What My Students Taught Me About Race

I'm nervous as I write this. I worry that I'm subconsciously writing it for selfish reasons. I worry that it's unfocused. I worry that it will be received poorly. I worry that I'll offend. I worry about a lot of things.

I was an educator for 8 years and 11 months before changing careers last month. The majority of my students were in their late teens and came from urban and underserved areas.

That’s my professional elevator pitch for strangers.

...And while that is true, let’s cut the PC bullshit and get straight to the answers of the frequently asked questions that typically come from my more conservative friends and neighbors:

No, I did not leave my teaching career because of the students.

Yes, most of my students were black and from the inner city.

No, I didn't work at a detention center.

No, not all of my students were drug dealers. Some were. Most weren't.

No, not all of my students were gang members. Some were. Most weren't.

No, I was never afraid of the gang members. Gang members are generally polite and respectful.

Yes, I have been scared of a student. Two, actually. Many years apart. One was white. One was black. Both were having significant and previously undiagnosed mental health episodes that warranted medical intervention that I was ill-equipped to handle.

Yes, my job was hard. No, it wasn't for the reasons you’d think.

Prior to teaching, I worked in a completely different industry with a completely different demographic (read: upper middle-class white people), but when that industry fell victim to the declining economy, I had no choice but to move on. I took my teaching job because it provided health insurance, and it was a short commute (Obviously there were many steps in between, but I will jump ahead for brevity's sake).

As I drove to my first day, a tiny voice in the back of my head cheered for me: You’re going to make a difference in a poor black kid’s life! You are doing God’s work! You are a hero!

Spoiler alert: Not one of those things was true.

I tried. I did. For about a week or so, I walked around in my “practical” heels, a walkie-talkie on my hip and an air of superiority that I didn’t realize I had. The kids were pretty nice to me. I got a lot of “yes, ma’am”s, which was a happy surprise, and I started to get the feeling that they thought I was pretty cool. I tried to be; these kids had never been given a break, so I adopted the “cool teacher/screw the rules” persona. Hey, you missed morning roll? Don’t sweat it. You need a cigarette break? Cool. Take one. You don’t want to put your phone away during class? Hey, I get it.

I was super proud of how well I was “relating;” because that's what I thought rule-bending and wink wink nudge nudge-ing was.

Then I had the cigarette incident with the Tall Kid (Which is obviously not his real name, as I'm sure you knew already).

Tall Kid was a decent student. He acted as somewhat of a mentor to his younger classmates and never gave the faculty any trouble...which is why I was so surprised to catch him in the bathroom one afternoon, hanging out the window and smoking a cigarette. At first, I tried to be cool about it. I put on a half-hearted frown and turned on my “Mom’s Disappointed” voice.

Hey, dude. What are you doing?

Smoking.

Yeah, but, like... you’re smoking in the building.

I have the window open. It’s raining. I didn't feel like going outside.

Yeah, but, c’mon, TK. You know you’re not supposed to smoke inside. Let’s put it out, okay?

Are you going to write me up?

Well, no. Of course not.

He chuckled and took a long drag before tossing the cigarette out the window. He studied me for a minute, sizing me up. Finally he said,

I knew it.

Knew what?

You’re one of those white ladies.

What do you mean?

You’re one of those white ladies that thinks they owe us poor black folks something.

I mean...no, I don’t think I owe you…

Don't matter. You’re treating me different. You should write me up. I felt lazy, and I’m breaking the rules. I’m smoking a fucking cigarette in a bathroom. Man, y’all white ladies are all the same. You think you’re doing us a fucking favor by treating us different. Bitch, I don’t need to be here. I want to be here. I don't need your pity.

In that instance, I realized that I was nothing but a patronizing asshole. These kids didn’t respect me. They didn’t think I was “cool.” They thought I was exactly like every other authority figure that came before me; a privileged white person who didn't acknowledge that privilege, waxing philosophic about changing the world but doing nothing of substance, and not even realizing how self-centered and self-serving that was. They’d follow the rules when I was around, humor me, and then never think about me again, because I was just a place-holder.

I was ashamed, and it stung. I had absolutely nothing to say, because the Tall Kid was right. I wasn’t trying to be cool. I was trying to not be racist. And in trying so hard to not be racist, I was being really, condescendingly, irrevocably racist.

The only response I had for the kid was this:

TK, call me bitch again and see what happens.

I think it shocked me just as much as it shocked him, and I am not even remotely proud of it. It was the absolute wrong thing to say to a kid; and although this student was 18 and towered over me at 6’, that’s what he was to me; a kid. Not a black kid. Not a poor kid. Just a kid. A kid that I’d been hired to educate.

For a moment we both stood there squared-off and stunned-until finally TK said quietly, Daaaaaamn, Ms. J. Okay, I see you.

I didn't write him up. I’d honestly forgotten all about it. He returned to class without incident, and went out of his way to tell the underclassmen that I was a savage until he started college a year later. Last I heard, he’s a high school basketball coach now.

It was the first most important lesson I’ve learned. From that day on I made every effort to get the “these poor minority kids” stigma out of my vocabulary. I tried every day to treat my students as I would any other kid despite what I knew about their skin color or socioeconomic background. I taught the curriculum. I answered questions. I followed the progressive discipline system. I joked around. I ran extracurricular programs. I never acted like an asshole. I rarely had an issue.

Until the Loud Girl.

Loud Girl was one of the most delightfully outspoken kids I’ve ever taught. She came from a large, complicated family but was desperate to forge her own path. She was smart as a whip and a brilliant poet. One afternoon, the class discussion went off the rails-as it normally did in the afternoon-and the subject of race came up.

What’s your opinion, Ms. J? LG asked.

Oh, I don’t really have one I guess. I don’t see color when I look at you guys.

LG audibly snorted.

What? I said.

That’s a bullshit answer.

Why?

Because it’s a lie and it’s fucking insulting.

Wait...really? Why?

Because you’re admitting that being black or brown or whatever race means something to you. It means like, I’m LESS THAN you, but you’ll still fuck with me like you’re doing me a favor. Which is why society’s never gonna change. Just LET me be black. Damn.

I felt like I’d been slapped in the face.

I’d spent years in that classroom trying to convince every single student that because I viewed them all as equals, I didn’t see...or care about... the color of their skin. Years of that. And even though it was MY truth, how many kids had I inadvertently insulted? To say that I don’t “see their color” is essentially denying them the privilege of understanding their history and taking pride in their heritage. The more I say that I don’t see color, or that I have black friends so I couldn’t possibly be racist, I am giving more power to the idea that a person’s skin color determines that person’s ranking in the world’s hierarchy.

In some fucked-up way, I think the whole rightist All Lives Matter thing is a misguided attempt to get to that point. Yes, all lives matter. Of COURSE all lives matter. We’re all blood and bones underneath all this. Both very good and very bad people come in every color. But as a society, we're not yet at a point where we can say All Lives Matter with confidence and have it be the absolute truth. We can't shout that All Lives Matter until every single person of every single race, religion, gender identity and creed can get pulled over for driving like an asshole and be 100% confident that they will leave the scene with nothing more than a ticket and a wounded ego. And we're never going to get there until we learn to listen (and listen to learn).

Which means we need to ask questions, and we need to be prepared to not like the answers we get. We can fight for our friends. We can take up arms against our friends’ sea of troubles. But we can’t assume that we know the best way to do that because we’re “the majority.” Our friends have to be able to control their own narrative, and they are allowed to say no to us. They are allowed to dictate what role they need us to play. They’re allowed to tell us what they need to be successful. If we truly want to be allies, we don't get to make those decisions, because they're not ours to make.

And that’s okay.