightening because he is black. You may not stop the next retaliation against a decent police officer. But at least you are stopping something. Even if it's only traffic.

And maybe it's time for me to use my feet. I won't join them on the highway. That's terrifying. But I might at the state fair. I'll be there anyway.

Safer?

Never!
(Received this in the mail post-Orlando.) 

 It's not uncommon for me to bring current events into my ESL classroom. They're all adults, and it's empowering for them to be able to voice opinions about their new country in their new language.

After Orlando, I wanted to talk with my students about it. But how? Most of them come from religious backgrounds that prohibit homosexuality. Their reaction to the subject tends to be about the same as a seven-year-old boy who hears the word "underpants". There is whispering and giggling.

I decided to approach it from the issue of guns. I asked the basic question that America is facing. Do more guns make America safer?

Many of these students have extensive experience with guns. They have seen chaos and bloodshed on a scale Americans can't imagine. After discussion, they unanimously expressed support for strict gun control. "Only the government needs guns. To protect us." Black Lives Matter would have squirmed to hear the naive trust these new black and brown Americans have in our institutions.

Then someone asked, "Teacher, can't the president do something?"

"Remember when we studied government? All laws have to come from Congress. And Congress won't do anything."

Their trust crumbled, just a little.

The House Democrats tried. They sat. They spoke. They shouted...Nothing.

Our representative, Eric Paulsen, who passes himself off as moderate because he never voices an opinion, voted to do nothing.

So it was ironic that the next week, the NRA sent a membership solicitation warning me that I am under attack. Especially by the "freedom-hating Hollywood elite." These moustache-twirling evildoers are plotting to take my guns. And my children's! How could they? Only the NRA can save me. Putting an NRA member sticker on my car will send tremors of fear through local politicians. Just $25 buys me this super power for one year. Or, if I'm a bargain shopper, I can get three years for $70 or even five years for $100. There are some nifty member gifts, too.

It's the NRA who keeps telling us that more guns = more safety. But we haven't heard much from them this week, when Philando Castile's gun made a police officer nervous enough to kill him.

It's easy to fault the cop for being nervous. It must mean he's racist. Black = bad must be at work in his soul. Like so many before him, he saw black. He killed black.

Dallas reminds us that police officers have a right to be nervous. Police are some of the first to say that the more guns = more safety formula doesn't work for them. It puts their lives at risk.

But this can't continue. 

     More guns

  Nervous cops 

+  Black is bad 

       More death 

"Teacher, can't the president do something?" 

"No." I said. "All laws have to come from Congress. And Congress won't do anything. But you can. When you vote, think about guns." 

Eid mubarak!

YESTERDAY

Family: How was your day at work?
Me: Very quiet.
Family: What do you mean?
Me: It's Eid.
Family: What?
Me: It's Eid. The biggest Muslim holiday of the year. The end of fasting for Ramadan. None of my Muslim students were at school today.

I wonder how long it will take for America to add Eid to our collection of marketable holidays. I'm sure there are already greeting cards. The greeting card companies know what everyone needs to say long before they do. Eid is a big shopping time. New clothes. New shoes. Tons of food. How long before the newspaper ads have pictures of mouthwatering goat stew, enticing shoppers to get the best deal on halal meats in the Twin Cities? Because that's what America does to holidays. We sell them to people. Easter baskets, Black Friday sales, Hanukah and Christmas wrapped up.

Ramadan is harder to wrap because it's the absence of something. Food, water, sleep. For a month, my students dragged themselves to class hungry, thirsty, and sleep deprived. They weren't allowed to eat or drink while the sun was up, so this time it was particularly tough. Ramadan straddled the summer solstice. From a teaching perspective, this isn't ideal. It interferes with learning. By the time my evening students left class, they hadn't put anything into their mouths for over fifteen hours.

Or maybe they had. One of my students was still waiting for a ride when I came out to my car. "Have a great Eid," I said.

"Teacher," she said in a spontaneous confession. "I ate breakfast today." She looked miserable.

"Well, you have to take care of yourself," I said. Completely logical, but completely sinful according to her religion.

Another student came up to me during Ramadan and said, "Teacher, we're praying that you become Muslim!"

I took it as a compliment because if there's one very positive thing about Ramadan, it's that it creates a sense of community. You may be suffering, but you're not doing it alone. Not only does God notice what you're doing, but your fellow fasters do, too. So my student was inviting me into community.

(Which isn't what if feels like with some Christians. With them, I feel like the offer to pray for me is because I've failed to do it myself. I should know better. I was raised in a culture dominated by Christianity and shaped by its judgements.)

All of this Muslim goodwill during Ramadan makes me wonder about the violence we've seen. Orlando, Istanbul, Kabul, Dhaka... The fact that these occurred during the holy month makes it obvious that they weren't motivated by Islam, the religion that makes you feel guilty for eating breakfast when everyone else is hungry.

Eid mubarak, everyone. Blessed Eid.

Independence Day

It's Independence Day. A day to celebrate freedom. Americans live and breathe liberty. Independence permeates our red, white and blue souls.

My students, most not citizens yet, have become infected by it. Last week I put the First Amendment on the board. If you need a refresher, it includes freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, freedom of the press, and freedom to petition. I asked them to discuss which was most important to them.

(Bear in mind that a typical conversation with a student might go like this: "Teacher, I no coming tomorrow. My wife she have appointment.")

I was astonished at the level of discourse. One group began to discuss gender roles and the rights of women in their respective countries. Another group talked about freedom of the press and freedom of speech.  A student pointed out that what people do is more important than what they say. A third conversation revolved around elections and term limits. Students wondered if they could be free without the right to vote for their leaders.

While I reveled my students' achievements in their new language, I was mindful that there are many in America who believe that freedom is finite.  If we give immigrants a share in our freedom, they reason, who knows what they'll do? They certainly won't appreciate it. They may even use it against us. America First! Immigrants never!

I have some good news for those people. Freedom is precious to your immigrants. They know what life is like without it. And they ask whatever god they worship to bless America.