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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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.)