In April thousands of schools did outreach for Denim Day, a global observance that honors sexual assault survivors. This Denim Day my Women’s Leadership Project (WLP) students from Gardena and Washington Prep High schools in South Los Angeles conducted classroom trainings on gender equity and sexual violence; challenging their peers to critically examine the media, school, and community images that promote sexualized violence against women of color. WLP is a feminist humanist mentoring and advocacy program based at Gardena and Washington Prep, sponsored by the Los Angeles County Human Relations Commission. Like most South Los Angeles schools these two campuses are predominantly black and Latino. They have high foster care, homeless, and juvenile offender populations and will be among the most deeply impacted campuses if the Los Angeles Unified School District proceeds with a plan to phase out health education requirements.

Health education is a frontline social justice issue in our schools. Much of WLP’s curriculum focuses on HIV and STI contraction, intimate partner violence, and sexual assault. Women of color have some of the highest sexual assault rates in the nation. Yet, when the girls in our workshops were asked to speculate about why our communities have disproportionate rates of sexual assault, they trotted out stereotypes like “mixed race women are more likely to be raped because they are the ‘prettiest’” and “black women get assaulted more because they have ‘big butts.’” The association between black women’s anatomies and sexual violence was pervasive. It brought home how deeply our young women are impacted by internalized and historicized racism and sexism. And it underscored the normalization of sexual violence against young women of color through their portrayal in hyper-sexualized media.

Youth of color do not have the language to talk about the pain of sexual violence. As a survivor growing up in the 70’s and 80’s I certainly didn’t. Coming of age in an era in which they are stereotyped and criminalized as hard, swaggering, and nihilistic, youth of color don’t “play” as victims. So when the WLP students began their presentations they encountered ridicule and bitter denial in some classes. There is still widespread belief among girls that women bring sexual violence on themselves because of the way they dress, act, talk or walk. Consequently, much of our training focuses on the culture of everyday misogynist violence that makes it acceptable for young women to call each other “bitches” and “hos.” In fact, at the beginning of one presentation with a particularly resistant class, a girl sitting in the front jokingly referred to WLP 12^th grade leader Liz Soria as a “bad bitch.” When Liz checked her she apologized, but the cold reality is that our girls are drowning in a 24/7 corporate media culture that serves up gang rape in videogames like Grand Theft Auto and state-sanctioned “rape” via the right wing family planning and abortion rights backlash.

Some girls claim they use the terms “my bitch or my ho” playfully. In their view this neutralizes the negative connotations of these words, ala the way some young people use the word “nigga.” Of course, most girls of color use these terms to put “bad girls” who are deemed promiscuous and unruly in their place. There is no consciousness that black women have always been deemed “bad” in the eyes of the dominant culture; as less than feminine, as bodies for violent pornographic exploitation, as essentially “un-rapeable.” For example, under slavery the rape of a black woman (regardless of whether the perpetrator was black or white) was not a punishable offense. And it was not until the mid-20^th century that the rapes of black women were even seriously prosecuted. Thus, while white femininity is the beauty ideal and hence the human ideal—exemplified by the tabloid media’s obsession with missing white women and white girls who become nationally eulogized as “our daughters,” the face of victimhood—the “bitches” and “hos” of the inner city symbolize the disorder and ungovernableness of urban America.

Unable to see themselves and their lives as valuable, girls of color slam each other for being “ratchet” (the new term for an unruly promiscuous girl) and sloganeer violent misogynist lyrics without a second thought. But as the WLP students work through definitions, case studies, and scenarios of sexual assault and sexual harassment in the classroom they often see attitudes begin to shift. Debunking the myth that rapists are strangers lurking in dark alleys, rather than fathers, step-fathers, uncles, and cousins, the trainings often elicit identification from students who have never had this experience validated. WLP frontally addresses homophobia and the stigma surrounding male sexual assault victims, particularly in hyper-religious black and Latino communities. Getting young men and women to examine the destructiveness of traditional norms of hard, aggressive, invulnerable masculinity is also a key part of our outreach.

I consider myself fortunate to be working with young women who are building a movement to change our local and national culture of misogyny. Ultimately, silence—as the old HIV/AIDS activist saying goes—still does equal death.

I believe the key to activating the lives of students with disabilities is not about changing who they are; rather, it is in changing how we listen to them. So let’s begin with a short listening exercise. If you are at our near a kitchen, perform the following steps before reading the blog. If not, feel free to skip ahead.

An Exercise in Listening: 5 steps in 15 minutes.

1. Find an object in your kitchen that you have an affinity for.
2. Discover three different ways of getting a different sound out of it. For example:
   • Strike the object with chopsticks, wire whisk, or other items.
   • Pour grains (e.g., salt, rice, lentils) onto it continuously.
   • Change its chemistry (e.g., break it into smaller pieces or heat it up).
   • Sing into it. Or add water and strike it.
   • Let it alone and listen to the environment around the object.
   • Repeat each sound and listen to what makes each sound different, similar, or beautiful.
3. Focus on your object. What did you choose? What did you discover about it?
4. Think about your process. How did you feel going performing this exercise? How did it affect you?
5. Now put the object away. Leave it for a few minutes and look around the kitchen again. Has it changed how you think about other items in your kitchen?

Five years ago, I finished my studies in experimental music performance at University of California, San Diego. I returned home to Bakersfield, CA, taking a year to help my family and apply for graduate school… but in secret, I was buying more time with my younger sister. She is the most empathetic, contemporary music-loving, and quintessential avant-garde person I know. Yet her numerous gifts remain unknown to the world; separate and immeasurable qualities that go uncounted in systems of democracy. In this country, she is forever impaired and dependent without a role that leads to the rich opportunities, outcomes, and choices that you and I have.

While in Bakersfield, a.k.a., the country music capital of California, I had to figure out what an avant-garde musician like me could do. So I dreamt up a concert that gives experimental music a civic-minded life. The proposed concert would give the greater public a sonic experience linked to encountering one’s own perceptions of music. Together, the concert pieces construct a sonic frame to help alter and transcend the social stigma of disability. Michael Pisaro’s work “ricefall” is a like-minded piece. “ricefall” was composed in response to one man’s experience of gradually becoming blind. As the man’s visual field diminished, he began to discover the acoustic colors of the environment as they come to life during the rain. The piece has a grid of sixteen players pour rice onto surfaces such as metal, stone, wood and leaves. Each grain hits each unique surface, and the materials resonate to create a textural palette that a listener feels without touching or seeing. The piece, like the others, opens up dialog into what it means to experience new beauty in the world as we encounter our limits.

In 2010, I joined the Equity Alliance at ASU to produce a film festival that questioned how we interpret difference and disability. The festival was supported by grants from the School of Theater and Film’s p.a.v.e. program and Mary Lou Fulton School of Education. We used a Twitter social media tool to unite movie-goers in an electronically persistent dialog that was projected in the theaters. The dialog was shared with leaders in human computer interaction in a position paper on social media and disability for ‘CHI 2010. And it continued through a disability awareness workshop at ASU’s Local-2-Global Teach-in event for social justice.

Each event was a call to recast what we call “disability” as something other than simply an impairment to be fixed; rather, it is an encounter with our own limits when we are faced to perform. Our struggle with disability connects us as it reveals what it means to be most notably and beautifully human. We struggle with limits every time we ask, or are asked, to move far beyond our comfort zone. However, what we do in these moments of seeming impossibility holds the potential to bring out the greatest creativity within us.

This past year, my non-profit arts collective urbanSTEW hosted a two-day festival birthed from this idea. The festival, PLAY!: A Festival of Technology and Art was “a treat for your inner child,” coalescing a collection of installation art pieces, digital music, dance, and percussion music to bridge the avant-garde with a new civic duty. The idea grew out of the academy, as a critical and phenomenological response to the stigma and pity around labels. The festival’s heart embraced the lived experiences of people on the fringe, as it spoke to the core craft of all experimental arts practice: the capacity to play.

To play is to activate one’s voice through some medium – be it sound or material. Alvin Lucier’s work, “I am sitting in a room,” does this by bringing out the voice of a room using a simple microphone and an audio speaker at the room’s center. As a recorded human voice gets played back and re-recorded in a loud feedback loop in the room, the voice fades in favor of room’s own resonance. After 45 minutes, we are left with the room’s voice, booming and shimmering in chord clusters that engulf the audience.

In “Living Room Music” by the late John Cage, wood tables, torn lampshades, glass bowls, magazines, and an amplified cactus are featured instruments in a mini imaginary landscape. This many of Cage’s works suggest a model for inclusion. Cage loved sounds just as they were; never needing them to be anything more. “I don’t want them to be psychological. I don’t want a sound to pretend that it’s a bucket, or that it’s president, or that it’s in love with another sound. I just want it to be a sound.”

Returning to this blog’s theme of listening to the voices in things, the core value of experimental arts practice is that it helps crack at our habits of mind. Surely, daily rituals help move us through life. However, our common routines can over-train us to limit our prospects to that and those with whom we are most comfortable. In my life, experimental music gives me both excuse and agency to explore the everyday voices of things and bodies we take for granted. I just practice “tuning in” to them.

In classical arts, so much time is devoted to learning how to play notes faster, better, with more accuracy. This obsession with athleticism, however, can lead us to miss an even more crucial aspect about performance: the ability to listen carefully and respond. Music is fundamentally about listening, experiencing and connecting with each other through an immaterial realm. Not about getting all the notes right.

Consider this metaphor for our special education system. What do we miss about our children when our programs are tailored to turn youth into better performers? What expressions of their individuality and personal creativity get filtered out because our systems of pedagogy, technology, and culture only focus on what they cannot do? What would happen if, instead, we strengthened the awareness of themselves, their relationships with the world and others, and let them lead in ways that enable them – but ultimately, us, to envision better outcomes for their lives?

References.

Lin, Y., Tolentino, L., and Kelliher, A. (2010). “Tweeting Globally, Acting Locally: Booming and Sustaining Disability Awareness through Twitter,” ACM SIGCHI Conference, Atlanta, Georgia.
Tolentino, L. (2007). “Fields of Vision, Limits of the World: Contemplating new contexts in contemporary music.” Roots and Rhizomes Conference, University California, San Diego, La Jolla, CA.

As the Director of the Equity Alliance at ASU, JoEtta designs and delivers individualized, comprehensive, and systemic support for school districts in the form of leadership training, collaboration, coaching and capacity building.  With a blend of humor, sensitivity, and professional insight, she uses her passion and first-hand experience to help individuals develop  and use an equity lens for decision-making related to student achievement.  A talented speaker and workshop leader, she has worked with school systems across the United States in addressing issues of equity.

Dear School District,

Sending my daughter off to school for the first time will be a bittersweet experience.  I should be good at this by now, right? I’ve seen her off to kindergarten, middle school, high school – heck, I’ve even had the opportunity to walk her to her first class when she started her studies at the university.  Each time she started school she came home more intelligent, spirited, and slightly saucier.

And yet, sending her off to work in your district as a teacher leaves me compelled to share a few things with you.  I want you to know who she is and understand the kind of teacher she wants to be.

That intensity she has? You know, the desire to do the right things for people whether or not others know about it? She gets that from her Dad. She comes by her love of helping others in an honest way. From him she has learned to approach her work with energy and focus.  He has also taught her the importance of truly knowing the cultural backgrounds of each of her students, and consistently beginning her lessons with what students already know from their home, community and school.  Living vicariously through her Dad’s experiences with formal education, she has also learned to set high expectations for all of her students in order to ensure they each get a first class education full of rigor and opportunity.

As for her tendency to be dramatic, creative and somewhat goofy? Those traits are from me.  By spending time with me she has learned to ‘facilitate’ learning rather than become a dispenser of information; she has also learned to use culturally connected instructional approaches such as storytelling, song, rhythm, imagery, and movement to reach her students. Her ability to cultivate a sense of community within the classroom comes from me as well. As the oldest of our daughters, she has learned to foster a sense of belonging and elicit the opinions of others in decision-making. In her future classroom, which will represent a new type of family unit, she will no doubt be successful in building connectedness and understanding among her students.

My daughter is deeply compassionate and wears her emotions on her sleeve. That’s all her. Her heart, her kindness, her love for children (especially those that others find tough to teach), and her wonderful exuberance have all developed over time.  These qualities will serve her students and your school district well as she strives to engage all students in meaningful learning opportunities throughout each lesson she teaches. She will work to create a warm, inviting, and inclusive classroom climate that supports the development of every child she teaches because that represents exactly who she is.

I want you to know, in sending my daughter off to work in your district; I am both excited and apprehensive. I am delighted she has found her calling, and can now call your district home. But I am nervous about her getting the support she needs as a first year teacher. I believe she has the capacity to be a leader, but I know she will need consistent mentoring and coaching in order to reach her potential. I see her desire to help you embed the principles of equity – access, participation and outcomes – into your policies and practices, but recognize she will need strong leadership to set the tone for establishing a vision of collaboration and inquiry.  I see her limitless potential, but want you to make smart choices about the ongoing, job-embedded professional learning opportunities you offer her.

I know you have good intentions, and on the surface, the choice to support my daughter is an easy one. After all, who would not prefer to embolden a first year teacher rather than allow her to flounder? But at the end of the day, your actions will provide the truest answers.  I believe my daughter has a gift for working with and teaching young children that will one day represent a greatness that is worthy of attention and praise.  My greatest hope is that you will expect her to dream big and to dust herself off when she falls – just like she will do for her students.

My trust is in you to inspire, empower, and support her. For this I will be eternally grateful.

Love,

Emilia’s Mom

Editor’s Note: Emilia is graduating from ASU’s Mary Lou Fulton Teachers College in May of 2012.

Sometimes as soon as I step foot in a school, I can tell of its commitment, or lack of commitment, to affirming the diversity of their students. Some things are obvious, of course: posters, bulletin boards, the nature of the books in the library, the diversity of the staff, and the language or languages displayed in the school – not only whether the home language or languages of your students are visible, but also the tone of signs in the building such as “Visitors must go to Principal’s Office,” versus “Welcome to our school! Please stop by the Principal’s Office to let us know you’re here.” Other things are less obvious: whether there is a consistent and committed outreach to all families; the curriculum and how it actually unfolds in the classroom; and whether or not students’ identities are truly accepted and honored.

It is one thing to say that all students are affirmed in a school but quite another to show this affirmation in concrete ways. Take language, for example: although many children in U. S. schools are native speakers of languages other than English – and the number is growing larger each day – they are frequently advised, either overtly or in subtle ways, that their language is not acceptable in the school setting. In my case, it happened almost 6 decades ago when my sister and I started school in our mostly immigrant school in Brooklyn, New York. My mother was asked by our well-meaning teachers to “speak only English at home, Mrs. Cortés!”, as if she could magically wipe out her own socialization and education, and her natural inclination to speak to her children in the language in which she had been brought up, nurtured, and loved. Naturally, she nodded her head in agreement (after all, one had to respect teachers) but then, luckily for my sister and me, she paid no attention whatsoever to our well-meaning teachers. My mother and father went right on speaking Spanish to us at home. I am certain that neither of us would be where we are today – both highly educated women, my sister a poet and short story writer, and me, a teacher educator and writer – had it not been for our parents’ insistence that Spanish be spoken at home.

Why tell you this story? For me, it epitomizes a small but significant action that principals and teachers can take to affirm students’ identities. Even if it is well-meaning, a teacher’s advice to bar students’ home languages from the school setting is in the end both self-defeating for schools and alienating for students. The usual result is that students feel unwelcome and unsupported in the school setting, and they may conclude that school is no place for them. Even if they do well in school, as my sister and I did, children may learn to feel ashamed of their identities and their families, neither of which is very healthy for them or for our society.

No matter how one feels about bilingual education – some see it as a scourge while others see it as redemption– the truth is that research is clear that when students speak a language other than English, and when that language is firmly established and developed, it is an asset to learning English (for a review of this literature, see Chapter 7 in Nieto & Bode, 2008, below). Even more important, research has also found that students who are bilingual (rather than those who are fluent in neither language, or those who begin as fluent speakers of one language and become fluent speakers of English while losing their native language) have a much better track record in terms of academic achievement, high school graduation, and even mental health (see Portes & Rumbaut, 2006).

Bilingual education is not the issue here. I wish it were available in more schools, but it is not. In the meantime, what can principals and teachers do to affirm their students’ languages? I offer one simple piece of advice: Even if they themselves do not speak the language of their students, teachers and principals can demonstrate their support for students’ languages by saying to parents, “Please, Mrs. Chung, keep speaking Chinese at home,” or “Mr. Rosario, read to Ricardito in Spanish at home.” Rather than making children ashamed of the tremendous resource they have – a resource that many native English speakers try in vain to attain – accepting and affirming students’ home languages is a concrete way for teachers to put into practice a respect for diversity.

Reminding parents that they have a rich literacy legacy to pass on to their children and that we all benefit both individually and as a society by our multilingual and multicultural reality is, it seems to me, a win-win situation.

References

Nieto, S. & Bode, P. (2008). Affirming diversity: The sociopolitical context of multicultural education. Boston, MA: Allyn & Bacon.

Portes, A. & Rumbaut, R. G. (2006). Immigrant America: A portrait, 3^rd ed. Berkeley: University of California Press.

My daughter Camila is back at school after a two week break.  Last night while I was making dinner, I noticed her engrossed in homework, and she even seemed to be smiling.  In order to understand why this struck me as suspicious you need to understand our history with homework.   For the past year, I have become very hands-off with it.  Yes, I know.  This is an appalling thing for an educator to say, but you need to understand that homework was destroying my relationship with my daughter.

I used to think, a thirty minute homework assignment?  Piece of cake! After all, when I taught, I had teenage boys reading poetry like kittens lapping milk out of the palm of my hand.  I could handle my nine-year old and her reading homework.

Everything would start off picture-perfect.  Camila would sit at the dining room table armed with her unzipped Eastpack, library books with shiny plastic covers, yellow Ticonderogas with their pointy graphite and clean pink erasers poised for action, and a black and white composition book open and waiting for her tiny hands…but things would quickly turn sour.   The dining room table, with all of its shiny homework tools, would become a war zone.

“Camila, your National Geographic magazine just arrived.  Why don’t we read and respond to that?” This was the perfect moment to demonstrate that readers engage in many different kinds of text and that reading homework could and should connect to the literacy practices of the home.

“We can’t, Mom.  It has to be a book.”

“Camila, I know Mr. Bandera, and I know he would let you read a magazine for your homework.  We could even read poetry!”

My assessment of the situation—she seems to forget that I am a teacher and I know what I’m talking about.  Her assessment of the situation would probably be more along the lines of—my teacher, who knows everything, taught me how to do homework and my mom’s going to mess me up.  I’m assuming Mr. Bandera explained the homework using the term “book.”  Well, Camila took his instructions literally.  Something as simple and mundane as homework procedures had constructed a wall between homework and the genuine literacy practices we engage in as a family.  I needed a plan.

After a while I attempted showing up at the dining room table armed with a smile and mantras to make homework time peaceful and tranquil.  I am a source of support.  I will respect Camila’s decisions.  This will be a positive experience.

But if it wasn’t a power struggle over what she was “allowed” to read, it was something else.  My mantras weren’t enough to keep the peace and harmony.  Homework’s ugly head kept rearing up and challenging me.

I found myself envisioning my own return to the classroom as a teacher and announcing to my students, “Your only homework in this class is to go home each night and smile and laugh with your family members.”  Since I didn’t envision Mr. Bandera doing that anytime soon, I had to find a way to make homework tolerable.

There she was, hunched over the dining room table working diligently on something…As much as I didn’t want to approach the subject of homework I asked, “Are you working on homework?”

“Yes,” She responded without looking up.  She was very busy.

“So what are you working on?”

“Homework.” She responded impatiently, still not looking up.

I walked over to the table and looked over her shoulder.  What did I see?, you ask.  The most glorious piece of homework in the history of our household.  My chest filled with pride.  Camila was engulfed, working on a beautiful illustration on the bottom third of the page.  The top two thirds had a long letter to Mr. Bandera explaining how a book she had read made her feel, how she connected one section to an experience she had with her cousin, and a thoughtful analysis of the main character.  My eyes made their way to the bottom of the page and saw the following:

What?! I breathed in.  She was doing make-up homework?  Should I go in and explain to Mr. Bandera that I hadn’t realized they had homework over break?  I could envision Camila’s name written in dry-erase marker under the word “homework” on the classroom whiteboard.  Then, I found myself chuckling at the absurdity of my panic.  What was I really upset about?  It was as if the homework was mine.  Maybe in a strange way I knew that in many classrooms homework functions as a test for parents; one of the few connections some schools have with parents:  A way to make judgments about what kind of family the student comes from. Homework might be done on a crisp white page in a notebook or on a breakfast-stained, torn out piece of emergency paper. It might be completed in careful or hasty handwriting, with or without a parent’s signature, or not done at all.

I looked at Camila, who didn’t seem worried at all.  I flashed back to the old homework wars we used to have.  She was chuckling to herself and actually appeared to be enjoying this assignment.  I quickly created a new mantra for that moment; Humor is an important life skill.  I decided not to worry about my grade point average as a parent.

“Camila, I think Mr. Bandera will be very impressed with your homework.  It’s very thoughtful and has a bit of humor.”

She smiled at me, quite proud of herself, “I totally forgot he had told us to do reading homework over break, so I needed to do a make-up.  He’s gonna laugh.”

I turned back to making dinner thinking about the power that can be attached to homework.  All too often homework can be a measure of the kind of home a child comes from—how much the family values education, whether or not they are responsible, or even the extent of a home’s resources.  If Mr. Bandera used homework as “evidence” of the quality of my parenting, I could easily become the talk of the teachers’ lounge.

In McCarthey’s (2000) literature review of home-school connections, she lists three barriers between home and school; (1) differences in literacy practices, (2) differences in discourse patterns, and (3) different understandings between teachers and parents about what the parent’s role should be.  There are many iterations of these three barriers, but homework is one arena in which all three barriers can intersect. This is not to say they all intersect every time, but the opportunity for intersection is there.  Educators have the agency to examine where power barriers can be diffused and deconstructed in order to build stronger connections with parents.  Two of these barriers were at play in Camila’s homework time.

Consider Camila not wanting to read her National Geographic magazine for homework.  All too often, homework is constrained with rules that limit connections between home and school.  Educators can encourage students to build those connections by having students “mine” for literacy practices at home and draw upon that knowledge within the parameters of homework.  What kinds of literacy practices do students engage in at home and in their community? Reading homework is then broadened to include different literacy practices.

My perception of roles becomes an issue during homework time; I do not hold the power to make magazines a part of Camila’s homework.  Camila believed that the power resided within Mr. Bandera to define literacy as it related to homework. Students can unintentionally be taught that the role of the teacher carries more knowledge than the role of parent.  In homework, for example, educators normally carry the power in decision making, but they can diffuse the power hierarchy by building parents’ voices into homework procedures.  This would require more overlap in the two homework roles of making decisions about homework and making sure the homework gets done.

Homework is full of power. It can create barriers or it can be constructed to connect families and schools. Although there are still opportunities for making stronger connections, I know Mr. Bandera doesn’t have a parent grade book tucked away.  As I watched my “not-doing-homework daughter” smile proudly over her homework, it occurred to me that homework is rife with power, including the power to serve as an outlet for a little creative sarcasm on Camila’s behalf.

McCarthey, S. J. (2000). Home-school connections: A review of the literature. The Journal of Educational Research , 93 (3), 145-153.

I stumbled upon an amazing opportunity a few months ago. One that I’m sure many teachers wish would present itself at some point after their career in the classroom is over. I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office when a young woman approached me slowly and said, “Excuse me, but is your name Ms. M?” I was startled at first, mainly because in my current position at the Equity Alliance, Ms. M isn’t typically how I’m addressed. As soon as I made eye contact with this young woman, I recognized the fifth grader in her. Granted, she looked very different, but her eyes were the same. I responded, “Yes, I’m Ms. M. Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry, but I can’t remember your name. I know it starts with a C!” (I also remembered that she was a fantastic writer. Those of you who are teachers may be familiar with the strange phenomenon where you remember weird bits of detail about past students.) She smiled and reminded me that her name is Carolynn. Carolynn had been a student in my fifth grade classroom in 2001 (a more significant detail that I’ll share later.) We talked a few more minutes and exchanged phone numbers, as well as a promise of getting together for coffee in the next few weeks. Later, I marveled at the fact that 1) I remembered her, 2) SHE remembered ME, and 3) perhaps most importantly, I’d get the opportunity to sit with a former student and talk about her life then and now. This conversation solidified for me what being “culturally responsive” is all about.

The following week, we met for pizza and sodas at a local restaurant. She was so grown up, yet I saw many of the traits in her that I remembered from the “fifth grade” Carolynn. Perhaps one of the reasons that I was so thankful to see her is that Carolynn has Cystic Fibrosis, an inherited chronic disease (for more information, check out the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation). The prognosis for children with CF is very poor. The Cystic Fibrosis Foundation reports that the average median age of survival for individuals with CF is in the mid-30s. There is no cure for this disease. I remembered that she was often ill and battled her sickness with a fervor I admired. She took her many treatments throughout the day without complaint and spoke frankly with her classmates about why she had to go to the nurse all the time. Her positive attitude and strength continues as an adult. After we caught up about her health, family, school, and aspirations, we began reminiscing about our time together in the classroom. As an emerging researcher, I realized this opportunity was priceless. I asked Carolynn, “What do you remember about fifth grade?”

The first thing we talked about was September 11^th, which we both agreed was one of the scariest days of our school careers. We talked about the feeling of unease and just not knowing what it meant for the world and for us. Carolynn remembered that I am from New York, which made the students very concerned about me and my family. It was amazing to think about the impact of days like that and the role schools and teachers play in helping children making sense of the world.

The second thing Carolynn remembered was a day I kept her afterschool to look on the internet for a pen pal. Her health was a big struggle for her at the time and she often expressed frustration that no one could understand the way she was feeling or how hard she had to fight. Her eyes lit up as she recounted how we did a search on the internet for support groups for kids with cystic fibrosis. As she told the story of that afternoon, it started to come back to me. I recalled that we found a girl somewhere in the United States who was a little older than Carolynn at the time and had posted her email address. Carolynn asked if we could email her that day, and so began a pen pal relationship that lasted for a while. I don’t know what they wrote about or how often, but the way Carolynn talked about it, made me think that it was an influential day for her.

You’re probably asking yourself, “What on earth does this have to do with culturally responsive teaching?” I believe this example can serve as a reminder that a very important aspect of being responsive to students is the personal, genuine, positive relationships we develop with students. Carolynn didn’t say, “The best day of fifth grade was when you gave that lecture about colonial America.” She didn’t reminisce about the value of learning her multiplication tables. She recalled emotional and personal interactions we had in that classroom. I think this can serve as a lesson for teachers. We must remind ourselves that while we have monumental pressure from all directions; standardized testing, accountability, attendance policies, performance pay, etc., the real testaments to our success lie in the relationships we develop with our students.

Villegas and Lucas (2002) offer six characteristics of culturally responsive teachers. They are 1) sociocultural consciousness, 2) an affirming attitude toward students from culturally diverse backgrounds, 3) commitment and skills to act as agents of change, 4) constructivist views of learning, 5) learning about students, and 6) culturally responsive teaching strategies. I think my conversation with Carolynn over lunch speaks to a couple of these characteristics, but for me, one in particular stands out. Teachers often talk about the need to learn about their students; to get to know them as daughters and sons, brothers and sisters, aspiring scientists or future theatre majors. However, this can be a scary prospect because it opens us up to be emotionally and personally connected to our students. I will admit, at first I was scared to talk to Carolynn about her disease because of the dire prognosis. By being open to those conversations and truly valuing Carolynn’s experiences, we forged a strong bond that lasted well beyond the classroom. Learning about our students on a deep, personal, and emotional level allows us the opportunity to teach a myriad of lessons to students; not only about academic content, but also as important members of a learning community. Plus, we may learn a little something about teaching, and ourselves, as well.

Villegas, A. M., & Lucas, T. (2002). Preparing culturally responsive teachers: Rethinking the curriculum. Journal of Teacher Education, 53(13).

JoEtta has a passion for equity that has been present all her life.  As the Director of the Equity Alliance at ASU, she connects with educational leaders who want to engage change and transformation.  With a blend of humor, sensitivity, and professional insight, she has helped hundreds of individuals develop the dispositions necessary to use an equity lens for decision-making related to student achievement.  A talented speaker and workshop leader, she has worked with school systems across the United States in addressing issues of equity.

In my work with schools, I have the opportunity to talk with students about their school experiences. They often say that adults in school don’t listen – that they’ve never been asked their opinions before – and that adults in schools have too many other things to worry about besides the thoughts, ideas, or issues that concern kids.  These students come from elementary and secondary schools in both traditional and alternative settings.  The common message I receive is they don’t feel their ideas are important; and these feelings of anonymity often result in students who disengage from school. Over time, these feelings start to accumulate, and situate the student within the margins of classrooms and schools. Many times these students are labeled “at risk” because they are in danger of failing to achieve at levels similar to their peers or of developing behaviors and attitudes that create barriers to school success; and ultimately failing to graduate.

Creating spaces where all students feel a sense of belonging and connectedness involves responding to the feelings and perceptions of youth – including youth most often thought of as marginalized. Although this is a complex problem, one effective approach is to develop our skills in listening to and talking with our students. The ways in which teachers and other adults go about creating opportunities for two-way dialogue between themselves and their students is a vital part of culturally responsive practice.

Culturally responsive learning environments are based on the relationships that we form with students as well as those that students form among themselves. Relationships are nurtured and supported through communication patterns.  As educators, we’re not just conduits of information; we help students understand their place in the world, and hopefully foster a sense of importance. The way to become a better listener is to practice “active listening” (from my days as an elementary school principal, we defined this as using our eyes, our ears, and our hearts).  Active listening involves making a conscious effort to hear not only the words that another person is saying but, more importantly, seek to understand their complete message.

To drive home this point, I’d like to share a story from a recent visit a colleague and I made to a school…

After leaving a meeting at the end of a long day planning curriculum around school safety and inclusiveness, my colleague Kori and the principal of the middle school in which we were working, saw a girl walking slowly down a brightly lit corridor.  The student was an afterschool visitor from the nearby high school, and as the two adults approached her, they greeted her with a friendly “hello”.

The student said hi back, but her body language indicated something was weighing heavily on her mind.  Noticing the girl’s demeanor, Kori and the principal asked the student how she was doing. The girl replied, “I hate high school.  People are mean and they spread rumors about me”.  When prompted, the girl elaborated on the rumors.  She was obviously upset, and just being in the middle school where she attended school last year seemed to be comforting.

To solace the student, the two adults hugged the student, and the principal told her in a very kind and supportive way, “It gets better”.  The principal then went about her business in the office.

Kori stayed with the student and asked if she had anybody to talk to about her feelings.  Kori asked about the source of the rumors, and the student responded with an, “I don’t know.  I’m just used to it”.

Kori countered by telling the student she shouldn’t get used to feeling like this, and that it’s often helpful to talk to an adult who cares.  She informed the student that she and I would be visiting schools the next day, and let her know we’d be looking for her during our visit to the high school.

The student told Kori we would probably be able to find her alone in a corner somewhere, and then proceeded to ask Kori if she was a social worker or something.

Kori replied, “No, just an adult who cares”.

Getting students to talk about their perspectives and experiences requires the development of strong listening skills. If students perceive that you are a good communicator and listener, then they are more likely to seek you out when they are in need of support. In the case of this student, she was coming to the middle school because it felt like a safe place where she might get some support for the feelings she was experiencing.  The student’s body language indicated to Kori and the principal that she wanted to talk about something, so they took the time to engage in dialogue with her.

As I reflected on the experience, I started to think about the skills Kori possesses related to dialoguing with students.  In this case, I was impressed with the way she took the time to listen to and inquire about the feelings of this student. Kori asked just the right questions and responded eloquently when the student expressed signs of distress.  It got me thinking about whether or not other adults are equipped to have conversations such as this; and as Kori and I continued to talk about her response, I started to examine my own thoughts about the messages adults often use with students.  In particular, I turned my attention to the “It gets better” phrase, and my own use of such phrases meant to avoid similar complicated interactions with students.  From there my mind wandered to the It Gets Better Project and the strong message of support they are attempting to provide for youth.

The It Gets Better Project was created to show LGBT youth the amount of happiness and possibility available in life – if they can make it through their teen years.  With a series of YouTube messages and web resources, this movement has inspired more than 30,000 user-created videos that have been viewed more than 40 million times. To date, the project has received submissions from celebrities, organizations, activists, politicians and media personalities, including President Barack Obama, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, Ellen DeGeneres, Adam Levine, Larry King, the staffs of Cisco Systems, Google, Sony Entertainment, the Broadway community, national colleges and universities, and many more.

Since its inception, the project has expanded to include a book, a 24/7 crisis intervention lifeline, and programs that aim to create safe and supportive environments for everyone.  The project is comprehensive in many ways. But the message, “It gets better”, in and of itself is not comprehensive.  If we choose to use this phrase with students, we need to be prepared to back it up with the necessary support, much like the national project has done.

When adults tell students “it gets better” without seeking to understand and support them in what they’re going through, it can come across as cliché because it doesn’t validate their experiences in the here and now.  As adults, we understand just how quickly childhood passes, and have many tools to help us through challenging times, but we need to remember our students don’t usually have this perspective.   It takes a lot of awareness and strength of character to actively listen and appreciate the outlook of our students.  Active listening promotes trust between adults and students and helps to bridge students’ thinking and experiences to that “better” place and time in which we so often refer.

The idea of moving beyond “it gets better” reminds me to be deliberate with my listening and remember that my goal is to truly hear what students are saying. As I continue working to help school systems become more equitable, I’ll remember to ask questions, reflect, and paraphrase to ensure I fully understand students’ thoughts and opinions.  Effective communication in schools and classrooms is one of the primary, pro-active tools for promoting equity so that all students feel they belong, are included, and that their contributions are valued.  It is our responsibility as educators to become competent communicators in order to develop solid relationships with our students and demonstrate their importance in our schools and in our lives.

Kori Hamilton is a writer and editor for the National Dissemination Center for Children with Disabilities (NICHCY).  She has a love and  passion for children, particularly those typically marginalized.  Her desire to improve the experiences that children have in school led her to pursue her doctorate in Education Leadership and Policy Studies at Arizona State University.   Her hope is that her work in education has meaning and directly touches the lives of children.

Working as a secondary teacher in South Central Los Angeles brought some of the best times in my life.  I gained a perspective from students that dispelled my assumptions about their thoughts and feelings.  I remember when I first set foot on the middle school campus, fresh out of college and excited to begin my work in the classroom, I encountered a question that I had not anticipated.  At least one student would ask daily for the first week, “Are you our real teacher?”  I would answer their question with a question. “Whose name do you see written on your schedule?” “Hamilton”, they would respond. “I am Hamilton. And yes, I am your real teacher.”

Educators often find ourselves engaged in conversations about how to address achievement disparities, discipline issues, the recruitment and retention of effective teachers and administrators, but how often do we allow students to weigh in on the subject?  Students have unique perspectives that are very real; they live what we theorize and problematize.  But who listens- really listens – to what kids have to say? Schools serving students from lower socioeconomic and diverse linguistic backgrounds experience retention problems among teachers and administrators, and often transiency within the student population as well.  The impact of retention is reflected in the very simple question, “Are you our real teacher?”

Sadly, our students rarely receive an opportunity to voice how the revolving door of teachers impacts their feelings about or experiences within school. Students are not commonly seen, and student voices are not commonly heard, in meetings and discussions about K-12 education policy. Yet the adults who control policy, including educators within districts and schools, could learn much from listening to what students say about their experience with school, about their interests and desires for learning—and about what they do and how they learn outside formal school.

On a promising note, listening to students does not depend on any particular expertise, and any individual who likes young people and values their opinions can elicit student voice. It takes time, persistence, and organization, but it can easily take place in the context of a classroom or school focus group. The following are recommendations for gathering the ideas from students in order to gain their perspective:

1. Root the process in inquiry. Begin by developing questions that will yield answers to what you’re most interested in learning about. In the case of teacher retention, we might ask, “What are the reasons you believe teachers come to work here?” and “What are some of the things that happen here that make teachers want to stay here or move on to another school or profession?”
2. 2. Make sure you’re talking to students with divergent thoughts and ideas. Often educators invite students who are successful in school or who participate readily in extra-curricular activities to engage in focus groups or dialogue sessions about school improvement.  This is a mistake, as it provides limited perspective.  Academic success should not be a requirement; instead, hearing from students who struggle in school can shed light onto all sorts of dilemmas waiting to be solved.
3. Keep groups small. Typically, small groups of three to five students work well.  But larger groups, such as advisory or focus groups of around twelve students could also help gather the ideas you’re looking for.  Small groups allow students to feel more comfortable and safe in sharing their true feelings and also allow time for divergent voices.
4. Ask for specifics. Because students are as ready as adults to rely on generalizations or abstract ideas, it is important to seek supporting details and specific situations in their responses. If a student complains about a teacher, for instance, it is important to drill down to the offending behavior instead of merely recording the student’s annoyance. Students get used to questions such as, “Can you tell me more about that?” or “What is that like for you?” As students work together, they grow more adept at supporting their own assertions and probing each other’s experiences for nuance and contradictions.
5. Analyze the material together. Because the goal of eliciting student voice is for them to offer advice, it is important to ask for their suggestions. Analyzing their suggestions together helps ensure your accurate understanding of their ideas, thoughts, and perspectives.
6. Create a written product. Putting their ideas in writing lends a sense of purpose to your conversations. Often, this document can be as simple as a word cloud (available on wordle.net) outlining their most commonly used conversation themes or it could involve a writing assignment from the students themselves (such as a report or a persuasive letter to the Board of Trustees).  Having to create a written document adds seriousness to the endeavor.

We could learn a lot from students, and schools could be better, more inclusive places if we sought out and valued their input.  By providing students with spaces to be heard we might even find that they have much to teach us, if only given an opportunity to share.

Selma Powell is a doctoral candidate at the University of Central Florida. She received her undergraduate and master’s degree from the University of South Florida. Her dissertation research focus is on developmentally appropriate use of mathematics applications for iPads in early childhood classrooms. Additionally, she is committed to advocacy for children with special needs and their families. In November of 2011, she was recognized by the Council for Exceptional Children, Division of Early Childhood, as the recipient of the J. David Sexton Doctoral Student Award for her contributions to these children and families. Selma Powell has published three articles and has presented at numerous national and state conferences. Within the university, Selma Powell has held leadership positions with the Council for Exceptional Children student chapter, as well as the Association for Doctoral Students in Exceptional Education. For the past two and a half years, she has worked as the assistant to the associate editor of Teaching Exceptional Children.

I arrived at work in a harried state and frame of mind. I have so much work to do today and a ton of IEP meetings, these words ran through my head as I unlocked the classroom door and instinctively turned on the lights and walked to my desk and retrieved my phone messages. I put my book bag on the floor next to my desk, and checked my emails, one-by-one, quickly glancing at the clock on the wall. 8:45. I sighed, and mumbled come on to the computer as I waited impatiently for all ten pages of my IEP documents to print from my printer. I just had enough time to grab the student’s file and all other paperwork that goes into a student’s file that is going to receive special education services.

I ran across the school campus, saying Hello to all of the relaxed shiny faces that usually greeted me every morning. The students are used to seeing me run across the grass through the cafeteria, on my way to the office for another meeting. Today’s meeting was to discuss the results from a few meetings prior about a student who qualified to receive special education services. I approach the meeting already feeling anxious. The parent of this particular student has missed several eligibility meetings, citing various reasons why she cannot be in attendance. My colleagues and I, slowly walked in to the barren, white-walled, picture-less room. This room was a makeshift conference room, a room that housed student files and old text books that were out of print, just being housed until a janitor could box them up and take them to the warehouse. We took our places in the conference room and automatically placed our folders on the table and made small talk with each other, patiently awaiting the arrival of the parent. The clock now reads 9:15. The meeting was scheduled for 9:00. I scan the room. I saw someone texting on their phone , another writing a memo on his calendar, and the principal standing at the door asking the office manager to call the mother, to see what is holding her up. I was ready to leave.  I was wasting precious morning time. I had another meeting to prepare for in a few hours and I was silently protesting this woman keeping us waiting.

9:35. The parent saunters in the cold stark conference room that was by now feeling colder than thirty five minutes ago. The parent sits down, the rest of us uneasily shift in our chairs, resuming our roles as   professionals, the knowledge holders, that we were when we first walked in the conference room. We introduce ourselves. The parent immediately announces in a loud voice with a seemingly indignant tone, that she only has fifteen minutes for this meeting. I lost all patience by then, and told her to sit down in an unfriendly tone, which had more to do with the fact that she was late (how dare she) and now she was trying to rush this meeting because she had another appointment – to get her electricity reconnected. My colleague Rachel gently placed her hand on my shoulder to calm me down. The principal suggested we reschedule the meeting. The parent insisted that we continue the meeting despite our time restrictions; because she was not coming back any time soon…she was busy.

I believe in order to create an effective Individualized Education Program (IEP), parents, teachers, and related service personnel and often the student (he was in class) come together to look at the student’s unique educational needs.  As a result,  my colleagues and I came to design an  individual educational  program (IEP) to guide the special education supports and services for this student to use to access and to be involved in  the general curriculum. The parent was looking at her watch, her cell phone started ringing, and my blood pressure was escalating. I started feeling hot and irritable. I was wondering why is this parent making this meeting so difficult? I began to personalize her behavior, as if her very being was not up to my standards and maybe not everyone else’s either… I expected more from her as an African American woman. I started questioning her love for her son: Does not she care about her son? After all, we were doing all we could for her son, the least she could do was to be interested in his well being… It was my turn (I did not want to be at this meeting). I took a big cleansing breath, the kind you take in yoga (all of those mean thoughts that were rummaging in my head, cease to be or matter), and started talking about her student. I soon realized that I was talking to another mother about her child (something about her countenance changed, maybe it was the way she looked at me as if she were looking through me), who had recently been diagnosed with a Learning Disability. Who wants to hear that, on any day? I cannot recall all the words that I said to that mother during those fifteen minutes that I spoke about special education program specifics, length of service time, etc. I just spoke from my heart and gently answered all of her questions. I focused on the relationship that needed to be built and nurtured, between the parent and school, so that we could work together to provide the best education for her son. At that moment, I offered her my phone number and email address if she needed anything else from me or if she thought of anything regarding her child, after that day, she should call me.

I, too, have a child with a disability. I remembered how I felt when I heard the news that my son had been diagnosed with Bipolar disorder (private evaluation). I was stunned. What does bipolar mean? Okay my son was moody and often mean, but that’s just him. I chalked up his moods swings and irrational behavior to teenage angst. Right? Isn’t that typical behavior for today’s adolescents? The school IEP meeting that I went to was cold, business as usual. I sat in my chair, looking at the psychologists lips moving but all I could hear is the voice in my head screaming: what do I do now? I felt helpless, I cannot fix this. I am a fixer. Mothers fix everything, that’s our jobs. That’s my job. I remember leaving that meeting believing that these people thought I was a bad parent. Not one person offered me their email address or phone number in a personable manner. I just got a business card from the school counselor and a “good luck.”

The meeting came to an end. My colleagues started gathering their papers and numerous files and began quietly chatting about the next meeting which was to start in a few minutes. Ignoring the conversations that were taking place across the table, I slowly, almost instinctively turned my gaze upon the parent and witnessed tears in her eyes. She cared about her son, too.  I rose from my chair, adjusted my skirt (for some reason that was a priority or may have been a nervous reaction to what I am not sure. Somehow I felt the meeting needed real closure…something was missing). I walked over to her and gave her a hug for the two of us, and our sons, at this moment we shared something special.