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Teacher: Dear students, I’m sorry about that test I made you take
Dear 8th Graders,
I’m sorry.
I didn’t know.
I spent last night perusing the 150-plus pages of grading materials provided by the state in anticipation of reading and evaluating your English Language Arts Exams this morning. I knew the test was pointless—that it has never fulfilled its stated purpose as a predictor of who would succeed and who would fail the English Regents in 11th grade. Any thinking person would’ve ditched it years ago. Instead, rather than simply give a test in 8th grade that doesn’t get kids ready for the test in 11th grade, the state opted to also give a test in 7th grade to get you ready for your 8th-grade test.
But we already knew all of that.
What I learned is that the test is also criminal.
Because what I hadn’t known — this is my first time grading this exam— was that it doesn’t matter how well you write, or what you think. Here we spent the year reading books and emulating great writers, constructing leads that would make everyone want to read our work, developing a voice that would engage our readers, using our imaginations to make our work unique and important, and, most of all, being honest. And none of that matters. All that matters, it turns out, is that you cite two facts from the reading material in every answer. That gives you full credit. You can compose a “Gettysburg Address” for the 21st century on the apportioned lines in your test booklet, but if you’ve provided only one fact from the text you read in preparation, then you will earn only half credit. In your constructed response — no matter how well written, correct, intelligent, noble, beautiful, and meaningful it is —if you’ve not collected any specific facts from the provided readings (even if you happen to know more information about the chosen topic than the readings provide), then you will get a zero.
And here’s the really scary part, kids: The questions you were asked were written to elicit a personal response, which, if provided, earn you no credit. You were tricked; we were tricked. I wish I could believe that this paradox (you know what that literary term means because we have spent the year noting these kinds of tightropings of language) was simply the stupidity of the test-makers, that it was not some more insidious and deliberate machination. I wish I could believe that. But I don’t.
I told you, didn’t I, about hearing Noam Chomsky speak recently? When the great man was asked about the chaos in public education, he responded quickly, decisively, and to the point: “Public education in this country is under attack.” The words, though chilling, comforted me in a weird way. I’d been feeling, the past few years of my 30-plus-year tenure in public education, that there was something or somebody out there, a power of a sort, that doesn’t really want you kids to be educated. I felt a force that wants you ignorant and pliable, and that needs you able to fill in the boxes and follow instructions. Now I’m sure.
It’s not that I oppose rigorous testing. I don’t. I understand the purpose of evaluation. A good test can measure achievement and even inspire. But this English Language Arts Exam I so unknowingly inflicted on you does neither. It represents exactly what I am opposed to, the perpetual and petty testing that has become a fungus on the foot of public education. You understand that metaphor, I know, because we have spent the year learning to appreciate the differences between figurative and literal language. The test-makers have not.
So what should you do, my beautiful, my bright, my intelligent, my talented? Continue. Continue to question. I applaud you, sample writer: When asked the either/or question, you began your response, “Honestly, I think it is both.” You were right, and you were brave, and the test you were taking was neither. And I applaud you, wildest 8th grader of my own, who — when asked how a quote applied to the two characters from the two passages provided — wrote, “I don’t think it applies to either one of them.” Wear your zeroes proudly, kids. This is a test you need to fail.
I wondered whether giving more than 10 minutes of every class period to reading books of our own choosing was a good idea or not. But you loved it so. You asked for more time. Ask again; I will give you whatever you need. I will also give you the best advice I can, advice from the Nobel Prize-winning writer, Juan Ramón Jiménez. Ray Bradbury thought this was so important, he used it as the epigraph at the beginning of Fahrenheit 451: “When they give you lined paper, write the other way.”
It is the best I have to offer, beyond my apologies for having taken part in an exercise that hurt you, and of which I am mightily ashamed.
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A letter from a black mother to her son
Dear Caleb,
When you were almost 2, we would drop off your cousin, Sydney, at her K-8 elementary school. The ritual went something like this:
“OK, Syd, have a good day.”
“OK,” she’d groan as she grabbed her backpack. “Bye, Caleb.”
“Bye,” you’d wave and grin with your entire body.
“Bye,” Sydney would say one last time as she shut the door. I’d roll down the car window.
“Byeeeee,” you’d sing.
“Bye,” Sydney would laugh as she caught up with friends.
I’d roll up the window as you said “bye” a few more times, then start to whimper. “It’s OK, sweetie, she’ll be back before you know it. And you’ll be off joining her before I know it.”
And it’s true. Before I know it, Caleb, you will be throwing your backpack on and waving goodbye as you run off across the playground. I think about that moment often and wonder about the condition of schools you’ll enter. I worry about sending you, my black son, to schools that over-enroll black boys into special ed, criminalize them at younger and younger ages, and view them as negative statistics on the dark side of the achievement gap.
Son, my hope for you is that your schooling experiences will be better than this, that they’ll be better than most of mine.
For three years of my K-8 schooling, from 7:40 a.m. until 3:05 p.m., I was black and invisible. I was bused across town to integrate a white school in Southeast Portland, Ore. We arrived at school promptly at 7:30 and had 10 full minutes before the white children arrived. We spent that time roaming the halls — happy, free, normal. Once the white children arrived, we became black and invisible. We were separated, so that no more than two of us were in a class at a time. I never saw black people in our textbooks unless they were in shackles or standing with Martin Luther King Jr. Most of us rarely interacted with a black adult outside of the aide who rode the bus with us. I liked school and I loved learning. But I never quite felt right or good. I felt very black and obvious because I knew that my experience was different from that of my peers. But I also felt invisible because this was never acknowledged in any meaningful way. I became visible again at 3:05 when I got back on the bus with the other brown faces to make our journey home.
Caleb, I want your teachers to help you love being in your skin. I want them to make space for you in their curricula, so that you see yourself as integral to this country’s history, to your classroom’s community, to your peers’ learning. I want your teachers to select materials where blacks are portrayed in ordinary and extraordinary ways that actively challenge stereotypes and biases. Most of all, Caleb, I want your teachers to know you so they can help you grow.
One day a teacher was trying to figure out why I was so angry since I was generally a calm, fun-loving kid. She said to me: “I know you, Dyan. You come from a good family.” But did she know me? She knew that I lived on the other side of town and was bused in as part of the distorted way that Portland school authorities decided to “integrate” the schools. But did she know what that meant? My mom — your grandma — got us up at 6 a.m. in order for me to wash up, boil an egg just right, fix my toast the way I liked it, and watch the pan of milk so that it didn’t boil over, so I could have something hot in my stomach before going to school. You know Grandma, she doesn’t play. We had to eat a healthy breakfast before going to school, and we had to fix it ourselves. Maybe that’s what that teacher meant by “good family.” My teacher didn’t know that we had to walk, by ourselves, four blocks to the bus stop and wait for the yellow bus to come pick us up and take us to school. It took us a half hour to get to school. Once there, I had to constantly code switch, learn how not to be overly black, and be better than my white counterparts.
Caleb, I want your teachers to know your journey to school — metaphorically and physically. I want them to see you and all of your peers as children from good families. I don’t want you to have to earn credit because of whom you’re related to or what your parents do for a living. And I don’t want your teachers to think that you’re special because you’re black and have a family that cares about you and is involved in your life. I want them to know that all children are part of families — traditional or not — that help shape and form who they are.
The summer before beginning 4th grade, I started teaching myself how to play the clarinet. It was the family instrument in that both of my older sisters played it when they were younger. For years I wanted to be a musician. It was in my blood. My grandfather was a musician, all of my uncles can sing very well, and my dad — your grandfather — was a famous DJ in Jamaica once upon a time. At the end of 5th grade, my band director took each member aside to provide feedback on whether or not she or he should continue music in middle school. My teacher told me that I just didn’t have it and should quit. I was devastated. I had dreams of becoming a conductor and I loved playing music. I learned to read music and text at the same time before entering kindergarten, so I couldn’t understand what my teacher saw or heard that made him think that I, at the tender age of 11, didn’t have what it took to pursue playing in a middle school band. He knew nothing about me. Had never asked any questions about me, our family, my aspirations. He didn’t seek to make me a better musician.
Caleb, I hope that you will have teachers who realize they are gatekeepers. I hope they understand the power they hold and work to discover your talents, seek out your dreams and fan them, rather than smother them. I hope they will see you as part of a family, with gifts and rich histories that have been passed down to you. I hope they will strive to know you even when they think they already know you. I hope your teachers will approach you with humility and stay curious about who you are.
When I was in 4th grade, my elementary school held a back-to-school night that featured student work and allowed families to walk the halls and speak with teachers. In each classroom was a student leader, chosen by teachers. I’m not sure what my role was supposed to be. But at one point, a couple came in, desiring to speak with Mrs. S. She was busy, so I thought I’d chat with them while they waited. As I approached them, they recoiled in fear and, with panicked looks, turned away from me and said, “Mrs. S.?” My teacher looked away from the folks she was working with and said, “It’s OK, she’s not like the rest.” I don’t remember what happened next. All I remember is that this seemed to be one of the first in a long line of reassurances that I was special and not like other black boys and girls. For many years afterward, I was told on more than one occasion, “You’re not like other blacks.” This was supposed to be a compliment.
Caleb, I pray that your teachers will not look at you through hurtful racial preconceptions. I pray that they will do the work necessary to eliminate racist practices in themselves and in those around them. I pray that they stand up for you in ways that leave you feeling strong and capable. I pray that they will nurture your spirit, and that you, in turn, will desire to be a better you.
Son, I end this letter by sharing a story that Grandma has told me many times, that I hope will one day resonate with you. On the first day of kindergarten, many of the kids were crying and clinging to their parents. But not me. I was ready! I wanted to be like my three older siblings and go to school. So I gave my mom a hug, let go of her hand, waved goodbye, and found my teacher. And remember how I told you that my oldest sister taught me how to read before I went to school? The teacher found this out and used this skill, along with my desire to be at school, to teach the other kids the alphabet and help them learn how to read. I believe, in part, that is why I became a teacher. She saw something in me and encouraged me to develop my passion — even at this young, sweet age.
That, my son, is my hope for you. I hope your teachers will love you for who you are and the promise of what you’ll be.
Love, Mama
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Ponder a fictional scene:
The year is 2092. The hundred-year-old man lies on his death bed, contemplating his long life. His children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren surround him. He has lived a good life — there have been good times and bad times; he has accomplished much that he is proud of and had many experiences that he’d prefer to forget. One of his favorite grandsons looks into his eyes and asks, “Grandpa, is there anything you regret in your life?” The old man closes his eyes. Just when his family thinks he has drifted off to sleep, he opens them again and says with an expression of deep, wistful longing, “Son, I just really wish with all my heart that I could have scored higher on the state-mandated achievement tests.”
The absurdity of this scene is clear. And yet we in education have allowed politicians to push us to act as if the most important goal of our work is to raise test scores. Never mind the development of the human beings in our charge — the integrity, the artistic expressiveness, the ingenuity, the persistence, or the kindness of those who will inherit the earth — the conversation in education has been reduced to a conversation about one number.
- Lisa Delpit, Other People’s Children: Cultural Conflict in the Classroom
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My Day in the Burbs, and Why I’m Beginning to Doubt the Achievement Gap
I recently took a day off from teaching to visit two high-achieving schools in an affluent suburb of Detroit, not ten miles from where I teach.
My principal asked me why I was interested in visiting these suburban schools. I explained that these schools consistently produce Michigan’s top ACT averages and send countless students to the country’s prestigious universities; therefore, there must be something the principals and teachers are doing that I can learn from.
She was skeptical that I would be able to improve my teaching practices from this visit – after all, she’s worked in the inner city for over a decade. I was skeptical of her skepticism. Maybe there was something she missing. I went anyway.
I returned to work the next day, anticipating my principal’s I-Told-You-So facial expression. I had nothing to say. She was right.
I saw nothing spectacular in my visit to the suburban schools. I saw a great sociology teacher. I saw a few energetic English teachers. I saw a mediocre French teacher. I saw a boring history teacher. I saw a disorganized social studies teacher. I saw a terrible – and I mean terrible – Spanish teacher. Overall, the teaching wasn’t incredible. As a second year teacher, I’ve delivered lessons that have been great and some that haven’t been successful. None of those lessons – the good or the bad – would have seemed out of place at these schools.
The students weren’t particularly inspiring, either. They were excited in sociology and in one of the English classes. They were mostly on task in the other classes and were always compliant. In French, a few kids were falling asleep. In Spanish, they whispered to one another about how awful the class was, but completed their assignment anyway.
Everything was surprisingly… mediocre. The day was underwhelming.
And yet, despite the mediocre teaching, those students will outperform my students by at least 6 points on average on the ACT. (According to the statistics, anyway.) That’s the achievement gap: white students from affluent communities outperform students of color from low-income communities across the United States. There are no geographical exceptions to this rule. The achievement gap is real. It is ugly. It is a painful representation of the history of oppression that defines the United States.
On a semantic level, however, I have begun to take concern with the achievement gap. ”Achievement” is a terminal state that suggests attainment or accomplishment. In terms of education, a student’s achievement is determined at the end of a particular unit, grade, system (6-8, 9-12, etc). If a student does not achieve, there are a myriad of reasons that may have caused that failure, including teacher quality, parent support, classroom technology, school resources, etc. In the current education debate, it’s no question which of those reasons has been pointed to the most.
My trip to the suburbs showed me that the problem isn’t achievement – what comes at the end of an educational pipeline. The teacher quality isn’t markedly different. Instruction isn’t significantly better or worse. The problem isn’t achievement – the problem is whatever comes before a student even enters the classroom. Things like physical health, psychological wellness, proper nutrition, access to healthcare, a parent’s education – things that are out of the control of the individual classroom teacher or building leader.
In today’s education debate, the real issue – poverty – takes a back seat. Instead, we waste our time discussing teacher effectiveness, merit pay, school closures, etc.
Why don’t we talk more about social services? Eliminate poverty, racial inequality, sexism – and you’ve eliminated the achievement gap. The problem isn’t what happens in the classroom. The problem is what happens when a student isn’t in class. I’m no longer interested in discussing the achievement gap. Talk to me about poverty.
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2nd generation Latino? Attending an “elite” institution? From a working class background?
A dear friend of mine is working on a dissertation study involving Latino college students. Her study intends to identify various elements that have helped 2nd-generation Latino students successfully enter elite colleges and universities and to provide practical suggestions for educational practice and policy designed to create similar opportunities for other 2nd-generation Latinos.
But to do this, she needs to interview 2nd-generation Latino students who are from working-class backgrounds. To clarify, 2nd-generation is defined as the first generation born in the U.S., and working-class means that your parents worked an hourly wage at a job requiring no higher education and were not in charge of their own schedules. If this applies to you and you are at least 18 years of age, you are eligible for this study. And in case you’re concerned, the researcher is committed to maintaining your confidentiality. There is a detailed plan that is outlined in the consent form you will receive if you agree to participate. The consent form also details your rights to end your participation in the study at any time without penalty, and to refuse to answer any questions you are uncomfortable with.
If you would love to help out, please private message me with your first name and college e-mail address. I will then send you an e-mail with more detailed information (and cc her). I helped her out during her study and it was truly a life changing experience. I was thrilled to be a part of something that there’s so little of out there.
Please pass along the word.
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The Chronicle’s College Completion Web Site
Who graduates from college? Who doesn’t? And why does it matter? Use our new site to answer those questions—and join the discussion.
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While massacres and tragic shootings by crazed individuals occur in schools of all economic levels, with varying racial makeups, chronic violence in school tends to be concentrated in lower income areas, where the majority of students are usually Latino or black.
The truth is there is more violence in our schools than we realize. Many more tragic incidents than what we read and what rivets us. And this has occurred for years.
Many schools look more like fortresses, with high fences, metal detectors and armed police on campus. For years the shootings and violence has gone underreported. This violence is common; a pervasive presence in many of our schools. And the solutions go far beyond what is discussed for more famous tragedies like Columbine, Virginia Tech or Chardon High. They involve investing more in public education at all levels, addressing chronic unemployment, eradicating domestic violence and facilitating community involvement.
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Gabriel Lerner, “Violence In Schools, Nothing Out Of The Ordinary For Latinos And Blacks”
For five years, from 7th to 12th grade, I went through metal detectors. Every. single. day. Police men hung around my schools. Security guards patrolled the halls. And the fear of a fight breaking out was ever present. Reports of drive by shootings were common. I was even “charged up” once to fight.
Oh and if you were late to class you were put in ISS (In-School Suspension) meaning that you were put in a classroom all day to do nothing. And this was at a magnet high school - home to two of the best schools in the country according to U.S. News Week for a few years running. But apparently your time was better spent doing nothing than learning.
Both schools I attended were predominantly Black and Latino - no question about it. Twelfth largest district in the United States.
But the most mind baffling thing is that I got to college and realized that had not been the norm for everyone else. Really? Because it was sure as hell my day to day reality. Can’t say I’m surprised now that I understand structural inequalities.
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A new angle on math
I love this.
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NYT: In New York, Mexicans Lag in Education by Kirk Semple
Please, if you have time read this article. Just as interesting, if not disappointing, are the comments that proceed the article. The comments that “Mexicans simply do not value education as much as some segments of our population” and the “that’s why they shouldn’t be here in the first place” rhetoric is enough to make any Mexican-American blood boil. Including mine.
Especially because readers are interpreting this to mean that every single Mexican is uneducated, doesn’t want to be educated, or can’t be educated. As Andy from Maryland so poignantly informs us, “Based on my experience of living in Mexico for 4 years, I concluded that Mexicans simply do not value education as much as some segments of our population. It’s simply not part of their ethos… Sorry.”
124 people agree with Andy. And counting.
Really? Because I could have sworn growing up my Mexican parents told me, “Edúcate para que no sufres como nosotros.” While I’m certainly not the rule or the exception to the rule, it’s because of my Mexican culture that I graduated valedictorian of my high school and attend one of the nation’s most competitive and elite institutions. And the five Columbia University, Mexican-American, first-generation college students I hung out with tonight? Yeah, they grew up hearing the same thing.
So no, it’s no surprise to me that Mexicans lag behind in education. Why? Because at this moment in history our biographies are being shaped by powerful social forces. Let me remind you of a few:
- More Latino children are living in poverty — 6.1 million in 2010 — than children of any other racial or ethnic group.
- Latino families accounted for the largest single decline in wealth of any ethnic and racial group in the country during the recession.
- The United States is bringing back slavery for Latinos.
- Children whose parents are undocumented or who lack legal status themselves face “uniformly negative” effects on their social development from early childhood until they become adults.
- More than 21 percent of school children are Latino while Latinos only compromise 7 percent of teachers. No other racial or ethnic minority group has such a wide disparity. Where are the role models?
- And EVEN when Latinos succeed in prestigious professions like law, they STILL face an astounding amount of racism and discrimination in their professions and in their communities.
How come none of this being realized by such “informed” commentators? This reality is not by accident. More than anything, this article is a powerful and heart-breaking reminder of the challenges and stereotypes that Mexicans in the United States still need to overcome.
Hasta la victoria. Todas las partes de nosotros valen.
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As many as 15 percent of freshmen at America’s top schools are white students who failed to meet their university’s minimum standards for admission, according to Peter Schmidt, deputy editor of the Chronicle of Higher Education. These kids are “people with a long-standing relationship with the university,” or in other words, the children of faculty, wealthy alumni and politicians.
According to Schmidt, these unqualified but privileged kids are nearly twice as common on top campuses as Black and Latino students who had benefited from affirmative action.
— Ten myths about affirmative action
(Source: sociolab, via wontbecomplacent)
