It's a Privilege

My tagline for this blog is "I know people who like their jobs as much as I like mine, but I don't know anyone who likes their job more."

In short, it's a privilege to be a teacher. And, in some ways, I've earned it-- I mean, I went to school. I student taught. I applied for a job... and I got one.

But in other ways, I didn't. My parents encouraged and supported my education throughout my life, and were both able and willing to pay for my undergraduate degree. I'm white and a cisgender* woman-- the two (or three, I guess, depending on how you count) most common identity characteristics for teachers.

And it's not just me-- throughout history, some people have gotten a head-start, a leg up, or a positive assumption that they didn't especially earn. I'm not saying they didn't deserve it, of course (look, I believe in education for all-- I definitely deserved a college education), I'm just saying they didn't deserve it more than someone who didn't share their same un-earned advantages.

That, my friends, is kind of the crux of this issue, and it's what I teach in the Social Justice (and Social Studies!) classes I'm so, well, privileged to lead. But before we can talk about all the ways privilege impacts our lives, it's important to talk about what it is-- and that's where I can get confused stares or defensiveness on the part of some students.

But two materials and a game have really opened the doors for some good conversations, and they are as follows:

1. The throwing-crumpled-paper game. You have quite possibly come across this on Buzzfeed (oh, Buzzfeed...), and I play out the game pretty similarly to how they describe it. I have kids write their names on a piece of paper, crumple it up, and then tell them to throw it-- without moving their feet-- in to the bin at the front of the room. I tell them that those who get the paper in the bin will earn an additional 10 classroom points (good for candy, hall passes, tea...).

Once the paper balls have been thrown and the (very few) winners declared, I award the 10 points per kid. As soon as they realize that I am actually awarding the points,  kids yell back at me: "Wait, that's not fair! He was at the front of the room! I'm in the back!"

I look at them curiously. "Wait... it's not fair? But... what does distance have to do with it?"

They look at me like I'm one poodle short of a pack. "Um, it's HARDER if you're FARTHER AWAY!"

"Oh... so that's not fair, then? Because it's more difficult?"

"YEAH!" they yell back, righteous. "Plus, some other kids were in my way!"

"Oh.. that sounds frustrating."

"YEAH! And some kids are a lot better at throwing than others."

"Hmm... interesting."

"YEAH. So... it's not fair."

"No, I agree. It's not. Remember this, and we'll come back and talk about it later."

2. Then I share with them this article. I originally got it from the blog "Sindeloke," but I edited it to be appropriate for middle schoolers. We read the article together and review the questions, so we're all clear on the meaning.

I love this article. It's clear, straightforward, but not shaming. I've used this for years, and I have gotten very, very little defensiveness from students, and none from parents (and I teach a quite privileged group of kids). Now we all have a common vocabulary. We can talk about fur, about being a gecko, and about having privilege.

We apply this to whatever we happen to be covering (historically speaking) at the time. This is never difficult, as privilege plays large in every. single. part. of history. I've used this in various parts of Washington state history, in Ancient Civilizations, and in US History. In fact, I challenge you to find a time or place where this is not relevant.

3. This is my I.C.E. resource, or my "quick review" resource. The video is fantastic-- to the point, but not strident. It's funny and accessible, and Kat Blaque and Chescaleigh are people I legitimately want to be besties with. (Maybe they'll find this blog post, contact me, and we'll be best friends forever? A girl can dream.)

It's a Phase

"Are there actually any straight people here?" a member of QUILTBAG*, our GSA**, asked as she looked around the room.

"Here!" Two of our most enthusiastic members (ok, they're all enthusiastic) waved cheerfully.

"Oh, it's ok," I reassured them. "It's just a phase."

Everyone laughed.

I'm pretty sure every kid in that room has been told by a friend or family member that what they were experiencing is "just a phase."

According to Merriam-Webster, a "phase" can be defined as a distinguishable part in a course, development, or cycle.

So, YES! Sure! Absolutely! What the kids are experiencing is absolutely a phase, because it's part of their development. Maybe the phase will be a week, maybe it will be a year, or maybe it will last the rest of their lives. The beauty of this is that it does not matter.

Just because something is a phase does not make it less real. If I started eating meat tomorrow, it wouldn't make the past 15 years any less vegetarian. If my favorite color becomes yellow, it doesn't mean I didn't "really" like green. If my love of teaching persists through my entire life, that won't somehow "justify" my early years as a teacher.

And really, what's to be gained by discounting another person's identity? If it's transitory, we've... what? Mistakenly called them by the pronouns they were more comfortable with for a while? Fallaciously given them a rainbow pin? Now we have to... call them by a different name that is important to them? I, for one, think I can handle that level of flexibility or disruption.

What's the downside, exactly, of accepting who they are? Of accepting who we are?

This is where I get irritating and strident. I'm afraid you have to imagine this being shrieked from the top of a pile of soapboxes: Let's OWN our phases, however long they last, and LET OTHERS OWN THEIRS. Phases are real! Phases are GREAT! Let's celebrate ALL of the phases, because every one of them is part of the spectacular people we get to know.

When we were working on gender unicorns last week, it was uplifting and warming to hear kids consider the spectrums of their identities. They'd consider their options and shade in bars to different levels. Some of them were careful and deliberate, making sure their unicorns were perfect representations of themselves at that moment. Others were more slapdash, grinning at each other, "Oh, who knows. I'm still figuring this out. So maybe... kind of like this?" They'd look over at each other's unicorns, admiring both the results and the process. They were ok with themselves, and they were ok with each other.

It's all a phase.

The moon is no more or less a moon depending on what part of the month you look at it.

*The name of our school's Gender and Sexuality Alliance-- it stands for Queer, Undecided, Intersex, Lesbian, Trans*, Bisexual, Agender/Asexual, Genderqueer/Gay.

**Gender and Sexuality Alliance (as you have, presumably, discerned from the above note). These used to be called Gay-Straight Alliances, but has changed in recent years to more accurately encompass the breadth and depth of the community.

We Teach What We Learn

When I was about 4, I decided I really wanted to try taking a shower with my socks on. Not because wet socks are pleasant, of course (they are most definitely, definitely not), but because it was so contrary to the very nature of both showers and socks. It was weird for the sake of weird, and that intrigued me. I asked my mom if I could give this peculiar experience a go...

So I tried taking a shower with my socks on.

Socks I will not be wearing in the shower, because I know better now.
Bonus cat paw, that also know better than to include in the shower. 

A little later, when I was maybe 8, I decided I wanted to bake cookies without a recipe-- just make the whole plan up, based on my (admittedly limited) knowledge of baking. Mom said it was ok, as long as she got to help with the oven...

So I did. (I learned an important lesson: just because a substance is white and granulated does not make it sugar... and a cup of salt is very, very different from a cup of sugar.)


For my 10th birthday, Mom needed to hide the scavenger hunt goodies, and she needed us out of the way. She herded my group of friends into our small playroom, and left us with colored pencils, encouraging us to decorate the blank, white walls.

So we did. (And, yes, that was my best birthday ever. Thank you for asking.)

My mom is a teacher-- not just in the elementary school where she worked, but at home with my siblings and me. I'm sure she must have occasionally said no to ideas simply because she was too tired or too busy, but I don't remember that. I remember the yeses-- the opportunity to try things out for myself, to do things I was not quite old enough for, or also a little bit too old for. I grew up knowing that "yes" was a reasonable answer, that messy wasn't bad, and that experience is far more educational than any lecture.

Her mom was a teacher before her, and I am a teacher now, too. I'm not sure if it's genetic, but it's definitely learned. When students ask if they can do something, I always think about it. Any student of mine will tell you that I don't say yes to everything, but I hope they would also tell you that I genuinely consider their ideas-- and that if I say no, I have a good reason.

There are so many things I can say yes to, and those things affect their learning either positively or neutrally.

I have my hills to die on (for goodness' sake, stop talking when I am talking), but I will absolutely take students' ideas into consideration...

...which is why we once had a round of Otter Pops in the middle of fifth period, or why we ran outside to stand in the buckets of snow that poured down on Friday, or why sometimes kids sit under their desks to work. It's why we're currently putting Marcus and Narcissa Whitman on trial, in a full-on courtroom case, rather than just writing argumentative paragraphs (though we'll do that, too!). It's why we spend 5 minutes outside, rainbow-hunting, if the weather suggests the colors are just waiting to be spotted.

It's why my classroom contains a mix of chairs, desks, standing desks, Hokki stools, yoga ball chairs, floor pillows, and stuffed animals.

It's why we drink tea.

And yeah, sometimes that takes a few minutes away from the "Washington State History" part of the curriculum, but there's a lot I'm trying teach other than that.

And if they also learn that it's worth asking for outrageous, joyful things, because sometimes the answer is yes?

That's a lesson I'm fine with teaching. It's one, after all, that I'm really glad to have learned.

E-mail is a Risky Medium

Last year I started hosting Dessert Nights for my students' families. It's a fun opportunity for me to hang out with "my kids" and get to know the important people in their lives. It also lets the families put a face to my name (and, in some cases, learn how to pronounce it-- always positive). I've now hosted three, and they've been overwhelmingly positive.

For this year's first Dessert Night, I sent out a reminder e-mail...

and I was immediately reminded of how risky a medium e-mail can be. Surely this e-mail (from a parent) was not intended for me, nice though it was: 

I considered how I should respond. My immediate inclination was to send a funny e-mail back, but I don't know this parent, and I didn't want to make some sort of major relationship tactical error. I considered my options, and finally replied:

It turned out to be a safe and amusing choice.

She was laughing, I was laughing, all was well. But it made me so grateful that the accidental e-mail I received was so very nice! 

Siblings

Morgan (8th grade) and James (7th grade) are siblings, and both are in my Social Justice class in 5th period. James is also in my Social Studies class (as Morgan was last year). As individuals, they are bright, hard-working, and hilarious. As siblings, they are-- well, they're siblings. I once had to break up a friendly chokehold in the classroom (James, who was being ferociously grasped by Morgan, managed to gurgle that it was a "modified hug-- I have to take what I can get, you know?") They tease each other, and I understand that occasionally they even-- shock and horror!-- annoy each other.

Morgan is nonbinary, which is confusing to some people. Because they aren't a girl or a boy, they use gender neutral pronouns and don't use feminine or masculine identifying words. I would never call them either "Mr. Morgan" or "Miss Morgan," nor would I refer to them as James's older sister-- but that's what another student did, quite innocently and unknowingly. I overheard the conversation.

Unknown Kid: "James, your sister has Miz Middling too, right?"

James: "My sibling, yeah. They do."

Unknown Kid: "...your sister, though? Right?"

James: "Well, my sibling, but yeah. We're both in social justice."

It was so calm, so easily and clearly corrected. It was both the biggest deal, and the most insignificant at the same time.

Later, I was pleased to pass along the story to Morgan. When I told them, they were touched. "That's... wow. That's really great. I mean, he teases me at home sometimes, 'cause, you know, siblings. But... that's really nice."

Morgan called James immediately. "Hey, Miz Middling said that she overheard you correct a kid who called me your sister. So, yeah. Thanks. Ok, yeah. See you at home. "

shirt from lookhuman.com

A Web of Ducklings

I had extraordinary teachers when I was in middle school-- kind, caring, compassionate, and patient people. They were always genuinely pleased to see us (or they were really, really good actors) and respected our feelings, thoughts, and opinions as valid. I think about them when I'm interacting with my students now, and that example has set a really powerful base for the relationships I have with "my kids." 

There are a network of kids out there who consider themselves my family-- and the feeling is very mutual. Sure, they don't come home with me at the end of the day, but then, I barely manage to get myself home at the end of the day. (I think I'm one Murphy Bed away from living in the classroom... good thing I like it there.) (And, realistically, I'm pretty sure the kids would come home with me if the opportunity presented itself. They know I have friendly cats.)

I refer to them as my "school family," and their very existence fills me with joy. They hang out in my classroom before school, after school, at lunch, and during class (if they have class with me). They eat the snacks I buy for the classroom, and helpfully offer them to other guests. They clean and organize the space, fill me in on the details of their lives, and ask sincerely about my weekends. I hurry them off to their scheduled activities ("You don't have to commit to that activity, but if you DO commit, you have to follow through!"), prod them into finishing their homework and help if they need it, and pass along the lessons I wish someone had just said to be straight-out ("If you want someone to do something, the best way to achieve that is to tell them"). I think of them as my ducklings, since they are seemingly always around.

I don't know how long these kids will be my ducklings-- some of them will go to high school next year, and while I think they will keep in touch, I know I will certainly see less of them. Perhaps they'll come over every single day after school-- or perhaps months will go by without a visit. I could understand and respect either decision. 

When I first moved to this city, I decided I would make it my "home town," as I had not ever experienced such a thing before. I thought of this as "spinning my web," creating a network of people, locations, and memories that make me feel secure. 

For however long my ducklings are my ducklings, I'm glad they are part of my web. 

(Yes, I used clashing metaphors. I'm fine with that.)