White Educators Teaching America’s “Hard History”

As an educator, and specifically a white educator, teaching about enslavement is fraught with the potential for disaster (e.g., Will students get upset when they learn what the enslavement really was? Will the unit create tension among different racial groups in my classroom? Will their parents question me for exposing their children to difficult and uncomfortable stories?). Yet its exclusion from the curriculum would be unconscionable.

To make matters more complex, inherent in the conversation of slavery is the social construct of race. In their introduction to the March 2018 issue of National Geographic — Black and White: The Race Issue — the editors suggest: “Discussing race in our learning environments is critical. Race is one social construct that impacts the everyday lives of all students in this country. We have been warned not to discuss race, politics, or religion, but those very constructs are at the heart of human identity, human conflict, and human healing.”

As a former seventh grade social studies teacher (I just moved out of the country due to my partner’s job and am spending the year writing curriculum), my curriculum content area was American History, and I believed (and still do) there was no story more important to tell than that of how and by whom the country was built, shaped, and consequently how it is now understood. Each year, I was tasked with trying to guide my students in the story of America’s founding, and therefore the story of enslavement, to young impressionable and mostly white students.

As a white teacher working with both white students and students of color, I knew I needed to prepare my classroom for this unit. The most critical part of this preparation was building a culture of respect and empathy, one that allowed for disagreement and discomfort. When that culture was present I knew it would allow for the deepest and most transformative learning to occur. For example, after the unit, a student commented, “Not until this unit did I really understand how America was created.” Because of my own implicit blind spots, I knew I could not eliminate all stereotype threats or prevent students from wandering into often well intentioned but undoubtedly offensive race-related questions or comments. But I knew that we could hold each other accountable for our mistakes and comfort each other when needed. Before the unit began, I would also check in with my students of color to allow them the time and space to prepare for the unit. I explained to each of them individually what we would be covering and asked them what they might need to feel safe and understood. I also acknowledged that, as a white teacher, I might fall short and not be able to meet their needs personally, but that they had the right and were encouraged to seek whatever resources they needed to learn the material in a safe environment, including but not limited to seeking emotional support.[1] This part of the process proved invaluable as I often received difficult and important questions that students were uncomfortable to ask in front of their peers, such as: “Why was skin color so important to slavery?” and “Why did Africans allow this to happen to them?

As the unit began, I asked each student to lean in to the discomfort, first by expressing what made them uncomfortable about the subject. I believe this helped each of them to see, in the broader sense, that everyone struggles in some way with having to learn about this painful part of American history. It also enabled students whose ancestors may have been enslaved to speak more candidly about what they were thinking and feeling going into this unit. Lastly, I explained that my goal was to help them understand this part of our history not only as a matter of horror and shame, but also as a time of remarkable resistance and hope. As the editors at Teaching Tolerance, a project of the Southern Poverty Law Center, note in their issue on Teaching Hard History, we need to center the black experience. “Our tendency is to focus on what motivated the white actors within the system of chattel slavery,” they write “But, whether discussing the political, economic, or social implications, the experiences of enslaved people must remain at the center of the conversation to do this topic justice.”

 I encouraged my students to question the curriculum and ask why I chose each story and the perspectives from which I taught. If it wasn’t already clear, I wanted them to know that all history and all teaching is biased and they should always feel free to question the stories we tell about our nation and how we choose to teach them.

The question I struggled with, though, was: Where do I begin? I still do.

Teaching the horrors of enslavement and the systemic oppression of a people based on their race is critical to understanding the American story, but in isolation it can create a narrative for students of color, specifically African-American students, that their ancestral story begins in a place of despair. As journalist Shaun King notes: “We must never allow black history to begin in slavery. Just like no point of white history ever begins in the lowest point in white people’s history. Black history must never begin in a place of pain and oppression.” This is a perspective I had not thoughtfully considered or allowed to influence my practice in previous years. As a teacher, I must acknowledge my shortcomings and adjust my curriculum in the future.

 I know from student achievement and student feedback that after the unit’s completion my students had a strong factual and conceptual understanding of enslavement. If I am honest with myself, however, I centered the American story as one of oppressor vs. oppressed, using the excuse that I didn’t have enough time to teach it all. I was proud of teaching the many forms of resistance to the institution and practice of slavery both in micro and macro ways, as well as the exceptional stories of African Americans whose names are remembered in history. But I also must acknowledge that the story I presented to my students was incomplete. It is not enough to prime the enslavement unit with a brief conversation of Africa’s diverse, advanced, and nuanced history in a general context. If I want all students in my classroom to understand both the pain and the beauty in Black history, and therefore in American history, I must not begin at the lowest point. While this perhaps implies that the year-over-year scope and sequence of the history curriculum must be examined, which it should, it is also critical that enslavement be taught with a more nuanced picture of African-American history within the unit.

As my educational journey continues, I find that embracing both the privilege and the history of my race are necessary to becoming an effective educator for each student I encounter. While I can accept my flaws on a human level, I also know that I must continuously work to uncover my blind spots because they continue to prevent all of my students from accessing a truly anti-bias curriculum, and at worst can endanger my students perceptions and perspectives.

Moving forward, I will continue to seek feedback from peers, students, and parents about their experience with the unit. Additionally, I will continue to look holistically at my entire course to examine the amount of time I spend teaching about different racial and ethnic groups and genders — the perspectives with which I present history to my students. Most of all, I know that if I teach this unit again, I will begin with stories and experiences of Africa before colonization. Those stories are essential for students to effectively learn the deep injustices and heroic resistance that came next.

Brent Locke is currently writing early childhood curriculum on social-emotional learning and trauma in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, with an international development company. He was most recently teaching social studies, leadership, and cultural responsiveness at an independent school in McLean, Virginia, where he also served as the Dean of Students and Social Studies Department Chair. He previously taught elementary math, science, and social studies in New Orleans, Louisiana, with the Teach for America program. Brent has a Master’s in Education Administration and Leadership from George Washington University.

Resources:

Teaching Tolerance: Teaching Hard History

nprED: Why Schools Fail to Teach Slavery’s “Hard History” 

National Geographic: Black and White — Discussion Guide for Parents and Teachers

Thirteen Media with Impact: Slavery and the Making of America

Note:

[1] This came as a suggestion from Teaching Tolerance’s Issue on Teaching Hard History. See link in Resources section.

Diversity and Purpose-Driven Education

In her new book, Teaching for Purpose: Preparing Students for Lives of Meaning, Heather Malin, director of research at the Stanford University Center on Adolescence, encourages schools to help students find purpose in their lives. Her argument goes beyond mission statements and platitudes. She wants us to focus on both creating purpose-specific programs and developing ongoing classroom practices that support student engagement with the world around them.

While most educators support this general idea, we tend to have a laissez-faire attitude toward students finding purpose in their lives. We tend, in other words, to teach our subjects as well as we can and hope students find engagement, find value, find a purpose that will propel them into meaningful lives.

The central point of Teaching for Purpose is Malin’s argument that we should to be far more deliberate in our efforts. For us at Teaching While White, we certainly appreciate and support her argument. It was also heartening to discover that Malin connects purpose-driven education to racial and cultural diversity — and highlights important research that supports this work in schools.

She notes, for instance, research by Lisa Kiang and Andrew Fulgni, from Wake Forest University and the University of California, Los Angeles, respectively, on the importance of students developing a sense of “life meaning” as an essential element of well-being. Kiang and Fulgni also conducted targeted research on the difference in approaches to pro-social engagement among white, black, Asian American, and Latino students. Doing similar research, Margaret Beale Spencer and her colleagues at the University of Chicago found that “for African-American boys, but not African-American girls, religion and cultural pride are important resources for developing a healthy sense of self.”

For all educators, but especially white educators, this information is important. The findings of these and other related studies, Malin writes, “suggest that openly exploring student purpose in the classroom would offer teachers a valuable window into the lives of their students when they do not share an ethnic, cultural, community, or social class background with their students.”

By getting to know students’ values and what gives them a sense of purpose, educators can also get to know the students’ families and communities better. This sort of supportive connection between school and home, researchers tell us, are central to student engagement and success in school.

What we also like about Teaching for Purpose is the way Malin offers suggestions for engaging students in the classroom around a focus on purpose and community — the how-to part of the work.

We encourage educators to engage in conversations on purpose-driven schools. For now, we mostly want to underscore the school climate research that supports this work. Malin points out that, in schools that provide a positive, purpose-driven environment:

• People in the school feel socially, emotionally, and physically safe.

• Instruction is high quality, connected to real life, engaging, acknowledges student diversity, and is evaluated for continuous improvement.

• Relationships are positive, cooperative, and respectful of diversity.

Do you have conversations about purpose in school? Do you encourage your students to think about their personal and collective purpose? Do classroom activities invite students to contribute their own ideas? Do classroom discussions encourage students to engage with the content in ways that connect with what matters to them?

MLK, The Kerner Commission Report, and Today’s Schools

As we well know, this year marks the 50th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. There have been numerous reflections on his life and work — as well as on the continuing challenges for the causes for which he gave his life. What has gotten less attention is the fact that this year also marks the 50th anniversary of the Kerner Commission Report, which, following on the heels of the uprising that erupted after King’s death, dug deeply into the question of race in America.

The title of a recent article in Smithsonian magazine, “The 1968 Kerner Commission Got It Right, But Nobody Listened,” burrows to the core of the problem, then and now. The article notes that the unrest and uprisings in 1968 were a reaction among mostly young urban blacks to “bad policing practices, a flawed justice system, unscrupulous consumer credit practices, poor or inadequate housing, high unemployment, voter suppression, and other culturally embedded forms of racial discrimination.” Sound familiar?

The Kerner report surfaced the levels of racism and inequity in our society at the time and made it clear that the federal and state governments were unresponsive to the problem. It also made it clear that the ongoing racial tension was the result of policies established by white-dominated public and private institutions — and maintained by the collective white culture.

“What white Americans have never fully understood — but what the Negro can never forget — is that white society is deeply implicated in the ghetto,” the report notes. “White institutions created it, white institutions maintain it, white society condones it.”

The report adds, “White racism is essentially responsible for the explosive mixture which has been accumulating in our cities since the end of World War II.”

I re-read sections of this report earlier this year, just before I read Creating the Opportunity to Learn, A. Wade Boykin and Pedro Noguera’s book examining racism in the educational system and in our classrooms. If those of us who were young back in 1968 could ever have claimed a certain amount of innocence when it came to race relations, we certainly can’t today. What troubles me is how, in light of King’s death, in light of the Kerner Report, in light of all we say we believe in our founding documents and in our various church doctrine and in our basic moral beliefs, we’ve managed collectively to resist racial equity and justice in the fifty years since. For those of us who are white educators, it may not always be easy to see the ways in which we are implicated in continuing racial injustice. We get up in the morning, go to school, try our best to help the children before us. But it should be crystal clear by now that our systems are inequitable, and that our schools, because they function within these systems, are also inequitable. So it should also be crystal clear we need to improve our efforts. To not do so amounts to a conscious act to support the status quo — which, of course, is racist by design and intent.

Boykin and Noguera write, “Approximately 75 percent of Black students [today] disagreed with the statement ‘My teachers support me and care about my success in their class.’ By contrast, this was the case for only 37 percent of White students and 32 percent of Asian students.”

The authors also note that “meta-analysis of research between 1968 and 2003 indicate that teachers have more positive expectations for White students than for Black and Latino students.”

During the school year, teachers are busy from the moment they wake to the moment they fall asleep. It may be tough to find the time to step back and reflect. Some teachers are also busy in summer — working a second job or teaching in a summer program. But there are often better margins to the day in summer, so I encourage educators who care about social justice (which I hope is all of us) to spend time reflecting on race in America and how it plays out in the classroom — so that we can all be part of the solution. If not this summer, then next.

In addition to fulfilling our civic duties to help our communities, state, and nation be more equitable, here are some summertime suggestions related to education:

• Read a well-researched book on race in America and reflect on what it means for your classroom. How does this information impact your teaching and your perspectives on the students? How does it impact the lives of your students? How does it shape the culture of your school? Talk about it with other adults in your life.

• Read a book on multicultural education and reflect on how you might change your practices to support students well across difference, especially race. Is there bias in your curriculum? Should your department or division have a conversation on its commitment to a multicultural education?

• Take part in a summer workshop that focuses on inclusive education. There are many options out there. The goal is to learn from experienced educators how to create an inclusive classroom and curriculum. If you attend a workshop or conference that is focused on your area of expertise, ask questions and start conversations on the topic of race and learning. Help each other develop skills to teach all students well across race.

• Reflect on the experiences of your students of color. Would any of them be among the 75 percent of Black and Latino students who say their teachers don’t support them? If you’re uncertain, consider ways you might be able to answer this question more clearly in the future. Along with strengthening your relationship with students of color and their families, consider surveying them occasionally to see how you might serve them better.

• Develop the practice of teaching all students the skill of self-advocacy. The more that students can ask for help, or ask for clarification about some aspect of a subject, or reach out to adults for advice and support, the better they will do in school and life. Some students do this more naturally than others. But we should aim to teach all students the skill of self-advocacy and make it clear that we are available to them when they need help or have questions or simply want an adult to talk to.

In addition to reflecting on your own teaching and classroom, you might also consider ways you can help your school become more inclusive. The work will vary from school to school, of course. The goal is to consider systemic changes that will improve the culture and climate of the school — and serve all students well.

In some schools, this may involve setting up affinity groups and training teacher-facilitators. In others, it may involve digging into the data about the degree to which students are tracked differently by race. Are you setting up Latino and black students for a lower track than white and Asian-American students? In others, it maybe a matter of developing strong relations with parents of color.

Some years ago, I edited an article about race and education in which the author, an African-American head of school, wrote about the importance of all of us using our “thimbleful of power” to address racial inequities. Now, I find myself using this metaphor often. Like others, I’m sure, I can feel overwhelmed and beaten up by the various cultural forces that support a racist status quo. I used to think I could simply present the facts, highlight workable solutions, appeal to our collectiveconscience, and our culture would shift quickly. But fifty years after the assassination of MLK and Robert Kennedy, the release of the Kerner Commission Report, and the passing of the 1968 Civil Rights bill, we still struggle to do what is — or should be — obviously right.

I take solace and find hope in all those who are making a difference — who are using their thimbleful of power well. The process may be uncomfortably slow, but I’m sure that, if all of us engage now, we will be in a much better place fifty years hence.

Michael Brosnan is the senior editor for Teaching While White and author of The Sovereignty of the Accidental, a collection of poetry. More information at www.michaelabrosnan.com.

Responding to Racism — Learning to Be an Ally to Students of Color

At 7 am on a freezing March morning, and a Saturday no less, fourteen undergraduates and I, as the staff adviser, began the long drive from Maryland to Tennessee for an alternative school break focused on relationship violence. Our drive was relatively quiet since most students did not know each other previously. However, our first full day together broke the silence through a series of games, icebreakers, and learning. Before diving into topics such as sexual assault and domestic abuse, we learned about power and privilege, intersectionality, structures of oppression, and responsibilities of civic engagement. Students reflected on their own identity and how it relates to privilege and oppression. This built the foundational knowledge and framework to interpret the service-learning experience as we volunteered at the YWCA, visited a domestic abuse shelter, met with a counselor at a batterer’s intervention program, learned about sexual assault and Title IX policy at the University of Tennessee, and observed a domestic docket at the local courthouse. While these experiences opened our eyes to the many challenges that survivors of abuse experience, the real learning occurred in our everyday interactions and reflections.

Reflections and learning activities brought to the surface students personal experiences with racism, socioeconomic inequality, and sexism. These feelings were raw and always present in our service. Twelve out of fourteen students were people of color and represented diverse income levels. Students were candid with their personal stories of oppression, and their resiliency showed in the way they navigated the longstanding history of racism in the South. We were often in spaces where there were no people of color except for those in our group. To say we stuck out is an understatement. Overall, we were welcomed in the community with Southern charm and hospitality. People on the street approached us to ask where we were from and gave us tips on places to visit. One person even stopped his car to chat with us while we were volunteering outdoors. We had to adjust our norms and push ourselves to be open to strangers, which is an uncomfortable experience for “Yankees,” as we were called by locals.

But then it came: That moment when Southern charm vanished and the legacy of racism reared its ugly head. On our last day, we drove about an hour outside of Knoxville to the Smokey Mountains. One group of students went hiking and a group of four African-American students and myself checked out flea markets along the country roads in the mountains. As we pulled into the parking lot of the first store, the vibe changed as students discussed how to handle a racist situation if it arose and, most importantly, discussed if they were even safe to enter a space that was visibly fueled by white culture. Students decided that they would likely get some stares, but that they would stare right back to show that they were not intimidated. Inside, we found confederate flag memorabilia — from shot glasses, to clothing, to bumper stickers — and there were a series of items with derogatory messages about “welfare queens,” immigrants, and other marginalized groups. Students laughed off these items and were relieved that racism seemed to be limited to inanimate objects.

As we were wrapping up, a friendly sales clerk encouraged each of us to check out the back room of the store before leaving. Entering the room, we found that it was full of what is known as “black memorabilia” — highly offensive caricatures of African Americans that were produced during the Jim Crow era to maintain the racially inferior status of black people. In terms of offensiveness, think Aunt Jemima and then multiple it by a hundred. Jaws dropped as students saw these figures. One student described it as entering “a museum for racist propaganda.” Students felt as if they had walked back in time but were soon reminded that these images are still considered acceptable to a salesclerk who encouraged a group of young, black students to shop through merchandise created specifically to reinforce their inferior place in society and to showcase their history of oppression. Students wondered, “Is this salesclerk completely clueless or is she intentionally trying to tell us that we do not belong?”

To answer that question, as we were walking out of the store, the salesclerk said, “Now y’all behave, ya hear?” To which a student responded with, “We always do!” While this statement might seem innocent, it has a history in the South of being used by whites toward African Americans to remind them of their lower social status. The expression is used to patronize black people as if they are children, to condemn their behavior as inherently bad, and to reinforce domination by whites through constant policing. It is part of the mental colonization process of maintaining a system of oppression. By saying “We always do,” the student was not allowing racism to go unchecked. She countered with positivity, both in her delivery of the response and in a message that reaffirmed the worth of the group. As Michelle Obama would say, she went high when they went low.

I was not as quick to process and respond to the incident as the students. I had to reflect on the intersections of my own identity to appropriately respond. I grew up in the South and being a Southerner is a strong part of my personal identity. My initial thought was to explain to students that the salesclerk was merely saying a common phrase throughout the South and one that had been said to me hundreds of times in the past. However, I am white and that phrase does not have the same meaning or history in its use toward people who look like me. If I had not stepped back to recognize the difference in meanings and interpretations that come from personal identity, I could have potentially responded dismissively and not recognized the prejudice inflicted on students. Additionally, my identity as the older person in the group made me feel like I had to respond with words to demonstrate my leadership as the adviser. But had I said what I was thinking, I could have shut down the conversation and unintentionally been part of the systems and culture that marginalize students of color. With these conflicting identities, I had to navigate how to respond in a way that recognized my personal identity and the privilege that comes with it, while also respecting the different identities of students and their interpretations.

Once I processed everything, I felt it was critical to affirm the student’s bravery in facing down racism and to give students space to dissect the experience through their own lens. With my adviser hat, I let students know that I supported them. At the same time, as a white person in a position of authority, I recognized that my voice could easily dominate the discussion of this experience and that my feelings and interpretations of it were that of an outsider. I can never truly know what it feels like to have to worry if I am safe walking into a store because of the color of my skin or the feeling of being humiliated by a store’s merchandise. Ultimately, I decided it was more powerful to respond by listening than trying to think of the appropriate words. I listened to students dissect the experience and they did so by breaking down the ridiculousness of the items in the store and celebrating the student who responded directly to racism. I let them know that I agreed with them and supported them with a nod or an affirmation. It was challenging to express support for students and outrage at what happened, while limiting my own words. But I found that I did not need to offer any grand words of wisdom or consoling comments to show that I was there for them.

I later asked the student who responded to the racist comment if I could have done something differently to make her or the other students feel better supported or to help them process the incident. She responded that just physically being therewas enough for her — that if I had not been there, she would have never entered the store because she knew what she was potentially walking in to. It made me deeply sad to understand how normalized racism is for my students and that they make decisions on what spaces they are comfortable entering based on how they will be perceived, which is something I regularly take for granted. However, the idealist in me is hopeful that as educators we can open doors for students that literally cross racial lines and that by doing this, we can eventually chip away racism so that students do not have to be fearful.

This experience taught me that sometimes you do not have to say anything insightful or do anything special to show students you support them. You just have to be there as an educator, as an adviser, and as an ally.

Beth Davis worked in Prince George's County Public Schools in Maryland, where she increased wraparound services and community partnerships, developed after-school programming focused on social-emotional development and college and career readiness, and strengthened family-friendly school practices. Most recently, Davis completed a Education Policy & Strategy Fellowship at City Year. She has spent the past year working on diversity issues at the University of Maryland, where she is completing a M.Ed. in Minority & Urban Education this summer. In the fall, she will be a Ph.D. in Education Policy candidate at George Mason University. 

So, What Do White 4th Graders Have to Say About Race?

As it turns out, a lot.

Twice a month I get to work with fourth graders at a local school. The district has a stated commitment to racial equity and has been considering culturally responsive strategies with faculty and staff. When some middle school students of color reported a series of racial microaggressions, the administration instituted racial affinity groups in 4th grade as one way of addressing issues of bias and stereotypes at a younger age. I partner with an educator of color who meets with the students of color at the same time as I meet with the white students. We also have several multiracial students who move between our two groups depending on their needs and identity.

During our first meeting, I asked the white kids three questions. I put them up on big pieces of poster paper, and they wrote their answers on Post-its. Here were the questions:

1. Where did the term “white” come from?
2. What does it mean to be “white” to you?
3. Have you ever heard any stereotypes about white people?

I have about 30 kids in the group. Three of them had an answer for the first question, something like “our skin is lightly colored.” Most said, “I never thought about it” or “I don’t know.” For the second question, the majority said they had no idea because they had never thought about it before. One said, “I have a specific race.” Here was another response: “Lots of people say that black people were treated worse than white people. So, on the outside, I feel a little glad that I am white, but I feel bad for black people and how they were treated back then.”

The stereotype question elicited a wide range of responses (asterisk indicates a response was given by more than one child):

** I haven’t really heard a stereotype.
** White people are smarter than black people.
** White people can’t dance.
White people are more mean.
All white people are smart.
You can’t be racist against whites really.
White people are better than black people.
White people are bad drivers.
White women: yellow hair, red lips, perfect skin.
All white people have privileges that blacks don’t.
White people are good in essay writing.

I was struck by the fact that these white children, who had a really hard time identifying as white, were aware of many stereotypes associated with whiteness. And as a point of intersectionality, they tend to make many comments related to gender identity and expression along with race and ethnicity. I have also noticed that when I arrive at school, the students are excited for our group. So, here are children who are eager for these discussions, but who tell me they don’t have these kinds of conversations on a regular basis.

Each time we meet, I inquire: Are we getting a better at understanding of what it means to be white? Many of my white students say they are still not sure, but they are seeing things they never saw before. Recently, one white girl ran into our meeting space, anxious to share with me that she had just seen the movie Black Panther: “And, Elizabeth, did you know that almost every person in the movie had brown skin? I’ve never seen a movie with so many brown people. It was awesome!” I consider it a privilege to be on this racial identity journey with these kids. I often think about what it might have meant for me if I could have had these conversations at their age. And I know that if we can get these kids to understand that racial differences are simply that — just differences — they will not attach notions of deficit to those differences. 

Just last week, with all the students in the affinity-group program, we watched a scene from The Eye of the Storm, a documentary about Jane Elliott's Brown Eyes–Blue Eyes experiment with her class of 3rd graders back in 1968. After Dr. King was assassinated, she wanted a way for all her white children in Iowa to understand the significance of racial prejudice. Our affinity groups kids sat riveted to their seats as they watched what happened to the children as Elliot first favored one eye color and then the other. The students exclaimed, “That’s not fair!” and “I don’t like this experiment at all!” We then talked about the power of stereotypes and what they want to do to heed Elliot’s call, “It’s time to kill the stereotypes.” They had great ideas of ways to challenge their own thinking and what to do when a stereotype “pops into their heads.”

As I reflect on all we are trying to do in schools, it amazes me that this program takes only one hour per month. 60 minutes to give these children an opportunity to think deeply about who they are and what that means. I’m lucky to partner with an amazing co-facilitator and two willing school counselors, but when all is said and done, it has been relatively easy to set up this program because there was a will to do it — a clear mandate from school leadership that these conversations matter. Children who participate in racial affinity groups demonstrate higher levels of school connectedness, which means higher achievement. So, it’s a win-win. And I can’t wait to hear what they will say next time.

Elizabeth Denevi is the cofounder and codirector of Teaching While White. She also serves as the associate director for Mid West Educational Collaborative, a nonprofit agency that works with schools nationally to increase equity, promote diversity pedagogy, and implement strategic processes for growth and development. She is also the program director for the California Teacher Development Collaborative (CATDC) summer institute, Equity as Excellence, a unique three-day program for California educators to receive concrete tools, research-based strategies, and guided practice to support equity and inclusion work in their schools. This article first appeared on the CATDC blog.

Teaching English While White

Canon

Our stars weren't meant for
Their sky. We have never known
The same horizon.

         — Clint Smith

I recently went to a reading by Angie Thomas, author of the New York Times best-seller The Hate U Give. If you don’t know this young adult novel, it is about a black teenage girl, Starr Carter, who is caught between the poor neighborhood she lives in and the fancy suburban prep school she attends. Starr also finds herself in the middle of white police violence and witnesses the murder of a childhood friend. This breathtaking novel explores many aspects and complexities of American identity today. Thomas is also a brilliant speaker with tremendous, humor, humility, and grace.

When Thomas finished speaking about how and why she had written this novel, young people, mostly black and brown students, lined up to ask questions. One by one, they stepped up to the mic, thanked Thomas for her book, and said how much the novel had meant to them. I listened to some of the students say that they had never liked to read, or that they had never seen themselves on a page before, and that the experience of reading this novel had changed them. One student said, through tears, that she had never thought reading was for (black) girls like her, until she had read this book.

This kind of deeply felt response to literature should not be a surprise — especially to those of us who teach English. Many of us chose this profession because, somewhere along the line, we recognized the power of good writing to make us feel seen, understood, and human. The written word holds power, and we know this. Yet we also know that not all of our students can find themselves in our curriculum.

Watching student after student of color stand to speak about the effect Thomas’s novel had on them, it highlighted for me the reality that in too many schools — indeed, in most schools — we still haven’t developed any sense of clarity about what we mean by “diversifying the curriculum.” Often, when white teachers talk about varying the curriculum, we do it with a vague sense of helping “other” children to connect with reading, because we know that we should. Most of us stick close to the traditional, and very white, literary canon. When we add a book or a short story by an author of color to the curriculum, it is performative inclusion without a clear understanding of the literary value of these “extra” texts. In fact, we seem to believe that teaching outside of what we personally know comes at the expense of academic rigor — as if there is an objective standard of what is significant.

This is a problem not just because students of color are not seeing themselves reflected in the majority of books we teach in schools. It is also a problem because white students predominantly see their race and culture reflected in the majority of books we teach. What happens when you see yourself reflected at the center of every curriculum over the course of your precollegiate education? What is the effect of continuing to teach the canon to our white students? When we continue to center the white voice in the narratives we read, we don’t just signal to students of color that their personal and cultural experiences are less valuable than that of white students, we also reinforce a mentality of cultural superiority by letting our white students believe that white culture is what is worth knowing.

Teachers are more likely to teach the way and the books that they have been taught themselves. But by teaching books primarily by white authors about white experiences, we put whiteness at the center of our curriculum. By making writers of color adjunct, by ignoring their many and vast contributions, we also let students know that they are not missing anything by not reading these writers. There is no loss in remaining racially isolated and racially ignorant. We lose nothing by being versed in only one literary tradition that continues to be self-referential and builds on the previous “great novels” before its time.

Aside from being totally wrong, we are setting up our white students to continue to be self-referential and unable to look at literature with a truly critical eye. We are reinforcing and perpetuating white supremacy for the next generation of future white teachers and parents.

As  R.O. Kwon points out in her article, 34 Books by Women of Color to Read This Year, “It is easiest to forget the shared humanity of people whose lives we haven’t tried imagining.” When we continue to ignore much of the population by not bothering to imagine our shared humanity, we are growing the next generation of white supremacists. Not just white people perpetuating a white supremacist system, but also actual individual white supremacists who believe they are being discriminated against the moment they are asked to live in a just and fair society. The kind of white adults who are angry when they feel that someone else may get a small slice of what they enjoy. We need to support learning that promotes empathy, and neither deflates or inflates any students sense of belonging in the world. We need all students to enter adulthood with their full humanity and dignity in tact.

What should a teacher look for when picking a book? Here are some suggestions. It is certainly not a comprehensive list, but it’s a place to start. These apply to any grade level and can be applied to race, sexual orientation, ethnicity, ability, gender, class, or any other aspect of identity.

1. Most important, the book should exemplify good storytelling. Aside from an interesting plot, the writing is accessible and addresses engaging and important cultural themes and ideas. If it directly deals with a social justice issue, it is not done in a condescending, “poor them” tone.

2. The book should avoid offensive cultural expressions, negative attitudes, or stereotypical representations. Yes, I am talking about To Kill a Mockingbird and Huck Finn, among other popular English class texts. Unless you are prepared to teach, with Herculean effort, all of the context and history and impact of the N word and demeaning racial stereotypes, you can find other engaging stories and novels that are not written by white authors and that will not racially spotlight or re-injure any students.

3. Speaking of non-white authors — the author of the book should be from the depicted social group. This can be tricky at times, but in my opinion it is always better to find stories that have a leading character from the same social group as the author. Check the author’s bio for a description of the author’s connection to the group being represented.

4. The story acknowledges the diversity of experiences within a particular cultural group. As novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie reminds us in her Ted Talk, The Danger of a Single Story, it is important to read stories and novels to reach beyond cultural stereotypes to deeply felt lives. Books should avoid the idea that all people of any social group share a singular experience. This is also important to consider across the scope of a curriculum. Do we only see Asian characters in wartime? Are black characters only ever dealing with oppression and adversity?

5. There are no shortages of suggested multicultural reading lists, too, available through organizations like Common Sense Media and We Need Diverse Books,and through publications like the School Library Journal. The Inclusive Schools Network also offers resources on culturally diverse books worth teaching.

Yes, it takes time and effort to find appropriate texts by grade level that are written by historically underrepresented groups. But not taking the time boils down to irresponsible teaching today. Sticking with the literary canon means we not only have a one dimensional idea of literary merit, it also means we are dividing our students between those who feel unseen, disengaged, and frustrated and those who feel they are at the center of the literary universe. We can do better.

Jenna Chandler-Ward is the co-founder of Teaching While White and teaches English and drama at the Meadowbrook School of Weston (Massachusetts). She is also the co-director the Multicultural Teaching Institute.

The Narrative Battle

 Editor’s Note: The following is an excerpt of comments from writer and social-justice advocate Bryan Stevenson in A Perilous Path: Talking Race, Inequality, and the Law (New Press, 2018) — a "no-holds-barred, red-hot discussion of race in America today" among Stevenson; Sherrilyn Ifill, president of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund; Loretta Lynch, a former attorney general of the United States; and Anthony C. Thompson, a professor of clinical law and the faculty director of the Center on Race, Inequality, and the Law at New York University School of Law. It's reprinted here with permission.

For me, the challenge that we face is a narrative battle. I don’t think we’ve actually done very effective narrative work in this country. We had a genocide in America. And when white settlers came to this continent, they killed millions of native people, through famine and war and disease. And we forced those people from their lands. We kept their names. We named streets and buildings and counties and things after them, but we forced them off. And because of a narrative shift, we didn’t say, “That’s genocide.” We said. “Those people are savages.” And that narrative failure to own up and acknowledge their humanity allowed us to think that we hadn’t done anything immoral. But we did.

And then we had slavery and the Civil War. The North won the Civil War, but the South won the narrative war. The South was able to persuade the United States Supreme Court that racial equality wasn’t necessary. And they actually reclaimed a racial hierarchy; that ideology of white supremacy. And we allowed that to happen for a hundred years. Then we had horrific terrorism and violence, and we ended the mass lynchings with impunity. But those who perpetrated that terrorism and violence won the narrative war. They were never held accountable. And then we got into the Civil Rights Era, where there was this massive, incredible movement led by extraordinary people, like Dr. King and Rosa Parks. We won passage of the Voting Rights Act; we won passage of the Civil Rights Act. But we lost the narrative war.

The people who were holding the signs that said, “Segregation Forever,” and “Segregation or War,” they were never forced to put down those signs. They didn’t wave them around anymore, but they kept adhering to that value. And now we’re living at a time where that thriving narrative of racial difference, that ideology of white preference, has exhibited itself, and now we’re dealing with the consequences of that. We won an election in 2008, but we lost the narrative battle. We actually allowed that president to be demonized and victimized and marginalized because he’s black — not because of anything he said or did. And our comfort with that kind of demonization is, I think, at the heart of the challenge that we face.

So, I want us to be involved in legal battles in court. I want us to be thinking strategically, politically, about how we claim federal government and make local government work for us. But we’ve got to start fighting a narrative battle. We’ve got to create a country and a culture where you are not allowed to say, “I’m going to ban people because they’re Muslims,” and win with that. You’re not allowed to ban people. There will always be people who try to exploit the fear and anger that give rise to these kinds of narratives of racial difference. And I think we haven’t done a very good job. Too many of us have take advantage of the legal battles while leaving behind the narrative battle. And that, for me, is the great challenge that we face.

It’s Not About Being Liked

“What can I contribute to conversations about equity, diversity, and inclusion?” I asked my colleagues.

At the time, I was considering leaving my work as a school administrator and going into school and organizational consulting. When I asked the question, I thought I was only looking for affirmation about my credentials and credibility with audiences. But looking back, I now realize on a subconscious level I was looking for affirmation that I am, first and foremost, a good person. I wanted to hear that I am a good white person because I engaged in social justice work my entire life; I am a good cisgender woman because I supported my transgender loved one as he transitioned; I am a good heterosexual woman because I have always been an advocate for LGBTQ communities; I’m a good Christian because I am Quaker and our faith is based on equity and social justice. I quietly celebrated the number of times members of marginalized groups told me I “got it,” I am “legit,” I have a “honorary membership card” in the justice club.

So I was completely thrown when a colleague responded, “You can’t contribute because you don’t get it. More than speaking with us, we need you to listen. I am tired of being the one person in the room asked directly or indirectly to speak for and answer for everyone of my race. I’m tired of having to ask myself, if I should address a microaggression or let it go. I’m tired of hearing white people say that, because they are good — or think they are good — they are not biased. I’m tired of seeing the majority of those in the room only engage in these conversations when they are in a ‘diversity workshop.’ I am tired… just tired.”

I was taken aback. But when I let down my defenses, I could immediately recall times when I showed my lack of understanding. As a young school counselor, for instance, I once had a black colleague who called me out on my implicit bias. Instead of listening, I challenged his statement, cut him off with a litany of comments that are best summarized as my attempt to definitively demonstrate that I am a good person. I pointed out that, as a kid, I grew up on a commune where we focused on social justice all of the time — therefore, I could not be biased. I retold other stories of moments that proved my racial awareness. Looking back, of course, it was clear that I was only trying to make myself feel good. I couldn’t own up to my own implicit bias, even though I know we all have our biases. Even worse, I now realize many of the stories that made me proud were classic examples of white savior moments in which I felt I was being a good white person by “fixing” a situation.

My colleague’s comments made me realize that, if I wanted to do this work effectively, I’d have to let my audiences know that, while I am committed to social justice, while I have certain knowledge and skills at moderating conversations and identifying institutional challenges, I can never fully understand what it’s like to be a person of color. What I can make clear to myself and to others is that I will listen and learn.

Listening and learning does not come easy to those in the dominant culture. Even though I practiced diligently, it still felt like marbles in my mouth the first few times I honestly and openly introduced myself in public: “I am a cisgender, Christian, middle class, heterosexual, married, white woman. Except for being a woman and from the South, I am in majority group in all other areas and afforded innumerable privileges, including that I won’t see my blind spots and won’t learn to see them if they are not pointed out. Please tell me when I bump up against one of your social identifiers and/or convey a microaggression. Please do not feel you have to educate me, because so often you are in the position of educating others, but please tell me if I’ve conveyed a microaggression so I can deepen my own understanding.”

Introducing myself in this manner makes me vulnerable. I used to hope that no one would correct me when I revealed any hint of bias or lack of knowledge or committed a microaggression. If not called out, my “goodness” would remain intact. But I remind myself that if I’m not called out on occasion, I won’t learn — and if I don’t learn, I can’t help change our longstanding system of discrimination on numerous fronts.

The first time I was corrected for a biased comment, I had said to a group of students, “Tonight, we are going to have a forum with all of your parents. What do you think we should talk about?” (I always ask students what we should tell adults). Afterward, a student came up and said, “You should not assume we all have parents.” He was right, and it stung. I could have said that, of course, I didn’t think all students lived with their parents. I could have said that, given the scenario, I was nervous and simply misspoke. Either of those responses would have made me feel better in the moment, but they also would have made the interchange all about me and my feelings, not about the student and his feelings. So I thanked him for pointing out my bias and said I would do better next time.

To best support students, teachers have to examine the impact of their every comment, particularly when their intent and their impact contradict each other. Teachers also need to let students know it’s OK to point out these contradictions.

Workshop participants informing me of my blind spots remains challenging for me. It’s always difficult to be corrected — to have one’s biases revealed. But I practice responding in a manner that makes it clear I’m thinking about the speaker, not about me. To the degree it is about me, I’m focused on my openness to listen and learn. I also accept that this process should be challenging. If someone has the courage to tell me that I conveyed something hurtful, I need to have the courage to listen and to change. This is what we mean by honest dialogue. This is the point.

In leading diversity workshops, one strategy I like to use for listening — and resisting kneejerk, defensive responses — is what I call “one sentence/question, one sentence.” When we are anxious, we tend to fill space with words — prattle on in only a semi-coherent fashion. This practice most often is designed to lead us away from the essence of the moment. Answering each sentence or question with a one-sentence response forces us to stop and listen with greater focus — to listen more than talk. Each response invites more sentences or questions. In the workshop, I ask participants to continuing this dialogue process until the topic at hand is addressed. At the end, however, I also remind participants to finish the discussion with an open invitation to continuing the conservation in the future: “If you want to follow-up on this, we can do so… and if I want to follow-up, how should I do so?” These questions acknowledge that our thought-processes can take time, that many of us will continue to wrestle with the topic in our minds — especially when it comes to the complex, emotionally charged social issues that touch on all our lives — so the respectful thing to do is invite each other to meet again as needed. This is how we learn, how we grow.

I often recall the tone of voice and expression on the face of my colleague when he said, “I am tired… just tired.” He got me thinking. In schools, are we contributing to systemic discrimination by putting the burden of equity, inclusion, and diversity conversations on our few faculty/staff of color?

I strive to bear in mind that we white educators are called to remember the voices of colleagues and students who feel under great pressure because of there essential cultural identifiers — and in response we need to act. We need to sit down (or kneel) in protest, stand up for justice, demand equity and speak truth to power as directly and respectfully as we can. We need to act, unify, challenge,remain restless and alert, demand change. We need to create opportunities for all children, but especially the marginalized, to be visible and use their voices in ways that work for them. We need to do as much of the work as we can and let those in marginalized groups heal and focus on thriving. We must do this without expectations, without wanting others to comfort us, educate us, or pat us on the back. 

When it comes to social justice work in schools, all educators need to act in partnership. As adults, we are collectively responsible for all students. But for those of us who are white educators, a key element is both to learn as much as we can about being inclusive teachers and learn to listen to our students and colleagues. We need to invite students to tell us when we convey a lack of cultural understanding. When we listen, we grow, and when our students talk, they grow. We also need to invite our colleagues of color to tell us when we convey a lack of understanding. When we do, we become true colleagues. We also need to hold each other accountable.

Our goal should not be to prove to others how good we are. Our goal is deeper understanding and greater support for our colleagues of color in helping our institutions become truly inclusive places where both a diverse group of students and educators thrive.

No one benefits until we all benefit together, and that starts with all of us in those privileged areas understanding that by the very nature of our privilege we cast shadows on our beloved brothers and sisters. Changes will not happen until we remove those shadows and bring everyone into the light.

All of us want to know we do our jobs well. All of us want some kind of confirmation. But when it comes to social justice work, those of us who are white need to open ourselves up as much as possible to learning. Open up and listen.

Jen Cort is a clinical social worker and educator. Her educational administrative experiences are as an assistant head of lower school, head of a middle school, and senior administrator. Cort’s therapy background includes serving as a counselor in lower, middle, and upper schools as well as private practice. Her goal is to build capacity such that they have sustainable and systemic programming. Cort consults with schools on revising/enhancing advisory programs and equity, inclusion, diversity, and justice programming.

Three Practices for White Educators

1: Ask in every hiring season:

• How are we addressing implicit bias in our hiring processes?

• Where are we advertising for positions? Are we attending diversity hiring fairs? Are we working with placement firms that support the school’s diversity goals?

2: Find a partner in your school who can observe your classes. Ask him or her to look for:

• How often you call upon students by race.

• Whether you interact differently with students based on race.

• The messages you provide that support addressing microaggressions by students and teachers.

• Signs of racial bias in your curriculum.

3: Think about the students, faculty, and parents throughout your career who have presented the most challenges for you. Asking yourself which social identifiers do they have in common? Find resources for deepening your understanding of those social identifiers and put on your calendar a timeline for exploring these topics further through readings, conferences, webinars, professional networking, etc.

Remember when your bias is identified you several possible options listen, think, own, learn none of which include justification, negating the experience of others, or making light.

The Things They Made Me Carry: Inheriting a White Curriculum

It was a dream job: teaching ninth and twelfth graders English Literature at the first racially inclusive school in the nation’s capital. I was told that 70 percent of my curriculum was predetermined by the department, but that I’d have control over 30 percent of the curriculum. I was excited to choose my texts, and to make really brave choices. Surely the school knew who they were hiring: an Asian female who went to an all-women’s college, who wrote her Masters thesis in poetry as a study of Asian-American and immigrant identities. I imagined I was hired because I was bringing my unique self to the English department, a self that was in stark contrast to the almost all-white faculty.

Before I could be my brave self, I had to settle in. The first year teaching at any school is challenging. You are trying to master the curriculum, and also understand the students and faculty. You are trying to understand where you fit into all of it.  I was already nervous about the fact that I was not only the only Asian person in my department but also the youngest person. Too many parents tried to slyly slip questions about my college and graduate work into conversations. I felt like I needed to prove myself, so I tried to lay low. I accepted the 70 percent of the curriculum I was given, and even let others dictate the 30 percent that was supposed to be my choice.

In English 12, which was a coveted class that typically only senior members of the department got to teach, I accepted teaching texts such as Beloved, Paradise Lost, The Sound and The Fury, and The Things They Carried. I have loved William Faulkner since reading him in high school, and I learned to love teaching Milton because I like rising to the challenge of teaching difficult texts. But then there was Tim O’Brien’s novel about the Vietnam War. I tried to tell myself that The Things They Carried was hard too, and that therefore I should also love it — all of my colleagues who taught it chose it because of the figurative language, the book’s Bible references. The book allowed them to impress students with words like “chiasmus.” With so many reasons that the book should be taught, whenever I fumbled at teaching The Things They Carried, I thought it was my fault.

My sense of not being good enough to teach that text propelled me to learn more. I spent most of that first year diligently auditing my department head’s classes even with a full schedule of my own, hoping that her love of the novel was going to magically infect me. I took copious notes, and then I tried to teach my classes exactly as she had taught hers. My students were generous and thoughtful, and I honestly don’t think that they heard the false notes that I was increasingly attune to in my teaching. No matter how hard I worked, how many notes I took, and how well I mimicked my colleagues, I never learned to love that book.

I never loved it because I never was able to be myself while teaching it. How could I teach The Things They Carried, which is about what white men carried, and also be a Vietnamese immigrant, the daughter of a man who fought alongside Americans in the Vietnam War, and then was imprisoned for it? How could I teach Tim O’Brien’s version of the Vietnam War that actually has no Vietnamese people in it? When I’ve said this to people in the past, they were always shocked: How can a book about the Vietnam War have no Vietnamese people in it? The main scene that describes Vietnamese people has them symbolized as water buffalo (my white colleagues had a whole lesson built around this water buffalo metaphor as if it was the most exciting thing in the world to discover that the animal represented my people).

Like the water buffalo, Vietnamese people are shot and killed. They have no personalities. No families. They are just the backdrop for American bravery and grief.

One of the main metaphors in The Things They Carried is that American soldiers were not just carrying backpacks full of rations, ammunition, photos from home, and other items necessary to make it through the war, but they were carrying the toll that the Vietnam War took on them. Teaching that text for a year took a huge toll on me. I have never before or since then taught with so little of my heart.

I could not face another year of teaching something that was so against what I knew to be true, so I needed to come up with the solution. That was when I decided to wield the 30 percent teacher’s choice in the curriculum that I was promised. I chose to teach The Gangster We Are All Looking For by Le Thi Diem Thuy. It is a novel written by a Vietnamese refugee about the harrowing journey and resettlement of six Vietnamese refugees in late 1970s’ San Diego. This wasn’t just about using a Vietnamese perspective though. Gangster is beautifully written. In many ways, its broken narrative is a much more realistic reflection of post-traumatic stress disorder than O’Brien’s perfectly crafted allegories. It has a compelling female protagonist who clearly had thematic ties to other characters we read that year, such as Caddy from The Sound and the Fury and Sethe from Morrison’s Beloved. If I sound like I am trying to defend my choice, it’s because I felt like I had to defend my choice. The other three teachers of English 12 that year were all veteran teachers, one was my department chair, and they all had chosen the 70 percent of the curriculum that I had inherited. They had been nicknamed the Holy Trinity, and to me they felt untouchable. Of course, students revered them. They had been at the school for decades, had made the English department what it was. It’s only with many more years of teaching under my belt now that I realize how unhealthy that situation was. Schools need to be wary of setting up new teachers — especially new teachers of color — in impossible situations in which they are alone in a group of long-standing white faculty. I was never going to feel powerful in that situation.

So at first, I wasn’t brave enough to completely jettison O’Brien; I taught some chapters of The Things They Carried alongside Gangster. As I was finally able to teach about the Vietnam War through a Vietnamese family’s eyes, I found my true voice again.  And once I found my voice, my students found me. I still have my student evaluations of me from that year, the ones that said that Gangster was their favorite book we read because it wasn’t like anything they had read before, and it felt real. It felt real because it was real — because it is real to tell the story of the Vietnam War through a Vietnamese perspective. Why hadn’t anyone else before me thought of that? Why would they have?

I honestly believe that no one else had questioned teaching The Things They Carried because no one else was a faculty member who was actually a Vietnamese immigrant. No one else reacted as viscerally as I did to that text. There are so many clear and good arguments for diversifying the faculty of our schools, as there are measurable benefits to having faculty of color.  I also think that schools need faculty of color because that is the only way they are going to find out what they are missing. Hiring faculty of color means that a schools doesn’t just gain new perspectives, but they will have to re-examine long-held ones. Hiring me meant that after my first year teaching The Gangster We Are All Looking For, given the enthusiastic response from students, I was asked to share my lesson plans with my other colleagues so that they too could teach it alongside The Things They Carried. No matter where I teach, hiring me means that an Asian, female, immigrant experience will allow me to look at the curriculum through those lenses. 

When asked about how The Gangster We Are All Looking For reflects the experience of VietnameseAmericans, Le Thi Diem Thuy said:

I will allow that every element in this book came from a personal passion, to wrest Vietnam the place (homeland) back from Vietnam the war, and to show Vietnamese people who carry entire worlds — of grief, of longing, of love — within them, and have something to say about those worlds.  Who they are, what they have to say, and how they say it, is not incidental to the story, it is the story.

We need to make sure that when we tell our students stories, they have the whole story.  Every person in the story has to have a voice. I am honored that my calling is teaching, and that I am able to give voice to people that were previously unheard.  Recently, I met with parents of an Asian student who wanted to hear about my current school’s curriculum. Their specific question was, “How are we represented in the curriculum?” They wanted to know when their child could see himself in something we studied. I felt proud that I was able to answer that I taught Inside Out & Back Again, a novel in verse about a Vietnamese immigrant’s experience. Through that book, I am able to teach about immigration of many other cultures as well. The parents were satisfied, but they also expressed surprise. “How long has this been in the curriculum?” they wondered. “We had no idea.” It wasn’t until I answered them I realized it myself: “We have been teaching it for three years.” Since I started teaching at this school.

Like the backpacks worn by the soldiers in The Things They Carried, teachers are weighed down with the baggage of a pre-existing curriculum, a curriculum that has sometimes existed for so long, no one even knows why it still exists. Maybe the faculty has not changed composition for years, and they cannot see why the curriculum should change. Diverse faculty provide new lenses. Faculty of color in mostly white independent schools offer fresh perspectives. When I was able to finally envision a curriculum that felt true to my experience, I felt a huge weight lifted off of me. We as teachers should not let our students carry the burden of curriculum that does not reflect who they are; we should lighten their loads. We should all feel the weightlessness that comes with being our true selves.

Thu Anh Nguyen is Equity, Justice, and Community Coordinator for the Middle School at Sidwell Friends School in Washington, D.C. She teaches sixth grade, and also writes and performs poetry. 

Work Cited:

Books Q&A with Deborah Kalb

What If Being Called a “Racist” Is the Beginning, Not the End, of the Conversation? Learning What It Really Means to Be a White Teacher

Editor’s Note: The following is an edited version of a chapter from The Guide for White Women Who Teach Black Boys, a collection of essays curated by Eddie Moore, Ali Michael, and Marguerite W. Penick-Parks (Corwin, 2017) It is posted here with permission of the author.

In the mid-1990s, as a young white teacher with a few years under my belt. I took a long-term substitute position because a teacher had quit and the school needed someone right away. The high school class had been meeting for a few weeks, and had just read a short story by William Faulkner. On my first day, I jumped right in. I opened the class by asking what the students’ reactions were to the story so I could get a sense of where the students were in their analysis of the form.

There were three black boys in the class. One raised his hand and said, “I’m tired of reading books with the N-word in them. For my entire life in school, I’ve had to read this word over and over. It’s not right, and I’m not going to discuss it anymore.” He and the other two black students got up and left.

What would you do?

I doubled-down. I thought, “Ah, these boys don’t understand why it’s important that we look at ‘authentic’ texts in English class. We cannot scrub the text of the original language. We must consider the historical context and teach the work of literature as an artifact of its time, and certainly, Faulkner’s time in the South.” Blah, blah, blah. I brought in articles the next day for the students to read so that I could prove to them why it was important to talk about the N-word in English class.

I can sense your groan and/or gasp of breath. I feel it now as I write. I still get goosebumps when I tell the story, evoking the racial stress that still lives in my body.

What did those well-educated, young black boys do? They got up and left the class again. Good for them. They were demonstrating a healthy resistance to racism that I could neither see nor understand.

As for me, I kept right on going. Eventually, the students came back to the class, and we muddled through. I never discussed this incident with them. What I would give for a time machine so I could go back and try to see the incident again more clearly. Twenty years later, the details are fuzzy. But I have never forgotten those young men and what I learned from them.

The socio-cultural aspect of that classroom was invisible to me; I had no understanding of the “cumulative effect” of hearing these slurs in the classroom over and over. For me, it was an intellectual exercise. For these young men, it was an assault on their very being.

While I now know that the greatest predictor of academic success is the teacher’s expectation, I had not established any kind of relationship with these young men; thus, my explicit/implicit bias and privilege were in play. I still shudder at the power I had, but of which I had no sense. How terrifying, right? And how common. I bet there are a lot of white educators out there who could tell a similar story. And that’s what makes it all so systemic and illusory. White cultural bias and privilege was just the water I was swimming in at the time.

Here’s my second example:

A few years later, I was sitting in a parent-teacher conference. A black mom sat across the table from me as we discussed her son. By this time, I had been through a master’s program and had been asked to join a diversity committee. I considered myself a “good” white person, now “thinking” about racism (it was still an intellectual exercise for me). So I was particularly troubled by this young black boy who “was not living up to his potential.” I felt that he could do more, but he was not. I expressed my oh-so condescending concern as, “Look at all I’m doing. Why won’t your son meet me halfway?” — a sentiment I have felt and heard in schools more times than I can count.

This mom looked at me and said in a calm voice, “I think you’re being racist toward my son.”

And what did I do? I doubled-down again. I proceeded to explain to this mom all the ways that I certainly was not racist, how much I had worked with her son, given him extra time. I had not written him off as so many other teachers had done, telling me that I shouldn’t waste my time with him. Couldn’t she see how “good” I was? I defended myself, and my whiteness, just as I had been taught to do by centuries of white superiority and white silence on this topic.

Are you cringing again? Years later, I shudder when I recall this conversation. But I do so — and do so publicly — because it brings me to the central question of this article: What if being called “racist” was the beginning, not the end, of the conversation? What if, instead of offering a ranting defensive of my intentions, I had taken this mom at her word? What if I considered that she might know her son’s experience better than I did? What if I had owned the outcome of my behavior and considered with her how my work with her son was perpetuating racial stereotypes and prejudice? Do you think that might have impacted her son’s experience in my class? In the school? Do you think it would have made me a better teacher?

Here’s what I wish I had known before I started teaching, and what I now try to communicate to all teachers. I want other white women educators to know:

• that they are white;

• that being white matters — because, as Parker Palmer notes, “We teach who we are”;

• that their students see race either implicitly or explicitly; and

• that our failure to locate ourselves as white and to talk about what that standpoint/position means is doing more harm than good — for our students of color and our white students.

When I first learned that I was white — and I mean really white, not just the abstract concept that I was white with no awareness of my complicity in a system of unequal power — I was angry.*

And I was obnoxious about it. My husband often calls me the “white tornado,” but a bulldozer metaphor works as well. I was going to solve the problem of racism once and for all — a mindset, of course, that also reflects the arrogance embedded in white privilege. The hardest piece for me was getting over being colorblind. I had been carefully taught not to see race or comment on it. It was a huge shift for me to even use the term “students of color” because for me to see and notice race meant, in my mind, that I was “racist.” For me to have identified as really white felt tantamount to saying I was a KKK member. I had no examples of white people who had worked for social justice. I had no idea that, for as long as there was slavery in the U.S., there were white people working to end it. Nobody taught me about those people.

In time, I would learn. In particular, I have been profoundly impacted by the research of John Dovidio and his work to illuminate “aversive racism.” He clearly explains why being colorblind is so pernicious:

When Whites attempt to be colorblind, they tend to be self-focused and more oriented toward monitoring their own performance than toward learning about the particular needs and concerns of the person of color with whom they are interacting. In interracial interactions, this will impair the ability of people (particularly less explicitly prejudiced individuals) to engage in intimacy-building behaviors (Dovidio, 2016).

Those “intimacy-building” behaviors are what lead to strong, connected relationships in schools and to academic success. When we are worried about what we might say or that we might be called “racist,” we’re not paying proper attention to our students of color or helping our white students understand the ways in which they are racialized. Thus, we are not grounding our teaching in who they are, what they know, and what they bring to the table. And when we’re not doing that, we’re not being excellent teachers.

Along the way, there have been additional critical points of learning:

Difference as Difference, not Deficit: The noticing of race is not racism. To understand that my students of color have a different experience is just that — different. Their experience is not a representation of deficit culture (see Luis Moll).

Diversity vs. Multiculturalism: While “diversity” is quantitative, meaning it speaks to differences that can be measured and counted, “multiculturalism” speaks to the quality of life that diversity leads in a school. These two terms are related and connected, but they are not synonyms. White teachers need to not only think about representation, but also consider classroom climate and culture.

Equality vs. Equity: “Equality” means giving all students the same thing. “Equity” mandates that we give each student what she or he needs to be successful at school. Equity pedagogy signals that the playing field is not equal, thus including elements of power and privilege in our analysis of what students need (my gratitude to Paul Gorski, writer, educator and founder of EdChange, for holding our feet to the fire on this topic).

Safety vs. Comfort: White folks will often complain that they feel “unsafe” during conversations related to race when what they are generally referring to is a feeling of discomfort. We have to be willing to wade into this topic with our white colleagues as this “complaint” usually goes unchallenged in white circles. (See Robin DiAngelo’s research for an excellent analysis of “white fragility” around topics of race.)

Intent vs. Impact: While I cannot crawl inside your head and know your intentions, I can see, hear, and feel the outcome of your behavior. If we spent even half as much time owning and dealing with the outcomes of our behaviors as we do defending our intentions, we might actually create classrooms that are equitable.

I am deeply indebted to a whole host of white educators who have dedicated their careers to illuminating whiteness and the inequities created by racism. We have inherited a carefully crafted structure by which white people avoid, ignore, challenge, and collude in any way possible to avoid being seen as “racist” — better known as the “Scarlet R.” This kind of “white talk,” as writer and educator Alice McIntyre describes, keeps white teachers from learning why our awareness of our own white identity is so critical to being excellent teachers.

I’m also grateful to the educators of color with whom I’ve had the privilege to teach alongside of, learn from, and speak with. In particular, I’m grateful to Randolph Carter, an inspiring black male educator and father of two black boys, who first asked the question that serves as the title for this article.

And speaking of titles, at first, I struggled with the title of the book in which this essay first appeared. I wanted it to be “The Guide for White Women Who Teach.” Yet, if the three contributing editors had not posed their preferred title, "The Guide for White Women Who Teach Black Boys,” I might not have remembered those black boys I mis-taught. If white women can learn how whiteness impacts their teaching, it will certainly benefit black boys. But most important, it will allow white women to be excellent teachers for all students. It will allow them to be educators who are wise to the fact that racial identity has, and will probably always, impact teaching and learning in profound ways.

Elizabeth Denevi is the cofounder of Teaching While White and the Associate Director for Mid-West Educational Collaborative, a nonprofit agency that works with schools nationally to increase equity, promote diversity pedagogy, and implement strategic processes for growth and development.

*This happened while I was reading four authors: Beverly Daniel Tatum, Janet Helms, Ruth Frankenberg, and Peggy McIntosh.

ACTIVITY:

To better get at what it really means to be white, take this challenge. For one week, try to include people’s racial identity each time you use their name. For example, “I had lunch with Ali, my white friend, and we…” Watch how people react. I couldn’t make it through seven days. By Day 4, white people (not people of color) were so challenging, I gave up. What would it mean to make it seven days? 30? A year?

References:

Elizabeth Denevi & Mariama Richards, “Diversity Directors as Leaders: Making the Case for Excellence,” Independent School (2009).

Elizabeth Denevi & Nicholas Pastan, “Helping Whites Develop Anti-Racist Identities: Overcoming Their Resistance to Fighting Racism,” Multicultural Education (2006).

Elizabeth Denevi, "White on White: Exploring White Racial Identity, Privilege, and Racism,” Independent School (2004).

E. Denevi, "Whiteness: Helping White Students and Educators Understand Their Role in a Multicultural Society,” Independent School (2001).

Robin DiAngelo. “White Fragility,” International Journal of Critical Pedagogy, Vol. 3 (3) (2011).

John Dovidio, et. al. “Included but Invisible? Subtle Bias, Common Identity, and the Darker Side of ‘We,’” Social Issues and Policy Review. Vol. 10, Issue 1 (2016).

Ruth Frankenberg. White Women, Race Matters: The Social Construction of Whiteness. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press (1993).

Paul Gorski. Reaching and Teaching Students in Poverty. New York: Teachers College Press (2013).

Janet Helms. A Race Is a Nice Thing to Have: A Guide to Being a White Person or Understanding the White Persons in Your Life. Content Communications (1992).

Peggy McIntosh. White Privilege and Male Privilege: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences Through Work in Women's Studies. Wellesley, MA: Center for Research on Women (1998).

Alice McIntyre. Making Meaning of Whiteness. Albany: State University of New York Press (1997).

Luis Moll, et al, Ed. Funds of Knowledge: Theorizing Practices in Households, Communities, and Classrooms. New York: Routledge (2005).

Parker Palmer. The Courage to Teach. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers (1998).

Howard Stevenson. Promoting Racial Literacy in Schools. New York: Teachers College Press (2013).

Beverly Daniel Tatum. Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? Basic Books (1997).