Inclusion - A Pre-K Approach

 

Lainey
photo by Courtney Brown Caveny
courtneycavenyphoto.com

My son John was recently teasing his 4-year-old  daughter, Lainey.  I’m sure it was all in good fun, but John pushed her a bit too far. Lainey vigorously chopped her right hand into the open palm of her left hand. John continued to pester her, so she chopped again with more intensity.

“What are you doing,” he asked.

“I’m telling you to stop,” she replied.

“By chopping your hand?”

“Yes, Daddy. It’s sign language.”

“Where did you learn sign language?”

“At school,” Lainey responded.

This was news to John.

Lainey is in a Pre-K program in a rural, mountain school  made up of predominately white students. The school is in a tight knit community of families who have lived in that area for generations. It would be tempting to characterize it as a homogeneous community where people that are different may not be welcome. Tempting, but wrong.

 ***

Diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) are hot topics around the country. Virtually all organizations are struggling with how to implement DEI strategies into their programs. For many, this stems from an increased sense of social awareness and the recognition of the changing societal norms. For others it is a sound business practice to have a workforce, board of directors or customer base that reflects the shifting demographics of our country, state and community.

But what does it mean to develop and implement DEI strategies? And even if we are committed, where do we begin? Maybe my granddaughter’s elementary school can shed light on this challenging topic.

One of Lainey’s classmates has a hearing impairment. An embarrassingly short time ago, this student would have been placed in a special needs class or sent to a school hearing impaired. Nowadays, these students are more likely to be placed in a mainstream classroom with other students their age. This creates a more diverse learning environment for all students. Of course, there are challenges that come with diversity.

How does a teacher communicate with a student who can’t hear or speak and hasn’t yet learned to read or write? In this case, an adult attendant, who is fluent in American Sign Language (ASL), accompanies this student in the classroom. This attendant ensures proper communication between the student and teacher, and the student with other students. All students get the same message from their teacher and all have the same ability to interact in the classroom. This creates a fair and equitable learning environment for everyone.

The diversity and equity elements have been addressed by those in positions of authority. Policies or laws have been established and implemented to provide students with equal access to the classroom and once in the classroom, an equitable experience. But none of those practices necessarily creates an inclusive, welcoming environment for all students. To address inclusion, Lainey’s teacher decided to have a short sign language lesson each day. With the assistance of the attendant, their goal is to teach the students one new word in ASL each day. Not only is Lainey using this new skill in the classroom, she is also taking it home and sharing it with her family. Most important, it allows the students to engage with each other, and for all to feel included in the classroom and on the playground.

What is the lesson for us as adults?  Each of us carries (or drags) a suitcase through life filled with experiences that lead us to congregate with folks who look and sound like us, and who live similar lives. We tend to feel uncomfortable with people who are different which can lead to unintentional, and far too often intentional, acts of exclusion. And for those who are willing to take more inclusive steps, the fear of getting it wrong can lead to paralyzing inaction.

Organizationally, inclusion can’t be mandated by policy or enacted by law. Inclusion requires stakeholder involvement in identifying solutions. It requires new learning by those in the dominate culture and an increased awareness of the needs of those who may be marginalized in society. Including others doesn’t mean we have to compromise who we are or our culture – it means broadening the definition of how we define our community.  

Maybe we should approach this delicate topic like a classroom of 4-year-olds. Learn a new skill every day; have the courage and commitment to apply that skill; and show ourselves grace when we don’t get it right, but not let that stop (right hand chop into the left) us from trying again.

A Celebration of Amy's Birthday

August has always been a month of celebration for me. It is a month sprinkled with birthdays that include my dad and mom; my daughter; my niece in Nashville; and my sister-in-law. The first Sunday of the month is traditionally the Caveny reunion, a date that stems from my great-grandpa John’s August 1^st birthday. A favorite August event from my childhood was the Caveny cooter (snapping turtle) stew. The extended family and community gathered for a stew flavored with garden fresh vegetables and a little pork for those less inclined to partake of the namesake turtle. I recall August shopping trips for school clothes at the Belk department store on Main Street in Kings Mountain, my hometown. While there was sadness as summer waned, heading back to school always carried its share of excitement –with me in brand new clothes. 

Amy’s birthday is also in August. I struggled a bit with the preceding sentence, debating whether to use the present tense “is” or recognize it as something from the past by using “was also in August.” In an ancillary, parallel internal dialogue of whether this is a date to celebrate or commemorate, I decided to go with a “celebrate” in the present tense. Today, August 20^th is Amy’s birthday - a day of celebration. 

In all honesty, it’s been difficult to find moments to celebrate over the past months. My experience with grief is one that it is physically and emotionally draining. I often find myself too exhausted to recognize those fleeting instances of happiness that flash and flutter through the periphery of my life. One evening as I mourned all the things Amy and I would never do, I determined to capture those darting snatches of memories that summon a smile and an occasional laugh – a focus on the good times. The list has grown long, and I have come to enjoy scrolling through it, especially on the darker nights. Below are a couple from that list:

While walking down to visit our favorite Irish restaurant and pub, Tír na nÓg, in Raleigh we walked past a club where live music pulsed through an open door into the street. Standing just outside the door was a 300-pound guy with thick, twisted dreadlocks that hung past his waist. As we passed Amy leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “Now there’s something you won’t see back home in Elkin.”

Every time we passed that spot she asked, "Remember that guy with the dreads?"

 

***

 

One evening Amy met an old friend in Elkin for dinner. She promised to bring takeout back for me. When she arrived home later that evening, my gnawing stomach amplified the realization that she was empty-handed.  I asked about my food and she said, “I saw I guy on the corner who looked a little down and out. I stopped and asked him if he had anything for supper. When he told me ‘No,’ I give him your dinner.”

 

I ate my sandwich with a broad smile that night. It was delicious.

 

***

 

Last year (2020), we were at Myrtle Beach on my birthday. Amy asked what I would like to do for my special day.  I suggested we drive north to Cherry Grove and have lunch on the pier. The sensory experiences of that meal mingled and became intertwined with childhood memories of pier fishing with my dad.

 

Now fishing piers, the crying caw of seagulls, shrimp po’boys and the smell of salt air bring to mind a wonderful lunch date with Amy and fishing with my dad.

 

***

 

Amy planned it all out – a train ride from Newark, New Jersey into New York City.  I was borderline terrified of the Gotham experience while Amy was giddy with excitement. We departed the train near the 9/11 memorial around noon and Amy insisted we experience a genuine NYC small diner lunch so we ducked into a tiny pizza place.  The guy behind the counter spoke with a heavy eastern European accent, so I quickly stereotyped him to be a Russian mobster, which added to my concerns. He had no time for my extended selection process. I was put off by his brusqueness, but Amy loved it. “That was so New York,” she said as we walked back onto the street.

 

It snowed as we walked through Central Park.

 

***

 

Amy fell in love with Union Station in Denver, Colorado. Originally opened in 1881, she said she could visualize all the different people who had arrived in the city by train from across the decades. We spent much time there watching people. When she saw someone she deemed as interesting, she would point to them and ask, “Tell me a story about him.” She laughed as I wove intricate stories of what led that person to walk through the door at just that moment.

She reminded me that good or bad, everyone has a backstory that brings them to this point in life.

 

***

 

I was lured to a play on the campus of the University of North Carolina with the feigned disclaimer from Amy that there would be nudity. In all fairness it was a great performance but as it was nearing the end I leaned over and asked in an overly loud whisper, “I thought you said there would be nudity.” She shushed me. “But,” I protested and she cut me off with a hard look. In the final scene the male lead was tied up in the standing position. The female lead snatched a sheet covering him to reveal him totally nude facing the audience. Amy looked over with a mischievous smile and said, “There you go.”

 

***

 

In 2018, Amy and I had dinner at the Little Rhein Steakhouse along the Riverwalk in San Antonio, Texas.  Amy cried through much of the dinner, recalling how her parents brought her and her sister, Dawn, to that very restaurant in 1982. She told me how she was sure that their dinner cost her dad close to a week’s pay from the Chatham Mill. She described through tears how she treasured that memory. She said we [she and I] should always be creating memories – that those memories will outlive us.

 

She was right.

 

***

 

But my best memories are of us simply sitting on our front porch on a cool summer evening or on a warm afternoon in winter.  Regardless of season, Amy always said the same thing: “We sure live in a pretty place.”  A slight summery breeze and night sounds carried her words to me again last night as the setting sun flooded the sky with orange just west of Bullhead Mountain.

 

***

August has a heightened sense of celebration for me these days. Memories of sagging sawhorse tables of family reunion food, ladles of steaming cooter stew dipped from a black washpot, birthday cakes, and stiff, new Wrangler jeans are now joined by remembrances of white-knuckled subway rides, college theatrical performances, and saltwater fishing piers. When I see a person who strikes me as unusual or who veers from the mainstream, I try to see them through Amy’s eyes and ponder their story - what brought them to this moment in life? I view life on a deeper level because of Amy. My life is richer because of her. Her continued gift to me. That alone is reason to celebrate her special day.

Happy birthday Puddin.

In Search of a Bigger Pie

Our recent county budget hearing highlighted that our lives, even here in Alleghany County, are becoming increasingly complicated and complex. A snare that is easy to step into is to think of those two terms as synonymous. Two recent examples shed light on how we can tease apart the intricacies between those problems that are complicated and those that are complex.

Developing our county budget is a complicated process. There are countless services that residents expect to be delivered and those services have to be funded at a sustainable level. Fortunately, we have skilled staff that can assess those needs, weigh them against projected revenue and then deliver a balanced budget. It is a complicated task but one that we can delegate to experts who can then deliver a finished product.

That budget hearing also revealed the complex side of the budget process. Representatives from groups that receive funds from the county budget spoke of the impact of the proposed reductions in their 2021-2022 appropriations. These groups make valuable contributions to the public safety, education, health and the economic growth of our county.  Ironically, these financial requests make up a small fraction of the county budget.  The county commissioners had to make difficult decisions concerning these proposals, all of which they recognize as valuable to our community. As someone said during those discussions, “The pie is only so big.”

Another example comes from the creative place-making (or community development) discussion hosted by Blue Ridge Energy and the Town of Sparta. As representatives from local industry, small businesses, educational institutions, agriculture, real estate and other community organizations came together over the course of the day, several issues or themes were consistently raised during our discussions. One was the need for more housing. As this need was more closely examined, the complexity of the issue became increasingly apparent. Given our limited resources, we discussed whether the focus should be on affordable housing for low income individuals; housing for young or senior adults; housing that meets the needs of families; housing for weekenders or second home owners; or housing for seasonal workers. Once again someone addressed the realization of limited resources with a familiar analogy, “The pie is only so big.” The facilitator responded, “Maybe you need a bigger pie.”

Determining how to carve up an existing pie is a complicated process – baking a bigger pie is complex. So where do we begin?

Visioning is the first step. The facilitator in the creative place-making workshop challenged the participants with the question, “If you could wave a magic wand, and resources were not an issue, what would you like to see happen in your community?” This is not “think outside the box” rhetoric. It is removing the box to think more broadly of the current and future needs of our town and county.

The second step is getting the right people in the room. Complex issues require that we develop or strengthen networks and relationships with existing teams or organizations.  It is vital that we include people in the conversation who can allow us to develop a 360 degree, three dimensional view of our challenges. This is an uncomfortable process because it forces us to hear from people with whom we may disagree. Complexity requires that we lean into this discomfort instead of pulling away into our comfortable echo chambers where we all sing the same songs.

Finally, if we are serious about baking a larger pie, we have to rid ourselves of a small pie mentality. It is true that our community faces many challenges around resources. Both examples provided here highlight those issues. But some seem to revel in, and even perpetuate, a “poor but proud” attitude. A continued, narrow focus on our resource challenges or shortcomings will keep our pie small with increasingly smaller pieces for everyone.

Perhaps, as we wave that magic wand, we can even dream so big as to envision ice cream with our pie.

Through the Fog and Snow

My closest friends know that I tend to describe life with a mixture of metaphors, analogies and similes. Whether that is a defense mechanism or just a product of my culture, those tools help me communicate how I experience the world. I find them especially helpful in defining my emotions.

As I travel through this season of grief, I’ve struggled to find words that adequately describe my emotional state. Adding to that difficulty is the fact those emotions can change with little notice. Within a short walk across the room, I can experience anger, sadness and a lingering denial of Amy’s death. 

One analogy I’ve used many times over the past months, when asked how I’m doing, is that it’s like I’m out in a snowstorm. The snow is blowing, forcing my head down; the clouds are low, hiding the horizon; and there is a ground fog that casts an eerie shadow across the landscape. The footing is slippery, and I feel as though I may fall with each step. But the scariest part is that I feel as if I closed my eyes and turned around twice, I could no longer find my way back home. It is an unsettling and disorienting state.  Yesterday, after an overnight snow, I saw a visual image of my analogy. Low clouds, heavy fog and 4-5 inches of snow. After a light lunch, I determined it was time to face the fog and go for a walk.

I made my way up the drive and turned toward Bullhead Mountain. About half way up, I met my neighbor who was plowing his drive. We talked for a half hour; a long rambling conversation about grief and death and Heaven and what it’s like to move on without a loved one. Then it was on up the road, following a set of tracks to the next home until they turned down the drive. From there, there were no more tracks other than those left by me.

I planned to walk up to a pasture opening, just before the trail turns up steeply to Bullhead. I had hoped for a panoramic photo from this elevated point, but the fog closed in, limiting visibility to a few feet in each direction. As I walked across the pasture a tall, leafless tree appeared from the fog, its branches encased in snow and ice, standing alone in the field. I felt a kinship with that tree.

As I stood staring at that lone tree, the clouds seemed to thin for just a moment. The sky lightened briefly as if to remind me that there is sunshine just above and beyond those clouds, and that the snow and fog are temporal.

Winter is a strange season here at the foot of Bullhead Mountain. Bitterly cold weeks are interspersed with spring-like days. Clouds are blown away to reveal the bluest skies of the year. The snow rarely stays long before it is spirited away. Mysteriously, as time passes, there are more warm days and fewer cold ones and less snow and northern winds are replaced by southern breezes. Then, daffodils begin to bloom.

Such is life.

An Old Commandment for a New Year

For many of us the start of the new year is a time of new beginnings and resolutions to change behaviors. Perhaps it is better described as a time of new intentions or the resumption of failed ones from previous years. I have kept a journal for 25 years and each year I write a recap of the old year and list my intentions for the new one. Unfortunately, the intentions list is virtually the same every year. I find it nearly impossible to change.

2020 was a challenging year and one I’m glad to see in the rearview mirror. Covid 19 caused us to continually adapt and balance the public safety concerns of our communities with the economic and emotional health of the individuals that make up those communities. It has been difficult to strike the balance between what’s best for us collectively with the fear of losing our individual freedoms. I feel safe in saying that we all felt, feared or sensed loss in 2020.

For my family, our loss was real and tangible. Coming in waves roughly 2-3 months apart we lost a brother-in-law to cancer, my brother was diagnosed with ALS, we cancelled a much anticipated family vacation to Yellowstone, my daughter and her family moved 7 ½ hours away, and my wife, Amy, died after contracting Covid. It was an inexplicably hard year for us.

As I was repeatedly knocked off my feet by those cascading tragedies, I began to feel further and further from God. I use the word “feel” intentionally. I embrace the promise that “I [God] will never leave nor forsake you (Hebrews 13:5).” But what I knew to be true and what I felt in those turbulent months were vastly different. This fueled the sensation of being untethered and free-floating with no sense of direction. So, for New Year’s Day I decided to forgo the traditional southern meal of black-eyed peas, pork and greens to instead fast to see if God had a word for me as I began 2021.

On the morning of January 1^st in place of breakfast, I began reading the Gospel of John. Immediately I was struck with the words “In him [Jesus] was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1: 4-5).” I read on through the first five chapters before going on with my day. Throughout the day those words, “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” rolled repeatedly around in my head.

I made it through most of the day without being especially hungry, but that evening there was a gnawing in my stomach. My head ached from a lack of caffeine. The sun set and evening news came on, both reminding me that it was time for supper. I turned back to the Gospel of John.

In chapter 13, as Jesus was talking with His disciples he said, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another (John 13: 34-35).” It was as though I heard those words for the first time! I prayed, “So is that it God - my charge moving into 2021? Love other people? What does this kind of Biblical love look like? How can I show this kind of love when my heart is broken and I can barely breathe?” Then I realized that I had heard this communicated for weeks and shown what this kind of love looks like in action.

Leading up to the holidays, a missionary working with predominantly Muslim refugees spoke at our church. He shared that many Muslims are converting to Christianity. He said that he always asks, “What brought you to Jesus,” and they say, “We saw Him in the love shown to us by Christians.”  Then, in the week after Christmas, Ben Gatton shared his thoughts on choosing love for the new year in a blog post for Hope Fellowship Church. Ben wrote:

“…love is often a choice isn't it? When we choose to live in God's love and center our lives around it, we can live in compassion for others and see them as God does. Love connects us to God's children and reminds us that we too are children of God. Love compels us to serve, to listen, to care, to grow.”

Finally, in late December I was serendipitously introduced to the writings of Canadian pastor/author/blogger Tim Challies while visiting my daughter. His son died suddenly in November at age 20. Challies has written frankly about his grief journey here and here. In a January 4th post (just days after I received the imperative to love one another) Challies quoted author J.R. Miller:

“Grief should always make us better and give us new skill and power. It should make our heart softer, our spirit kindlier, our touch more gentle; it should teach us its holy lessons, and we should learn them, and then go on, with sorrow’s sacred ordination upon us, to new love and better service.”

As I follow Ben’s example of “choosing love,” a love fueled by a grief that has given me “new skill and power,” I have two questions for you, my friends and family:

Will you hold me accountable when I don’t act in a loving manner? I give anyone who reads this license to challenge my actions or speech with the question – “Is this coming from a place of love?” 

Second, will you commit to love as well? Will you set aside political bickering, debates about Covid restrictions, and rambling theological arguments to choose instead to love one another in spite of our differences? I’m not asking that you compromise your beliefs or values. We can still be firm in our convictions while showing love - a love that is improbable, unlikely and maybe impossible in a worldly sense.

 “By this all people will know you are my disciples...” The words of Jesus.