PDK International | Phi Delta Kappan: Starnes V88 N8 April 2007

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Thoughts On Teaching: On Silence, Berea College, and Passing the Baton

By Bobby Ann Starnes

MY FATHER seldom spoke. He was a mountain man, as thrifty with his words as with the coal for our stove and the pennies left from his paycheck each week. When he did talk, his words were carefully chosen and, like a poet's, layered with meanings that only revealed themselves over time. My father and I never talked about what was important in life. To know what mattered to him, I had to listen hard to his words and carefully watch what he did. And because he so seldom spoke, I listened to the stories, sentences, and softly uttered phrases as though they were words engraved on a precious heirloom.

From the day we got our first television, my father always watched the evening news. He would sit in his big chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hands wrapped around his thick, white coffee mug, and a cigarette squeezed between two nicotine-stained fingers. For some reason, my younger brother Tom and I liked to watch with him. So there we sat most evenings, the three of us watching together in silence. Sometimes my father would break the silence just long enough to deliver a lesson to Tom and me. One such time was in 1965 when the news reported that civil rights worker Viola Liuzzo, a Detroit mother of five, was murdered after a march from Selma to Montgomery.

"That's a shame," my father said, bending his head ever so slightly downward.

He did not use "shame" lightly -- as another way of saying too bad or unfortunate or not right. He meant that the act of killing a civil rights worker was shameful. In his eyes, the men who murdered her brought shame not only upon themselves but upon our nation, upon humankind, and upon us as we sat right there in our living room. Tom and I remained silent; his words had not been an invitation to conversation. They had been instructional, and we understood the meaning.

My introduction to Berea College came in much the same way. Like so many other mountain families, mine had migrated to Ohio in search of the better life that factory jobs could provide. While we understood that Ohio was necessary for opportunity, Kentucky was always home. So on Friday nights we piled into the beat-up old Buick and headed south along Route 25. The traffic was always backed up from Dayton through Cincinnati, more than 60 miles, as family after family of Appalachian migrants headed south on what Buckeyes called the Hillbilly Highway.

As we drove, we passed through one small town after another. Along the way, Tom, being the pest that he always was, inevitably looked at me or touched my side of the car. His violations of my right not to be looked at or not to have my territory touched were a source of almost constant discussion between us. And sometimes, having not yet made my commitment to nonviolence, I was forced to settle the matter in a rather aggressive fashion. On one trip, my father pulled the Buick off to the side of the road in Berea, a small town where we left Route 25 and headed east into the mountains toward home.

"Children," my father said as he placed his right forearm on the back of his seat and turned to look at us. My brother and I stopped fighting immediately. This was unusual behavior on my father's part, and we thought we might have misjudged the strength of his patience.

My father tipped his head a bit and pointed out the window. "That," he said, "is Berea College. They help people there." I gazed out at the beautiful buildings set back from the road on a rich green lawn. I was awestruck. We sat there in silence for a few minutes just taking in the scene. Then, as suddenly as he had stopped, my father started the car, and we drove on in silence.

I knew my father did not show us those buildings as a tour guide might. He was saying something important to us. In the years since, my interpretation of his words has changed, but their significance has not.

As I got older, I learned more about Berea. Here, in the foothills of Appalachia in 1855, abolitionist John Fee founded the first coeducational and interracial school south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Its mission was to educate promising poor Appalachian and black men and women. It wasn't an easy road for Fee and his supporters. They were run off by anti-abolitionist forces just before the Civil War, and in the early 20th century a state law was passed to force the college to segregate. But the dreamers persisted, Berea thrived, and for generations, poor black and mountain children traveled to Berea for a free college education and to learn to value those who were different from themselves. Some who came were my cousins and aunts and uncles. All who came were changed, and the lives of their children and grandchildren were changed. And because my father, an all but illiterate coal miner, saw the opportunities Berea gave to those who got an education, my life and the lives of my brothers and sisters and our children and grandchildren changed, too.

I came to realize that, in my father's eyes, I was one of those fortunate people to whom much had been given, and it was clear to me that much would be expected in return. And in the brief moment that I stared out my window toward the campus, I believe I was somehow forever linked to Berea College, to its mission, to its call for service, and to using education to help others gain access to the American Dream.

However, since then, I've been to college a few times, and I've taught in some, and I must say, colleges are not my favorite places. While I'm sure some folks thrive there, my dispositions are just not well suited to the climate and culture. I'm not a big fan of hierarchies, and colleges seem to really love them. And I've been told that I have "authority issues" -- generally by those who think they are the boss of me. And maybe I do, but I see it a bit differently. You see, I'm a democrat, an egalitarian, a collaborator. All that stuff about junior faculty and tenure and publish or perish doesn't fit well within my operating systems. So after my last unfortunate stint teaching in college, I swore off any further entanglements with higher education. That is, until Berea College invited me to join the education studies faculty in a one-year visiting position. I knew I'd promised myself never again, but it was Berea. They help people there. They had helped me there. How bad could it be?

A few months before I got the invitation, I'd written a column titled "On Reunions, Primitive Utilitarianism, and Passing the Baton." In it I lamented the impact that No Child Left Behind (NCLB) and the scripted, teacher-proof programs it encourages have on young teachers. Many of the best and brightest don't survive NCLB's unreasonable pressure and the oppressive emphasis on high-stakes testing. Some leave teaching after only a year or two. Of those who stay, too many suffer the premature death of the idealism, energy, and joy that help keep teachers filled with hope and optimism. The lucky ones find principals who largely protect them from NCLB's stranglehold; others fight the system or find ways to outsmart it. But too many are not so creative, clever, or bold. They give up and begin to go through the motions and, in the process, become the teachers they swore they would never be. I worried in that column if, "when the time comes for me to pass the baton, there might be no one there to take it."

That concern weighed heavy on my mind as I packed my belongings and headed east from Montana. But then I met my Berea students. During the first semester, I taught one education class, Education and Culture. I was nervous. I'm always nervous about such things. I had big plans for a rigorous semester, but before I knew it, my students left me in the dust. It started when I gave them a copy of the 2000 Bureau of Indian Affairs' apology to Native Americans. In it, specific policies, treaties, and acts of terror are mentioned. "Find out what the BIA might have to apologize for and be prepared to tell us about one reason," I said in my purposefully vague way.

Well, by the next class the students had not only explored topics mentioned in the apology, they had researched the BIA, the BIA director who delivered the apology, and a wide array of additional topics. And they were mad. They wanted to know why they had never learned these things, and they felt responsible for educating others about their new understandings. Before I knew it, these kids had planned a major campuswide event and had invited teachers from our county and several surrounding counties to attend. I'd never taught such a group and expected that I never would again. I thought it was just one of those serendipitous moments when events collide to create magical experiences. I soon learned differently.

During the January term, I taught a field study class that required students to work half-days in schools for the entire month. It was intense, and I got to know them well. And they were great. They'd seen how hard schools are and how much teachers face just getting through each day, and they'd emerged more determined than ever. Near the end of the semester, one student came to my office and asked to talk about teaching. Well, there's nothing I enjoy more, and besides, I loved this kid -- of course, by then I realized that I loved them all. So I cleaned a pile of books off the chair and three piles of papers off the table and invited her to sit.

At first, she sat silently. Then a tear began to form in the corner of her eye. In spite of her efforts to prevent it, the tear grew until it finally broke loose, rolled down her cheek, and splashed onto the tabletop. Several more followed. Finally, she began to speak. "I don't know if teaching is right for me," she said. I was shocked. I'd seen her with kids, and she is a natural, and so smart. But as she talked more, I understood. She wants to change the world. She wants to do right and make "it" right. She wants to meet the challenge head on and bring it to its knees. And she just isn't sure she is good enough or strong enough.

"Wow," I thought. "Where the heck is my baton? This is the kid I need to give it to!"

When I came to Berea, I was worried about finding someone to pass the baton to. But then I met Molly and Adrian, Sarah and Charles, Jose and Jordan, Tania and Alli, Ben, Maranda, and Tasha, Kimberly, Donnie, and Amanda, and the rest. Now I have new concerns. Rather than thinking there will be no one there to take my baton, I'm worried that my baton supply may not be adequate. Looks like I might need a bushel basket full.

BOBBY ANN STARNES is the executive director of Full Circle Curriculum and Materials, a nonprofit organization that supports teachers' implementation of Montana's Indian Education for All Act. This year she is a visiting professor at Berea College, Berea, Ky. E-mail her at bobbyannstarnes@bresnan.net. Full Circle's website is www.fullcirclecm.org.