We are the role models. US. Not them.

Yesterday, my son and his first-grade class had a field trip to the nature center near his school to learn more about bats. Austin is the home to the single-largest Mexican free tail bat colony in the country, in case you didn’t know. After the educational sessions, the class was free to roam through the park and view the rescued, injured birds on site. 

One little boy in the class is clearly agitated and occasionally shouts out and makes noises. He can’t stay still for a moment, and one of the teachers keeps her eye on him constantly, gently shepherding him back to the fold. I tell her she must be exhausted at the end of the day. This must be the boy my son tells me is often loud in class. I know that he is a boy with special needs, and I keep my eye on him too.

At the large owl enclosure, I stopped and kneeled next to the little boy and he sat down on my knee, taking my hair in his hands. He twirled my rained-on corkscrew curls and tuned into the texture and the softness and the warmth I was giving to him. For a moment, he was still. And I saw him as a sweet little boy he is instead of the bundle of tiring energy who requires eyes on him at all times, and diversion and direction and endless patience. 

As the little boy skipped away to the next exhibit, one of his classmates – a tall girl with light-brown pigtails and large hazel eyes – took his hand and stayed by his side, leading him from place to place. Another classmate took her place as his watcher, and they ensured that he was where he was supposed to be. 

I caught the teacher’s eye, and I told her that I loved the way the children took care of this little boy who needed them. 

“They are all so nurturing,” she said. “See, in this neighborhood, these kids have everything they need. They have plenty of food, shelter, and support. Their parents read to them and teach them. They are loved. But the empathy, that is what sets them apart. That is what will keep them from being takers.” 

I remembered this as the election results rolled in and I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face. I’m an independent voter, and chose the candidate I thought was the best one to represent my beliefs. The man who was elected represents misogyny and racial divide to me, and I cried not for the other party, but for myself, as a woman, and for my friends who are Muslim, LGBTQ, Latinx, or Black. I grieved the hope for the first woman president in 250 years of presidents. 

My husband held me in his arms for comfort. I asked him how we were supposed to tell our son that it’s not ok to be a bully and mistreat women when our president, our role model, does it?

“Our president is not a role model,” he said. “He’s a politician. He is someone we hire to prematurely age for us to do a job." I laughed through my tears at this.

"Politicians are never role models," he said, with conviction. "That honor goes to our fathers, our grandfathers, and good men in our community. We are going to raise our son the way we know he will become a good man.” 

He's right: politicians are not role models. They are politicians. Athletes are not role models. They are athletes. 

*I* am the role model. *YOU* are the role model. 

I’m finished being sad and I’m mobilized to ensure that the hate that has been stirred up can be tamped down. That the white supremacists find no more power. That the anti-Semites are quieted. That my son and his generation will be taught to see women as equals and treat them as such. 

I have hope for the next generation, if we can figure out better ways to come together. Through fire we will come through, and I am going to be standing up for everyone who needs me. With love. And fierce determination to do what's right. 

That empathy my son is practicing in school won’t go to waste. It’s going to help us going forward.