Short Story: Understanding the Consequences of Police in Schools

by Mikaela Brewer

A police officer in tactical gear walking through the front door of a building

The echinacea were still alive when the first bell of the school year rang. They’re also called coneflowers, and this is how my mother ensured we shared a name—that I carried her with me safely. Her name is Echina, mine is Connie. I didn’t understand, at first, why we didn’t have the same name. I both knew and didn’t in 2018, when the Toronto District School Board trustees voted to remove police officers stationed in their schools. But I see now, in September 2026, as I begin my senior year of high school. I was born in this country. My mother wasn’t. 

The last time we drove back from Mexico, during the summer of 2025, we’d talked about our fears surrounding the upcoming American and Canadian elections. Mid-topic, we passed a strip of coneflowers and mom, as always, adored an opportunity to talk about the flowers she so admired. She loved them so much that she gifted some to my high school, now rimmed in magenta, white, and yellow. 

“You know, echinacea are native to North America. They’re tough and sturdy and colourful. Resilient—surviving full sun, bad soil, and drought. They help the bees and butterflies, feed the birds, and boost our immunity. They even self-seed non-invasively. Do you know what I’m saying—”

“I know what you’re trying to say.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you make them sound like a perfect flower. Maybe they are. But we’re not perfect. And flowers can be ripped from the soil by their roots, no matter how hearty they are. That’s what Trump’s going to do. And it can surely happen in Canada, too.” 

Mom’s bony, ringed fingers slid down the steering wheel to eight and four. She took a loud breath that slumped her shoulders. “You don’t know what I’m saying because you didn’t let me finish.”

I regret it now, but at that moment, I shook my head and put my headphones in. She was right—I didn’t know what she wanted to say.

And here I am, waiting in a long line of students entering the school. Doorways doubled by scanners, tripled by police officers, and quadrupled by cameras. I remember my mother’s words, but I don’t yet know how to enact them. I’m terrified.

When I was nine, police roamed my elementary school grounds. But more than the coldness of the cops, I remember Mandy. Mandy with freckles, dimples, warm brown skin slightly darker than mine, and polished copper eyes. One of the first English words I could spell was penny, because I’d met Mandy in kindergarten and been in love with him since. I fight to remember him this way: Mandy, who smelled of his grandfather’s tobacco pipe when he kissed my cheek inside a dead tree trunk during recess.

But he was a troublemaker, always making things when we were supposed to be quiet and listening. A delinquent. A thief. His every move was watched, surveilled, and reprimanded in the halls. Detention for backtalk became suspension, and soon, arrests. So many frightening phone calls with the Canada Border Services Agency. A model of the school-to-prison pipeline. And it all started, from what I can remember, when he borrowed Jenny Barton’s glue stick and scissors without asking her. “What are you going to do with those?” they’d asked, fearfully. I know it started before that. Start isn’t the right word. What was cut up and flimsy as construction paper, to begin with, was his trust in adults. And I wasn’t enough to glue something so hurt back together—at least not faster than it shredded. 

Mandy’s in prison now, so I hear. Just shy of nineteen. I haven’t spoken to him since he was fourteen and I was thirteen. He disappeared from my life. And out of manufactured fear, I let him. 

I know peers, parents, and teachers who protested police in schools. I have friends who stopped coming to school because their parents and guardians are afraid of being reported to immigration officials, even though mom said the Education Act guarantees them an education regardless of status. But Mandy needed support. Not the police.

About midway through the lineup to enter the school, this old heartbreak snapped into panic. As nonchalantly as I could manage, I slipped out of line behind a portable and again behind the echinacea bushes. How else could I protect my mom? I put my headphones in and played two poems by Celia Martínez with my arms hugging my knees. I couldn’t stop my tears and heaved the still-humid air silently. 

[A moment to pause with Connie & watch/listen to Celia’s brilliant poems, linked here & here].

I slowly calmed, listening to Celia’s words. As I fought to figure out what to do next, vehicle headlights lit up my hiding spot magenta. There was a catwalk to a subdivision next to me, but these lights were too bright and close to be coming from the road. I sank further into the bushes, so afraid that it was some form of authority figure looking for me. But nobody would’ve known I was missing yet. It was only 7:53 and classes didn’t start until 8:15. 

A loud engine growl startled me, but it was turning off. A kickstand scraped the fence, thick-heeled boots hit the pavement, and headlights clicked off. 

It took my eyes a moment to adjust, finding focus on a yellow floral dress hugged by a red leather jacket. My mom was crouching in front of me. She smelled like fruit. 

I smeared my glittery white eyeshadow across my face trying to wipe tears away. “How did you know I was here?” I murmured, nearly incoherently.

Echina smiled and almost laughed as she sat down cross-legged beside me, out of view. “Your brothers and sisters hid here too.”

“But how did you know I’d be here today?”

“Moms know a lot of things. I had a feeling.”

“So you know why I didn’t go in.”

“I do. And I understand.” She took my hands in hers.

I swallowed, clearing my throat. “I know what you meant last summer. About coneflowers. About us.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not about perfection. It’s about believing in ourselves. In our love and hope and joy.”

“Yes, it is. And so much more.”

I nodded, but she could tell I was waiting for her to expand on the ‘much more.’”

“There’s a story that I used to tell your father before he died. I haven’t told it since, but you need it now.” She shifted to face me. “There was once an echinacea flower who—”

“Mom, do you have any stories not about echinacea?” My face cracked a wet smile. 

Echina smirked. “Yes, but they’re not as good. Don’t interrupt.” She paused to paint a fresh layer of red lipstick, put the tube in her bra, and clapped her hands together softly. “So, there was once an echinacea flower who thought she couldn’t support the roots of the flowers around her unless she was completely filled—brimming with nourishment (this tale is inspired by the wonderful work of Christabel Mintah-Galloway, RN, BSN). She thought that she couldn’t give unless she was full. Gradually, the flowers around her began to die. And then, so did she. What mistake do you think she made?”

“We’re never fully or perfectly nourished. So she never helped.”

“Precisely.” Mom squeezed my hands and kissed them. 

“But I don’t understand. I do help.”

“You do. You always help me. But I tell you this little tale to say: almost always, even when we feel most alone and hopeless, there’s something we can do—especially something we can give. And we must keep giving and gifting so that others can do the same for us. We can’t sever that connection. All relationships are tended most lovingly this way; it’s how we keep making in every sense of the word—change, progress, love, art, each other, and the list continues.”

“But I’m so afraid to walk into that school now, mom. With all the police and surveillance. Why is it always us who have to give. So many people only extract. Even my school friends.”

“I know. I know, my love.” Mom hugged me. As she stroked my hair, she asked, “Is there someone who gave to you, who you once shared roots with—made with, maybe—who you could give back to today?”

“Aside from you?”

“Mhm.” She smiled appreciatively. 

It only took a moment to figure out who she was trying to get me to remember. And it was with his memory that I eventually walked into the school for my last first day.

***

That afternoon, I sat inside what felt like a particle board booth for standardized test-taking. There was a grey landline phone on the wall beside me, its coil nearly reaching the floor. This room of the county jail smelled of sweat, cheap coffee, and old paper. I looked down, picking at my purple nail polish. I don’t know what prompted me to look up, but when I did, I didn’t startle. I didn’t know how long he’d been sitting across from me, watching from the other side of the glass, with those same eyes. 

I stared back, my brow creasing involuntarily to mirror his. It’d been long enough for both of us to notice change, but not long enough to not recognize each other. He was thin, but stronger, and with black facial hair that suited him. 

Mandy picked up the phone on his side but my hand went to the glass, as if my palm could push through it to reach his cheek. Keeping the phone to his ear, his head sunk, as if in shame. Afraid he’d leave I quickly picked up the phone. 

“Mandy. Don’t go.”

He looked up. His eyes were kind, but it almost looked uncomfortable for them to soften. As if softness was the only muscle he hadn’t trained since I last saw him, chiselled now in more ways than one. He started to speak but stopped and pressed chapped lips together. 

“It’s me. C—”

“Connie.”

I nodded, unsure why I thought he wouldn’t remember.

“Thought I’d never see you again.” His voice was like gravel. 

I smiled and nodded. 

“Why did you come?” There was a sternness now. 

I took a deep breath and looked down for a moment to gather myself. He thought I was patronizing him.

“If it takes that long to say I—”

“No, wait.” I snapped my head up. “My mom told me a story. And I wanted to tell you about it.” 

“You want to tell me a story?”

“It’s about us. About what we can make.”

“Us?” There was a slight momentum in Mandy’s voice that gripped my heart. The wit that once made much of what he said sound like a wink. I’d missed it so much. 

“Don’t you want to hear it?” 

“Well, what are we going to make?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how are we going to make it?”

“Together.” 

He grinned, and I couldn’t help but beam back. 

We truly hadn’t said much of substance. I didn’t yet know why he was here, nor how we could make anything, let alone make anything happen or change in our corner of the world. He didn’t yet know what I’d been doing for five years. But a shared fight within the two of us found its reflection. 

Mandy kept smiling. It was a disarming, determined smile, with an undercurrent that I recognized. My cheeks warmed, realizing my hand was still on the glass. I was about to move it when he reached up and pressed his palm to mine. The sweat from our palms ran down the pane like tears.

Combatting a Rise in Harmful Language Use in Schools: Harmony Movement’s Campaign

By Abbigale Kernya for The 44 North

Managing Editor

Students studying with papers and a laptop

"How can you address your own biases? What are the conversations you might be having at home that might be influencing your child? Or what are you ignoring that your child might be saying or doing and they think it's okay?” ​​​​

In the chaos of school hallways and online chat rooms, words are increasingly weaponized in the classroom. More and more frequently, young students use harmful and hateful language; words echoed online find their way into schools, causing harm far deeper than many of their users understand. In an effort to transform the conversation around harmful language into an opportunity for intervention and education, Harmony Movement’s Words Matter Campaign works closely with schools and communities to initiate dialogue on the power of words. 

Harmony Movement’s Program Managers Justine Hicks and Taraneh Vejdani work closely on this initiative, designed to intervene and educate classrooms about the importance of language—born out of the urgent need to address harm in our schools. With a restorative justice approach, Hicks and Vejdani sat down with The 44 North to discuss what it means to take the pledge in community building, reeducation, commitment to inclusive spaces, and understanding why words matter. 

Vajdani began crafting the campaign last year, where she worked closely with the Inclusive School Action Network, which kick-started the idea for Words Matter. The goal was to create more inclusive spaces in our schools to address and combat the rising concerns of harmful language used by students at an alarming rate. 

“That started the brainstorming and discussion within that group to figure out what is happening on the ground, but also what is the solution?” she said.

The result was a restorative justice approach to understanding why schools are becoming a breeding ground for harmful language, noting that in some cases, students are completely unaware that the language they’re repeating is hurtful and discriminatory. Workshops were created to collaborate with the school and parents to discuss the impact and address the language being used, alongside determining next steps in education and intervention: engage everyone in the conversation around safe spaces in our schools and community.

“The reality is we've seen a significant increase in the use of harmful language, and specifically, slurs have become much more common. Unfortunately, we're seeing it across different age groups, even as young as grade two, where students are using it. We are trying to understand and theorize, really, where it's coming from, or how the spike happened,” Vejdani said on the importance of the Words Matter Campaign.

Harmony Movement provides resources to schools committed to the goals of building the Words Matter campaign, such as workshops, school-specific lesson plans, modules, and webinars—tools to guide students, educators, and parents through appropriate conversations and approaches to combatting harmful language. In addition, Vejdani stressed her appreciation for the amazing community partners working closely with Harmony Movement that helped create content for different identities—targeting complacency around harmful rhetoric in classrooms. 

"With a focus on the unique approach the campaign uses to combat harmful rhetoric, Vejdani said that the reason behind their approach was the simple reality that traditional punishments, suspensions, and detentions aren’t working."

​Crucial, Vejdani said, was the communication between families and educators through social media or letters, which keeps conversations about next-steps and additional concerns constantly available. 

“We've hosted check-in sessions: I would meet up with schools to help them think through what the campaign could look like for their specific schools. We have evaluation tools that they can access, too, for us to see how the campaign is going, but also for them to see where they're at and how the campaign has impacted them,” she said.

Hicks added that with the rise of social media and unrestricted access to the internet, young children are being introduced to language without knowing the history or weight behind the words they then repeat in the classroom. 

“Now we're [...] focusing on specifically addressing that. So we'll be meeting with some students—we've already had some consultations with some of our partners—and we want to make sure we're including all voices—bringing all voices to the table—to make sure that we are doing this with students in mind. For students by students,” she said.

More specifically, Hicks mentioned the importance of holding space for marginalized students who are most affected by inappropriate language in schools, noting that their experiences are often centred out in classrooms. This emphasizes additional support needs for these students and their families. 

“How can we be supportive of Black families who might be navigating these issues with their children, experiencing daily racism in school? And resources for non-Black families? What can you do when you hear your child using these slurs? How can you address your own biases? What are the conversations you might be having at home that might be influencing your child? Or what are you ignoring that your child might be saying or doing and they think it's okay?” Hicks said on the next phase of the campaign. 

'Words Matter' aims to restore the relationship between marginalized students and their educators by creating a classroom environment where educators take steps to intervene when harmful language is used, rebuilding the trust and support needed for student safety and growth.

Intervention and education are among the Words Matter campaign’s top goals. While there is no overnight solution, Vejdani has received positive feedback and seen real change implemented by schools that pledged to create these vital spaces for students and educators. From an increase in intervention when harmful language is used, to student ownership in creating different initiatives like their own Words Matter school club, to seeing students feel empowered to stand up and change the culture of normalized harmful words  not only in the classroom, but in their community as well. 

Vejdani added that the third Wednesday in May was Words Matter Day—schools hosted art contests, assemblies, dances, and more to celebrate safe language and normalize inclusivity, supportive spaces, and speaking up when you hear something concerning at school. 

With a focus on the unique approach the campaign uses to combat harmful rhetoric, Vejdani said that the reason behind their approach was the simple reality that traditional punishments, suspensions, and detentions aren’t working. 

“It doesn't change the culture; it doesn't change the individual. So when we went about creating our intervention strategies or content, we really wanted to take a restorative justice approach and think about what needs to happen for the students who are using the language and the students who are harmed by that language, both to feel prepared or safe by the end of that process. So we say the key is always to intervene,” she said.

“Say something, even if you don't have the opportunity to do that education piece right away. The first thing is that you need to interrupt what is happening.”

Our words always matter, and Harmony Movement’s campaign reminds us never to take that lightly.​

Further Reading:

More about Harmony Movement at harmony.ca

Join the 'Words Matter' Campaign at: harmony.ca/words-matter/

Join the Inclusive School Action Network at: https://harmony.ca/isan/

Free educator resources here.

Thank you to our incredible community partners who made the Words Matter campaign possible.

How to Shop Smart for Your First Place: Thrifty is the New Bougie

By Abbigale Kernya for The 44 North

Managing Editor

A woman in a shopping cart, posing in sunglasses

"At the end of the day, your financial and personal safety is worth way more than taking risks on those too good to be true listings that just smell a little fishy. Shopping smart is as much about safety as it is about affordability.” ​​​​

Moving out of your parents' house for the first time is both the most exciting step into adulthood and a scary path full of unknown and hard lessons waiting around every corner. From navigating new friendships to learning how to live independently, everything feels like a first in this new chapter of life. One of these firsts—my favourite aspect of moving out—was decorating my very own space. Whether it be a dorm room or an apartment, freedom and creative control can easily have harsh consequences on your bank account. To help ease the financial burden, I’ve compiled some life lessons, tips and tricks, and words of wisdom to help make your space uniquely yours without hurting your wallet.

Patience makes perfect: take what you can get

It doesn’t matter how many hours you’ve spent on Pinterest refining the aesthetic you’re going for, or how many times you’ve had to explain what “coastal grandma” means to your parents. It doesn’t matter how prepared you think you are: nothing happens all at once. Speaking from experience, furnishing a new place always takes 10x as long as you expect it to and always—always—costs more than you budget for. Second-hand stores and hand-me-downs are your new best friend. That desk that a friend-of-a-friend’s roommate left last semester may not be cute—it may even be kind of ugly—but it’s free and it’s more realistic than the Anthropologie desk you’ve had pinned for seven months. 

If anything, this may be the time in your life when you are about to get really good at making someone else’s trash your very own curated collection of pre-loved gold. As someone who really, really likes interior design—and spends way too much time curating perfectly balanced moody collages on Pinterest—this was hard for me to accept when I first moved into my university apartment. It felt like someone dumped a cold bucket of water on my head when I realized that rent and hydro bills take priority over wall sconces.

This seems like common sense now, but moving into your first place is a momentously exciting adventure and some of us (myself included) can’t help but get a little carried away in our daydreaming. 

Don’t sleep on the thrift stores

Speaking of wall sconces: the best apartment decor I ever scored was sitting dusty in a back aisle of Value Village on a random Wednesday. The gold bow-shaped candle sconces I had saved to my mood board were there, looking right at me. The very sconces I’d fixated on in the weeks leading up to my move and told everyone I had to have (be it overpriced on Etsy or not) were $4.

Everyone, so I’ve come to understand, has a story about crossing paths with something so sought after and seemingly impossible to find, about striking gold at a thrift store that completely transformed not only their new space, but made it feel a little more like home. When you’re far from home for the first time or feeling a bit lost in a new place, finding second-hand decor is an easy way to stay within your budget and maintain peace of mind.  

DIY (no really, you can do it yourself!)

Remember that pre-loved gold I mentioned earlier? Sometimes second-hand finds can be functional and a convenient way to stay on budget, but they’re not always… cute. To manage your finances while striving for a place that feels like home, DIY arts and crafts are a good compromise. Take picture frames for example: I thrifted quite a few (and still do!)  for my apartment and while they might not have been the perfect shade of black or the right vibe I was going for, with a quick coat of dollar store acrylic paint and a good wash later, I’d taken a pre-loved item and made it something that reflects the intention of my space. 

There are so many other hacks out there to transform something less than optimal into what brings you joy. From cute cushions to cover up a weird shade of couch fabric, throw blankets to add dimension to an awkwardly shaped room, a thrifted lamp shade to elevate your elementary childhood desk lamp, or finding thrifted fabric for flowy curtains that offset how the landlord painted over your four-bedroom apartment: the world is your imagination.

Just remember to keep all DIY fire smart, especially if you’re upcycling a lamp shade … 

This is the time to change who you are—your space included. 

Second-hand shopping is a miracle for not only your wallet, but for the space it offers to reinvent yourself again, and again, and another time, and probably once more for good measure. Finding apartment decor for a fraction of the price means you are allowing yourself the financial freedom to discover what you really like. Who are you away from your parents? What do you like? Who do you want to be? Maybe you can be someone with a cupboard solely full of mason jars or funky martini glasses or maybe even that friend who collects bird mugs, because why not? You can change yourself however many times you need because this is the time in your life when anything and everything is at your fingertips. So yeah, get that weird-looking oil painting of a pug you thrifted and hang it over the couch your brother’s friend gave you. In the realm of discovering who you are and how you fit into adulthood, discounted second-hand decor helps you along that journey. 

The downside of nifty thrifting: how to not get scammed

I’ve been here one too many times, unfortunately. Sometimes, when pursuing Facebook Marketplace or Kijiji, things are simply too good to be true. Not in the “Oh wow, I can’t believe someone is just giving this nightstand away for free” kind of way, but in the way that just screams scam. 

Recently, I moved out of my university apartment and made the move across the country with my partner. Starting with only what could fit in a Honda Civic, we were in desperate need of quick, cheap furniture on Facebook Marketplace. We found a beautiful sectional sofa couch for a fraction of the price it should have been sold for, and only a $75 delivery fee to have it brought to our apartment in another town. It felt too good to be true, and it most certainly was. The first red flag should have been that the account was made only 15 hours before and had no personal information or any indication that there was an actual person by the name of “Linda” behind the ad. The second flag we ignored—in our desperation to not sit on the floor of our apartment anymore—was that “Linda” would only take e-transfer (and would only hold the couch if we made the delivery deposit). 

Here is where I wish everyone would stop and think for a minute: listen to the alarm bells ringing in your gut and ask yourself if this is legit. Unfortunately, scams are waiting in every corner of the internet, and this one left my partner out $75 and with a very frustrating afternoon at the bank trying to unlock his debit card. 

A good rule of thumb, which I should have followed while shopping on second-hand sites, is: always use cash, always bring someone else with you for pick-ups, do a background check on whoever you’re buying from, and always listen to your gut. At the end of the day, your financial and personal safety is worth way more than taking risks on those too good to be true listings that just smell a little fishy. Shopping smart is as much about safety as it is about affordability. Keeping both in mind will allow furnishing and decorating your first place to be memorable, in the best ways!