A co-worker saw the copy of Jonathan Kozol's The Shame of the Nation on my desk the other day and commented that reading the book would make me want to go teach in one of the inner city school's Kozol describes in his book.
He was right. That is the reaction I had when I first started reading, a feeling of guilt that, as a teacher, I am not doing enough to help the students who truly need it. Students like the ones Kozol describes who go to school where "silent lunches had been instituted...and silent recess...as well" (65). Students whose teachers, with little training and/or background in teaching, often leave unexpectedly mid-way through the year. Students who are pointed out at assemblies as being "Level Fours" or "Level Threes" or "Level Twos" based on their ability to meet the district's standards, who are defined by their skills or lack there of. Students whose experience of school is so regulated that, as Kozol described one school visit, "No one laughed. No child made a funny face to somebody beside her. Neither [the teacher] nor his assistant laughed..." (70). For these students, school is about order and rules and silence and compliance. It is not about learning and fun and relationships with peers and adults.
And then I switched to reading The New Jim Crow and came upon this passage:
"It is time for an honest look at the problem of order in the United States. Dissent is a necessary
ingredient of change, but in a system of government that provides for peaceful change, there is no
cause that justifies resort to violence. ..So I pledge to you, we shall have order in the United
States." (46-47).
Michelle Alexander includes this quote from one of Nixon's 1968 campaign ads to highlight how politicians' focus on being tough on crime led to the increased number of African Americans in prisons in the next few decades.
Reading this, I saw a distrubing link to Kozol's description of predominately African American schools in urban areas, where teachers follow scripted lessons that allow for no creativity or spontaneity, have a "zero noise salute" (66) to quell the whispers of students, and have "little chance to draw upon their own inventiveness or normal conversational abilities" (Kozol 71).
In both situations, the focus is on order, on compliance. Both texts argue that this emphasis on order negatively and disproportionately affects African Americans, in one case through tougher laws that imprison African Americans at much higher rates, and in the other by leading to schools where students and learning are not the focus but order is, a situation not to be found in most well-funded and predominantly white schools.
And so, yes, I feel guilty as I read Kozol and teach in a school where I have autonomy over my lessons, my grading, my interactions with students, and the environment of my classroom.
But I also feel lucky, as I don't know if I would be strong enough to teach in such a setting. Last year, I bemoaned the lack of window shades in my classroom that made it difficult to project images, whether power points or films. But I had access to technology; I had the means by which to make complaints. I had the flexibility and autonomy to show what I wanted in my room in the first place.
This year, I've complained about the fact that the heat is always on in my room. But I can open a window. I can joke with my students about the sauna that is my classroom. I can take them outside if I want to.
I am all for order, as my students will attest to, but too much of anything, order included, is never good.
And school, with students, with children, is not supposed to be about order. It's supposed to be about learning. About creativity and teachable moments.
And I feel lucky that I am able to teach in a school that values these aspects of education.
Sadly, not all teachers and students are.
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