written by Love Isn’t Enough guest contributor Alissa McElreath, columnist, Family Education Network
When my son was four (he’s now nine), and home from preschool because of a cold, I took him to work with me. I teach English at a private, historically black college, and my son was always an easy kid to take to work. He pretended to “take notes” while he sat in the back of the class, and liked to doodle with the dry erase markers. When we walked the hallways some of my students slapped hands with him, and called him “little man”, making his eyes shine with pride. I’d only brought him to campus a small number of times before, when he was two and three; this was his first campus visit as a four-year-old.
On our way to pick up his sister from the babysitter, I asked him if he had enjoyed his morning with me at school.
He was silent for a few moments, staring thoughtfully out the minivan’s side window.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “But Mama,” he asked, “why do all the students at your school have brown skin?”
I was taken aback for only a few seconds. We often talked about the concept of “different” in our house. My husband and I have always believed it important not to hide differences behind uncomfortable silences and redirected conversation. Yes, people are different. But diversity isn’t some bad, ugly, shadowy thing we need to turn away from; it’s beautiful and complex and deep, and we need to face it head on. Only by confronting superficial differences are we able to truly understand that we are really all the same—the core of who we are, of our humanity is there in all of us, under the brightly-colored yarns that make up the tapestry of so many cultures, and races, ethnicities, and ranges of abilities. Yet as a parent I had to train myself to leave behind my own discomfort with speaking about differences—especially racial difference. I grew up feeling a need to compensate for the acts of racial ignorance and stereotyping I saw around me. This compensation took the form of a steadfast and misguided refusal to acknowledge differences in any way, shape, or form. I equated the act of noticing difference and talking about difference with a type of racism.
No, of course we are not different.
Of course differences don’t exist.
Then I became a parent.
And then I became a white female English teacher at a private, southern, historically black college.
Difference was around me day in and day out. It rode the elevator with me to and from class. It came into my office, it leaned on me for support. It poured out of my students’ mouths in a flood of words, stories about struggles I couldn’t even begin to understand, and stories that were like the stories any college freshman would share on any campus. But during my first two years of teaching, I avoided topics of race. Sure, I assigned essays and readings that had to do with race, but I shied away from ones that could create discomfort in the classroom. I was worried about my own students’ comfort levels and, I can now admit it, my own. Would they even want a white teacher talking to them about race? Would they want to see my discomfort with my own whiteness, with its legacy? Did I even have the right to talk about race?
Then, almost two years after I started teaching, I showed up early one day to my freshman composition class. There were already quite a few students there, and it was a Friday. The students were happy, and chatty, and the early spring sun was shining in the classroom windows. My students asked me about the upcoming weekend, and what my plans were. We talked for a little back and forth and then one of my students asked,
“Professor M., do you like teaching here?”
The rest of the students fell instantly silent.
I think I really knew what he was asking, but instead I deflected. I gushed on about how I liked the campus, and the students, and the teaching load.
When I was done he looked at me with a polite, by curious stare.
“No,” he insisted. “Do you like teaching here?” And then the whammy: “Do you like teaching black students?”
All the years of the accumulated weight of my discomfort with talking about race landed on me like a load of bricks, right then and there, in the classroom. A female student jumped in and scolded the young man for asking me the question; several students laughed in a mixture of horror and embarrassment.
“I don’t think of you as black students,” I told the class. “I think of you as students. And yes, I do like teaching here.”
There. I’d said it: the word black.
If I had thought the discussion would end there, I was wrong. What followed were a flood of questions, unleashed in the way pent-up emotions are unleashed when given the chance. Were white students different from black students? Was it hard to be a white professor on a black campus? What did I think about historically black colleges? Was there still a place for them in our more integrated world? Wait, was our world more integrated?
Once we had talked these questions through, something changed in the classroom. A strange divide had been crossed, a bridge erected over the divide—a divide I hadn’t even known existed–or maybe I had. I realized that my students too had skirted around race all these semesters—my race. But not because they had trained themselves to ignore differences out of fear that in acknowledging my whiteness they would somehow acknowledge some imbalance in the world—that luxury is something that belongs to members of the white race. My students had grown up all too conscious of difference and in return, they demanded that the differences be accounted for, out there, front and center. They wanted difference acknowledged, dissected, spoken about, held up for scrutiny. They wanted to understand it, to give it shape and form. For in order to truly overcome our aversion to acknowledging difference and, in doing so, acknowledge our failings to navigate racial and cultural differences, we have to talk to our children about it, openly and without fear. We have to stare race down, lock eyes over it, hold it up to the light.
In the days before I became a parent I might have hemmed and hawed over a question like the one my son posed to me the afternoon we drove away from work, away from the historically black college that has become a second home to me. In the days before I became a teacher I might have only gazed across the divide, and felt helpless. I might have found myself paralyzed by the fear that in answering the question I would be planting some seed in my young son’s head, a seed that would take root in his mind and pull nourishment from that dark and nebulous place where difference poisons and divides—if we let it, that is.
I am the “letter writing educator” in one of the previous posts (MG school district and white gangs) and I want to thank you for such a beautiful and poignant expression of teaching and parenting. I, too, do both. I, too, see how my whiteness informs my understanding of diversity in both teaching and parenting. Thank you. (I’d love you to say more!)
So…what did you say to your son?? I am curious! How do you address difference without it seeming to be an obsessive focus on difference–that is something I struggle with. I want to acknowledge my son’s brown skin w/out making him feel ‘other’ or like its something that DEFINES him in all ways. I don’t want him to think that I ONLYsee his skin color when, although I see it and know that its important in our society, it is really not important to me, personally. Does that make sense? I don’t know if that is how I want to put it. I see his identity as a biracial/Black/White child as something that is wonderful about him but first and foremost he is my son and I see him as reflecting me and a part of me. I don’t see him as ‘different’ or ‘other’ than me…but I know that society will probably see him that way. I want to praise his dark brown eyes and his spiral black curls without exoticizing him so I talk about how everyone in our family has brown eyes and how both Pop-pop AND Daddy AND Auntie D AND Grandma AND Grandpa and Great Grandma (these people are in both sides of the family) have curly black hair. But then I also say that he is especially cute, in my opinion more than anyone else in the world, and unique from everyone else in the world. I’m not sure what is acknowledging difference and what is obsessing so I spread these comments out with other comments about how good he is at remembering names and how well he counts and how nicely he helps sweep the floor…that sort of thing. I want to make him feel beautiful and comfortable in his skin without making him feel set apart or othered. I want him to know that I see the difference and that other people will see it too, but that it doesn’t have to be the only thing that he sees or that other people see…does this make sense? How do you make sure you acknowledge and empower without creating a complex surrounding race and difference?
Montclair Mommy, beautiful and exhaustive. My own sense is that you are going about it as you should, emphasizing diversity among the many standards (your post is most memorable for capturing them all) that guide us through bringing up our children.
Thank you both for reading and commenting–I have so much to say about all this! Too much for a comment box… In a way I had an “easy” out in my explanation to my son–even though he was four at the time, I could still explain our country’s history of racism and segregation and the important role a school like the college where I teach played (and plays) in providing opportunity for Black Americans–especially the kids at my college, who come from underprivileged backgrounds and are often the first in their family to attend college. In the years I’ve taught there, too, I have never had a single student question my ability to understand issues off race, and to talk about them; I haven’t always had the same experience with the adults around me, but I do think generational differences are at play.
It’s been eye-opening, too, to listen to my students talk about difference among themselves. They openly talk about the perceived stigma surrounding having dark skin, versus their lighter-skinned peers. Then there are those who “walk the color line” (as one student put it to the class one day)–who get accused of being white by their peers because of they “act white”. Being a white teacher at a black college has definitely shaped and challenged my own perceptions of diversity and made me aware of how little the world at large around me understands or even tries to understand issues of race. There is much work to be done.
As a related aside, three years after that conversation with my son, he was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, a form of autism. We are negotiating through another type of terrain, as we work to help him understand and feel pride in his “difference”. Your words, Montclair Mommy,
“I want to make him feel beautiful and comfortable in his skin without making him feel set apart or othered. I want him to know that I see the difference and that other people will see it too, but that it doesn’t have to be the only thing that he sees or that other people see…”
resonated with me on many levels–thank you.
Alissa
Alissa, I’m curious if any of your students reacted in a negative way to your statement that you didn’t see them as black students, but just as students. I’m white, nearly constantly engaged in the process of building bridges of racial unity, and have just co-authored a book of true stories about racial healing. I’ve had many black friends tell me that when a white person says “I don’t see you as black” it feels like a discount, an unwillingness to see them for who they really are. It apparently reveals to them a deep level of denial masquerading as “color blindness”. On the other hand, if a black friend says to me, “I don’t see you as white” it feels like she’s acknowledging something of value in my behavior. I think I’m pretty clear on the reasons why the statement carries such different intent in these two situations, but I am interested in knowing how your students reacted. If none of them felt offended, was it because they already knew your heart and trusted your intentions? Was there a generational difference at play in this case?
Our son – also white – teaches in a predominantly black school in Chicago, and he has experienced the kind of encounter you described so eloquently. It seems we have a ways to go yet before we achieve a society where a person’s motives are not automatically suspect because of race. Such candid and emotionally honest sharing as yours will help move us in that direction. Thank you for your willingness to use your own discomfort as a learning tool for others. I will be sharing your post on our fan page.
Thanks for your comment, Phyllis. I think there’s a difference (in my mind) between seeing my students as “students” and as “black students”. I would never deny their color, nor want them to perceive my statement as color blindness–in fact, I think a comment such as “I don’t see you as black” is incredibly damaging. I do, though, see my students as students first when I’m in the classroom. When we discuss matters of race, our conversation often comes around to race, and their color (and all the beautiful shades in between!) becomes an integral part of the conversation–because only then can we take that acknowledgment of how their individuality can be defined by difference, and discuss where we go from there.
This was an incredible honest and raw look into a situation that I can honestly say I’ve never imagined. As a black man, who happens to be married to a white woman, who happens to have a white daughter from a previous marriage, and two biracial sons; I found this to be so relevant.
We are constantly struggling with the issue of race in our home. “Why is Erin peach and we are brown?” “Why do Jordan and Desmond look alike and I don’t?”
We constantly deal with identity crisis and our own struggle with not recognizing the “differences” that exist in our own family. I’ve often been eyeballed when taking my little blonde haired, green-eyed daughter by the hand into an ice cream shop for Dad/Daughter time. Though my wife and I can easily turn a blind eye to the whole thing, it’s harder for the kids. They are now 9, 10, and 12 and when the three of them attended the same school they would get awkward looks when explaining that they were siblings. Some kids just accepted it but others pressed.
My wife and I often erroneously stereotype our kids by wondering what type of people they will bring home to marry. We’ve wondered if having two black brothers and a black step-father would entice our daughter to date outside her race and the same for our sons. We’ve settled on the fact that the three of them will attempt to bring more diversity to the family tree by dating a race not yet represented.
I applaud the author for not only being honest with her son, but also with her students. I’m sure they’ve wondered for sometime the motivation behind educating a group of people that look nothing like you. I don’t necessarily believe in the power of the so-called “white guilt” but I do believe that people reach a point of enlightenment that allows them to see pass obvious differences. I also applaud the author for being a part of reversing the epidemic of uneducated youth in the black community. Your service will one day impact the entire nation and for that you should be commended!
Thank you so much for your comment, Tony. One point you made struck me in particular–
“I’m sure they’ve wondered for sometime the motivation behind educating a group of people that look nothing like you…”
because I have received similar comments from my own students in the years I’ve taught at my college. They almost question why I would even want to be there–me, a white woman, at an historically black college. One student even asked me once, “couldn’t you teach anywhere you wanted?” as if my teaching there were some unfathomable thing. I have to wonder about the burden these young students carry–their feeling that somehow there are people out there who wouldn’t want to teach them, when given the choice; or that they would need to question why a white woman would want to teach students who look nothing like her.
Just wanted to comment that I love this piece, this discussion, this model of white people showing ourselves, honestly and vulnerably recording our experiences and what was going through our minds at the time, including all the things we wish weren’t there.
This kind of vulnerability is one of the ways we can begin to undo the complex knot of race privilege and get our humanity back. We need to do and to hear more of this.
Another important piece of the puzzle is found in deep engagement across racial difference; white patterns are rarely shifted without us struggling with the stuff that comes up when we’re out of our comfort zones.
Tony, I love your comment, which painted a tiny gem of a portrait of your family.
Brought to mind the looks my white husband and our grown Korean-born daughter report when they are out together. Hard sometimes to just be having a daddy-daughter date.
Thanks so much for your comment, Annie. I feel as you do–that there is so much room for these types of discussions, and exposures. I have written quite a bit about this on the Family Education site (http://www.familyeducation.com)–if you follow tags on my posts to “teaching” and “students” I’ve recorded many more thoughts on the subject.
i am white, and not until i was teaching in an all-black school (well, there was one medium-skinned hispanic boy. out of pre k – 8th grade, not-small public school.) did i see what can be problematic about the “i don’t think of you as black” response. it was when one of my smartest — and because the students in this school were subject to a staggering array of unfairnesses, often angriest — 4th graders told me she would never, never call me white.
having whiteness erased is, if anything, less complicated than having any other race erased, i think, because whiteness is an invisible category, already rarely verbally acknowledged (because it is mostly assumed that an unlabeled person is white). and yet it was a little shock to hear myself un-raced, even if it was also a little bit of a compliment in that case. so the very smart student and i had a conversation about the problems of assumptions based on race — that i am white, even if i wasn’t behaving according to her expectations (very negative) for white people. and that making me honorarily un-white was a nice idea, but that the more complicated, more difficult, more noble cause was to work on defining racist and white as potentially separate categories. seeing me as both a not-terrible person and a white person was a stretch for her, but i think it was a good stretch.
i should say that my time teaching in that school also entailed A LOT of work on shifting my own perceptions and un-considered opinions. the student in question was likely already ahead of me.
thanks for your post, which makes me think about all that again.
What struck me the most about reading this article is how I assumed that you, the author was Black and so was your son. And that your son had been in a predominately White world for schooling until he came to work with you.
The first four paragraphs of what you wrote read similar to the narrative I have heard from Black parents of Black children who don’t have the experience of being in a predominately Black school.
Then I get to paragraph 5 and go ohhhh the author is White….then I get to the end of the article and have to read and re-read to convince myself that the author’s child isn’t Black. That he is a White child with White privilege just like the author. That he is also observant in the ways that adults pretend not to be. Expand this beyond the school, it becomes obvious that the worlds this child travels into and visits or resides in do not involve predominately Black environments…but does at the college.
It made me think of the parents I know, both Black and White parents, who have White children who are at ease in predominately Black environments because that is mostly the environments that they engage in daily. They are not visitors in that environment, because they may come from a home where most of their siblings are Black, friends, family, godparents, are Black, mentors, church members, pastor, et cetera.
It also made me think of the White people I knew who had residence in predominately Black worlds.
Thanks for your comments, BMM and Matt…I had typed a long response, and then the computer ate my comment! So here’s the nutshell version:
I personally feel there’s a difference between identifying my students through race first rather than seeing them as students first and myself as their teacher, and then using race–mine and theirs–to explode our discussions of readings and issues. Yes I’m white, and they are black and this is oh so relevant in much that we do and talk about–we ARE different. But I can honestly say that I do not qualify them in my mind as “black students”, nor do I qualify my colleagues as black teachers first. There’s a difference (albeit subtle, or semantic) between seeing my students as black students, rather than students-who-are-black.