#033 K. Fisher [Class of 2017]

 When the Eyes Hate the Ear 

I know this is a strange title, bear with me. Here’s my story.

Back in the days of elementary school I was carefree. I had teachers who loved me, and I knew no different. This was life, which I considered to be pretty good. Throughout my education, I made some great friends and I had some wonderful teachers like Mrs. Schlect, Mr. Fugitt, Mrs. Mannan, and Mr. Reidt who were passionate about kids, they loved us and loved to get to know each of us, our individual talents, what we were interested in, and what we loved. I was shown love by teachers who loved Jesus and loved me, how God created me in the midst of my broken pieces and unique talents. I am grateful for the love I felt from these teachers, the foundation of biblical history I was taught, and the friends I had. These encouraging encounters I have held onto throughout my education at the Oaks and beyond. Despite these experiences, there have been many traumatic moments throughout my time at the Oaks that I’ve struggled through for a long time. Remnants of loneliness, feeling discredited, shame, or like I never mattered still make their way into my opinions of myself. I wish my story ended with the positive experiences, but that just isn’t the whole story. 

Kindergarten. I was on the playground standing in line to go back inside from third recess. My recess monitor, Mrs. C., had called me by the wrong name all week. I had corrected her many times, telling her my name was KayDee. Instead of correcting her again, I turned my head to the right, away from Mrs. C. and said sullenly, “It’s KayDee.” I didn’t say it in a condescending way, rather, in a sad tone for this teacher could not seem to get my name right. This is not the issue; I realize that I should’ve probably just corrected her again. The trauma came after. The trauma came when my story was discredited. After that moment of defeat, I was pulled out of line and interrogated about what I said. I assured Mrs. C. that I had only said my name. She didn’t believe me. She told me that I backtalked and was lying. That defeated response “It’s KayDee,” was somehow turned into a kindergartener’s malicious attack toward her recess monitor. Following the interrogation, I was led back to the classroom to proceed with the next steps in dealing with a ‘lying child’. In the hallway, I talked to my kindergarten teacher who had just finished talking to Mrs. C. My teacher asked me what happened at recess, and I told her. “I said my name was KayDee.”

 In response she said, “No, what really happened?” I knew at that moment my story didn’t matter; she believed the adult. 

I said in defeat, “I don’t know”. 

I was sent to the office for lying. As a five-year-old, I was taught in my first year at the Oaks a lesson that would continue to be hammered into me: Your story doesn’t matter, unless it lines up with ours. 

Attention Grabbers. There is nothing more shameful than receiving a graded test with a bright blue piece of paper on top of it. Yes, all teachers put the test upside down, but the whole class can see that hint of blue. There are kids that never get attention grabbers and there are kids that get one almost every test. I was the kid who got one on every reading dibbles test. I was a slow reader; it took me longer to get it. I had a different story than the majority of my class. I wasn’t the only one, there were four or five of us that developed the skill of reading later than the rest. We knew it, the rest of the class knew it, and if it wasn’t evident enough there was always that blue paper that reminded us all of my “weakness.” The attention grabbers that were attached to each and every reading test taught me that the way my brain worked was shameful. My story may take longer to read, which was worth an attention grabber. Shame sucks, so as a second grader what did I do? The only thing I could think to keep that blue paper away. I cheated. I kept my paper after we were supposed to turn it in to change my answers. The attention grabber taught me it was shameful to fail, shameful to be slower, so I did what I could to change my story to fit those of the kids without the blue “Scarlet A.” 

Freshman year. I had four of the greatest friends this year. We were all trying to figure out who we were and what our purpose as human beings was. Part of this discovery process involves testing rules and asking why. I wanted to know why it was banned to wear colored socks. I wanted to know why we weren’t allowed to untuck our shirts after school. These were not harmful questions to ask. I have worked in youth ministry for the past four years. These questions, this testing, is a universal stage that fourteen-year-olds go through, so why did our desire to ask questions threaten the school so much? Why did the administration hold teacher meetings about the ways to fix our class? What about our stories scared you so much that you spent hours discussing us? What did you think was so wrong about us? Many of us felt targeted. Targeted for not being like the older, more loved, classes. We didn’t “measure up.” 

After School Music. One day freshman year, my friends and I sat in our car after school waiting for our older sibling to meet us in the parking lot. We sat in the car and listened to music. In this moment we were in no violation of any rules.  Mr. Principal came to our car window and knocked. “Is this something your parents would allow you to do?” you asked.

“Yes?” We answered. 

“I don’t know about that, are you sure they’d be okay with this?” 

“Yeah, we’re just listening to Imagine Dragons in the car,” We replied in confusion. We were not trusted even in the little things.

Why did you seek us out? We weren’t breaking rules. What were we doing that was in need of correction? It’s hard to find any time to be a kid, any joy in life, and any freedom in being a child of God when you’re constantly being watched. It felt they wanted any excuse to correct our story. 

Science. If there was ever a teacher that embraced the idea that we (the freshmen at the time) needed to be fixed it was Mr. D. This one hurt. A little over two years before, we loved you. We looked up to you. As seventh graders, you took us on a Mt. Saint Helen’s trip. Us five (me and my four best friends), we considered you to be a mentor figure. There are few things that hurt more than when a role model refuses to see you and all of your complex stories. It gets even more painful when instead of embracing your unique stories he tells you that you are destined for hell if you don’t stop asking “why” questions. I don’t remember all the different ways this message was conveyed, but it became routine after the 10th, 15th, 20th time it was expressed. We get it, we are worthless if we do not fit your ideal mold. I remember walking into the last day of class feeling relieved that we had a final so we wouldn’t have time to hear about our destination for destitution. We all took our seats and with pencil in hand and all of the sudden my face transformed into disbelief; not even the final day was immune to the lecture I’d become accustomed to. We waited through the lecture to begin our final. I’ve reflected a lot on this time of my life. I now have more questions than I have answers. I was a good kid, I wasn’t the type of kid to blindly do anything that I was told by authority, but I was raised to respect authority and I did. I had good grades, participated in class, and always finished my homework on time. So, what about me, about my class, threatened you? What made you think we were going to hell?

Disability. The title of “bad reader” never left me in my time at the Oaks. I did what I was supposed to do to become a good reader, I saw tutors to improve my skills. The funny thing is: I never lasted at a tutor more than three sessions. Why? Because other than my right eye finding the page texture and color more interesting than following the words from left to right, I could read fine. I could read fine, I had no confidence to, but I could read at the level I was supposed to. Confidence is hard to gain when you have lived with the label of “less than” for years. I was five when I gained my badge, I don’t remember much younger than five. I have been a slow reader my whole life, so the tutor’s opinion didn’t give me confidence. No, it was not the tutor’s affirmation I needed, it was the grace and affirmation of my English teacher I wanted. If only I could be trusted to read and be believed in, I could’ve read loudly and boldly. How can I know this? Because I have found belief after the Oaks from people who love Jesus and are able to see me. I don’t stumble or read slowly anymore. Not only was belief in me refused, Mrs. K., you told my mom that I was in need of some special ed resources. You labeled me as a person with a disability in need of special resources in order to graduate, when in reality all I needed was to be believed in, to have my story be my own journey, not yours.

Jacket Sin. In January, I invited two of my friends from Ferris to come eat lunch. I wanted them to see a glimpse of my world. I met them in the parking lot to walk them inside. As I was heading out, I grabbed my greyish-blue jacket and put it on to keep warm in the January air. From the excitement of them being there, when I came back inside, I forgot that I had my jacket on. I gathered my friends around some tables in the Latin room to eat lunch. In the middle of lunch, Ms. M. asked me to take my jacket off. “Oh yes, my bad I forgot I had put it on,” I said as I slid the jacket off and onto the back of my chair. If this was the end of the tale all would be well. I was wearing a jacket that was not part of my uniform, and I needed to take it off. But I was part of the “troubled” class, so it couldn’t just be an honest mistake. We finished lunch. As I got up to show my friends around the school, I got called over. You told me I rolled my eyes when I took my jacket off. But my back was to you the whole time… I didn’t roll my eyes, my friends can attest to this, but we knew our “place,” we knew there was no arguing your opinion, your story. At some point or another all my friends had learned the same lesson I had: our word wasn’t worth anything if it didn’t line up with yours. So, I did what you expected of me and apologized for how I acted. 

“Do you know what that is?” you asked.

I stood there very confused at this point. This part of the story was all too familiar and yet I stood in disbelief. “A sin?” I finally replied.

“Yes. Do you know what you need to do?” you continued.

“Ask for forgiveness?” 

“Yes. From whom?”

“God?” 

“And?” 

“You?” 

“Yes.” 

Lots of kids forget things like this, but due to my class’s reputation for trouble, my version was discounted and corrected. Was that why you saw malicious intent in an honest mistake? What about me made you automatically attribute malice to mistake? Your story turned a jacket mistake into a jacket of sin that if not taken care of “properly” translated into me not being right with God. 

City of Hell. “What is something fun you all did this last week?” My Latin teacher asked. I got very excited at this question; I was getting to share a glimpse into my story. I got to share something fun I got to do that I cared about.

“I played in the rubber chicken!” I exclaimed. “It was so fun, there were so many students that came. It is so fun to play in front of so many people!” I was referring to a basketball game between Ferris and LC that I was incredibly proud to be a part of. 

“Ah, yes, the game between the city of hell, and the city of destruction,” he replied. Excitement gone. I sat back in my chair. City of hell and destruction?... I have friends there. Does that mean that my best-friends are detestable because they go to Lewis and Clark High School or Ferris High School? I thought to myself, if you are associated with the city of hell (Ferris) or the City of destruction (LC), doesn’t that mean you’re less loved by God? If you don’t go to the Oaks are you less loved by God, are you not seen by God? I was hurt by the assumption that public schools and thus public schoolers, my friends, were destined for hell. 

Dispersion. It wasn’t easy, to hear day after day that I was in need of fixing, that somehow God’s grace to me was in my teacher’s correction. I can withstand almost anything if I have a best friend standing there with me. I am not easily broken when there are two or three around me. I broke summer after my freshman year. I gave up on my story. Sophomore year I walked around the school broken, depressed, and lost. In one summer, my class dropped from seventeen to eight. Those four best friends left, and my next closest friends left too. I was alone. I don’t blame them for leaving me, I wanted to leave too. It’s a natural desire to flee from those that belittle you. Their response was to disperse, and my desire was to flee also. Instead I stayed.

It’s not that I think I’m perfect, the issue is not that I think I did nothing wrong in school. I am aware that I was a kid and I bear responsibility for my part. I believe we live in a fallen world and no person this side of the fall is without sin. I know that no person is perfect. The problem is not that you weren’t perfect. The problem is that you didn’t want me the way I was created. I didn’t fit your ideal child. At the time, I liked sports more than academics, I had friends outside of the institution, I pushed for answers and got shamed for asking. I stood out, I took longer to read, I had opinions, I had passion. Were you threatened? Here’s where the title to my story matters: “Why eyes, did you look at the ear and wish the ear to stop being the ear and become an eye? What good is a body if they have four eyes and no ears?” (1 Corinthians 12: 12-27). The problem is I am not an eye, and I will never be able to be an eye. My story is not to image the same aspects of God as you, my job is to be an ear, to witness to Jesus in my passions and my sacred story. 

We are all part of the bigger narrative. Many of us love Jesus and praise Him as Lord and Savior of our lives. We are one body of an amazing God who embodies pure grace and truth. I write to you from experience, in vulnerability, aiming toward love. These experiences, although painful and I wish upon no one, are scars I use to witness to Jesus’ faithfulness through it all. He never left me nor forsook me. He looked out for me in the midst of my pain. He deserves all the glory. His unconditional love is continually training me to become the best ear I can for the body of Christ. 

With grace and truth,

K. Fisher

Oaks Student K-10th grade. Class of 2017.

Reach out if you’d like, I’d love to talk: (509) 720-3302