A Letter to my rookie self-what I'd say to her.
Every time I see this video, I cringe. At first, it's because I'm wondering why I look that way. The hair color, the clothes choice-I'm like really? I walked around like that? (Laugh) Come on, most people don't like how they look years back. Cringing at the thought.
Then I press deeper, I see the rookie glimmer in my eyes as a 2nd year Rookie in this video my bro-in-law recorded for me to capture a day and a life of Mrs. G. in the infamous Room 214! This number would take on a metamorphosis of an actual nonprofit. As lead dreamer, I wouldn't have seen that coming.
I look at this video and I wish I could step inside of it. Now 15 years in, and onboarding with the US Dept. of Education as a FT fellow, now a national speaker and champion for education equity at the height of my calling, or perhaps just scratching the surface...I'd like to speak to the rookie Mrs. G. right now.
If I had a chance to step inside this video and talk to 2nd year teacher Mrs. G. from room 214, I'd tell her to brace herself. I'd tell her that the room number would transform into a movement, a calling, a destiny. I'd tell her that she'd go through copious amounts of pain and visceral suffering. I'd tell her that just months after this video was recorded she'd bury her first student Adolfo to gang violence in a Catholic Church in Little Village, Chicago. Yet, to meet his mom in the parking lot where she'd utter words that'd turn into the central theme of her life..."I'm going to do something about this." I'd confirm her suspicions. I'd tell her to stay the course, and to NOT FOR THE LIFE OF HER give up or let go.
I'd tell her she'd one day be so important to the Latino community and communities of color often found on the margins. I'd tell her she's stronger than she will ever freaking know. I'd tell her she'd make mistakes, and feel defeated. I'd tell her she'd be underpaid and undervalued, but that would be the precipice by which she would advocate. I'd tell her she was nestled in Urban Ed for a reason--to one day advocate for change as a solider in the trenches proximate to the issues she'd be able to withstand.
I'd tell her the student funerals and ICU visits wouldn't stop for the duration of the next 15 years of her career. I'd hug her tight, I'd look her square in the eyes and tell her that she mattered, that she didn't have to people please and that trauma would turn to transformation.
I'd tell her that her church ministry would evolve into urban ministry in the marketplace. I'd tell her that her tenure in the local church would masquerade into a different mantel by which she would carry not with perfection, but with a grace and a special anointing that would attract 1,000's at important seats and spaces. I'd tell her that she'd not only get a seat at the table, but she'd become the damn table in honor of her ancestors and her Maker. She'd become a disrupter, a bad ass for justice, a rally cry for Urban Education. Yet not before falling and failing and wailing and weeping and digressing and stressing and falling into a pit of deep despair. How PTSD would strangle her and anxiety would mangle her, but that help would be on the way.
Letter to self. Man this is what I'd say, or at least how I'd start the conversation.
Keep going Mrs. G. Keep going.
All my love and affection and dedication to your evolution.