With Liberty and Justice for All

 By Stacy Bartlett

Students like “E” are the reason I became a teacher. He is reserved, relentlessly hard-working and humble to a fault. He is an immigrant, and he and his family were here legally — until the program they relied on was abruptly terminated by the Department of Homeland Security. They scrambled through the immigration system until a court paused enforcement while the termination is reviewed. So they can stay — for now.

And they are scared.

Since the surge of nearly 3,000 Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers in Minneapolis began in December, our schools here have been blanketed by a fog of uncertainty and fear. There are empty desks and passports sticking out of backpacks. Families report drones overhead, and educators and parents have seen unmarked cars trail school buses home.

In my classroom, that means I’ve had to comfort a sobbing student as she described teaching her 5-year-old brother to play “silent hide-and-seek” — quietly hiding in the closet — should anyone come to the door. It means I have empty desks because students aren’t leaving their houses. Some return sporadically to avoid triggering truancy flags. Some families have self-deported. Others have scattered to “safer” states. And some family members have been detained and sent to detention centers in other states, even though they have pending immigration cases, work authorizations or valid paperwork.

Our students are hurting.

So, because educators are natural fixers, doers and healers, we have — once again — stepped into the gaps. On a moment’s notice, we’ve bought groceries, raised money for rent and utilities, organized pantry donations and pop-up distribution, delivered supplies, become notaries, built calling campaigns to legislators, trained as legal observers, shared legal resources, provided rides, switched to encrypted communication apps and worn blue ribbons to signal we are safe adults. We do it because our students are “our kids,” and by default, their families are our families. We do it because it’s the right thing to do.

But we shouldn’t have to.

Every child living in the United States has a legal right to equal access to a free public K–12 education. That access is not dependent on citizenship. This is settled law under Plyler v. Doe. But when enforcement activity makes children too afraid to attend, it effectively denies them access. They have rights on paper, not in practice.

That’s why I’m speaking out. DHS agents are terrifying our students — to the point that some have gone into hiding — and interfering with their legally guaranteed access to education.

And the burden of fear isn’t evenly distributed. The students carrying passports tend to be the ones who look a certain way or who speak with an accent or more than one language. So let’s call this what it is: discrimination that further marginalizes those who have already been marginalized. When certain bus routes are followed more than others, certain neighborhoods are surveilled more heavily and the fear concentrates among families with darker skin and accents, it’s hard to interpret that pattern as anything other than discriminatory. And it spits in the face of Plyler v. Doe.

Never in a million years did I imagine the safety drills we practice for school violence would feel relevant to fears about our own government. I never thought I’d be mourning deported colleagues and students. I never thought I would have to defend myself for supporting my students.

After all, that’s what teachers, school counselors, paraprofessionals and school staff do. When students need to blow their noses, we buy them Kleenex. When they are too scared to learn, we help them feel safe. That is not political. It is our responsibility as human beings.

One afternoon, long after the bell rang, E lingered by my desk. “Thank you for supporting me,” he said.

E still stands and says the Pledge of Allegiance every Tuesday. In 30 years of teaching, I have rarely seen a student carry himself with such dignity and resolve. E embodies the true essence of immigrant hope: He still believes in the American dream.

Standing up for him is the least I can do. It is not radical or political; it is promised. I demand that the words we ask him to recite carry meaning. I demand that for E, and for every child sitting in our classrooms, there is, in fact, liberty and justice for all.

Stacy Bartlett is an Education Minnesota member and a high school science teacher of 30 years.

Republished with permission from AFT Voices.