hot button issue

I was supervising the school courtyard the other day, teenagers happily eating lunch, joking, trying their best to be cool and not show - not once - their soft and sensitive underbellies. It's part of my job to sometimes supervise lunch for 15 or so minutes; make sure that no fights erupt, or that, God forbid, anybody might bail.

There is the "Asian table" and the "White Girl table" and the "Skanky White Girl Table" and the "Athletes" as well as the "Emo Crew" and the "Bench Mob". I have to say, our school has a very diverse community, and for the most part, everyone cohabitates quite well.

That is not to say, however, that the students do not identify themselves in tribes.

So the 6'4 Irish basketball player gave me a hug and a cookie from his lunch; one of the Emo kids showed me some Anime sketches she made. The Drama kids, of course, enacted some scene for me - being loud, dramatic and Gay. And then another one of my students gave me a button, which I immediately, and delightedly put on my shirt.

I had no idea what a stir it would cause.

This is the button she gave me.

I went into the Faculty Dining room and dug into my salad. The religion teacher's mouth hung open. "So, hehe, Drama, what's with the button? Or should I call you Kunta Mama hehehe." I stared at him, expressionless, for a full 15 seconds until he sheepishly concentrated on his Coq au Vin and said nothing. I continued eating my salad. My friends gathered round, and we ate lunch, the Gay Boys scarcely giving my button a second glance, themselves already a minority and so OVER the whole thing.

I walked to my next class. I was met with Black Power salutes from the African-American kids - giving me the fist "pound" and calling me "Little Mama". The Celtic athletes looked slightly horror struck as they kept repeating But you're not black. They looked uncomfortable. I replied cryptically, "Ah, but on the inside..." and proceeded to take attendance. Later, I was in the school uniform store, helped by a lovely Chinese woman, whose language was decidedly a second language. "I like your button," she said. "Is that a new group?" I couldn't decide whether she was referring to a rock band or ethnic group, so I just replied, "No, pretty old, actually," to which she smiled and nodded.

I've been thinking alot about groups lately. As Miss M makes her way through her new school, and I see her with her "people" - I understand the need for tribes. I so get the need to let your hair down and be with others like you, to make your way to the lunchroom and eat with people who have the same things in their lunchbags - rice, or fish, or tortillas. To have a shared experience. I see it in the ease of my daughter's smile, at her excitement to go to school and learn on a multitude of levels - academically, socially, emotionally.

So the button. I was not conducting an experiment, or trying to get a rise out of folks. My student gave me a gift, and I, touched by her gesture of inclusion, wore it proudly. I mean, I am honored that she considers me an honorary member of her tribe. After all, I'm already accepted and endorsed by the Gay Men of America.

The message to me was this: You see me. You feel what I feel. You appreciate my difference, as well as our similarities. I'm proud of myself, and you're proud of me.

That's what the button meant to me.

Incidentally, the Button Day also happened to be the same joyous day Miss M started her new school. As you can imagine, it was an emotional day, fraught with intense relief and ebullience. That I was recognized by my Black Brothers and Sisters? Icing on the cake.

I walked into Miss M's school to pick her up at aftercare. She was happily playing an American Girl puzzle in the bright, sunny room, with the energetic and dazzling afterschool teacher. "She's happy," he twinkled, as he helped a boy with his homework. Parents came in, greeted me and smiled, and children talked to each other with respect and in gentle tones. I kept seeing the word RESPECT floating in my brain, thinking, yes, this is what has been missing - RESPECT.

Gathering our things to leave, I leaned over the binder to sign out. The afterschool teacher smiled. "Heyyyyyy," he said, "I dig that button."

I looked down and smiled and shrugged. At that point, I had no snazzy replies left.

"I love being black, too," he said, his pale Irish complexion and red hair glowing.

I suppose anyone who feels different, who experiences challenge and overcomes it, who is proud and righteous and wants to make a change feels "black". That is not to dimish what it truly means to be black. But this "black"? This other? Being aut?

We are a tribe, and we look out for each other.

I've not known what to say about Autism Awareness. Not a clue. I'm not political about it, I don't have any answers, I don't know the cause. But this?

This I know.

And I'm sure thankful that Keisha gave me that button.