Monthly Archives: September 2014

Reading Class, Connecting with Students, Teaching Linda Christensen

In Teaching for Joy and Justice, Linda Christensen tells the reader that “equating success with wealth starts early—think of Cinderella’s magical transformations. Through clothes we can move from scullery maid to princess.” (71).  Of course, this made me think back to the original non-Disney version, where the ugly stepsisters chop off their own toes to make them fit into the glass slipper. Being very visual, I can see the blood smearing on the glass and have images of the slipper filling up.  And I think this is about right in some regards; many in our culture would wound themselves, mar themselves to fit into the idea of beauty, especially beauty expressed through the material and the body.  Christensen goes on to write “students play out this story on a daily basis. Children begin ranking and sorting each other based on those material possessions: clothes, toys, electronic gear, cars” (71).  My students’ experience proves this to be true over and over again.  And, when I examine my own story—growing up working class in an increasingly middle-class suburb, I know that what I thought was my own unique anxiety over clothing and status wasn’t unique at all, just painful in the way that I hacked at my own toes to fit in.

We write about class every quarter in my Fundamentals of Writing Class at Metro.  It’s a terrific course and I have a textbook called Seeing and Writing that allows the students and I to look at things through both text and images.  It’s a smart book.  Interestingly, the chapter called “Confronting Class” is one of my students’ favorites.  I actually begin with a piece of a documentary called “People Like Us” which always engages my students by pissing them off.  One of my students, we’ll call him Hank, was watching the documentary in this disengaged way.  He’s already resisted our conversations on race and gender, struggling to see how these related to him.  But when a woman in the documentary made a snarky comment about driving a Ford in a true blue blood old money voice, he erupted. “Fucking bitch, what does she know!”  Now I know I’m probably supposed to admonish Hank in this moment, but I didn’t.  Instead I saw it as a way into him, into our conversation.

Hank dressed like a middle class guy and wrote his first essay on snowboarding, which has some decidedly middle-class markers.  I think it’s safe to say that none of my poor students from North and South Omaha have ever been snow boarding, or skiing or water skiing.  Heck, neither have I.  But Hank suddenly revealed that his father was a mechanic.  He wanted to stand up for that Ford and for the people who drove Fords.  The documentary had punctured something for him.  I seized upon it and we began writing about class.  Hank gave me an essay about when his parents sent him to a parochial school in Omaha during his elementary school days.  Hank went the first day wearing his shoes that lit up.  They were worn shoes, but they were cool to him and they were what he had.  None of the other students had light up shoes, they were considered infantile.  And all of the students had new shoes, something that was expected for the first day of school.  This painful memory served as the motivating force for Hank to go on to become a drug dealer. And that choice led to him watching his friend die in front of him.  He had to have his own money to have clothes to fit in with everyone.  He had to pass as middle class or as cool.  I saw Hank with new eyes then.  He had been performing his identity. His middle class clothes and the stories of middle class exploits, including vacations and cars weren’t exactly true or untrue—they were what he wanted others to see because he was carrying the legacy of being laughed at for light up shoes and his father being a grease monkey.  His anger about class was bright and hard and gave us a place to build on his writing and thinking.

Hank’s story and the narratives in Christensen’s chapter “Can’t Buy Me Love: Teaching About Clothes, Class and Consumption” brought me back to several memories from my own childhood growing up a working class kid.  I don’t think that I ever thought about clothing until I got to Harry Anderson Middle School in the sixth grade.  Suddenly clothes were a competition just as Christensen describes in her chapter.  I didn’t know what was cool.  Didn’t own what was cool, and suddenly I had been marked.  I had found that “clothes [were] class. And coming from my class background, I wanted desperately to fit into [my classmates’] world” (71).  I began begging my parents to take me shopping at Richman-Gordman’s rather than at K-mart.  I quickly learned that the blue light special was a special mark of shame.  In the sixth grade, I can remember sitting on a gazebo bench with my friend who had migrated from the same elementary school to this enormous, terrifying middle school, and grabbing the back of his shirt and twisting it so that I could look at the label.  I was desperate to compare, to consume, to fit in.  I wanted my foot to fit into the glass slipper.  I remember the fads, coca-cola branded clothes, Guess, t-shirts with ivy league college logos on them (I believe I convinced my mother to get me a Princeton shirt, which I feel laughably embarrassed even writing now), and Ocean Pacific.  Dear God, I needed OP clothes to be cool.

It didn’t end there. In the seventh grade, my friend Brian and I had finally been invited to a party and we dressed ourselves up in new shirts and jeans and liberally, much too liberally, splashed Brut cologne on ourselves.  We were anxious to have it right—to perform the right codes so that everyone at Emily ‘s house would accept us somehow.  I can remember my cousins laughing at us in the driveway.  They knew we’d overdone it.  And Brian’s shirt’s color was coming off and was turning his skin and unhealthy corpse colored green.  Of course, we’d totally misread everything.  When we got there everyone was in t-shirts and we still didn’t fit in there.  I can remember nothing about that night’s party except for an ugly sixth grader making out with the seventh grade girl I had a crush on.  Clothes hadn’t allowed me to fit in; there were still many more things that seemed to leave me out in the cold.

Christensen tells her readers that writing about these things is “part of [her] yearlong campaign to get students to examine what is taken for granted and normalized” (75).  She sees it as part of a literacy that is vital for students to become aware of because “too often, school allows students to stay isolated in their private feelings and observations” noting that “their emotions and interpretations are at the mercy of advertisers and a culture industry that rarely have young people’s best interests at heart” (75).  Hank and I were just like that.  Our private observations about class and clothing had led us to conclude that we weren’t worthy and that we had to fit in at any cost.  I see this with more and more with my students as I learn to read this phenomenon more adroitly.  The awareness that Christensen raises here is the awareness that Freire calls for us to have as he urges us to read the word and world.  As I’ve taught in a community college over the last six years, I’ve learned to read class and to look back and see how much better I might have managed the world I was slogging through if I had been taught the kinds of literacies that would have allowed me to raise my consciousness along these lines.  Teaching that now is an opportunity that I’m terrifically grateful for and one that my students respond to in a ferociously positive manner.

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Mindfulness, Literacy, and Class: What keeps me up at night

In the forward to Radical Presence: Teaching as Contemplative Practice, by Mary Rose O’Reilley, Parker Palmer writes “the ‘secrets’ of good teaching are the same as the secrets of good living: seeing one’s self without blinking, offering hospitality to the alien other, having compassion for suffering, speaking truth to power, being present and being real” (ix).  I’ve just finished my first week of teaching for the fall 2014 quarter and I’ve struggled with that a bit–I think I’ve been successful at it too, but it’s a challenge.  The other night my wife, Sara, asked me if I was going to teach in the Gateway program next year, which is the program where my community college takes on high school dropouts as students in an attempt to get them a diploma and to help them reset their lives.  Mind you, we’re a week into the first of three quarters, so I was a bit surprised by her question.  She told me that she thought it brought me down.  She went on to contrast it with the ethnic literature class that I taught the previous summer, which had brought me a lot of joy.  I had to concede that the first week had been difficult.  My section of English 0950 is very immature and really aren’t a good fit for the Gateway program.  They are immature and nearly devoid of cultural literacy with no real awareness of even the most important events of the day.  They are alien to me as Parker mentions in his introduction.

Even though I grew up without a great deal of material resources and with parents who didn’t have an education beyond high school, I was a voracious reader.  I was curious.  I think that I saw being smart as a good thing and I wanted that. I think one of the problems here is that I project my own intellectual curiosity onto these students and am disappointed when they don’t have it.  Or perhaps what I should say is that they don’t value it and thus have chosen not to develop it.  I come back to that writing prompt I gave them on the first day and know that many of the students in my 0950 class value money.  Or they think they do.

I’ve also been reading a book called Defying the Odds: Class and the Pursuit of Higher Literacy by Donna Dunbar-Odom wherein she discusses the “conventional wisdom” that argues that children who grow up in a “book-rich environment” make kids who are readers (45).  Dunbar-Odom has always found this to be an interesting assertion because she grew up in a working-class house of “indifferent, infrequent readers” (45).  In fact, she says that her work in that book is to figure out why some seek “higher literacy against all expectations […]” (45).  I love that move because I’m that kid.  I sought literacy against the expectations and reality of my circumstances.  There were no books in my home except the ones that I brought in to the home.  My father did read the paper everyday, but that really is the only literacy practice that I saw undertaken and modeled in my home.  So perhaps the reason I loved my students in my ethnic lit class this summer so much is that they were really very much like me.  They were students who didn’t come from literacy rich environments, but who had nonetheless turned to reading, and most importantly the reading of literature, for something they weren’t finding elsewhere.

I want to come back to another conundrum in my own personal life.  Last night I went to Oktoberfest at Gerda’s with my wife and son.  We met several parents from Maxwell’s school, which is a private co-ed school in Omaha.  Last year, during Max’s first year there, I struggled with the school, which I love in some ways, and the kinds of values that come with it, which seem at times to be less about education than about status and the maintaining of privilege.  The contrast is especially stark when I teach in North Omaha during the day, across the street from dilapidated houses and where I’ve seen the SWAT team twice and then pick up Max in the afternoon in a long train of Mercedes, Accura, BMW, and Porsches (2 and 4-door and what is the point of a 4-door Porsche).  In fact, we had been invited last year to a back-to-school get to know you shindig and I had an anxiety attack when we rolled up to the mansion and I saw how well-dressed everyone was.  We didn’t go in–I couldn’t have done it and thankfully my wife didn’t press the issue.

But back to Gerda’s.  Gerda’s is a neighborhood joint and it’s my kind of place.  And I did well with the parents, but, in a way, they are like my students who were talking about being rich.  Within two minutes of sitting down with a man that I met, he was telling me about his time at Georgetown and Michigan.  He probed about my educational status, asking if I was a K-state alum because of my hat.  I didn’t offer that it was my graduate degree or anything else.  Later, I heard him talking about where to go skiing in the spring given the sad state of the short spring break that the kids get.  I’ve never been skiing and see it marked by class. Plus I had no idea that our spring break was too late and too short.  I’m really amazed at the stuff I don’t know when I arrive at the intersections of class.  A couple of minutes later, the men across from me were talking about their Porsches–one of the men just bought a house in Regency (a neighborhood that has a reputation for being incredibly wealthy in Omaha) so that he could tear it down and build a new house–he needs something with six garages for his sports car collection.  What’s interesting is that there was little to no talk of the work that these folks did.  I have no idea what these men do or what their wives do.  It’s a weird disconnect because I grew up hearing men talk about their work, but it’s one of the things that I’ve learned by observation: the more one makes, the less they talk about how they make it.  I don’t know why.  But again, these folks are not bad, but they seem just as interested in the material as my students.  So I can’t judge my students’ low literacy and educational achievement as the root cause.  It must be somewhere else.

But then, am I the alien that Parker is talking about?  I know that many writers have talked about the disconnect that happens when one moves between classes and from an uneducated place to a an educated place.  Sherman Alexie’s character Junior in The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian is one of my favorite examples.  Jr. doesn’t feel at home with the white educated kids for the most part and his launching out into the world to pursue an education has separated him from his home community as well.  I feel like my best students, and again, perhaps what I’m really saying is “the students who are most like me” are like Jr. and suffer in this way.

And what does it mean to be present and hospitable to both of these groups–the first of which made me angry this week because they didn’t share my vision of escape through education and the second of which makes me angry because I feel like they’ve misused their education and advantages–they haven’t achieved any kind of critical consciousness or lifted anyone up–they’ve just reified their own position (I don’t really know that though, so I’m making assumptions here).  Yet I’m drinking with them and my son is playing with their sons, so we must share something.

In returning to Dunbar-Odom’s book, I’m trying to find an answer.  I love the move that she makes to show two major arguments about the uses of literacy.  On one side she places Allan Bloom and Harold Bloom and E.D. Hirsch who, quite reductively, see literature as a way to show what is best about culture and to instantiate and propagate that culture.  Dunbar-Odom says that this tradition claims that “the grand narrative of literacy is that it will enable prosperity and critical awareness” (45). She contrasts that with Freire, Finn, hooks, Gramsci and others who she argue see “the same emancipatory function” of literacy “in different terms” (46).  Interestingly, I have no idea what my students or the parents at the bier garten are thinking about this.

I wish all of this had some sort of neat conclusion.  But what I know is that when I’m honest, my definition of literacy is complicated and comes from both the position of thinking of literature of emancipation and of transmitting culture.  I know that I love students who are like me and that I genuinely want to help struggling students even when they are not like me.  I want to offer them the hospitality that Parker Palmer discusses.  However, I’m coming to see that it’s a dangerous fallacy to think that all of my poor and working class students will want the kind of emancipatory narrative that I’ve wrapped myself in as I’ve moved from the working class home I grew up in to being a college instructor with cultural capital and even some material capital.  I have to remember something I saw years ago as a good analogy.  There was a man in Nebraska City who was in Alcoholics Anonymous.  He had helped many people get sober and put their lives together.  Really a pretty terrific guy.  Well one day he was attempting to help a woman, they were sitting at his kitchen table, and she looked at him and said: “I don’t want to be your fucking miracle.” At the time it stunned me.  And it’s one of those moments that has always stuck with me.  I have to be mindful that my students may not want what I want for them, and no, it isn’t just a case that if they knew what I knew that they would.  My awareness is not their awareness.  It’s that they are different and alien and I must meet them as they are.  But I wonder if that line is bullshit.  Who knows.  Tomorrow I teach again.

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