Lifting as I Climb: Supporting Students of Color at a Predominately White Institution

 

 

At the end of every academic year, I like to sit down with 2-3 students of color with whom I’ve established a relationship during the course of the year. Most often, these are students who have not been in my classes but whom I know through other mediums. I have lunch with each of them to hear about their year and their summer plans. I do this for multiple reasons. First, I want the students to know that I truly do care about their experiences and am a source of support/guidance if they ever need me. Next, I do this because I am truly curious about what exactly students of color do on a campus where they are outnumbered 9:1 by their white classmates. What organizations and clubs are they a part of? How does it feel to be in classes where your voice represents an entire demographic? (though I can speak to that myself) How does it feel not being included on skiing, hiking, and camping trips, not because you are not invited, but because you do not share the interests of your classmates? Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, I want to know what is [not] working for them. How can they be better supported socially, emotionally, and academically? How can I, as a junior faculty member, helps students of color succeed at our predominately white institution (PWI)?

Good news first: the wonderful upperclass students of color took it upon themselves to mentor freshmen students of color. This year, my institution had a record number of self-identified ethnic minorities, and in response, the upperclassmen mobilized to ensure these students did not feel the sense of abandonment and isolation they experienced in their freshmen year. Their attempts yielded mixed outcomes. Some freshmen responded very well to the concept of having a mentor. In fact, I know of one duo who were nearly inseparable all year despite the fact that one was a black senior from outside of Chicago and the other a freshman from Zambia by way of Houston. But I also know of another duo who did not click despite the multiple efforts of a black female upperclassmen from Chicago to engage a black female freshman from Louisiana.

In a way I was relieved to hear of the pushback some upperclassmen experienced from freshmen of color. I was relieved because I too experienced similar resistance and was baffled as to why some students, particularly women of color, were so reticent to accept my help. In an effort to understand the mind of an 18-year-old, I asked one of my mentees from last year why a particular student was so hostile to me. She looked at me and laughed and said “Do you really not know?”  I responded “No, I really don’t. She is so rude to me and I can’t figure out why.”  Pulling herself together, my mentee said “Because she’s threatened”.

I was stunned. It never occurred to me that at 27 years old, with skin the same color as hers, hair the same texture and style as hers, and family living in the same region as hers, that my student would be threatened by me. I pushed my mentee to expound and in the end, what she said makes perfect sense. Students of color do not want to underperform in front of those whom occupy similar social spaces.

Let me elaborate. Social Learning and Self-efficacy theories explain this best. We are most influenced–and motivated–by those whom we deem similar to ourselves. It follows then that we are also most threatened by those same people, who because of their physical appearance and family history, might have particular insight into our experience. In short, the opinions of in-group members matter much  more than the opinions of out-group members.

Yes, this could indeed be the case. I think group membership is especially salient in contexts when induction into a group seems unlikely. For example, when you are living in a state 1000 miles from home whose primary selling point is the great outdoors, and you’ve never left your home state or been outside after the street lights came on, finding like-minded people is a daunting task. So when you do, their acceptance of you is that much more important. There are no safety friends (or faculty) on whom to rely in case you are not chosen. There is no secondary (or primary in this case) historically black Greek fraternity or sorority in whose process you could participate. There are no sports teams whose rules are even remotely familiar to you (I am reminded of my first experiences learning about Crew upon matriculation at Dartmouth). There are no student organizations whose sociopolitical agenda is akin to your own. If you are not one of the dynamic people who can carve a space for themselves in any social group, it is all or nothing. So you [re]act out of fear. You aggressively assert yourself  in the hopes that this strategy will earn respect: the scholarly version of street credibility.

But street cred matters little in the halls of Academe. It does not earn you As, write you letters of recommendation, or even ensure friendships. What it does is make certain you don’t ask for help when needed. Or be open to advice from more knowledgeable others. Or be given the same opportunities to learn less defensive students obtain.

I wonder from whence this defensiveness originates. I know in the African-American community, pride is very much alive and well. It has been both a catalyst for political change and a barrier to educational advancement. It is one of the many things I admire about my community, but also one of the things that terrifies me about our future.

I am similarly scared for my students who wear their pride like a cloak of invisibility. They throw it on hoping that its presence will hide them from nosy faculty members known to ask too many questions. They huddle beneath it thinking themselves impervious to external threats of academic failure and social ostracism.

But this is not a fictional story and no one else’s sacrifice can save you.

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I met with the Faculty of Color Caucus today and expressed my concern that our students of color were not receiving the support they needed to be successful. And with 40 more students of color in the incoming freshmen class, this problem is sure to deepen as well as widen. A senior (faculty) woman of color stated her befuddlement that in all her years at the college, rarely have students of color even taken her classes, nonetheless come to her for guidance. I responded: so we go to them.

And we will. We have a plan. We are committed to their success. I just hope they are as well.

Education is the New Black!

Education is indeed the new black. It’s the thing to talk about (except if you’re running for President. Then, you NEVER bring it up). All the cool kids are doing it. Why aren’t you? You can throw around phrases like educational disparities, unequal funding, right to learn, and teacher quality. It’s really fun. I promise you. I get to do it all day.

Because of the close knit relationship between education and politics, educational discourse has becoming increasingly dramatic. We used to research intellectual development and gender identity. Now, we research the achievement gap and the war on boys. Everything in education is ‘the most pressing concern’, yielding a narrative entitled: Education is the Civil Rights Issue of the 21^st Century.

*rolls eyes*

Education is indeed a civil right but is not an issue in and of itself. The absence of this right is the issue.  And it is not a new issue in the 21^st century. It was not new in the 20^th century. Or the 19^th century. Historically, education has been THE civil right denied to a marginalized, oppressed, ignored, blamed group. No, it is not the issue that is new; it is only the ostracized party that changes.

Any 5^th grader can identify at least two groups historically denied the right to education: women and slaves. An 8^th grader would likely add immigrants to that list. In 1896, we decided separate but equal was a good way to ensure inequality in opportunities to learn between races. In 1954 we changed our minds. In 1965, the federal government added poor families to the list of educationally underserved groups. In 2004, they added students with disabilities. In 2008, President Obama added not-native English speakers to the list. In 2012, President Obama was more specific in his language, adding children of immigrants to the list.

Yes, education as a problem to be solved is socially, politically, and economically evident throughout our history. Its emergence on the scene as a 21^st century concern is frustrating and laughable to those of us entrenched in the ‘issue’ on a daily basis, be it as parents of school-aged children, teachers or administrators in almost any public school, or as an academic designing, implementing, and evaluating theoretically-based interventions to bandage this multi-systemic problem.

In fact, such histrionics in education are political propaganda to mask the reality of the problems that support and sustain unequal and inequitable learning opportunities. If you really want to have a discussion about education as a civil right, let’s talk about how low-income, ethnic minority, non-native English speaking, gifted and talented, physically disabled, learning disabled, developmentally delayed, rural, urban, and students from non-traditional families do not even have access to safe school buildings, competent and qualified teachers, textbooks,  advanced courses, extracurricular activities, or even healthy school lunches. If they don’t have access to these things, they certainly don’t have the opportunity to take advantage of them. If we want to talk about rights, where is the war on discriminatory, biased, and privileged social systems whose mere presence undermines our children’s right to learn? Where is the analysis of educational policies whose esoteric verbiage masks the fact that this policy is designed to maintain segregated schools? Where is our outrage at the causes of income, race, and gender-based achievement gaps? There is none. We are too focused on problematizing education and the people working to make it better.

Labeling education a new civil right issue is an attempt to juxtapose the fight for ‘equal education’ with the battles fought by women, people of color, immigrants, and the LGBTQ communities for the right to vote; the right to send their children to safe schools; the right to fair wages and safe housing; the right to love and family; the right to be granted access to the privileges inherent to those with fair skin, family money, Christian values, heterosexual behaviors, and full use of their body.

This is an unfair comparison. Sectors of our society have made public the problems they have with not being able to vote without proper identification; with school gun violence and bullying; with unequal pay for women, with the banning of gay marriage. But we have not voiced our opposition to the largest civic system in our society. We have not become advocates for our children. We have not campaigned our politicians or conducted a march on Washington or enacted our hard-earned right to vote in local school board elections. We’ve not enlisted churches, community organizations, or even educational institutions to help us fight against educational injustices. No, we’ve done nothing but assign labels. We’ve labeled students at-risk, underprivileged, hard-to-reach. We’ve labeled teachers not qualified, incompetent. We’ve labeled schools failing and underperforming. We’ve framed education through a deficit lens as a problem to be solved, not an opportunity to be provided.

Until we move from problem-posing toward skepticism, perspective taking, and systemic thinking, our education system will indeed remain an issue, and never a civil right.

Suzy Weiss, We Don’t Want You in Our Classes

Given the recent uproar about Suzy Weiss , I of course need to write about college admissions processes. People are angry and bitter because Suzy—who had great GPA and SAT scores—was not admitted to 4 prestigious schools. Other people are angry because in her frustration about rejection, Suzy said she didn’t get in because she did not help schools meet their diversity quota.

Now, let’s start with the fact that Suzy thinks she should have gotten in solely off her ‘objective’ summative measures of achievement and her ‘hard work over the past four years’. Suzy and her father must be living under a rock beneath their 700k home. For the last 2 decades truly objective and empirical research has been done that reveals the biased nature of the SAT but more so, its lack of predictive validity. I won’t bore you with citations and references, but this information is easily found if you know how to use any scholarly database. The reason why so many colleges are moving away from heavy reliance on GPA and test scores is because frankly, they mean NOTHING in relation to future academic success in college. A correlation of .3 and a low Beta coefficient ensure that admissions offices are looking at better indicators of college success, like qualitative and behavioral characteristics of applicants. Your academic skills (e.g., time management, organization, help-seeking), self-efficacy, motivation to learn, perception of self, long-term goals, initiative, and honesty HAVE been demonstrated to be predictors of college achievement (again, search any scholarly database for these studies). It makes sense then that colleges are now searching for applicants whose transcripts, letters of rec, and personal statements indicate these qualities, not how well you can memorize information and employ test-taking strategies.

Suzy’s GPA is not an indicator of academic prowess. It may in fact be an indicator that Suzy took easy classes to boost her GPA, or that Suzy’s AP coursework was less than rigorous, or that Suzy went to a private school with grade inflation or grading curves. Or maybe Suzy is bright and did not seek opportunities to challenge herself. When there are ceiling effects in a data set, any person with a brain thinks: this assessment may not be a good one. And what is her GPA out of? A 5.0? a 4.5? What was Suzy’s class rank? Was she #1 or #45? I graduated high school with a 4.2/4.5 GPA and I was barely in the top 10% of my class. These isolated numbers mean nothing without context in which to interpret. And even with that context, again—it has very little to do with the context of college. ‘Rigorous’ classes in high school often bear no resemblance to college courses. Expectations are different, class sizes are different, the amount of support/guidance is different, the social environment is different. Success in one has very little relation to success in the other.

The fact that Suzy felt entitled to acceptance letters is representative of her ignorance. Does she not know that numerically, the odds of her being accepted into a top tier college are significantly lower than they would’ve been 10 years ago?  To maintain the quality of education, Ivy League schools have not increased their class size (and I agree with this decision) despite a surge in applicants. My own alma mater had 22k applicants for a freshmen class of 1000. Harvard admitted a record low 5.8% of their 35k applicants. Brown and Yale received 29k applicants, Cornell got 40k, Penn 31k, Columbia 33k, and Princeton 26k. Suzy, you are ONE person among tens of thousands. What makes you better than the next person who also has a 4.5 GPA and an even higher SAT score? What makes you better than the person with a 3.7 GPA, 1900 SAT, and 3 internships? Perhaps you should’ve been doing something to add some depth to your application instead of turning your nose at people who actually did something in high school besides watch tv and quit every activity you ever joined (and you can blame your parents for ‘giving up on parenting’. Perhaps you should write them a letter). While you were out running the streets and coming in the house hoping to not wake your parents up, other high schoolers were exploring their interests and pursuing opportunities to develop into a well-rounded individual. A person who can excel in a holistic admissions processes instead of an academic process.

So no, Suzy, diversity is not more important than test scores but it is equally as important. ‘Wearing a headdress’ and sleeping with someone of the same sex is not how your competition received acceptance letters. They got their letters despite having darker skin and living in a society where they can’t even marry the person they love. Some of them got in despite not having parents who can afford tutors, test prep classes, and for their child to roam the streets unsupervised. They got in despite competing against the likes of you who have been given (and taken for granted) academic opportunities their schools, districts, or states may not have offered. They got in because frankly, they are better than you.

See, these students would never have made the rude, elitist, entitled, disrespectful comments you made. These people are humble and open to new experiences. These people are compassionate and understanding of difference. These people are the ones we professors want in our classes.

These people are the ones with college acceptance letters.

 

“No, I Don’t Want to Come to Your House”: Separating the Personal and Professional Selves in Academia

One of the issues I debate about with myself and with colleagues and friends in the Academy is the issue of public versus private. No, I don’t mean the status of the institution, but public life versus private life. In other words, how much of myself do I give?

I am torn because there are three types of relationships happening at a college: 1) teacher-student; 2) colleague-colleague; 3) friend-friend. Each of these dynamics is unique and requires its own rules that oftentimes conflict with established structures for other dynamics. It’s easy to blur the lines so I find myself repeating this refrain in my head: these people are not your friends.

And in many ways, this is a sad statement. Why is it that I can’t expect friendship from colleagues? Why is it that I must always be on guard for back stabbing, deceit, and general crabs-in-a-barrelness? I have been at my present institution only 2 years and already I’ve experience all of these. I’ve had colleagues in other departments tell me they’d support a new initiative in my department, and then send emails to other departments encouraging them to not support this initiative. I’ve had people ask me to co-teach new courses with them, but when I ask them to share their syllabi from past courses, they somehow never receive my email. I’ve watched others not do a damn thing at work all day, and then have the nerve to saunter into my office to ask me to help them with something. I’ve had people invite me to their homes only to get me in a private space where they could comfortably ask/say inappropriate things about my personal life and my scholarship. I’ve been backed into many corners and had no choice but to get out of it by swinging.

But I am learning. I am learning how to detect these situations before they come to ahead. I am beginning to note the warning signs and heed the warnings of others. I am starting to hold back even though they want so much.

They want to know if you’re married or dating anyone seriously. If the answer is no, they want to know why you aren’t dating that nice young man in the Admissions office who seems to be your age and hey—he is black too! Then they want to know if you plan to have kids and because your silence is not response enough, they proceed to give you advice on when to have your kids in relation to your tenure clock. When holidays arise they want to know where you are going, with whom you are eating, and why you consistently refuse their invitations. They want to know where you hang out and what you do on weekends because frankly, your life is so ‘interesting!’ (yes, they say this to me)

The problem with not feeding into this is that you are violating expectations of ‘collegiality’. Some schools like to call this ‘fit’. Whatever fancy word they use, basically, they may end up just not liking you. And that is dangerous for your career. Because of the heavy influence colleagues carry in the tenure/promotion process, you need as many people as possible to be on your side. In You Can’t do it Alone I discussed the importance of having mentors and allies in the Academy but I did not mention that when you have the opposite (i.e., no support and enemies), you are pretty much doomed to be on the job market after your third year review (which smart scholars anticipate doing even when they do feel they are doing well in their present position). Professional relationships pave the way to success in academia; personal ones keep that path clear.

So then what should I do? Should I divulge that I date but haven’t found anyone serious yet? Should I tell them I may not have children and risk offending their sometimes-liberal/sometimes-conservative ideologies of gender roles? Should I tell them I don’t want to spend my free time fake smiling while choking down plates of bland food or witnessing their children’s disrespect and misbehavior? Should I invite them to happy hour with me and my ‘real friends’ (some of whom are also colleagues) and risk defiling the only sanctuary I have? I don’t want to confuse the relationships with confusing interactions. I am very clear on where I stand with everyone in my life, and I fear changing the environment in which we interact will consequently alter the nature of those interactions. But I am equally fearful that in not sharing these aspects of myself, I risk being perceived as the angry black woman who keeps to herself.

I know my struggle in this domain is not unique. Sadly, it is shared by many scholars who are in any way different from the ‘norm’.  I see my LGBTQ, women, immigrant, and disabled colleagues muddle through similar conversations. I see their shock at being asked intimate personal questions and the internal battle deciding how to respond. I see the resignation and shame when they ‘give in’, and the hesitancy when they don’t. And I hear the quiet but impassioned conversations with allies that always end with you can’t have all of me.

But they sure will try to take it.

 

Psst, Scholars of Color: You Can’t Do it Alone

Earlier today I was chatting with a friend of mine who is a 2nd year PhD History student at The Graduate Center in New York. I’ve known OF Aidah for years because we went to undergrad together but we weren’t friends in college (we were in different social circles). Over the last year however, we’ve become friends because frankly, we need each other. Whether it’s to vent, to support, to seek advice, or to laugh, we find solace in knowing that someone else shares our feelings and thoughts, and we have another person from whom to seek advice. Aidah has become a member of my support network, and I hope I’ve become a member of hers. But what is more is that Aidah is something else to me: she is also a mentor.

Now, you may be thinking ‘how can she be a mentor when she’s a 2nd year student and you are a 2nd year faculty member?’  But it’s that kind of thinking we have to reframe. Especially we scholars of color who may not possess the navigational capital to succeed in academia.

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Let’s start with the idea of mentorship. I said Aidah has become a mentor of mine. What does that even mean? It means I believe Aidah has personal and professional knowledge that if shared, better equips me to be successful in my career and life in general. Aidah is someone who can provide genuine emotional support because she understands my experiences and my perspective. It is important to note that she doesn’t necessarily share my experiences or perspective, but she understands and respects them. That is what a mentor does: he/she listens, contextualizes, and offers relevant feedback. Aidah is not at a small private liberal arts college, but she is a woman of color in a predominantly white field. She does not live where I live, research what I study, or even have the same professional goals. But what I like about her mentorship is that it comes from a place of difference, and is centered around intersections. Her different perspective forces me to think critically about my perspectives and my choices. She is not blindly cosigning on everything I say; no, she is providing personal advice guided by her own schemata of professional success. In essence, as a mentor, she pushes me to consider previously unconsidered variables as I make decisions about my career.

What Aidah is not, is an advocate. This is not because she doesn’t believe in me or think I will succeed. This is because she is not in a position to be my advocate. An advocate, unlike a mentor, does not need to understand your perspective. He/she does not need to listen, contextualize, or offer relevant feedback in your time of need. In fact, an advocate doesn’t even need to care about your emotions. What they need to care about is your career. An advocate is someone who sees the value not of you as a person, but of your contributions to the field and to the university/college at which you work. This is a person who may not even know your last name, the courses you teach, or where your department is on campus. He/she may not have even spoken to you often, but they are aware of your accomplishments. Advocates, unlike mentors, can not be just anyone with whom you get along well. Advocates should be people in power who are well-respected in your field and/or at your institution. This is the person who will ‘go to bat’ for you when it comes down to it. This is the person, who in a meeting about your tenure or promotion or contract renewal will stand against the majority and speak on your behalf.  This is the person who upon observing a senior faculty member be less than respectful to you, will speak up and shut it down. This is a person who truly believes in your future success and is willing to invest in you. Just as important a mentor is to your emotional well-being, an advocate is to your professional well-being.

So here is the secret: the same way you cultivate personal relationships, you need to cultivate professional ones. While you can seek out a mentor in the Academy (most people choose those with whom they have some kind of connection), you need to recognize you can’t find an advocate. They find you. They find you when you present your research at faculty luncheons/meetings. They find you when you contribute good ideas in committee meetings. They find you when they see your name attached to an advertisement for a campus event or to a great publication. They find you when they hear their students talking about how great your class was. They find you when you put yourself out there to be found.

And that is my message for young scholars of color. So often we’ve been raised in environments where you ‘figure it out’ and ‘get it done’ and sometimes, can’t count on others to help. Those of us who may have been the ‘only’ might have felt that you had no one to whom to turn in times of need, so you got used to doing it alone. We may not have attended schools where you needed to have an advocate because there was such a strong sense of communal support. For whatever reasons, scholars of color are hesitant to ask for help.

But the reality is, Academia is not a place in which you can succeed on your own. It may be 2013, but nepotism is alive and well and the Academy is still very reminiscent of the Good Ole Boys club. It would behoove you, me, Aidah, and every scholar hoping to be successful in higher education to be open to new relationships, both personal and professional. You worked so hard to get into your career. Display that same work ethic to stay in your career.

A [Professional] Love Letter to K-12 Teachers

I don’t know how you do it. When I was 19, I decided to become a middle school Language Arts teacher. My fondest memories of my K-12 schooling are from middle school. I recognize this is an anomaly as most people detested middle school (especially women). But I LOVED it. I was the queen bee. Well, I was the princess bee; my best friend was the queen. But suffice it to say I was at the top of the social hierarchy and that made my experience awesome.

I eventually decided against that career path solely for financial reasons. Even at the age of 19, I knew a teacher’s salary would not be sufficient to pay off my undergraduate loans. So I said to myself: self, how can I teach and make more money?  And it came to me. Be a college professor.

So I did. I am. And through my research in K-12 public schools, I have learned one very important fact: I greatly admire K-12 teachers.

This will probably be easiest to relay numerically. Here is a list of the reasons (in no particular order) why I am constantly in awe of teachers:

1)  K-12 teachers have no control over the curriculum. Public school curriculum is state mandated. Private college curriculum is professor decided. I love that I decide what content is important, what is less important, the order in which we address content, blah blah. It takes a knowledgeable person to make coherent sense of a state designed curriculum binder. I don’t think I’d have the patience.

2) K-12 teachers deal with a lot of student attitude. Students come to class with a lot of attitude. So many students don’t want to be there, but because it’s the law, they have to go to school. And because the state says so, they have to take particular classes. So they sit there, looking disinterested, doing off task things, and generally negatively affect the classroom climate. I find it extremely disrespectful when students sleep in class, are on their computers or cell phones in class, or are obviously inattentive. When any of these things occur, I ask students to leave. But K-12 teachers can’t do that (well, they aren’t encouraged to do that. And if they did, what good would that do?). So they must suffer the hurt and frustration of knowing they are not reaching every student, for reasons far beyond their control.

3) K-12 teachers have no say about who is in their class. It’s the first day. You see who shows up. You hope the students in the class are actually the same students listed on the roster. You pray the students are reading and writing at grade level. Ok, you will take just reading at grade level. On the contrary, private college professors have something called ‘Consent of Instructor’ which basically means, if I want to ensure my students have sufficient background knowledge in this content, I can designate my course COI so I have to give individual permission for every student to enroll. Of course this is after I review their transcript and conduct a brief informal interview. This is how I maintain control over….

4) K-12 teachers have no choice but to differentiate instruction. Because students come to school with highly variable prior educational experiences, their academic abilities are highly variable. K-12 teachers are forced to accommodate so many different ability levels, it boggles my mind. I have to do that when my courses don’t have prerequisites (which I immediately remedy) and it drives me crazy. Much respect to skilled teachers who can teach a class of 30 students functioning at 12 different levels across 6 domains.

5) K-12 teachers differentiate instruction with very little external resources. Any person who has gone through public school has experienced the short supply of well, everything. Not enough textbooks. Outdated textbooks. Not enough desks. Broken desks. The library doesn’t have enough books. There is no library. The computer lab is booked for the next year. There are only 3 computers in the school. The list goes on. Teachers dig in their shallow pockets to fund their career. They pay to copy, print, get materials for a special project. Teachers in low income schools often keep clothing and snacks in their classroom for students in need. Meanwhile, I take for granted that I can design a course around the fact that every student will need to purchase SPSS for their personal computer. And if they don’t, they either can’t enroll in my course or will have to use the very fancy computers found in almost every building on campus. And after you install this pricy software, make sure you start researching your final paper via the College’s extensive access to databases. And if we don’t have the article you want, just fill out an InterLibraryLoan request and you will have it within a few days. How do K-12 teachers teach with no resources? I am truly baffled. And impressed.

6) K-12 teachers can rarely track student growth over time. Students enter their classrooms for a semester or an academic year and then they leave. In good school districts with accurate records, teachers can—in all their spare time—review students’ files. But once they leave for the year, it’s very difficult to track their progress once they enter someone else’s class. I, on the other hand, log into our online platform, access students’ transcripts, and if necessary, email their prior professors to get a ‘sense’ of that student. When a student struggles academically, I can contact advisors, deans, and counselors at the stroke of a key. At my small college, I can follow my students through graduation to stay apprised of their progress. At the end of every course I am slightly saddened to be losing ‘my kids’. I don’t know how I would feel if I didn’t have a high chance of running into them in the cafeteria, seeing them at campus events, or of having them in class again. Kudos to K-12 teachers for the strength they must have to let go.

7) K-12 teachers have little opportunity to focus on skill development. In the current age of accountability, all teachers have time to do is focus on standardized test scores. There is so much riding on students’ scores (oftentimes teachers’ future employment status), that teachers are forced to shove more and more content down students’ throats—even when they may lack the academic skills necessary to comprehend that content. The bureaucracy affecting teachers’ every move is absurd. How can they do their jobs when their hands and feet are tied?

I could go on forever, but these are the ones that cross my mind almost every day. One of my favorite quotes is from David Berliner where he states: Easy-to-do science is what those in physics, chemistry, geology, and some other fields do. Hard-to-do science is what the social scientists do and, in particular, it is what we educational researchers do. We do our science under conditions that physical scientists find intolerable. We face particular problems and must deal with local conditions that limit generalizations and theory building–problems that are different from those faced by the easier-to-do sciences.

I feel this way when comparing what K-12 teachers do and what college professors do. Teachers work under conditions professors find intolerable. They face particular problems and must deal with issues that limit their effectiveness. Teachers are under appreciated, under valued, and under supported. They are the ones who occupy central positions in children’s lives, yet they are treated as peripheral bystanders.

Teachers deserve more autonomy, more trust, more choice, more resources, more respect, and certainly more pay. But most of all, teachers deserve more thanks.

Thank you for all you do.

Cultivating Allies as a Woman of Color in Academia

“By your powers combined…I am Captain Planet!” Hehe..I think of this when I think of allies.

I tried my best to not comment on the pseudo Harlem Shake crap that is all the rage right now, but since students at my college filmed a video of themselves engaging in that nonsense, and said video went viral, this issue has become personal. It’s become all the more personal because while I can excuse the students for participating in cultural mockery and theft (hey—they are 20, they don’t know), I cannot excuse my colleagues. Since so many others have taken the time to breakdown the History of the Harlem Shake, and to write articles about cultural misappropriation (here, here, and here)I feel no need to go down that path. Instead, I want to discuss allyhood in academia and how as a female junior faculty member of color, I must identify allies…and those who would be betray me with a click of the mouse.

A few posts ago I mentioned that I am reading Presumed Incompetent: The Intersections of Race and Class for Women in Academia. There is a section in the book about forming networks of allies in the Academy. Nancy Cantor wrote the introduction for that section and states ‘It’s both difficult and important that women who are white—the relatively privileged ones who have been the primary beneficiaries of feminism—perceive, acknowledge, and then act against the additional forms of discrimination experienced by women of color without feeling defensive’ (pg. 222). I flagged this sentence when I first read this chapter weeks ago and more now than then, I feel this is an important point. So this is where I shall begin my tale of betrayal at a small liberal arts college.

Because our students’ video was such a hit, the faculty thought it would be ‘fun’ to film our own 30 second video at the next faculty meeting. Actually, two faculty members came up with this idea and emailed the rest of the faculty with the suggestion. Now, upon receiving this email I was astounded. I was astounded not because this idea emerged—it was inevitable that someone would hop on this train to nowhere. No, I was stunned because of who made the suggestion. The people who made the suggestion would never be people I’d think would support such nonsense. Both of these people are faculty who—whether they feel this way or not—occupy marginalized spaces on campus. Though both senior faculty members, one is openly homosexual and the other is of Asian descent. The latter specifically researches issues pertinent to race, so her complicity felt like a slap in the face. After reading the email I said aloud to myself ‘is she serious?’ My immediate emotional experience cannot be described as anything other than feelings of betrayal laced in incredulity. This quickly turned to anger.

A close friend and African American colleague contacted me about this issue to formulate a plan for how we were going to respond if in fact the faculty decided to film this video. During that conversation, we thought about who else was ‘down for the cause’ and could only come up with two nonwhite faculty members. While we both wished a senior faculty member was not away on sabbatical because she certainly would’ve publicly allied herself with us, we were stunned that between two of us, we could not identify more people who would stand up and fight with us. At the end of the convo, I sadly said ‘wow…I thought we had more allies.’

Though a few minutes after the aforementioned conversation, the Asian faculty member emailed to say maybe we shouldn’t do it because after quick research, filming such a video may have ‘unintended consequences’, I couldn’t help but continue to be enraged because a) this idea emerged in the first place, and b) it could be just as easily quelled without a dialogue between affected parties.

The ‘settling’ of this issue was devoid of critical thought or open conversation. The words race, misappropriation, cultural theft, black, misidentification, or history were never mentioned. All we got was a two sentence email cloaked in light hearted liberal arts humor with a slight acquiescence that yes, perhaps this idea was not the best because they may perceive unintentional harm. The word ‘unintentional’ is laced with blame on the others and drenched with self excuse. By not discussing it, or even opening it up for discussion, the issue was deemed unworthy of discussion. That email was colorblind, perspectiveless, ahistorical, and riddled with power. Because she decided that she did not want to discuss it, the issue was closed. What of us who are still upset? Still offended? Still full of words we have been barred from sharing because the prefix to your title outranks the prefix to mine?

No. This does not feel like allyhood.

I have learned a few things. First, friendship and respect do not equate allyhood. While mentally scrolling through my list of friends for possible allies it became clear that few people would sacrifice their reputation or professional relationships for the greater good (perhaps because they do not view it as ‘greater’ or ‘good’). Few people can find the courage and fortitude to do more than softly agree behind closed doors. When it comes time to stand up publicly and declare an alliance, most friends will hold their heads down while avoiding eye contact (if they are not in fact, already out of the door). They do not want to look me in my eyes and see the result of their abandonment. And I get it. It’s hard to do what you know is right when you don’t feel anything was wrong.

A chapter in Presumed Incompetent written by Margalynne Armstrong and Stephanie Wildman outlines what it takes for people to truly be considered allies when it comes to issues of race. They describe the necessity of color insight—the recognition that a racial status quo exists in which society attributes race to each member—to battle the pervasiveness of colorblindness. Ignoring issues of race under the guise of equality does nothing but create a space in which racism and oppression can grow unchecked, only emerging when people can no longer avoid discussing the black, brown, yellow, or red elephant in the room.

They also borrow from Kimberly Crenshaw’s (1994) discussion of perspectivelessness—the adoption of the “neutral” white norm as the default for laws, values, and behaviors. I especially believe this construct is constantly at play in racialized environments because it empowers people to not think about how their behaviors and words affect others. It is as if they believe ‘if most people are fine with it, then what’s the big deal?’

Yes, it seems to me as if colorblindness precedes, or perhaps bolsters, the existence of perspectivelessness. It is easy to ignore others when you refuse to accept that no, everyone is not like me and everyone is not treated as I am treated. I am especially concerned with the fact that the homogenous climate of academia facilitates (and sometimes encourages) the silencing of racial discourse. Why is it that one woman of color was allowed to represent the collective voices of ethnic minorities? Why didn’t a white colleague challenge her self-assumed position as Speaker of the [Colored] House? Most of all, why were we faculty members who disagreed with her narrative forced to plot and plan in secret instead of being given the space and opportunity to express our views publicly? The fallacy of community in academia made certain that she felt comfortable not having to think about how her endorsement of a racialized behavior would be perceived by white colleagues. She is tenured, she is well respected on campus, and she is Asian. So of course she has the experience, the knowledge, and the right to suggest such an idea. Because if she thinks it’s ok, and she is Asian, then it must be ok, right?

I am certain she never intended to speak on behalf of all ethnic minorities, but the reality is that many believe in the singular experience of minorities. Why didn’t she and other faculty in support of this video research the topic before going public with it? If we who are scholars trained at top notch institutions, national award recipients, professors at a tier 1 college do not feel the need to investigate the origins and implications of pop cultural trends, the future of academia is bleak.

We in academia are far from what Susan Sturm (2006) calls an ‘architecture of inclusion’ because we do not acknowledge what it takes for others to be included. It takes more than a shared smile in the hallway, laughs over lunch, invitations to personal events, and overlapping research interests to build inclusivity. As Nancy Cantor states, it takes ‘a culture of collaboration where issues of intersectionality can be addressed. Inclusion requires justice and due process. It also needs the give and take of social support, of flexibility of models and respect for individual and group differences…’. I would add that inclusion requires true allyhood—loud, proud, public allegiance across diverse people. Allied relationships are built upon shared knowledge, even if there aren’t shared experiences. Most importantly, allyhood, and by default, inclusion are not ephemeral weak constructs easily undermined by threats of ostracization or promises of promotion. Allies are people to whom we can turn for support even when, no—especially when—the professional turns personal.