Selma

Dr. King, Mom, Katrina, Mr. Evers, the folks who braved the Selma Bridge – I owe you an apology.  An apology for taking 52 years to realize my role in perpetuating prejudice and racism and for passing that on to my son.  I am frequently reminded of my mother’s comment that I am the “dumbest smart person” she ever met.  Today, as I listen to Dr. King’s “I have a Dream” speech those words have never been more true.

I have had the benefit of numerous learning opportunities that helped form my liberal views and supposedly unbiased approach to people.  Oh, I’ve fought my battles with prejudice over the years, based more on income than race, but I never really saw how I fit into the problem until recently.  I've had the privilege of teaching students of color for the first 18 years of my career.  Indeed, it wasn't until 2007 that I had a Caucasian student in my classroom.

The last school I taught at in Texas was comprised of 85% black and 15% Hispanic students.  It was there that someone was finally able to reach me and awaken my awareness of how I perpetuated both prejudice and racism.  I don’t use racial epitaphs, though I would be lying if I said I had never heard them in my home growing up.  I am generally well respected by my students and have never been accused of racism.  Well, there was Antoine who yelled it out in class when I disposed of some copper sulfate.  He insisted that I was oppressing the copper. 

Even so, during a staff discussion on racism and prejudice one of the older teachers looked me dead in the eye and stated baldly, for all to hear.  “You are the problem.  Not your teaching, you.”  I’ll admit I was quite taken aback and unprepared.  I did manage to squeak out “Me?  I don’t understand.”    She got straight to the point, as she was want to do.  “You live over there in Hewitt, right?  How many black neighbors you have?   How many black folks have you invited into your home?  How many friends who are not white does your son invite over for sleep overs?”  She might as easily have asked, “How many times did you lock your car doors when you saw black men walking at night?”

The conversation went on for some time and was uncomfortable to say the least, but she was right and still is.  As long as I separate myself and my son from folks whose culture is different than mine, I keep those lines drawn and prejudices fed.  It is only when I invite other cultures, other viewpoints (even republican) into my daily life, into my common everyday routines that I become part of the solution.  

It isn't about inter-faith gatherings, voting for gay rights, or making donations to the food shelf.  As important and honorable as those are, real and lasting change will come when my daily, common activities embrace differences.

Hear My Cry

All teachers, have defining moments in their careers, for the fortunate those moments strengthen both our skills and commitment to teaching.  I suppose we could consider those the teachable moment for educators.  Like so many others, one of the defining moments in my career came in the form of a specific student.  His name was not James, but the strength of that name reminds me of him.  The clarity of my memories of him after all of these years speaks to the impact he had on me and my teaching.  I was forewarned of his arrival by the principal of the school where I worked.  An amazing administrator, she wanted James to feel secure without any unnecessary disruption to my classroom.  James, she warned, had been in a self-contained classroom with students whose needs were profound.  His mother had recently died and he was moving to our neighborhood to live with his father.  His former teachers warned us of unusual noises and behaviors that he may have picked up from the other students in his classroom.  Academically he was profoundly behind other fifth grade students, with a deficit that placed him on a kindergarten level.  James would not be in my classroom for more than 2 weeks, maybe a month at most, while placement in an appropriate setting was located.

Of course, in education time is quite relative and 2 weeks could be as little as 2 days or as much as 2 months.  In this case it was the latter, for which I will be eternally grateful.  It turns out James was not anything like my expectations.  First, he was tall.  Taller than I am (or in this case was).  He was soft spoken, compliant and made no unusual noises nor did he behave in any way that we had been led to expect.    And polite, even by Texas standards. 

At that time I worked with a group of amazing educators, in particular those in our special education department.   James spent the majority of his day in special education, which happened to be located right next to my room.  He would return to class for science and social studies, specials and end of day procedures.  Due to scheduling conflicts James generally returned to class during our literature circle time each day.  He always had a project to work on, assembling something or practicing writing his letters.  He would go directly to his desk and work while the students and me either read or discussed our current novel.

We happened to be reading Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, when James first arrived.  My first inkling of what was to come happened when we were reading how one of the main characters, Little Man, was so insulted by what was written in the front of his text book that he refused to accept the book.  The students were discussing why he was so angry, without much luck.  From across the room came an answer, “Well if they got the books after the white school said the books were damaged or in bad shape, then they must think the kids at the black school are damaged or in bad shape.”

That clear and succinct insight came from James, not at all what I was expecting from him, much to my continued chagrin.  That led to the most amazing changes in the classroom.  Each day James moved a little bit closer to the literature circle and after a couple of days the students asked if we could read aloud while James was in the room so he could hear the story.  Before long James was part of our literature circle, despite his inability to read he added quite a lot to our discussions.

James could not read, and in all honesty his writing was limited mostly to his name and copying sentences.  Yet that young man could think.  James personified the reality that thinking, learning and reading are not the same, despite the fact that our educational system often acts as if they are.  James could think, could learn but most definitely could not read.  The last time I spoke with him he was in his early twenties and could not read, but was employed and had his own apartment. 

When I plan, or write curriculum I always approach it with James in mind.  I work to ensure that I do not confuse learning or thinking with reading.  While learning to read is a tremendous part of elementary school, learning to think or learning in general is why we teach reading.  It is not the end; it is one of the means. 

Diving In

Taking a deep breath and diving in, with only hopes rather than expectations that someone will discover my blog.  Or perhaps my secret hope is that no one will and my thoughts will remain what they have been for so long, private.

The title of the blog, "Just One Name," comes from my internal reaction every time I hear someone make a comment about all of those ineffective, or incompetent teachers that are in classrooms, as if our schools are filled with incompetence protected by the near mythical, all powerful union.

One name, just one name, that is all I want.  I want to know who those teachers are.  Are they Mr. Johnson, whose classroom management style I disagree with, but whose work with my son kept him both on target educationally and helped him get through an emotionally difficult time?  A time when in his 8 year old mind my husband and I were going to get a divorce despite us reassuring him that Daddy is only staying in Texas to sell the house.

Perhaps they mean Ms. Ratchet, whose manner seems severe and abrupt.  Ms. Ratchet, who gives up her lunch every day to sit with students and go over work or homework that was not finished or understood.  Ms. Ratchet who refuses to let any student fail, indeed failure would have to be worked at in her room.  Ms. Ratchet, who at the end of the day cries over every missed opportunity, every moment she thinks she could have done something better.

Maybe it is Ms. Howard, who has certainly been known to raise her voice when frustrated, whose students sit in tightly controlled groups, who can write a student referral faster than anyone I've ever met.  Ms. Howard, who spends her entire Sunday afternoon creating lesson plans and inquiries that meet the needs of a diverse group of students.  Whose students experience success on standardized testing.  Who is incredibly tender-hearted, but provides a well organized room for students whose life are filled with chaos.

Or maybe the person they are talking about is me.  I am fairly certain that there are parents who did not agree with my approach, were not always thrilled with the educational choices I made.  

The point is, there is no clear way to determine how good or bad a teacher is.  For the most part, the assessments are based on the assessors own opinions about education and the often skewed results of standardized tests.  Thus, the teacher who doesn't do what the observer would or wants becomes a "bad" teacher.  Or the teacher who is not allowed to provide true differentiation for their students or must use scripted programs is blamed for the failure that comes with demanding strict fidelity to the program.

I have asked that question of many a person who started in on the need to get rid of the bad teachers and make room for the good ones (all too often that is based on the assumption that the tenured teachers are bad and new teachers are good.  Talk about an underlying fallacy!).  

I am still waiting for that name.