As I braced myself to witness the presidential inauguration, I thought about the meaning of this national ritual. Its purpose is to make public a solemn promise about the core commitments that are foundational to our nation. To me and my family and millions of others, one of the most vital of those commitments is public education.
The incredible promise of free, quality education for all was the bright beacon that called to my grandparents and parents when they fled an old country where only the sons of the wealthy aristocracy had access to formal learning. My father could only dream of a lofty future when he gained his first level of literacy in a cheder (Hebrew school for boys) in a Russian village, and when he befriended the son of the baron of the estate his grandfather managed and gained second-hand access to his school texts. He never forgot and never failed to remind me of the precious promise of America, the unimaginable treasure of public education.
Rituals remind us of and affirm our deepest beliefs. For that purpose, rituals can have a special place in the classroom. All education majors learn the importance of installing routines as the basis of classroom management but aren’t educated about the place of rituals.
I learned long ago in my Hawaiian homestead public classroom to include significant cultural rituals in our daily learning life, many of which my grant team replicates in our work in classrooms today. We began each morning with an oli (chant) that asks permission for and opens the mind to gaining wisdom and ancestral knowledge. We did ritual breathing exercises between lessons. All these daily protocols confirmed the promise we were making to be open to learning.
Another important ritual was the end-of-the-week closing circle, a time to resolve problems, let go of hurts, forgive any trespasses. I’d take the lead in that with this statement: “If I hurt any of you this week, scolded you, embarrassed you, didn’t listen to you or misunderstood you, I hope you’ll forgive me and believe that I’m truly sorry.” We’d reaffirm our sense of belonging to one another. I’d pass around a crystal that each child could hold up to catch the light and share their own “light” for the week. We’d close the circle with a simple nondenominational blessing in Hawaiian that I was given by Nona Beamer, which translates to “May all good things come to you so as to fill your heart with love.” With this ritual we once again affirmed our relationship and commitment to family harmony.
I seized every calendar opportunity to introduce dedication rituals. Our work was “dedicated to” FDR, our president in a wheelchair, for Presidents Day. Each day of Black History Month or Women’s History Month, I’d show a photo and tell a story about an American hero who had overcome challenges to achieve honor and to whom we would “dedicate” our work for the day and affirm our commitment to persevering in the face of challenge to gain our own personal honor.
All these rituals served to mark our classroom learning place as a sacred space, a place to be entered solemnly, to be treated respectfully, to be cherished as a gift, to live in with dignity — a place and a practice that could never be taken for granted but must always be earned and earnestly defended.
Each ritual reminded me of my ancestors’ understanding of the American promise: free, equitable, quality, public education. A promise that must be reconfirmed now more than ever.
Elly Tepper is a consultant educator and Ulu A‘e Transitions Grant Team member.
