Snapshots from the First Day of School

I begin my first day of fiftieth grade working at home, prepping tomorrow night’s seminar. New this year is historian Catherine J. Denial’s A Pedagogy of Kindness, which I have slipped into the syllabus sight unseen. When we talk about teaching, my graduate students will consider Denial’s suggestion that teaching begin with kindness, toward ourselves and our students.

When I am on campus, printing out the class list, news of the killings at Apalachee High School comes across my newsfeed. I gird myself, pray about the body count, turn my mind sideways, do the mental calisthenics I learned somewhere between Sandy Hook and Parkland. I carry my books and papers and welcome the undergraduates to class.

I begin with my values. I tell my students I know they are people first. They have complicated lives that will sometimes get in the way of their ability to do the work we are meant to do together. I value their physical and mental health. Last fall a student told me no professor had ever offered that message before. I tell them teaching is a sacred trust.

I assure the students that the deadlines are soft. We will have ungrading instead of rubrics and graded assessments. When they do the work in good faith, I will give them the same engaged feedback I give my colleagues. They will not lose points for lateness or misplaced apostrophes or less than fully-formed ideas. Learning to please their own standards outweighs the anxiety of trying to meet mine, still unknown to them. I also ask them for their grace. I am a caregiver for a relative in hospice. Soon I may need them to forgive my distraction and absence. I too am a person with a complicated life.

The class meeting is full of laughter, with more instantaneous connection, engagement, and pleasure than I have ever experienced on the first day of school. The students are genuinely enjoying themselves. They are also giddy with relief. They may have come to class knowing about the news from Georgia, done their own psychological gymnastics. They are mostly no older than Columbine. They have grown up in the shadow of school shootings and the heat of a warming planet. They have chosen higher education despite it all. My classroom will provide a little respite from the grief.

After dinner I deal with my high school senior’s back-to-school paperwork. I read and sign a syllabus. It is fierce and adversarial. It admonishes and threatens. It tells students they must do the reading, come to class fully prepared, not hide in the nurse’s office during a test, write an extra test if they miss the AP exam next spring. It looks like the kind of syllabus that many of us wrote before the pandemic. But at least my child came home today.

Sometimes it’s hard not to feel defeated in this vocation. Educators feel ourselves so thoroughly devalued. Policies set us at odds with our students: following the curriculum is more important than learning, judging our students is more important than loving them. Our schools have been stripped of funding. We show up for the first day of school knowing that somewhere in the country, dozens of our colleagues and students will be murdered at work this year. Perhaps in ours. In school, the Second Amendment outweighs our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

I no longer hope that we will renounce the madness of the guns. The worst has already happened, over and over again, and nothing has changed. Kindness is not the kind of structural transformation that can counteract the consequences of bullying, abuse, illness, and rage. It is a pedagogical strategy, or perhaps a tactic. It is not enough. But it is something that I can bring to my teaching, to how I work with students and how I set up my classes.

After I walk the dog in the dark, I have a free hour to write. I contemplate the metaphors of conflict built into my vocabulary: snapshots, gird, deadlines, defeated, strategy, tactic. I consider whether to free my language of their taint or to keep them, markers of how hard it is even to speak peacefully.

Earlier this week, another teacher reminded me that in the long run students will forget the content of my class, but they will remember how I made them feel. I am not so naïve as to think a million teachers infusing our courses with kindness will be enough to stop school shootings. But as I peer over the rim of my own despair, I wonder whether being kind might be enough to give pause to the shooter who walks through my hallway. He might point his gun downward as he passes our classroom door, away from my beloved, laughing students, full of the joy of learning.

Pandemic Learning

Let’s talk about the suffering of American schoolchildren, shall we?

Until the 20^th century, children were entitled to a rudimentary education of reading, writing, and arithmetic. Most families could not spare their children’s labor—bodily labor on the farm, wage labor in the factory—so basic literacy was the maximum they got.

During the Great Depression, Americans started implementing universal high school education. Not because they really believed in the benefits of a superior education, but as a way of keeping youth off the job market. If they were in school, they would stop competing with grown men for family-supporting wages.

But that’s all taken care of right? That’s history.

Consider also these conditions that continue into the present.

Local municipalities and states denied African Americans the resources to run adequate schools. Buildings were ramshackle, teachers taught 100 children in a classroom. After the Brown I and II decisions, black children had better access to schools that had been built for white children. But African Americans and other families of color often have to make a trade-off: send children to schools built around white children so they can learn in well-resourced conditions, or keep them in a culturally-supportive, close-to-home environment where they are not subject to racist hazing and daily micro-aggressions.

Children with disabilities received either no education or entirely segregated education until the Americans with Disabilities Act meant they were entitled to education in the least restrictive environment. Even now, however, because schools cannot be bothered to implement Universal Design and the states have not quadrupled educational funding, they continue to learn on the margins of an educational system built for neurotypical students.

What of gifted/asynchronous learners? The schools have no obligation to meet their educational needs. The states have chosen to build schools around the learning needs of children of normal intelligence who meet a suspect set of developmental norms. They cannot have access to academic content appropriate to their intellectual gifts until their behavior meets the age-related criteria specified by developmental psychologists. Some gifted/asynchronous learners suffer their entire educational careers in schools that are built to prepare children for work and careers rather than for curiosity, wonder, and learning.

Some children are natural nightowls. Leave them alone and they will do their best and most creative work between about 10 p.m. and 3 a.m. But can they have a school experience that encourages them to learn? No, because school has to start at 7 a.m. so that student athletes are not denied the opportunity to practice and compete in the afterschool hours.

So, forgive me if I am not entirely sympathetic to the complaints of parents whose children would learn better in the school building than through temporary virtual learning. Your children are operating in a context that has simply not prioritized education for all students. Here in Wisconsin, the state and the public have decided that keeping tavern owners in business and going on with church services and weddings are all more important than keeping children in school buildings. They have taken this decision even though the entire planet is dealing with an emergency like World War II that requires everyone to sacrifice in order to keep our health care system functioning.

If you want an educational system that spares your child the indignity of learning from the comfort of home instead of with the direct supervision of teachers, then you have to work to build a system that prioritizes the education of all children. Because we haven’t had that yet in America. Maybe it’s time.

[X] High School

Friends,

If you were in a relationship with someone you really cared about—a partner, a parent, a child, a friend—and they said to you, calmly and clearly, “When you say [X], it hurts me.” What would you do? Would you push back, dismiss their feelings and their words, keep doing the thing that hurt your loved one? Or would you say, “I’m sorry that hurts you. Out of respect for your feelings, I will try to choose less hurtful words in the future.”

What if your friend said this?: “When you say [X], it hurts me. And, [X] is bound up in our country’s racist past. It reminds me of numerous other ways that my family and I are devalued because of how other people perceive us, a devaluation whose effects are too legion and devastating for me to recount for you now—and whose effects you are already aware of. When you keep saying [X] despite the fact that I have told you how it hurts me, it tells me that saying [X] is more important to you than our relationship.” Would you persist in saying [X] because your need to say [X] was more important than you need to heal your relationship?

If you went to high school with me, you probably see where this is going. It hurts me—and it hurts you, and it hurts us—that our high school was named after a man who gave his life to keep African Americans enslaved, subject to brutality, families broken, women subjected to unpunishable rape. Why is it more important to you to honor the name of a man who died a century before you were born than it is to heal your relationship with your friends, your classmates, your teachers, and the future students in that school?

JEB Stuart High School

            For the past several years, the Fairfax County School board has been enmeshed in a debate about what to do about the name of my alma mater: J.E.B. Stuart High School. General J.E.B. Stuart was a dashing cavalry officer who died in service of the Confederate army. Since the 1980s, when I attended, the high school has been one of the most ethnically diverse and stably racially integrated in the United States. Not only are there white and black students in significant numbers, but many students with family backgrounds in Asia and a majority from Latino heritage and origin. Photos suggest that the school continues also to have a significant Muslim population whose presence is not reflected in demographic data.

The arguments for dropping or retaining the school’s name are heated. Two of the most common reasons cited for keeping Stuart’s name on the school are that we cannot change history and the costs associated with the change.

It is true that we cannot change the past. But place, institutional, and personal names do change. Think about the name of the place where you live. Is the word for your city or neighborhood indigenous? The city where I work now does have an Ojibwe name that reflects the prevalence of Anishinaabemowin speakers in this area in the 19^th century. But would the earlier Woodland people who built Wisconsin’s effigy mounds have recognized “Milwaukee” as a meaningful name? The airport now named after Ronald Reagan replaced ones named for Herbert Hoover and the place named for George Washington. In the United States, women who marry and divorce routinely change their names, updating their identities to reflect changes in their personal histories. In all of these cases, people have chosen to update names, not to deny history but to reflect what is most meaningful to them in the present.

We do not have to be ruled by decisions made in the past. J.E.B. Stuart High School was named in 1959, as the “massive resistance” strategy came peaked in Virginia. Massive resistance was a political response to the 1954 Supreme Court Brown v. Board decision ordering racial desegregation of public schools. Rather than comply, whites in Virginia shut down public schools. White children could attend private academies. Black families made the wrenching decision to send their children to other states in order to get their educations. The story was different in Northern Virginia, where the postwar population had boomed. In contrast to the rest of the state, the Fairfax County School Board opened new schools. But no one could mistake the insult to African Americans intended by choosing to name a school after a Confederate hero. Black students might get a public education at J.E.B. Stuart High School, but for years afterwards they also carried on their résumés the name of a man who died for the principle that states could decide whether their ancestors were property or were included in the fundamental American value of liberty. The choice of school name was probably also a thumb in the eye of thousands of white “carpetbaggers” who had come south to work in the booming postwar federal government.

The second reason given against the name change is the cost, which would allegedly eat up funds better spent counteracting cuts to important school programs. The Fairfax County School Board website lists $678,000 in projected costs associated with new signage, in-school branding, athletic and band uniforms, and logo-bearing items. This argument is more compelling but still not persuasive. As the site also notes, items such as uniforms normally wear out and are replaced on a regular basis, and other items fall under the purview of the work of the booster club. The difficulty is coming up with all that money at once rather than amortizing it over multiple budget years. Replacing signage is a one-time cost that could potentially be covered by engaging the community and alumni in fundraising. Further, development professionals know how to turn a crisis into a fundraising opportunity. The school district could take advantage of the heightened interest of alumni in this issue to send out an appeal for the funds needed for special education, parental support, and smaller class sizes to raise private money.

            The naming of local institutions like schools, parks, and streets reflects local values. It is up to the Fairfax County School board to decide what it values more right now: retaining a local heritage name that branded the school as one where black students were second-class citizens or finding a new, less divisive name that students and alumni can carry with pride and help them want to give back to the school for generations to come.