Friday, I decided to address the tension that had arisen in
my third block between some African American students and the Latino students. We finished early, and I
told the students that we were going to have a discussion. In fact, I posted it
on the board, in English and Spanish (thank you spanishdict.com). I told
students that they would have to be patient as others translated for them.
Students read, each in their own language:
How do you feel when you don’t understand what’s going on in
class?
Do you ever think your teachers care more about your
classmates’ learning than yours?
Do you ever feel like you don’t belong with your classmates?
The discussion was difficult. Spanish speakers struggled to
find words, even in Spanish—it was the first time they were being asked to
contribute higher-level thinking to the class. English speakers lost interest
and started chatting on the side as translation happened. What I should have pointed out was that their
boredom with a language they didn’t understand was exactly what happened EVER
SINGLE DAY to my Spanish speakers, and so my relative laxity when those
students spoke to each other came from the fact that they often have no
legitimate outlet to speak in class, that unless I specifically call on one of
them and, miming and pointing, request a response, they do not share with the
class as a whole and so must speak to
each other in their own language. But I didn’t grab the moment, and the
students missed the insight.
Afterwards, we did a team-building exercise. I cut a sheet
in half, and lay both halves on the ground. I told the class everyone had to
stand on one or the other sheets, and try to flip them over without anyone
touching the ground. Students divided down the middle by race, with one Latino
student who is special buddies with three African Americans joining the African
American sheet, and the Asian student joining the Latinos. A Spanish speaker
whom I had gestured toward the sheet that the African Americans happened to be
standing on was yanked onto the other sheet by a Latina young woman. The racial
division, I could have expected. What I didn’t expect had me startled and
begging my subconscious to keep racism from invading my psyche.
I watched the Hispanic kids all hug each other, led by the
two most powerfully strong Latina women in the class. They swayed this way and
that, working earnestly at turning the sheet over.
Across the room, the African American kids were having their
shot at turning the sheet. They all set a foot on the sheet, and started
elbowing each other. Pushing, and shoving, and after about a minute kids were
leaking back to their seats, muttering that someone else had elbowed them off.
An intent four hovered around the sheet, demanding that I come watch just one
of them turn it over—they could do it without all those other people. Some went
to try to catch the Latino kids cheating.
I checked the time, and the Latino kids, who were still
trying hard. I watched as they clasped the whole group round, and did my
damndest not to see it as a manifestation of a superior culture. One that is
still coming to school even when they don’t understand a single thing being
said in class (of course, the ones who don’t weren’t there that day). Then the
bell rang, before I’d had the chance to show them the beauty of teamwork—you
need to work together, everybody on one sheet and turn the other over, in order
to win the exercise. I sat at my desk, disappointed in the exercise and myself.
Can I extrapolate about two cultures from a mere thirty
kids? Of course I can. Should I? Of course I shouldn’t. And yet… there is a
careful balancing of sympathy and tough love and compassion and discipline that
is necessary in this job, and I’m still trying to figure it out, and sometimes it tips me into wondering if I should stop making excuses for my kids-- but does that mean give up on them? I’ve always
known that my Latino students need different things from my African American
students, and vice versa. And yet, it’s so much easier to want to help people who try to help themselves. People who, even in
a simple game challenge, work together in beautiful teamwork. Obviously, where
my Latino kids need me more in the matter of learning English, my African
American kids need me more in the matter of building cooperative ability. And
endurance. And yet, the first is so much easier to teach, I find myself
frustrated with an entire race for the sake of 15 kids.
Teach for America can be dangerous. Not working with certain
populations allows one the luxury of racelessness. But engaging in anti-racist
work means I am plunged into a mess that often leads me to exactly the kind of
racism that I’m trying to clip at its core, pondering my own
susceptibility.
Earlier that day, four kids in my 4th block
called me over.
“Ms. W, earlier, when that call came through, you were like,
‘suuuugar.’ Do you never cuss?”
I smiled. “Of course I do. But I try not to.”
A pause. “Have you ever, like, gotten in a fight?”
I did a double take. “No. Of course not!”
"But not even a verbal one?”
“I’ve never cussed someone out.”
Then, in a voice that was careful not to be too tinged with
admiration: “You’re like perfect.”
“No.” Hmmm. “No. Just, when I was growing up, nobody around
me was getting in fights, or cursing, I mean I got in big trouble for dropping
the f-bomb, so I don’t do it now. I have other ways of expressing my anger. But
I still get angry.”
She nodded, understanding. “A different culture.”
I took a step back in my mind. “Yes, and no. Because, your
culture is important, and language is part of that, and you shouldn't give that up. But learning how to cope
with things without getting violent, that’s important too, and doesn’t mean
giving up your culture. Or shouldn't. Peaceful coping will lead to your success.” The intentness of
their stares made me want to challenge them. “So you need to walk that line
between keeping your culture, and acting in ways that will make you successful.”
They nodded, and I walked off, wondering how long before they would again erupt
into the cursing war that constitutes their best friendship.
A simply delightful moment: One of my most adorable students
came to class early to show me his new student ID. Yes, the 9th
grade has finally been tagged and labeled like the rest of the school. He waved
it in my face and told me, “I look so black in my id.” Paused for a second,
then giggled. “Like they left me in the oven too long.” I watched him arrange
his deadpan for his delivery, eyes twinkling as he saw me grin. “And, Ms. W, I
never smile in my pictures. I’m like the Mona Lisa, only kind of a smile.” World History for the win.
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