Today was the last day of school, and it was bittersweet.  I’m happy for summer–time to get my research and writing done, ride my bike, dance outside, and swimswimswim.  At the same time, I had some really outstanding students this term, and I’m sad to say goodbye to them, especially the graduating seniors.  My feminist theory and praxis course students did amazing work this term, including producing a really outstanding eight minute film about men and sexual violence and doing other kinds of anti-rape activism around campus.  After our last meeting I hopped on my bike and tooled over to Banneker Elementary School, precariously balancing on my handlebars a trifold cardboard presentation made by students in the introduction to women’s studies course about their work as “reading buddies” at Sophie B. Wright, another school Uptown.   When I rode up I was surprised to find the school tucked back in this neighborhood; I’ve never noticed it before even though I bike in the neighborhood all the time.  The building was lovely.  Then I noticed the metal detector in the doorway.  Of an elementary school.  I always forget that public schools are like this now.  What must it be like to walk in to your school every day, with the reminder that you or your classmates are criminal, that you are risking violence just by going to school?  I watched for a little bit and noticed that most of the folks in for the Center of Public Service Showcase walked around the metal detector.  I walked through–it beeped.  The whole thing was so surreal, but for kids in this town, it’s just normal.  I dropped off my students’ display and hopped on my bike for the last ride home from school of the semester, thinking about how many experiences there are of this thing called “going to school.”  It’s not fair.