Everyone on this trip—except Grandmother, who is not at peace with who she is—was so welcoming and easy to love. I want to learn how to be that way.
Before I actually realize it, these last comments about our trip are tagged onto what I’ve written about God Help the Child. It will be interesting to see the response of my English teacher. We never get papers back marked up with “corrections.” She puts an “SP” when she thinks something is spelled unconventionally, so the student can decide what they intend; a sentence bracketed with a “G” means she thinks there is a grammar issue (we have to figure out what it is); and a “?” means she is not clear what you mean in a given section. It feels better that she raises questions rather than taking a “wrong” approach. It also means more thinking on our part to figure out what would be better in our writing. Bottom line is I write more, rather than holding back so I won’t be judged or misjudged.
I’m lucky to be in a school that doesn’t shove me into a box of right/wrong, either/or, black/white, rich/poor, young/old, or smart/dumb. Instead, we learn to think both/and. Both are real, and truth is a bigger picture that holds both. Otherwise, if you’re not on the “right” side, you live in shame. Shame based on being defined from the outside. Not based on inner awareness of the real me.
Back home, the Alabama trip a shadow still with me, I am inspired to write an entry for the Forensics Club competition, which other schools in the state also participate in. In the “Original Oratory” category the purpose is to persuade, and I can pick any subject I want. The tricky part is that what I’ve written is not a traditional speech, it’s more a back-and-forth with the audience. So, when I submit my entry, I assure the reviewers that I have tried out my approach and found that it works and stays within the time limit. They allow my entry, I think because they know Stone Creek is kind of weird but we come up with interesting stuff.
Friends help me prepare by being a guinea pig audience. They push me to think more clearly and applaud my growth through the rehearsing. Sean even travels to the competition with me. Right before I go on stage he says, “Don’t think of this as a competition but a chance to show who you are. They will love you.”
And then it’s time.
Unlearning
“At my school, we sometimes struggle to unlearn things we used to believe were true. I plan to demonstrate how unlearning works, with your help. I’m sure all of you have filled out a form that asks you to identify your race. If you were me, what would you answer?”
A handful of people answer:
“I would skip it; none of their business.”
“Or irrelevant.”
“If it was a college application, I would be tempted to check a minority box so they would give me additional consideration.”
“Be proud of who you are. Say ‘black.’”
“It’s hard to be proud these days if you’re ‘white.’”
“I see hesitation to speak among many of you. Why is that?”
Again, people shout out answers:
“Race is a touchy subject. I don’t want to offend anyone.”
“I felt confused. Being ‘white,’ the question never posed a problem for me before. Looking at it from your point of view was a new experience.”
“I wasn’t sure what the right answer was.”
“I was taught not to talk about race because it just ends up in bad feelings.”
“Thank you for speaking out. Let’s come back at the end of our time together to these issues of why it is hard for us to talk about race. By the way, please understand that anyone here is free to leave at any time without judgment… . Is race an important factor in our society? Social science research shows it is. I’ll give three examples from research:
• Those of you who perceive me as black will more likely experience me as different. Even if you are black, you will notice differences in shades of black.
• If you perceive me as black, you will more likely think I am a ‘bad,’ as opposed to a ‘good,’ person.
• If you think I’m black, you are more likely to see me as angry, particularly about how blacks are treated.”
Some murmurs from the audience.
“So far we know three things. We experience race as a part of daily life and see the issue of race differently. Race is an uncomfortable subject to talk about. And third, our idea of race matters in how we see each other. Okay, now let me share with you the answer I would put on the form asking me to identify my race. I would answer ‘none.’ I’m not saying there is no box that fits my race; some forms do have ‘mixed race’ or ‘other race.’ But even if there were these options, I would still answer ‘none.’ I would not skip the question, as in it’s none of their business; I would answer affirmatively, ‘none.’ Why do you think I would do that?”
This is clearly a confusing question to many in the audience, and there are few comments:
“How can there be no race? That’s ignoring the issue.”
“It would be like saying your heritage doesn’t exist.”
“You don’t like labels?”
I laugh at the last comment. “It’s very true, I have a hard time with labels. I feel like people try to define me by putting me in labeled boxes instead of letting me show them what’s inside me. However, there is a more universal reason I answer ‘none.’ Science has been clear for over sixty years that there are no sub-species among humans. In fact, humans are more genetically alike than many other animals in nature. In other words, there is no such thing as ‘race’ among humans.”
I look out at the audience. They’re with me.
“History tells us how important believing in ‘race’ differences was to the founding of the United States. Labor was needed to build economic prosperity. We turned people into slaves, justifying the action by saying they were an inferior ‘race’ of people, physically—not just culturally—different and inferior. The impact of our history is why it took US scientists an extra thirty years, compared to the rest of the world, to state publicly that there is no such thing as so-called ‘races’ among humans.”
Someone from the audience raises his hand and stands up at the same time. “Why do you want to deny your heritage? And deny the heroic struggles of blacks in America?”
“I am denying neither. I am proud of my black heritage, including fighting our way out of slavery. The way I refer to my background is that I belong, in part, to the black ethnic group in America. Ethnicity is a cultural term to indicate heritage or social standing, like religion, economic class, gender, etc. To say I belong to the ‘race’ of blacks in America is a lie. Again, there is no such thing as race. Remember, the form did not ask me for my ethnic group but for my race.”
An older woman in the audience stands. “Why is the term ‘race’ as opposed to ‘ethnicity’ so important to you?”
“Thank you for asking that very direct question. There are two main reasons. The first is I want to be perceived as ‘human,’ not as an inferior sub-category that is scientifically nonexistent. The second reason is I want to be perceived as defining my own identity rather than being shoved into pre-defined boxes. I will define what my identity as a woman means for me. I will define the role money plays in determining my sense of success. I will choose my friends based on trust and respect. How I communicate these depends on shared language between us. Ultimately, I am saying that language and precise thinking are important.”
A young black woman from the audience rises. “We’ll never get to that shared communication if we don’t fight racism.”
I applaud her, literally, to stunned stares from others. “Yes, that is our current tragedy. Race does not exist, but racism does. And that, I believe, is why we had such a hard time at the start today talking about race. I believe, in our guts, we all kind of know race doesn’t exist but people are being hurt by pretending it does, that it matters. That’s racism.”
The girl who just spoke seems satisfied by my response; she sits down.
“In c
onclusion, if you have not unlearned the belief that race exists, then you are not alone or unusual. Unlearning, another word for change, is hard. We see racism every day, people acting as if race exists and people across races are different. I struggle every day not to be racist, whether I’m filling out government or college forms that ask my ‘race’ or wanting to cheer for the all-black basketball team. But soon we will get past racism in the same way fewer and fewer people now claim global warming is a hoax.”
The last thing I see, before tears block my vision, is Sean hooting and hollering in the back, the loudest of the applauders.
Chapter 10: Reality Check
Once upon a summer, a youthful dream met the power of Mother Nature.
JAKE
A marker that I have grown up, possess social status defined by law. That’s the sense of it. Not any actual achievement. Sixteen years and three months, the requirement for me to exercise freedom of movement. Today, the first time I am allowed to drive, alone, the ten miles from home to school. No matter that I have been skillfully driving vehicles in my farm community for years. The license represents my first legal sanction of adulthood.
At age sixteen I can also legally drop out of school. One of the smartest people I know, my dad, left school at age sixteen. He was bored and belittled there. He’s a whiz at math but because he wouldn’t always use the teacher’s method to solve a problem, he received no recognition for often thinking correctly, but differently, for himself. The youngest of ten, he rose from extreme poverty and has done well for himself. An early career in construction funded his dreams of owning his own land and farming. Empty time—particularly winter evenings since my mom died—he fills with reading and talking history of this area. I swear he knows every person and every piece of land from hundreds of years ago to now, in his head. That’s a sharp mind.
I would need his permission to drop out of school now. I can’t see that happening. He has seen the world change from valuing what a person knows or can do to caring only about degrees. Employers now require higher and higher levels of schooling just because they can, without any need for all that education to do the job.
Honestly, I’m not really thinking about dropping out of school anymore. I used to feel bored and belittled, like Dad—but then Chief came to Stone Creek as principal, and school started to feel different. I have learned a ton more about what I want to know. I am just as committed to farming as Dad, and he has taught me everything he knows. But I have also learned that to survive in my chosen field of work, I’ll have to do it differently than he does. Exactly how, though, I’m not sure.
Students in the Future Farmers of America (FFA) Club at school share my background, unlike the city kids, but not my drive for new answers. I push for answers to questions they don’t have. They seem comfortable in a future of part-time work on their farms, almost like a hobby, with a real paying job doing something else the rest of the time. As we share what we learn in our classes related to agriculture, I keep raising my questions, which others see as unrealistic. They see what I’m dreaming of as big change, not something you can do with just one small farm here in the valley.
Crossing the Stone Creek parking lot, a little awkward in stiff leather, I hear, “Hey Jake. Look at those fancy new boots.”
“Hey, Sean.” I look down at my boots—pristine, not a bit of mud on them. “Yeah, I’m celebrating my first day of legal driving. Got these for my birthday a few months ago, but decided to keep them nice a while, save them for special occasions.”
You wouldn’t know it to look at these boots, but they are very expensive—well made and totally waterproof. Dad wears plastic grocery bags over his shoes when it’s wet out. He says it’s his idea of recycling.
“I’m still biking it for a couple more months, until I’m a grownup too,” Sean says, looking a little bummed about it.
We walk into first period and head to our customary spots. I sit on the left end row with some of my FFA friends, while Sean sits on the right end row with his soccer friends—Daniel and some other guys—and Cora.
Sean and Daniel’s soccer friends are immigrants from south of the border. Actually, I’m not positive exactly where each of them is from. Sean told me a big issue for many of them is that they lack legal documentation to be in this country. Meaning, for instance, they can’t get a driver’s license, whether or not they’re old enough for one. Yesterday at the DMV, I had to show my social security card as proof of “legal presence” in the US. Many of the parents of these kids get paid under the table for the work they do on farms, in restaurant kitchens, and at sawmills.
Cora, Sean, and I have been hanging out a lot with Maria, Cora’s friend from golf. I’m guessing members of her family are undocumented, but I would never ask. Even though we’re friends, it’s kind of like “don’t ask, don’t tell.” The stakes are high, with the threat of possible deportation hanging overhead like a constant cloud.
Our three junior class counselors are talking today about how we should visit colleges to see what they have to offer for each of us. I lean over and ask Sean whether undocumented residents can be accepted to Virginia State colleges.
“The guys say colleges don’t make an issue of it, but money is the real issue,” he whispers. “Like not being eligible for federal Pell grants.”
Funny how you can see people every day, even joke around with them, but not really know them.
Arriving at our English/social studies block class, we are greeted by a parent Sean recognizes as the helicopter mom of a guy in the student jazz band who lives down the street from him. Sean says the guy complains about how his mom hovers, texting him constantly and trying to control his life in many other ways. When class starts, she tells us she will be observing us today. I see forms on her clipboard, the ones teachers and students approved last year for parents visiting classes to provide feedback about what they observe. Parents are encouraged to visit classrooms their own children are not a part of. The jazz band student is not in our class, but Sean says he has our same teachers in afternoon block.
At the end of class, I hear the parent say to one of the teachers, “Seeing your class helps me understand what my son is doing every day, how he is growing. Maybe I need to loosen up and quit pushing him.”
“His counselor, Ms. Hoffmann, is scheduled in a few days to do a review of his portfolio and my quarterly evaluation for this class,” the teacher says. “I’m confident she will be pleased by the progress he has made.”
The counselor job has changed over the years. Now there is a big emphasis on communication skills in ninth grade English classes—making friends, resolving conflicts, expressing your thoughts and feelings in writing, speaking publicly, stuff like that—and that groundwork helps prevent many problems, freeing up Stone Creek’s counselors to work one-on-one with students on other issues. Ms. Hoffmann, for instance, had the time to help Sean transition into Stone Creek after attending two other high schools. They worked together to develop an Individual Student Plan for him based on teacher assessments of his skills. A few teachers set up specific review activities for him and monitored his progress. He worked hard and did fine on exams at the end of first semester. His dad the professor still wants him to do better, but he did admit to Sean that he had made quick progress.
Ms. Hoffmann has helped me a lot with confidence. Us country kids go to school with kids much wealthier than our families are, and I’d always had a chip on my shoulder about that, aggravated by their privileged assumptions about life and the fact that I came up short when I compared myself to them. Like, how I talked, what I wore, never having traveled out of the state, and how much they already knew coming into elementary school. Ms. Hoffmann grew up here among farm families, and she knew how to get me to see my strengths. She encouraged me to dig into things I wanted to know, and kept reinforcing practicing those communication skills. It must have worked, because now my dad teases me by calling me Mr. Professor.
I’m still debating about going to
college. The staff all assume everyone will, at some point in their life, need to go to college, but I’m not so sure.
The last time Ms. Hoffmann and I talked, she said, “College can help you with farming. Agricultural science, economic markets, and business management classes—”
I raised my hand in a stop motion. “I agree college can help, but I can also learn a lot through firsthand experience, online research, and social networking with other farmers. I’m not interested in wasting time and money taking a bunch of required college courses that are not in my area.”
“Taking courses outside your interests broadens you as a person,” she countered.
I had to think about that one for a minute. She had not brought that argument up before. Finally, I said, “I prefer the direct experience approach rather than always taking classes. I taught myself to play the bass. I’m not great at it, but I play in a band and we have fun. I’ll probably play the rest of my life.” There’s something nobody else knows but me. I guess I trust her enough to tell her. “Please don’t spread it around, but I have also gotten into writing poetry. Again, I’m not great, but a college class probably wouldn’t make me enjoy it any more. The teachers here inspire me plenty.”
She didn’t keep pushing, but we both know the topic will come up again.
I am enrolled in a computer programming class this semester. I chose this class over intramurals since I get plenty of physical activity at home working on the farm. And the arts, like playing the bass, I’m doing on my own. I hear the community college will be offering a new class in sustainable agriculture here at Stone Creek next year. I definitely want to take that course. I walk with Daniel over to the vocational and computer wing, as usual. At the end of first semester, he switched from soccer to a business management class taught by the community college instructors. The comfort we’ve grown into with each other after doing these daily walks together for months gives me the courage to ask, “How are things going at the group home, Daniel?”
School Tales Page 21