Dear Friends,
The last few weeks, with the school year coming to an end, there have been loads of policy conversations about how this has been a wasted year for education. I’ve been struggling with that—a lot.
So, today, dear hearts, I want to say to all of you in JYM, JHYM, and Young Friends, that I’ve tried to see, hear, and feel you this year, and I know that what you’ve learned may not be on the current Education Plan, but you have not been hibernating. You’ve been learning and growing—inwardly as well as physically—in extraordinary ways.
You’ve had heart-to-heart lessons with your family, your friends, and with casual acquaintances like bus drivers, corner-store cashiers, and your neighbors. You have learned the languages our eyes and bodies "speak" to communicate feelings and connections. You have attended extensive seminars on our election process, white supremacy, racial justice, and police reform. You could do TED talks on what makes a good teacher and the successes and failures of our education systems. There have been economic classes on what happens when someone in your family gets laid off, loses pay to stay home and provide childcare, or has to work loads of overtime suddenly, involuntarily. Quaker colleges could hire you to lecture on what does and doesn't work about virtual worship for young people. No school has ever offered the course on the necessity of equal, international healthcare and the importance of universal precautions like mask-wearing and hand-washing that you have attended.
Wasted is not how to describe this year.
The past 16 months have been different for each of you. For some, it has been deeply painful and scary. There has been a lot of grief. Many of you have felt frustration, impatience, and anger—or depression, exhaustion, and anxiety. At least some feelings of loneliness and isolation may have been universal. But you had moments, too, where you found joy, and in those times waded into one of the mysteries of being a human being: that you can really grieve and laugh at the same time.
Even as you missed your sandboxes, choral groups, sports teams, and sleepovers, you kept going. You tried new things. You learned how to make, bake, and create with your hands; thought up games and imaginary universes in stories or play; wrote poetry, letters, and music; stepped into friendships with people you’ve never met in person; and rediscovered your bicycles. Volunteering at food banks, Face-Timing with grandparents, and protesting at Black Lives Matter rallies, you found grounding in reaching beyond yourselves. Some of you found your voice. Many of you discovered that what you want is way more than what you really need.
Some of you, though, didn’t get nearly enough from the wider society, your school, or even, yes, from your faith community. I want you to know that you are right: we need to do better. As a white heterosexual, Quaker woman, I want to apologize. I am so sorry. And I am committed to being someone who is determined to listen, see, and engage in undoing the injustices—and invisibleness—that you have so keenly seen, felt, and lived. I want your lessons to be my lessons.
I wish for you a summer with spaciousness, affirmations, and opportunities for being seen and used in the service of goodness that makes the best of your gifts and strengths; for hugs, visits with family and friends and, for some of you, glorious time at Friends Camp. May your weary eyes recover from too much blue light, your leg muscles grow stronger from running and playing, and may your voice become temporarily hoarse from too much group singing.
I bow down in wonder and awe to you, dear hearts, for that of God in you that has pulsed on and on to this day in June 2021. With courage, determination, tenderness—and amazing help from your families, friends, and teachers—you are here. Glory be.
With so much love,
Gretchen