What Would Harriet Wear?

Previously, on As The Racial Micro-Aggressions Turn, our son was written up for inciting a brawl and, one year later, he was identified as gifted. He also was asked to bring to school a dish from our “home country,” so by the time our daughter had a similar assignment some years later, we didn’t bat an eyelash. Oh, you want her to wear native garb from our homeland?

#straightouttachina

We sent her in a cotton dress from Target. Don’t get me wrong.  I am all in favor of celebrating ethnic diversity.  But the emphasis on ancestral homelands strikes me as highly problematic for reasons that I can’t quite articulate. I turned to my mother for perspective. “Who keeps child-sized immigrant wear in their closet???”  She refused to dignify the topic any further.

Word to my mother.

I also asked a few friends with school-aged children for their input.  To make sure that my survey was scientific and unbiased, I made sure not to ask black people. My hypothetical question was pretty simple: what would you do if your kid was given an assignment to wear something from your homeland?

Orlando: “I would need to go to the second-hand store to find clothes I was rocking in the ’80s while [I was] residing in the international town of Tulare, CA.” Karen: “American Eagle suit; T-shirt with American flag on it; Red, white and blue flying suit; Women’s national Team USA jersey; Daisy Dukes.” Chandra: “I guess I could send him to school with some Irish beer.”

Clearly, these friends are not very authentic, so I consulted my pal, Marilyn, reared by a family of educators in the Midwest and one of the most socially aware people that I know.  She also has not one but two African American children. Surely, she must have her finger on the pulse of diversity education in schools.

Marilyn: “USA! USA!  Or we could dress her as a hick.”

I don’t think this is what the school has in mind.

She then went on to explain how her friends let their children dress up in the traditional wear of a country that they are interested in, rather than sticking to the whole Dress Like Your Ancestors assignment. Hold up, I say.  You mean this is an actual assignment for the school?  I thought we were speaking in hypotheticals for the purpose of this research. “Yes,”  Educated Marilyn texts back. “Every year [my daughter’s] school celebrates Multicultural Day and encourages all of the students to dress in their native garb.  There is a parade during recess and all of the parents are invited.” Then Marilyn has a revelation.  “Maybe they can dress as Harriet Tubman.” I realize now that this topic requires greater reflection.  WHY do schools think these assignments are a good idea?  What assumptions are being made about people’s histories and culture?  On the one hand, black American kids or other groups who don’t readily identify as immigrants can feel marginalized during these school-sanctioned celebrations, particularly when there is an emphasis on “home” being outside of the U.S. Additionally, we run the risk of constantly viewing some groups (e.g., Latinos) only through an immigration lens, as though they are perpetual visitors and outsiders. Just as important: with all of the emphasis on clothing and food, what messages are we sending to young people about multiculturalism and cultural sensitivity?

Today, Multicultural Day.  Tomorrow, Cinco de Mayo frat party.

 

Brawler

EXT. BRENTWOOD SCIENCE MAGNET ELEMENTARY PLAYGROUND – DAY

A small group of 6 and 7 year old boys, mostly African American and Latino, are hanging out by a steel Space Dome Climber.  One of these boys is XAVIER, slightly bigger than the others, with an athletic build.  He’s bored.

XAVIER (to no one in particular)

                         Hey, guys.  Let’s fight!

 FADE OUT

The above scene is based on actual events with our son playing the part of “Xavier.”  No one was hurt and there was no blood shed.  No one started crying even.  For his participation in said event, J received an official citation from the school for “inciting a brawl.”

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There is no formal explanation for citations in the LAUSD handbook; in fact, the most recent edition only mentions a citation once.  But I did find one definition on a California school’s website: “citations are a formal documentation of behaviors.  Teachers should use citations sparingly and strategically. Citations may ONLY be written by teachers or the principal, not classified staff or substitutes.”   In some schools, particularly in higher grades, police officers administer citations.  Essentially, they are part of a school’s discipline plan.

And what about a “brawl”?  Let’s refer to an official source, Black’s Law Dictionary:

A clamorous or tumultuous quarrel in a public place, to the disturbance of the public peace. In English law, specifically, a noisy quarrel or other uproarious conduct creating a disturbance in a church or churchyard. 4 Bl. Comm. 140; 4 Steph. Comm. 253. The popular meanings of the words “brawls” and “tumults” are substantially the same and identical.

This is a brawl;  this is a brawl; and this most definitely is a brawl.   A group of seven year olds going at it on the playground?  At the most, that’s a kerfuffle, but for the average person, that’s just called recess.

Unfortunately, as many studies and reports have shown, black and Latino youths don’t often have the luxury of exhibiting “average” or ordinary behavior in school.  Rather, they tend to be over-policed by teachers and administrators and often treated like violent offenders for routine situations.

Rather than sign the citation, as we were directed, my husband and I went to the school the next day and confronted the vice principal, a very nice, mild mannered African American man.  He was stunned by our outrage, admitted that his word choice was poor, but assured us that he was just trying to scare our son.

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In February 1993, when he was 17 years old, Virginia native Allen Iverson went bowling with a group of (black) friends at a bowling alley.  Allegedly, someone called Iverson a “nigger” and “little boy,” and a fight broke out between two distinct groups, one all black and the other all white.  According to one source, “Police concluded that the white combatants had acted in self-defense, and none was charged. But Iverson and three other black teens were charged as adults with ‘maiming by mob‘—a felony under a rarely used statute written to prosecute Klan lynchings.”  Ultimately, Iverson was sentenced to 15 years in prison for participating in what is commonly referred to as a brawl.  The prosecuting attorney argued: “This was a violent mob. We tried them as a mob because, while we couldn’t link specific people to specific acts, each defendant was responsible for what occurred.” Iverson served four months in a Virginia correctional facility before being granted clemency by Governor Douglas Wilder.

Harsh punishments for black youth often are regarded as necessary tactics to scare them straight or to prevent them from going down a criminal path.   As journalist Stacey Patton argues, such notions are based on the belief that these young people are inherently offenders.

Seen as criminals from childhood, little boys and girls with black skin have the unfortunate damnation of existing in a society that sees no purpose in them. Black people and blackness are regularly associated with unruliness, violence and trouble. A rowdy black kid can’t just be doing something silly. It’s often seen as displaying a blatant disregard for authority and social order — pretty much asking to be kept in check by any means necessary.

The important work of UCLA professor and student advocate Tyrone Howard reminds us how schools contribute to building this narrative of criminalization.  Black male students are disproportionally the victims of school zero-tolerance policies and other forms of punishment where they are made an example.  Howard maintains: “minor infractions, which could and should be handled by school officials, began to result in the involvement of local police, the arrest of minors, and the filing of criminal charges.”  For many of these youths, the lines between school and the law are blurred.  A 2014 report from the Department of Education describes school citations (as well as student arrests and ticketing) as “law enforcement techniques,” and argues that they should be used only as a last resort.

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“Iverson and his buddies went to the alley to bowl, not to brawl.  Somebody hit somebody and then it turned into a fight.  There is no common purpose when people come running from everywhere because of the words, fight, fight, fight.”

~Herbert V. Kelly, Sr., defense attorney for Allen Iverson

My husband and I recognized the slippery slope that we were on.  We understood that labeling a first grader as a “brawler” is the first step down a long road of further unwarranted charges, mis-applied legal terms and undue punishments.  While we had some control, we wanted to reject this narrative for our son.  We repudiated the citation and told the vice principal that he better not put it in the boy’s school file.  Case closed . . . for that day.

Sadly, this story is not a unique one.  Tunette Powell recently wrote a piece in The Washington Post about the number of times her four year old son has been suspended from pre-school.  Indeed, the “preschool to prison pipeline” is real and is not limited to poor, inner city youth.  Any black student may be subjected to the biases of a teacher, including one who may think he is doing the right thing.  [Note: that administrator who wrote J’s citation? Now Executive Director of LAUSD Student Integration Services.]

If other parents have gone through something similar with their children, I encourage you to post in the comments section below!

Speaker Of The House

I’m just saying how I feel, man.
I ain’t one of the Cosbys; I ain’t go to Hillman.

~Kanye West, “Can’t Tell Me Nothing”

Lately I have been become interested in a phenomenon that I refer to as first-generation awareness, that is, the realization and subsequent acceptance that one is a first-generation college student.  The concept may seem obvious, but after reflecting upon my own school experiences and in speaking with other first-gens, I stand firm that this identity needs to be explored more carefully. Specifically, I argue that one must learn that she is a first-generation college student and then with that knowledge in hand, begin to seek resources and support.

For as long as I can remember, I knew that I was going to be the first person in my family to go to college.  Why?  Because my aunts and uncles told me so at every opportunity.  I was known as the “smart one” and all questions regarding school and the government were first brought to me.

“Tee, you’re smart.  What does this word mean?”

“The school called today.  What that teacher want?”

“Something came in the mail from the city.  Can you open it up, baby?”

I knew that I was the first to go to college in my family, but I didn’t realize that being first-generation was a thing.  I just knew that I was different somehow, but more importantly, I had a responsibility to do well in school not just for myself but for the whole family, my block and even the race.  As the designated family representative, I was aware that I had opportunities that my mother, grandmother and cousins did not.  My success (or failure) was everyone’s success and cause for widespread celebration.

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My grandmother and youngest uncle–still in high school at the time–were excited when they found out that my second grade class was taking a field trip to City Hall and that we would have an opportunity to meet with the mayor.  Our homework was to come up with a question that we would ask him.

“Nah, Tee.  All of those other kids are going to ask stupid questions,” Unc rubbed his hands together after I explained the assignment.  “You gotta come up with something good.”

I was puzzled.  “Like what?”

He and my grandma looked at each other knowingly.  “We’ll help you.”

The big day came.  We toured the grounds, fidgeted while the teachers attempted to explain the wonders of a democracy, and finally were shuffled into a small room that reminded me of a library.  The mayor was patient and gracious, but I suspected he wasn’t used to being around a bunch of seven year olds.  Sure enough, Unc was right: the questions were fairly lightweight.

“How many pets do you have?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Do you like cake or pie?”

And then it was my turn.  I stood up and held my wide-ruled notebook paper steady as I cleared my voice and read.

“When are you going to pass a law in favor of rent control so that poor people can pay their rent?”

The room fell completely silent at first.  Within seconds, one teacher rushed toward me and another headed toward Mayor Mann, shielding him from my audacity.

A classmate whispered to another. “What did she say?”

“I don’t know.”

It didn’t matter that I had no idea what rent control was either, but I stood there politely while the mayor (now sweaty and turning pinker by the minute) stammered his way through a response.  And it didn’t make any difference that since 1950, the Code of Virginia has prohibited rent control and no mayor has the authority to overturn the law.  What mattered most was that I asked the question.  Unc and Grandma recognized that the average poor person would never get an opportunity to meet with a government official, so it was my responsibility to speak on behalf of others who could not be there.

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I recently called my grandmother and asked her about this incident.  I wanted to know what she remembered, and why did she come up with a wringer about rent control of all things?  Her response was something like this:

“You know, you was always asking questions.  [Your grandfather] always said, ‘She’s the Smart One in the family.’  You always had your nose stuck in a book.  And [your father’s family] also encouraged you.  All of those questions.  You kept asking us why people lived where they lived.  So I figured, you could just ask the man himself.”

Now, Grandma is getting up there in age and her memory is not what it used to be, so I am not certain how much of this recollection is true.  But clearly she was on to a powerful pedagogical strategy, that is, when possible, students should take charge of their own education.  Rather than having me follow the crowd (“What’s your favorite ice cream?”), she pushed me to speak directly to an authority figure about something that was critically relevant.

This is an important lesson that I aim to instill within my own children, as well as my students.  For instance, when my son was frustrated with a school project that required him to interview a family member about her “immigration story” and also to provide photos and documentation of said immigration experience (Remember: we are not immigrants), my husband and I suggested that he write a letter to his social studies teacher explaining why the assignment was not appropriate.  We wanted him to know that he could speak up and talk back and that there are times when you must speak on behalf of your family and community.

This message is especially meaningful for first-generation college students who often come to the university with questions.   These queries should be welcomed, nurtured, and perhaps pruned, when necessary.  Sometimes they are audacious.  Sometimes the question may be as simple as, “What difference does it make that I am the first person in my family to go to college?”

And the answers are seldom simple.