Talking about the hard stuff: Teacher as agent of social change
by Sharon Tjaden-Glass
**Disclaimer: This post is quite off-topic compared to my usual posts about motherhood, but, hey, I happen to think a lot about other things, too.
Every now and then, some topic comes up in my advanced speaking and listening class that causes me to put on my social-justice-superhero cape and tackle an issue head-on. Sometimes, the topic is the death penalty. Sometimes, it’s death with dignity.
This term, it was rape.
First, some background: I teach English to international students in an intensive English program. In other words, I’m teaching adults who want to earn a college degree… but don’t have strong enough English skills to do so yet.
Our students primarily come from two countries, but, trust me, we have all kinds of students. The motivated. The goofballs. The hapless wanderers. The spoiled rich kids. The budding scholars. The “I-here-for-vacation-only-Teacher”s. The lost. The dreamers. The future politicians. The victims of their own self-doubt.
We have them all.
Some days, I leave my job feeling like nothing that I do makes a difference. Some days, I feel that my students don’t care about anything besides this grand illusion that they can just extract the essence of this “academic knowledge” from the university and then infuse themselves with all of it, like a patient hooked up to an IV. (And, hey, there are days when I totally wish that I could simply transfuse all of them with a healthy dose of phonics).
It’s hard for my students to understand that all knowledge is culturally situated. No knowledge is pure of the context and culture in which it is taught, so they can’t simply absorb academic knowledge at an American university without absorbing pieces of American culture along with it.
Hell, it was hard for me to understand this when I was their age (and I was struggling with these ideas in my native language). In my freshmen English class in college, I struggled particularly with an excerpt of Paolo Freire’s Pedadgogy of the Oppressed, for two main reasons:
1) I couldn’t understand the excerpt because–even though I had been an Honors English student in high school–my reading ability wasn’t developed enough to easily parse out academic English
2) I had no personal experience to understand Freire’s “banking concept” of education.
With the help of some in-class discussions, I finally understood Freire’s “banking concept” of education.
Yes! I get it!
But why did he write about this? Everyone knows that this is how people learn. You listen to your teacher, memorize, and repeat.
Well, maybe not in English, but for math and science, that makes perfect sense.
Oh… wait. Freire thought the banking concept was bullshit?
And even though I eventually understood that Freire was decrying the widespread belief in the banking concept of education, I still couldn’t quite understand what he meant about critical pedagogy or transformative social justice. What did any of that mean? How did empowering citizens to transform society have anything to do with getting an education?
Wasn’t an education just learning how to do your future job? Wasn’t that why we were all studying in college? To become teachers and doctors and lawyers and business people? That was why were studying, wasn’t it?
This is where I got stuck. And I think this is where my students get stuck, too.
As a teacher, now reflecting back on Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed, I not only understand Freire’s argument to move education into the realm of social justice, but I also understand how limiting the definition of “education” to “technical skills for a job” keeps a population from making societal change.
It keeps us believing in the American dream, that if we just work hard enough, all of our dreams will come true. Even worse, it keeps us believing that the poor, the uneducated, and the imprisoned are in those positions for the sole reason that they chose to be. That they have earned their lot in life solely because of their lack of enterprise and effort. In this extreme sense of individualism, no other factors are strong enough to influence a person’s life as much as his/her individual ability and effort.
I believe that teachers are especially situated in society to confront these myths.
At the same time, I am an agent of this very narrow view of education.
I deliver language lessons.
For the purpose of increasing my student’s English language proficiency.
For the purpose of them preparing for jobs.
My job description does not include any language about the necessity of teaching for social change. Although my particular university does boast about its Marianist values–one of which is social justice–my primary job is to deliver instruction that helps my students improve their English, and (hopefully!) develop their ability to be independent learners.
And yet, I found myself in a classroom of international students with a teachable moment ripe in the air. One student had just said that he thought boys and girls should be taught together until they are 10 years old.
Why? Because it would decrease the instances of rape.
I did a double-take. “Did you say rape?”
“So this is a problem in your country?”
I thought for a moment. “How does putting girls and boys together in the same class decrease the number of rapes?”
He shook his head for a moment, as if processing the idea. As if figuring out how to phrase something that was so obvious that it didn’t usually require words.
“It’s just, maybe it happens more when there are a lot of girls together in one room. When there are boys and girls together, I think the rape will be less.”
This is the moment that language teachers dream of–that moment to engage. That moment when language takes it rightful place as a conveyor of ideas, not this monolithic body of knowledge that my students need to acquire before they can actually communicate.
This is the moment when my students move beyond the in my country, we do this, and in my opinion, it’s very important because...
This is the moment when I have a choice–to confront age-old, culturally embedded stereotypes about gender and violence–or to move on in the language lesson because of my fear of the emotions that the discussion would summon forth.
I chose to engage. Carefully. But to engage nonetheless.
“What causes rape?” I asked.
“Is rape going to happen if a lot of girls or women are gathered in one place and a man is teaching them?” I asked.
Slience, and then a quiet, “…maybe.”
“Okay. Here’s a question: Why do people rape?”
“Why do you think people rape?” I repeated.
“…maybe because the woman is dress very… not nice. Maybe too sexy.”
I didn’t laugh or roll my eyes. I just shook my head. “Nope.”
Someone else spoke. “Maybe because she walk alone at night.”
“Nope,” I said.
“But I know a story, Teacher,” one student said. “One woman, she walk alone at night, and this happened to her. It terrible.”
“I agree. It is terrible. But it’s also not her fault.”
“Listen, rape is not the woman’s fault.” (I used “woman” because for this group of students, the concept of a woman raping a man is totally impossible–but that’s another topic).
At this point, I could see the fierce agreement in the eyes of my female students.
“People rape because they want power or control over someone else. It’s not because a woman is too sexy. Rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power and control. And rape happens over and over and over again… Why?”
“Because we don’t talk about it,” I said. “Because rape is so shameful that we’d rather go to our graves not talking about it then to invite that shame onto our families.”
At this point, the heaviness in the room was palpable.
“Isn’t that right?” I asked.
Around the room, heads nodded. Even those of my male students.
“Rape happens because of power and shame,” I stated emphatically. “And unless we start talking about it, it’s going to continue to happen. Can you imagine if this happened to your daughter? Your sister? Can you imagine how you would feel if you couldn’t do anything about it because you didn’t want people to know about the rape? Can you imagine this?”
And at this point I could see on their faces that they could imagine this horrible reality–because some of them had lived it.
One of my students softly said, “It’s happen in schools sometimes, but also it’s happen a lot in families. Like between cousins.”
Some days, I leave work feeling like nothing I can do makes a difference.
Some days, I leave work feeling like this is the only thing that I can do that makes a difference.