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Blinded by Whiteness

A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep. Saul Bellow

(1998)

Throughout this course and as a result of the readings I reflected on my life, my views

and my students lives and perspectives through the lens of our various cultural experiences.

Culture not just as defined by ethnic or racial heritage but all the other elements of environment

and life circumstances that impact and foster identity. I was not born of nobility or financial

wealth. I did not have what has become deemed as white privilege. However, I have been

consistently mislabeled by my students as such during my teaching career. They see a white

woman dressed in nice threads, with an educated tongue and they assume I come from money.

They think my life was paved streets of gold with endless opportunities dangling all around me.

My students could not fathom that my success was paved with great endurance from blood,

sweat, and many tears. The true story was similar to theirs (I do not claim the same because I

admit I had many blessings beyond money that most of my students did not have).

I was born to a forty-four-year-old woman who had already mothered four children and

been married twice and twice divorced. My mom was not college educated. She didnt even

have a high school diploma when I was born. She dropped out of high school two weeks prior to

her graduation to get married and escape her mothers wrath. She worked in a factory in our

small town, Coldwater, Michigan, making wiring harnesses for General Motors.

My father was twenty-six years old when I was born. He worked at my grandfathers

bar, Omars (not to be confused with the Omars strip club in Lansing). He was drafted during

the Vietnam War. He met my mother after his deployment to Vietnam. When my grandfather,
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Omar, died, my father ran the bar for my grandmother. My mom and dad were together for five

years before my conception. They, as far as I can know, loved each other. However, when my

dad wanted to marry my mom, she turned him down. Shed been married twice and didnt want

to be married again. She wanted to be with him and raise me but she didnt want to re-marry.

He gave her an ultimatum and when she called his bluff he left, -for good. Forever. My only

childhood memory of him would be when I was about four-years-old and we were at the Friend

of the Court. He, my mom, and I were waiting in the hallway for our case to be called. I

remember him glaring at me hard with anger. That was my only memory of my father.

But heres where my experience varies, I would later learn, from many of my students. I

did not miss my dad. Ever. I had a brother, Bob, who loved me unconditionally, supported me,

guided me, and kicked my butt when I needed it. I had a dad. I could never know the pain of not

having a father the way my students have expressed to me. The emptiness, rejection, and grief

they feel about their fathers absence is nothing I can relate to. One of my students would

contact me regularly over the years, sharing the hurt and emptiness her father had left her with in

his absence. She felt all the ways hed blatantly rejected her and her siblings. She could not

understand it nor cope with it. After her high school graduation, she reconnected with her dad.

She then moved from Colorado to West Virginia to live with him. She said she needed to heal

this relationship or at least have closure. She was hesitant to go because I was on the fence about

such a leap based on their history. She has been there almost six months now and it has gone

very well. Shes so happy to have finally connected with her father and begun healing all the

hurts his absence created. Its beautiful and I am so proud of her for taking the risk. However, I

never had that need for my own father.

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Not having a father to contribute a second income to my family brought about challenges

my students could relate to. When I was five years old, my moms factory moved to Indiana and

she was unemployed. Bob, my mom, and I then moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where my other

brother lived, so they could gain employment. However, soon after we moved to Atlanta my

mom was diagnosed with breast cancer (her second bout with cancer). Bob, who was eighteen

years old, refused to let my mom work during this time. He told her, Your job IS to get better.

He took a management position at Hardees fast food restaurant to support the three of us. We

were on welfare during this time. I still remember the shame I felt at five years old as my mom

pulled out her food stamp book and started counting out the money. I looked around to see if

anyone noticed. I knew the shame associated with government assistance. I was aware of the

stigma of being poor. My mom was a Georgia state medical guinea pig in order to receive

medical care for the cancer because she did not have health insurance to pay for her radiation

treatments. They gave her 99 radiation treatments, essentially to see what would happen long

term to her health. (It would later be determined it cooked her liver.)

Beyond our financial struggles, I suffered a severe closed head injury as a result of a near

fatal car accident when I was sixteen years old. Learning never came easy to me but after this

head injury it required an immense amount of effort for me to retain anything. Id spend hours

every night in college trying to remember facts for tests and complete assignments. The mental

fatigue I experienced was (and still is) overwhelming. Id call Bob crying every semester about

one class being too hard (there was always one class every semester); I was never going to pass it

and I was never going to graduate. It was grueling. But with his support, through all the tears, I

prevailed.
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I elaborate on these details of my life not to bore the reader with a sob story or to entice a

pity party, but to explain my culture. This is where I came from: hard work, endurance, blood,

sweat, and tears. I come from a single parent, sibling lead household. I come from poverty. I

moved frequently growing-up. I do have learning difficulties. And it is from this place that I

have experienced and approached my students culture in my teaching. These are the experiences

that made me want to be a teacher and be what my brother was to me, for other children who

lacked the blessing of having a good role model.

I was nave when I entered the classroom for the first time as teacher. It never occurred to

me that my intentions and my culture would not be obvious. I never thought in a million years

that Id be viewed as a poster woman of white privilege. When my students made snarky

comments and acted dismissively towards me, I was taken aback. I was, in so many ways, one

of them. I told them about my life and tried to relate my struggles to theirs, but they were

distrustful. They based their opinion of me on my Gap clothes (which I only could afford

because I worked there part-time and I got a discount on the clearance) and my white skin.

Richard Rodriguez (1982) wrote about having dark skin, It remained. Trapped. Deep in the cells

of my skin. (134). This is what I began to feel about my whiteness. It became an inescapable

barrier.

I felt as though I needed their acceptance on any level if I were ever going to teach them.

But how does one prove they are not born of privilege and entitlement? This was not my

challenge at one school or one class or one particular group of students, it was a struggle I faced

with the majority of the students I taught. The African Americans seemed to view me as the

oppressor. They perceived me as the key holder to their success, which I would not give them to
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obtain that success. My Mexican, Mexican American, and Hispanic students culture seemed to

not respect me mainly because I was a woman in a position of authority.

So I was faced with not fitting in and having a classroom full of students who positioned

themselves as gang memebers or as loners. Somehow I had to bring all of our cultures,

differences, and similarities together to form a fully functioning learning community. I confess I

used the line exercise Erin Gruwell used in the film Freedom Writers (2007). I put tape all

the way down the middle of the classroom floor and I typed up a list of things I thought would

help students really connect and see each other. If they had the experience I described, then

they stood on the line. If not, they stood to the peripheral of the room. I made my students write

their observations in their notebooks, after students stood on the line, describing what they

noticed about the classmates in their classroom community. I participated, too, to let them know

more about who I was and what shared experiences we had. For example, Id say Who has had

a loved one die? Those who have had a loved one die would stand on the line. Then Id ask

them to look around and notice who and how many people shared that experience. What

surprised them about who shared that experience? Why did it surprise them? Theyd write these

observations in their notebooks and we would share out some of those observations.

After this exercise we spent a week defining community. Each class defined this term

for their specific class based on multiple small group discussions and a whole group discussion.

Then we did the same establishing classroom rules and consequences for violating the rules. I

really feel it brought us together. In part, the working together for a common goal but also that it

gave them ownership and control over their classroom. They may never see me as someone who

genuinely wants to give them the keys to a more prosperous future, but at least we could enjoy
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our time together as a community and maybe learn from each other. My classroom motto was:

Once Conines Crew, always Conines Crew. They were (and are) absolutely my family to

this day. I had no one when I moved to Colorado except them and my beloved dog, Boon. When

he died I was all alone, but my kids comforted me the way I would them. They did recognize my

humanity regardless of my race.

Although I would succeed in creating a safe and respectful learning environment for my

students with impeccable classroom management, there was still a lot I did not know about their

culture. I had no significant exposure to the Latino culture. Taking role, the first time I

mispronounced Jesus as in the Son of God. The students laughed and it was not until third

period would someone finally correct me and answer my question Did I mispronounce it?. I

was clueless. I was ashamed of my ignorance.

I had no exposure in my personal life to gangs or drugs or violence related to either one.

No matter how poor we were my mom and Bob always ensured we lived in safe, suburban

environments with highly-regarded schools. I knew nothing about gangs or the thug life

beyond movies like Boyz in the Hood and Menace to Society. I knew nothing about gang

culture. My building administrator and school district refused to publicly address our gang

culture. Its not a college class (although it really should be). Its not even addressed in general

teaching classes. But my sixth grade students not only knew volumes about it, many engaged in

it. Many of my students had tattoos on their faces and hands identifying their gang affiliation.

There were so many gang nuances that I could never keep up with them all in identifying their

gang affiliations.
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I do see these childrens need to identify, belong, and be validated. After reading

Hunger of Memory (1982) I understand now how the severing from ones culture leaves them

yearning for a need to belong and lacking a crucial piece of identity that cannot be easily filled

along with the absentee father epidemic. I only wish Id had some success at providing that for

them to nullify the need for gangs. But after all I am only a woman of white privilege to

them. The student I had who was the most deeply connected to a gang would actually argue with

me about my life story and call me a liar in front of the class. My students in that class were

inclined to believe him because he was their ring leader and I completely looked the part for

white privilege. One of the students in Freedom Writers (2007) says, Its all about color-

whites thinking they run this world no matter what! I hate white people on sight. This

perspective is real; its not a Hollywood exaggeration.

Those most involved and impressed with the gang life were confrontational and would

try to assert their ideas and control over our classroom, just as addressed in both Stand and

Deliver (1988) and Freedom Writers (2007), but I would not permit this. I had determined,

that come what may, I would not be intimidated and controlled by a sixth grader. It was my

classroom. I owed it to all my students to stand my ground and defend the community we had

designed for our classroom. I prayed often during these months. I prayed when I was pulling

into the school parking lot; getting out of my car; at lunch; during my prep; after school in my

classroom; walking to the car and on my drive home that the threats I had endured, either verbal

or implied, would not be enacted upon me. I believe to this very day, that I was not retaliated

against not because I didnt upset my gangster students but on some level they respected me and

my tough love approach. I even suspect that on some level they knew I was not a liar and that
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my life struggles were real. They would never admit this though. Liking me or respecting me

was the worst thing a student could admit. However, when students served detention in my room

after school, Id talk to them about their lives and they would let their guards down. The

character Angel in Stand and Deliver (1988) was a great example of this student. He

reached out to Mr. Escalante in private to further his education so not lose street cred. It was

in those moments that I knew we were a community.

Stand and Deliver accurately demonstrated so many faucets of my teaching experience

in this setting- students testing the teachers and pushing boundaries to see his reaction. My

students would attempt to outwit me, often met with great and obvious failure, but it gave us all

good laughs. I loved teaching my students things using creative methods. I would use a

Salvador Dali painting and ask my students to translate it into a story. We read stories by

Sherman Alexie, Frederick Douglass The Narrative of the Life of an American Slave: Written

By Himself and Sadako by Eleanor Coerr (which translated into an entire World War II history

unit). I wanted to expose them to literature with themes they could identify with and be engaged

with on a personal level. One piece we read, and many of my students still talk to me about this

lesson to this day, was an excerpt from the Sherman Alexie book The Absolutely True Diary of

a Part-Time Indian (2007). The story was about an impoverished Native American family

consisting of a mom, dad, a young boy, and their dog living on the Reservation. The dad was a

volatile drunk. The dog was terribly ill and in incredible pain. The boy begged his mom daily to

take his best friend to the vet, but his mom would tell him the sad reality of their financial

situation and the expense of a vets expense were incompatible. One day the boy begs his dad to

take the dog to the vet. The dad then tells the boy to take the dog outside. The dad shoots the
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dog in front of the boy. The dog was the only friend and confidant the boy had and his dad killed

it. We all cried and my students shared similar stories or just stories of loss this story brought to

the forefront. It was intense, and it evoked strong emotion from my students. It was a theme we

could all relate to in some capacity. It was a true bonding moment that many hold close to them

eight years later.

As a result of my inventive methods I was often babysat by district goons, just as in the

movie, to intimidate me into just sticking the pacing guide (curriculum). The district adopted a

curriculum that was clearly designed for white, middle-upper class English native speaking

students who were reading and writing at or above grade level. My students were reading

between second and fifth grade reading levels. It was not useful to students who did not

conform with any of these criteria. It was also our district policy was not to teach below grade

level. Therefore, to teach was to break the rules. I had to find other ways to reach them and

connect the material to them and their experiences. There was a vast cultural difference between

the white, native English speaking, middle class students and my low-income, English Language

Learner (ELL), Latino population. For example, the curriculum required students to bring in a

book daily from home to read independently for thirty minutes in class. However, to my shock,

most of my students did not own any or very few books of their own. Reading for leisure was

not a part of their culture. You read for school. School provides the books. Also, reading

independently when a student cannot read at all, in any language is also challenging.

Furthermore, having a sixth grader who comes from a family of illiterates trying to pick a book,

in a language they do not speak fluently, that meets their childs reading level is another

challenge for this curriculum. Culture was not a criteria considered when adopting this English
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curriculum. However, to be vocal regarding this fact in the presence of administration was met

with swift and firm punishment. The reality of the disconnect between curriculum and students

ability and background would be left for the teachers to handle in their own way (sort of).

Just as in Stand and Deliver (1988) when students tried to talk to their parents about

things we were doing in class during parent/teacher conferences, there was a huge disconnect.

My students parents were often not formally educated, so for them to hear about a story they

wrote effectively using figurative language, was beyond their education level. I could see the

sadness in the parents eyes as they heard their child speak so excitedly about things they knew

nothing about. I could tell they felt inferior and embarrassed that their twelve-year-old had

already exceeded their level of education. The film touched on this as a student tried to explain

Newtons accomplishments and contribution to science to her mother. A parents desire to have

educated children with a high quality of life seems to be a common goal. However, just as

Rodriguez recalls this creates a schism in families. A resentment between the child and parent

develops as the child seems more pious and sophisticated as a result of their formal education,

which the parent lacks. The evolution of one identity causes the other identity to recede and

vanish, creating strangers. This happens throughout cultures and socioeconomic structures.

Knowledge is power. The more knowledge you have equates (on some subconscious level), to

the more power you have over another, it seems.

Culture is a tricky idea because most people place judgment on a person based on what

they think they know about that culture and apply it to the person they are judging. People often

assume what someone elses life experiences are and where they come from. They assume what

others intentions are based on previous experiences with other people of that culture. However,
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no matter how strong those barriers are and no matter how misguided the barriers are, teachers

can overcome them and connect with their students. In order to be seen, one must see. In order

to educate, one must be educated about their students origins. I can relate to many of the

struggles my students face, but often my whiteness blinds them from this reality. It changes

nothing on my side. I advocate for them and I take risks to teach them just the same. They are

my people. I learned many, many invaluable lessons about life and culture through my students.

I also learned that I was right about their ability to succeed at any endeavor if they make it their

mission to do so. As Mr. Escalantes, in Stand and Deliver (1988), says to his students You

are the dreamers; dreams accomplish wonderful things. You are the best tomorrow; youll prove

youre the champs. This is truth is true beyond barriers of oppression, culture, our origins as

individuals, and misunderstandings. Our students are the champs; we must encourage them to

have the courage to accept this reality no matter where they come from. Even if they only see us

as white.
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References

Bellow, Saul. (1998). To Jerusalem and back. New York, New York: Penguin Classics.

DeVito, Danny, Shamberg, Michael, Sher, Stacey, & LaGravenese. (2007). Freedom writers.

United States: Paramont Pictures.

Musca, Tom & Menendez, Ramon. (1988). Stand and deliver. United States: Warner Bros.

Rodriguez, Richard. (1982). Hunger of memory: The education of richard rodriguez. New York,

NY: Bantam Bell.