Although I have casually checked this clock countless times during my high-school career, this year looking at it has made me think about how significant 60 seconds can be. Last spring, the Commonwealth of Virginia passed a law that requires every public school in the state to set aside one minute at the beginning of each day during which students must remain seated while they “meditate, pray, or engage in any other silent activity.” Every morning, at around 8:31, a resonant voice echoes over the school intercom, “Please rise for the Pledge of Allegiance.” I stand up straight and salute the flag. After the pledge the voice commands me to “pause for a minute of silence.” I push my chair under my desk and stride out of the classroom.
My objection to Virginia’s Minute of Silence law is very simple. I see the policy as an attempt to bring organized prayer into the public schools, thus violating the United States Constitution. Last June at a statewide student-government convention, I spoke with state lawmakers, who confirmed my suspicion that the minute of silence is religiously motivated. One delegate proudly told me that she supported the law because reciting the Lord’s Prayer had been a part of her own public-school education.
I agree with the law’s strongest critics, who argue that it promotes religious discrimination because many faiths do not pray in the seated position mandated by the legislation. How would a Muslim third grader react to those students (and maybe a teacher) who might fold their hands and bow their heads to pray? Would she feel pressured to join in just to avoid criticism?
My opposition to this law is ironic because I consider myself religious and patriotic. I recite the Pledge of Allegiance daily (including the “one nation under God” part, which to me has historical, not religious, implications). As a Reform Jew, I get peace and self-assurance from religious worship and meditation, both at my synagogue and in my home. But my religious education also taught me the importance of standing up against discrimination and persecution.
In a school of 1,600 students, fewer than two dozen have joined me in protest. I usually walk out of class with one or two kids, sometimes none. Most days, when I glance back into the classroom, I see several students praying, heads bowed or eyes closed, while others do homework or daydream. Although I have not encountered any outright opposition, I often overhear classmates making sarcastic comments or dismissing the protest as futile. When I see that so many of my peers and teachers find no reason to question something I feel so strongly about, I wonder if my objection is justified. What do my 30 extra daily paces accomplish?
In contemplating that question, I’ve come to realize that taking a stand is about knowing why I believe what I do and refusing to give in despite the lack of support. My decision to protest was largely personal. Though I stayed in class the first morning the law was implemented–because I was caught off guard and because I was curious to see how others would respond–sitting there felt like a betrayal of my values. I also felt an obligation to act on behalf of the students all over Virginia who found their own beliefs violated but don’t attend schools that allow them to express their opinions.
Deep down, I know this issue will be decided in a courtroom, not in my corridor. On May 8, the Fourth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals heard oral arguments from ACLU lawyers representing seven families who are challenging the law, and will probably reach a decision over the summer. But for now I’ll walk out of class each day to show my school community that an easy alternative to complacency does exist. This year I will have spent approximately three hours standing in the hallway in protest, watching the second hand make its 360-degree journey. As a senior about to graduate, I’ve thought a lot about the impact I’ve had on my school. I hope that my protest inspired other kids to use the time to think, not about a beckoning test, but about their views–even if those views differ from my own.
