Current Events

PART I: Feelings, Truth, and More Truths about Life

PART I: Feelings, Truth, and More Truths about Life

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I am moving in four weeks. Since alerting friends of my move from Los Angeles to the Central Coast (specifically Santa Ynez), I have been inundated with inquiries about having a going away party and/or trying to see me. And I am pleasant and as accommodating as I can be. But I cannot help but feel a bit hurt that people have the gall to ask those things, especially now of all times.

You know…In October, I threw a surprise party for my husband’s 40th. Nearly 30+ people said they were coming and less than 10 of our friends showed up. I reserved space at a hip bar in Hollywood, had ordered appetizers, and was excited to show my husband how much those in our lives love him. However, in the days leading up to the party people started posting in the Facebook group AKA the invite that they could no longer make it. Ok, fine.

Then came the personal messages to my inboxes on Facebook and Instagram of people canceling. Finally, then came the texts. For the two days leading up to the party, the day of, night of, the hour before, and even DURING the party, people alerted me that “Sorry, I won’t make it”.

I cannot even begin to describe the deep hurt and overwhelming sense of sadness I carried around for the days surrounding the party. Even before heading out that night, I had to step outside my apartment and cry hysterically to my sister about how this party turned out to be a disaster. All I wanted was for my husband to feel special and this party had the complete opposite result. My husband saw the wetness in my eyes, heard the heaviness in my voice, and noticed my body language as I started to shut down.

For those of you whom do not know my husband Greg intimately, he is one of the most beautiful humans on this planet; and I am not just saying that because he is my husband. I am saying that because it is an irrefutable fact. Greg is loyal, hardworking, funny, and above anything and everything, he is kind. His gentleness is a defining attribute, one that balances my fiercely intense nature. Greg is patient, airing more on the introverted side, but also an incredible force as a fitness professional and as an athlete. He is selfless, dedicating himself to his graduate studies in Public Health, while working tirelessly to raise awareness for Scleroderma through fundraising efforts by running the LA Marathon. Is Greg a saint? Absolutely not. Is he a pretty fucking fantastic human? YES.

Sure, like everyone, there is always room for self-improvement and growth. In Greg’s case, he struggles to actively cultivate meaningful, personal friendships. Really, that is it. See, Greg has usually maintained two careers, working long hours in the hospitality industry into the wee morning hours, and then waking up early to travel to all corners of the city to teach morning and lunch time fitness classes for Equinox. This intense and exhausting pace with which he led his life left him with little time to see friends outside of his work life. Now, I cannot speak for Greg, and I am not sure at the time he even knew that his grueling schedule did not permit the fostering of friendships, but his constant go, go, go lifestyle left him exhausted and depleted. As we have discussed at length, Greg now knows, sees, and feels regret for not slowing down, for not taking more time for himself and others, for not recognizing the signs when his body was screaming for rest…But what is done, is done. The only thing that can be done is to look to the past for the lessons to inform how to live in the present while constructing the future. Hence, this move to the country.

Reeling from the emotions we experienced after Greg’s party, we both assumed some ownership over people not coming to Greg’s party because it is only fair. In years past, either Greg or the both of us did not always prioritize the relationships in our lives. All that considered and taken into account, we both walked away from his party raw and sad, but prepared and eager to apply what we learned in our lives.

This year we wanted to have a New Year’s Eve party because Greg cooks, we have a great place for entertaining, and we LOVE having people over. We sent out ‘feelers’ to friends and were met with “I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’ll let you know”. Sure, a few people said they had plans, some did not even respond. However, most people responded with what we both felt was along the lines of people waiting and/or looking for something better to come along. I get that, I really do. I get people want to weigh their options. However, when someone is trying to organize an event, especially someone who thought enough of you to invite you into their home; simply decline the offer. Wishy-washy responses like that are rude and inconsiderate; and I am fairly certain that your momma raised you better than that.

So, no.

We are not having a party because experience has shown me that people only show up when it serves them, not to celebrate others. I do not want to leave a city I love, filled with people I love on a sour note.

Call me angry or whatever you want. I am just calling it like it is. And perhaps I am angry, but I am going to honor that while committing to simultaneously relinquishing it as I stand in my power.

Honest. Raw. Authentic. Which is more than most people can say about themselves, so I will own it.

The madness and upheaval in leaving Los Angeles has stirred up many feelings, forcing me to truly go inward. From packing and saying good-bye to my chosen family, a common theme has emerged. We do not know what we have until it is gone. All too often, we look back on our lives perplexed, wondering where the time went…

Dismayed by missed connections and lapsed opportunities, often we are filled with regret when the shoulda, coulda, and woulda’s start to set in.

Why does it have to take someone you value and care about moving away before you want to spend time with that person, or tell that person what they meant to you?

Why does it take death and loss to realize that we did not make the time we thought we had, when we had it?

Why?

This is an important conversation to have with yourself. It is important to take a hard, honest, and REAL look at the person staring back at you in the mirror.

Recognize that if you are not the person you think you are and want to be—then the time to make those changes is NOW.

Not tomorrow or when it is convenient.

Now, because there is never enough time to spend with the people that you love and cherish, so stop waiting and putting it off.

I can say with confidence that I am proud of the life I choose to live, and the manner in which I lead it…

Stay tuned–To be continued in PART II: Feelings, Truth, and More Truths about Life…

The LAUSD Teacher Strike, Part II: Gratitude is the Greatest Gift!

The LAUSD Teacher Strike, Part II: Gratitude is the Greatest Gift!

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Outside Virgil Middle School picketing when a few of my former students came out to show their support

PART II:

During the rain, parents, members of the community, and former students came to Virgil Middle School to bring doughnuts, homemade goods like hot beverages, tamales, tacos, and other tasty treats. One passerby stopped to drop off a stack of ponchos. Teachers took turns bringing food to share, setting up and breaking down the tents daily, purchasing various necessities like mega phones, batteries, and materials to make signs. People looked out for others—guarded their gear when venturing to rallies, gathered materials and items left behind, and above all, no one got left behind. Every single person on the picket line wasn’t a friend, they were family. We took trips to local businesses to use the restrooms. We painstakingly helped one another peel the layers upon layers off when breaking for lunch. We shared food, offering bites of burritos and pizza that we may have waited an hour in line to get at a rally because they were free. We took photos with and of one another, and giggled in delight after deciding if we should take another picture. These weren’t just people I have known and worked with through the years, these people became my brothers and sisters. What we shared out there, marching, walking, protesting, singing, dancing, chatting, yelling, and crying, can never be recaptured. Nor can the feelings of support from the community, city, and nation for the teachers of Los Angeles. 

Thank you.

  • Me enjoying a much needed hot beverage. This is arroz con leche (rice and milk) that a parent of a student at Virgil Middle School made for the picketing teachers. Check out the size of that pot!
  • I am forever grateful to the parents of the community that I serve, thank you doesn’t seem like enough for the things you have done for us

For me though, one of the biggest things I am walking away from this experience with is feeling like I must have done something right in my life. During the strike, I received countless communication from students I’ve had over the years. These messages were former students sharing how my work as a teacher positively impacted them and included extensive gratitude for walking the line and taking a stand.

Rain or shine, and even if the strike went on for longer–every single bit of the effort I put forth into standing up for public education was worth it. It’s a pretty fantastic feeling to know that by proxy of being the teacher that I am, and for being who I am, that I changed people’s lives.

Marlen and Ashley, now 8th graders are two students I had in the 7th grade

Some powerful highlights of the six days were when one of my students, now 22 years old surprised me by showing up to the picket line with doughnuts. But that’s not even the best part! This young lady wanted to tell me in person that she is in graduate school to be a teacher…because of me. It’s ok, you can cry now. But wait, it keeps getting better.

Another one of my students came to show his support before heading to class. He now attends Syracuse University in New York and heralds his time in LAUSD and his teachers as the reason for his success[es].

And finally, another highlight comes from a man—I cannot even say young man, because he is now 27! He was in my first ever group of students when I started with LAUSD and now works in law enforcement. He is a single father with full custody of his two beautiful children that he is raising with the help of his parents. He is articulate, bright, responsible, and informed. The one thing though that spoke to me most that he is a thriving adult and proof what good teachers can do for a child’s future. Great teachers forever arm people with the skills and capabilities to live life wholly and completely on their own accord. Unable to picket with us due to his job, he took me to lunch. See, it’s the acts of kindness that reverberate for me.

  • Astrid, 22 years old, Graduate Student, future teacher.
  • Franklin, 20 years old, Syracuse University
  • Eduardo, 27 years old, Father and works in law enforcement
  • Leah, 9th grader at Bravo Medical Magnet
  • Karla, 8th grader, Virgil Middle School, Medical Magnet
  • Some of my former students showing their support
  • More students showing their support during the LAUSD Teacher Strike
  • Me with more of my former students, AKA my heart

It’s not that I taught these kids to write a kick ass essay (though that’s super important and really cool too), it’s that these kids clearly got ‘it’. And by ‘it’ I mean what it takes to be good human, to show compassion for others, to be an active participant in your community and society, to support others, to stand up for what you believe in, to view life’s challenges as opportunities, and above all, the value in expressing gratitude.

This strike wasn’t just about a fair contract for teachers. Well, in part it was. But it was a message to the world that teachers can and will stand up for what is right for students. The strike also showed me just how valuable a good teacher is (not that I didn’t already know and all). Teachers possess the power to forever alter the trajectory of one’s life for the better and the proof exists in the faces of those children, now adults, who stood by my side, reached out to me, or quietly watched their former teacher talk the talk and literally walk the walk.

This is the legacy I choose to leave behind.

Karla and Kimberly, now 8th graders were in my honors class and homeroom in the 7th grade–oh, the great times we had together!

Simply, I walk away from these six days with my newfound family, and a better understanding of how much both my colleagues and I matter to the kids we serve. I say this a lot and I will say it again. Being a teacher is a privilege. I have and will continue to take every single second I stand in front of kids seriously, and I thank you for calling me your teacher. I proudly wear the title Teacher (or ‘Miss’). And while I didn’t need a strike to show me the importance of the work I do and its impact, it only reinforced that quality teachers are needed more than ever.

The LAUSD Teacher Strike, Part I: What Happens When It All Ends? And What Happened To Those For Which It Never Began?

The LAUSD Teacher Strike, Part I: What Happens When It All Ends? And What Happened To Those For Which It Never Began?

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Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

How do you go back to the way things were, when you are no longer the same person before nothing and everything changed simultaneously?

After being on a six-day strike that has now been resolved, I am sitting here alone, anxious and overwhelmed with emotion. For six days, four of which occurred in torrential rains and wind that eventually culminated in Southern California’s signature sunshine; the LAUSD teacher strike is now over.

Me outside Virgil Middle School during the strike and picketing

Hours of chanting, marching, helping others make signs, taking bathroom trips, venturing to rallies on the Metro, shouting on a megaphone at oncoming traffic [that very well may have just been me], or hunting for something to eat, are over. I know I am supposed to feel happy, even elated that I am going back to work, but I’m not. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job and cannot wait to settle back in to the rhythm of my routine; but how does one measure a lifetime lived over the course of a week? How does one press on with the mundane after the extraordinary?

It’s hard to really quantify the week’s events, but I am going to do my best to illustrate that the ending of the strike, is ironically really anticlimactic. There’s all this tension, build up, and intensity funneling into what’s believed to be grand finale of sorts. But in reality, it’s not like that at all. There are no bells and whistles, signal, or culmination of all your strike efforts. It all just abruptly ceases. 

Things went down like this:

We got word there was a tentative agreement via text message on Tuesday, January 22, 1019 at 9:30am. 

Union representatives went to learn the details from Union officials at 2pm, then brought the ballots back to school sites anywhere between 4-5pm.

Between 5-6pm we voted, went home, and by 8pm the strike was officially over which was confirmed by an 80% ‘YES’ vote to approve the tentative agreement. 

And that was it.

No swan song. No grand finale—it was just over. I’m not going to lie, even now the shock of it all coming to an end feels so unfinished and like a total let down. If you’ve ever been on a picket line, you likely understand how this feels. The overwhelming sense of sorrow that has engulfed me since has been intense and at times made me so anxious that I find myself wondering why my heart is racing while at rest. See, while there is some semblance of resolution with the tentative agreement, all of the energy spent on the picket line just seems to evaporate like morning dew, leaving the lasting feeling as if the whole thing was just a dream. Did it happen? Was it really like that? Did we really all just stand in the pouring rain for four whole days? Did we all just share something so special together that it forever binds us in a closeness that only we could possibly fathom? Holy shit, did we just make history?

I am not going to take you through my day-by-day, but what I will do is try to bring you ever so much closer to what life really looks like on a picket line.

First, for some reason people in the city of Los Angeles and maybe even elsewhere were confused. When an entity such as UTLA (United Teachers of Los Angeles) members vote, approve, and actually strike, the people on the picket line do not get paid. They do not call in, leave sub plans, check nor respond to email, or fulfill any of their job duties. Now, if someone chooses to cross the picket line, meaning they choose to work, they are a scab. If someone calls in a sub claiming to be sick, they are still paid even though they do not report to work, and they are a scab. If someone conveniently gets a doctor’s note riiiiight before the strike and is miraculously healed when the strike is over; while I cannot prove it, I am going to call them the worst kind of scab. Period.

The picketing teachers at Virgil Middle School. Sadly, there wasn’t 100% participation and several teachers did not strike. There were a handful of Teach for America (TFA), first year teacher’s who did not, fearful they’d lose the loans awarded by TFA and shamefully three veterans that did not strike. There are also several other teachers in question as to their whereabouts and whether they called in sick, etc.

You may view me harsh for my judgments, but let me teach you a thing or two about how a strike, or at least the LAUSD Teacher Strike of 2019 went down. Buzz of strike was brewing for about a year. On August 31, 2018, 98% of UTLA members voted YES to authorize a strike. Read that again, AUGUST 2018. The initial strike date was October, then it was pushed to November, then it was announced that UTLA members would work two days of the second semester to precure their health benefits, THEN would strike on January 10, 2019. However, due to Austin Beutner’s efforts, an injunction prevented the January 10th start date and the strike was pushed off yet again. This time until Monday, January 14, 2019. So, why I am telling you this? Why am I giving you this timeline?

Because I heard some people defend scabs saying things like:

– Everyone has mouths to feed

– You don’t know someone’s situation at home

– People have bills to pay

And that bullshit isn’t even all of it. Yes, that rationale is bullshit. UTLA members knew a strike was coming FIVE MONTHS before it actually happened—FIVE FREAKING MONTHS. If one could not sock away a little cash over the course of five months to prepare, then the state should revoke this person’s teaching credential. I’m sorry. Actually, I am not sorry for feeling so strongly about scabs and not crossing the picket line.

My husband and I live very modestly and I am not ashamed to say, we live paycheck to paycheck. I don’t have much in the way of material wealth to account for my 15 years of service as a public school teacher for LAUSD, but at least I have my dignity. There were 30,000 teachers standing in solidarity, fighting for the rights of our students, to improve our schools, save public education, and to advocate for the tools needed to do our jobs better. WE ALL TOOK A FINANCIAL HIT. Each one of us didn’t earn money to stand up to “The Man” (and we won by the way, hell yes!). But you know who got paid, didn’t take a stand, AND now reaps the benefits of the new contract? Guess.

The scabs.

Yup. For whatever excuse, because I refuse to call it a reason, these people crossed the picket line. There were teachers in wheelchairs, using walkers, canes, and some even running fevers from the inclimate weather on the picket line. What was their excuse? As far as I am concerned, when it comes to my comrades, you are either in or you are out. And if you are out, then you have committed social suicide. You are now and shall forever remain a pariah. Scabs deserve whatever backlash ensues in the wake of the strike. Thanks to the hard work of 30,000 other people that decided there was a just enough cause to forgo pay, the scabs walk away from this all with cash in their pockets; but it sure has me wondering about their conscious. How can they sleep at night? Drift off to slumber, knowing they didn’t play a role in all this?!

But hey, what do I know?

What I do know is that the as a result of the six-day LAUSD Teacher Strike, I am not the same person I was before the strike. I am more fired up than ever. More inspired to become active in my union, to truly understand collective bargaining, negations, and the innards of union work/leadership. I am inspired to empower myself so that I may in turn unify and mobilize the masses.

Walking the picket line in the rain showed me something about humanity. 

One of the UTLA rallies in DTLA

It showed me that people are watching, listening, and care about our cause. Teaching is a thankless job, that we all already knew. But what I saw in the rain, the cold, the marching, and the sunshine, was that people come together in times of adversity. While we tend to think as challenges and hardships as catastrophic, the opposite is, or could be the case. I am awed by the outpouring of support we received from parents at charter schools, students, community leaders and members, and the parents. Thousands of people made the choice to stand by my side—no, our side, during this battle for public education. I will never forget the kindness people are capable of when it seems like you have nothing and like no one is listening. Because the truth of the matter is when you stand up for something you feel passionately about, you are more wealthy than you could imagine. And when you use your voice, people are listening to what you have to say.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s follow up to today’s piece,The LAUSD Teacher Strike, Part II: Gratitude is the Greatest Gift!

#MeToo

#MeToo

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As the “Me Too” movement sweeps the worldwide web, I am compelled to retell an experience that was particularly harrowing for me to endure a public school teacher. Almost exactly 2 years ago to the date, I was sexually harassed by a group of male students while walking to my car after staying late at school to grade papers. For me, it wasn’t so much the verbal abuse I suffered, so much as the way I was treated when I reported it [and by a woman no less!].

My supervisor Mrs. Jones*, a petite and attractive woman sat across from me in her office and leaned across the desk before speaking, “Are you sure Ms. Miller that the boys weren’t 9th graders?”

She paused waiting for me to respond, then continued “Because, well you know how these 9th graders are…”

Mrs. Jones paused again, then sighed before laboring on, “Look, I’ve been where you are Ms. Miller. It even continued to happen to me when I was pregnant! It’s just how these things are. Boys will be boys.”

Stunned, I am certain my face wore the look of shock and terror as I flatly retorted, “It doesn’t matter how old the boys were. What matters is what they said, how they said it, and to whom they said it. I want to make a report. These boys need to know this kind of behavior and language will not be tolerated and is wrong.”

“Well, Ms. Miller we can consult School Police” she said, “but since the boys who harassed you won’t admit who made the comments, we cannot punish them.”

“So, punish them all!” I firmly stated.

My administrator called the School Police officer into her office. The officer didn’t bother to sit down, shake my hand, nor introduce himself. Instantly, I felt like I was a burden and could sense his annoyance with being summoned to meet with me. I hurriedly rehashed my story. There was hardly a pause between when my story ended and the officer’s response, “Yea, so there isn’t anything we can do here since we cannot confirm the origin of the comments.”

“Again” I began, then continued, “Like I told Mrs. Jones I do not see why we cannot discipline all students involved. If anything this is an opportunity to educate these boys. I mean, is that not what we do here?!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not how we do things, Ms. Miller” replied the officer, before turning his back to me and leaving.

I vividly recall that conversation and moment in time. I felt let down by the very systems I represent and uphold. I felt like as the victim, my claims were diminished and I was bothering the people to which I was attempting to report my harassment to. And yet even some few years later, I still cannot fully wrap my head around what happened or even why I didn’t speak up. Why didn’t I fight for myself and all those other women? Why did I allow this situation to be so grossly mismanaged?

All I can say and speak to is what I know, and what I know about survivors of abuse, sexual harassment, and rape is that we are failing these people—we make them feel like they are wrong. We shame the victims. We ask them what they were wearing, question their choices, and even say ridiculous things like “boys will be boys”. So, it’s no wonder people remain silent and quietly accept the abuse [or report it years later]. It’s no wonder that my newsfeed on social media is an outpouring of #METOO. We simply do not take sexual misconduct seriously and it disgusts me.

In an effort to bring further light to this issue, I am reminding you of my tale. Sadly, this is only one snapshot, an anecdote, a quick glimpse into my life and work…I have so many other stories to tell…

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of the people mentioned in this piece

To Be a Woman: Originally posted on October 2, 2015

While working in the professional world I’ve learned that as a woman with a well-developed derrière and what society likes to call “curves,” I must not wear any sort of form-fitting clothing to work. Society has conditioned others to view my body as sexy when in reality my physical-self is just that; a shell that warehouses my mental, social, and emotional-self, but the world doesn’t see any of that. The world or shall I say men, only see a short girl with a fat ass and for some reason that’s carte blanche for men to comment, heckle, and harass me and other women alike.

While leaving campus today at around 4:15pm, I saw a group of young men congregating near the only exit available to me to leave. Throughout my years in education, I have become increasingly aware of my body and sadly uncomfortable by it. Walking the crowded halls of a campus through throngs of adolescent men has taught me to walk briskly, head down, and at all costs; avoid groups of young men if I want to minimize the onslaught of unwelcomed sexual advances, comments, and cat-calling. Today was no different.

Grab your phone.

Look down.

Appear busy.

Move deftly.

Do not make eye contact.

Must get to car as fast as possible.

As I approached the circle of boys, I recognized a few faces from the halls but I didn’t know any of their names. A boy sharply shouted, “MIZZZZ MILLER!”

I pretended to ignore them as they weren’t my students and I didn’t know them.

Grab your phone.

Look down.

Appear busy.

Move deftly.

Do not make eye contact.

Must get to car as fast as possible.

Finally, an anonymous male voice from the crowd:

“Look at all that booty.”

Immediately, the words accosted my ears. And right then and there every single fiber of my being tightened, my face reddened, and I felt naked and completely exposed. Time seemed to slow and halt in a stillness that felt like eons as I ruminated over my response and how to react.

I contemplated mouthing off to the boys, demanding who was responsible, and asserting my teacher-ness but alas, I did not. Instead, I felt intense shame for my body. I was embarrassed and hyper aware of my butt—was it jiggling? Can they see it? What are they thinking as they watch me walk to my car?

Was this really happening to me?! Again?!

Hot with shame, and feeling grossly exposed, I didn’t stand up for myself. I was paralyzed. My body and my mind couldn’t respond.

By the time I got to my car, I was crying. I opened my car door and sat sobbing in the stale warm air of my car while I replayed the incident in my head. I felt disgusted with myself, and my body all because I am a woman.

What the fuck has happened here?! How is it that as the victim of sexual harassment I am blaming myself?! Wrought with guilt for what may appear to someone as not a big deal, I skipped my workout, and cried the entire 20-minute drive back to my house.

There is something seriously wrong with how women are perceived in our culture. For years, I have made sure that I do not wear anything to work that alludes to my womanly figure because women with bodies are considered ‘voluptuous’, sexy, and temptresses. First off, that’s bullshit. Second, I work hard for my body. It’s lean, muscular, and something I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty about. But when skinny, tall, and lanky women wear fitted clothes, they’re not seen as sex objects. I don’t get it. It really doesn’t make any sense to me—we emulate the model-like body in beauty magazines and Hollywood, but somehow a curvy woman’s physique is considered sensual??? Someone PLEASE explain this to me.

Here’s what I know: I am not letting what happened today on campus die with me.

My silence would only affirm that if women do not stand up and speak up for themselves, nothing is going to change. While I may not have spoken up for myself at the time, I refuse to stand idly by to misogyny and sexual harassment at my school or in society.

Together we must take a stand and speak out against such verbal assaults against women. And while I may have been silenced once by my own insecurities, I am stronger now.

I am ready.

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