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Live United, By Erin Haag

My first job when I moved to Minnesota was working for an adult learning program. Shortly after moving here, my husband and I learned we were expecting our first child. I often worked evenings. During this time, there were English language learning classes going on down the hall from my office. One student was usually alone. He spent much of his late teen years and early 20s homeless, struggling to survive, caring for his younger siblings. His family migrated around the country until they wound up in Minnesota. Once his younger siblings went to school, he showed up at my office door one day and asked to learn English. We enrolled him in classes. He worked third shift, came home and got his siblings off to school. A few hours of sleep, then he did the school pickup routine. He fed them supper and then came to class. He came every day, walking through rain, sleet or snow. He was tough, and could easily look intimidating. He was built like a tank, heavily muscled. While he didn’t outright scowl, he rarely let his feelings show. He was quiet. Other students, even those who spoke his language, gave him a wide berth.

Our friendship started when he realized I was pregnant. He came to me one day and hesitantly asked, “you a little mama now?” I told him yes. From that moment on, he became my protector. I usually spent my evenings running around to the various classrooms or monitoring the childcare room. I would come back to my desk to find a bite to eat — a muffin, some fruit and water. I would be standing in a classroom observing, and a chair would show up behind me. He would scold me if he thought I was overdoing it. “You’re a little mama now, you eat.” Others saw his gentleness towards me, and he began to make friends. Soon, he was watching out for others. He would wait in the parking lot after classes. More than once, I saw him help another student get their car started, scrape ice off car windows and help carry children. He would come and hold my elbow as I navigated my way across an icy parking lot.

A stark reality came one winter evening as we were leaving. We had just waved off the last student, and he was walking me across the parking lot. We heard a yell from a car that had slowed down as they drove by. “Hey! You! What are you doing with her?! You leave her alone or I’m calling the police!” I called back that it was OK, with my student trying to urge me quickly to my car. He wanted me gone — telling me, “you go be safe at home” Before we even got to my car, a police cruiser showed up. That night, the situation did not escalate. The police officer was soon on his way. Looking back though, I realize that the officer did not ask questions of my student. He asked me. He told the student to “go home and stay out of trouble.” He was friendly, but he told me to “take care and have a nice day.”

I watched my student draw back into himself. For the next few months, he reverted to his previous stoic self. He still was our protector, but he did so unseen, slipping out of class a few minutes early. We would discover that he was still clearing snow and ice from the cars and our path but was removing himself from those few moments of social interaction.

I still remember clearly when I saw him smile again. The following fall, I brought my infant daughter to visit the classes. Due to changes in both of our schedules I had not seen him since the beginning of May, before my daughter was born. As a nervous, new mama, I didn’t allow others to hold her. Once I saw his face though, I knew he needed to hold her. My tough, stoic, student with dark brown skin, held my blue-eyed baby close and sang her a lullaby. She was equally enchanted with him.

Little moments of racism, of judgement may seem minor to many. The trauma of a single moment on a cold winter’s night impacted a man’s life. It impacted mine. I vividly remember feeling the fear roll off  him when the car slowed down. This man, so tough to many, was desperately afraid. A few years later, we spoke about it, and I learned he was most afraid for me. He was afraid the color of his skin would make a situation where I was unsafe. He was always my protector.

These types of stories happen every single day. They happen with tragic outcomes and moments of horror that are often swept under the rug. They happen to people who were making their way in the world, until they had their feet kicked out from under them again.

I’ve lost track of my student now, but I think of him often. His story is a deep, compelling and complex one. He moved through all the levels of classes and before he graduated from the program, he entered an essay into a contest. His essay was chosen to be published in an anthology of stories.

Often when I shared this anthology, people who previously voiced strong opinions about immigrants have always said something along the lines of, “well he obviously deserves to be here. He works hard.”

Yet, his working hard did not stop someone from judging him by the color of his skin. By the fact that he was walking with a white woman after dark. I know that night wasn’t the only time he encountered racism. I know that his heart is hurting right now. I know that wherever he is, he’s probably still someone’s protector. This is the first time I’ve shared this story. I do so in honor of George Floyd, and in recognition that it’s time to listen. Time to listen to the stories of people of color, and to call it out. Many have been anticipating a “return to normal” in a post-COVID-19 world. Let’s not hope the same for the protests of George Floyd. Let’s make this a turning point, where society collectively grieves and build bridges. Let’s build a sustainable movement that will create a new normal, built on a foundation of standing united.

Erin Haag is the executive director of the United Way of Freeborn County.