The Power of a Story

A few months ago, we were talking about cultural appropriation in my social studies classes, just in time for a discussion of Halloween costumes. We were talking about what cultural appropriation is (the use of elements of a marginalized culture by a dominant culture for entertainment or profit), specific examples of it (Halloween provides a wealth of these), why it's problematic, and what we can do to avoid it in the future.

Of course, as part of this conversation, the topic of blackface came up. This is a tough one to explain to a bunch of privileged white kids, because they honestly can't internalize how ugly and devastating this particular manifestation of racism is. They hear it, and they believe it (for the most part), but they still struggle a bit.

It takes a story for them to understand.

A couple of weeks ago, Cora provided them with the story. As I was explaining the history of blackface and why it is still problematic today (you know, in 250 words or fewer, in a way 7th graders will grasp), I asked the kids why they thought some people may still participate in such degrading actions. She raised her hand.

"Yeah, Cora?"

"People think of this as something that happened a long time ago, in the distant past. Put it's not a long time ago. My grandparents had to move, because they weren't legally allowed to be married in the state they were living in. People hated that they were an interracial couple. And that's... my grandparents. That's not a long time ago. My grandmother wasn't a slave, but her [great-grandmother?] was. She still lives with that. That's still something that she thinks about, that affects her. This wasn't all a long time ago."

The other kids gazed at her, and I could see the processing happening in their eyes. They believed her. They felt her story, in a way that did not feel my explanations and my visual aids.

It wasn't Cora's job-- it isn't any person of color's job-- to tell the story so that her white classmates could begin to understand. But when she chose to take that on, when she decided to explain to her class? She made it matter to them.

The stories matter.

We're NOT all the same on the inside!

Ok, ok, fine. It's true. I keep trying to claim that a given topic is my soapiest soapbox, but... I actually seem to have a lot of those.

Yesterday, I realized that I feel the need to preface my dislike for some things with "Not on principle or anything, but--" For example, "Not on principle or anything, but I don't really go to the cinema. It's just so expensive for what it is." I have so many principles that I get so very impassioned about, I feel the need to explain when they are not the guiding force at hand. I imagine this makes a me a real gem to be around. A super low-key conversationalist.

But here we are, and what are we to do? I'm impassioned, and this whole blog is mine to [virtually] stand on as much as I like. SO THERE.

Of course, this brings us to...

OH MY GOD STOP TEACHING THAT "WE'RE ALL THE SAME ON THE INSIDE." JUST STOP IT ALREADY.

Yes, I know, I do! I know that the intention is to teach empathy and compassion and what-have-you. But-- teaching that by arguing that we're all the same seems a bit misguided to me.

After all, it isn't that impressive to be kind to people who are the same as you. This intended message gets a bit tainted.  If we're all just the same, then what do we have to learn from each other? What room do we have to reflect on others' experiences? If we're all the same, then how do we talk about our differences? And it's our differences that make us spectacular.

Plus, we're NOT all the same on the inside. Yes, absolutely, we all share a basic humanity, and it's important to acknowledge that-- but if you're talking with someone who needs it pointed out that we are all human, then, really, I'm not sure what you can realistically hope to get out of that conversation.

But we're not all the same. We're not, and that's great. Who I am as a person would be fundamentally different if I was black or Latina or Christian or Muslim or disabled or a man. I wouldn't be better or worse (well, probably), but my lived experiences would be different-- the world would treat me differently, I would respond differently, and I would grow and develop differently.

What bothers me most about this "we're all the same on the inside" is the erasure of differences (and of the conversation about differences), which seems to imply that differences are bad or shameful-- or that seeing them is.

We've spent years shying away from uncomfortable conversations, but it's time to get down to it. Let's dig in. Kids are so, so capable, and we need to give them the benefit of believing that they can be compassionate and empathetic without needing to see themselves reflected 100% of the time. We can hold up the mirrors to other people for a while and reflect their stories, too.

Also? It's ok to be uncomfortable. Settle in.

JUST after I wrote this post, I saw Brene Brown posted this image to her Facebook page. It's perfect.

Don't say you don't see color. Say that you are so glad there are so many different people in the world.

Don't loudly and obviously shush a child who asks about a person with a disability. Tell them that every body is different, and we only get to comment on our own.

Don't lower your voice when you say the word "gay" (and for the love of love, don't use the word as an insult. Aren't we past that already?). Talk openly and casually about lots of different types of relationships.

Don't talk about "those people." Respectfully name the group you're talking about.

Fill your library and your Netflix queue and your home museum and your eyes with work created by and about people of diverse backgrounds.

Not every conversation needs to be A Teachable Moment (TM), but every conversation is a moment in which to learn.

Let's teach our kids that we're different-- and that is something to celebrate.

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Somewhat better than crocodile wrestling

There are people out there who wonder why I would ever want to teach middle school. People who think that teaching middle school must be on par with crocodile wrestling-- dangerous, messy, and not terribly productive. If that's you, I would like to take this opportunity to prove you absolutely wrong.

Last school year, in the context of a lesson, I shared something about my personal life that has been causing me stress. In talking about it out loud, I was surprised (and slightly horrified, I'll admit) to find myself tearing up. I wrapped the conversation up quickly, and moved on to the next piece of the lesson.

The next day, one of my students stopped me as I was transitioning between activities.

"Miz Middling, we know that you're going through a difficult time right now, and we just wanted to let you know that we are thinking about you and hope that everything works out."

And then they gave me chocolate. And a card that the whole class signed.

Quotes from the 2015-2016 School Year

2015-2016

Quotes from previous years can be found here: 2013-2014, 2014-2015

Outside my [open] classroom door (which is nevertheless treated like a magical barrier to sound):

Unknown: I think Miz Middling is my second favorite teacher.


Me: You know, I can hear you out there.


Kid: ...Miz Middling is my VERY FAVORITE TEACHER EVER.

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"Can I cite my dad as a source? He's old."

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Me (talking about the Northwest Passage): ...So they decided to try sailing west instead of east. Because, as you may recall, the earth is round.

Kid: But... is it, though? Because it feels flat.

Me: Yes. The earth is definitely, definitely round.

Kid: Ok... but why don't we fall off?

Me: Well, because of gravity.

Kid: Oh. I forgot about gravity.

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Kid: Oh, that's a cool project (other student) did! And that's a LOT of a hot glue. Hot glue's so great. It works for everything. I used it on my project too.

Me: Yeah, it's pretty useful.

Kid: But it tastes really gross. And it can also burn your mouth.

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"Miz Middling, where is the pencil charger?"

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Kid 1: Where in the book is the map of where all the tribes lived?

Me: Chapter 3. Kind of the beginningish middlish part of the chapter.

Kid 2: Beginningish middlish? What does that mean exactly?


Me, holding up my hands: So if this (left hand) is the beginning, and--


Kid 2: Oh! You mean, like, the brunch part of the chapter!


Me: Exactly.

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A child chose the nickname "Puberty Boy" for a class game. Of course.

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Kid: "Oh, I didn't see that. My eyes got in the way."

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8th grade leader: Ok, you guys have to get together with a partner. This time you can choose your own partner.

He watches as the 6th graders cluster up-- 5 boys together and 3 girls together.

8th grade leader: No, no. Partners.

No one moves. He sighs deeply.

8th grade leader: This is middle school. You have to learn to abandon your friends.

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6th grader: "...and I wear more pink than most boys. So, my spirit animal is an octopus."

Me: "You know what's funny? For a long time, pink was for boys and blue was for girls. It's only fairly recently, historically speaking, that it flipped. Isn't that interesting?"

<Moment of thoughtful silence from the class>

Same 6th grader: "Well. You know. I'm kind of recent."

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