Tastes Like Ash

Google, what is the right side of history?

I've recently noticed how weird our google searches are.
Here are a few examples:
Is my cauldron dishwasher-safe
How to get blood out of clothes
Completely true facts about vampires
How to get a witch to do the dishes
Sea salt in protection spells
Who fixed the world series

To be frank, I mostly google things because I've either forgotten or I'm curious to see what the shifting public beliefs about us are. People are unbelievably slow at accepting things unless it becomes a bestseller. Twilight was such a mixed blessing.

The last google search was caused by my inability to remember the color of the Soxs. And while out of all the crimes in the world it doesn't rank that high my inability to remember if they were the White, Black or Red Soxs was a thorn in my side.

But that's the thing about history, is it not? We don't remember all of it. We don't even decide which parts we do remember.

I think of this the most when someone says, "We are on the right side of history." As much as I like the quote, I also don't. History is written, but the past was lived. History is subjectively based on time frame. The right side of history within a lifetime might not show much change, but the right side of history over centuries could show us what is just.

I've forgotten more shit than some people ever care to learn, and as a teacher, I can excuse people not knowing history. There are so many reasons they might not know the real history by time they make it into my class. I don't blame them for that.

But, there are some things I simply can't do. Sometimes bits of history are ingrained into my memory like a scar. This is why during my last lecture I keep getting distracted as one of the students sat with a confederate flag hat that had the words REBEL written across it.

The discussion was about The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire and how it helped reform labor laws. But every time my eyes scanned the class I lost my train of thought. I wondered if I could enforce the University's dress code, and if my students would realize I hadn't last week when someone wore a literal baseball cap. How much class time I would chew up if I did?

Instead, I just lost seconds that were sewed together with rough field switches.

The thing is, symbols carry intent and a charge. Humans don't even need to be witches to enchant or curse them. It just collectively happens in society, even if something was "on the wrong side of history."

I didn't end up saying anything. If the student couldn't put together that wearing it to the class of his black professor was rude, I wasn't going to be able to unpack the topic and teach the others about unions with what was left of the hour.

After class, I was packing my things and kicking myself for forgetting to mention that two 14-year-olds were killed in the fire. It was such an obvious detail. I was only able to console myself by my emphasis that many of the victims were immigrant workers.

I shook it off, and headed outside to find two of my students talking. Or rather one was chewing out the student with the hat. They were away from the door enough that my gawking wasn't noticed as I overheard them.

"You get your own history month," Chad said, "But I can't wear a fucking hat?"

"Name the month," Ezra said.

"What?"

"When is Jewish history month?"

When there was no answer, I wanted to answer for Chad. May, it was May. But again, I stayed silent.

"Exactly," Ezra said, with a passion I've only seen while grading A papers.

"Whatever." Chad rolled his eyes and headed towards the parking lot.

Ezra turned, stopping mid-step after seeing me. His heart racing, before the small lift of the head to steady it. "See you next class, Professor Rodgers."

"There's a pop quiz," I found myself saying. "Make sure you get in extra studying you want before then."

A smile broke the tension before we parted. Then I did what I always did when something on campus sparked my curiosity, but I didn't know how to conceptualize it. I went and found Carrie.

Her 300 level classes didn't have much structure. Carrie looked up for a second as I walked in before making a face at the project a student was showing her. It was in a Warhol style, but instead of a brand it said "Die of" where the diet normally would be and "Cancer" where Cola normally went. "Is aspartame carcinogenic or is this a weight shaming thing?" she asked.

The student sighed, and took their work back to their desk. Carrie watched with an empathy that artists shared when they weren't understood.

"Having one of those days too?" I asked, and took up the spot her student had been.

"Too?" Carrie asked. "Oh no."

"Have you ever-- called out one of your students?"

"It happens. I told a kid in my 101 class recently that he should draw women in more realistic poses."

I felt that same strange tenderness in my chest again that made me want to blurt things out. "How did that worked out?"

"He dropped the class," Carrie said, "Since art is often an elective I guess he decided he didn't want it anymore."

I remember thinking that today, that is what history often forgets. Everyone someday might align themselves to the right side of history, but before that's written the strife is removed from the narrative. It becomes fact, not a feeling that had been cried over, toiled for, suffered over.

The present is also lived. Carrie reminds me of that. It's lived in every second, with every twirl of the pottery wheel, with every intent sent out into the universe. Leaving us to all hope that we'll collectively string together enough change to have the future we want written down.

I'll likely live long enough to see if it is, but I hope Carrie is. And Ezra too.