“I’m sorry, Eric,” my principal, Sheila Jacobson, told me. “I get it. I’m Black. I’m discriminated against every day. But I’m afraid that you and your class making signs is not a good idea. Especially protest signs,” she added

My sixth-period eighth-grade class had come up with the idea. It was just after Alex Pretti had been killed, and his murder was all over the news. This was on top of Renee Good and her murder a few weeks earlier. Even though I taught Life Science, my kids wanted to do something about it. They thought that making signs as a show of solidarity with the peaceful protests going on and a planned march that weekend was a good idea. I was all for it.

“I don’t see why not,” I told Edwardo and Latisha, the two de facto leaders of the group, although I could think of ten reasons right off the bat, school politics being at the top of the list.

Ms. Jacobson and I argued back and forth for a few minutes. The fact that I was in my first year of teaching may have worked against me. She didn’t accuse me of being naïve, but I got the drift.

Finally, my principal said something unexpected, and it made me just about inappropriately hug her. Just about. She said, “Look, Eric, I’m telling you not to do it, okay?”

I knew when I was beaten. “Fine, I get it,” I said. I nodded my head to show her that I understood what she was saying, even though I didn’t agree.

She raised a finger and looked at me slyly. “But…,” she grinned, “I can’t stop you from doing what you think is right.”

I grinned and pumped my fist. “Yeah!”

“Now, get out of here,” she said. Then she winked. “Have a good day.”

“I will!” I hurried from her office, walking fast (no running in the halls), and jogged up stairs to my second-floor classroom. I could hear my sixth-period kids talking, shouting, and laughing as I approached. The minute I stepped through the door, though, the chatter ceased. They all knew I was talking to Ms. Jacobson. What was she going to say? I shook my head sadly, goofing around with them, as I walked to my desk.

“Sorry,” I said.

A chorus of “Oh, no’s!”

Then I turned to the class of 27 kids, mostly black and brown, and said, “Just kidding! We are good to go!”

“Yeah!”

We made signs. We did some science, too. But we also made signs.

Most of my kids had a story to tell. A story that had to do with their parent or parents, or even the kids themselves, being ridiculed and harassed. It was disgusting and appalling.

Maria and her mom were walking to the grocery store when ICE agents sped up in a black SUV and slammed on their brakes. Before either of them knew what was happening, the thugs forced Latisha’s mom into their vehicle and took her to the Whipple Building detention center. Fortunately, a woman who was a civil rights lawyer and who was working to free citizens detained for no good reason other than the color of their skin helped free her after only a stay of a few hours. But it was a horrifying experience for both Maria and her mom.

It was one of many. All of my kids had similar stories. It was appalling.

Why were we making signs? Well, there was going to be a huge protest march in Downtown Minneapolis that weekend. A lot of my kids had parents going or knew someone who was going. Many of my students were going too. Making signs just seemed like the right thing to do.

We did.

I have to say that I was impressed. These kids were mostly 12 years old and very aware of what was going on in our city. Here are some of the signs they came up with: “Justice,” “Peace,” “ICE OUT NOW!” “Unfair!” “Abolish ICE!” “Shame!” “Stop the Terror,” “We Love Our Immigrants,” “Be Moral,” “Keep Families Together,” “Remember Renee Good and Alex Pretti.”

The kids worked on them all week. I felt it was my duty not only to be a teacher but to help and encourage the kids to be good citizens. Making those signs seemed like the right thing to do. I was happy to help in any way I could.

That Friday afternoon, I was standing outside our middle school building with other teachers making sure the kids got on their buses okay. The temperature was in the twenties and there were snow flurries in the air. Ms. Jacobson came to me. Oh, oh. I thought to myself. This could be trouble. But it wasn’t. My principal pointed to Latisha, who was getting on her bus carrying a sign that said, “PEACE!”

“You’ve been busy,” she said.

“I have,” I responded, waiting for the hammer to fall.

She looked at the sign and at the others carried by my kids. She said, “They look good, Eric.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was about to tell her how hard the kids had worked when she added. “No more, though, okay? This’s the last time.”

Message received. “Okay,” I said. I figured the signs would last for a while anyway. “Thanks.”

She nodded and walked away.

The next day was Saturday. A fellow teacher, my friend Jackson, who taught Civics at the school, fell in step next to me on my way back inside the building and invited me to join him and his wife, Tanya, and other friends of theirs for the march.

“Sure!” I told him. “I’d love to!”

We met at noon and drove two miles to downtown Minneapolis. We joined the marchers, and I saw some of my kids. They all had their signs. I did, too. Mine was simple. “ICE OUT NOW” is what it read.

I felt that it said it all.