by N. H. Senzai
The chairperson, a serious-looking woman with short gray hair, called the meeting to order. Another member, Ms. Perez, announced a moment of silence, and then we stood for the Pledge of Allegiance.
Mr. Fowler had already explained to us how everything would work, but since I’d never attended a school board meeting before, I was nervous.
Superintendent Platt spoke first, leaning his wiry body toward the mike. “We’ve received a number of questions and complaints about the prayer room at Bayshore Middle School. As I began looking into the matter, I referenced a memorandum by the Florida Department of Education that’s set to take effect on July first. This is a direct quote from the memo: ‘The bill, which is called SB 436 Religious Expression in Public Schools, requires that students be allowed to pray or participate in religious activities or gatherings before, during, and after school, to the same extent secular activities or clubs are allowed.’ ”
The chairwoman said, “Thank you, Superintendent Platt. Our next speaker will be Brad Sawyer. Mr. Sawyer, you have two minutes.”
Mr. Sawyer was a tall, red-haired man with a military crew cut. “That’s Nick’s dad,” Lea whispered. “I met him when we were working on our social studies project.”
“Is Nick here?” I whispered back.
Lea shook her head. “Bailey and Nick aren’t coming. I heard them talking about it by the lockers.”
“Bayshore Middle School is a secular institution paid for with taxpayer dollars,” Mr. Sawyer said, in a booming voice. “It’s not a mosque, or a church, or a temple. We stopped praying in public schools a long time ago, and I fail to see why we’re making an exception for Muslims.”
Noura sucked in her breath as he said Muslims in an angry tone. I wanted to tell her I was sorry, but the words clogged in my throat. We both watched as Mr. Sawyer went on to use up his entire two minutes ranting about the separation of church and state. He was the kind of man most people usually avoided—loud and angry. I actually felt sorry for Nick.
Mr. Fowler had told us the board members probably wouldn’t comment or ask questions. That, instead, the chairwoman would call name after name from her list, until she got to the end of citizens who had signed up to speak. I watched the faces of the board members, wondering what they were thinking and how they might vote, but their faces remained neutral, and it was hard to tell.
The chairwoman called our principal, Mr. Thorpe, next. He spoke in a low, calm voice, as if he were trying to settle down a bunch of rowdy middle schoolers. He reiterated that Bayshore Middle School hadn’t broken any state or federal laws, and that the room had been used by students of all faiths. He ended with “There was even a sign on the door that said, Prayer and meditation space, all are welcome.”
Next, the chairwoman called Imam Ibrahim. As he approached the podium, I could hear buzzing, like angry bees. The women behind me whispered about his long beard and brown cloak. Imam Ibrahim adjusted the microphone. “I would like to express our thanks to Mr. Thorpe,” he said in a gentle voice, and paused for a few seconds before continuing. “Muslims have a requirement to pray five times a day, and one of our prayers, dhuhr, usually falls during lunch. We were very grateful to Bayshore Middle School for accommodating students who wished to practice their faith. I sincerely hope the improper actions of one individual will not infringe on the rights of many others. Thank you.”
The chairwoman called Mr. Fowler. He was wearing a dark suit and strode confidently toward the microphone. He cleared his throat and began. “My name is James Fowler, and I teach seventh-grade social studies at Bayshore Middle School. Inside my classroom, there are Jewish students, Muslims, Hindus, Catholics, Methodists, Baptists, Lutherans, Episcopalians, and some students who don’t practice any form of religion. The First Amendment protects the beliefs of all of them. It means Bayshore Middle School can’t favor one religion over the other, or hinder any student from practicing the religion of his or her choice. The young men and women seated behind me are my students, and I’m proud they’ve decided to speak this evening. Thank you.”
The chairwoman looked up. “Noura Alwan,” she called.
Noura’s eyes were wide, and her breath fast and shallow. I hoped she wouldn’t faint.
Noura Alwan,” called out the chairwoman, whose lips were puckered as if she’d eaten a sour lemon. I clenched the armrests with white knuckles.
“It’s your turn to speak,” said Ammar. He glanced at my face and frowned. “Are you okay?”
I took a deep, calming breath, and whispered, “Bismillah-ir- Rahman-ir-Rahim, in the name of God the merciful and compassionate.”
“Noura Alwan?” repeated the sour-faced woman, peering into the crowd.
Ammar nudged me, so I rose and made my way to the podium. I faced the microphone while tucking in the edge of my bright-pink-and-cream hijab with a trembling hand. I’d chosen it because of its cheery, positive color and because it reminded me of the regal roseate spoonbills we’d seen from Mr. Johnson’s boat.
I filled my lungs with air and began. “My brother and I met with our principal, Mr. Thorpe, and he said we could use a spare equipment room next to the gym for prayers. We’d been having a hard time finding a place to pray … and some kids had … some kids had not been kind when we were praying.” Superintendent Platt frowned, which reminded me to stay calm and not mess things up. “But … but when our friends found out about the room, they all came to help us set it up. Penny created three-dimensional trees with construction paper. She hung them in the room and created a tranquil forest. Lea’s family donated a beautiful rug. Daksha added a banner with the word COEXIST, where the C was a Muslim crescent, the O a Hindu om, the E a combination of the male and female symbols, the X a Star of David, the I with a pentagram dot, the S a yin-yang symbol, and for the T, a Christian cross. That is what the room became—a place for us to coexist, where we could come together and be ourselves.” As soon as the last words left my mouth, I felt as buoyant as a balloon and floated back to my seat.
“That was amazing,” Ammar said, his eyes bright, while Mr. Fowler beamed at us.
“Yeah,” Jordyn said. “That was awesome.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, a feeling of freedom enveloping me. It was what Mr. Fowler had said in class: It was our responsibility as citizens to participate in the political system—to voice our thoughts and be heard.
“Joel Herzberg,” the chairwoman called.
With a soft grunt, Joel got up from the other end of the aisle. He smoothed back his hair, combed neatly to the side, and wiped his hands on the side of his trousers. “Uh … hello, everyone,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “My name is Joel Herzberg. I’m Jewish, and Rabbi Rosen from Beth Israel is here with my dad and me. This last year … this last year has been really … difficult.” Joel paused a moment and blinked hard. “My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. During the time she had surgery and was going through chemotherapy, it was nearly impossible for me to pay attention in class. My teachers tried to help, especially Mr. Fowler, but I just couldn’t concentrate. Then the prayer room opened. It was a place I could sit quietly with my friend Ammar and pray for my mom. When all of us came together, it made me feel better.” With a nod, and thanks, he trudged back to where his father sat.
The chairwoman called, “Daksha Patel.”
“I’m the girl who designed the COEXIST banner,” Daksha said in a rush, her small hands flying about like a pair of chocolate-brown finches. Then she paused for a moment and slowed down. “My family immigrated from India, and we are Hindus. There’s only one other boy at Bayshore Middle School who’s Hindu, and neither of us have felt like we truly belonged. A lot of kids used to ask us what Indian tribe we belonged to and pretend to be cowboys, shooting at us, like we were Native Americans in old movies. But when I’m in the prayer room, I don’t feel different. I feel like I totally fit in, just the way I am.”
When she slipped by me to get to her seat, I squeezed her hand. “That was really good,
” I whispered, my heart bursting with gratitude.
“It’s true,” she said with a sniff. “It’s okay to be different. We have to accept each other the way we are.”
“Penny Williams,” the chairwoman called.
Penny stomped over to the podium and stood straight, wearing a T-shirt with a palm tree on the front. “I’m the girl who designed the trees in the prayer room,” she said. “My family doesn’t practice any sort of organized religion, but I use the prayer room for meditation. I like going there to think about nature and what I want to be when I grow up. And while I’m here, I want to protest the stupid new law that was passed, banning the ban of plastic straws.” The chairwoman’s brows shot up as Penny kept talking. “I mean, plastic is toxic for the environment. We were just doing a shore cleanup and saw the effects of plastic on wildlife.” With that, she strode back to her seat.
“Uh, thank you for that,” said the chairwoman, then called out, “Lea Rodriguez.”
Lea’s hoop earrings glowed in the overhead lighting as she confidently lounged against the podium. “I’m of Cuban descent and my relatives fled after the communists took over. My family’s history is pretty common here in Florida and reminds me of what happened to my Syrian friend, Noura, who spoke earlier. In Cuba, the communists banned religious freedom. They even abolished Christmas Day. That’s why freedom of religion is so important to me, and it’s why I support the prayer room. For everyone.”
As Lea sauntered back to her seat, the chairwoman called Jordyn’s name. I looked at her as she took several deep breaths, in through her nose and out through her mouth. “You’ll do great,” I whispered, “you’ll power through it like a shark.”
With a last steadying breath, she gave me a wink and headed toward the podium. “I’m Jordyn Johnson, a United Methodist,” she began. “Noura and Ammar are my friends, and I knew it was hard for them to find a place to pray. When I found out they got a room, I was really happy, but the room ended up not being just for them. I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Being in stressful situations, like this one”—she paused, getting smiles from some of the board members—“gives me panic attacks. When the prayer room opened, it became a place where I could practice the deep breathing my therapist had taught me. I hope we’ll be able to keep the prayer room because it makes everyone’s day better. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Jordyn,” said Superintendent Platt. “I’d like to commend Mr. Fowler and his students. They are a testament to our strong public school system here in Hillsborough County. I know emotions are running high, so I’d suggest the board delay a vote on the prayer room until our next regularly scheduled meeting on May seventeenth.”
“Delay?” I whispered to Mr. Fowler and the others. “Why the delay?”
“That means they’re passing the buck,” Penny said disgustedly as a grumbling roar filled the auditorium.
“Pass the buck?” I asked, confusion flooding through me. “What buck?”
“It means they don’t want to make a decision right now and will vote on it later,” said Mr. Fowler with a resigned expression on his face.
“Ah, c’mon!” Mr. Sawyer yelled as he stood up. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Mr. Sawyer,” said the chairwoman with a stern look, “I understand you’re upset, but please take your seat.”
“You don’t know the meaning of upset, lady,” shouted Mr. Sawyer, shaking his fist as his face turned as red as his hair.
“That’s enough!” yelled the chairwoman as the other board members scrambled from their seats.
Mr. Sawyer marched down the aisle toward us.
I slid from my chair and crouched on the floor. “Noura,” Ammar cried, coming to kneel beside me.
I tried to breathe but couldn’t; I was back in Aleppo, gripped with the same fear as when we heard helicopters flying overhead, ready to drop barrel bombs.
The other kids dove toward us, and we huddled together. Mr. Fowler stood guard, shielding us with his arms.
I pinched the soft skin on my wrist, snap out of it. The pain refocused me and I exchanged a fearful look with Jordyn.
The chairwoman bellowed, “Mr. Sawyer, don’t take another step. This behavior will not be tolerated!”
“Let go of me!” Mr. Sawyer yelled. “I have rights!”
I heard screams and confusion, but Mr. Fowler’s voice cut through the chaos. “Kids, you can relax now. The security guard is escorting Mr. Sawyer from the building.”
As many in the audience broke into applause and we climbed into our seats, the chairwoman smoothed down her jacket and took a deep breath. “Do I have a motion to uphold the superintendent’s recommendation?” she asked.
The motion was made, seconded, and received a unanimous vote from the board members.
“Thank you all for attending,” the chairwoman said. “That concludes our business for this evening. The meeting is adjourned.”
“I can’t believe Nick’s dad went ballistic,” muttered Lea as Daksha and Jordyn nodded in agreement.
“He had a right to voice his opinion,” Mr. Fowler said, his face pale. “But he can’t act the way he did and not expect there to be consequences.”
“Man,” grumbled Penny. “After all that drama we have to wait.”
Ammar’s fists were clenched, and Joel patted him on the back.
“This is not fair,” mumbled Jordyn, leaning in toward me.
I nodded, stunned, as we huddled around Mr. Fowler.
Lea angrily tossed her head.
“I know you’re all disappointed,” Mr. Fowler said. “I am too, but regardless of what happens next, I’m proud of you guys. I know you’ll grow up to be informed citizens, the kind our country desperately needs.”
“What if they pass the buck … vote no?” I whispered.
“Then we’ll keep believing that someday they’ll vote yes,” Mr. Fowler said. “Remember: ‘The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.’ ”
When I got to social studies class, Mr. Fowler was serving Krispy Kreme doughnuts, milk, and juice.
I grabbed a warm glazed doughnut and took a seat behind Noura. She turned and gave me a slightly dazed smile. “I have never had a Krispy Kreme doughnut before. I think I’m in love.”
“But why are we celebrating?” I asked. “The board didn’t even vote.”
Noura shrugged. “I am not sure, but I’m always happy to eat doughnuts.”
Mr. Fowler wiped his hands on a napkin and marched to the front of the room. His bushy eyebrows were practically jumping. “As we’ve previously discussed, the fight for justice is never really over, but last night you kids made me proud to be a teacher. It was a sight to behold—true civic engagement and participation in our political system! I brought in doughnuts to show my appreciation.”
Bailey leaned toward me. “What happened?” she whispered.
Before I got the chance to answer her, Mr. Fowler cleared his throat. “Group discussions only, please. Last night I spoke at the school board meeting along with Noura, Joel, Daksha, Penny, Lea, and Jordyn. Would anybody be interested in filling the rest of the class in on what happened?”
I raised my hand so I could be the one to answer Bailey’s question. “Mr. Fowler told the school board how we have kids from a lot of different religions in this class, and that the First Amendment protects all of us. Noura talked about setting up the prayer room, and then the rest of us shared our experiences using it, and why the room is important to us. We were a little nervous speaking into a microphone with so many adults there, but we still managed to give pretty good speeches.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Fowler said. “I’ve never had a group of students address the school board before. It was one of the highlights of my teaching career so far.” He snapped his fingers. “How about a reenactment? Would those of you who spoke last night be willing to read your speeches to the class?”
Noura shyly ducked her head, but Penny and Daksha were already out of their seats and headed to
the front of the room. The rest of us soon followed. Our speeches went even better than before. I spoke last, and for once it didn’t feel like a shark was gnawing at my insides, only a small group of minnows. When I took my seat, Mr. Fowler and the other kids clapped for us. That’s what Dr. Kelley would call real progress.
“Joel, I’m sorry about your mom,” Bailey said. “I didn’t know.”
“Thank you,” he said. “She’s doing much better.”
“Until we started practicing,” Penny said, “I didn’t realize Castro had banned Christmas. I’m not religious, but we still have a tree and presents. Who wouldn’t like a tree and presents?”
“Castro,” Lea said. “He wanted complete control.”
“So, anyway, what did the school board decide?” Bailey asked.
“They didn’t reach a decision,” Mr. Fowler said. “They’ll vote in a couple weeks, on May seventeenth.”
Lea crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah, that’s the part that made me angry. The superintendent suggested the board wait and vote at the next meeting, so we have no idea whether we get to keep the prayer room or not.”
“That’s true,” Mr. Fowler said. He walked over to the whiteboard and pointed to the first Supreme Court case: Engel v. Vitale (1962). “That case was fifty-five years ago, and we’re still debating prayer in public schools. You guys are part of history. Democracy in action!”
“I was impressed kids were allowed to speak and they took us seriously,” Ammar said. “In Syria, and lots of other countries too, that would have been impossible. Freedom of speech is not allowed everywhere.”
“Are you sure you couldn’t say whatever you wanted to in Syria?” Nick asked, with a skeptical look on his face.
“I am positive,” Ammar said. “Boys as young as twelve who wrote graffiti against the government were arrested and tortured. It led to our civil war.”
Mr. Fowler thoughtfully nodded. “Because Noura and Ammar grew up in Syria, they bring a different perspective to free speech,” he said. “Sometimes Americans take it for granted. Last night, we had the chance to make our voices heard. That’s always worth celebrating.”