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Ending the Silence After attending training sessions designed to raise educators' awareness of racism, Ms. Marriott was inspired to tackle the issue head-on with her young students. She didn't know how she would do it or what the effects would be, but she knew that she could not remain silent. By Donna M. Marriott
Illustration © Artville |
RACISM IS the problem; doing something about
it is our responsibility. I learned this from my mentor and friend
Glenn Singleton -- an antiracist leader. Glenn works with educators
across the country to raise awareness of the pervasiveness and
destructiveness of racism in our schools, homes, and communities.
His choice of audience is purposeful and potent, for classroom
teachers are the only real agents of school reform. It is teachers
who translate policy into action; who integrate the complex components
of standards, curriculum, pedagogy, and assessment into comprehensible
and pragmatic instruction; and who balance an ever-changing array
of political, economic, social, and educational factors while
trying to meet the individual needs of children. Skillful teachers
with the will to hear Glenn's message of inclusiveness are strategically
positioned to act on their learning.
At the end of one of his training sessions, Glenn posed a difficult
question: "Now that you know, what are you going to do?"
And, indeed, those who choose to "do something" about
racism follow a difficult path with few guideposts and even fewer
guides.
Where to begin? My first step was to listen carefully to the students
in my classroom -- to hear what was said and what was not said.
A little girl who wrote, "I don't like being black,"
provoked me to consider the ways in which I might have contributed
to her feelings of devaluation. A little boy who described a mean-spirited
playground incident forced me to realize that racism was a reality
-- for my students at my school. Most fearsome,
however, was the silence. My teaching was silent on issues of
race, and it was a silence that must have spoken loudly to my
students.
"Doing something" became clearer to me. I would work
to end the silence -- mine and theirs. Presuming a link between
the low school performance of children of color and the absence
of a societal will to talk honestly and comfortably about race
and racism, I embarked on a course of action research in which
classroom conversations about race could be practiced, reflected
upon, and valued.
At the beginning, I had many more questions than answers. Could
I, a white woman in the process of discovering my own complicity
in a racist world, do this work? Did I know enough? Could I talk
about racism with my African American students? Would I have any
credibility? Where would parents come down on the issue? What
material could I use? Who would support me? How would I recover
from the mistakes I was bound to make? How would I justify this
work in an educational and political environment focused intensely
on test results? In spite of the number and complexity of the
questions that confronted me, Glenn's question was always present
to remind me of my responsibility. Perhaps I didn't know exactly
what to do, but doing nothing was not an option.
I could tell many stories about the year of learning that followed
my resolution to do something. I could tell about my own heightened
awareness of race and the impact of this process of discovery
on my family, my friends, and my colleagues. I could tell about
the curriculum I stumbled on -- what worked, what didn't, why,
and why not. I could tell about the support that I sought and
about who chose to share in my learning and who chose to turn
away.
But the most important stories are those about the children who
engaged in this work with me -- thoughtful stories, heartwarming
stories, inspiring stories, frightening stories, and sad stories.
The story I have chosen to share was shaped through the words
and actions of two boys -- Cory and Damon (both pseudonyms). Their
story documents the growth of racial awareness in the hearts,
minds, spirits, and language of these young children.
Cory was a first-grader -- middle class, two working parents,
home in the suburbs, two cars, two computers, three TVs. He learned
to read "on time." Math was a snap for him. He wrote
stories about dinosaurs, race cars, and snakes. He was bright,
energetic, friendly, and competitive. Cory was made for school,
and school was made for Cory. Cory is white.
Damon was a second-grader. He and his three brothers lived with
a loving grandmother who worked nights to support her second family.
At the end of kindergarten, Damon's teacher added this note to
his permanent record: "Damon had a difficult year academically
and socially. He should be tested for special education services."
Damon came to my multi-age class as a first-grader and was still
struggling to learn the alphabet halfway through the year. While
he was shy and passive in class, Damon was nothing less than riotous
on the playground. Damon was befuddled by school, and school was
befuddled by Damon. Damon is black.
Designing a Course of Action
My "plan" emerged serendipitously as I watched my students
perform a simple school ritual -- the morning recitation of the
Pledge of Allegiance. The final line of this mighty oath, "with
liberty and justice for all," became the focal point of a
yearlong study that would provide my young students with opportunities
to engage in sustained conversations about liberty and justice.
This put them on a path toward racial awareness, understanding,
and thoughtful action. Together, we explored the nature of justice,
simple and complex. We learned to talk about it. We learned to
look for it. We learned to recognize its absence. We learned that
justice isn't automatic; it is a personal and collective responsibility.
The curriculum emerged slowly. There were some hits, and there
were some mighty misses. I decided to focus our learning on the
area of children's literature and to ground our work on justice
in something more tangible, more concrete -- the theme of heroism.
My intent was to help these children realize that heroes don't
have to wear capes or leap tall buildings in a single bound. I
wanted them to realize that heroes are ordinary people with extraordinary
commitment to their ideals. I wanted them to imagine that they
could become heroes by taking responsibility to seek, recognize,
practice, and value liberty and justice for all.
We began our inquiry within the first days of the new school year.
To my surprise, the work was easier than I had imagined it would
be. Young children have a keen awareness of and an acute need
for fairness. Many of their real-life issues center on justice:
"She cut me in line." "He was the line leader yesterday."
"She had more turns than me." Discussions of justice
became part and parcel of our life together as learners. Cory
began to use "justice" with accuracy, ease, and frequency.
He formed a "justice patrol" with his playground pals
to make sure that the rules for dodge ball were being followed
and that everyone got a fair turn. However, Damon remained on
the outside of the learning. Sometimes, he was on the outside
looking in; more often, he was on the outside looking out. He
had not yet found personal meaning in the idea of liberty and
justice for all.
In spite of our growing ability to understand and talk about justice,
I continued to be uncomfortable about moving the conversation
directly toward race. To be honest, I was more than uncomfortable
--
I was stuck. I needed a partner, a mentor, a friend to help me
focus my thinking, clarify my goals, study my children, and help
me "try on" a more challenging curriculum. I sought
help from Glenn, who not only accepted the challenge but relished
it. He continued to work with us periodically throughout the year
and always lifted our conversations and deepened our awareness.
Racializing Justice
Having an African American man in our classroom affected Damon
in ways that I had not anticipated. Damon was astute and engaged
when Glenn spoke: he listened, he made eye contact, he volunteered
answers, he posed questions, and he sat up on his knees right
in the middle of the front row. I began to see the person hidden
inside, the person Damon had learned to leave at the school door
each morning. Cory, too, was interested in Glenn, though, I think,
for quite a different set of reasons. I wondered if Cory had ever
interacted with an African American man up close and personal
before. Cory was interested in Glenn's personal life. Where did
he live? Did he ever have a hamster for a pet? Did he have any
children? Interestingly, whereas Damon would refer to Glenn as
his "buddy," Cory talked about Glenn as a "hero."
Our foray into racializing justice began with a study of The
Story of Ruby Bridges, by Robert Coles. Glenn gently but
clearly explained that, when Ruby was a little girl, there were
some schools that didn't allow children with dark skin to attend.
He went on to explain that Ruby was a hero because she helped
people learn that every child had the right to go to school. The
children were spellbound by the story of a little girl their
age who faced a grave injustice with bravery and whose act
of quiet heroism touched their very lives today.
To assess their learning and our teaching, we asked the children
to draw and label a picture of their thinking, their reactions,
their wonderings. Cory drew a frightening, robot-like figure with
raised clenched fists. Smiling next to this daunting character
was a small child -- a child with brown skin like Ruby, but with
short blond hair like Cory. The caption read: "It is not
fair!!!!!!"
Damon sat quietly on the edge of the group during Glenn's telling
of the story, though his eyes never left Glenn. While he seemed
engaged in the lesson, he produced no drawing and wrote no words
that day. A full week had passed when he asked me privately before
school if he could write something about Ruby. He wrote: "Ruby
felt sad because the crowd was mean to her." Damon was beginning
to become a part of our learning community.
Racializing Liberty
While the children were quick to internalize the concept of justice,
liberty proved far more elusive. Children deal with issues of
justice every day in school and at home. Liberty, however, is
more abstract, for young children experience little liberty in
their daily lives. I thought to approach the notion of liberty
by examining its complete absence -- slavery. The book I used
to open a conversational door into slavery was The Eagles
Who Thought They Were Chickens, by Mychal Wynn. It is a difficult
book and perhaps not developmentally appropriate according to
traditional criteria: there are no pictures, the text is dense,
and the concepts are abstract. Yet I believed that, with support
and multiple exposures, my young students could use this book
as a springboard for learning.
West African proverbs and fables offer many versions of the "eagle
story." All versions of the tale show the tragedy of unrecognized
potential: eagles who do not realize that they can fly. In Wynn's
account, an eagle is captured, caged, and set aboard a slave ship.
Denied her freedom, she dies, but not before laying three eggs,
which are placed in the chicken yard. The hatchlings, two boys
and a girl, are continually harassed because they do not look
like chickens. Knowing nothing of their great heritage, they "walked
through the chicken yard with their heads down, feeling that they
were indeed chickens."
Another eagle is captured but survives the Middle Passage to join
the three eagles who believe they are chickens. This eagle, with
his wings clipped, endures the taunts of the chickens but never
loses sight of who and what he is -- an eagle destined to soar.
In time, the eagle's flight feathers grow strong, and he flies
out of the chicken yard. He inspires two of the other eagles to
find their wings and take flight. The remaining eagle had lived
with ridicule too long, and his spirit was broken. He was unable
to fly. "Since that day, eagles have been soaring throughout
the world helping others to believe in their beauty, their brilliance,
their potential, and the extraordinary possibilities in their
lives." It is a stunning story about liberty.
I read the book to the children twice before Glenn's lesson and
sought to unpack the sophisticated vocabulary. I even reread some
of the text at a more developmentally appropriate level. Glenn's
reading was the children's third time through the text, but the
children were still captivated by the story. Glenn's rich voice,
his thoughtful explanations, and his repeated connections to liberty
and justice found a receptive audience. Following this lesson,
the children did some writing and some drawing -- a process that
we continued to use to acquire the data we would need to make
decisions about our work.
Damon produced a haunting image of a ship. In the cargo bay are
two black people -- a man and a woman. There are sharks in the
water, and the sea is drawn with jagged waves. An eagle sits in
a cage on top of the ship. The ship flies a flag that reads "Slave
Ship." Damon's picture tells something of what he knows and
something of what he needs to know about the slave ship -- an
episode downplayed in Wynn's book. Damon's text tells a different
story. He wrote: "The eagle did not like to be called a chicken
'cause the chicken broke his heart. It was sad." Damon felt
great empathy for the eagle who thought he was a chicken. I can
only wonder about the times Damon had been made to feel that he
was a chicken and about how that must have broken his heart. Our
study, our conversations, our growing trust in one another, and
the importance of our work were beginning to provide the words
and a context for some of Damon's thoughts and feelings.
Cory's picture told yet another story. He carefully drew three
black people -- two boys and a girl, a purposeful match with the
three eagle hatchlings. These characters are standing in a cage-like
structure defined by many red bars. Outside the cage is a white
person standing above and over the others. His face is drawn in
pencil -- a strategy young children use when they want to render
more precise details than crayons will allow. The face is mean,
angry, and scary. Standing on top of the cage are six stick figures.
While I suspect that Cory intended them to function in his picture
as the chickens had functioned in Wynn's story, it is not insignificant
that they are drawn as faceless people, not as chickens. Cory's
written commentary is poignant: "It was not nice to put the
African people in a pen." Cory understood that Wynn was not
talking about chickens and eagles but about real people enduring
real injustices.
In addition to our usual drawing and writing, I gave the children
a more structured assessment this time to help me get inside their
learning from a different angle. Their task was to complete each
of three sentence starters: 1) The best part of the story was
. . . , 2) The worst part of the story was . . . , and 3) I want
to know more about. . . .
Damon wrote that the best part of the story was "when the
eagle's wings grew back. It was fun." The worst part of the
story was "when the chickens called the eagles stupid."
And he said he wanted to know more about "the slave ship
because it is more important. That wasn't justice." Damon
connected with this story on an intensely personal level, almost
as though he saw himself in the story. He felt the eagle's pain
when he was ridiculed. He shared the eagle's joy when his wings
were restored. And he recognized the importance of slavery in
our study of liberty and justice.
Cory wrote that the best part of the story was "when the
eagle touched the hearts of the two eagles." The worst part
of the story was "when the eagle didn't go with the others."
And he wanted to know more about "when they put the eagle
on the slave ship." Cory related to the story on a much more
symbolic level. He looked at the story as an interested, concerned
outsider. Cory recognized the powerful influence that the eagle
exerted on the eagles who thought they were chickens, and he also
noted the limitations of this power as displayed by the single
eagle left behind. Cory looked at the story through a lens of
leadership and power. And, like Damon, Cory needed and wanted
to explore slavery.
Heroism
We chose to focus on slavery by studying a heroine who stood against
this dehumanizing practice. Harriet Tubman took us into, through,
and beyond slavery, minimizing much of the horror while offering
a vision of heroism that was as majestic as Wynn's eagles. We
launched this study using A Picture Book of Harriet Tubman,
by David Adler.
But we did not confine our learning to a single resource. The
children were thrilled with Tubman's exploits and intensely curious
about the Underground Railroad. I engaged in authentic side-by-side
learning with my students as I too formed an intense interest
in the Underground Railroad. A trip to our school library turned
up a substantial text set that could have fueled our learning
for many weeks. Glenn and I made a decision to limit our inquiry
into slavery because we wanted to respect the innocence of the
young children we worked with and because we wanted very much
to bring our study up to the here and now. Yet our time with Harriet
Tubman was powerful, and its effects linger in my heart and mind,
as I suspect they do for the children.
The children embraced Harriet Tubman as nothing less than an icon.
They played Harriet at recess -- hiding in the bushes when the
dogs caught their trail, dashing from safe house to safe house
on their northbound journey, taking their travelers all the way
to Canada, and then returning for more. During one such game,
Cory said, "I am not stopping until slavery is erased."
Damon, too, "played" Harriet, though in his own way.
He came to school one morning with a kerchief carefully wrapped
around his head. While this could have been construed as hoodlum
garb, I took the time to ask Damon about his new look. He told
me: "I'm covering up the cut on my head like Harriet Tubman
did," and he showed me the red marker "cut" on
his forehead. Kerchiefs became quite the rage in our class for
a time.
Reflections
Our study continued throughout the school year. Each month we
studied new heroes and tackled increasingly complex issues, each
week we talked about our learning, and each day we worked to make
ours a classroom in which liberty and justice for all really meant
for all. Still, when I reflect on the list of books we
chose to study (see "Liberty and Justice for All: Heroism,"
below), I question the titles, the number of books, and the order
of their presentation. Were these the right books? Did I use enough
books? Did I teach them in a sequence that made sense?
| Liberty and Justice for All: Heroism | ||||
| Month | Text | Publisher | Date | Focus |
| September | The
Story of Ruby Bridges Robert Coles |
Scholastic | 1995 | Racializing justice |
| October | Teammates Peter Golenbock |
Harcourt Brace | 1990 | Heroes |
| November | Susan
B. Anthony: A Photo-Illustrated Biography Lucile Davis |
Bridgestone Books | 1998 | White heroes fighting for justice |
| December | The
Eagles Who Thought They Were Chickens Mychal Wynn |
Rising Sun Publishing | 1993 | Racializing liberty |
| January | A
Picture Book of Harriet Tubman David A. Adler |
Holiday House | 1992 | Black heroes fighting for justice |
| February | The
Gettysburg Address Abraham Lincoln, Foreword by Garry Wills |
Houghton Mifflin | 1995 | The end of legal slavery |
| March | Martin
Luther King Day Linda Lowery |
Scholastic | 1987 | Racism and civil rights |
| April | Smoky
Nights Eve Bunting |
Harcourt Brace | 1994 | Racism in our neighborhoods |
| May | Journey
to Freedom Courtni C. Wright |
Holiday House | 1994 | Unsung heroes |
| Follow
the Drinking Gourd Jeanette Winter |
Dragonfly Books |
|
||
| Sweet
Clara and the Freedom Quilt Deborah Hopkinson |
Dragonfly Books |
|
||
| June | The
Hunterman and the Crocodiles Baba Waque Diakite |
Scholastic | 1997 | Rich traditions of Africa |
I'd like to think that our study will not truly be forgotten -- by Cory or by the rest of the children. I'd like to think that the concepts of liberty and justice for all will remain in Cory's heart and mind. I'd like to think that we gave Cory the words and substance so that, when the time is right, his voice will join those who are determined to end the silence.
DONNA M. MARRIOTT is an early literacy program manager
with the San Diego City Schools.
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