Rise and Shine

by Donna Schoenkopf

I am a Substitute Teacher.

I am ethereal. I move from class to class like a phantom. Ghostlike. I am an illegal alien with no name.

I am also melodramatic in order to make a point, which is this:

When people are afraid they don’t speak up.

Now, I have always been a Big Mouth, probably because my mother, saintly and kind, always wanted everything to be “nice.” She called herself The Door Mat. Sometimes she called herself The Wet Noodle. She thought that if a person opened his mouth to speak up, there would be Hell to pay, that pain and unpleasantness would rain down lightning bolts on her and her kids, and it just plain wasn’t nice. (I will spare you childhood horror stories.)

The dark side of this philosophy was that the lightning bolts rained down BECAUSE no one spoke up, so I grew up with a fire in my belly that would not be quenched. I spoke up on everything. Which drove my family and friends nuts.

But it has been easy to Speak Truth to Power. I was a housewife and a mother in my young adulthood, so there was no job at stake unless you want to call being a wife a job. (My big mouth did result in divorce ... THREE times.) When I began teaching in my middle years the Union protected me against the vagaries of the principal who might not like the cut of my jib or the content of my words.

So it was easy, easy as pie, to be a defender of the downtrodden, the powerless, the meek.

I had nothing to lose.

I took a lot of pride in being a Big Mouth. It became my trademark. I remember once my teacher friend, Lourdes, whispering to me at a staff meeting, “Donna, please don’t say anything. We want to go home.”

And I wasn’t insulted or hurt. I just felt good that people knew I would speak up about any damn thing. I often ranted about acronyms and made the presenter tell us what PHBAO (predominantly Hispanic, Black, Asian and Other) and TD (Teacher’s Directions) meant, among other arcane pieces of information. ESL? (English as a Second Language.) But then, ELL. (English Language Learner.) Jesus Christ.

I got so mouthy that on occasion, teachers would come to me to ask me to say such and such at a meeting or to the Principal and end with, “I know you’re not afraid to ...”

Yeah. When it’s easy.

So ... back to the matter at hand. I teach, I SUB, at a really nice school. I like almost everything about it. It has a high percentage of “minorities” (in Oklahoma that translates to Indians, not Native Americans, Indians) and folks without much money. My cup of tea. The teachers are great, the principal/superintendent is swell, the kids are adorable, the cafeteria is the best restaurant in town and we teachers eat there free. I am liked and called often to fill in. Yeah. Things are rosy.

But not so fast.

They are fucking crazy!

I shall give you two examples:

I was told by different students that I had said some bad words. Curious?

They are:

HECK

HORRIBLE

TERRIBLE

When I asked why they were bad words, I was told that they were unkind words or just plain bad.

I can understand speaking kindly as being a great way to avert wars, and I’m all for that, but once you start monitoring words to the point of absurdity, you have some very intense control issues.

I am from the Mario Savio School of Free Speech. I believe in cussing, for instance. If you can’t say the word fuck, what CAN you say? Huh???

In my mind, it is a slippery slope to Big Brother when society puts so much pressure on you that you are literally afraid to say a word.

Talk about Thought Police!

Okay, number two:

The other day I happened to be subbing for the P.E. teacher when the PreK teacher, a wonderful woman who works miracles with her four-year-olds, came into the gym to rehearse her kids for the “Rise and Shine” program the following Monday. She was taping names to the wooden floor and cueing up the tape and video for the show. She was very excited about the upcoming event.

So on Monday, when I was subbing as third grade teacher, I got to see the whole event.

Those four-year-olds were dressed, head to toe, in camouflage, complete with hats. My peacenik heart stood still in my chest. She had taken photographs of her students which slid across the screen, one by one, all adorable and sweet, in their cammies, eyes downcast, hands folded in prayer, while “God Bless America” played in the background.

Then the sweetest little girl, sang an incredible rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” hitting all the high notes dead center, as she stood dressed in a sparkly red, white and blue dress.

The kids answered questions about the Stars and Stripes and the White House and there being  a crack in the Liberty Bell.

A music video came on. I apologize for not remembering the name of it, but its sentiments were that America is ALL about GOD, and all Americans know this because it is on our money and said in our Pledge of Allegiance. But there are SOME people out there who want to take GOD away, but we Americans won’t let them.

Yeah.

I was stunned. My peacenik/atheist heart stood dead in my chest.

My brain started arguing with the premise of the song. Guess what, O Singer of that “God IS America” song? That crack in the Liberty Bell? It happened when it was rung at my greatgreatwhatevergreat grandfather’s funeral. John Marshall, Supreme Court Justice, who designed the Federalist system. Yeah, baby, I’m his whatevergreat granddaughter. UnAmerican my ass!

My brain kept racing. I am an atheist, which is damn hard in Oklahoma, but I still love my Catholicism—the social justice and “love one another” part. (I know, I know. How can you not believe in God and still think of yourself as a Catholic? It IS possible, buddy.) I hold no grudge toward Christianity or ANY religion. If God helps, go for it. It used to help me. I understand. Go out and multiply. Be my guest. God be with you. But to tell poor defenseless FOUR-YEAR-OLDS that our country IS God and that all Americans believe this and that some people (UnAmericans who don’t believe in God) are trying to take God away ... Holy CRAAAAAP! It was like a shiv being shoved into my already dead heart.

And I didn’t say anything.

Nothing.

I just gathered my brainwashed little rosebuds and walked them sweetly back to class.

And I still haven’t said anything.

Until  now.

But it’s safe saying it here on this cyberpage. Or reasonably so. It’s the coward’s way out.

So I confess to you, my Brothers and Sisters, that I am not a brave and strong person.

I have been humbled.

Which is good for the soul.

If there is a soul.

Which I doubt.

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