ABSTRACT
By February of 1992, I had been a kindergarten/first grade teacher for nearly 4 years in rural Alabama, and I had struggled along the way. One day, sitting in front of Earl Niles 1 and 19 other first graders, I realized that my social studies transaction methods class was most likely the turning point in my life, the epiphany that opened my eyes to my real journey, the journey that cannot ignore the social, cultural, linguistic, and economic contexts of teaching and learning in public schools.
February 1992
“Would anyone like to share something about the story?”
My first graders can’t see the deep breath I take as I turn to put the book about Rosa Parks up on the chalk tray. My first graders can’t know how risky it is for me to open up this conversation.
Last night, I stayed up late reading and rereading all the books I had on Rosa Parks. Around midnight, I finally narrowed it down to two that I thought my first graders would understand—this one that talks about Rosa Parks, the activist who took a stand by taking a seat, and another that talks about Rosa Parks, the tired, black woman who just wanted to rest her feet. By midnight, I was tired and just wanted to go to sleep, but the decision of what to read was hanging over me. I thought about abandoning both books, but this is National Black History Month, and I teach in rural Alabama where more than 60% of the population is African American. How could I NOT talk about Rosa Parks? The bus boycotts were started less than two hours south of here.
Not for the first time, I cursed my (now) good friend, Barbara Rountree, and her social studies methods class that I took as an undergraduate in the fall of 1987. At midnight, when I was trying to make this decision, it was her face I saw. It was her voice I heard saying
Why is it that history is always presented from the perspective of the White, middle-class male? Why is it that social studies are always about memorizing dates, plotting capitals, regurgitating facts? Can’t kids look that stuff up in a book? When do we teach kids to think, to question, to reflect, to analyze, to dissect? When do we engage in conversations with kids about what they know instead of what they don’t know?
I had taken Barbara’s words to heart. Since I began teaching in the fall of 1988, all teaching, not just social studies, became for me an opportunity to engage in conversations with children. Every story became an invitation for children to share their thoughts. Over the past 4 years, my role became less the asker of questions and evaluator of answers and more the facilitator of discussions and encourager of risk taking. Teaching and learning became transactions between the kids, the stories, and me. It was a philosophy that started in Barbara’s class, one that I built upon my 1st year of teaching and one that continues now in my 4th year. And it is not one that I can simply abandon when the conversation gets controversial. I’m not even sure I would know how to go back to the old days when I was in school, the days of teacher questions and student answers. I could read about Rosa Parks, the tired woman who just wanted a seat, or I could read one of the many benign stories about Martin Luther King, Jr., being a great speaker and leader. Or I could just skip it altogether. It’s not likely that any of the mostly White teachers in my school would notice. And it’s not likely that any of my students’ parents would question it, since the kids are only in first grade. But I would know. And what could I say to Barbara?
At 1:15, I finally decided on Rosa the activist, let the chips fall where the may. But now, at 9:15 in the classroom, I wonder if Barbara knows how risky it is to raise social and political issues in a classroom where I have established a pattern of discussion, reflection, questioning, and sometimes acting upon the outcomes. Just last week, I had to change the bathroom policy because the kids pointed out that it wasn’t fair that I could go whenever I wanted, but they had to ask my permission. It’s crazy to think that in a classroom that promotes reflecting, questioning, and acting, kids are suddenly just going to be quiet when the topic turns political. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Earl Niles, an African American student looking at me with his eyebrows knitted together. I turn in my chair so that I am facing him.
“Miss Leslie, why did they make that Black lady get out her seat?”
Keeping my voice deliberately neutral, I answer, “Well, it used to be that everything for Black people and White people was separate.” I say this as if all has changed by 1992. “There were schools for Black children and schools for White children.” As if all schools are now equally integrated. As if there isn’t gross inequity in funding for schools for mostly White kids and schools for mostly Black kids. “There were water fountains for Black people and water fountains for White people.” As if those water fountains were exactly the same in location and quality. As if they weren’t incredibly unequal. “And on buses, there was a place for Black people in the back and a place for White people in the front.”
There it is: Black people in the back and White people in the front. No amount of neutrality can cover up the inequity here. I am on dangerous ground. I can just see some of my White parents storming up here demanding to know why I’m bringing up all that stuff that ain’t got nothing to do with them or their kids. They weren’t in Montgomery when all that stuff happened. They ain’t got nothing against Black folks, long as they keep to themselves. They ain’t prejudiced or nothing; they just think that God didn’t intend for White folks and Black folks to mix. That’s all.
Earl stares at me, his already wrinkled forehead wrinkles some more and his eyes flash, “Miss Leslie, that ain’t fair!”
Good lord, what have I gotten myself into? How did I end up here? I wanted to be an early childhood teacher because I wanted to make a difference in the world. Before I took Barbara’s class, I had it all figured out. I was going to be a kind, fun-loving teacher who taught kindergarten or maybe first grade. My kids were going to love school. And after me, no matter what, they would stay in school. They would graduate. Maybe they’d go on to college, but for sure they’d get a decent job. I had a notebook full of ideas of how to make learning fun. Kids could paint their spelling words instead of writing them five times each. How boring. We’d do all the science experiments in the book instead of just one or two. I’d let the kids take their tests over and over again until they passed it so everybody could get an A. Kids would leave my classroom with their self-esteem intact and with a love of school. But then, the semester before my student teaching, Barbara turned all that upside down.
And now I find myself sitting before a 7-year-old who can see through my forced neutrality in part because I have encouraged him to look beneath the surface, to question what is really there.
Is that what Barbara did for me? Did she encourage me to look beneath the surface of traditional teaching, to question what teaching is really about? Could it be that unlike most of my teacher education classes, Barbara’s class made a difference in how I thought about teaching and learning? And am I the only one? Is there anybody else who has ended up here? Sitting in front of a 7-year-old who is raising issues of political and social inequity? I look at Earl. I could diffuse this situation by downplaying the inequity—well, people didn’t know back then, but now it’s different, now it’s fair. But it’s not fair. There is huge disparity between the life chances of African American children in Alabama and White children in Alabama. If Barbara opened my eyes in her course, then I have chosen to keep them open in my classroom. Without blinking, I look at Earl.
“No, Earl. No it isn’t fair.”
