A Year of Ebb and Flow
TL;DR
It’s been a year… a long, terrible, absurd, wonderful year.
I am tired, I am grateful, and I still believe in showing up for kids, because they’re kids.
That’s it. That’s the whole post (except it is stream of consciousness thought straight from my brain).
EBB FLOW
That was the license plate in front of me on the way here.
Normally, I just roll my eyes at personalized plates (one of my little pet peevettes, not a full-sized pet peeve, just a mini. The overpersonalization of vehicles with stickers thanks to everyone having vinyl machines, though… I could write a long form essay about that), but this one was a good one. EBB FLOW. I started thinking about the past 365 overwhelmulating days (is that a new word I just made up? It’s a good one. I’m talking to you, Merriam Webster) and was speechless. Well… almost.
What better place to sit and reflect on all of it than the one place that makes me feel grounded, refreshed, and just a bit at peace: Java Owl Coffee House.
I can’t imagine being part of any community other than the one I joined 14 years ago. The students, families, and staff I work with are who I’ve built much of my life around. But working in public education right now feels like trying to build a house while it’s being bulldozed. The system is crumbling and still somehow expected to stand. You know all those pictures of the East Wing collapsing? That’s public education in Texas, 2025.
I teach in a community that’s predominantly Hispanic, with many immigrant families. The world they live in isn’t built for them either, especially not now. When you wake up knowing the systems around you might not be safe for you, even if you’re too young to articulate that yet, you start the day already behind. Your brain is already in survival mode before you even get to first period.
And still, I’m fortunate. I work on a campus I truly love. Faculty and staff from the high schools our kids go to always tell us our students are different, that it shows in how they carry themselves and how they look out for each other. We see it too, in how many teenagers choose to spend their free time hanging around their old intermediate school. Because we made them feel like they belonged. That it was safe, and that it would always be.
⋯
But safety is a fragile thing for all of us. Last week, some of my former students, siblings I’ve taught for years and truly wonderful kids, went through a tragedy that will change their lives forever. The whole community felt it. And then, this week, the first major ICE standoff happened in the community. That hits our students hard, these are their families, their neighbors, their friends. They come to school scared. Next week, many of them will come hungry because their families no longer have food benefits.
And I’m supposed to stand up in front of 100 thirteen to fifteen year olds and teach the principles of the Constitution, explain the Bill of Rights, talk about the freedoms that, let’s be real, they’re constantly shown don’t really apply to them.
In addition to many of my students being scared and hungry, many have learning disabilities, but special education funding isn’t anyone’s priority. Many speak Spanish as their first language, but funding for bilingual education is also apparently a nonissue. Which is wild, because a lot of the same people electing those government officials are also the ones saying, “They need to learn English.”
Okay, cool. Then help us teach them. Wyd, government?
“These are children. Literal children.”
I cannot and will not understand how any human can look at a child, from any place on this planet, and think, nah, they don’t deserve help. They are kids.
And until everyone screaming awful things about immigrants, undocumented or otherwise, fluent in English or not, has actually spent time in those communities, they should just stop talking. Full stop. Because the most welcoming, generous, loving people I’ve ever met are from those communities. I’ve never felt that level of warmth in communities that claimed to be my own.
We expect all children, regardless of their circumstances, to meet the same standard. And we do our best every day to help them, even when the system won’t.
Unfortunately, many of those who do most of the talking have no experience with any of the communities about which they are spewing hate. They also don’t seem to have much of a grasp of the U.S. Constitution and the history of the nation. I have both. And it’s exhausting to keep my own head on straight, but I have to do it so I can show up for my students and the people in my life outside of work.
For me, that means taking a rare personal day in October to sit in the sunshine and reflect on why we keep showing up. My entire adult life, my chosen family, my sense of purpose, exists because of my work. And I’m grateful for that.
⋯
Last night I went to watch some current students win a championship game, and it takes a lot to get me out on a weeknight, especially in the rain, and the humidity was like 4000 percent. But I’m glad I did.
I saw the most genuine smiles when I yelled from the sideline, “Five stars. A duck or a Jolly Rancher next time I see you.” Nothing motivates kids more than candy and tiny resin animals, but the smile isn’t for the duck or the Jolly Rancher (which they will definitely come collecting when I return tomorrow). It’s because they see an adult who tells them every day on their way out, “Thanks, have a great day, byeeeee, love you, mean it,” or some variation of it. It’s a goofy thing I say, hoping someone really needs to hear the words.
You should also know that I will teach them a lesson about showing up and doing hard things for people you care about, because I braved whatever hellacious Houston water or air event happened yesterday on a school night in October. But I care and wanted to show support. Sometimes we do that even when we don’t wanna.
I saw some former students too, caught up with them, saw how much they’ve grown. One of our counselors told me that some high schoolers asked if “Loftin’s still at San Jac.” She pointed me out by spotting my backpack, my Cotopaxi mobile office. It’s always on my back, like tying a balloon to a big tortoise so you can always find it as it roams. That backpack is a great identifier for me, loud, colorful, but always ready with a bunch of mystery tools and surprises on the inside.
⋯
Tired as a teacher in October. Tired as a human who’s had a bizarre 365 days.
One year ago today, I was in Manhattan to see a taping of the Kelly Clarkson show. On the way, I went and lit a candle at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and sent good thoughts into the universe for a close friend getting a mammogram that day. Evidently it worked because she seemed to be doing just fine a month or two later, but we’ll leave that tangent right here. Buy the book ;)
365 days later, I’ve ended a relationship and all the ties that came with it, moved, done a ton of emotional work, and figured out what family and self respect really mean. Gertrude had her quinceañera, which I never saw coming, and who showed up? People who have become family in the last nearly decade and a half as we work together. Colleagues, many immigrants or first generation Americans. The same people holding this community together while working alongside me 40 hours a week. I haven’t done the math, but I bet even with those 40 hours of work, they qualify for the same food benefits that are about to vanish for millions while people say on social media, “Work like everyone else.”
So yeah. It’s been a hard year. But sitting on the patio today, writing in the sun, I know this much. I’ll keep fighting for the rights of others. I’ll keep standing in front of my classroom teaching kids to be good humans, even when it’s hard. To love and respect themselves and others. To have integrity even when the world around them doesn’t.
Teaching government in 2025 America means walking a tightrope between curriculum, conscience, and compliance. I can’t always say what I want, but I can model what I believe. Curiosity, empathy, honesty.
I’ll model what we do, show up for each other. And sometimes, we take a personal day in October to sit in the sun, remember what we’ve survived, and keep choosing to stay in the fight.
