Four black girls and the urgency of now.
We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy
- I Have A Dream, Martin Luther King Jr.
We held parent-teacher conferences Friday. Ushering my noisy crowd of students out of the classroom and onto buses midday, I geared up to meet what I expected to be a long line of angry parents eager to share with me their uncensored thoughts about my classroom, teaching, and most importantly, their children’s low second quarter grades.
I slowly made my way back to my classroom at the sound of the bell. Heading down the hallway with plans to clean up papers spewed on the floor by students and straighten desks to make them somewhat presentable for conferences, I passed our veteran teachers calmly chatting near the front office. They were on their way to run copies, get supplies to fix up their already neat and orderly classrooms, and greeting parents with joyful smiles and warm hellos all the while. There are several veteran teachers at my school, Southern Black women who have taught children like mine for years (some, longer than my lifetime). They are the teachers who, when I balk and gasp at rude comments poured from the mouths of nine year olds, give the all-knowing look that says “I’ve seen this before and this ain’t the worst, kid.” In teacher workroom conversations and professional development sidebar talk, these teachers offer analysis of the school’s social landscape (student interactions, daily happenings) with a level of stability and balance I can only wish for. They express complete knowledge of the children’s areas of great weakness, the challenges facing the school, and the utter unfairness of public school conditions in Louisiana, yet I find them to be consistently calm, as if fixed or set upon some image of progress and future success I often find difficult to imagine, let alone grasp and firmly believe in.
These teachers walk the same halls as me, can be heard screaming for quiet in classrooms filled with students focused on the latest xbox game and Lil’ Boosie album, yet they return to my school each day committed to giving kids from the toughest areas of Baton Rouge a chance at life, an education based on strong instruction. While I find myself completely unnerved at the end of each week, shirt untucked, hair a complete mess, stumbling to my car under the weight of books and work, women like Ms. Moore, Ms. Sylvie, and Ms. Jackson, seem grounded in wisdom only gained from years in schools like this one. Today, with parent-teacher conferences looming at dismissal, their calm, now so familiar to me, exuded as they prepared their classrooms to welcome parents.
I sat impatiently in my classroom, shuffling papers from one side of my desk to another in an unfocused effort to organize myself, when Donald’s grandmother, Daphne, walked in. She’d joined our class for lunch that day, greeting me with a warm hug and sharing laughs with her neighbor, a young mother of one of the most troublesome fourth grade boys, while my students ate. Ms. Daphne, as she’s called by many of my students and their mothers, is a common presence on our campus. She is strong, very much engaged in her grandson’s life, but not at all what most people would expect to meet after hearing her story and even the briefest description of her current situation. Ms. Daphne buried a daughter this year, is raising two of her grandchildren alone on a very small income, and still manages to either find a ride or walk to my school at least once a week to sit and observe her grandson, chat with teachers, or volunteer with our local 4-H club. Despite her circumstances and the powerful force with which she drives through each day, Ms. Daphne is not at all your stereotypical “madea,” “big momma,” type.
Today at lunch, dressed in a gray sweat suit, she chuckled with a mother in her mid-twenties about Donald’s antics at home. My students surrounded her, talking loudly to one another, refusing to stand when asked to throw their food away, yet Ms. Daphne’s small frame did not move from her seat. As I stood to fuss, I knew I could expect to turn and see her sitting, sighing and showing on her face pure confusion at the sight of young black children, most supported by their grandmothers and young mothers, displaying an utter lack of respect for both themselves and their young teacher. Ms. Daphne is not the hurricane of energy, the stubborn, loud and rude character set on controlling her household and community that popular American imagination has created in the myth of the “ghetto matron.” Rather, she represents to me, like the veteran teachers at my school, what few people get to see at the center of impoverished black communities. She carries within her the resiliency and strength of a warrior. Ms. Daphne engages with children from the poorest sections of a declining city with unmasked honesty. She does not masquerade as a bold, fearless trailblazer, but her sighs and verbal summaries of the conditions she finds herself surrounded by only punctuate her relentless pursuit of positive change and community renewal.
Ms. Daphne sat with me as I waited for the first parents to arrive. “We watched the I Have A Dream speech today in reading block,” I told her, flipping through a stack of short paragraphs the students were asked to write on author’s purpose. “What would he think now?” she said, “These black children are going back to slavery and they don’t even realize it.” I looked up briefly to meet her eyes and give the traditional “mmhmm” and nod I find myself offering whenever she articulates my exact feelings in a more succinct way than I ever could, a common occurrence during our chats. Instead of finding her eyes on me or the student papers lying on the table before us, I found Ms. Daphne searching the room for answers to her question. “I don’t know,” I offered weakly, “I imagine he’d be upset.” I didn’t have to even begin to call off the list of things that would upset Martin Luther King Jr. if he ever set foot in my classroom on an average day. We both knew them well, as we’d witnessed daily the deficiencies in drive, foundational academic skills, and love of self in my classroom population. Content with my brief reply and believing that Ms. Daphne and I were equally aware of the challenges in my classroom, I turned back to the stack of papers.
Yet, she continued to examine the room with her eyes. “My cousins are guards at Angola,” she went on, “Ms. Brown, you should see the number of black boys over there. Young ones, locked away for life.”
I think it would’ve almost been appropriate for me to respond to Ms. Daphne’s statement with a brief expression of discontent with the state of Louisiana’s treatment of black children in education and the group’s high incarceration rate. I could have and maybe should have woven in a few statistics and transitioned the conversation into one about making young blacks aware of the dangers of not being invested in their education within a system that seems to be hellbent on tracking them from insufficient classrooms and neighborhoods into prison cells. Yet, I opened my mouth with nothing to offer other than a breathy, “I know, it’s awful,” in return to Ms. Daphne’s reflection.
This moment was not, like so many similar ones, a general opportunity for me to engage in intellectual acrobatics, a chance to exercise my newfound knowledge of educational injustice by offering verbal declarations of the unfairness of “the system.” I’ve learned that with women like Ms. Daphne, those who’ve spent most of their adult lives battling the ferocious cycle of poverty so deeply entrenched in their communities, a simple “I know” or “I agree” will suffice as a response to any statement similar to this one. These women are far beyond the point of being impressed when an outsider can survey the conditions of the school, accurately observe student nihilism and express anger at the injustice of it all. These women operate on a higher plane of understanding and experience. It seems that, long ago, they decided (or maybe they were forced) to leave the stage of merely recognizing and acknowledging the disparities in healthcare, education, and general opportunities for social mobility in a poor community in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
Ms. Daphne, Ms. Moore, Ms. Sylvie, and Ms. Jackson are all women who, seeing the debilitating distress of our school and its surrounding community, still launch themselves urgently into the mindset of “how.” They are all fully aware of the great challenges they face, yet they remain convinced that a positive change can occur. Focusing on how they can bring about change, these women act upon students in the classroom and go about their daily tasks with purpose, resilience and drive. Their work reflects a unique sense of urgency, based on a strong awareness of the great need before them, but driven by something much more rare, genuine humanity.
“I pray every morning that Donald will come to school and act right,” Ms. Daphne said today, “I pray for all these young folk. They don’t know that they got to help themselves.” Ms. Daphne does not have a degree from an elite college, no nationally-renowned non-profit formally labels her prayers and work at my school a part of a “national movement to eradicate educational inequity,” yet, her humble resistance to the failure of my school, her patient prayers for student betterment and renewal, make up a light that provides some, even though small, direction out of the darkness that has enveloped her community.
I write this entry today to sing the song of four black girls whose unrelenting drive toward improvement in the face of poverty, resistance, and worst, overwhelming nihilism, makes me return to teach each week. These women embody what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. described as the “urgency of now” in his now so oft-referenced I Have A Dream speech. As I reflect upon Dr. King’s work and vision this weekend, I think of these black women who daily model for me the act of holding tightly onto the courage of one’s own convictions. Ms. Daphne, Ms. Jackson, Ms. Moore, and Ms. Sylvie have chosen to live lives beyond the luxury of cooling off. Daily, they live out Dr. King’s dream of rejecting gradualism, by putting their talents, time and energy toward rebuilding broken spirits, a troubled school, and leaving a lasting mark on a struggling community. For their work, I write this entry. As a result of their humble leadership, I’m still here and continue to develop courage and stubborn perseverance enough to take steps to make real the promises of democracy.
As we enter this Martin Luther King Jr. day of remembrance and service, I sing the song of four black girls who remain unshakable in their work of keeping Dr. King’s dream alive.
I walk in the steps of quiet heroines. They’ve developed no cutting-edge techniques for engaging impoverished students in education, they do not use academic language or rhetoric when describing their work, yet, they move mountains by returning day after day to wage battle on poverty and ignorance in the classroom. For showing up, for faithfully tackling an enormous problem with the urgency of now, I thank them. Each day I can say, “if she showed up today and brought her best fight, today is the day for me to do the same. No matter what experience or knowledge I have, I can make a difference today.”
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*More than 60% of Louisiana prisoners are African American. (Louisiana Department of Public Safety and Corrections Fact Sheet- September 30, 2009)
She travels outside of karma.
because grace makes beauty out of ugly things
grace finds beauty in everything
grace finds goodness in everything
- Grace, U2
I started this week off with a few fairly solid goals, things I hoped would steer me in the direction of a more balanced, healthy lifestyle. More gym time, sleep, time away from work for meaningful conversations with close friends, basically a nice work/life balance. I must say I did make quite a bit of progress and felt great for most of today knowing that I made it through the week without wanting to hide under a rock or run far far away from Louisiana.
A little after lunch, I realized I could return home from tonight’s Teach for America holiday party and write a nice entry about life in the South, my well-planned/executed week and my hopes to wrap it all up with an even more relaxing weekend. At 2:30 pm, my homeroom class and my last group of Social Studies/Science students were working quietly at their desks on their end of the week science assessment. Even young Mr. Posey, my most rambunctious boy and master of the kiddie evil eye, was busily reading and bubbling in answers when Mrs. G, one of our paraprofessional staff members knocked at the door. “Ms. B, Principal H. needs to see you in his office,” she said, scanning the room as my students squirmed at the sight of potential prey. Sensing the brewing plans to terrorize Mrs. G with requests to “use it” (or go to the bathroom), “get a drink of water,” “call my mama on your cell phone,” I informed the class that they were not to speak or get out of their seats upon my exit. The groans and tooth-sucking came seconds after the announcements. I packed my things, opened the door and had not fully closed it before a dozen voices and questions could be heard from Room 16. I found myself feeling a little annoyed at what seemed to have been a complete waste of breath, but made my way to the principal’s office without turning back.
I waited thirty minutes with Ms. L, the school secretary, wondering what in the world Principal H. could want to see me about. “Do you know what this meeting is about?” I finally asked her. “No, they never tell me. I just call people down,” she responded during a break in the constant sound of incoming phone calls. I didn’t want to be a complete nuisance, but the length of the wait was making me nervous. “Who’s in there with him now?” I asked again, apparently sounding just as nervous as I felt. I guess she sensed it in my voice because she looked up from her work and the phone long enough to say “Don’t worry. I don’t know who he’s with. He’s probably just working on something.”
Ten more minutes passed and the school operations manager walked in with papers for Mr. H. to sign. “Who’s in there with him?” she asked Ms. L. Without stopping her work, Ms. L replied, “he’s meeting with the vp (vice principal).” She took the papers from the school operation manager’s hands and assured her that they’d make it to Principal H., not realizing the flurry of questions she’d just given my mind permission to release and worry over.
So I got the answer to my question. Principal H. was meeting with Ms. S, our vice principal. They were meeting with the knowledge that I was sitting on the opposite side of the door waiting to come in. They’d taken time out of their schedules at 2:30 pm on a Friday afternoon to meet before Principal H. saw me. Call me self-centered, paranoid, a pessimist, but to be completely frank, I could smell the impending drama from a mile away.
At around 3:00, they called me in. I perched on the edge of a chair closest to the door and waited for the news. As my principal has fired Teach for America teachers fairly routinely since the start of the year, I waited to hear the allegations/charges against me, get my warning, and face my fate. What did I do this week to earn one of the most talked about teacher-principal meetings on-campus? What reason did Principal. H. have to give my first-year-non-experienced-fresh-out-of-college-teacher-self for a mid-year termination? I wondered as he shut the door and Ms. S. gave me a weak smile. Was it management? No, I always received high marks for classroom management on evaluation forms. Lesson rigor and instruction? No, I teach social studies and science during the children’s intervention block. Math and Reading intervention has priority over my subjects.
I waited to hear exactly what I expected, that Principal H. was unhappy with my performance and would be more than glad to have me leave his faculty.
He pulled out a clipboard and first addressed my lesson plan submissions, something that admittedly threw me off for a few minutes. Lesson plans? Apparently I turned in two sets late this semester and now had to sign a formal write-up letter saying that I was unprepared for my students and drastically hindering their education by not submitting them on Friday morning instead of Monday morning those two weeks. This letter now rest in my file as evidence of my unprofessionalism and unpreparedness.
While that bothered me a bit in that it seemed completely random, especially since the lesson plans referenced were from months ago, the following serious concern stirred up more anger, frustration and feelings of betrayal than I have ever experienced, and consequently brought about this entry.
As I signed the formal write-up on my lesson plans using Principal H’s clipboard, I noticed a stack of small papers underneath. Passing the clipboard back across the table gave me just enough time to get a peek at them before he revealed their purpose. They were the main reason behind the meeting.
After a parent-teacher conference at the beginning of the week, students from my classroom were pulled to write about and discuss my verbal statements in class since the beginning of the year. Apparently, the short stack of papers on Principal H.’s clipboard today, coupled with documentation of my two sets of late lesson plans are grounds for dismissal should I have even a minor mess-up at school in the future. Principal H. and Ms. S. reviewed statements from my 4th grade class that said I yell at students to “shut to the up” and “get out of my face” constantly each day. They were “shocked” at the accusations, but certain of their truthfulness as they were written by “a group of fourth graders, rather than just one or two.”
I could think of nothing to say really, other than the fact that I was shocked as well. I’m sorry to admit that I lost all professionalism for a few moments as I tried to grasp some understanding of their logic. I searched for words to articulate my frustration at the very idea of a meeting to discuss barely-legible statements scribbled by children who already come to school with the feeling that they, not the teachers and administrators, run it. “Ya’ll teachers act like ya’ll scared of the chirren.” “I don’t care. Call my mama. They need to fire ya’ll and bring back the old teachers. Ya’ll be trippin’.” “Dang. I can’t do nothin’ in this class. You don’t let people do nothin’.” I’ve heard these statements screamed, mumbled, seen them written in notes and never once have I told a student to shut up, let alone “shut to the up.” As I sat in the principal’s office today, focusing in and out of the conversation between him, myself, and the vice principal, I could not help but reflect on all of the insulting things my students say throughout the day to all of the adults they come into contact with.
Deep inside, I wanted to be able to articulate the feeling of hopelessness and betrayal I felt in that office. I wanted to ask my principal how he could look at me today and not remember the hours I log at school beyond regular work hours each week, the number of parents I’ve called from home, the amount of improvement my class has made behaviorally since the beginning of the year, and his consistent expressions of joy at seeing the mutual respect my students and I usually share when he walks through my hall. Instead of doing what seems in retrospect to be one of the best things to do in such a situation, that is remove the conversation-focus from the negative and shift it to the positive, I found myself angrily trying to both defend myself against the accusations and address a greater issue that really bothers me about my school.
I gave the principal “my side” of the story, as he asked for it, but found myself wondering aloud about the true focus and purpose of my school. Why did this meeting feel like just a formality before my dismissal, not the fair meeting it was presented as in the write-up I signed? There were no “next steps” discussed and there was no real “counseling” on the issue, just a friendly-reminder that “before terminating you, we have to make you aware of the conversations we’re having.” I felt duped and wanted to know why the experience of that office meeting felt, to me, a lot like the school-experience of my students.
Why was this kind of time and attention not spared to discuss the fact that my students’ average oral reading fluency rate as of this Wednesday was 75 words per minute when it should be around 140 words per minute at this grade-level in December? Why is misbehavior a huge issue on-campus, but I do not know of any school-wide structures in place to address it beyond the time out room (which is always filled to capacity)? My roster completely changed today, with two-thirds of my class moving to other homerooms, and a third of each of the other teachers’ students moving into my room. This change is supposed to spread out the severely-disruptive students across the classes, balance out class sizes, and better fourth grade behavior. Yet, there was no time allotted in the daily schedule between the making of this decision on Thursday morning and the actual implementation of the rather loose, hurriedly-developed plan this afternoon. There is no overarching, consistent management plan between the three fourth grade classes (which rotate for each subject) and no real map for Monday’s “restart.” We’re essentially resetting or giving ourselves another chance, but missing some key elements necessary to achieving any kind of success as a grade level, planning and vision. These are issues I would’ve loved to discuss at the end of a week of personal and professional rebalancing.
Instead at the end of a fairly good week, I was nearly exhausted and distracted by the nonsense that started at 2:30 pm today. So as to ensure that this week is not burned into my memory as a total bust, I’m making the promise to look at this experience as another “strengthener,” and viewing it as an exercise in the practice of forgiveness. As it would neither serve me nor my students best to walk into my classroom angry at them on Monday for writing untrue statements about me, and holding a grudge against my principal will make going to work even less of an enjoyable experience, I’m going to make a new goal for next week.
My goal is to remember that I can have greater peace of mind by not always attempting to throw back what I get. In the words of U2, I’d like to travel outside of karma for a bit and remain positive.
I’ll leave you with that and we’ll see how it goes when I check back in next week.
Until then,
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Drowning.
I didn’t go to school today. This week, my principal gave me a marvelous early-Christmas present in the form of two days off to attend a conference for Louisiana’s “Computer Using Educators.” My daily use of powerpoint presentations for Social Studies and Science instruction apparently impressed him enough to warrant two additional absences to cap off my already lengthy list of sick (aka “purely exhausted”) days from the last four months. So, with my well-worn macbook in hand at 6 am this morning, I swung by my classroom to clean up a bit for the substitute and made my way to the downtown business district for a day of interactive presentations on the best of modern-day educational tools and technology.
Hopping from one presentation to the next with my complimentary tote and coffee, I was temporarily lifted to the state of “inspired teacher,” purveyor of knowledge, enricher of young minds, unappreciated heroine, a martyr on the front lines of education reform if you will. All in all, the conference made me feel legit. There I was, surrounded by teachers from all across Louisiana, anxiously taking notes as presenters spoke about all of the great technological resources we should use in our classrooms to achieve gains in student achievement and boundless academic growth. I sat with Mrs. H., our school technology specialist, and listened to career teachers talk for hours about using computers in their classrooms, play podcasts created by first and second graders, and demonstrate SMART Board presentations.
Our principal met us for lunch at a little restaurant off a downtown side street. Picking over my plate of deep fried chicken, mashed potatoes and rice and gravy, I listened as he and Mrs. H discussed things they hoped to purchase for our students and the new Christmas decorations in the school foyer. I tossed a few funny stories about my kids into the conversation so as not to be completely rude, but didn’t have much to say. Sitting down for a meal with my principal and a veteran teacher without fishing my mind for reasons why my students were in another fight or my lesson plans were missing at the deadline was an experience I hadn’t prepared for. Prior to today, I’d never even thought I’d encounter my boss outside of the warzone that is my school. The lunch conversation was light and it felt good.
After being dropped off at the conference again by our principal, Mrs. H and I made our way to our final session of the day, a SMART board demonstration. Naturally, the techie in me wanted to take the equipment and run back to my classroom. I resisted the urge however. The day of sessions ended smoothly, I was happy and filled with new ideas for my lessons when I climbed into my car to head home.
In an ideal world, my entry would end here. I would write that after coming home, I changed into workout clothes, had a rigorous session at the gym, prepared dinner, showered, and settled in with a nice book and a well-rounded meal. End of story.
Unfortunately (and I say “unfortunately” with as much emphasis as can be placed on the word), my current life is nothing even vaguely resembling ideal. This evening, instead of being able to maintain the joyous feelings I had at the technology conference, I was plunged into an all too familiar state of pure depression.
I returned to my apartment today and checked my phone to find yet another angry voicemail from a parent requesting a conference with me to discuss a student’s performance in my classroom. This one, like so many before, would like an explanation for his child’s grades and performance in my class. Request duly noted, polite response message planned, and back to reality, Swellsgirl09.
Outside of the walls of a Louisiana-wide conference for computer using educators lies my reality. I am a personal laptop using first year educator struggling in a school taken over by a charter this summer as a result of devastatingly low student achievement levels over several years. I work in a state with the lowest standards in the country and am leading a classroom of fourth graders at severe risk of not meeting these standards in March, when they will be tested. With third grade end of year test scores broken down by performance level into Unsatisfactory, Approaching Basic, Basic, Mastery and Advanced (Basic being about a 50%), the majority of my students entered my classroom at an Unsatisfactory level. Unsatisfactory, even by Louisiana State Standards.
I’ve seen chairs tossed across my room by children no taller than 5 feet, desks flipped over, blood-drawing fights, grade repeaters struggle to decode second grade sight-words, and all the while have tried to maintain some hope that I’m getting through and helping somebody, anybody in my classroom potentially break the cycle of poverty and self-destruction they seem to be so deeply embedded in.
I wish I was able to write an entry describing my experiences at the conference and plans to incorporate new technology into a classroom of eager learners, but that is not happening. Instead, I’m sitting at my computer at 7:30 pm, lesson plans due tomorrow by 8:00 am, and thinking about this upcoming parent conference. My thoughts are not at all on teaching, but on yet another reminder of my own inadequacies as a teacher and the mess that is my classroom. A child came into class everyday at 8:30 am since August, rolled his eyes, refused to do work, sit quietly and make any attempt at academic progress. Yet, I know this conference will focus on “teacher actions.” What am I doing wrong? Did I say something to hurt the child’s feelings? Have I tried to personally invest the child in learning? Am I providing the highest quality of academic instruction every minute in my classroom? What have I, as the adult in the classroom situation done to cause this child’s behavior and performance issues to escalate to the level of a parent-requested conference?
I’ve been a teacher for a few short months, but feel like a seasoned veteran in the area of discussions surrounding low student performance. From parent conferences to cluster meetings focused on examining the data of my quickly-receding class, I’ve gradually become better and better at the art of absorbing blame. Today at the conference I was surrounded by teachers who seemed to love their profession. They showcased videos of first graders creating podcasts to increase literacy, fourth grade powerpoint presentations and movie projects. I sat in awe as dozens of women (and a few men scattered in between) from every corner of Louisiana shared with bright-eyed enthusiasm the work of their students as evidence of class progress in the use of 21st century technology. I dare not ask why I feel like I can’t share their energy, drive and especially hope.
Reflecting back on the conference, it’s hard to separate it from the context of my teaching experience. I forgot about my school, my students and the many issues I face each day during today’s sessions. But now, back in the silence of my apartment, at the same desk where I write lesson plans and hunch over parent contact logs each night, I feel the same wave of depression washing over me.
My memory is such that now, I cannot remember those conference videos of small brunettes and blondes recording reading fluency on computers with flat-screen monitors and headset microphones without being hauntingly reminded of the reality of my classroom situation. One sometimes functional computer, bumped far too many times by students who shove large objects out of anger and frustration when asked to complete tasks and unplugged by the child that does not yet fully understand that it is unacceptable in most social situations to purposely and habitually harm or destroy the property of others. That is what I have in the way of technology.
Areas in need of serious growth is what I have too much of at the moment. Besides behavior problems, which abound as my students and most at the school have spent most of their elementary careers misbehaving with very little restraint or order, my classroom rests at the cross-section of nearly everything I was taught was wrong with American society during my brief academic study of American History at Wellesley College.
My students live in poverty, seem to have been utterly abandoned or ignored by any person or organization of people with real agency or a strong enough will to make much needed changes to their education until this fall, and do not understand their position in the social, political, and economic fabric of this country enough to realize that their trajectories, should they continue to make staggered or no progress educationally, will just land them either behind bars or in positions in which they must be supported by the state, essentially in a locked position at the margins of society. They’re fourth graders, how could they know?
New York Public Library Digital Library
What saddens me most is my role in this whole mess. Just this June, I walked across the graduation stage at Wellesley, grabbed my diploma, and celebrated the end of four years of late night conversations with friends about the social ills of our country, the earned ability to throw around phrases like “social, political, and economic fabric of this country,”and the acquirement of a pretty solid position somewhere pretty distant from the “margins of society.” I entered Teach for America armed with what I thought was a fairly strong read of class and race structures in this country and the stubbornness/arrogance to think I could shake up what I didn’t like about them, fix something on a small scale, and make a lasting impact.
I dove in with what I realize now was an absolute ignorance to the magnitude of this country’s and particularly this state’s failures in the area of public education in impoverished areas.
I want to think of my classroom as an isolated situation, maneuvering and constantly working to create systems and structures that support academic progress within the context of my school and student’s situations. What I cannot help but notice, whether at conferences such as today’s or in revisiting my old scholarly reads from college, is how much students and teachers at high-poverty schools face in their efforts to just achieve basic results. My school currently strives for students to move from “unsatisfactory” to “basic” on one of the simplest state exams in the country. From the outside, this seems simple, yet each day I feel as though I am drowning. I struggle to break myself and my students free of the legacy of decades of abandonment by the state of Louisiana and to shake the initial shock of engaging with the culture of poverty after years in a privileged position. Part of my old ambitious self still remains and each school day I muster up the hope that I will push my class forward academically. However, as the days go on and the school year slips away, as I serve as social worker, counselor, teacher, mentor, pseudo-parent, disciplinarian, friend, and interpreter, I cannot help but wonder if I’ll ever come to the surface for air. I don’t have a model of success being made in a school like this, in this state, in this city, at this time; just conferences showcasing how cheated my students are by a system that seems to only grudgingly and rather loosely hold itself accountable for them.
Is drowning just the constant state of a teacher in a Louisiana takeover charter? If so, should I cast aside all questions related to why things are the way they are and not even attempt to make sense of it all? I once heard that struggling against or fighting rough waters just makes one sink faster.
I’m drowning and something’s gotta give.
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For precious girls everywhere.
Don’t lie to me! Love ain’t done nothing for me! Love beat me down! Made me feel worthless!
By the time Precious’ main character, Claireece Precious Jones, a black, poverty-stricken, uneducated, sixteen year old victim of incest and mother of two gave this forthright articulation of her understanding of the word “love,” I’d already mentally placed the film in the same sphere as Ntozake Shange’s “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow is Enuf.” Anyone who’s ever engaged me in any conversation about black womanhood knows my everlasting love of Shange’s groundbreaking choreopoem and frequent returns to it for inspiration/guidance as I continue my stop-and-go progress toward “the end of my own personal rainbow.”
I sat down in the theater to watch Precious today, expecting to see black female suffering on full display. While the film received a great deal of positive praise in mainstream media over the last few weeks, the blogs I tend to frequent gave mixed, but mostly negative reviews. From referring to the film’s fictional representation of black life in a Harlem ghetto as borderline “poverty porn” to deconstructing skin color politics as played out in Precious’ relationship with her light-complexioned black teacher (played by Paula Patton), some of my favorite bloggers went to task on Precious this week and last. I’d read endless accounts of and expected to see revolting incestuous rape scenes, enough abuse to make even Celie shudder, and of course, the scene so heavily analyzed and talked about, a main character steal and consume a bucket of deep fried chicken in an act “reminiscent enough of popular 19th and early 20th century racist imagery” to make the hairs on the neck of any serious black social critic stand straight up.
I took deep breaths before the previews even began, hurriedly finishing my small popcorn and coke in preparation for the horror, the grit, the purely ruthless, unapologetic, two-hour experience of black womanhood abused, stripped bare, and opened for the voyeuristic consumption of myself and fellow audience members. I just knew watching Precious was going to be painful for me, something I’d have to do just once in order to get the jarring reminder of the abuses still suffered by my sisters today. After all, that’s what many other black bloggers seemed to be doing. Comparing the film to Rosewood, Antwone Fisher, and A Time To Kill, many described it as a film blacks were obligated to see, but only once, as its potential to depress is just too high. Precious is just, according to some, another name to add to the long list of films capitalizing on America’s fascination with black suffering.
Fifteen minutes into the film and I found myself still on edge, waiting to see this grotesque, beaten down, image of a black woman without agency, voice, or depth. All of the symptoms were there. A black female body loaded down with all of the emotional, psychological and physical abuses whites and black male producers could project upon it. How could Precious not suffocate under the weight of such awful circumstances? Why did I not see a silenced black girl on-screen as I sat in the theater? Something about Precious places it slightly off-center.
I want to hate Precious. I really do. The draft of this blog entry was written three days ago, and since then, I’ve lost count of the number of reviews I’ve read of the film. As an “artsy/moody/self-aware type,” as one black female blogger put it, how can I possibly like Precious? The film is just so damn typical.
In steps Director Lee Daniels, a black independent filmmaker, onto the Hollywood scene. He’s created a filmic representation of a black female character from a controversial book and a disgusting fictional Harlem landscape on which to play out this story of a human body at the brink of emotional and physical death. Bloggers and critics itching to formulate analogies between it and other black “poverty porn” don’t need to watch more than fifteen minutes beyond the opening credits before beginning to pencil down accounts of the film’s unapologetic roughness, over-exaggerated colorism and representation of black self-hate. Liberal viewers and mainstream media film critics likewise can sit with their hearts open, taking in the “grittiness” of Precious’ images, allowing the film to polish their moral compasses and set them even more firmly on their paths to bring about “racial and class reconciliation” in this country. The Bell Hooks-influenced womanist in me wants to scream “Foul!,” but I can’t.
Something about Precious’ voice prevents me from throwing the film away altogether and I haven’t worked my way through what it is exactly. Precious opens with letters scribbled on the screen in what looks like red ink. These letters form words unfamiliar to me. Seconds later they’re translated into standard english in a recognizable, neat font. Over the purely fascinating visual experience that is reading her raw, unedited affirmations of who she is, Precious’ voice sounds. It’s not harsh, not angry, there is no quivering or sadness. She introduces herself, Claireece Precious Jones, and talks candidly about her dream of becoming a famous celebrity. Never opening her mouth to crack a smile nor showing any expression of shock, extreme anger, any expected emotion, Precious’ character confuses and entraps me at the same time. This black female character sits in a world so bizarre, so unfamiliar and nauseatingly corrupt to me, yet she floats in limbo somewhere between what I and I’m sure many others expect her to be. She’s neither the purely-aggressive, reactionary, “I’m gonna grind to make it in this cold world,” heroine nor the passive, beaten-down woman carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders with humility and learned-timidity. While Precious shows tinges of both of these characters, she brings a complexity that demands attention and makes her character deserving of more focused analysis.
I want someone to spare a little time to get to the heart of this voice attempting to articulate black womanhood, even through the filter of a male director’s lens and a multi-billion dollar industry. To me, the most audacious act of Daniels in this film’s creation was the attempt to center a black female voice. “I made this movie for my girls. People read so much into ‘Precious.’ But at the end, it’s just this girl, and she’s trying to live. I know this chick. You know her. But we just choose not to know her,” Daniels said to a NYT reporter back in October. So why is there so little focus on this character’s articulations of self? From sharing her deepest insecurities in the daydream sequences (‘I wish I had a light-skinned boyfriend’) to her gentle sparing sessions with the men and women she encounters, one of the best sequences being her interview session with Mariah Carey’s character in which Precious teases Carey (‘I see vampires. They come through the floor.’), Precious refuses to be boxed in by her circumstances. She’s scarred, but not defeated; bold, outspoken and independent, yet still wanting of love and nurturing (‘love beat me down, made me feel worthless’). Gabourey Sidibe as Precious dances around strict definition as I believe most black girls, or ’precious’ girls do.
Where Precious triumphs is in its attempt to tackle and display the beautiful, sometimes unnerving contradictions that are naturally part of the makeup of humanity. Claireece Precious Jones does not make sense and she never once apologizes for it. What touches me, what makes this film so powerful, is the resiliency of her voice. Precious confidently carries audiences through the landscape that created her. Every moment in the film lends to Precious’ character and voice, from her daydreams about living a rockstar lifestyle to moments such as that in her principal’s office when she flatly answers, “I had sex,” when asked how she managed to become pregnant with another child at sixteen. She constantly reflects on the happenings around her, allowing readers insight into the workings of her mind and the most intimate moments in the process of her finding freedom. Precious’ character could easily be represented as living a dark, one-dimensional life. In the film, however, the voice of this black female character articulates a colorful womanhood, a celebration of overcoming and hope for self-betterment and empowerment.
I leave this entry open in hopes that you will respond with either your opinions of the film or general reflections on representations of black women in film, the act of sharing stories and interpretations of black womanhood, or whatever else is on your mind in the comments section…..
Until next time,
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Allow me to reintroduce myself.
I promised two wonderful women I’d start a blog weeks ago, and never made a meaningful effort to begin until today. I hate that this joke of an entry is going to serve as my formal reintroduction to the blogosphere, but what else is a girl to do in times such as these? Although today marks my first post, I will admit that I’ve spent much time over the past few weeks thinking about what exactly to begin with on this site. Do blogs such as these require introductions? Should I give a short spiel summarizing my life and journey to Teach for America, all of my experiences to date, and my ever-changing opinion of my state’s public education system? Would that go in one entry or should I space them out over several days to send my “readership” the subtle yet firm message that I don’t spend my days in front of my laptop ranting about a life I’m not out living?
All in all, the whole idea of blogging overwhelms me. Somewhere between the questions “what to write” and “who exactly will read this” lies the source of my anxiety.
To share with “the world” my musings on life, Louisiana experiences, and occasional reviews of whatever books, albums or foods I get my hands on over the next two years is not, in any way, a course of action I naturally engage in. However, I do publish this as the first of what I hope to be many entries I contribute to the rich online dialogue I have, until today, just observed. In an act fairly typical to my nature, I’m fully joining the blog movement today with little experience, but natural stubbornness and an ego large enough to keep this thing going until I’ve sparked some sort of mini-dialogue, on something, anything.
So, to Ms. P and Ms. A, you’ve officially pulled me in. I expect and look forward to lengthy exchanges on race, gender, politics, education, the old laundry list of things we graduates of those fine institutions of Wellesley and MIT should be able to fill hours, days, weeks, rambling and fussing over. I pray I don’t disappoint with my no frills approach to this blogging business. But, as my title suggests, keep the discussion topics coming and I’ll keep my reflections and contributions frank and unmaskingly to the point.
Here’s to rigorous dialogue, fresh ideas, and as always, original articulations of black womanhood.
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