The Best I Can Do

I'm teaching a multi-cultural literature class this quarter. It's a 200 level course and I have 26 students.  I didn't even think the class would fill up, but it has. It's overfilled! The students are an interesting group- many of them are white but seem to have this desire to learn about more than just the dominant culture they grew up in.  I asked what they wanted at the beginning and they answered (in so many words) that they crave history, real history, and truth.  They want to know more than what they see on television but don't know how to find it.  They suspect that there are cultures in the U.S. That have nothing to do with white culture and don't quite know how to begin.

I guess that's where I come in. I set a curriculum (lots of Native American literature), guide class discussion and check to make sure everyone has done their homework.  I talk about my experiences and try to augment the somewhat pathetic offerings that show up in the book.  I'm not a fan of Pearson, if you didn't notice. But that's the book the department wanted me to use. I just made photocopies of the other stuff for them.

One of my students the other day referred to me as an expert on Native American literature. We did begin with Native American Literature (also see: American Literature) and I admit that it is my favorite genre.  But an expert?

It made me acutely uncomfortable.  I am no expert on a particular type of literature and it feels like a white person appropriating someone elses culture to say that I am.  I can discuss characteristics of early Native American lit, talk about current authors and stereotypes and issues often discussed and warn about what is and is not appropriate to wear as a halloween costume. Hint: Bride of Frankenstein is ok. Wearing a headband, feathers and face paint doesn't make you a slutty Indian girl. It makes you an asshole. I can talk about blood quantam and ethnic versus cultural identity.
I can even tell you about the undercurrent (sometimes over-current) of anger at white people in general, and with good reason- both historically and currently. 

Yes, go ahead and appropriate this guy. It's ok; you have my permission.

What I cannot do is call myself an expert.  Yes, I have studied this literature quite a bit.  Lots of people do. I write about Sherman Alexie and attend cultural events from time to time.  But I am not a member of that community and there exists a separation between me and that culture.  Therefore, I am an outsider and not an expert. 

But that doesn't exactly translate in the classroom.  I think when my student said "expert", what he really meant was "you know more than we do, so it appears you know everything about this subject which you are so passionate about". 

I can dig that.

There is another aspect that comes up: white guilt.  I think many of my white students feel it; the weight of what our ancestors have done.  It's a normal part of becoming aware of white privilege. There are moments that sometimes happen when reading writing by people who did not experience the privilege of the dominant culture when one realizes that by dint of their birth they have had unfair advantage.  It's heavy.  It hangs around the neck and makes it difficult to look people in the eye.  It makes one feel outraged and a little bit fooled by the perpetuation of the myth that everyone is equal in the U.S. It's difficult- the sneaking realization, the denial, and probably the embrasure of truth.  Or more often, the discarding of these ideas simply because it's too uncomfortable to deal with effectively. 

So that's really what I'm an expert on.  I'm an expert on trying not to be a jerk.  And helping others to not be jerks too.  Can't we all just get along?

Sometimes I am very good; sometimes I fail miserably.  Just like most humans.

I prepared for this class years ago. I wrote about my discomfort at teaching multicultural literature, since I am a white person.  I talked to others in the field.  My academic credentials are fine; I am completely qualified.  And I do love literature.  And I can teach it.  That's the synthesis of the thing.

However.

Every time I step to that podium, I am aware that I am white. I am aware that this gives me an advantage with my white students and that it can also be a turn off for students who identify as someone other than white.  I am doing my best to step out of the way, to highlight text, to ask questions but not necessarily to answer them.  To point out voices but let students wrestle with meaning.  To provide framework but not fill in the blanks.  In other words, I'm having the time of my life.

That really is the best I can do. 

Teaching Who We Are

I'm teaching a graduate course on Writing Theory.  We read and talk about theoretical issues in teaching writing as well as in education.  I'm trying to frame a bigger political picture sometimes.

Let's face it: As a teacher, I am either aware of my place in the institution and system and I use that to my advantage to work on behalf of my students who deserve a good education, or I stay in lala land, pretending this has nothing to do with me and become a cog in the wheel.  Being a cog is pretty much what administrators and politicians want, even if they wouldn't articulate it that way.

Do I look like I'm kidding? 

So, in and around the important discussions of culture in education, constructivist theory, cognition and the writing process in general, I have been hearing rumblings of how much or how little a teacher should invest themselves or reveal themselves to students.  It comes out a little sideways, but what I hear (and maybe I am wrong) is that these teachers are uncomfortable with being personal with their students.

Enter Parker Palmer and "The Courage to Teach".  I think I'll hand out his first chapter this week.  It talks about how we teach who we are and what social presentation of the self means.  I will use myself as an example.

I love teaching and I am good at it.  I am not always successful and sometimes I really miss the mark.  You'd be crazy or disengaged to think that every single time you enter a classroom, something magic happens.

My best teaching days are filled with students who are engaged. I start with a story, something engaging about teaching in prison or growing up on the rocky hillsides and rolling hills of Dayton, Washington.  I tell stories about music or dumpster diving or camping on the Tucannon or visiting my great grandparents in their little ramshackle house way out in the boondocks, with light coming through the cracks in the boards and the water pump in the kitchen sink.  Out back was the privy and a big old tree that my grandma and her siblings walked over when it was little so that it grew sideways.  It still stands that way today, even though the house is gone and an RV park has been erected in its place.

These stories are me and the original details, the energy I put into telling them is pretty apparent.  My students can tell when I don't care about an assignment, so I tend to only give assignments I like.

We teach who we are, and I am a better teacher because I am doing something I love and believe in with everything I have.  Enough to give meaningful assignments, enough to hold students accountable for their work, and enough to know everyone's names and something about them.  I could always tell when a teacher or professor really shouldn't have been in this business, and I can sometimes tell who is fulfilling a potential that perhaps they never knew they had.

However, when I'm having a bad day, personally, they likely will not know.  My teaching persona is something I don like a mask or a costume.  It begins with my clothing and make up, continues with my lesson plan and doesn't come off until my pretty shoes get kicked into the closet at the end of the day.  Even on my crappiest days, I wouldn't trade this for the world.

Now, that doesn't solve the problem of "how much is too much?" or "how little is too little?" when sharing with students.

The answer to that question is "it depends".

Ok, this is just here b/c he's cute 

The answer is always "it depends" because I can't tell you all of the answers.

It just does.  I can't tell someone what to say in front of a class, how to inspire or to spark imagination or the willingness to explore in writing that authentic self, which is where a lot of great writing comes from.  I can offer advice on this one point: You will want to know your own heart and your own identity as a teacher.  You might consider doing that development as a teacher as a writer and as a human before you offer your skills and guidance as an English teacher (or any other teacher) to your students.  And if you don't care about student learning or about your students in general, then perhaps it would be best to do something else.

At some point you'll develop the tools to figure out situations as they present themselves.  That's why we have teaching theories.  They emerge from teaching practices. Teaching theories are the collective wisdom of many, many teachers over time.  We become aware of these theories, we apply the ones that work best for us and discard the rest.  And sometimes we contribute to these theories ourselves as we pass them on to others.