MIAMI UNIVERSITY The Graduate School
Certificate for Approving the Dissertation
We hereby approve the Dissertation
of
Peggy Sue Larrick
Candidate for the Degree
Doctor of Philosophy
______Dr. Thomas S. Poetter, Director
______Dr. Denise Taliaferro-Baszile, Reader
______Dr. Joel Malin, Reader
______Dr. Sheri Leafgren, Graduate School Representative
ABSTRACT
SO GROWS THE FOREST: RECONCEPTUALIZING RURAL EDUCATION THROUGH SIGNIFICANT MEMORIES, EPIPHANIC MOMENTS, AND CRITICAL CONVERSATIONS IN A POST-RECONCEPTUALIST ERA
by
Peggy S. Larrick
In this project, I engage in pedagogical research, through self-study, situated in time, space, and place, and work toward reconceptualizing curriculum in which poor, rural, elementary students can unlearn and disrupt constructs of structural racism. I return to the past to explore my own educational experiences in which I failed to acknowledge what it meant to be white in a rural place that is predominantly white. I suggest that miseducation (Woodson, 1933/2010) occurs in rural places but goes unnoticed because of an unexamined commitment to white supremacist patriarchal systems of schooling (hooks, 1994). I engage in a personal healing process by drawing on Critical Race Feminist currere (Baszile, 2015) and place-based pedagogy (Gruenwald, 2003a, 2003b). This healing predicates and includes a personal dialogue with self about the intersection of race, class, and gender in predominantly white places of schooling and is framed in transforming and reclaiming education as the work of women (Grumet, 1988). I utilize Critical Race Feminist currere (Baszile, 2015) to center my own personal and critically reflective narrative to “unlearn” white supremacist attitudes (Allen, 2009). I ask: Who am I, as a white, middle-class, woman teacher in this rural place of schooling? How do my remembered stories of educational experiences inform the healing process necessary for my own decolonization? How might a rural, white, woman teacher – who is herself working on healing from her own colonization and complicity – create a classroom environment that engages students in a similar process to disrupt and refute how this rural place promotes narratives of poor whites who feel justified in speaking insensitivities (in some cases hostilities) toward others?
SO GROWS THE FOREST: RECONCEPTUALIZING RURAL EDUCATION THROUGH SIGNIFICANT MEMORIES, EPIPHANIC MOMENTS, AND CRITICAL CONVERSATIONS IN A POST-RECONCEPTUALIST ERA
A DISSERTATION
Presented to the Faculty of
Miami University in partial
fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
Department of Educational Leadership
by
Peggy S. Larrick
The Graduate School Miami University Oxford, Ohio
2018
Dissertation Director: Dr. Thomas S. Poetter
©
Peggy S. Larrick
2018
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION ...... vii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... vii Prelude: One Night I Dreamed of a Whale ...... 1
Part I: The Landscape ...... 4 Chapter 1: Problem, Significance, and Questions ...... 4 Dakota’s Home Visit ...... 4 The Revelation ...... 6 Significance of the Study ...... 7 Call to Curricular Action ...... 8 The Research Project ...... 11 The Questions ...... 13 From my Window ...... 14 Chapter 2: Methodology, Methods, and Framing of Chapters ...... 18 The Realization ...... 19 Methodology ...... 22 Critical Race Feminist currere...... 22 Using Critical Race Feminist Currere...... 25 Method ...... 27 A Bit about Bits ...... 28 Data Collection ...... 31 Rural Setting ...... 32 Framing of Chapters ...... 33 Conclusion: Beginning with Self ...... 35 Chapter 3: The Implications of a Rural I: Who Can I Be? ...... 36 Significance of Place ...... 38 Definitions of Place ...... 39 Defining a rural setting...... 39 Coming to terms: rural or Appalachia, identity or culture...... 40 Retaking My Place ...... 41 Pedagogy of Place ...... 41 Confluence of Place, Time, and Self ...... 42 Rural as Absence ...... 43 Conclusion: Place Matters ...... 45 Interlude: Dad’s Eulogy ...... 46
Part II: The Narratives ...... 49 Chapter 4: Who am I? I am Woman. Narratives of a Girl-Child ...... 49 Gendered Narratives: Mismanaged Junk Trees Produce Compliance Berries ...... 52 The Day I Dropped My Crayons ...... 52 Narratives of an Invisible Girl-Child ...... 55
iii Seeking Dad ...... 56 Schooling: The Establishment of Roots ...... 57 Misplaced Trust: Poison Junk Berries ...... 60 Compliance in the Classroom ...... 62 Compliance-Resistance ...... 63 Compliance-Resistance ...... 64 Conclusion: As Goes Life, So Grows the Forest ...... 66 Chapter 5: Who Am I? I am Blended-Rural. Narratives of Place ...... 68 Place as Setting ...... 69 Narratives of a New and Different Place ...... 71 Sorely Unaware ...... 72 From Trusted Fraud to Confident Complicity ...... 74 Thank You, Susan Washington ...... 77 Comply or Resist: Maintaining Balance in my Return ...... 80 Complicity in Testing and Accountability ...... 81 Compromising the Rules...... 82 Failed Resistance ...... 83 Renewed Hope ...... 83 Returning to The Devil’s Den ...... 84 Conclusion: I am Here ...... 86 Chapter 6: Who am I? I am white: Complicating the Narratives ...... 89 Critical Consciousness: Learning to Unlearn ...... 92 Am I White? ...... 93 Learning the Language ...... 97 I am White and Privileged?! ...... 98 Finding Confidence ...... 101 Doing womanist work...... 101 Courage to speak my own truth...... 103 Learning the Difference ...... 106 Classism...... 107 Classism intertwines with racism...... 108 Conclusion: Preparing to Return ...... 110 Interlude: From Whence Comes Justice? ...... 113
Part III: The Return ...... 115 Chapter 7: A Season for Fruit: The Wild Apple Shrub ...... 115 Trusting the Process ...... 117 An intentionally-intuitive experience...... 119 Building a topic of inquiry...... 121 Complicating the conversations...... 123 Revolutionary Praxis ...... 125 My Return ...... 128 Getting It Very Wrong ...... 129 Blockages: What It is Not ...... 130 Dad’s Funeral ...... 133
iv Glimpses of Hope: What It Can Be ...... 134 Conclusion: Where’s the Line? ...... 136 Postlude: A Letter to My Students ...... 138
References ...... 140
v DEDICATION
To my two greatest loves, my husband, Mark and my son, Adam.
vi
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am grateful and appreciate for a vast number of friends, colleagues, mentors, and family members that have provided me with support, encouragement, direction, and shoulders. I would like to begin by acknowledging my advisor and dissertation chair, Tom Poetter. From the very first moment I stepped into my first ever doctoral course – a summer course which centered currere – I sensed a trust in my ability to do this work, even when I didn’t have it myself. He pushed me in directions and into projects that I didn’t have the courage to try on my own. He said, “Go!” I went, always farther and higher than I dreamed. He remained persistent in his support, and I would like to acknowledge that upon the completion of this project that I now believe that I might be big enough to do this work. I would also like to acknowledge my comprehensive exam and dissertation committee members, all of whom have made not only a scholarly contribution to my work but who also hold special place in my heart as well. First, I must recognize the commitment and encouragement of Denise Taliaferro-Baszile who brought me under her wing and encouraged me to engage in a methodology that beckoned to me, but seemed to be so far away. Next, I’d like to make it clear that it was Sheri Leafgren, who exemplifies the sort of passion and commitment to early childhood education, pre-service teachers, and the disruption of traditional schooling which marginalizes and oppresses young children from the moment they walk into the school building that I seek to emulate, and who told me I was not only white, but privileged as well. Finally, I’d like to acknowledge the endless support, selfless mentorship, and unrelenting confidence in my experiential knowledge that Joe Malin recognized and nurtured from the moment of our very first meeting. We grew into our scholarly roles in a parallel manner that brought a familiarity and connection that I will always appreciate. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart (and yes, I have tears as I type this.) I cannot say enough about the influence that Esther Claros-Berlioz has had on my life, not only as a scholar, but as a sister and fiercely loyal friend. She listened with a brilliantly attuned ear and never failed to encourage me to dig deeper. I absolutely could not have done this without our countless hours of conversation and unconditional love. Her smile and warmth are contagious, and I am a better woman-scholar because of her. I have made a lifelong friend in the work, but more important, I have gained a dear sister that I know will always have my back.
vii I would like to also acknowledge my EDL students and elementary colleagues. Both groups provided an example and connection to what is really going on in the classrooms and helped me remember to keep one foot in each realm, curriculum research AND the curriculum of the classroom. Finally, I acknowledge the selfless love and support of my family whose pride was evident even though they didn’t always understand how the program worked. My brothers, husband, and son were patient and understanding during my 3-year absence from “family life.” They were gracious and accommodating when I had to decline invitations, appeared to be preoccupied during holidays, and seemed to “ramble on” about what I was working on at the moment. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. This project was possible only through the support and encouragement of this uniquely beautiful group of mentors, friends, and family.
viii Prelude: One Night I Dreamed of a Whale As I inexplicably appeared on the white sandy beach in southwest Florida, sitting in a small group with no one I recognized, I sensed movement in the shallow gulf waters. My first thought was that a manatee had meandered too close to shore. But as I focused on the movement, it became apparent I had sensed the distressed majesty of a proverbial beached blue whale struggling to free herself from the shallow waters that restrained her motion. The whale was the width of the entire inlet and quietly wrenched both head and tail to escape from its predicament. The whale’s unproductive attempts created a tension in my chest. Someone has to help her! She’s going to die! I didn’t know anyone near me to ask for help. They were strangers who didn’t seem to see her. My anxiety deepened. Soon help came in the form of a helicopter medical team on the scene for an older gentleman in the condos that framed the beach, condos that oddly had not been there when I originally appeared on the beach. Nevertheless, in dream-like fashion, they were there now, and events that had occurred in that place served as a source of help. The team consisted of two pilots and two additional on-the-ground support staff. All four men ran into the water to gently guide the beautiful mammal back to deeper waters. They failed. They pushed again, but in a weird sort of way, the water was too deep for them to maneuver the rescue. Plus, the size of the whale was too much for the men. She continued to struggle wrenching her head and tail, her only hope was a miracle – one of fantastical size. They can’t help her. Oh no…(gasp)… she can’t... Wait...I sensed movement off to the right. Dolphins! Not just one or two – but at least 100 dolphins lined up with unrivaled synchronicity. The whale slowly turned toward the line of dolphins and used them, much like early settlers used logs as conveyors to move heavy items. The whale rolled on the backs of dolphins to the channel which would lead her to deeper waters. I followed the whale as she maneuvered through the tight channel and watched in awe as she breached over the channel bank toward freedom. Just as her tail crossed the bank, it gently brushed against my hand. As I felt the light touch of her tail, I heard the whale’s gentle female whisper, “Let it go.”
1 Many ancient and indigenous cultures find healing power and messages in the spirits of animals. The impact of my dream of whales and dolphins upon my waking thoughts was more than that of a typical dream. I immediately sensed a significance of the message embedded in the imagery and symbolism. I almost ran down the steps to search the Internet for the meaning of such a vivid dream. After an initial google search, I decided to peruse the site Spirit Animal.info. The following is a summary of their thoughts on the meaning of whales and dolphins as they appear in your life, whether in a state of sleep or wakefulness. Whales, as the keeper of the sea and ocean, remind us to pay attention to our inner voice. They are considered wisdom holders, symbols of physical and emotional healing, keepers of history, and indicate emotional rebirth as they can withstand the deep emotional pressure that often accompanies the healing of trauma. Their peaceful strength urges one to communicate clearly from the heart, as a bridge to know and speak one’s truth, with emotional vulnerability and power (Harris, n.d., a). Dolphins represent harmony and balance and are highly in tune with the specific balance between instincts and intelligence. When dolphins enter dreams, or appear in one’s life, they bring a peaceful and gentle message of deep inner strength, and urge the receiver to trust instincts and intuition without overthinking. Dolphin’s playful and curious nature encourage us to look for the good in everyone and to bring peace. They represent a strong moral conviction and self-confidence reminding us to speak our mind and stand our ground (Harris, n.d., b). The personal poignancy of this dream was powerful to say the least. While the symbolism of the whale and dolphins align with the process and conceptual understanding at the core of this project, the specific language and story that unfolded in the events of the dream indicate a greater significance and message. It tells of the struggle of a powerful self, constrained by an environment (curriculum) to which she did not belong. As the narrator of the dream, I felt a presence among strangers as one who didn’t belong. I was also acutely aware of the inability for men to save the struggling powerhouse female. Help for the whale came in the form of dolphins, who worked as a community, not only to save the whale but to provide a path forward. The whale’s final words, in a clearly female voice, were to “let it go.” Ultimately, I found the courage, fortitude, and strength to “let go” of traditional qualitative inquiry, to commit fully to this currere project. This freedom to let go came on the backs of my “dolphin-spirited” committee members as they lined up to prepare a path forward which consisted of confidence in
2 me when I lacked it myself, encouragement to share my work when I thought it unworthy, and countless opportunities to shine a light I didn’t know I had. Eventually, I breached the walls of the channel toward the past with the inner strength to face a healing of my own wounds – wounds inflicted from years of training and unacknowledged complicities (as student and teacher) in a white elitist system of schooling.
3 Part I: The Landscape
Chapter 1: Problem, Significance, and Questions
I have had the joy of teaching young children in a high-poverty, low-performing rural school district in southern Ohio since 1988. I moved to the district almost 30 years ago yet my first impression of the area remains permanently etched in my memory. Many buildings in town were vacant and in disrepair, the homes were surrounded by garbage and multi-colored vehicles, and the dirt-streaked children were untended and scantily clad. I was shocked; my own hometown, while smaller than this one, did not look like this at all. In fact, we had city ordinances that would have imposed a fine on the owners of these properties, and it was a well- known rule that children, when in public view, must have clean faces and their diapers should be covered with clothing. My first thought was how much these people needed my help. Fortunately, my initial understanding has changed. Through experiences, discovery, and reflection I realized I had much to learn about those who experience rural poverty. My students, and their families, soon captured my heart and instilled in me a burning passion to understand, support, and tell the stories of low-income children in southern rural Ohio. Although each of their stories hold a special place in my heart, the story of one child in particular touched me so deeply that it served as a significant memory at the root of virtually all of my inquiry as a doctoral student and ultimately as the starting point for this dissertation project. The following is an excerpt from the story as it appeared in one of my first papers in the doctoral program:
Dakota’s Home Visit I met Dakota during a home visit prior to his entrance into kindergarten. His mother and I had arranged a time to visit so we could discuss concerns, questions, and expectations of incoming kindergartners. To say the path to his house was remote is an understatement and the more I traveled away from the known back road onto what many would consider a dirt path, the more I doubted my decision to venture out by myself. However, I eventually crested the final hill to view two dingy-white mobile homes, both with broken windows, loose aluminum siding, surrounded by several chained-up dogs – I had reached my destination. Initially unsure of which home to approach, I remembered my conversation with Dakota’s mother and her directions
4 which indicated theirs was “not the one on the hill.” The home was not fancy and we met on a back porch cluttered with what most people I know would consider inside items (i.e. refrigerator, sofa, recliner, end tables, and chest of drawers). I felt welcome. They were warm and happy that I was there. My time with Dakota and his mother left a lasting impression on me. As they discussed their dreams, I sensed the love, anticipation, and blind trust of this young child and his mother. You see, they made it clear that “Dakota wants to be a doctor,” and this family was putting their faith in me to help them make it happen. As I drove away from their home, I reflected on my newly-defined role as Dakota’s kindergarten teacher – the co-creator of dreams – and the obstacles that children like him would face in an educational system which prioritized early identification and intervention raced through my mind (adapted from Larrick, 2017, pp. 67-68). I spent my first semester at Miami diligently attempting to identify, deconstruct, and examine the hurdles of creating a school in which all children such as Dakota might realize their dreams. I wondered about roadblocks. I wondered about social, cultural, and systemic factors which contributed to what I perceived to be roadblocks. I wondered about many other external factors that would eventually stop Dakota from achieving his dream. But what I failed to consider was how my own compliance and complicity to these roadblocks might be an integral part of the problem. Fortunately, there was something about this family, this child with a dream, that inspired me to look past the roadblocks to a path toward solutions for equitable educational opportunities for low-income rural children. This journey, as I soon discovered, required more than a well- intentioned caring teacher could fit in a backpack and would cause me to reflect on what was initially perceived as a “readiness problem” to be a mere bump in the road. I soon realized the only way forward was in looking back. And the only way to look back required a reliance on memories – the type that continued to replay and return without notice – intuitively. I soon learned that setting my intention to heed intuitive thoughts, emotions, memories, and “gut feelings” would result in a story of self-healing, critical reflections, and the possibility of a reconceptualized curriculum in a specific rural setting.
5 The Revelation I began this piece with an abbreviated retelling of the story which I have shared many times throughout my time in the doctoral program at Miami University. I share it as a significant memory that is an ever-present source of angst and self-reflexive inquiry. It offers a remembered story of a young, rural, white child who experiences poverty and lacked the “readiness” skills indicated on the current kindergarten entrance assessment, and who would soon enter my classroom with a dream. It is a conversation of poverty, rurality, and schooling that is seldom explored in academic literature in higher education and rarely, if ever, spoken in the white patriarchal climate of today’s P-12 schools. It serves as the prequel for a complicated conversation (Pinar, 2012) that I wish to have with the reader about privilege, oppression, and schooling in a predominantly white, rural place. As the reader moves through this project it will become apparent that the conversation is complicated by my own complicity in centering whiteness and compliance with patriarchal ideologies. In an effort to challenge the supremacy and past commitments to white patriarchal ways of knowing, I have decided to use a lower-case w when using the terms white and whiteness, regardless of how they are used in this text. In addition, I use the word “woman” to describe myself because the use of “female” lacks the specificity that I wish to create. My gendered narrative of becoming a woman is integral to the type of healing I experience throughout the process of writing this dissertation. I have told and retold this memory many times in the past two years and it appears in some form or another in all but one of my doctoral papers. I have written different versions, used abbreviated summaries, expanded on specific concepts, and in this case, adapted an excerpt from a previously published manuscript. But no matter the number of times it appears in my work, Dr. Thomas Poetter (my mentor and advisor) patiently and supportively reminds me that while this is “still OK to use because it works, you haven’t gotten to the bottom of it yet,” and he always ends by stating that “it will be important to do that at some point” (Poetter, personal communication, 2017) – I always walk away perplexed. I thought I had reached the bottom. Why is this version not the bottom? Why does this particular memory remain permanently lodged in my thoughts and consistently appear in my written work? What does this memory continue to hold, locked away at the bottom, which prompts its telling and re-telling and re-telling? Although I had set my intention to get to the bottom of this recurring memory, I embarked on the journey in anguish over the meaning of Dr. Poetter’s advice as it pertained to
6 these and countless other questions regarding the schooling of white children who experience rural poverty. I continued to narrow my focus on the topic, and eventually, hope was found in returning to Pinar’s (2012) currere, drinking Grumet’s (1988) Bitter Milk, exchanging queries with scholar-friends at the Currere Exchange Retreat and Conference, and a re-read of Critical Race Feminist currere (Baszile, 2015). These experiences – educational experiences – led me to reconsider Pinar (2012) and his foundational idea that, “In fact, the future will not be found in front of us at all, but in back of us. Reactivating the past reconstructs the present so we can find the future” (p. xv), and that “[t]hrough academic and self-study we reconstruct ourselves and the world we inhabit” (p. 2). I would find my way forward by (re)re-examining the past, with a commitment to criticality and self-study. Still, although I had examined the Dakota story many times, I just couldn’t seem to find in it a productive, nor satisfying, narrative for my disgust of schooling – not education – schooling that fails to acknowledge more than one way of knowing.
Significance of the Study This project is the most recent leg of my journey toward comprehensive inquiry which might inspire teachers (like me) to find a way toward love and healing of rural white and patriarchal wounds of oppression (hooks, 1994) and to reclaim our educational work as the “work of women” (Grumet, 1988, p. 58), work that requires more than caring for (Noddings, 2013) students in a white, patriarchal educational system. This “natural” care is experienced in the moments when one feels compelled to act in the interest of another. While preferred over not caring, being compelled to care is not in and of itself enough to disrupt the often-undetected masked disgust for the “other” (Matias & Zembylas, 2014). Matias & Zembylas draw on critical race theory, whiteness studies, and critical emotion studies to examine the idea that “[d]isgust is a complex and multifaceted emotion, but in its simplest sense it means ‘bad taste’ (Ahmed, 2004) – a feeling of profound aversion for the Other that can be performed in a variety of overt or not so overt manners” (p. 319). While the specific “others” to which Matias & Zembylas refer are black, in this study I wish to name poor and working class whites living in rural places as other “others” who experience poverty and enter school with ways of knowing that differ from the traditional curriculum elementary programs. I further suggest that these children come to school with diverse experiences and knowledges which are rarely acknowledged, much less valued, by middle-class, white teachers committed to one way of knowing. In fact, their ways of
7 knowing are often openly challenged and debased, occurring not only in private, but in classrooms full of children as well. A new kind of dialogue of difference is necessary if a healing transformation of women educators is to take place in rural spaces. We can no longer afford to allow the past history of poverty to be normalized by silence, ignorance, or fear of different ways of knowing as they are exhibited in this specific rural place. It is time to bring greater awareness to white, in-service teachers regarding their unexamined commitment to whiteness and privilege. I engage in a critical, self-reflective journey of my own unexamined instances of silencing dialogic inquiry of racism, classism, ableism, sexism, and all other “isms” in my classroom (Castagno, 2008) as a means to “break the silence” (Miller, 2005) of a collective of rural, white teachers as well. I consider this conversation complicated for several reasons, two of which are directly related to white capitalist patriarchal norms that abound in predominantly white rural spaces; 1) gendered and classist norms seem to view outspoken middle-class teachers as burnt-out, angry, women to be silenced and/or placated; and 2) in rural, predominantly white places differences of class and ability appear take precedence over all other differences – especially race. However insurmountable, I remain diligently committed to this journey, beginning with a healing of my own wounds from years of training and unacknowledged complicities (as student and teacher) in a white elitist system of schooling that squelches the dreams of poor students, and relegates all other ways of knowing to distant margins – healing in the form of a decolonization of the mind (Baszile, 2015). I approach this healing with a self-reflexive unlearning as I exist, teach, and commune in a rural place that is not my own, but yet have lived as a local-outsider for 30 years.
Call to Curricular Action Ricky Lee Allen (2009) offers a challenge for rural teachers and curriculum theorists committed to an unlearning that has all but become an imperative as the country was rocked by the election of its 45th president – Donald J. Trump. Allen provides this challenge as he speaks to the historical, political stratification of white people as a purposeful, calculated action of powerful non-poor whites to create a buffer between themselves and people of color – in the form of a white hegemonic alliance (Allen, 2009). This alliance explains how poor whites cling to their whiteness based on the hope that they may one day, through hard work and effort, join the elites in a life of luxury. Allen’s explanation of poor whites’ commitment to white elites and
8 white supremacy offers a possible justification for working-class whites’ support and presence in the 2016 voting booths even though doing so appears to work against their own self-interest. For teachers committed to liberatory education in poor, predominantly white rural regions, Allen offers: Absent a curriculum that provides poor white students with an opportunity to unlearn their submission to non-poor whites, investment in whiteness, and learned superiority relative to people of color the future of poor whites will most likely resemble their past since they will not be able to forge meaningful and transformative political alliances with people of color. (Allen, 2009. p. 220) Allen clearly states the need for a curriculum in which poor white students might find a way out of a fixed, or determined future. In this quote, we see Allen explicitly state that this future is predicated by the complexity of whiteness and the inability of poor whites to “forge meaningful and transformative political alliances with” others. By differentiating non-poor from poor whites, he dichotomizes whiteness into haves and have nots – essentially drawing a line of distinction between working poor whites from middle- and upper-class whites. Unfortunately, current traditional curriculum does not allow for such difference. In fact, the current common curriculum and standardized assessments perpetuate the elevated status of the style of language, semantics, syntax, vocabulary, and even the dialect of non-poor white elites as the norm. This makes it imperative that teachers work on “fixing” all other ways of communicating knowledge. “It is this strange ‘logic’ where a condition of possibility is at the very same time a condition of impossibility to which Derrida sometimes refers as deconstruction” (Biesta, 2013, p. 37). Allen’s distinction paired with Derrida’s deconstruction brings light to the idea that white supremacy is possible only by centering elite whites as a dominant subgroup as the good and cultural norm against the existence of marginalized (excluded) subgroups, in this case poor whites, viewed as the bad or cultural “others.” The media response to specific events of the 2016 election does more than acknowledge a marginalized white subgroup; it leads directly to the placing and politicization of marginalized poor whites. As society has come to believe that the poor whites, who had always-already existed in the margin of whiteness (Allen, 2009) and in rural spaces as political others who support white supremacist ideology, the rural poor take a discursive hit which all but seals the narrative of poor, rural white young children as overt racists and raises the stakes for a pedagogy
9 of unlearning the material truth of white supremacy. In seeking to engage in educational practice that allows for and creates a space in which justice can exist, simply critiquing existing curriculum is insufficient. It requires a disruption of the narrative that rural places seem to project – toward praxis. In many regions of the country there is an absence of anti-racist education and conversations which goes unacknowledged. However, in some rare cases, this absence is in fact acknowledged, perhaps even welcomed, by those living in these spaces and serves as a willful barrier to consciousness of “others” (Larrick, 2017). Unfortunately, I am not convinced that an example of this rare case does not exist in my own rural backyard. The large media attention to working-class, rural, white, Trump supporters in these remote spaces has also captured the interest of anti-racist advocates, drawing attention to racist practices (conscious or not) and shining a light on the privilege that comes with white membership (marginalized or not). This is exacerbated by deficit and derogatory attitudes towards poor whites, under-examined questions of whiteness, and the absence of related meaningful dialogue (Allen, 2009). Many of my neighbors are Trump supporters who turned out in number to “vote for the first time in years” for a candidate that they felt offered the best chance for economic recovery in this depleted area of the country. They were aggressive in their anti-Hillary language, suggesting jail time and some even calling for her death. Trump’s rhetoric was viewed as what I will call “metaphorically honest.” It became apparent to me that many people in this region listened with a different ear than many others who experience oppression. They appeared to take Trump’s comments more figuratively as that is inherent in the cultural language of the rural, white, working class. Educated liberals speak a different language and were deeply offended, some irreparably, by anyone who could even speak the atrocities that came from Trump. The disgust and attacks on a way of life on the part of liberal elites worked to motivate and mobilize a group of conservative poor white people who saw something familiar and comfortable in the rhetoric. How might this place-specific rhetoric inform my practice as I return to teach in this place? What is necessary is the creation of new rural curriculum which supports the unlearning as well as the “not-learning-in-the first-place.” But, my ever-present question remains, how might a rural, white, woman teacher who is herself working on healing from her own colonization and complicity create a classroom environment that engages students in a similar process to disrupt and refute local insensitivity (in some cases hostility) toward “others?”
10 As I reviewed literature regarding my questions I found a vast range of valuable insights into the preparation of culturally relevant white, middle-class teachers (Ladson-Billings, 1994; hooks, 1994; Sleeter, 2001; Delpit, 2006); the examination of whiteness (Matias, 2013; Leonardo, 2002; Gillborn, 2005; Allen, 2009); theoretical underpinnings of multicultural education (Banks, 2013; Sleeter & Grant, 2006; Howard, 1993); the transformative power of radical and critical pedagogy (Giroux, 1988; McLaren, 1986; Freire, 1998); and effects of poverty on schooling (Gorski, 2012; Ladson-Billings, 2014). However, the majority of these texts foreground the failure of privileged white teachers to fully meet the needs of students of color in urban areas, while few speak directly to Allen’s (2009) call for a curriculum which informs white middle-class teachers how to provide “poor white students with an opportunity to unlearn their submission to non-poor whites, investment in whiteness, and learned superiority relative to people of color” (p. 220), much less one that is relevant to white children experiencing poverty in Trump-supporting, economic deserts of rural, southern Ohio. As a teacher of poor, mostly white students in a remote, rural, Appalachian county in Ohio, I am motivated to engage in pedagogical research through self-study situated in time, space, and place, which answers Allen’s call. I am compelled to work toward reconceptualizing existing curriculum in which poor, rural, elementary students (many of whom are now openly named as future white supremacists) can unlearn and disrupt constructs of structural racism. I believe this commitment begins with myself and a return to a past in which I failed to acknowledge what it meant to be white in a place that is predominantly white and has never been my own. Why did I feel the need to distance myself from this place? What was so different about this “rural” that prompted me to say (for 30 years), “I’m not from here. I’m from northern Ohio” (an area which I suspect is even more racist, but in a more dangerous, covert way.)
The Research Project In returning to the past, I soon realized that the hidden oppression in Dakota’s story is not the oppression of poor rural children but the miseducation (Woodson, 1933/2010) that occurs in rural places (for both teachers and students) through a white supremacist patriarchal system of schooling (hooks, 1994). And, I realized that I have had a strong hand in perpetuating that miseducation under the guise of feeling compelled to care. Currere offers the opportunity for a (re)retelling with a view of the bottom and a means to explore this phenomena from a lived
11 curricular perspective. At this point, I understand that my project is not to convince people that the current policies and curriculum for people in poverty are oppressive, but rather to engage in a personal healing process by drawing on Critical Race Feminist currere (Baszile, 2015), critical white studies (Matias, 2013; Leonardo, 2004; Gillborn, 2005; Allen, 2009), and place-based pedagogy (Gruenwald, 2003a, 2003b). This healing brings light to and includes a local dialogue about race as it intertwines with gender and class in predominantly white places of schooling and is framed in transforming and reclaiming education as the work of women (Grumet, 1988). I center my own personal and critically reflective narrative regarding how I prepare to engage in curriculum theorizing for/with rural poor children in order to eradicate the need to “unlearn” white supremacist attitudes (Allen, 2009) and provide a space for creative and imaginative social experiences in which equality is the starting point for freedom (Ranciere, 2003). As I tackle the impending project, which is to utilize currere and to write my way through memories, dreams, examinations, and the reconceptualization of a critical rural curriculum, I will serve as a teacher to rural students in grades 3-5 as an Intervention Specialist. It is in this role that I will face, head-on, what it means to heal personal wounds of whiteness by returning to the actual place of my own complicity in the problem, to reconceptualize what it means to be a teacher/learner (Freire, 1998) in an assumed racist white space during a disturbingly and openly racist time in U.S. history. This project reflects my commitment to imagining a rural educational space in which unlearning the fear of “others” is a priority. This unlearning becomes possible when whiteness is challenged, place-based ways of knowing are cultivated, and racism is critically examined and challenged – where equality and justice is the curricular goal. The scope of such a project extends significantly beyond this single study. Therefore, I view this as a pragmatic first step toward personal healing and development of foundational ideas for a critical rural pedagogy by examining my own white racial identity (Thandeka, 1999) as it relates to “intellectually engaging students in academically informed conversation concerning key concepts and concerns of past and present” (Pinar, 2012, p. 11) in a particular rural place in southern Ohio. I will challenge the “structure of school [as it] replicates the patriarchal structure of the family” and the idea that “women who maintain daily contact with children and nurture them are themselves, trained, supervised, and evaluated by men” (Grumet, 1988, p. 85). In (re)retelling Dakota’s story, I have come to see potential harm caused by my own unexamined white participation in the
12 perpetuation of whiteness of young, rural students who experience poverty. My remembered story drives my work toward a specific pedagogy of place (Gruenwald, 2003a) which “allows the oppressed to...reveal their own reality” and dreams (Freire, 2007, p. 3), as well as examines whiteness and “learned superiority to people of color” (Allen, 2009, p. 220) – toward a critical rural pedagogy (Larrick, 2017).
The Questions Pinar (2012) suggests that although “We understand that what knowledge is of the most worth? cannot be answered for others; indeed, our aspiration is to forefront the question as an ongoing stimulus to study and complicated conversation” (p. 32). I ask myself, how will I forefront the question: What knowledge is of the most worth for white rural students (and teachers) experiencing poverty to unlearn supremacy to people of color and imagine a better future? Grumet (1998) introduces the possibility of related questions: What does it mean to seek answers regarding how I might contribute to a revolution of teaching as the “work of women” which acknowledges and values diverse ways of knowing, through a healing resistance to oppression of any kind? How will I specifically challenge current elementary curriculum and practices containing exclusionary accountability policies and the disappearance of meaningful social opportunities in high-poverty, low-performing rural schools while in the midst of practicing schooling given local policies and high-stakes commitments to state requirements? The pedagogical perspective of this project led me to Aoki (2003), who suggests that this type of inquiry, a pedagogical inquiry into lived experience as a site of both teaching and learning begs the question: “Where is living pedagogy located” (p. 1)? He continues by suggesting that if I aspire to listen to what is being said, I must also listen to where the what is being said (p. 1). Because I will be returning to the very place that I existed in the “dark night of the soul” (Grumet, 1998, p. xi) of teaching a lifeless common curriculum in a high-poverty, low- performing rural school, I situate a different question in the healing nature of revisiting an educational place of complicity and oppression and ask: What does this rural place say about local ways of knowing and experiential teaching and learning? How might I get to the bottom of this dichotomy between lived and planned curriculum in a manner that allows me to remain
13 committed to my truth, while being closely surveilled by building, district, and state administrators and consultants? However, in determining specific questions for this healing project, I must ultimately turn to Critical Race Feminist currere (Baszile, 2015) by asking the rudimentary, foundational, and critical question: Who am I, as a white, middle-class, woman teacher in this rural place of schooling? How do my remembered stories of educational experiences inform the healing process necessary for my own decolonization? But, my ever-present question remains, how might a rural, white, woman teacher who is herself working on healing from her own colonization and complicity create a classroom environment that engages students in a similar process to disrupt and refute how this rural place promotes narratives of poor whites who feel justified in speaking insensitivities (in some cases hostilities) toward “others?” Throughout this project, I will include recounted stories that serve as agents of change for my narrative of self as white, rural, woman teacher. The time has come for me to examine, speak, and celebrate my course as it is run – my currere – through personal reflections, inquiry, and research. It is time to share the personal healing process that occurs in the (re)returning to persistent stories of trauma, fear, and injustice, as well as those of healing, love, and justice. It is time to examine what these stories hold for me as I speak the story of my becoming a loving white teacher of poor, white students in a racist place and time. The following vignette serves as an epiphanic moment regarding how a simple random eye movement could help me realize that I had been narrowly and mistakenly focused on one child’s story as the focal point for my research. At the same time, I was able to discover the metaphor of a forest which I incorporate throughout the project. It also serves as the first of many epiphanic moments that function as artifacts of this dissertation.
From my Window I am not from this rural place, yet I am rural, just not this rural. However, in an oddly, inexplicable way, I feel the most me here – not here, in the public places of school, business, or social events, but here, in the privacy of my rural home. I find comfort in the view from my living room window. I lose myself in the beautiful theater of the old beech tree outside my southern facing window. I watch as the cats jump precariously from one branch to another, as birds draw on their species-specific adaptations to maintain a social pecking order at the bird feeder
14 (cardinals almost always win), and as seasonal changes are indicated in the message of the leaves. I have never felt more home. However, today, for some unknown reason, in this particular moment, I choose to look out of the eastern window – a shift that requires little more than a simple and almost undetectable eye movement. It is out of this window, in this moment, that today I am able to see past the small crab apple tree, past the fertile farmland, across the back lane, to the beautiful forest that provides the previously undetected backdrop of my view. I, for the first time in many years, see the forest. I see the forest that has been in my line of sight all along, stoically hidden in broad daylight. The massive collectivity of flora has been proudly standing in the background, patient and lovingly waiting for me to notice. I notice. I listen. It is in the distant, silent sounds of the forest that I finally hear him – Dr. Poetter – speak to my persistent reference to Dakota, a child experiencing rural poverty, with dreams of becoming a doctor. “Unpack this story, it is not Dakota’s story, it is your story.” I’ve had an epiphany! For many years, I had been so captivated by Dakota’s story of injustice in the trees, that I missed the potential of the story of the forest – my forest (my own story). Even within the past few months, when I thought I had finally “got it” ... I hadn’t. I was so deeply lost in the trees of unjust, disheartening, individual stories of my poor, white, rural students and fellow teachers that time and again I had failed to appreciate the full extent of my own transformational forest of power. Thoreau (1887) offers insights into this epiphanic moment as he describes The Succession of Forest Trees: and Wild Apples in which a forest transforms through a succession of planted seeds – seeds that are carried and sheltered through natural phenomena and the agency of others to create a forest. In a speech given to a gathering of agricultural landowners in late 19th century Massachusetts, Thoreau states: It remains, then, only to show how the seed is transported from where it grows, to where it is planted. This is done chiefly by the agency of the wind, water, and animals. The lighter seeds, as those of pines and maples, are transported chiefly by wind and water; the heavier, as acorns and nuts, by animals. (p. 35) Thoreau (1887) speaks a story of a forest which emerges and grows through seeds planted by nature and cultivated by a system of difference. Difference indicated in the composition of seeds – light seeds, heavy seeds – as well as their movement from place to place
15 by agency of something other than themselves such as wind, water, and/or animals. Throughout this text, I seek to explore my own growth through a return to personal, educational experiences. I will do so with the explicit purpose of determining how the seeds of my current self were planted, ignored, nourished, and/or moved, and how these events created an environment, or curriculum, which impacted the growth and cultivation of narratives of my selves as a white, woman, rural teacher. My husband refers to stray and early forest growth – such as those which grow along untended fence rows, ditches, or other plots of land left untouched – as junk trees. I extend the metaphor to include the emergence of junk trees sprouted from seeds of trauma, dig under the pines to uncover seeds of epiphanic moments, and eventually, find strength and clarity to speak a transformed, complicated, narrative of self found in the power of the aged, mighty oak. As landowners and farmers in a remote-rural area, we have the option to commit areas of our ground to a Conservation Reserve Program (CRP) which requires compliance with specific governmental requirements. The program has strict guidelines regarding the mowing, spraying, and or altering of the land – the goal is to allow it to grow as naturally as possible, for the purpose of supporting and harboring fauna, as well as flora. If allowed to grow untended for any length of time, we begin to see the growth of early junk trees such as mulberries, locust, cedar and the occasional thorny, crab apple on the CRP ground. To be clear, my husband is not saying these junk trees serve no purpose, but simply that the wood from such early growth doesn’t have the same economic value as those in established forests. It is in this untended ground that we experience the awe-striking lessons of life in the stories of fauna, such as those heard by carefully discerning the interactive songs and flights of field sparrows, meadowlarks, and the regal, red-tailed hawks. The stories of rural forest animals are told more by their movements and calls than by their songs and flights. It takes a critically, experienced eye and ear to catch a glimpse of a doe with her fawn, hear the communicative cries of coyotes, and distinguish the hoot-driven message of a screech owl from that of the great- horned owl. In any ecological system, traumatic and unexpected events can alter the otherwise healthy growth toward maturity. Yet, these same moments can serve to shape the early under layer; they sustain and impact the process of growth and regrowth, over many years; ultimately, these
16 moments create environments in which new seeds, never before imagined, lead to trees with the strength of mighty oaks.
17 Chapter 2: Methodology, Methods, and Framing of Chapters
Upon the conclusion of writing and discussing From my Window, I immediately sensed a difference in my body – I actually felt the knowing power of my most recent epiphany. This epiphanic story held the power of self-transformation and radical feminist thinking (hooks, 2000a). I had chills. I had reached a turning point. I needed to explore the forest, my forest. I now realized the power in re-narrating self as a means of healing, transformation, and discovering the spiritual truth of my “work” as a rural teacher – through an examination of my own lived experiences in the place that I refused to belong, but had belonged for thirty years. Eakin (2008) proposes that “narrative is not only a literary form but part of the fabric of our lived experience. When it comes to our identities, narrative is not merely about self, but is rather in some profound way a constituent part of self” (p. 2). I was ready to shout a newfound commitment to the concept that my narrative is my identity. I am my narrative. An overarching theme throughout this project is to create a literary text by drawing on the “fabric” of my own lived experiences as one who exists in school places. I am prepared to begin. Eakin (2008) defines self and identity by suggesting that both offer manifestations of self-awareness. When referring to subjectivity, Eakin (2008) considers self as an “umbrella term” while identity refers to one form of Neisser’s (1988) “conceptual self” as a category of “I” as it is conceived from diverse forms of self-information (as cited in Eakin, 2008, pp. xii - xiii). Eakin (2008) further defines narrative identity, within the frame of a “discourse of identity, [as it is] delivered bit by bit in the stories we tell about ourselves day in and day out, autobiography structures our living” (p. 4). Additionally, in discussing identity story practice, he offers the possibility of disruptions experienced as “jolt[s] into awareness” that “play a role in organizing our social world” (p. 4). In this project, I refer to these jolts as epiphanic moments which suddenly alter my perceptions and understanding of the rural place, or setting, in which I exist, heal, learn, experience, and age – just like my forest. So, as I begin this dissertation journey through the forest, I return, again, as a re(return) to the story, along with many others, to ponder which form of self these stories and memories have spoken (and continue to speak) into being as I exist (and have existed) as a teacher in this rural place. What might my (re)returning hold for me upon the determination of the kind of self to which I refer? I wonder which self I might interrogate if I am to become more as a teacher of the
18 poor and working class white students with whom I share this place. How do my remembered narratives constitute the self that I am? Which self is the self that I speak into self-ness in this particular moment of remembering? I suspect this self, as a specific narrative identity, is situated as a conceptual self, mired in a collection of diverse forms of self-information (past educational experiences as epiphanic moments), at the jolting intersection of epiphany-producing, doctoral research and the search for a practical juxtaposition of theory and practice that I face in returning to teach in my high-poverty, mostly-white, rural school. I, as subject, must trust and heed the message that the forest of my work is waiting to speak. Dakota’s story is merely one moment of self-ness in my forest of selves – one aspect of one remembered narrative in one moment in a lifetime of narratives – my lifetime of narratives. The telling and re-telling of a series of significant stories is necessary for me to revisit past narratives of trauma, fear, and external locus of self, to begin again my becoming a white teacher of poor, white rural students on my own constant journey through love toward justice (Baszile, personal communication, May 2016).
The Realization A primary intent of this project is to engage in a complicated conversation (Pinar, 2012) about privilege, oppression, and curriculum/s in a predominantly white, rural place. I will bring life to the unstructured energy I sense in listening to the message of the forest that frames my rural, home place with a specific purpose of narrating a transformed self into being (Eakin, 2008). Because the energies that hover at the crown of my subjectivity waiting to be organized into a language of personal narratives, to then serve as artifacts of/for reflection, theorizing, analysis, and praxis, are both intuitive and sensual, I am unsure at the outset what this project will reveal. However, I am sure of what I seek. I set my intention to engage in a deep and personal inquiry into wounded self-identities of compliance and complicity, as well as an analysis of the transformational process of becoming one who initiates, participates in, and is committed to complicated conversations regarding what it means to provide a curriculum of unlearning supremacy (Allen, 2009) in rural, white schools. As I consider and work toward such a curriculum, I draw on Huebner’s consideration of curriculum as an environment (as cited in Pinar, 1975a, p. 398), but unlike Huebner, I choose to do so in conjunction with, rather than instead of, viewing it as a knowledge producing discipline. Such a stance creates a public space to which I have returned, not as a consumer of knowledge, but as an active participant, as
19 producer, in complicated conversations that I hope to encourage in my classroom (Pinar, 2006, p. xi.) The curriculum of my rural classroom which guides the healing and growth of students and teacher selves serves as a similar environmental framework of transformation as that which exists in the maturation and growth of trees in a forest – each process grounded in the beauty of difference. I seek to tell the story of a transformation of self and stories of justice as my students, colleagues, and I engage in the process of creating new narratives of rural difference. In doing so, I hope to gain some preliminary insights into what a rural curriculum (the environment which is conducive to the production of knowledge of self and others) that allows for such a transformation might entail. This interpretive, qualitative study employing multiple theoretical frameworks relies on curriculum theorizing to answer the questions: Who am I? How does a re(return) to my stories as a white middle-class teacher – as I return to this rural place of schooling – contribute to my becoming a critically, complex, white, rural, woman teacher? While these research questions suggest a connection to phenomenology as I seek to make meaning of experience, my vision is to extend phenomenological methods by linking this project with the autobiographies of the educational experiences of an individual, as told by the individual (Pinar, Reynolds, Slattery, & Taubman, 2008). I intend to engage in the process of currere as it offers the opportunity to engage in curriculum co-theorizing and “complicated conversations between teachers and students” (Pinar, 2012, p. 2). Who am I in this moment, as I re-take my place, in this rural place? What does it mean to engage in such a task in the current state of the country and education? How might I move past creating narratives of compliance and complicity to engaging in complicated narratives that not only critique current curriculums, but lead toward the creation of new ones (Pinar, 1975a)? I draw on significant memories, in whatever form they come (i.e., feelings, emotions, sentences, dreams, recurring pictures in my mind), such that they become re-tell-able, significant moments which I refer to as “epiphanies.” One such epiphanic moment occurred as I sat in one of my last courses in the doctoral program, as one of only three students who identify as white. The conversation and discussion were predicated by the reading of A Curriculum of Aloha? Colonialism and Tourism in Hawai’i’s Elementary Textbooks, an article by Julie Kaomea (2000). While Kaomea presents a powerful article related to Foucault’s regimes of truth, length
20 constraints permit me to brush over the argument of the article to get to my point that colonization in curriculums can be hidden and perpetuated unknowingly. And, my connection which caused me to consider the fact that I had been teaching pre-service teachers about white privilege, whiteness, and white curriculums for four semesters, and had had many conversations, analyzed many texts, and prepared many lessons on the topic of white curriculums, I continued to lack a certain depth of understanding regarding the term colonialism. My thought process follows: Ooooh nooooo... I am the colonizer! (almost inaudible… o.m.g.) So now what? I have to stop! We have to stop. Schooling is the problem. OMG! I get it!! But I am not big enough. I had an epiphany! I, as object, had been colonized to perpetuate the colonization of poor and working class white students for almost 30 years. During my time at Miami, I had gained access to the language of justice, but until that moment I had remain unchanged – until this particular moment when I realized the truth... I can still hear myself ask: So how does one disrupt schooling as colonization while I, myself, have been colonized to be a colonizer by the same colonizing system of schooling? It’s a sentence that continues to replay – like a tape recorder – over and over again in my brain. It must be addressed. I must get big enough to address it. But how? I sense that a solution includes me, and if it does include me, then contributing to a solution must include critical self-reflection which begins with a return to the past through the self that I am at this moment. I can use myself as an example. I can be enough. I have to be enough. I am enough. Throughout this project, I seek not only to critique my own curriculums of self, but seek to reconceptualize and/or to create new curriculums for justice through unlearning fear of others through love. Critical Race Feminist currere provides a means for poor rural students, and their teacher, to consider what it might mean “to free oneself from the confines of oppressive ways of knowing and being” (Baszile, 2015, p. 120), in this case from white, capitalist, patriarchal schooling that continues to colonize future colonizers – to mis-educate (Woodson, 1933/2010).
21 Methodology Currere seeks to create an autobiographical space for an individual to describe his/her own experience, and according to Grumet (as quoted in Pinar et al., 2008) it offers an escape from “epistemological traps of mainstream social science and educational research” (p. 414). In other words, currere provides a space for a researcher to think outside of the traditional social science and education research box – to rely on one’s own significant memories as the starting point for a different truth to inform a different rural curriculum. The method/ology of currere makes use of distancing, bracketing, and intentionality, and is considered to be grounded in Husserl’s phenomenology, as well as psychoanalysis, existentialism, and feminism (Pinar et al., 2008). A select group of curriculum theorists since the time of Tyler’s Rationale and the commitment to empirical methods and behavioral sciences has sought to move beyond such discourses toward a critique-driven reconceptualization of curriculum (Pinar, 1975a). Pinar envisions currere as “the kernel of a reconceived and revitalized curriculum theory field” (1975a, p. 413) and “is, in effect, a form of autobiographically informed truth-telling that articulates the educational experiences of teachers and students as lived” (2012, p. 35). Essentially currere offers: A sketch of subjectivity-structured temporality (reactivating the past, contemplating the future, in so doing complicating the present), this method is no defensive effort at psychic survival, but one of subjective and social risk, the achievement of selfhood and society in an age yet to come. To undertake this project of social and subjective reconstruction, we must remember the past and imagine the future, however unpleasant each domain may prove to be. (Pinar, 2012, p. 5) In engaging in remembering, one risks the unpleasantries of hidden and repressed events, attitudes, and/or beliefs. As I begin to listen to the stories of the trees in my forest, I am prepared to face whatever may come – even if unpleasant. I realize the gift of new knowings is a step toward healing. Critical Race Feminist currere. Baszile (2015) offers Critical Race Feminist currere (CRFC) as an autobiographical means of understanding how race, class, and gender “intersect and are inflected in the perpetually evolving question – Who am I?” (p. 119). The motivation for this specific extension of currere is based on absence – the absence of self in academic
22 knowledge. She makes the point that the traditional curriculum’s over reliance on white, male scholarship and embedded language prevents any student who is not white and/or male from “[articulating] herself at the intersections of race and gender” (p. 121). Although I am white, I am not a male, I am a working-class teacher, and I exist in a rural place that is often (not always) excluded from traditional white, male scholarship. Baszile’s CRFC offers a welcome place for me to experience a feminist language and perspective. In attempting to engage in Pinar’s currere, Baszile encountered an inability to see herself in the work. Although currere offers a space for an individual to describe his/her own experience typically through engaging the mind, Baszile experienced the foundational stages, linearity, and reliance on psychoanalysis of the mind as limitations for seeing herself, her onto-epistemological self, in the process. Baszile speaks of the absence of black woman ways of knowing as one engages in the currere process and sought to allow space for bodily and spiritual ways of knowing into the process. I seek the same freedom. I will draw on spiritual, intuitive, and sensual ways of knowing as they serve as an initial source of uncovering myself as a rural, woman teacher – a white woman who had previously been taught to repress, ignore, and deny the intuitive ways of knowing that continue to deny all the possible ways of telling one’s truth regarding race and gender in places of schooling. Identifying absence requires a critical analysis of presence through an examination of the past. Baszile’s CRFC extends the currere method/ology from an interdisciplinary examination of educational experiences of individuals developed in curriculum studies and theory (Baszile, 2015; Pinar, 2012; Pinar et al., 2008) to include an “intersection of three theoretical traditions: curriculum theory, critical race theory, and Black feminist theory” (Baszile, 2015, p. 122). In terms of the relevance of CRFC from the tradition of curriculum theory, Baszile (2015) summarizes Pinar by stating that it is the study of educational experiences which offers a means of self-study and understanding as a “critical social justice project in and of itself” (p. 122). Pinar (2012) defines curriculum theory as it stems from work in the “humanities, arts, and interpretive social sciences,” and extends the definition by suggesting that curriculum theory is the “scholarly attempt to understand curriculum” which he conceives of as “complicated conversation” (p. 1). Grumet (1988) explains curriculum theory as a means to explore what is happening in schools which informs curricular innovation and/or critique. In CRFC, Baszile draws on Edgerton (1996) who complicates the conversation further by considering currere from
23 the margin. I draw on each of these concepts as my inquiry is designed to critique rural school curriculum and the marginalization of rural poor and working class ways of knowing which may lead to the perpetuation of racism in these remote places by explicitly examining my own educational experiences. In providing a rationale for the second theory – critical race theory (CRT), I draw on two of CRT’s overarching aims: 1) “to understand how white supremacy and its subordination of people of color have been created and maintained in the United States; and 2) to be committed to social justice by working toward eliminating racial oppression as part of the larger goal of eradicating all forms of oppression” (Kim, 2016, p. 43). As I seek to explore the first of the two aims, how white supremacy has been created, I look directly at current curriculum, practice, and understanding as I return to past stories to re-narrate past selves into new and more critical selves who work toward justice. The second of the two aims, working toward eliminating oppression of all forms, serves as the underlying purpose of my role as teacher in a rural school. I return as a radical feminist (hooks, 2000a) to dismantle the structures of racism, classism, and sexism in a rural place. Baszile (2015) offers the contribution of critical race theory as it is “concerned with interrogating and reconstructing the relationship among race, knowledge, and the law” (p. 123). Throughout this project, I attempt to center race in an exploration of how it intertwines with dominant class structures (hooks, 2000a) by seeking a healing of self that challenges the whiteness and privilege of white, middle-class teachers (Leonardo, 2004; Allen, 2009; & Matias & Mackey, 2016). Finally, I turn to the rationale for the use of Black feminist theory (BFT) as it relates to this particular project. Baszile (2015) suggests that a conversation about oppression is informed by the stories of black women and women of color as they seek to radicalize subjectivity of women who exist in the margin. While I am not a woman of color, I find not only a different understanding, but also strength in their stories of self-determination and their commitment to justice. Layli Phillips (2006) provides a distinction between BFT and womanism as she works through Alice Walker’s use of the term womanism as it relates to Black feminist theory. Phillips defines womanism as a means of social change that is:
24 rooted in Black women’s and other women of color’s everyday experiences and everyday methods of problem solving in everyday spaces, extended to the problem of ending all forms of oppression, for all people, restoring the balance between people and the environment/nature and reconciling human life with the spiritual dimension. (p. xx) Phillips (2006) continues by explaining a womanist’s commitment to social transformation through “harmonizing and coordinating, balancing, and healing” which “work in and through relationship, reject violence and aggression, but not assertiveness” with “methods [that] include, but are not limited to dialogue, arbitration and mediation, spiritual activities, hospitality, mutual aid and self-help, and ‘mothering’” (p. xxvi) which all fits harmoniously with my humble Mennonite early upbringing. I, too, am committed to “physical healing and methods of reconciling body, mind, and spirit” and “the notion that physical and psychological well-being provide a necessary foundation for social justice and commonweal” (p. xxvi) as I believe that in healing oneself one heals the world. In order to alleviate any concerns that I, a white woman, may have regarding the propriety of using BFT/Womanism, I turn to Phillips who answers the question: ‘Who can be a womanist?’ is anybody and everybody, assuming they begin with the identification of their individual standpoints. Ultimately, womanism allows everyone to move toward the same place along different paths: that place is universal community; that path is whatever uniqueness they have acquired by birth and all their successive travels through different experiences since that time. (p. xxxvii) I draw on this third theoretical tradition as a model for my rejection of white supremacy (hooks, 1989) and the pedagogy of patriarchy (Grumet, 1988), as I seek to heal through love, (hooks, 2000b), and aim to create educational opportunities for my students to produce and express “knowledge … in and through the body” (Baszile, 2015, p. 125). Using Critical Race Feminist Currere. Critical race feminist currere is a means of positioning oneself in the world and its relation to justice. Traditional white scholarship requires us (women and people of color) to struggle with, and through, the language of white patriarchy and as such, experiences blockages as much as it allows for the production of knowledge, so CRFC encourages creativity. CRFC provides a creative freedom for me to discover, name, and speak my truth in a language that is my own.
25 CRFC offers a framework for my inquiry into what it means to experience self- transformation, through love toward justice (Baszile, personal communication, 2016). I am able to ask when, where, who, and how I become. I must remember the past, and also the past that I have been conditioned to forget, in order to begin the work of self-love such that I might come to love rural others as a means of reconstructing what it means to be white in a rural white space. The project serves as a first step in determining, for myself, who I am and how I have come to position myself in the world, in this place (Baszile, 2015, p. 124). “The testimonies of radicalized Black women are essential for the wisdom and affirmation they offer those who are cultivating, or are interested in cultivating, a radical subjectivity” (Baszile, 2015, p. 124). hooks (1992) provides a definition of radical black subjectivity which requires black women to transform images of themselves created by a white, patriarchal political system which has been the historical norm from the very beginning of the establishment of a United States of America. She goes on to suggest that in order to transform, one must also create an alternative narrative of self which allows one to “push against the boundaries” (p. 4) of other-determined narratives of who one may or may not be. It is in the decolonizing process that one may become radicalized, away from whiteness and supremacy, toward prioritizing a radical resistance to the status quo, and eventually find hope that it is possible for people to change the way they think and act. Although, I am not black, I do seek to undergo such a radicalization, as I seek a healing transformation from one who not only fails to name herself as white, but also has failed to see an unexamined privilege and commitment to a white supremacist, patriarchal system. This project is a first step toward narrating a radical, subjective self. CRFC as a form of inquiry provides a method/ology which is appropriate to my project in as much for what it is not as what it is. It does not seek a universal Truth, feign neutrality, objectification, nor hierarchical or binary ways of thinking (Baszile, 2015, p. 120). As previously stated, this opens the onto-epistemological door to allow for many ways of knowing, a wide variety of knowledges to be demonstrated through a great range of creative expressions. It creates a place for private ways of knowing to be expressed, valued, and accepted as scholarship. Grumet (1988) speaks of patriarchal, public curriculum of reproduction and production as the constant presence in schooling, while the valuable grounding nature of private curriculum – such as the laugh, the song, the whimper – is preferred as absence in schooling. In refuting the
26 white, patriarchal, capitalist present ways of knowing, Baszile creates a means for absence to become presence. CRFC creates room for me to share private knowledge as epistemological objects for my research. In using CRFC I am offered a means of theorizing a place-based rural curriculum while in the midst of my students. In drawing on critical theory, I not only center race, but speak to the dialectical relationship between radical racial subjectivities as they create and are created by the structures of racism, classism, and sexism that exist in the world.
Method Currere (Pinar, 1975a) as method consists of four stages: 1) The Regressive – a return to one’s past, through regression to remember a particular educational experience; 2) The Progressive – reflecting on the memory as it contributes to a different (better) future; 3) The Analytical – a careful and critical analysis of the past and future as it informs a reconstructed present self; and 4) The Synthetical – the call to action, the actual praxis of one’s learning. However, Baszile (2015) minimizes the linearity by suggesting that “to do currere is to move through and among four moments of critical self-reflection and internal dialogue” in a more free- flowing in and out of stages sort of way (p. 119). The project that follows exhibits a similar ebb and flow, marbling throughout, with a moment by moment engagement with the process. My first experience with currere coincided with my first doctoral course – which also coincided with the scholarly interruption of 29 years of teaching in early childhood classrooms. The following offers a (re)remembered story of this experience as inspired by participation in my first ever conference session as a doctoral student. Dr. Poetter had invited his book project students (of which there are many) to speak at the Curriculum & Pedagogy Conference in Cleveland Ohio, and encouraged us to prepare a short 3-minute speech on either the process of writing for publication or on the topic of their specific chapter. I chose to reflect on the process of writing my portion of the text, Was Someone Mean to You Today? The Impact of Standardization, Corporatization, and High Stakes Testing on Students, Teachers, Communities, Schools, and Democracy (Poetter et al., 2017), as a member of the class collaboration project. The method Poetter conveyed to the class consisted of a series of incremental reflective, scholarly, and bridge texts. We began the course by reflecting on personal past educational experiences to write short, one-page bits about a particular memory. Students shared and discussed each others’ memories in small groups in order to expose, analyze, and/or make
27 connections to broader educational scholarship. In the case of this course, we were interested in how standardization, corporatization, and high stakes testing impacted students, teachers, communities, schools, and democracy. After several rounds of conversations, connections, and discussions, we then selected meaningful bits to extend into 3-5 page treatments. The conversations, course selected texts, and discussions guided the direction treatments would take and eventually inform future themes for book chapters. We paired off again to read, discuss, and analyze the treatments but this time with the intent of finding commonalities in the work. Eventually, we engaged in an open forum session in the manner of Harrison Owen’s (2008) Open Space Technology to brainstorm emerging themes with the intent of then breaking into chapter groups according to personal interest. In other words, once we had agreed upon a thorough, yet manageable, list of chapter themes, we then self-organized into chapter groups according to the topic that spoke to us as individuals in order to extend the ideas we considered during the bit and treatment phase of writing. Each chapter group selected bits and treatments from the previous weeks. We worked in chapter groups for the remainder of the course to negotiate with other groups for the use of any or all of the bits and treatments created in the course, introduce the direction our chapter would go, determine how to include and draw on the bits/treatments in alignment with our chapter theme, and composed bridge texts to extend the scholarship of our theme. The process was organic but carefully led; we were encouraged to think outside of the box, but still Poetter provided a box through process, course readings, and related discussion starters. What follows is a memory of my first exposure to Dr. Poetter’s “currere project to somewhere,” and my feelings of inadequacy as I was encouraged to write a “bit,” in the manner of Pinar’s regressive stage of currere for the project.
A Bit about Bits I entered the classroom early, way early, 30 minutes early. John, early as well, sat beside me and we shared our personal stories. This was his first class also, and he was happy to know he “wouldn’t be the oldest one in the class.” (Gee thanks, John.) Then Dr. Poetter arrived, with exuberance and passion about the course topic, The Standardization and Corporatization of American Public Schools and the intended book project “to somewhere” using currere and chunks (he called them bits and treatments) of writing we would produce in the first couple
28 weeks. He wasn’t sure exactly how it would go – but he knew it would go. He was clearly confident in and excited about the abilities of my classmates. He indicated that after reviewing the class roster, he knew he had the class that could pull off a book project of this sort. (OK...so...at this point, I’m still trying to make sense of the course topic and under the assumption that he’s referring to everyone else’s ability to contribute to this exciting “courier” book project. Surely, he knows that I have been in the primary classroom for almost 30 years and my language does not match that of the other experienced scholars in the class.) Dr. Poetter asked us to find a partner to get to know and introduce; specifically stating that we should find a strength and fear for ourselves as well as for said partner. My strength: I’m old and have taught for many years. My fear: that I’m not smart enough for this. Luckily, I had a strong partner who was able to identify and paraphrase my self-deprecating words into more flattering responses. Victoria introduced me, offered my strength as experience and my fear as the “demands of the program.” Poetter listed the strengths and fears on the board. This activity offered my first taste of confidence. When Victoria mentioned my experience, Poetter’s body language demonstrated agreement and a sense of value regarding my strength. Her insight to paraphrase my fear from “I’m not smart enough” to “the demands of the program” was another baby step in my road to confidence, I was able to connect with several others who had a similar fear. I left day one of my first ever doctoral course with three tasks: read Pinar, think about an experience for a bit, and build confidence in myself. As I read Pinar’s (1975a) The Method of Currere, I was positive I wanted to write a regressive bit – one that went as far back as I could remember. I was comforted by my understanding of a “bit” as a story filled with visceral implications and depth, to be reviewed, connected, and used as a starting point for the course project – which we knew to be going “somewhere.” Poetter’s words of advice were that “your story becomes part of a scholarly conversation about the topics we are discussing.” “Bits should be quick writes of memories – 30 minutes tops!!” He added that it could be that the bits are about something else and we might end up writing about another topic altogether. In pairing Poetter’s clarification with the words of Pinar, I sensed a green light for a quick 30-minute regressive writing. Poetter said, “Go!” I went. I have to admit I took more than the recommended 30 minutes to perfect my bit about dropping my crayons on the first day at a new school.
29 Finally, the day for sharing our first bits arrived. People liked my story and provided feedback that boosted my confidence in terms of story writing; never mind that they all referred to the obvious reference to the “hidden curriculum.” Their insights, although not exactly comforting (I had no clue what a hidden curriculum might be), were quite valuable. I had a great wealth of experience but no connection to the “giants” who spoke of a curriculum that was not visible. I was still standing on the ground floor holding only my own experiential knowledge. It was also clear to me that Poetter had meticulously selected texts to support the currere project, as well as knowledge of the topic of standardization and corporatization of education. By the end of this short currere journey, I was encouraged to make connections, provided meaningful texts to gain knowledge, and through the process became acutely aware of the debate going on outside the classroom. However, the most poignant lesson was offered to me on several occasions throughout the process and finally made sense. Katrina had repeatedly reminded me that my experience was a powerful strength, my EDL 318E students were lucky to have access to it, and my job here was to connect it to the great scholars in the field. My journey was underway and my days of doubt, although still present, were being replaced by moments of great confidence and hope for the … ding, ding, ding… (Poetter’s phone alarm – my 3 minutes were up) … children. As I embark upon my own currere project, I draw on Poetter’s process of bits, treatments, and organically developing chapters that interweave memories with epiphanies and scholarly insights in order to make sense of my educational experiences as a white, woman teacher subject who has returned to teach in a different rural place of schooling. While the research question “Who am I?” suggests a connection to phenomenology as I seek to make meaning of my own past, present, and future, this project extends phenomenological methods by linking them with the autobiographies of the educational experiences of an individual, as told by the individual (Pinar, Reynolds, Slattery, & Taubman, 2008). Eakin (2008) suggests a limitation of the narrative identity system based on culturally defined rules of narrative appropriateness as it relates to autobiographical explorations of self and identity (pp. 22-23). Janet Miller (2005) provides a curricular connection to Eakin’s concerns of social limitations of autobiographical work of teachers by asking “how might we construct our ‘teacher stories’ in ways that fail to conform to socially enforced norms that surround our educators lives?” (p. 56). She agrees and values the autobiographical “telling of
30 stories” as a means of constructing self. However, when questioning the complexity with which these stories are told as stories of who we are and what we might become rather than as stories of what is, she considers Maxine Greene’s idea of incompleteness. Miller suggests that it is through incompleteness that we are able to disrupt the otherwise permanent versions of who one is or could be. It is in our incompleteness that we seek answers toward a more complete self. I further suggest that even upon the completion of this project, I remain incomplete as past, present, and future subject who continues to seek what it means to live, study, learn, and educate in this rural place.
Data Collection I re(return) to often-told remembered stories, such as Dakota’s Home Visit and From My Window to analyze my own healing transformation from fear to love, toward one who is prepared to teach toward justice in a rural white place. In the process of writing, I return to yet untold stories that contribute to the inquiry into who I am in this moment. My work hinges on experiences that return and/or appear as significant memories, including memories as recent as the winter of 2018. The combination of old and new stories offers a regression to particular educational experiences that are not only significant, but relevant, to the rural place in which I live and currently teach. I provide reflections and connections to scholars with the goal of informing my return to teaching and evolving reconceptualization of a better future for my students and their families. Throughout the chapters, I extend the analysis of stories and memories in a more explicit manner such that it informs curricular decisions and praxis as I seek to implement critical, place-based, educational experiences with elementary students in the rural school where I teach. Sources of data include a variety of texts and span a continuum from written prose to creative poetry. I engaged randomly scheduled free-writes as a means to bring my disjointed, wordless energies into being as a form of written expression which could be extended, analyzed, or utilized to bring cohesion to otherwise stray thoughts. I drew on collections of saved texts from my childhood as well as newly produced texts as they were brought to my memory during the data gathering process, similar to the process described in A Bit About Bits.
31 Rural Setting In Why Rural Schools Matter, Mara Tieken (2014) reflects on her desire to locate a teaching position in a rural school and thus speaks to the difficulty of identifying a place that was considered rural. Tieken states that the federal government uses 15 different definitions for “rural” depending on the goals, purposes, and political perspective of the particular organization using the definition. I encountered a similar problem in my attempt, but ultimately chose data from the National Center of Educational Statistics (NCES) because of the direct connection to schools and education. According to 2013-14 public census data, 53% of all public-school districts and 22% of all private schools in the United States were located in rural locales (NCES, n.d.). The report provides a current definition of rural schools using an “urban-centric” system which categorizes districts by proximity to urban centers. The categories include urban, suburban, town, and rural, each of which is then broken into three subcategories. The rural locales subcategory is further divided to include fringe, distant, and remote locales. NCES provides disaggregated 2013-2014 census data which indicate a similar percentage between children “living in” poverty (includes special needs) in the urban area as those in rural areas including areas in Appalachian states – approximately 25% in all categories. The balanced rural/urban data in a large portion of the country suggests, at least, the need for balanced urban/rural policies, and at best rural specific programs serving the needs of rural students, teachers, and schools. The school district to which I have returned is designated as a town district and consists of five buildings in three separate geographical locations of an Appalachian county as identified by the Appalachian Regional Commission in southern Ohio. The main campus consists of three buildings; the high school, the middle school, and an elementary school which are all located in a town of approximately 2,500 citizens – thus the designation as town district. Two additional elementary buildings are located in very small rural communities that are approximately 15 miles from the main campus, with each of them having a building designation of distant rural school (NCES, n.d.). The building to which I will return is the smaller of the distant rural elementary schools. From here forward, when I refer to Dakota’s school or my school, I will be referring to this particular distant rural elementary school building, with a 2017-2018 enrollment of 156 students, 91% White, 4.9% Two or more races, less than 1% Black, Hispanic, Pacific Islander, or
32 Native American, and 63.24% of the students are eligible for free or reduced-price lunch. (Ohio Department of Education, 2017). The high number of students qualifying for free and reduced lunch places the school in a high poverty categorization (ODE typology), while its persistently low performance on state assessments qualify it as a low performing school as well.
Framing of Chapters The content and structure of the text is loosely based on Miller’s (2005) Sound of Silence Breaking in which she “gathers up old story lines” to “[write] again in new contexts and times” (p. 1). I, too, return to previous meaningful texts (in various forms) and pair them with newly developed scholarly texts of the present state of my rural school. I include texts in whatever form they presented themselves (i.e., poetry, song lyrics, dreams) and as they spoke to the themes of my chapters. In other words, I do not follow a prescriptive, linear chapter outline such as artifact – connection – scholarly analysis; however, each chapter does include a combination of all three components. I include a scholarly analysis in each section in a manner that is in alignment with the particular artifact and location in the chapter. Some are extensive examinations of a specific theme while others offer a shorter reference to a previous theme. It is worth noting that the authenticity of my story is limited by the act of retelling, as is any autobiographical project that depends on a personal consciousness and remembrance. Therefore, I suggest that the narratives that follow offer the most authentic account of my remembrances that a present level of knowledge and awareness allows (Quantz, 2011). As a point of clarification, I wish to advise the reader that the narratives throughout this text are indicated through the use of italics as it is my intent to facilitate the transition from story to analysis. Italics with parens are thoughts at the moment of writing, revising, or editing, and represent epiphanic moments which indicates a transformational moment prompted by the writing process. I seek to inquire how stories that I had previously viewed as trees separate from the forest actually serve as one part of an interconnected forest system – as narratives in a narrative identity system of self (Eakin, 2008). The power and possibility of the process is in the harmonious balance of love of self and love of others which serves to create a radical subjectivity stirred and prepared to engage in complicated conversations through autobiographical work (Pinar, 2012).
33 I provide the reader a path to follow my course as it is run – my currere – so they might accompany me through the trauma, healing, and beauty of the journey just as one might meander through the forest to wonder at the marvels of nature as seen in an ever-changing place. I hope that my personal healing process as it occurs in the (re)returning to persistent stories of trauma, fear, and injustice will aid in my becoming more as a loving white teacher of poor, white students in a racist place and time. I engage in a deep and personal inquiry into compliance, complicity, and complex criticality of becoming more as a self who provides a curriculum to unlearn supremacy (Allen, 2009) in rural, white schools. I hope to write into existence what it means to claim teaching as the work of women (Grumet, 1988) in a different rural place that I see anew – from my window. I have organized the chapters into three parts; Part I: The Landscape; Part II: The Narratives; and Part III: The Return. I include interludes as a means to introduce, separate, and or summarize each part of the text. They are similar in function to Miller’s (2005) interludes in Sound of Silence Breaking through which she provides background, introduces topics, and/or situates the upcoming information as a means of framing the text for the reader. Part I: The Landscape contains the introductory chapters 1-3, in which I provide a landscape of my educational story, situate the problem, and offer the rudimentary questions which guide my inquiry. In this section, the reader will gain insights into the questions which drive this project as a first step toward a larger reconceptualization project for rural curriculums. Part II: The Narratives consists of the case chapters 4-6 in which I engage in storytelling, analysis, and the indication of epiphanic moments as they relate to how I have performed my teacher selves according to the narratives of self I was taught to speak. Throughout this section, I engage in analytical work by examining remembered educational experiences from three overarching states of being from 1) submissive-compliant girl-child; to 2) complicit-resistant blended-rural; and finally, to 3) a complicated white, rural-teacher. Part III: The Return consists of chapter 7, in which I offer a discussion of the previous chapters as they inform my return to teach in my previous K-12 rural setting. I consider what it means to return as a reconstructed white-self to a rural world that I inhabit with rural white- others (Pinar, 2012, p. 2). This section serves as a practical synthesis which discusses experiences that have occurred in the past few months, yet serve as critical memories for change that inform my role as a rural teacher.
34 I plan to create a project which provides meaningful opportunities for students to co- theorize (Baszile, 2015), lead inquiry-based experiences, and critique the implementation of culturally relevant, place-based experiences as we seek to find out what this rural place is saying and how we might become subjects in the process of listening. Because this project is a first step in a larger endeavor toward reconceptualizing curriculum in rural schools, through love toward justice, the synthesis provides only momentary glimpses of such a curriculum. It includes discussion as to how these glimpses might soon also serve as significant moments and/or future epiphanic events to advance the complicated conversations regarding what it means to educate poor and working-class children in a predominantly white place.
Conclusion: Beginning with Self If I refuse to take this currerian journey through a return to the past, to situate it against the present and the narrative of a better future self, my present and future will remain as they are (Pinar, 2012). Such an occurrence precludes any hope of poor whites “unlearn[ing] their submission to non-poor whites, investment in whiteness, and learned superiority relative to people of color” and creates a bleak future for students in my rural school to forge a better future than their past (Allen, 2009. p. 220). In changing the narratives of the past, I change the self of the present and subjective possibilities for the future (Eakin, 2008). Until then my subjectivity as a white, woman, rural teacher lost in a state of compliant/complicity in white patriarchal system of schooling remains constant – the opposite of radical. Until I return to the past, to face past narratives of inadequacy, invisibility, and insignificance to speak a journey of unbecoming toward becoming a critically complex survivor of trauma, I will never become the white, rural teacher capable of the type of self-love necessary to work toward justice in this rural place. Not only does social justice transformation begin with self – it can only begin with self.
35 Chapter 3: The Implications of a Rural I: Who Can I Be?
Again, I return to From My Window in which I allude to the fact that I ground much of my doctoral work in a retelling of The Dakota Story as it represents a significant memory that served as an ever-present source of angst and self-reflexive inquiry. Although that particular story sets the stage for a complicated conversation (Pinar, 2012) about privilege, oppression, and dreams in a predominantly white, rural place – a conversation that sits as a form of unstructured energy in the message of the forest – it is not the only story waiting in the periphery to contribute to the narration of a self as more into being. In this chapter, I seek to define, explore, and signify how the usage of the term rural place is used throughout this text. I examine how place directly determines the narratives one may speak into being and provide a framework for discussing how my own experiences of rural otherness complicate my inquiry into what it means to exist in a place to which I do not belong. Initially upon leaving my position as a second-grade teacher to begin doctoral work, my thoughts were consumed with how to effect change in education, specifically rural education. What could I do to help children of poverty be more successful in school? How could I identify and address the needs of families in my district? What did I, as an outsider, really even know about the families in my district? What I discovered is that possible answers included perspectives related to rural places that weren’t always pleasant or easy to hear. Rural discourse often presents a dim and negative picture of youth living in remote areas and often unexamined implications for rural educators. Theobald and Wood (2010) suggest the existence of unequal educational opportunities for rural students, and provide a quote from a rural youth who relates the effects of deficit rural discourse, “We are well aware that we don’t have the best schools, we don’t get the best teachers, or the best education. We know that we’re going to have to catch up when we go to college” (p. 31). As a teacher in an Appalachian designated region, I had a visceral sense of professional insignificance similar to that described by this rural adolescent. For many years, this translated into an intense desire to research what it meant to teach rural students, in general, and rural poor students in particular. As I navigated my way through rural resources, I sensed that much of rural-specific work contains a paragraph or two regarding a lack of research related to the needs of rural students, families, or communities (e.g., Azano & Stewart, 2015; Butler, 2013; Semke & Sheridan, 2012).
36 This apparent lack of rural literature had nourished my desire to study and legitimate rural scholarship in some manner. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately depending on your perspective, I happened upon two articles which critiqued the quality of existing rural literature and research which caused me to question my own commitment to research grounded in rural education. Coladarci (2007), in Improving the Yield of Rural Education Research: An Editor's Swan Song, identifies shortcomings in rural research and calls for improved, diligent, and discerning use of rural sources. (Am I big enough to do that?) Howley, Howley, and Yahn (2014) present Motives for Dissertation Research at the Intersection of Rural Education and Curriculum and Instruction in which they examined and critiqued the motives of rural works and sought to examine and define the identifiers which determine work as “authentically rural” (p. 2). They further suggest that most dissertations with a categorical label of rural fail to capture rurality with real authenticity at all. Are my problems specific to rurality? My belief that research regarding rural education and schooling deserved a place on the shelf beside the plethora of urban works had been shaken. Even more problematic, was the fact that my recent work (at the time) that I had so meticulously designed to lead me toward refining and identifying a future dissertation topic, might not be relevant or worth the effort. I was forced to reexamine my vision – the burning passion to see rural educators teaching and learning alongside their students in classrooms filled with creativity, imagination, and critical thinking regarding the beauty of a particular rural place. I refused to let go of the hope that someday rural classrooms would provide for an “intellectual culture guided by intellectuals” (Quantz, 2011, p. 166) and that someday my rural poor and working class white students’ ways of knowing will be valued, explored, and cultivated into new discourses of difference. And that a rural-specific dissertation was the only way to address this hope. Therefore, I commit (at least once more) to write a dissertation from a rural perspective and place, making it imperative that I connect the place and the narratives spoken by the forests that surround our rural school. I explore five themes that support such a connection; the significance of place; definitions of place; pedagogy of place; confluence of place, time, and self; and rural as absence.
37 Significance of Place To be at all – to exist in any way – is to be somewhere, and to be somewhere is to be in some kind of place. Place is as requisite as the air we breathe, the ground on which we stand, the bodies we have. We are surrounded by places. We walk over and through them. We live in places, relate to others in them, die in them. Nothing we do is unplaced. How could it be otherwise? How could we fail to recognize this primal fact? (Casey, 1996, p. ix) Casey (1996) comes to this definition of place by drawing on the phenomenology of Husserl and the connection to the natural world as it complicates the space/place relationship. Casey states that “[o]nce it is assumed (after Newton and Kant) that space is absolute and infinite as well as empty and a priori in status, places become the mere apportioning of space, its compartmentalization” (p. 14). I wondered about the compartmentalization of space. How and why did the assigning of space into specific places occur? How does power and supremacy play into this apportionment? Why did I feel compelled to discuss and prioritize the unpacking of this place, or setting, of my research into a re-narrated self? Why did this place to which I refused to belong continue to beckon for me to hear it? Why did I insist that my rural place was “better” than this rural place? In returning to history, it seems logical to assume that ecological factors, such as the relational proximity of water to the accessibility of food and shelter – resources often found in or near forests – are one explanation of compartmentalization. So, I turn to the history of this particular place, to hear stories of a settlement near a healthy system of creeks which powered mills, supported general stores, and was populated by self-sustaining family farms. The rolling hills, hollers, and caves provided safety and shelter for those early settlers willing to risk early skirmishes for land. The forests provided access to fauna for sustenance, flora for healing, and resources to build more permanent shelters against the weather and dangerous newcomers from the east (Scott, 1890). In drawing on place and the living ecology of forests, I am provided a conceptual framework for accessing and utilizing a variety of resources, such as the remembered natural intuitive senses and stories I hear in this place away from home. They serve as artifacts to examine as I seek a reconstruction of self in this different rural. They are a means of compartmentalizing my own place in this different place.
38 Definitions of Place As I define place, I include three perspectives. First, I consider rural place as a unique geographical location – a region of the country – as the literary setting for my stories and research project. The identification of a rural place as literary setting provides a frame for connecting place with rural specific stories, or narratives. These narratives are grounded in place which ultimately determine how one speaks his or her own identities and selves. In naming and discussing the setting for my research, I also include a brief rationale for prioritizing the term “rural” over “Appalachia” throughout this project. The terms, if left unaddressed, tend to convey a monolithic culture, which I find too limiting for this particular rural setting in southern Ohio. Finally, I consider the concept of place to include my role as I perform it. How does my place in a place determine and contribute to curriculums which guide the construction and reconstruction of subjectivity, as I exist – in a family, in a profession, in a rural society. My research is contingent on my return to a rural place of schooling to retake my place in the same elementary building I left behind only two short years ago, and to begin a transformation of self, framed in reconceptualizing curriculum (Pinar, 1975a) and guided by Critical Race Feminist currere (Baszile, 2015). Defining a rural setting. Theobald and Wood (2010) suggest that neglecting or underestimating the complexity of rural populations and related factors (poverty, diversity, special needs) in rural areas serves to create educational deficiencies for rural students and families. The evidence is mounting that “rural education is becoming a bigger and even more complex part of our national educational landscape…[and] it is becoming impossible to ignore the national relevance of these students, families, schools and communities” (p. 28) – as seen in the large and vocal presence of rural Americans at Trump rallies during the 2016 presidential election. In Deer Hunting with Jesus, Joe Bageant (2007) offers a personal account of his membership in this rural white subgroup, and speaks of the group as the “unacknowledged working-class poor: conservative, politically misinformed or oblivious, and patriotic to their own detriment” (p. 6). I return to Allen (2009) to suggest that they will remain misinformed, oblivious, or purposefully mis-educated (Woodson, 1933/2010) by a system of white elite schooling that is designed to reproduce and maintain the existence of such stratified “others” until a place-based and reconceptualized rural curriculum is explored, created, and provided.
39 Coming to terms: rural or Appalachia, identity or culture. One of the most difficult tasks of discussing and writing about rural places, especially those rural places that are geographically located in designated Appalachian regions of the country, is usage of model frameworks and terms (Burriss & Gantt, 2013; Smith & Fisher, 2016; Obermiller & Maloney, 2016; Ludke & Obermiller, 2012). In Appalachia in the Classroom, Theresa Burriss and Patricia Gantt (2013) speak to the problem of designating Appalachia as the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC) offers a political designation that opens the door for debate among Appalachian scholars. Barbara Smith and Steve Fisher (2016) discuss an Appalachian Studies Association’s panel conversation divided by which model was most effective in viewing Appalachia. They refute a commitment to viewing the region through the internal colony model which “creates Appalachia as a regional collectivity, no longer pathologized but oppressed, and enables us to situate ourselves within a shared geography that recognizes all residents as heirs to a special, place-based identity” (p. 76). Smith and Fisher believe that while such a model presents a “thoroughly American Story” of “Appalachia as scrappy and righteous underdog,” it is one that is “greatly oversimplified” (p. 76). They do not deny that Appalachia exists as one of America’s “others,” but rather can only exist as one of many versions of Appalachia. There is not a single definition. The rejection of an internal colony model makes way for the possibility of social justice action and reconceptualization of the many Appalachias into a new collectivity. Further complexity of the rural-Appalachian-identity-culture phenomenon is evidenced in the work of Obermiller and Maloney (2016) as they refute the over use of the term Appalachian culture. Ludke and Obermiller (2012) admit that local Appalachian cultures exist, but usually consist of “belief and behavior sets tied to specific places and are not descriptive of everyone in the region” (p. 13). Accordingly, the problem in using culture to define and describe those living in Appalachian regions is threefold: 1) it creates a fixed and unchangeable nature of rural Appalachian life that is often inaccurate and stereotypically negative; 2) the culture is created without supporting evidence and is considered a reality; and 3) lists of positives diminishes honesty of actual beliefs and behaviors in a place (Obermiller & Maloney, 2016). “The message here is that trying to delineate a culture often tells us more about the biases of the observer than the nature of the people being observed” (p. 107). To replace culture, Obermiller and Maloney turn to identity, specifically an Appalachian identity, that is linked to place without “reifying it into a culture” (p. 111).
40 The complexity of term usage among Appalachian studies scholars leads me to offer a brief explanation of my use of term Appalachia in this project. Because not all persons who live in ARC designated geographical locations identify as Appalachian, I will reserve use of the term Appalachia as it refers to a geographically, designated place. Since I prioritize place-based pedagogy and self-study as I seek healing from the ill-effects of hidden whiteness, I preference the use of the terms rural self and/or rural identity. I will not refer to an Appalachian culture, or attempt to discuss a rural culture, but rather discuss what one particular rural place has to offer me, as well as any and all “others” who live here.
Retaking My Place In returning to Dakota’s place, I consider Ranciere’s (2005) From Politics to Aesthetics? in which he discusses place as “[i]t deals with time and space as forms of configuration of our 'place' in society, forms of distribution of the common and the private, and of assignation to everybody of his or her own part” (p. 13). I am convinced my “part” includes the “decolonization (unlearning) of white supremacy” (hooks, 1995, p. 264) in a predominantly white rural place NOT by refusing to see difference but “by claiming identities and cultural legacies that shape who we are and how we live in the world” (p. 265). I am returning to an institutional place which essentially drove me out, toward higher education and doctoral work in educational leadership and social justice. I am returning to heal myself, yes, but more important returning with a commitment to “reconstruct [myself] and the world [I] inhabit…through self-reflective academic study [my] subjectivity becomes reconstructed as social democracy. Private passion becomes public service” (Pinar, 2012, p. 2). Hence, I return to take my place in the place that drove me out – as my public service toward justice through love – to determine what this place is trying to speak. But first I must listen to determine what this place has to say, what it doesn’t say, and what it has forgotten.
Pedagogy of Place Gruenwald (2003a) eloquently puts together an argument that “places are profoundly pedagogical … as centers of experience, places teach us about how the world works and how our lives fit into the spaces we occupy … places make us” (p. 621). (emphasis added). Gruenwald (2003b) also provides a convergence of critical pedagogy and place-based pedagogy by turning
41 to the ideological underpinnings of McLaren, Giroux, and Freire – that humans are situated, in context, in time and space – to make his point for a critical pedagogy of place. He presents the benefits of each theory as they stand on their own. “Place-based pedagogies are needed so that the education of citizens might have some direct bearing on the well-being of the social and ecological places people actually inhabit. Critical pedagogies are needed to challenge the assumptions, practices, and outcomes taken for granted in dominant culture and in conventional education” (p. 3). By combining the two, Gruenwald (2003b) offers “[a] critical pedagogy of place [which] challenges all educators to reflect on the relationship between the kind of education they pursue and the kind of places we inhabit and leave behind for future generations” (p. 3). Snyder (1990) offers how one might consider the importance of imagery and setting in fictional pieces of literature. Kinchloe and Pinar (1991) draw on the connection of place to curriculum theory as a response against school deform and standardized curriculum testing which takes the stance that common policies are appropriate to implement “anytime and anywhere” (p. 165). Kinchloe and Pinar extend this literary concept of place as “significant” for curriculum theory, as it grounds one’s perspective of education in the world. They state that “[w]ithout such a perspective, curriculum theory operates in isolation, serving to trivialize knowledge, fragmenting it into bits and pieces of memorizable waste, while obscuring the political effects of such a process” (p. 5). How had my perspective of this “other” place trivialized knowledge and obscured the political effects of my new home? Will my returning to teach provide a deeper sense of healing? Although I have lived here for 30 years, how might I come to know this place from a new perspective as more than local-outsider, so that I might become more as a teacher in this place?
Confluence of Place, Time, and Self I heard a particular sentence repeatedly in an undergraduate course at Miami University many years ago. Ironically it was in EDL 418, the precursor to the course EDL 318E that I taught with early childhood pre-service teachers for 4 semesters during my participation in Miami’s doctoral program. I can’t remember the EDL 418 professor’s name, but I clearly remember him repeating this sentence often, “Who you are is where you were when…” This sentence held a hidden significance for over 35 years. I found myself remembering it at the strangest times, for
42 example at a time when I was preparing the eulogy for my dad’s funeral. (I will speak more to the significance of this in chapter 4). Therefore, as is the essence of this project, I have set my intention to heed its return to my thoughts at such an emotional time and place. I have chosen to consider who I am in relation to where I’ve been when, and how that has contributed to the me that I am today as white, rural, woman teacher. As I remember my understanding of the sentence, I believe my “unnamed” professor was suggesting the great significance of place and time in the development of one’s self – specifically in how one decides to narrate his or her own remembered stories – both to the self and others. Abram (1996) draws on Merleau-Ponty to speak of the active nature of place by his references to the sensible and active voice. He states, “the sensible world, in other words, is described as active, animate, and in some curious manner alive” (p. 55) and thus, offers a theory which connects a presence in the world (a place) with a perception of self. Place takes an active role in how we return to past events. Stories of self have been created in them, and matter as we decide what to remember, what to omit, what to forget, as well as the values or judgments that go along with the story. Gruenwald’s (2003a) theory of place, as understood from a similar perceptual dimension, is grounded in the idea that “the quality of human-world relationships must first acknowledge that places themselves have something to say. Human beings, in other words, must learn to listen” (p. 624). Unfortunately, according to Gruenwald, we have forgotten how to listen, hear, communicate, and tend to the educational nature of our place-based experiences. We are not listening. We are not listening to local others, to distant others, to ourselves, nor to our place. We are always telling…rather I, was always telling a story about a place that I hadn’t fully embodied, perhaps because I was never really from this place in which I have lived for the past thirty years. I have always felt a sense of separation from this place as a local-outsider.
Rural as Absence In the present No Child Left Behind (NCLB)/Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA) era of school reform, much of the policy and emphasis has been placed on standardization and accountability. This reform, or de-form as Pinar (2012) names it, works on the assumption that the “only kind of achievement that really matters is individual, quantifiable, and statistically comparable” (Gruenwald, 2003a, p. 620). This assumption of learning and education ignores
43 cultural contexts of living (Apple, 2001), needs of local communities (Howley & Howley, 2010), and the contribution of place to learning and teaching (Gruenwald, 2003a). Howley and Howley (2010) add to the rural school deform conversation by describing an “othering” of the rural poor through “contradictory impulses of community and globalization – the place-valuing of community and the dissolving of place and community in the service of a hyper-mobile global economy” (pp. 34-35). By placing ideologies of global, white capitalist ways of being over those of local, rural communities, these policies diminish those living in these places. Examples of “othering” of rural schools and communities can be seen in the history of standardized policies which prioritize readiness for college and career as success, the consolidation of small schools at the expense of community, and highly qualified staffing requirements which make the already problematic staffing for specialized positions (e.g., Intervention Specialists, STEM Positions, and Resource professionals) even more stressful. While newer ESSA policies offer rural specific rhetoric, such as grants for rural districts and greater emphasis on state decisions on educational policies, it remains to be seen how Ohio will respond to common standards which ignore the needs of those in local rural communities (Brenner, 2016). In addition, there exists a tension for young rural youth between remaining in and identifying with their own “poor” community or leaving to join and re-identify with an outside “rich” global society. Corbett (2009) provides insights into this problem as he considers the outmigration of successfully educated rural youth and the paradox of a community essentially perpetuating its own economic decline. Ironically, Fishman (2015) suggests that until rural communities can provide viable local opportunities for professional and college educated citizens, this “brain drain” will continue (p. 14). Cleveland, Chambers, Mainus, Powell, Skepple, Tyler, and Wood (2011) suggest that rural schools often serve as the base for economic stability with great pressure to provide high-quality education and to retain skilled labor that will contribute to economic development that is technical and competitive. Often times, the more successful the school the more often the community lose its highly-qualified youth to more exciting and lucrative urban areas (p. 37). Burton, Brown, and Johnson (2013) indicate that while the rural place has both positive and negative implications for identity construction, there are many instances which reflect “place as obstacle,” “place as deficit,” and an “obstacle to overcome” (p. 9). Overcoming years of
44 corporatized, standardized, and globalized policies which have overlooked the needs of rural places and people in favor of white supremacist patriarchal urban ways of knowing will be difficult, but possible. I have to believe in the possibility, since my return to teach is contingent on such a reconceptualization. Although self-identification and place are both relevant to Dakota’s success, so too are the current educational policies and common standards, grounded in denied educational rights, carefully policed readiness, and designations of “at-risk” in relation to progress toward global, economic ways of knowing which silence diverse, creative, and local ways of knowing.
Conclusion: Place Matters In concluding Part I: The Landscape, I reconsider the language I decided upon for the title of chapter three, The Implications of a Rural I: Who Can I Be? I suggest that who I can be is directly contingent on the where I was when I became a series of identifying whos – in the case of this project, I examine myself from the perspective of woman-who, differently placed- or classed-who, and raced-who. The combination of specified self-reflections lead me to suggest that the who I can be now, in this different rural place, is significantly impacted by the who I became when I was in my own rural place. How do the stories from another place determine how I consider the stories of this place? The remaining two parts explore what it means to become and be a white, woman, rural teacher as well as my journey toward transformation grounded in inner-healing. I include the eulogy I prepared at the time of my father’s passing as it serves as an interlude to bridge Part I and Part II. The eulogy presents and contextualizes the sentence, “Who you are is where you were when…” serving to exemplify its use as indicated in this section, and at the same time prepare the reader for more personal and often difficult past memories, stories, and epiphanic moments of self-narration. But this is a necessary step, for as Pinar (2012) suggests “the future will not be found in front of us at all, but in back of us. Reactivating the past reconstructs the present so we can find the future” (p. xv). The narratives of part two offer a reactivating glimpse into significant memories of my past, such that I might re- narrate my future as a white, woman, rural teacher.
45 Interlude: Dad’s Eulogy
Donald E. Schrock Date of Birth – January 23, 1939 Date of Death – November 20, 2017
Good afternoon, as the program suggests my name is Peggy and I’m Don’s daughter. It is my hope that my words serve as a celebration of the life of my dad. I’d like to acknowledge that God's timing, although we might not always feel good about it, is perfect. God’s plan for life and death is bigger than us. We are almost always hurt and saddened by the unexpected passing of our loved ones. For me, I was definitely saddened and hurt, but also touched by the very fact that the day previous to his passing, I had been free-writing memories, thoughts, and reflections on my relationship with my dad. The free-writing exercise served as a means of gathering data for my current writing project – which asks, “Who am I?” More specifically, the project requires me to inquire into how a return to the past provides answers to the question as I exist in this present moment, in this current place, as a woman who has just lost her father, and how does who I am influence how I teach others? This afternoon I’d like to ask that you join me in a similar project by entertaining the following sentence: Who you are is where you were when. This sentence is a significant sentence for me, I find myself remembering it at the strangest times off and on for the past 35 years, and I have found myself drawn to it yet again in my current project. I have chosen to consider who I am in relation to where I’ve been when and how that has contributed to the me that I am today as a mother, teacher, daughter, sister, and friend. I first heard this sentence from a professor at Miami University during my undergraduate coursework. He was suggesting that place and time mattered in the development of one’s self – specifically in how one decides to narrate her own remembered stories – both to the self and others. By returning to past events – stories of self are created as we decide what to remember, what to omit, what to forget – as well as the judgment (or the lack thereof) that goes along with the story. So, I ask that sometime in the next few days you take a minute to reflect and celebrate on my dad's life as a storyteller. You have to admit my dad could tell a story! I would like each of you to consider who are you because of when and where you knew my dad. I believe each
46 response will be as indescribably unique as each of the whos that are present and as different as all of the whens in which you first came to know him. After reading the many comments on Facebook and hearing shared memories throughout the past few days, I believe each of us have at one time or another been moved by Dad’s kindness, love of laughter, his ability to command a room through storytelling, and his deep commitment and love of his family. He might have added his fondness for good old-fashioned Mennonite food – especially buttered noodles and his sister Ilva’s pie. For me, as I prepared for the free write, I had returned to a calendar (how, interesting a calendar…ha) that I had given my dad one year about 15 or 20 years ago for Christmas. Each page asked a question or offered a prompt about his life and provided a space for his response. For example, one prompt asked him to “Tell about some good advice your mother gave you.” He worked diligently to complete the calendar and I received it from him later as a Christmas gift. I noticed several common themes, a few of which included a lack of family celebrations (Maurice and Ilva’s wedding was the only celebration he mentioned), an unending love of football, and many references to his being alone due to the age difference between him and his sisters. Most important, however, my dad was a man of God. He would find great peace and comfort in knowing that his example as a Christian man may have influenced even one soul to come to know God’s love. On December 3, the calendar prompt asks: “Do you have another good piece of advice for me?” He wrote: “Read the bible every day, talk to God every day, go to God’s house every Sunday, and surround yourself with Christians.” I would like to suggest that if we want to honor the kind, humorous, storytelling man that we all love, we should each seek to heed that advice. Seek God, find your Truth, and find the courage to speak it. Seek to be kind, do good, and tell the stories you cherish. I hope in reflecting on your relationship with Dad, the who you are is a better Christian, the where you are is in a Godly place, so that at the moment of your when you might enjoy an eternity of peace and love. Oh, and by the way, his response to the advice from his mother – “Don’t run around with Ed Gamber because you always got[sic] home late.”
I love you Dad. ~Peggy
47 Many people offered condolences regarding the passing of my dad. I was not exactly sure how to respond to their offering of support, care, and love, but soon stumbled upon the words that worked the best: Life gets messy and complicated sometimes, but the love my dad had for me was never in doubt – just… well – complicated. I anguished for two days regarding how to compose a eulogy that didn’t compromise my own Truths, served as a celebration of my dad’s life, and didn’t offend his current wife, her children, and grandchildren. It was during that struggle when my Miami phrase returned. Who you are is where you were when...aha! That’s it! I will challenge those in attendance to reflect on their relationship with dad as a means of celebrating his life. I wanted to express the fact that we, my brothers and I, knew a different dad than his current “family.” I think I pulled it off. But the free-writes of the day prior to his passing did not reflect such a celebratory relationship. He was never mean or abusive in any way. He simply wasn’t present. Although he was there, he was absent. No matter how good and perfect I tried to be it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t be enough.
48 Part II: The Narratives
Chapter 4: Who am I? I am Woman. Narratives of a Girl-Child
Thoreau (1887) speaks of the pine and maple trees which emerge from light, wind- or water-carried seeds, and serve to shelter the seeds of the sturdier hard woods. This shade assists the oaks and hickories to germinate and grow strong enough to withstand life on their own. But in this chapter I suggest that there is a preludial era prior to the pines and maples which precedes the forest growth. Thoreau speaks of softer pines and seeds of berries transported by birds and squirrels, but does not explicitly mention the shrubs and other thick undergrowth that precede the growth of softer pines. At the conclusion of chapter one, I write of my husband’s use of the term “junk” to refer to trees that begin to sprout and take root along untended fence rows, ditches, or other plots of land if left unmanaged. I’ve also made reference to the Conservation Reserve Program (CRP) ground that we enjoy for its natural beauty. We have cleared a small area on that land which overlooks a creek, and we occasionally head out to “the creek” to find peace in nature. The few acres of wild flowers and tall grasses we see on our way to the creek provide a safe refuge for small forest animals and birds. However, as is inherent in any ecological system, traumatic and unexpected events can alter the otherwise healthy growth toward maturity. For example, I am not so naive as to think that the hawk that glides over the field is not looking to snatch up an unsuspecting field mouse or baby rabbit. Yet, these same moments contribute to the health and sustenance of the necessary early under layer; they are an integral step in the process of growth and regrowth. Seeds that are planted in the early stages of forest growth will continue to grow and propagate in the manner they are tended. The nature of the tending directly impacts what the future growth can be. In other words, the overall composition and health of our forests are directly impacted by early forest management. I am reminded again of our CRP ground (we call it King’s), the ground that is intentionally left untended. I know from my own experience that occasionally my husband does tend it, not with chemicals nor heavy farm equipment, but with a bush hog set at a higher than usual level. He does this to prevent the early junk trees from getting so established that any future use for crops would be all but impossible. Unfortunately, my knowledge of tending King’s
49 is limited, so in order to maximize the metaphor I draw on the knowledge of others (i.e., Thoreau and/or my husband). In this case, I turned to my husband. Me: I get that if you didn’t mow King’s, then junk trees would get established. And that when you’re bush-hogging you do that to kill the junk trees. But, what kind of trees are you cutting? Husband: Generally little locusts, mulberries, bush honeysuckle, and crab apples – about the size of a finger. I mow them off to keep it manageable. I don’t kill them, I just keep them from spreading. I just manage them. Ahhh!! (epiphanic moment!) Just as unmanaged junk trees impact the health and growth of a forest, the unmanaged under growth of compliance in a child impacts the health and sense of balance in her gendered- self as she grows into adulthood. My seeds were not managed. My stories, as they appear in my memory, narrate a girl-self who was often left to tend herself (and her brothers). She was invisible, seeking desperately to matter. Striving for perfection – but she was never perfect enough. I couldn’t get it good enough to be noticed. I couldn’t matter. But, metaphors matter (Grumet, 1988, p. 4). Grumet (1988) states that “if we use a metaphor we must understand the metaphor” (p. 4). So, it was in seeking to understand the metaphor that I drew on my husband’s explanation of “managing King’s” and realized that early junk trees of my girl-self were left unmanaged resulting in my desperate attempts to manage them as best I could. (Interesting, in returning to edit this section, I noticed a mindless shift in point of view. I notice a reciprocating shift from first-person present to the third-person absence. In my mind the shift is significant so I decided not to edit it out of this, or any other remembered, narrative throughout this project. It indicates an intuitive shift from owning to not-owning the narrative, which I suspect is in part due to the extent of the traumatic impact of writing certain sentences. What do the sentences in the third-person other have to teach my present self? How do they inform and advance my healing? How do they initiate a healing power of self-love?) The themes of this chapter developed organically in a similar manner as the finger-sized junk trees of a young forest. However, there was no mowing off to manage seeds of junk “compliance” trees whose balanced presence is necessary to exist in society with others. Rather,
50 they were allowed to grow wild and strong. They were nourished into narratives brimming with compliance. As I prepared to write this chapter, I had one goal – review my journal of narratives to uncover a theme which speaks to my early years as a teacher in this rural place. I was anxious to explore who I was when I was young and here (my rural place). It became clear quite quickly that I needed to explore the following concept: Young girls of the 1960s, growing up in a white, rural, Mennonite place were trained to look outward toward fathers, teachers, and man-boys to write, speak, and live the externally-determined narrative of girl-self. The presence/absence of father, patriarchal curriculum of school, and first sexual experiences influence the future narratives of woman-self that she was taught to speak. I explore early educational experiences, significant memories, and epiphanic moments which hold in them the narratives of gender formation as they informed and contributed to a broken narrative of a compliant-woman self, as well as how these narratives told the story of who she could be as an early childhood teacher in a different rural. Compliance-seed memories create a narrative of early planting, unintentional neglect, and the firm establishment of seeds of compliance through trauma. They represent educational experiences that contributed to junk trees that were either left unmanaged by absence in the family, cultivated and nourished in the traditional Tylerian schooling system of the 1960s and 1970s, and/ or deeply rooted by the trauma of misplaced trust. I draw on narratives that I have told, re-told, and told again over the past 50 years, in my head, to my friends, to anyone who would listen. As I provide and analyze my remembered narratives for this chapter on becoming a woman, I do so with a twist. I attempt to re-tell the stories as the I-before – the broken-I, but analyze them as the I-now – the healing-I. Although narratives of a compliant-woman/teacher-self continue to creep into my thoughts, I have selected only those memories that occurred prior and up to a specific transformational moment in which a home visit with a trusting family changed my narrative of what poor, white, rural students may be in this different place. I examine experiences from the seemingly mundane life as the daughter of a trucker who dropped her crayons to the more troublesome untimeliness of a first sexual experience. The following succession of significant memories and events contribute to the early establishment of junk trees as they produced berries of compliance which, when eaten, distort the narratives I was taught to speak as a woman-self. I acknowledge that untended junk trees are not unique to my
51 stories. The remembered characters in the stories I choose to tell in this chapter have untended junk trees of their own. It is not my intent to invoke or imply judgment or attitudes regarding their roles in my story. This project is solely a means for me to heal through love by returning to the past to “prune” my own junk trees which overproduced compliance trees for many years.
Gendered Narratives: Mismanaged Junk Trees Produce Compliance Berries I use the term compliance to refer to an act or response to another’s wish, desire, or command. The significant memories in this section occurred many years ago – some of them over 50 years ago. I’ve heard the phrase “time heals all wounds,” but I beg to differ. Time heals some wounds. Other wounds continue to resurface for many years – I suggest that if meaningful healing is to occur, then we must pay attention to those wounds. For me, the wounds return in memories, sometimes in the form of dreams, sometimes as movies in my mind, sometimes in a feeling of dread that I can’t explain, but without exception the memories always include trauma in one form or another. They are indicative of wounds that are not so easily healed, at least not for me. The exact events, images, and conversations presented in these re-tellings may or may not be an exact account of how things actually went. In Curriculum Fragments: Theorizing While Practicing an Educational Life and Building a Currere Oriented Representation of an Educational “I," Poetter (2017) explores the limitations of this type of remembering as he questions the accuracy of memory not only in the actual existential recording of an experience, but in validity of the individual’s viewing of the original experience as well (p. 6). But truthfully, the authenticity of the minutiae of my experiences is not a primary concern of this project. The following significant memories are the stories that have played and re-played in my head, like movies, for many years. I can’t not see them – no matter the accuracy. Even worse, I can’t not be them. But, it is in fact due to the unreliability of the accuracy that I can return to them as a means of healing – to re-narrate a new woman-self, capable of loving herself, into being. Therefore, I begin with a story that still evokes a throat-tightening response every time I tell it.
The Day I Dropped My Crayons I regress to the year, 1965, when I am a 5-year-old girl-child, who had just left my kindergarten friends at the only school I had ever attended. I carried with me a beautiful book.
52 It was a pink construction paper-covered book of kindergarten drawings to help me remember our time together. I loved that book! I clearly remember one boy, Connor Donovan, whose picture wasn’t like the others. I couldn’t tell what he drew – it was squiggly. It was different. I liked that. I don’t recall anything between leaving my other school and arriving at my new school. I have no memory of driving or walking to the school that day, but I do remember a sense of security as my mother and I walked into the building and then into the office. I remember the beauty and kindness of the lady behind that tall counter. We walked with that lady to the kindergarten room in the basement. She waited with us as the teacher came to the door. We were introduced and welcomed with warmth. My memory of faces and people faded a bit at this point, but I did sense a dark, emptiness in the hallway, as if it were separate from the other part of the building. I then noticed the children in the room. The school day had already begun, so they were already in their seats. All of them were seated and quiet at what appeared to my 5-year-old self to be about 20 tables with 8 kids at each. I have a strong recollection of how important it was for me to make a good impression. The significance of this moment was not lost on my young self. It is noteworthy that although I knew how important this moment was, I don’t remember feeling afraid or shy. I do, however, remember feeling comforted because I knew the rules. I knew how a “good” 5-year-old girl- child in 1965 was expected to behave. My job was to stand and listen, smile, and respond appropriately to directions given by an adult – especially a teacher. I knew the main “objective” on this particular morning was to enter an existing community of learners seamlessly and with respect toward my new teacher. I remember the feeling of an invisible boundary between me and them; a boundary that appeared to be the size of the Grand Canyon. My memory includes sounds in the manner of the adults in the Charlie Brown TV shows which were exchanged between my mother and my new teacher. I determined that it was a conversation about milk money. Immediately, I sensed the shrinking of the canyon and felt prepared to take a step. I had a connection! We had milk and a snack every day at my other school. The number of tables and students magically decreased, and I was prepared to join this new community seamlessly and respectfully.
53 My mother said her goodbyes. The teacher directed me toward a seat at a table. I distinctly remember turning confidently to my mom, who was holding my brand-new school box full of “fat” crayons – which in the 1960s meant it was basically a cigar box covered with pretty paper and a lid that folded over the top – prepared to take the next step in my educational journey. I reached for the box, picked it up, and in an instant, everything I knew to be true went crashing to the floor. My crayon box was upside down! Crayons scattered all over that wonderful new classroom floor, coming to rest among fragments of my colorless broken spirit. The students hurried to help, but it was no consolation. I had dropped my crayons. I didn’t enter seamlessly. I had disrespectfully made a scene. I didn’t meet the objective. I had failed. I couldn’t hide. I cried. Just writing this story causes a constriction in my neck. To this day, even as I’ve experienced healing and glimpses of transformation, I get the same physical twinges of shame that come with the knowledge that I had not “entered seamlessly.” At the age of 5, as the older sister of two brothers ages 2 and 3, I knew the potential of being noticed if I could only be a “good-girl,” and that being a “good-girl” meant doing what my parents determined as “good” and in this case, I was not “good.” (Hm. It’s funny what writing a memory does. In re-telling this story in the context of this project – at the very moment of writing it – I see in print that my mom, the wife of an over-the- road truck driver, had three children between the ages of 2 and 5. Wow! I wonder if I might need to rethink the direction this chapter is going? Do I have it wrong? Was I visible and possibly even helpful to my mom? Why did this memory evoke such a visceral response? In an unexpected way, telling this narrative allows me to see things differently – but that’s the point of returning to the past to re-narrate the present, right? Am I beginning to forgive? Am I healing? Am I finding a place for love where fear and loss had resided for too many years?) No matter the thoughts of the I-now, at that time, in the moment of the remembered memory, the I-before, had a clear sense of where and who could determine what it meant to be “good” enough. In this new school, I was supposed to represent my family as good girl, but the narrative of good-girl was interpreted through a 5-year-old lens to be determined by what her mom and dad (who I now see had much on their plate) said she was.
54 Narratives of an Invisible Girl-Child In Bitter Milk, Grumet (1988) highlights the role of the father in gender identity formation as it occurs in young children. In a synthesis of psychoanalysis, constructivist, and cultural theories of gender identity formation, Grumet offers that the father represents an external presence, especially for girls in early childhood. The external nature of the father provides an escape for the girl-child as she seeks differentiation from her mother, who she often considers to be too much like herself. As I reflect on Grumet’s considerations of the role of father and mother in my own gender identity formation, I am not necessarily drawn to consider why I identify as a girl-child, so much as why I narrate the identity of girl-child, and eventually adult-girl identity, to be compliant with the language and demands of men – as daughter, as wife, as mother, as teacher. Most of my childhood was spent in being-like my mom – a mom of the 1960s. She ran the house and tended us kids. As I remember it: I shared responsibility to care for “the boys” at an early age, and have many memories of moments when left alone to tend them – each includes trauma to some degree. For example, I remember the time my 6-year-old-self served my brothers melted-fork flavored scrambled eggs for lunch. (I learned a lesson that day, never use a plastic fork to stir scrambled eggs.) I can’t help but remember the oft-told story of my 5-year-old self being left with my sleeping 9-day-old cousin “for only 5 minutes,” and upon my aunt’s return being found feeding him applesauce on the edge of my Grandma’s kitchen table. I remember MANY times we were home-alone, but one particular time a man knocked on our door and wanted to take my brothers fishing. I said, “Get down! Hide!” We lie on the kitchen floor until mom got home. We were REALLY scared. The healing-I realizes that all three of these memories include traumatic moments that might have been avoided had I not assumed the responsibility of an adult at an early age. But it was not that uncommon for young- or adolescent-girls to stay alone to care for and/or babysit younger siblings or cousins. (I was the oldest and only girl-grandchild that my grandparents had. I was followed by 12 boy-cousins – I babysat A LOT!!) She also realizes the power of re- narrating these stories to indicate an inexperienced girl-child with a desire to nurture and manage the junk trees which grew in the early stages of girl-self narrative formation. But, the broken-I continues to field the spiral return of traumatic stories each time with a greater healing than the
55 time before. Will a complete healing ever occur? Is this dissertation process enough to complete the healing? Will new moments of un-examined compliance ever disappear? When faced with a compliance-resistance decision (specifically those I face in returning to teach in the rural place I left), how will I know which way to go? The remembered stories so far indicate a memory of my mother, but what of my dad? From the earliest days that I can remember, my dad was a long-haul truck driver. What does it mean to be a girl-child when the father is always away? He was accessible occasionally, but engagement with us kids was minimal. We were always either saying good-bye or picking him up from a trip, just so he could sleep and get ready to leave again. Our relationship with our dad was built on distance – on absence. Until it wasn’t.
Seeking Dad As an adolescent-girl, I remember a change in the nature of his absence. He had gotten a different job in which he drove trucks from one plant to another in the same town and was home every night. However, his presence in my life was minimal and perfunctory – a sort of presence- absence. With this change in jobs, he was able to participate in the local, and quite popular, men’s slo-pitch softball league. He didn’t play; he was the coach and was always making line- ups, calling guys to fill in, and intently focused on the next game. He was very busy with that. We’d follow him from ballpark to ballpark, tournament to tournament. I shared him with all the guys and their families. He soon became commissioner of the local league. Although with this new role Mom often stayed at home, my brothers and I tagged along to the ballpark. We learned how to keep the score books, how to drag the field, how to put bases in the ground, and how to lime the field. We spent many days in the presence-absence of our father at the ballpark. I knew to be quiet and help. I watched and anticipated his next move so he wouldn’t have to ask. I was always on edge, afraid he might throw or break something in anger. One time when we were getting the field ready, he flung second base into center field in anger because it wouldn’t go into its place. That was scary! Without a word, I walked out there, picked it up, brought it into the infield, and wiggled it into its proper place. The wives of a few players who witnessed his “second-base fit,” later voiced their opinions that it was not my job to take care of his fits. “You should have made him
56 get it himself.” But we knew our place, we performed our role without prompts. I continued to be a good girl, didn’t make scenes, and did my best to fit in no matter where I was – even if it were at the bar with the guys. (We never told mom the part about the bar.) My parents divorced when I was 15, within a year my father left the state to live in Michigan. My brothers tell me that we sat side-by side on the couch as he told us he was leaving town but didn’t know where he would go. They said we cried. I don’t remember any of that. What I do remember is that as soon as I had my driver’s license, I would drive my brothers on the three-hour trip to visit with him. Dad liked sports. A lot! Especially football. I didn't play football; I marched in the band. When I left for college, my brothers were playing high school football. He drove down to watch them every Friday. (I can't think of a time when he drove down for me – he probably attended my graduation, but I can’t remember him being there.) So, again I ask what does it mean to be a girl-child when the father is always leaving? Or never present? How does a girl-child find an escape from the mother when the father leaves her alone with only her mother to be constantly reminded of the mother/daughter similarities? How does who I am as daughter determine who I become as woman? As wife? As teacher? How did these junk tree experiences, which were left unmanaged in a time of early growth, determine the narratives of daughter-self? In returning to these memories, I suggest it taught me to be quiet, anticipate needs of the father-man, and to take care of him. I lost myself in a desperate desire to matter to my father. I was lost to the man – my narrative of girl-woman would be told through the eyes of man for a very long time. Many women recover from early patriarchal wounds of absence, and I believe my healing would have been more seamless had I not been inculcated by traditional schooling to look outward toward kind and caring teachers so they might teach me how to take my woman place in a white, patriarchal system.
Schooling: The Establishment of Roots My years of K-12 schooling (1965-1978) coincided with the positivist and structuralist/behaviorist curriculums of the 1960s and bridged into the paradigm shift toward ideas promoted by progressives and/or reconstructionists of the 1970s (Pinar et. al., 2008). With opposing views on what and how students should experience curriculum, both camps of curriculum theorists seemed to agree that the traditional Tylerian commitment to pre-determined
57 objectives had reached its limit. As a student, even as an undergraduate student in education at Miami University during the 1970s and early 1980s, I was oblivious to conversations about Tylerian curriculums or critical pedagogy (McLaren, Giroux). What I was aware of was my unquestioning quest to “get them all right.” In other words, I understood that my role as a good- girl-student was to get every answer correct on any paper or test I was given – anything less narrated a self-as-failure. In Sanity, Madness and the School, Pinar (1975b) argues against traditional schooling by suggesting the methods serve as a dehumanizing and oppressive experience for students. He likens it to the taming of a beast. He suggests that a discourse naming students as beasts creates a place in which they must be tamed and domesticated to internalize values of socially controlled and emotionless adults prepared to do the work of the private world. He uses powerful rhetoric to express his disgust of this phenomena in schools: It “[r]esults in one-dimensional man, the anomic man, dehumanized, and some even say maddened” (p. 359), and “[t]he cumulative effect of the schooling experience is devastating. We graduate credentialed but crazed, erudite but fragmented shells of the human possibility.” (p. 381). Although, I stop short of claiming madness or that I am crazed, I do suggest my experiences in school reinforced what was taught in my home and may have contributed in some way to the fragmented shell of woman-self I became. In other words, the seeds of compliance planted by absence were not only permitted to grow into healthy junk trees, but actually managed in a deliberate manner such that their roots became firmly established in the ground. Pinar (1975b) further suggests that not only does a traditional schooling create a division or loss of self to others via modeling, but modeling can only be effective if the object (student) wants to be like the model. In order to want to be like someone else, one must lose the desire to be oneself. When I entered school, I’m not sure if I really even had a self to lose. I suppose I did, everyone has a self, right? But I don’t remember wanting to “be” anything other than a mom. It wasn’t that uncommon in my rural area during the 1970s for young women to get married “right out of high school.” I was perfectly happy to do that. I don’t have many vivid memories of my time in elementary school (other than the crayon fiasco), but I do have a series of sentences that occur in the following sequence:
58 1) Mrs. R had a rule: If you have to use the restroom during class, you will have to stay in at recess and write, “I will not use the restroom during class” over and over for the duration of recess. 2) One day at recess my friend Wendy told me that sometimes she has to pee during class, but she doesn’t want to write, so she just pees in her pants. 3) I had to pee during class – so I peed my pants. 4) “I don’t know what happened. Water just started coming around my chair.” 5) The end. The broken-I did whatever it took to comply with the teacher’s rules. The healing-I that continues to be embarrassed by the water that just started coming finds comfort in knowing that she can re-narrate the story to include the part of Mrs. R., herself trained to comply, who believed it to be her role to control children’s restroom needs. She was simply following the rules of teaching that Grumet (1988) refers to when she suggests that “women who maintain daily contact with children and nurture them are themselves, trained, supervised, and evaluated by men” (Grumet, 1988, p. 85). The point I wish to make here is that what is begun in the home, the private space, with the family is reinforced by the concept of schooling, if left unquestioned, promotes the atrophy of self (Pinar, 1975b) such that the denying of self and a willingness to comply with external public others (teachers) becomes an epistemological truth. Pinar explains that the nature of traditional schooling requires students to learn to rely on the curriculum of teachers for what counts as knowledge, the parceling out of that knowledge, and validation that we know that knowledge. Teachers have answers, students do not. Students learn to “love” others so much that they want to be like them – but at what cost? Pinar (1975b) offers an answer: “Good students more than comply with the instruction of teachers, they come to depend on them, they come to need them, just as they came to need the instructions of their parents” (p. 375). Grumet’s (1988) in-depth examination of what it means to disrupt this patriarchal grasp on teachers, curriculum, and schooling requires a basic knowing regarding our own gender narrative if we, as women, can begin to understand our work as educators as the work of women, rather than women’s work. My understanding was beckoning for me to consider the work differently, in recurring stories from my childhood. Junk trees of compliance were planted in the privacy of my home, cultivated and nurtured by teachers in my early school years, but the final
59 stage resulted in an over-developed under layer of junk trees which blocked my view of early trees. The lens through which I remembered and told stories of girl-self was broken. I could only remember through the trauma of a debilitating narrative of woman-self-as-object.
Misplaced Trust: Poison Junk Berries I grew up in a Mennonite place with Mennonite grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. My parents were married in the Mennonite church, and we attended East Bush Mennonite church until I was 5 years old. When I was growing up, the Mennonite churches in my area practiced public confession. Although the practice of walking to the front of the church to ask forgiveness of the congregation originally included any worldly sin (i.e., dancing, going to the county fair, playing cards), by the time I was in high school the practice had been reserved for young people who experienced pregnancy before marriage. If they wanted to get married in the church, they must confess their sin (sex before marriage) before the congregation. Even though I was no longer Mennonite the message was clear, I knew it was my duty to remain pure before marriage. Sex was never explicitly discussed. There was no “sex-talk” from my mother. There were no conversations about sexual desires – of women or men. And absolutely no public display of affection within my family. I never saw the adults in my family kiss, hold hands, or even sit close to each other. My idea of relationships between boys and girls was based on TV shows like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family. The extent of my own boyfriend/girlfriend experiences include kissing Timmy Schmidt on the cheek in the library when I was in first grade and receiving a few trinket gifts in fourth grade from Doug James. I assumed that I was supposed to be quiet, follow rules, and wait for a boy to notice me – that’s what Marsha Brady did. Any initiation of a relationship hinged on the will of the boy not the girl – and surely not me. I waited and wished just as I was taught – silently for someone to notice...for a long time. Until…I returned home for Thanksgiving break as a freshman in college. My friends had gathered at the local bar to dance and have drinks. But the party moved to a house – a boy took me there. I soon realized we had different expectations. I didn’t want what he wanted, I couldn’t want what he wanted because that would be sinful. He left me there, without a word or a way home. I was alone in the crowd of people. There was a lot of alcohol, cigarette smoke, noise, and bodies – drunk bodies – everywhere. I made my way through the maze, I knew Tommy would be there. Tommy was good. He was my dad’s old softball buddy who
60 had roomed with him after the divorce. I found him. I knew he’d get me home. He would take care of me. He was drunk but I trusted him. That trip home so didn’t go the way I expected – he didn’t ask – he just took. I still remember every sense of every moment in that place. I also remember the very moment it all stopped. I had sinned. I immediately realized the gravity of the moment. This me, although invisible, would never be again. The me I was, was no more. My narrative was re-written that night. I was invisible AND dirty. I could never be a “good-girl” again. I was going to hell. My body still constricts, my throat gets thick and paralyzed, and I get overcome with shame, guilt, and horror. That was the penultimate moment of my traumatic becoming a woman. The perceptual lens for a woman who’s been raped, paired with confusion about what it means to be a daughter of an always leaving father, is badly distorted. It presents a cloudy, disconnected, and hopeless view of future woman-self. She lives in a dark, shameful, loneliness that leads to a level of compliance, approval seeking, and fear of abandonment so deep that matters of love are one-sided and external. She becomes an object seeking an external subject to define her – to bring her to life. If I say no to the wishes of a man – I risk being alone, unnamed, and worthless. If I say yes – I have the potential of being someone’s someone. I can matter if I comply with a man’s desires. To be at all meant that I must be pleasing to and wanted by men. My role is to please men. I pleased men. I lost myself in their needs. It was my job as a self-less woman-daughter to do so. As I aged, I realized this narrative was not healthy. The junk trees had taken over. I had been broken here – in my rural place. This forest was dark and scary. So, I left that place to heal. At my brother’s suggestion, I left our hometown, to live with him in southern Ohio. He was a teacher and his school needed subs. I had never taught even though I had a certificate to teach Home Economics. In this different rural, I subbed and renewed my certificate, met my first husband, and found a full-time teaching position. I learned to take care of the people in my life in a different way. But not really – I was still compliant and submissive. I was married to a man who filled the always leaving/always taking role that my father had taught me. He filled my need to serve without question and to experience love externally and from a distance. He was very good at that role, he told me consistently that I didn’t matter. I believed him. I wasn’t good enough to matter. I was convinced that my purpose in this life was to show others that they matter by showing
61 them how to comply with rules – or “be good.” I was his third wife and was a friend to his troubled 18-year-old son (who always came first). I was needed. I was helping them. One day, I found strength and hope in the healing love of a child – my own son – wise beyond his years, born while I lived in this different rural, and the one thing I had done well. His unconditional love gave me the courage to face the shadows of fear and draw on fortitude I didn’t know I had to walk away. Not from him, nor the different rural place, but the stronghold of an unhealthy marriage. I stayed in this rural because I needed my son to know his father. I didn’t want to repeat the pattern of absence. I stayed because I had a job I liked. I stayed because I was afraid to go anywhere else. This was not my place, I didn’t belong here and yet, I couldn’t return home because I hadn’t healed. So, I stayed and taught other people’s children.
Compliance in the Classroom I have identified myself and been identified as teacher for more years than I have not. I earned my first certification as a teacher over 35 years ago, and have spent over half of my life teaching, researching, and/or analyzing the behavior of young children. I have also spent over half of my life questioning, inquiring, and reflecting on my own assumptions and behaviors regarding who I am as teacher. But the longer I exist and engage with poor, white, rural children, the more I am confused about what justice looks like in rural schools. The I-now clearly sees the danger in submissive-compliance, but the I-before also knows the pull of resistance to the status quo against what it means to be a “good-teacher-woman.” Grumet (1988) suggests that “there is a dialectical relationship between our domestic experience of nurturing children and our public project to educate the next generation. It is important to maintain our sense of this dialectic wherein each milieu, the academic and the domestic, influences the character of the other and not to permit the relation to slide into a simplistic one-sided causality” (p. 5). I was unable to see the importance of a complex, dialectic between my students’ families and place and how they might be educated in a manner which contributes to the needs of the local community. This research process has guided me through the painful self-education such that I am able to see the oppression inherent in current and traditional schooling more clearly. Grumet further suggests that education offers a place in which the mediation of narratives of private selves balances the narratives of the public places of schooling. Unfortunately, the narratives I was taught in my early years as a girl-child resulted in a woman-
62 teacher-self who performed in a fearful, submissive-compliance to rules of school. I suggest the presence of junk tree overgrowth of submissive-compliance in early narratives of gendered selves chokes out any mediation which might occur. As honest and difficult as my traumatic early childhood memories were to write, they pale in comparison to the (re)remembered stories of teaching during my submissive-compliance years. I can hardly write them. I taught children to “mind me.” I used a timer and checklist to ensure the fair-rotation through all centers. I expressed clear dissatisfaction when a child “talked back,” and would respond with very strong words when a student laughed as I expressed my disappointment in them. The strictest rules and surveillance were reserved for times when my students were in the public eye, such as walking from the classroom to specials, standing in the lunch line, or at “fun” assemblies at which they were expected to sit “crisscross applesauce” and be a polite audience. I had to look “good.” I had to be “good.” I had to be enough. The students’ compliance to rules proved to everyone that I was a “good-teacher.” I couldn’t let anyone know I was a fraud. I think I fooled them. I was respected by administrators and colleagues. But was I really? I continued to live a life of lies and fear…until my divorce. The I-now realizes that that moment marked the beginning of healing and a discovery of self that would allow me to re- narrate myself as teacher-mother-woman-self. I experienced glimpses of love that would eventually cast out fear.
Compliance-Resistance In this Every Student Succeeds (ESSA), No Child Left Behind (NCLB), and Race to the Top (RtTT) reform era of accountability and teacher evaluation, I notice and reflect as my colleagues and I seek to make sense of roles and identities as professionals. The current policies have led to the identification of our school as a focus school based on the extended period of consistently low-performance on state tests. Although these policies and identifications are created and implemented to increase “teacher production” in focus schools, I argue that they actually work against the efficacy of teachers. I suggest they in fact create a different type of compliance. Rather than submissive-compliance, I have noticed a compliance-resistance tension in teachers as they are forced to seek balance between external accountability policies and internal pedagogical philosophies. Effects of these extreme evaluation requirements are indicated in a wavering between competing professional goals – teaching children or personal
63 accomplishment. In my few months as a returning teacher, I have noticed this tension seems to be going undetected and/or unchallenged in both new and veteran teachers in the building. I see quietly-managed balance of compliance trees and soft resistance pines in the forests. I am troubled by one specific lunchroom conversation with colleagues in which I noticed a back and forth between “good-teacher” narrative, “bad-teacher” narrative, and a narrative of “unaffected- teacher.” As a conclusion to this chapter, I present a piece of creative writing using these and other remembered sentences that replay in my mind as significant memories of this conversation. The verses are organized to present the teachers’ voices as I remember them as the I-before, followed by my own response as the I-now. The points of view represent how individual teachers narrate the compliance-resistance tensions embedded in their lived experience. The poetry that follows is indicative of how the compliant-resistance phenomenon which stems from teacher accountability policy and initiatives “is not experienced the same for all members of any given society” (Boylorn & Orbe, 2016, p. 123). The various ways of communicating the tension stem from the differing standpoints of the individuals and are situated in time, place, and context. Who they are as compliant teachers is contingent on where they were when they experienced schooling and teacher preparation courses.
Compliance-Resistance New teacher says I love being a teacher Accountability, public knowledge...what-ever! Doing the best I can do I love it I love the kids Don’t worry about the state and all the crazy testing I have my 5-year license now I’m ready
I say I remember when I loved being a teacher
64 Accountability, public knowledge...fix it! Let me do the best I can do I used to love it I left for the kids Resist the state and all the crazy testing I almost have my Ph.D. I’m armed
Veteran teacher says It depends on the day Sometimes when I think about it, I get stressed like right this minute, this week I have to do the goal setting things-what are my goals? I’m getting ready to be observed, totally stressed out Then at times, I don’t think about it at all Screw it! I’m a good teacher Other times, I’m like, "God, I suck." Just depends on the moment
I say Externally defined narratives teacher as caring Reductionist and accusatory policy diminish agency to perform as humanist transformative creative critical liberatory co-producers of knowledge
65
Over 40 years ago, Pinar (1975b) “surmises however, that an intensive adherence to one’s ‘within’ forms the basis of renewal strategies. What configurations this loyalty to one’s subjectivity must take and what such configurations mean for theorists of the process of education are not yet clear. To these questions, we must proceed next” (p. 382). How might one resist compliance to traditional schooling when the schooling process itself trains them to submit and comply? How might we convince teachers to question their own learning as a means of reconceptualizing the way they educate others? How do we speak the necessary language of resistance? How might we encourage a stronger resistance?
In returning, I wonder Does she know how to return? Does she know how to return to that oppressive space? Does knowing differently make a difference? Am I fluent in the language of resistance? How will I narrate my new self? How will I enter this new-old world? Will I get broken again?
I say She has to return She has to resist that oppressive space She will speak her truth – her language is enough She will enter with apprehensive-confidence She will not lose herself again She will love and care for herself For in healing herself, she will heal others
Conclusion: As Goes Life, So Grows the Forest I ask again, who am I and who have I been as woman-teacher in a rural white place? I suggest that throughout life’s stages one’s identity and assumptions grow, as does a forest. The
66 forest grows from early junk trees to soft pines to hardwoods and back again. There is a continual process of growth, decay, and regrowth similar to the process of narrative writing – from a single naïve narrative to a new contextual narrative of place which is constrained by past narratives of trauma to a yet undefined, liberating narrative of love in the perpetual ebbs and flows of life. The following chapter speaks to an epiphanic moment that initiated a decay of my submissive-compliant self and eventual new growth of complicit-resistant soft pines and maples in my forest. Although more imposing than the low-to-the ground and thorny junk tree, these soft-wood trees provide a space in which the seeds of future hard-woods might take root – but lack the depth of roots found in oaks and hickories. I explore how my early attempts at critiquing rural schools were actually short-sighted and misinformed. My passion and attacks were fed by the shallow roots of complicit-resistance and fueled by a dialectic of belonging.
67 Chapter 5: Who Am I? I am Blended-Rural. Narratives of Place
When, hereabouts, a single forest tree or a forest springs up naturally where none of its kind grew before, I do not hesitate to say … that it came from a seed. Of the various ways by which trees are known to be propagated – by transplanting, cuttings, and the like – this is the only supposable one under these circumstances. No such tree has ever been known to spring from anything else. If anyone asserts that it sprang from something else, or from nothing, the burden of proof lies with him. (Thoreau, 1887, p. 35)
Thoreau (1887) makes the point that a forest can only “spring up naturally” from a seed. I acknowledge that trees in my forest were sprouted naturally from seeds, but must add that the seeds did not all originate in the same geographical place. I suggest that I am two rurals because the trees that have grown, decayed, and re-grown for over 50 years live together in a sort of blended-forest. Thirty years ago, I moved to a new place and brought with me junk trees from my northern, rural forest. I have watched as new southern junk trees, pines, and oaks were planted and continue to grow in my forest. The species themselves have not changed, but the trees that I am learning to love are present only through successful adaptation and rebirth in this new and different rural place. The memories, stories, and moments in this chapter reflect passionate and incessant resistance to rural educational policies and practices. Unfortunately, most of my information and knowledge at the time was grounded in the highly-referenced work of Ruby Payne (2003). Payne presents a generalized definition of poverty that is demeaning and misrepresentative of people who experience poverty. My commitment to eliminating the inequities of class differences stemmed from my belief that this rural was not only different from my rural, but less than, and could only be fixed if the people here would only change. I was focused on class differences that could be avoided if only they knew what I knew – my rural had the answers to poverty. My focus on class, specifically “generational-poverty,” meant that seeds of understanding the implications of systemic racism and sexism would continue to remain hidden in the shade of my misinformed passion for a few more years. My narrative spoke a self that exemplified unexamined privilege and an unawareness that I had been taught and used the language to encourage others to be the same. I was trained to be
68 complicit in perpetuating a normalized and taken for granted form of white supremacy (Gillborn, 2005, p. 486). I was so busy “saving the poor children in this other place” that I failed to consider my privilege or complicity in perpetuating an elitist patriarchal curriculum. But just as in the forests there is a time for soft-trees to prepare a place for future hard-woods, so, too, in my life as a teacher in a rural school is there a purpose for unexamined and undisciplined passion as the preparatory step toward a stronger resistance. Without the growth of pines and maples which harbor the carefully buried seeds of oaks and hickories, future hard-woods of consciousness could never take root. Although the stories are difficult to write (and read), they provide insights into a necessary step in reconceptualizing rural curriculum. In this step, I imprudently critique others (Pinar, 1975a) as they fail to see how much the poor students need our help. In returning to examine my own self, I am able to see how I got it very wrong by failing to consider my own complicity in mis-educating those who live in a place that I am not from.
Place as Setting Zen environmentalist Gary Snyder (1990) speaks of place as the “home fire” to which one ventures out and always returns – either literally or figuratively. Snyder presents place as experience and describes what it means to "live in place” in terms of the “steps that a child takes growing into a natural community” (p. 26). He poetically describes place and how the “childhood landscape is learned on foot, and a map is inscribed in the mind – trails and pathways and groves – the mean dog, the cranky old man's house, the pasture with a bull in it – going out wider and farther. All of us carry within us a picture of the terrain that was learned roughly between the ages of six and nine” (p. 26) – mine is of a different rural place. In my northern rural place, the fields are flat and municipalities, roads, and real estate are plotted out in relation to square mile sections, so forests appear as large square sections of trees which only slightly disrupt the view across miles of farm land. Although they contain many of the same species as those in this southern rural, the difference in weather patterns impact when certain plants are in bloom and/or the length of their season. For example, the season for mushrooms is quite different in the two rurals both in duration and in time of the year. My husband and I have hunted and found a “mess of mushrooms” in early April, while my uncle posts pictures of his mushroom hunting treasures on Facebook in late May.
69 In this rural, the roads follow paths created by early travelers who had to traverse wooded and cavernous terrain that border the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Roads are curvy, hilly, and often have beginning and ending points that intersect at different points of the same main highway. The forests here tend to be irregular in shape. They grow along and within creek beds, ravines, hills, valleys, and caves. They break up the open view such that smaller fields are often hidden from view even within a few hundred yards of the back roads or homes. The trees of my forest are unique since they span two wheres. The seeds of junk trees or thicket that blocks one’s view (Thoreau, 1887) were planted in the 1960s, 1970s, and early 1980s in northern Ohio, while the seeds of the soft pines and maples were planted in the southern part of the state in the past 30 years, a fact that cannot go unexamined – because who I am is where I was when. My blended-forest holds within its boundary two distinct rural wheres which were planted during different whens which directly influence the who I have come to narrate into being. Perhaps healing may come in understanding what it means to be white in a rural place of schooling and complicit in the perpetuation of white supremacist patriarchal ways of knowing as the one best way. I examine the growth and establishment of pines and other soft-woods as they prepare a future for hard-woods which possess the strength and stamina for resistance and decolonization of the mind (Baszile, 2015) by returning to the memories and stories of my own transition, or adaptation, from seeing the strangeness of a new place, to maintaining a deliberate distance from place, and finally to a reconciled commitment to place. My plan is to draw on my experiences as a differently-placed rural educator to discover a narrative of healing transformation from I-not from here to I-from here in the remote rural area in southern Ohio. I suggest that just as metaphors matter in telling a story, so do settings. Imagine my forest as a setting – a necessary element of any good story. As a second-grade teacher, I defined setting as the time and location in which a story takes place. For some stories the setting is very important, while for others it is not. I suggest that not only are the various settings of my narratives important, but that the narratives have no meaning in the absence of setting. The setting provides more than a description of where and when a story takes place; it holds within its power the implications of climate, culture, and feelings. The place of my two rurals present and/or limit what characters might look like or how they behave, what colors I might use in the illustrations, what words I might use to speak the story, as well as the mood of the storylines. For
70 example, the narratives of chapter four tell the story of a young-girl in a specific time and place, which held to certain cultural beliefs such that she learned to live in fear, loneliness, and darkness. This chapter tells of coming to terms with what it means to be in a different place as a distinctly different setting with distinctly different limitations as well as possibilities. Kinchloe and Pinar (1991) offer insights which allow me to extend this literary concept of place as setting to include a connection to curriculum theory. They speak to the grounding effect of place on one’s perspective of education in the world. I suggest that curriculums can be viewed as environments, or settings, and create a place in which teachers and students experience education limited by the possibilities of a specific place – rural. Place can create boundaries or freedom depending on the willingness of the “characters” to listen. The main character in the stories that follow is my misguided, misinformed, and mis-educated rural-teacher self. The setting tells a story of a teacher-self character who didn’t belong. Her not belonging limited her ability to listen to the potential of this place. This is unfortunate, because it is in listening to place that one truly gains access to narratives of love and beauty which provide the necessary healing of fear and darkness.
Narratives of a New and Different Place Thirty years ago, I left my home-place when significant life events brought me here. Upon moving here, I immediately noticed the difference in the forests – literally. They seemed to be unmanaged and random in shape. The forests I knew before the move stood compliantly within the boundaries of square miles and farm land. This new setting told a story of disorder and wildness. I couldn’t see across the fields to the farms within the square mile radius. The buildings I did see were certainly not anything like the well-tended and beautiful red barns of the farms at home. As a matter of fact, much of the country side was speckled with trailers and mobile homes crowded in nooks and crannies of the hills and rambling woods. This was definitely not my rural. For many years, I refused to speak a narrative identity which connected myself to this place. Although I have felt the need to serve the families and students of this place, I have had no desire to allow this place to become part of my narrative nor to identify as one who has been re- placed. The remembered stories in the remaining sections of this chapter consist of excerpts from early doctoral writings and assignments and serve as artifacts of where I was when, therefore I
71 have elected not to re-write them. Much of the rhetoric, word choice, and language is not pretty and I must say I am not proud of my ignorance. I include them as a means of uncovering hidden seeds of supremacy that remain untouched in the presence of “natural” care when one feels compelled to act in the interest of another. Matias and Zembylas (2014) argue that being compelled to care often stems from a masked disgust for the “other.” In order to experience the feeling that one must care, it must first be assumed that the other needs something the one caring has to offer. In my case, I believed that my rural was better. I could offer them a better rural with norms and values in which many people worked, children wore clean clothing, and neighbors kept their homes in good repair. In this rural I saw empty store fronts, absence of jobs, large numbers of people who relied on government assistance, and rampant drug addiction. I believe it is necessary to return to Sorely Unaware, a reflection I wrote only 3 months into the doctoral program, to re-examine the rhetoric, inherent privilege, and careless use of terms that I used. I find comfort in knowing that I have moved past early commitments to my way as the one way, toward a healing and an acceptable connection to this place. I was a different me then, I was afraid, angry, and sorely mis-educated. The settings of my blended-rural experiences of superiority and caring have worked in tandem to promote a story in which I was a teacher armed with good intentions who wanted nothing more than to make a difference in the lives of marginalized students. The story that follows presents a teacher- self who is unable to see how care for others masks a disgust for those who live in a different rural place.
Sorely Unaware I am a white, middle aged, first generation college educated teacher from a small town in northern Ohio. The small rural community in the northwest corner of the state had more job opportunities than it had people to fill them. Families and students took pride in the school and the town, and were driven to succeed. Children went to school ready to learn, rich with experiences, and family support. There existed (exists) a certain set of rules for how white middle class students should behave. I knew the rules well. I was to respect my teacher, do what she asked, not make a scene, and do my best to learn what was presented. I was expected to represent my family with pride. If other sets of cultural rules were present in my school in the
72 early 1960s and 1970s, I wasn’t aware of them. I had heard of people “going to get” food stamps to help them buy food, but I didn’t know anyone who actually did that. All of the grown- ups in my world were employed and earned their own way. Although I haven’t lived there since 1988, my family is deeply rooted there, and I believe this attitude continues to be the norm, although the percentage of those receiving governmental assistance may have increased slightly. Upon moving to southern Ohio, I noticed a stark difference in the norms. The homes were tiny and in disrepair with cars and car parts in front yards. The children were dirty, scantily dressed, and played in squalor. Most of the communication from grown-ups to children was directive, demeaning, vulgar in nature, and often fell on deaf ears. My response: How horrible! This is no way to live! These poor children need help! I had found a new mission. Help the poor. I was sent to save the day; I would educate them of my ways; I would serve as a beacon of hope. MY rules, MY curriculum. Surely, they would welcome them. A critically aware scholar might have quickly noticed an “assumption of rightness” grounded in “the fact that dominant groups tend to know very little about those people whom they define as ‘the other’” (Howard, 2006, p. 61). However, a displaced rural-woman-teacher sees an opportunity to care. She is needed. She has something to offer. She is finally enough. Howard refers to this “luxury of ignorance” as a unique privilege of white individuals in majority groups who are able to live their lives unaware of the struggles and concerns of those in the minority. Not only was I unaware of the struggles and concerns of many families in the district, I thought they wanted what my rural had to offer them. I had been taught to speak a fear-based narrative of class differences. This unexamined mission to change the poor is indicative of an ingenuous consciousness which cannot be overcome automatically (Freire, 1998) but, can be overcome by a return to the past to (re)remember stories. But I was not yet critically aware. These paragraphs clearly reflect that and scream that my difference, my values, my rural were better than theirs. For example, in writing, Children went to school ready to learn, rich with experiences, and family support, I doubt if I could have been any more judgmental and privileged. This sentence is rife with wrong thinking with almost every single word. What does it even mean to “be ready” for school? I wrote this as an early childhood educator who bought into a linear child development theory – I was complicit in
73 labeling young children as not enough. Who am I to question the “richness” of experiences that these children bring to school? I wrote this before, as a privileged, differently rural teacher who considered middle-class experiences such as vacations, trips to the city, and other “cultural outings” as better than anything poor, rural children might experience at home. Am I suggesting their experiences are “poor”? Finally, how dare I suggest that their families don’t support them, simply because they don’t attend conferences, send in snack, or write in my school-to-home binder? (I am so embarrassed!) Fortunately, I have come to know better, but the fact remains that in my pre-doctoral studies years, I was complicit in oppressing and marginalizing certain students in terms of socioeconomic status. (I’m so sorry kids.) It is in writing these memories that epiphanic moments occur and provide a space for love and healing of a self that continues to cling to “one best way” of knowing. (Why, why, why do I refuse to be from here. Is it fear? Or disgust? I can’t not feel the separateness. The feeling resides deep in my soul. I am not from here... Oh, wait! Maybe, I can’t be from here. I can’t be from here because then I would have nothing different to offer this place. I need to be different because then they will need me. I will have something they need. Maybe my value is contingent on not belonging. I think I’m afraid I won’t be enough if I belong and become one with them. Yes. I can be enough as an outsider. I am enough only if I remain on the outside. There has to be a “them.” An epiphanic moment! I can only be enough if I can replace fear of rejection with self-love. I can be enough without contingencies. I can simply be...enough. But I’m not.)
From Trusted Fraud to Confident Complicity Soon after moving to this different rural I took a job at the local church pre-school as teacher/director. We charged a set monthly fee, which set it apart from the local Head Start. It didn’t take me long to discover the popular belief that rural middle-class families desperately wanted their kids to attend this pre-school. Public pre-schools housed and staffed by local school districts were not yet available in our district. Parents of young children in our small town who wished for their children to attend pre-school programs had two choices – send their children to Head start or send them to the church pre-school. There was a waiting list to attend the church program. People, most of them working or middle-class, lined up around the church to register
74 their children and assure a spot in one of the classes. Because I was also the director of the pre- school, my name was attached to this program. It soon became clear that many more people in this town knew me, than I them. Whether an accurate perception or not, I felt that because I provided a safe place for young children, in a church, people seemed to trust me without really knowing me. What they didn’t know was the fear and angst I carried into the classroom on a daily basis. I had left my other rural place to escape an unhealthy pattern of self-destructive behavior. I was consumed by the fear of being “found out.” I wasn’t really a good teacher, I was a good actor. I was a fraud. I played my part well. I performed my submissive-compliant self to the satisfaction of those whose children I taught. Their unchallenged narratives of pre-school teacher facilitated the transfer of their children from the privacy of the family to a public institution in a seamless manner (Grumet, 1988). During my years at the pre-school, it was the norm for children who attended early childhood programs to play, socialize, explore, and learn what it means to exist as a public self in a social group by doing so in a safe place. And, parents taught their children to respect and like their teachers no matter what by stressing the importance of education and “good” behavior. Eventually, I was offered a position in the local public school district as an alternative kindergarten teacher with the responsibility of closing the achievement gap for the students identified as “at-risk.” These students scored quite low on the district kindergarten diagnostic screener and as a result were assigned to an all-day program to get extra support. The rationale of local administrators and kindergarten teachers for this early identification and label was based on the fact that they would “be better off at school than at home.” (That sentence makes me choke!) Every one of my “at-risk” kindergartners qualified for the free lunch program and lacked the pre-reading skills that a potentially successful student possessed. My early years in the public school were fraught with frustration and disappointment as my young students failed to learn the most basic skills. I would definitely be found out now. These students just couldn’t learn. I was consumed with the “if onlys” and the “what ifs” and determined to find a way to teach a culture other than my own, in the only manner I knew. “Listen to me. I have the answers. Follow my rules and you will learn.” I continued to live in fear and misguided privilege for several years. I was complicit, not only in my own buy-in to an elitist, patriarchal system of schooling that placed the teacher as the knower, but also in shouting loud and clear to my colleagues that they
75 had to “know” their students and to change how they managed them to match their culture – a culture of poverty. (Again – embarrassed.) As a result of my connection to the community through my roles in the schools, I soon had opportunities to take on leadership roles. My principal recommended that I attend a rural educator’s leadership workshop. I became a cooperating-teacher for student-teachers. I held leadership roles in a women’s service organization and in church education and worship music groups. I began to see cotyledons of confidence break through the ground in and among the submissive-compliant thicket that I brought with me to this place. The early sprouts represented hope and transformation. However, my persistent inability to appreciate their presence led me to a long period of resistance, grounded in complicity, with a single focus – help others, especially the poor who needed what my rural had to offer. As a teacher of poor children in this rural, I wrongly grasped the notion of a single narrative and an “assumption of rightness” (Howard, 2006, p. 61) for young children in my classroom. I was sure I could save them from their misguided, but loving families who experienced extreme poverty. I would show them how to become great by showing them my different rural narrative – a better one – the rural narrative that taught me to comply and deny myself. What I failed to consider was the narrative training that exists in the privacy of the families’ homes. Eakin (2008) writes about memory talk, or self-narration, as a form of early autobiographical socialization by learning what to display to others as well as what is appropriate to tell others (p. 26). Their self is manifested in the lived experience and shared narratives with peers and close others, such as family and friends. They enter kindergarten with a firmly established narrative identity that has been practiced and encouraged in settings of their homes. When children leave the private place to enter schooling, they have firmly established narratives of self that may or may not differ from those that share this space. Grumet (1988) suggests that teachers might do well to find a way to “refuse to run the classroom like a conveyance, designed to transport children from the private to the public world, but to make it instead a real space in the middle, where we can all stop and rest and work to find the political and epistemological forms that will mediate the oppositions of home and workplace” (p. 20, emphasis added). In other words, teachers, especially early childhood teachers, “might do well to” refuse to ignore and/or work against the narratives that children bring with them to the classroom, but rather
76 begin to listen, inquire, respect, and create curriculum which begins with the narratives of children and extends them to build a language of belonging in public places. In my unexamined complicity, I failed to reject the transport from private to public, and I also refused to see that as a middle-class, differently rural teacher I knew very little about these children, their families, or their culture. Many well-meaning teachers are so committed to revealing the beauty of their rightness, the dominant narrative of sameness, that they fail to acknowledge the possibility of a different story – a place-specific, different narrative. Irigaray (2008) describes the tendencies of the Western world to “reduce our understandings of the world and of the other into sameness” (as cited in Hoveid & Finne, 2014, p. 75). She explores the idea of a space between, as a space in which “two” exist in the ritual of “being.” The manner in which I employ this concept of “two” is in the power it brings to the story as a means for humans to connect, a means that does not reduce or minimize the other to a sameness as oneself. In the existence and allowance for “twoness,” power remains shared and balanced. When self- narratives are considered in tandem with Irigaray’s “two,” we find political possibilities for counternarratives, but when then juxtaposed with Freire’s (1998) concept of human unfinishedness and curiosity, the possibilities of social transformation come to fruition – in my case the hearing of the counternarratives of poor children in rural Ohio. My ignorance and sole aim to help the poor be more “middle-class” required a willingness to comply with the elitist, patriarchal way of knowing. Assumptions can be transformed by experience, curiosity, and “powerful experiential catalysts” which serve “to dislodge individuals from... the fundamentalist White orientation” (Howard, 2006, p. 106). My balance was off. I had too much other and not enough self. I was training poor, white, children to accept the same imbalance. I was feeding and nourishing future forests of junk trees through an insidious complicity, masked as resistance. I existed and taught for many years with this misguided drive to help. Fortunately for me and my students, an honest and straight-talking speaker from the hollers of Kentucky shared her Appalachian narrative with the teachers in our district. She got my attention.
Thank You, Susan Washington My awareness came through the counternarrative of a highly-educated guest speaker, Susan Washington, from rural Appalachia. This veteran teacher and current principal told of her
77 experiences growing up in generational poverty, raised by her grandparents in the hollers of Kentucky, and the educational struggles along her journey toward the completion of a Master’s degree in Education. She provided powerful insights into cultural values and behaviors of those experiencing poverty from a personal and positive point of view. She offered several specific examples, but the main point of her message was that white middle-class teachers create white middle-class classrooms based on narratives that counter those of children who experience extreme poverty. In sharing her unique narrative, she brought light and attention to my well-intentioned, but sorely mis-informed perspective. I was enlightened as to how my rules, the rules of the rural, middle class, served as a source of tension for most of the rural children who experience poverty. It was at that point I realized I had been looking at my students from the wrong perspective. I had not seen them as they were, I had seen them as I was. I had seen the error of my ways and began my journey toward becoming more as a rural educator. I began a self-reflection process to unravel the stereotypes, committed myself to seeing the positives in my students and their families, and ultimately decided to invest in developing meaningful relationships with them. It was at that moment that I became committed to hear their stories rather than write their stories for them. The speaker’s passionate story of great luck and perseverance opened my eyes to the cultural strengths of my students. She helped me understand that my rules, the rules of the rural, middle class, did not match theirs. What’s worse, I had done what Gorski (2012) suggests so many teachers of others do: “When we do not know, we use stereotypes to fill in the blank” (p. 303). At the time of listening and responding to this speaker’s insights, I had been taught to believe that there existed a culture of poverty that needed to be changed (Payne, 2003). However, in returning to (re)tell this experience, I suggest that this speaker walks a fine line between suggesting a culture that must be fixed and a culture that must be understood and respected. “The message here is that trying to delineate a culture often tells us more about the biases of the observer than the nature of the people being observed” (Obermiller & Maloney, 2016, p. 107). Nevertheless, my attitude needed to change; I began a process to unravel the stereotypes, committed myself to seeing the positives in my students and their families, and ultimately decided to invest in developing meaningful relationships with them. My solution was to schedule home visits, hence, my first meeting with Dakota.
78 Any story holds within it the possibilities of a “critical educative practice” in which education is a “form of intervention in the world” rather than a “reproduction of a dominant ideology” (Freire, 1998, pp. 90-91). The power in this narrative is in its existence as a curricular text, as allegory (Pinar, 2012), as something unfinished with the potential to teach as well as learn (Freire, 1998). But also relevant are the counternarratives, such as the one now embodied by the guest speaker from Kentucky, which allow for uniqueness and plurality in the particularity of place (Adami, 2014), all of which possess political positions with the power to transform or reproduce. These short narratives represent an ingenuous attitude and the catalytic force that shifted my perspective on poor, rural children in my class. They offer insights into what teachers with similar backgrounds might experience when privilege and an unconscious and/or unquestioned acceptance of a dominant ideology are brought to light. Classist training prepares teachers who then exclude, or worse, negate, the unique narratives of marginalized students almost immediately upon their entrance into their classrooms. This classist training is often seen in traditional teacher education programs which prepare teachers to “manage” children who do not comply with white, middle class ways of being in a classroom. The underlying philosophy of many of these teacher programs is that children with different ways of knowing, such as those who experience poverty, must be “fixed” and/or “molded” to fit into the white, patriarchal system of schooling – rather than the other way around. Efforts to counter this type of education, is evidenced in critical teacher education programs. These programs include opportunities for moral reflection on personal values, beliefs, and misperceptions that hinder cultural knowledge and acceptance of “other” children in their classrooms. In critical programs, pre-service teachers are asked to challenge and resist the system and its constraints rather than the children. Even after teaching and experiencing firsthand what a critical teacher education program might contain, I continue to wonder if I might ever fully accept these children as they are, if I cannot accept my own belonging to this place. How might I come to recognize the beauty in difference as a means to promote and celebrate individuation if I fail to fully commit to belonging to a community of rural learners in this particular rural classroom? Freire (1998) discusses the power of the lived experience as educative potential, and continues to draw on the unfinishedness of humans as a means to communicate his foundational
79 ideology that students are not “empty vessels” but human beings who possess valuable ingenuous knowledge – knowledge which creates possibilities. The critical teacher is one who respects this idea of knowledge and draws on it to “transmit to the students the beauty of our way of existing in the world as historical beings, capable of intervening and knowing this world” (p. 35). The concept of intervening allows us to question and challenge the narrative of predetermined destiny, to offer a counternarrative to the white patriarchal, supremacist policies that promote a negation of human agency for certain socio-cultural groups. As Freire refers to lived experience he is essentially referring to a story – a narrative. Though he doesn’t refer to it as allegorical, he does make it clear that in the lived experience, ingenuous knowledge holds the potential for critical reflection and learning. Freire emphatically states that the story is never neutral, but political in its power to transform and intervene. The story takes on a deepened sense of balance between human beings as relational, yet separate, when we include Irigaray’s (2008) liminal sense of “two.” It is in the potential for shifting my own ingenuous curiosity of rural poor students to an epistemological curiosity that I reflect on the political possibilities and power of a reconceptualized rural curriculum. But more important to the argument for preparing resistant critical educators, is how my life experience might engage the curiosity of teachers to reflect on their own narratives with the same critical reflection. How might my story encourage previously unaware women to acknowledge the potential and power in critically viewing their unique sense of “I” as contingent on another’s “I,” and help make them even more politically powerful through the allowance of a space for “two?”
Comply or Resist: Maintaining Balance in my Return In the conclusion of chapter four, Who am I? I am Woman. Narratives of a Girl-Child, I ask: How might one resist compliance to traditional schooling when the schooling process itself trains the teacher and student to submit and comply? How might we prepare teachers to question their own learning as a means of reconceptualizing the way they educate others? How do we speak the necessary language of resistance? How might we encourage a stronger resistance? In chapter five I seek to explore a step in the right direction, but one that is insufficient to resist the hidden white curriculum. I return with the baggage of years of unexamined and compliant resistance. I go to bed each evening with the worry that I will not be strong enough to face
80 tomorrow’s challenges. Am I big enough? I wake up each morning with the hope that I am. I draw on the words of Grumet (1988) as she provides hope that “even in the most conventional scene of classroom practice we can find traces of transformative consciousness, no matter how masked in apparent compliance and convention” (p. 20). Chapter Five, Who Am I? I am Blended-Rural: Narratives of Place, aligns with Pinar’s (1975a) second stage of reconceptualization in which we begin a critique of curriculum, but wrongly ground our criticism in the actions of colleagues while failing to acknowledge that in reality the problems lie within oneself placed there by early acculturation of schooling. I knew I was angry, and I thought I was resisting such schooling. In actuality I was complicit in perpetuating control and seeking truth from external others – most typically through the disgust with teachers and parents who failed to listen to my criticisms of traditional schooling and the need to do things differently, like me. Had my fears begun to heal through love? Did my experience of meeting this family who wanted Dakota to be a doctor bring a loving light to heal years of darkness? Was I seeing light through the tangle of thorny junk trees to see sprouts of pines and maples? But as much of the language included in this chapter indicates, I still had much to learn – I shifted from unquestioned compliance to complicity grounded in critique of others. I had begun to see the emergence of soft pines trees, but remained unaware of the power of love and justice lying dormant in the acorns hidden under the shade of complicity.
Complicity in Testing and Accountability After careful reflection, self-awareness, experiences, and shared stories, teachers may be prepared to find ways to stand up to the white, patriarchal, supremacist world of testing. With a solid grounding of the political and ethical nature of teaching and the power of a story, they may also be able to resist the tendency to rely on the stifling methodologies of accountability. The school culture is complex and in my experience, requires more than preparedness; it requires persistent courage and sense of hope for those children whose dreams are silenced on a daily basis by well-meaning teachers who have a middle-class sense of sameness. The final two narratives in this chapter are essential in making the argument that teacher resistance in the current setting of school is difficult. The narratives reveal a point in my career at which I had lost sight of the struggle, the year in which I had bought into the accountability
81 hype; sadly, it was more recently than I would like to admit. Still inadequate – a complicit- compliance indicated in the next words come from papers I wrote and returned to on several occasions throughout my time in the doctoral program – even now as I am writing them I see the privilege and word choice that makes my throat tight.
Compromising the Rules Four years ago, my district decided to implement NWEA MAP assessments as a means to obtain data that would reflect student growth in grades K-5. The first year served as a trial run. Second grade teachers had to make a decision because there are two versions of the assessment. One version, the primary K-2, has a feature that reads all texts and directions to students, while the second version, 2-5, does not. By design, students in second grade could take either test. The second-grade team decided to assign all second graders the primary version in the fall – if a student scored 200 or above, he or she would then take the 2-5 version. This seemed to work well, other than the fact that a high percentage of the students who didn’t meet their projected end-of-year growth goal had taken the 2-5 version, but I was confident I could address that by differentiating instruction for that subgroup. Everything else was going well, I created charts and graphs for myself, parents, and students; students took ownership of their learning; administrators had student growth measures needed for teacher evaluations. All stakeholders were pleased…until…the implementation of Ohio Teacher Evaluation System (OTES). The second year of MAP testing coincided with the official start of OTES, I began to fear the possibility of students not meeting goals, especially those taking the 2-5 version. Class time spent on the charts and goals went from occasional glimpses to daily reminders. “Do your best! Focus. Listen. Meet your goal! Earn rewards!” I encouraged children to “do the drill” because it was based on the test and it would help them meet their MAP goal. At the end of the year, I sent 19 pumped-up, confident students to the computer lab to take the test. Each one carried with them a post-it note with a target goal written on it. My students knew the rules. Do your best and everything will be fine. Your teacher said so. As students finished the test and received their score, they compared it to the number on the post-it note. Most of them met their goals, and quietly rejoiced. However, 5 children (4 of whom took the 2-5) did not. The scene was different as those students clicked to see their score, their proud, confident, smiling faces turned to disappointment, shame, and tears as they realized they missed
82 the target by 1 or 2 points. The depth of the rules was evident in those faces. In their minds, they had let me down. No amount of consolation or reasoning made it better. My heart broke for them, it breaks for them still. I can’t un-see those faces. I had let them down. I’m embarrassed and ashamed to admit I was sucked into the muck. I compromised the rules. I vowed at that moment, that the next year would be different. I include this story to express the toxic and contagious nature of the testing culture. I was a 29-year veteran in early childhood education and committed to child-friendly practices. I was the teacher who made it a point to hear and respect the unique narratives of all students. But in one fell swoop I compromised the rules, my rules, I went against my moral code. Resisting is HARD!
Failed Resistance Teachers must have a solid foundation and awareness of their moral commitments, a strong and critical sense of power imbalances, and a collection of instructional strategies and methods that allow for their students to participate in their own learning, the most important of which is the counternarrative of the minority groups. It takes courage for a teacher to stand up to an entrenched culture of schooling with test scores as goals. It can be done but not without a strong, consistent, and coherent teacher education program aimed at a transformation of the status quo.
Renewed Hope The next year was different, VERY different. I spent the summer planning my new approach – teach souls, not skills. I returned on teacher work day with a renewed passion for education!! I floated into the building ready to begin, only to be met with the new district decision “all second graders would take the 2-5 version of the MAP test this fall.” WHAT?!? That can’t be!!! Only two of my new students can read on grade level! They won’t be able to read the test! That’s not good for children! Administration’s justification: Think of the growth you’ll show for OTES. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!? It’s not about me. It’s about the children, their souls! Ten days later, I took 17 innocent seven year olds to the computer lab, and watched as they tried to follow the rules. Do your best, don’t make a scene, and don’t disappoint your new
83 teacher. Enter seamlessly. Of course, they asked for help reading the test, but I told them I wasn’t allowed to help, and they should pick an answer that looked correct. There were the faces, again, those faces. Faces of fear and disappointment! This time my heartbreak quickly became anger. Anger at a system that forced me to compromise the rules, again! My resolve solidified. No more broken trust. No more dehumanizing children for the sake of standardization and accountability. I didn’t have the terminology or language at the time, but that year I taught unfinished human beings. I began to walk my talk and adhere to the idea that: Right thinking is right doing” (Freire, 1998, p. 39). This story marked a new beginning in my understanding and strengthened resistance. I thought I had found a place to resist. I had to give the test, but I didn’t have to play the game of testing. I thought I was ready, but little did I know, I was not. I left that year to attend Miami’s doctoral program. I gained insights and knowledge that helped me identify and define what right thinking meant. I had begun to reveal my own truth and purpose, but continued to worry over an impending return to teaching. It was easy for me to talk about what should happen when I thought I wasn’t going back. But then, I was. I worry if in returning that I will have the strength and resolve to resist the powerful testing culture. Do I really even have a plan? How will I define and recognize right thinking? One thing I know to be true – is that sometimes you have to enter the den of the devil if you wish to slay him.
Returning to The Devil’s Den A shift toward early reading and developmental progress on standardized tests limits attempts to create caring citizens who value community and difference. This limitation holds importance as we consider the post 2016 presidential election events, such as violent attacks on “others,” media mistrust, and passionate calls for restructuring election policies, all of which suggest a nation that is clearly and deeply divided by fear, anger, and aggression. I realize that schooling is only one of many institutions with the opportunity to address this sort of learned fear, oppression, and supremacy, but it is the one to which I have belonged for many years. How might I arm myself in my return? What will I face in the Devil’s Den? I am positive there is no way to know every possible problem or foe, but I do know that I am better armed to return. This section offers one example of how I might bring the power of knowledge to battle current
84 readiness policies and rhetoric as they continue to perpetuate and grow forests full of trees of complicity and compliance in early childhood teachers. Current readiness models and ideology hold fast to student growth and development and a “need” to identify possible “risk” of failure (Graue, 1992). The impending failure is predicated on an assumption that elitist, patriarchal capitalist ways of knowing are the “standard” goal for future global citizenship with all other ways of knowing, including those of poor and working class rural students, as sub-standard. School readiness assessments of the NCLB/ESSA era of teacher accountability and standardized curriculum have perpetuated a clearly marked and increased exclusionary divide between and among social and cultural “others” (Mullen, 2016) as early as pre-kindergarten, just as Dakota, who wanted desperately to be a doctor, was in fact identified as “at-risk.” I remember Dakota’s time with me: As I reflect back on my year with Dakota, I am reminded of the numerous times he mentioned that he was going to be a doctor. Although he was young, he had a clear vision of what it meant for him to be a doctor. Dakota knew that being a doctor would allow him to “take care of sick people” and “make them better.” He also knew that he would be able to buy his mom a car “so she could go to work.” School work wasn’t easy for him, but he was driven, often to the point of tears. When I asked him what was wrong, he would say, “I just want to learn. I have to get smart to be a doctor.” I never asked him why he wanted to be a doctor, nor if he knew that he would have to leave his rural home, go far away to school, and be gone a long time, something those living in rural places often struggle with. I’m curious about that and where he is now. At what age will he (did he) conceptualize the difficulties of place, poverty, identity, and achievement? When will he (did he) face the struggles of deciding whether to stay or go? Will his family continue to support his dream as he nears college age? I find a role-model in Beth Blue Swadener (2010) as she seeks to disrupt “the dynamics of social exclusion in the United States” (p. 7) as a means of resisting the stratifying effects of readiness and risk. She believes that it is possible and imperative to unlearn the risk discourse that is pervasive in today’s early childhood programs, as evidenced in readiness practices, neoliberal policies, and responsive intervention, now called problem-solving meetings. As I return to teaching, my role is directly connected to interventions and meetings designed to label (or not) students with specific disabilities that impact their learning. I write and adhere to goals
85 to make sure students make progress. What have I signed up for? Is this a necessary step in understanding the devil I wish to slay? Have I compromised the rules again? Again, Swadener offers hope in describing a meaningful outreach to parents and families of students prematurely and inappropriately labeled by readiness practices as at risk of failure. Swadener (2010) opens the dialogue with the persuasive call for early educators, along with policy makers, to “hear [the] pride or see [the] promise” (p. 25) in otherwise marginalized “others.” Swadener’s promise ideology questions and refutes the perspective of risk as it relates to neoliberal standardization and accountability policies which promote a global capitalistic purpose of schooling. These harmful policies continue to be enacted and surveilled at the expense of local, place-based ways of knowing for those who stand in the margins of white, middle-class schooling such as poor and working-class rural students. I contemplate my return to teaching and am led to question how I might draw on Swadener to transgress these creativity- stifling boundaries (hooks, 1994) of risk to provide “poor white students with an opportunity to unlearn their submission to non-poor whites, investment in whiteness, and learned superiority relative to people of color” (Allen, 2009, p. 220). I have to believe that unlearning occurs through learning to listen to families and their children – opening ourselves to a decolonization of the mind (Baszile, 2015) – and creates the opportunity to decenter the upper- and middle-class language of risk. (Can I do this in this rural? Can I let go of my refusal to belong and my outsider status? I want to – is this a step toward healing?)
Conclusion: I am Here Throughout this chapter, I have drawn on experiences of the past and how they tell a story of my existence in a different place. I thought I knew this different rural place – until I didn’t – but am finally beginning to hear what this place has to say. I entered as a welcomed stranger, then I considered myself a different, better rural, and now, my blended-rural allows me to be a critical listener as one who exists as both here and/or not here – one who can cross borders. If I view place as a literary setting with the potential to determine what and how one narrates a self, then I have to believe that I cannot be one rural or the other, I can only be a blended-rural. I am both rurals.
86 Why do I feel the need to reject one of them? Why must I consider one better than the other? Is it possible to love two places equally? In this chapter, healing has stemmed from understanding what it means to be from a place and how my teaching is influenced by belonging or not. When I married my current husband, and moved into the house on the farm, I remember saying to him, “I am finally home.” But I continue to wonder because… (I experience my moments here, on this land, as home, as if it is a part of my own rural. All other spaces in this rural place represent some other place. My home belongs to me and I am from here. The moment I step off this land, the land that nourishes my forest, I am no longer home. Everywhere else in this place belongs to someone else. I am a guest. I have to ask permission to visit. I have to be invited. I can’t just show up. Am I afraid to belong? Perhaps I reject this place to protect myself from its rejection of me? I came here broken – what if they find out?) If I am both rurals, must I identify with both in order to heal? Must one belong to be able to listen to a place? Will I hear the narratives of love and beauty in this place if I refuse to belong? In coming to terms with a blended-rural narrative, one that allows me to say I am, but not from, perhaps I might begin replacing a fear of rejection with the love I experience in a place in which I did not begin. Is saying “I belong here” the same as saying “I am from here”? I will re-write that narrative. What might it mean to say I am here? I decide what it means – it means that my essence is here, not in a presence/absence sense but in an existential sense. I am this place. From this point forward, I will no longer say I am not from here nor I do not belong, but simply, I am here (not as a located self, but as a state of being self.) I will speak a blended-rural narrative. If place acts as a literary setting and I am my experiences, then the main character now named I am here can only exist as such, because my experiences occur/ed in a unique blend of time and place. I am confident that I will continue to question and wonder what it means to love this place. The setting that birthed my character into existence is not this setting, but I am here. I have been here for more years than I have not. In A River Forever Flowing, He (2003) writes about the struggle she and her colleagues experience as they attempted “not to judge a new culture by our own values. By doing so, we might run the risk of making value judgments which were always negative toward the culture that was unfamiliar to us” (p. 67). As an early childhood teacher I was known to say, “Different is different, not good or bad, just different.” He offers a revision of my words that moves it toward transformation. She suggests that a different culture is “Not better or worse - just
87 different. Difference as starting point for learning” (He, 2003, p. 71). I wish to extend it one step more by suggesting that difference is a starting point for learning and a celebration of difference is the only way to allow love to heal past wounds of the other that are grounded in fear. As a teacher committed to radical, equitable, and socially just education in a poor, predominantly white rural region, I again turn to Allen’s (2009) call to curricular action: Absent a curriculum that provides poor white students with an opportunity to unlearn their submission to non-poor whites, investment in whiteness, and learned superiority relative to people of color the future of poor whites will most likely resemble their past since they will not be able to forge meaningful and transformative political alliances with people of color. (p. 220) If I wish to create a learning environment (or curriculum) for unlearning in a rural setting, I must redefine how I express what it means to be different, as well as commit to my own unlearning of compliance and complicity in perpetuating a learned submissive-supremacy. The chapter that follows brings the reader along on my currere journey as I examine the existence of a near-60-year-old forest. I reflect on complicated conversations with rural colleagues who lack the knowledge and language to challenge and de-center whiteness. I wonder if my need to remain on the outside allows me to listen differently in critical moments as I am one who belongs, but doesn’t. Does this give me an edge? I draw on the hard oaks and hickories that were allowed to grow during my time in the doctoral program and explore the power of existing in a blended-rural forest that would never existed in this moment if I were not who I am because of my blended-where.
88 Chapter 6: Who am I? I am white: Complicating the Narratives
In the past three years, I have come to view my initial reaction and long-held rejection of my “new” place as a manifestation of not only gendered and classist views, but whiteness as well. I see the need to heal – not from oppression but from the unacknowledged, un-tended effects of a white racial, middle-classed, and gendered identity of one from another “better” place. However, just as Thoreau (1887) suggests that the early growth of thickets and soft-pines hides and protects seeds of hard-woods, so do my narratives of a girl-child and blended-rural hold beneath their shade the seeds of something more powerful, seeds that were placed there by the action of other forest mammals or birds in the form of hope. Hope which dreams of the emergence of a future with hardwood trees so strong and regal that they reject the thorns in the underbrush of junk and softness of the past to create a forest which focuses on justice, one in which the beauty of difference is explored and celebrated as a means toward true greatness. The true greatness to which I refer is not found or heard in the narrative of America’s Eurocentric past, so it could never be found in a return or considered something that could be “again.” I do, however, believe in the possibility of a future American greatness that can be. I suggest that it is possible for America to find greatness by returning to the junk trees and soft- trees that formed the early forests to re-narrate a future told from the wisdom of sturdy oaks. The beautiful oaks and hickories exude the essence of a healthy, mature forest which allows for a balanced eco-system of birth, growth, decay, death, and re-birth – in which all flora and fauna are not only welcome or necessary but essential. My forest was altered by seeds planted through encounters in the doctoral program which offered insights into new ways of knowing and seeing, broadening the single narratives regarding difference that I held for many years. These seeds of patience, honesty, and diversity contributed to the transformation of my forest from an overgrowth of junk and softness to a well-balanced system of curiosity, confidence, strength, and love. As my forest reflects a more beautiful picture of maturity and wisdom, so grow the complicated narratives of an awakening self. What follows brings the reader along on the most recent leg of my currere journey as I examine the existence of a near-60-year-old forest through the lens of a newly-narrated white self. In this chapter I provide a series of complicated conversations regarding the implications of a white, rural teacher who wished to engage in social
89 justice work in a predominantly poor, white, rural school – but sorely lacked the necessary knowledge, language, confidence, and focus to do so. I provide insights into my own learning and unlearning that had to take place if I were to do this work in a specific rural place that outwardly demonstrates an unexamined commitment to whiteness and rejects conversations of de-centering whiteness as threats to “America’s greatness.” I explore how I came to know what it means to love, rather than merely to care for students by replacing a fear of difference, rejection, and disgust with a love of my newly considered white-self. Allen (2009) calls for a curriculum to unlearn supremacy, which begins with a rejection of whiteness. I suggest this curriculum can only begin with narratives of a self that understands the difference between narratives of a white- woman and narratives of whiteness as I exist in a place which contributed to the existence of those very narratives. As I write my way through the racist forest trees that had gone unnoticed for many years, I make note of stages of growth along the way. I begin with the remembered stories of the formation of an unspoken, yet present white narrative of self. I provide significant memories, epiphanic moments, and complicated conversations regarding my own racial learning and unlearning that span an invitation to name my own racial identity, to learning through teaching a second-language of social justice, to accepting the deeply buried fear of rejection in order to begin the healing process through love, and finally toward my own process of reading and studying my way through confusions regarding my ever present question: How might a rural, white, woman teacher who is herself working on healing from her own colonization and complicity in whiteness create a classroom environment that engages students in a process to disrupt and refute how this rural place promotes narratives of poor whites who feel justified in speaking insensitivities (in some cases hostilities) toward “others?” I draw on the message hidden in the hard oaks and hickories that grew quietly among the junk trees and soft-woods during my time in the doctoral program and prepare to draw on the transformational power which exists in a blended-rural forest that would never exist if I were not a blended-here. I continue an introspection of self by drawing on the wisdom of my forest as I replace fear and disgust with love. I must also acknowledge that among newly revealed truths of my mature forest there remains an undergrowth of junk trees and thorns which I must continue to manage. Unfortunately, my early forest plantings failed to provide the sort of knowledge necessary to fight against the overt racism and insensitivities I sense, see, and hear in this rural
90 place. I suggest that the current standardized curriculum operates as a means of purposeful mis- education of students in the United States. Carter Woodson’s (1938/2010) concept of mis- education offers insights into curriculums that not only fail to provide meaningful, relevant educational experiences, but also provide educational experiences of no value for anyone, except those white elites who benefit from keeping the student in his/her place (p. 13). Although Woodson uses the term Negro rather than student, I respectfully expand his term to suggest that today’s education prepares all students to take or keep their place whether it be at the top or the bottom of the social order. This training – that rich, lived-experiences of place that one enters school with are not needed, nor desired – is enacted by well-meaning white, female teachers, themselves trained to be “[ones] who could control the children and [are] controlled by [white] superiors” (Grumet, 1988, p. 43). Woodson (1933/2010) further suggests that knowledge control leaves one with no choice but to “go down blind alleys” (p. 20) – that is on a fixed path toward the future. Woodson’s mis- education offers a connection to Allen’s (2009) call for a curriculum for poor white people to be freed from such a fixed future which resembles a past of poverty and working class jobs and speaks to marginalizing effects of early educational practices such as immediate identification and labeling through readiness assessments. It is through my own learning to unlearn whiteness that I came to see how the curriculum in predominantly white rural schools is not only different from predominantly white urban schools, but is different for students within them according to the level of poverty they experience. The only way to avoid going down such blind alleys that are purposely placed in the paths of non-poor students (white or of color) is to begin the decolonization of the mind (Baszile, 2015), my own mind as well as other minds in my rural school. In Chapter Six, I discuss how incessant inquiry, commitment, and conversations with critical scholars allowed me to complicate my own narratives. I move beyond simple critique to consider the possibilities of a new rural classroom – one that refuses to shy away from difficult conversations but purposefully engaged students in conversations of class, gender…and race. I seek to challenge and disrupt current policies which work against the needs of low-performing, high-poverty rural schools and the “just do it like this” standardized curriculum designed to raise test scores of children. Despite my open resistance to policies which were harmful and killed the souls of children, my 30-year immersion in a pedagogy of white, supremacist, patriarchy (hooks,
91 2000b) formed an unexamined subjectivity of a white, middle-class, woman teaching rural children living in poverty to “just try harder” such that what lie at the bottom of her stories was unperceivable to the naked eye. The emergence of the mighty oaks in my forest, reveals a newly-narrated gendered, raced, and classed subjectivity preparing to return to teach with a new truth. Deeply embedded in my stories of caring teacher were invisible acts of patriarchal oppression as oppressor (Freire, 1993). I had lost myself in the duality of a mis-educated teacher “who adapted to the structure of domination in which [I was] immersed” (Freire, 1993, p. 29). My gendered participation in schooling prevented me from seeing that I was retelling the story as a sentimental promise of nurturance (Grumet, 1988) of each one of my poor rural “Dakota’s with dreams” based on diligent guidance for them to “be like me” (white, middle-class, and “good” at school), rather than a means of reconstructing myself and the world – their world – through meaningful educative experiences. I, a white woman, teacher, mother, had been wounded by my own whiteness (Thandeka, 1999), was complicit in my own oppression because of my privileged position as a middle-class white teacher of “others,” and perpetuated a learned whiteness to classrooms full of children I considered different from me. The healing rests in my inquiry into what it means to be white, resist whiteness, and to teach poor and working class children in a rural place to do the same. But first I had to engage in a decolonization of my own mind (Baszile, 2015), to not only learn what I didn’t know but to unlearn what I did. I first had to acknowledge that it means something to be white, and that only in knowing what that means might I ever begin to unlearn a commitment to whiteness.
Critical Consciousness: Learning to Unlearn It is an accepted belief that whites, as well as people of color, have learned to accept white supremacy as an onto-epistemological future rooted in a pedagogy of white supremacist capitalist patriarchy (hooks, 2000b). My early learning to be white was carefully and thoroughly accomplished through my participation in a white family which failed to name a commitment to whiteness, through a white-washed, Eurocentric history of fairy tales taught in elementary schools in the United States, and through white, patriarchal capitalist driven politics of the market which center the knowledges of elite, white males. While such insidious learning is
92 troubling, those of us committed to justice and democratization have to believe that there is hope. For me, hope came in the words of black scholars, especially in the words of black feminists/womanists (Baszile, 2015, 2017; hooks, 1994, 2000a, 2000b; Thandeka, 1999; Walker, 1983). If it is possible to learn, it is also possible to unlearn (hooks, 1994) through critical consciousness, resistance, and dialogue. Hope is possible if this unlearning process finds transformational, movement building power through love (Baszile, personal communication, 2016). The following is a reflection on my transformational stages from a narrative of rural teacher of poor children to a re-writing the narrative of a white, woman, teacher of poor white children in a predominantly white and openly racist place. Thandeka (1999) offers additional insight into the formation of white identity narratives grounded in early choices between obedience to family or the consequences of disobedience that leads to rural white identity that is not questioned or spoken and continues to limit school success for marginalized groups. She speaks of her urging whites to remember those early moments. Thandeka’s Race Game asks Euro-Americans to speak the “great unsaid” of their learned white racial identity. The request to remember and voice their earliest racial incident creates the opportunity for whites to speak and acknowledge the narratives that typically remain unsaid. What follows was my thought process immediately after reading her words:
Am I White? Do I have a memory of learning to be white? I’m pretty sure I never verbalized my race as a young child, young adult, or even as an older adult until I entered Miami’s doctoral program. The earliest memory of racial difference I can recall takes me back to a time when I was about 5 or 6, around 1965 or 66. I had a VERY favorite book. I loved it when my mom read it. I asked her to read it A LOT!! I was so touched by the love that the young boy had for his mother. I was captivated by their colorful clothing and the beauty of the place in which they lived. The boy’s mother fixed him pancakes for breakfast and he played outside in a place where exotic wild animals were located – like tigers! I loved tigers! They were always one of my favorite animals. The boy was so smart when the tigers trapped him in the tree and took his clothing, he tricked them. Not only did he trick them, but he was provided with butter to make the pancakes his mother made for him taste so good! I was touched by this story – I was enamored by the colorful illustrations, love of family, and intelligence I saw in it.
93 The story was Little Black Sambo (Bannerman, 1899) a story that eventually was re- written and illustrated in the 20th century as it was considered an overtly racist story. I had no idea. I knew Sambo was different from me. I could clearly see that, but I loved him, his place, his family, and his story. (I’m not sure, even at this moment, what this memory means – except that I was 5, have warm memories of hearing my mom read it to me, and had no idea that it was a racist text. In remembering this experience at this point in my life, I find myself wondering what my mother thought as she read it repeatedly, upon my request, as most mothers do when their children select the same book to listen to before falling asleep. Did she feel some way about the dark- skinned main character? Did she wonder about the propriety of reading a racist text to her daughter? Did she know it was a racist text? Where is that book now? I wonder if she remembers it? In remembering experiences with my mom when I was young, it wasn’t long before more thoughts of difference came to mind, from when I was about 13 or 14.) The flat ground in northern Ohio, provided a good place to grow large fields of produce such as tomatoes, carrots, and/or green beans. The local Campbell’s company made this a lucrative business for farmers who then hired low-wage, migrant workers from Mexico to plant and/or harvest these crops. Often families would stay in town to take higher paying jobs in the local factories which meant that I had several classmates whose families originated in Mexico or South Texas. The neighbors on both sides of my house were from that area of the country. As kids, we ran in and out of each other’s homes, I babysat for their babies, and our families often shared foods. Cha Cha would often give us beans and homemade tortillas, and Mom would pay her back with German chocolate cake. I would stand beside Frances as she mixed, rolled, patted, and heated her delicious flour tortillas, and wait for her to offer me a warm one rolled up with butter. As I stood there, I could see the candle with a picture of the Virgin Mary and her child sitting on the stand in the living room. It made me think of Mexico. We also played a Bingo-like game with symbols and images from that area as well. Bill and Frances kept us kids busy while mom did other things. We were good neighbors and friends. As I attempt to make sense of my early memories of difference, whether racial or cultural, I have to wonder about my mom’s role in the process. I have always considered my mom a rule-breaker. She was outspoken, feisty, and the life of most parties. She made friends
94 with anybody that crossed her path, and was often a friend to those who others cast out. She taught us to accept others no matter what; I never heard her speak ill of anyone – not even my dad after their divorce. If she disagreed with anyone, she would speak her piece and forget it. Mom didn’t and doesn’t hold grudges. She taught us to treat everyone with respect regardless of class or culture. We didn’t speak much of race. Any language of supremacy that my brothers and I may or may not have learned was not explicitly from our mother. (What does it mean that I chose to use the term difference rather than white identity? Does it mean that I center whiteness and see everything else as different from white? Or does it mean that I didn’t name anyone anything – just same or different? I can’t remember naming myself as white – but I do remember naming my neighbors as Mexican, because that is their home place.) In writing this memory of good neighbors, games, décor, and great food, I get the sense that we appreciated the cultural differences more than racial differences. Again, I wonder if my mom knew what she was teaching us? Did she appreciate our relationship in the same way? Did she feel a need to care for them, offer them something she had that they didn’t have, or was it a mutual relationship of love and acceptance? These questions are familial and personal. I have the sense that these memories hold within them something I need to examine. I have an intuitive sense that I must intentionally re-examine them – perhaps in a future project. At this moment, these memories reflect the thoughts of a woman teacher unable (nor willing) to acknowledge, name, or even examine what it means to be white; I still lack the knowledge of difference, and race prevented me from speaking a language of color and love. (Aha! I’ve had an epiphanic moment as I returned to edit and revise this section. What I was missing was the language of privilege. Because I am white, I have the luxury of not naming myself as white. By centering “white” as the norm, I name others as different! OMG! How can I keep missing that?!? I didn’t have to acknowledge whiteness, or name it, or even consider myself privileged because I fit the norm. The stories appear to tell a love of difference, but do so with an absence – the absence of my own racial identity – possible only because I am white, not different.) I wrote the preceding several paragraphs, prior to re-reading Zeus Leonardo’s (2002) The Souls of White Folks: Critical pedagogy, whiteness studies, and globalization discourse, in which he distinguishes whiteness as a racial discourse and ‘white people’ as a socially
95 constructed identity based on skin color (p. 31). He draws on Frankenberg (1993) who highlights three relevant concepts regarding how my memories are written within a racial discourse of whiteness. I now notice a blatant and obvious “unwillingness to name the contours of racism” in suggesting that we considered the differences cultural rather than racial, an “avoidance of identifying with a racial experience or group” by never naming myself as white, and finally I now see that throughout the entire section that I attempt to “[minimize a] racist legacy” (as cited in Leonardo, 2002, p. 32) by claiming ignorance to the racist nature of a beloved children’s story, my relationship with neighbors, and the romanticizing of my mom’s role in the process. I refused to name myself as white. Thandeka (1999) writes of the Race Game in which she challenges her white audiences to name racial identities in conversations they have throughout their daily experiences. For example, in casual conversation with colleagues, Thandeka’s Race Game requires participant to refer to their spouse as their white spouse, or their neighbors as white neighbors. Had I attempted to engage in Thandeka’s Race Game which requires a speaking the “great unsaid” of my own white racial identity, I would have failed miserably. I not only refused to name my own racial identity, I minimized the racial identities of those close to me. Did I do so out of fear or ignorance? How does fear relate to ignorance? Is it fear that allowed me to be ignorant. But what was I afraid of? I was taught a narrative of whiteness. I was trained through memory talk to tell the stories which required race to be absent, while love of difference was present. This presence required me to notice a difference but only as the other – difference from a norm to which I belonged. I was taught to cling to the norm and never risk changing it. (That would be scary – because people might not like me and I might end up with no place to go. Ah…the fear of rejection and placelessness. I might find myself alone and in a dark place – again. But I am healing, I am finding a language of love and forgiveness. I am becoming enough.) I can never not be white, but I can seek to de-center and challenge the effects of whiteness when I see them. In naming my fear, I begin a new healing. I can move quickly through and beyond an unproductive narrative of white guilt, shame, and fear toward a narrative of one who is worthy of love and forgiveness. This transition through fear toward forgiveness is only possible in my return to the past to re-remember and reconsider significant moments. Through the writing of this project the girl-child, the blended-rural is beginning to love – both
96 herself and her new blended-place. I am healing! But do I have the language and courage to speak the truth of my healing? Am I prepared to share this truth with poor white children and teachers in this rural place?
Learning the Language In reading scholarly work, predominantly that of black scholars, I learned that a remembered examination of a white racial identity, or racism, does not go far enough in allowing me to understand the significance of being white in the United States. In Talking Back: Thinking Feminist. Thinking Black, hooks (1989) speaks of shifting the conversation from racism to white supremacy. She expresses white supremacy as an ideology which places and views white values and beliefs as an unacknowledged form of prejudice and domination of whites by whites who claim to narrate stories of anti-racism. Leonardo (2004) offers an important critical view – that to look critically at white privilege we must also examine white supremacy. He continues by stating that: a critical pedagogy of white racial supremacy revolves less around the issue of unearned advantages, or the state of being dominant, and more around the direct processes that secure domination and the privileges associated with it. (Leonardo, 2004, p. 137) Gillborn (2005) adds to Leonardo’s view of supremacy by suggesting that it is often “reserved for individuals, organizations, and/or philosophies that are overtly and self-consciously racist in the most crude and obvious way” (p. 491). But he then makes the point that through critical race theory and critical white studies, we can work toward disrupting the supremacy of white ways of being and knowing in educational policies, practices, and standards in order to undermine otherwise anti-racist efforts. While the work of critical race scholars, specifically those in whiteness studies, addresses the needs of those in education to examine stories of white privilege, supremacy, and domination, they do so almost exclusively in the context of preparing white pre-service teachers to work with urban students of color. The work of these authors was invaluable as I sought to inform my own work as a white, rural teacher with predominantly white classrooms, but even more important as I worked my way through learning as I taught privilege and whiteness as a “second-language.” This language differs from the unexamined white supremacist language of
97 rural, white, woman teacher and provides a means for me to speak as a social justice educator in a rural place by first learning as I taught pre-service teachers. I came to Miami to pursue doctoral studies, but with the added benefit of teaching EDL 318E: Teacher Leadership. Over the four semesters of teaching the course, my students consisted almost exclusively of white, middle- to upper-class young women who “loved children and wanted to make a difference by teaching, because they loved school when they were young.” My stories construct a curriculum of healing, literally, as I came to see the power of teaching pre- service teachers about social justice. The learning that accompanies teaching provides an opportunity to heal unexamined wounds of whiteness within myself as well as others. In doing so, I gained competence in the language of social justice, and over the course of two years became more comfortable participating in conversations with colleagues and mentors. For the previous 29 years, I had used terms such as center rotation, reading level, and math groups. I had never used nor heard terms such as hegemony, white privilege, or hidden curriculum. The transition from the elementary classroom to higher education came fast and furious, and happened concurrently with my learning in order to unlearn whiteness – whether I was ready or not. What follows is my remembered moments of struggle as I sought to hide feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt, and fear that came with my new position as a EDL 318E instructor.
I am White and Privileged?! After many attempts to find a place and date that would work, the Fall 2015 EDT 473 and EDL 318E (318) instructors agreed to meet in order to discuss how the two curriculums might align in a manner that pre-service teachers might reach a deeper level of understanding the needs of urban students of color. I was anxious to hear and learn what these veteran instructors might have to offer me as I embark on my dream position – teaching teachers. I dutifully brought my binder of course articles and notes that had been shared with me through the kindness of previous 318 instructors. I had read Dr. Poetter’s (2015) text for the course, Teacher Leadership for the 21st Century and had studied the notes for week one. I was more than a little concerned that I had only a vague understanding of the terminology, concepts, and basic flow of the class, since it was created by someone other than myself.
98 I had repeatedly expressed my doubt to my 318 partner, Katrina, who repeatedly and emphatically told me that my experience was going to carry me through. She did her best to convince me that I knew what I needed to know to teach this course. I doubted her, because that was my girl-child, go-to narrative for many years. I was beginning to feel the flood of self-doubt that I experienced early in my career as a pre-school teacher press against my chest. I reverted back to my go-to worries. People would find out that I’m a fake. People would know that I don’t know what I’m doing. People would know that I am broken. But that early pressure was nothing compared to the dread that came over me within minutes of the arrival of the person who organized the meeting. Her passion about white privilege, the emotionality of pre-service teachers who don’t get it, and inadequate placements for them to be fully immersed in black urban schools was informed and powerful. Although she was friendly and hospitable, her passion scared the bejezus out of me. Hell! I couldn’t even understand what the heck she was saying!! I am so not prepared for this. I remember thinking that the conversation surrounded a privilege which came with financial abundance because Miami students come from rich families – I had no clue we were discussing racial privilege. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as racial privilege. I didn’t have privilege – I grew up poor and worked hard for everything I had. I must have looked clueless. But the collective passion, words, and repeated phrases indicated that not only did I have privilege – but that I would soon begin to openly name myself as white and that people will feel some way about that. I can’t remember if or what I added to the conversation, but I’m pretty sure I tried to say something about rural, poor, white children. I learned quickly that block three is about race and poverty – not class. I had no idea what that response even meant. The instructors present at that meeting probably thought, oh no, she can’t do this. She doesn’t even know she’s white. But – I did when I left. Fortunately, time, experience, and many conversations with dear friends have brought me to a new place. Additionally, Dr. Poetter scheduled meetings with the EDL 318 instructors to discuss course-specific needs and progress which allowed me to listen to and express concerns with mentors teaching the same content. I could see they struggled with a variety of things, but
99 they had a better sense of the language than me. I wasn’t the only one who had questions, but I felt as though I was the only one struggling with the terms. My response to confusion has always been to read. Read more; read everything; read often; and re-read. I perused the shared EDL 318 google documents for articles and assigned readings from previous years, read articles that colleagues shared with me, and followed up leads on what it means to talk about class and race in the same conversation. I came to notice certain key words, repeated phrases, and highly regarded scholars. For example, I noticed terms such as hegemony, critical lens, centering whiteness, privilege – for sure, privilege. I eventually began to make sense of the content of EDL 318, but continued to be afraid of the critical lens and clung to my experienced-teacher, pragmatic lens. At one point, I discussed and explored the possibility of critical pragmatism in which my research would be grounded a pragmatic methodology and methods, but the analysis would be framed in the work of critical pedagogues. I told real stories from my years as a teacher, especially the discomfort of trying to resist the current state of educational policies designed to hold teachers responsible for a widening achievement gap. I tried to prepare them to navigate and examine their own bias to challenge traditional curriculums by discussing tensions they experienced in their field placements. I was determined to prepare them to keep their resistance in line with the amount of risk they felt comfortable taking. Over four semesters of teaching EDL 318, I had the opportunity to practice the language through various forms of conversations with scholar-friends at conferences, visit and observe interactions with pre-service teachers and their host teachers in the field, write my way through confusions in the form of course assignments, and re-read important articles (multiple times) for deeper understanding. By nurturing and feeding these carefully planted seeds of scholarship for four semesters, I had become competent (not proficient, simply competent) to speak the language of critical social justice work, had a clearer understanding of the white, patriarchal nature of the current system of schooling, and had come to view my role as an educator through a critical lens. I’ve often heard, and even suggested myself, that the best test of one’s ability to know something is in their ability to teach it. I learned along with my students. I was a teacher/learner (Freire, 1998) by default. I had the same questions they had. We struggled through them together, trying always to remember that a commitment to whiteness would get in the way of a deeper understanding of what it means to do justice work in a predominantly white, rural school. But I was always aware of an imaginary line, that if crossed might cause a disengagement from
100 my message. Where is the line? I felt the need to push, but I wondered what would happen if I pushed too hard? Would I be rejected? I was no longer concerned about being alone, but rather worried that I might lose them. I had four opportunities to teach and practice my stepping to and/ or over the line in EDL 318. As I practiced, I noticed that I gained confidence, passion, and a moving forward of the line that allowed me to motivate, encourage, and challenge my students to dig deeper into what it means to challenge power imbalances and classroom practices that marginalized students of color. I never stopped considering how the conversation about poor, urban black children might inform my own teaching of poor, rural white children.
Finding Confidence Although I knew the basic language and could hold my own in most critical conversations, I left many thoughts, confusions, and musings unsaid. I lacked the confidence to speak my confusions, and feared rejection and loneliness, yet again. Nevertheless, I began to be quiet and listen, not necessarily because I wanted to learn, but because I was afraid to speak. In hindsight, this quietness was necessary for the sturdy growth of the oaks and hickories in my forest. I can now see how listening was the beginning of a new stage of healing from an unexamined commitment to whiteness. I needed to be quiet and listen if I would ever hear the truth of marginalization and oppression. I listened in class, in casual conversations, but most important for my healing, I listened to the written words of black women scholars and soon discovered the potential of a powerful partnership in the work of feminists, black feminists, and womanists (Baszile, 2015; Walker, 1983; Phillips, 2006; hooks, 2000; Grumet, 1988; Miller, 2005). However, I hadn’t yet found a scholarly time, space, or place to explore the potential by “trying on” my newfound language of healing. Doing womanist work. Alice Walker (1983) opens In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens with four definitions of womanist, while all are powerful, the poetic introduction inspires me to proceed through confusions, fears, and doubts as she defines a woman as one who: “Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless” (p. xii). As I age and awaken, I have come to find beauty in the same things. I have come to listen to Spirit that exists as one with my being, accept struggles with gratitude as they are gifts for healing, and seek to heal a brokenness of self with love.
101 Layli Phillips (2006) extends the work of Walker, as she discusses a womanist’s commitment to social transformation as one that is relational, assertive (not aggressive), and comes through “harmonizing and coordinating, balancing, and healing” (p. xxvi). Womanism draws on the importance of “physical healing and methods of reconciling body, mind, and spirit” and “the notion that physical and psychological well-being provide a necessary foundation for social justice and commonweal” (p. xxvi). When I speak of healing, I speak of doing the work of a womanist – all in – purple not lavender (Walker, 1983, p. xii). I want to be that woman. I want to be a woman who seeks balance and centers love. If wanting is sufficient, then I should be ready to re-narrate the I-before – the broken-I, as a new I- now – the healing-I. In my heart I was a womanist, Spirit said speak this truth, but my mind feared rejection. My mind said, “You can’t belong – you’re white.” I could see how the work of women provided the foundation for healing and love necessary for me to return as a rural, white woman teacher of poor white rural children with dreams. I needed to speak of the ugly truth of whiteness in a white rural place committed to upholding a white hegemonic alliance (Allen, 2009) between themselves and non-poor whites even as it works against their own dreams. I worried that my work with poor, white, future racists worked against the work of those who taught me. Yet, I wondered. Who am I, a white woman who dares to draw on the work of women of color to heal? My soul is touched by the work and their insights into spiritual awakening, specifically through self- study toward critical consciousness (hooks, 1995). But does that open the door for my use? In reading their work, I see a model of resistance and self-determination common among these women which begs me to join them in the revolution. But am I big enough for this work? As I allowed Spirit to guide me, I soon connected with friends of color who saw more in my work than I was able to see on my own. I found enthusiastic support, productive responses, and special invitations to join complicated conversations regarding what it means to de-center whiteness from the traditional curriculum. I gained insights into the power of love for healing and learning what it means to teach when the ones we wish to reach are the very ones who speak against us. I found confidence as I was permitted and encouraged to speak my confusions with sisters of color.
102 I found a spiritual connection with one particular sister, Talia. In conversing with Talia, I soon discovered that we had experienced similar past traumas and had a deep connection with Spirit. Our bond as women created a space for deep and unexpected conversations about race, love, and truth. When I feel too small to do this work, Talia often reminds me that I must return to Spirit to remember, name, and speak my own truth. My sister, Faith, from Africa provides a glimmering example of what love looks like. Faith graciously offers words of support and attempts to convince me that I have a specialness within. Finally, my dear sister Emerald, demonstrates passion, generosity, and fierce loyalty to the point that I have no other choice but to acknowledge that I matter to her. These women make it clear that I am loved, I matter, and I am enough. It is in the diversity of Miami’s doctoral program that I found strength and began to find the words to narrate a healing-I which included glimpses of enough-ness. I began to see the mighty oak emerge. (Thank you, dear sisters.) Courage to speak my own truth. However, I also found what a healing-I should not speak. I remember one particular conversation with an acquaintance regarding my newfound knowledge of the history of poor, white immigrants in the United States. The following excerpt is adapted from My Currere Journey Toward a Critical Rural Pedagogy (Larrick, 2017) and offers a glimpse into a difficult lesson learned regarding what to speak, as well as to whom. I found myself wondering about how to proceed as I noticed historical parallels (i.e., eugenics, exploited labor, dehumanization) between poor whites and people of color, but was confused by the fact that I had not ever heard/read of these similarities. I wondered why I rarely if ever heard conversations of the historic inequality of class? I turned to a colleague for answers. Me: I’ve been reading a really interesting history of class in America. It’s titled “White Trash: The 400-year untold history of class in America.” It’s a new book by Nancy Isenberg. Adalyn: Oh, Snap! Me: I know! Right? I’m finding out my poor white students have an interesting history. And ‘White Trash’ has a longer history than I realized. I had no idea. Many early white… actually most early white immigrants were criminals, orphans, or indentured servants sent here from England to rid that country of rubbish. Isenberg (2016) even
103 suggests that the term may have come from black slaves who used it to suggest it was better to be a slave than “po’ White Trash” Adalyn: OK, wait…there is a big difference… Me: I realize that, but... Adalyn: (talking over me) they were free to roam around…slaves were not…their history is entirely different. Toni Morrison writes of the dying black slave, who was attempting to escape, that was found in the woods by a white angel. (I got very quiet at this point). It is very different. The angel was free to move around. Black folks were stuck…enslaved…not free at all… Me: I understand, I... Adalyn: (continues… talking over me) there is no way you can compare the two histories. (Adalyn continues for several minutes, but at this point I don’t remember the details.) (Adalyn finally takes a breath) Me: I understand. I just can’t stop thinking that knowing this will be helpful for Dakota…in some way…I thought maybe I might be able to use it to teach white teachers how to teach about racism to poor white children. Adalyn: Absolutely, it is…it can be spoken of at the same time, but never as bad as what African Americans experienced. Me: Yah. I agree. That was a scary but valuable lesson. Although we have exchanged thoughts on how one might bring these conversations to white rural America many times, I learned quickly there is a line that separates how we might speak of the needs of poor white children in relation to poor Black children – I had obviously crossed it. (Larrick, 2017, pp. 72-73) I have also had the opportunity to attend several curriculum and/or pedagogy conferences over the past three years. While in attendance, I found myself in sessions listening to white scholars who attempted to speak of their own engagement with anti-racist, equity, and/or justice work in marginalized and oppressed communities of color. While many of them spoke eloquently and powerfully, I was soon able to sense and discern the difference between those who spoke from love and others who spoke from fear. For example, one white woman spoke
104 openly and freely about how white student teachers were placed in and among the black community as a means of helping these young students of color. She was beaming as she discussed how these pre-service teachers would have much to bring urban students of color. Although I was new to the conversation, it seemed to me that this presenter was touting the successes of the university program to “fix” the black communities they served as something to be praised, rather than to listen and provide experiences which were relevant and meaningful for the students. I soon began to bring words to the previously unspoken, undefined energy that hovered around my crown. I learned the language by negotiating what it should be as much as what it should not be. Glimpses, invitations, support, conversations, and nascent critiques only directed me toward further research. I need also to be quiet, to listen, really listen, to the narratives of whiteness in this rural place. I would be returning soon, and I had to be ready. I needed the confidence to determine the genuine truth of my work – on my own. hooks (2003) suggests that “[a]nti-racist white folks recognize that their ongoing resistance to white supremacism is genuine when it is not determined in any way by the approval or disapproval of people of color” (p. 65). It was time for me to distinguish the difference between the narratives of poor, rural white families and students in this place and those of people of color, as well as from those in other poor, rural white places. I need to understand and honor the knowledges of this place. I need to understand the history of the people who live here. I need to ask myself the question Dr. Theodorea Berry asks: “Who am I? And how will I do the work in this place with the knowledge I have at this moment?” (Berry, personal communication, 2018). How will my return inform what this work can be, must be? But first I must understand the political, social, and historical implications of being poor, white, and rural in southern Ohio. In chapter three, I present place as setting to explain the idea that particular settings have the power to limit, as well as determine the narratives of the characters in that setting. In addition, I explain my decision to use the term rural, poor whites rather than Appalachian in an effort to avoid a monolithic assumption and unwelcome identification of the children and families who live in this place. But what I didn’t provide was an explanation of the political, historical, and social construction of a poor, white subgroup who have existed in poverty for many generations.
105 Learning the Difference The only way for me to narrate an I-as-enough, is to make sense of Ricky Lee Allen’s (2009) question: What about poor white people? The question is actually one that non-poor, white pre-service teachers in his courses would ask when faced with a conversation around white privilege. If I were to be perfectly honest, I must admit that in searching for direction and answers regarding my own scholarly work with poor whites, I’ve asked the question myself on more than one occasion. Allen’s response is lengthy and complicated, so the following section holds short glimpses into related worries about returning, rather than significant memories or epiphanic moments. It serves to provide insights into the historical, political, and social construction of a structural phenomenon, as well as a theoretical foundation to support my hope for a rural curriculum in which poor, white rural children may begin to name and unlearn whiteness and their commitment to white supremacy. Allen (2009) begins by discussing the existence of a white hegemonic alliance (p. 211), which holds poor and non-poor whites together in a complicated bond against non-whites. The importance of this alliance is not its existence but its cracks which can be undone in ways that work toward social justice. If a race can be made, then it can also be unmade. Understanding how the white race is held together is the first step toward the ultimate goal of breaking it apart so as to disassemble the political alliances that keep white supremacy in place. (Allen, 2009, p. 210) Understanding the white hegemonic alliance permits us to theorize how race and class intersect. My students are not black and they are not middle-class, and some of them aren’t even working poor. Some of their families have relied almost solely on government assistance for three generations. In rural places, with white middle- and working-class teachers teaching predominantly white working-class students as well as those who experience poverty, the relationship between race and class is mired in contradictions and complexity. The following section uses black feminist scholarship to extend the complexity of Allen’s (2009) white hegemonic alliance through the lens of Patricia Hill Collins’ (2000) oppressor/oppressed identities and to examine the intersectionality of systems of classism, racism, and sexism. Collins speaks to multiple layers of structural oppression which allows us to examine and discuss poor white students as both oppressed (by non-poor whites) and oppressor
106 (of people of color) by considering an intersectionality of identity markers. Collins states that “oppression cannot be reduced to one fundamental type, and that oppressions work together in producing injustice. Regardless of the particular intersections involved, structural, disciplinary, hegemonic, and interpersonal domains of power reappear across quite different forms of oppression” (p. 18). Allen (2009) draws on Collins conceptual understanding of intersectional oppression as a means to disrupt narratives of unexamined white supremacy and privilege with well-intentioned, caring, white privileged oppressors who fail to see themselves as such. He suggests this opens the door for dialogue that might otherwise be refuted and turned back on the oppressed by white, privileged, teachers who cling to a color-blind perspective and thus fail to see their complicity in perpetuating racist ways of being and knowing. For many years, I was this teacher. I know what not to be. I know how to get it wrong. But how might I begin to get it right? Do I know enough to return as a different me, a healed-I? Am I prepared to engage students in complicated conversations about race as it intertwines with class and gender? Classism. hooks (2000a) states that “class matters,” and “that race and gender can be used as screens to deflect attention away from the harsh realities class politics exposes” (p. 7). This deflection is complicated by the absence of historical narratives and the presence of mythical histories regarding the role poor whites played in early ownership and voting policies in colonial America (Thandeka, 1999). A deeper review of differences which define symbolic boundaries illuminate not only the cultural differences of poor whites but also how dominant non-poor whites have exploited, and continue to exploit, to expand these stereotypes through the promise of white privilege to those at the bottom with the sole purpose of protecting their own white fragility (Allen, 2009; Wray, 2016). Allen (2009) argues that a class-based approach diminishes the role of race in the construction of statuses in whites. He discusses both interracial and intra-racial perspectives, as well as the concept of an “internal political organization” (p. 210) of whites into privileged and less privileged subgroups which he suggests masks the white hegemonic alliance (p. 211) between them. This limitation of class analysis led Allen to consider whiteness studies as an argument that all “[w]hites have more privilege than people of color regardless of class” (p. 212)
107 and thus, there is no need to distinguish between poor and non-poor whites. Thandeka presents an embedded connection between classism and racism. Classism intertwines with racism. Thandeka (1999) provides a story of elite, colonial whites as creators of a myth-driven, lower-class group of whites, through classism and racism. Elite colonial European landowners created a historical, political, and pervasive connection between race and class as a means of maintaining dominance over the two groups – poor people of color and poor whites – and an assurance that they would not unite. Derogatory terms were used by “white folks with class privilege invented to separate themselves from what they called poor ‘white trash’” (hooks, 2000a), and that poor whites then “transferred their rage and class hatred onto the bodies of black people” (p. 111), resulting in a long history of poor white violence against blacks. The historical, political, and social intertwining of class and race can be seen in Thandeka’s (1999) definitions of classism and racism as each concept is connected to racial strategies that seek to keep something hidden: Classism is the term used to discuss racial strategies devised to hide and thereby to promote or to protect economic class interests. Racism consists of racial strategies devised to hide feelings of racial shame either by diverting attention to the supposed racial flaws in others by calling attention to oneself as racially superior. (p. 42) hooks (2000a) writes of hope through solidarity and resistance, and that in “today’s culture …where the white and black working class and poor have more to say to one another there is a context for building solidarity that did not exist in the past” (p. 118). As the numbers of working class and those living in poverty in the United States increase, white supremacist elites continue to mask poverty with racial masks. “Ruling class interests have a stake in reinforcing a politics of white supremacy which tries to socialize white working-class and poor people to blame their economic plight on black people or people of color globally” (hooks, 2000a, p. 117). Allen’s (2009) critique of the question, “What about poor white people?” provides insights into the construction (he suggests political rather than social) of power and difference between racial groups (interracial) but fails to show power and difference within racial groups (intra-racial). This failure for poor whites to see the power and difference between themselves and non-poor whites only works if the poor whites are taught to be complacent to the intra-racial imbalance.
108 So, does class matter or not? What I have come to notice as I have been “not from here” is that there exist two distinct groups of people here – the quintessential “haves” and “have nots.” In considering the role of class, I remember comments from the educated, working class haves in the community. They make my heart hurt. I can’t not remember comments from teachers who grew up, were educated, and returned from the university to teach in this rural. They often refer to the “hopelessness of trying to teach the ‘kids from the lake’ as they come from stale sperm,” since saving them is impossible “when their family is the wrong crowd.” Or the other- determining comments like “he’ll be in prison by the time he’s 16” or “she’ll be pregnant by the time she’s in 8th grade.” I suggest that in this rural place, such comments indicate that the educated “haves” are not only complacent, but complicit in maintaining an intra-racial imbalance. Although I refused to belong to this different rural, I taught children to be like me, just as the “haves” of this place have done for years. I had been fooling myself into believing that my rural was better. By engaging in this project, I have come to know that it was not better at all, it was simply better at hiding difference, poverty, racial supremacy, and intra-racial classism. In considering the presidential results of the twenty-first century, it is becoming undeniably evident that this socialization works in the favor of conservative politics and continued white supremacist capitalist policies, the type of politics that elected our 45th president. Educated and non-educated white voters in this region demonstrated an intra-racial solidarity in the most recent presidential campaign. So, I wonder if an interracial solidarity of classes can be developed in a similar manner. Although I am not ready to answer that complicated question with too many variables for my present knowledge, I am ready to suggest that any hope of solidarity begins with reconceptualizing ourselves in conjunction with the curriculum in rural schools – through the interrogation of the learning of white racial identities (Thandeka, 1999) and a commitment to an unlearning of supremacy and privilege (hooks, 1989; Thandeka, 1999; Leonardo, 2004; Gillborn, 2005; Allen, 2009). I taught for many years without the knowledge of any of these ideas. I was not explicitly taught about white privilege or how systemic racism affected people of color, so I didn’t or couldn’t explicitly teach it to others. I have since come to know that unlearning supremacy requires engagement in complicated conversations which speak of a white hegemonic alliance and must be directly taught, since indirect attempts to teach it keeps “the line” within a safe distance from whiteness. Poor whites need to reflect on how the alliance works in their own lives if they will ever consider the societal good which will come
109 from a break from non-poor whites – one that holds the hope of a meaningful alliance with people of color.
Conclusion: Preparing to Return Still, the question remains: How might a rural, white, woman teacher who is herself working on healing from her own colonization and complicity in whiteness create a classroom environment that engages students in a process to disrupt and refute how this rural place promotes narratives of poor whites who feel justified in speaking insensitivities (in some cases hostilities) toward “others?” I had learned to speak and write the language of justice, I gained knowledge regarding the intersectionality of class, race, and gender as marginalizing factors in white supremacist, patriarchal systems of schooling, and had gained the confidence to begin speaking my wonderings and confusions in public. But what continued to elude me, was what it might really look like in my rural school. How could I ever suggest that anyone do this work unless I tried it myself? If I wish to speak the truth of a white hegemonic alliance that must be challenged, I must return to a place which clings to such a structure. I must return to a place which harbored feelings of fear, disgust, and anger for several years. If I wish to experience the healing I seek, I must return with love. hooks (2000b) speaks to the healing power of love, beginning with a love of self. This self-love begins with a commitment to truth telling and an acceptance of ourselves as we truly are (p. 53). “Self-love is the foundation of our loving practice” (p. 67). hooks speaks to a complexity of knowing what it means to love (self and others) by exploring the limited scope of the common definitions of love which refer to affectional and/or romantic emotions toward another – a feel good sort of love. hooks suggests that if we are to create a just society, which in my mind is the goal of a decolonizing curriculum, we must first be able to imagine it, and in order to imagine it we must begin with a shared vision of love. The definition hooks prefers is one that is based on the idea that love is a choice. One chooses to “extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth” (Peck, 1977, as cited in hooks, 2000b, p. 4). This definition, as the will to nurture oneself or another, negates the place of domination, abuse, or harm caused to another. If in “doing good,” a rural white teacher silences or diminishes students’ ways of knowing, she does not love. If in “doing good” a rural white teacher teaches her students to “do
110 as I say” to pass a test, she does not love. If in “doing good” a rural white teacher avoids difficult conversations about difference, she does not love. In light of the emotional guilt, shame, and personal complicity in the marginalization of ways of knowing or poor and working class rural students, how might I, a white, privileged, woman ever truly love myself? hooks (2000b) offers: Love heals. When we are wounded in the place where we would know love, it is difficult to imagine that love really has the power to change everything. No matter what has happened in our past, when we open our hearts to love we can live as if born again, not forgetting the past but seeing it in a new way, letting it live inside us in a new way. (p. 209). White rural teachers of predominantly white students must challenge and resist their commitment to white supremacy and privilege (heal) if they are to create a curriculum in which poor white students unlearn the supremacy of white ways of knowing. Without a love for all ways of knowing and being, a love that transcends race, class, and gender (and all other markers), no such curriculum can exist. As white supremacy is finding renewed strength in the rhetoric, actions, and tweets of the 45th president, and threats of cutting federal support for those who experience poverty is paired with neo-liberal educational policies which stress testing and common, pre-determined curriculum, a rural mis-education (Woodson, 1933/2010) for children of poor and working class families can only worsen. The future is bleak not only for marginalized poor and working class, urban students of color, but for poor and working class rural students (white and of color) as well. This project reflects my engagement in self-reflection and inquiry, and precedes an impending dialogue with white rural teachers regarding how race matters, especially in spaces in which class differences seem to take precedence. I have glimpsed pedagogies which might prepare poor, rural, white children to flourish and contribute to the good of today’s diverse society, in regions of the country where there is an absence of anti-racist education which goes unacknowledged, or perhaps in some cases acknowledged and even welcomed, by those living in these spaces and serves as a barrier to the critical consciousness of the distant “other.” I have come to understand the criticisms of outsiders who speak of an unexamined sense of privilege which comes with white membership (Gillborn, 2005). I am committed to bring awareness of classed, raced, and gendered practices to my own remote rural area which is complicated by the
111 existence of poor whites who tend to reject outsiders, question whiteness, and prefer distance rather than dialogue (Allen, 2009). But, what will happen when I return to teach and exist in this era of white, patriarchal, capitalism and schooling? How will I proceed while only semi-healed, and while poor and working class rural families and their children continue to blame themselves for economic failure and harbor racist thoughts? How will I exist and work beside teachers who cling to a banking system of education in order to “help” children do well on the test? Am I strong enough to avoid being sucked into the muck again? I will continue to name and refine my work in the classroom, in the very place which cultivated my other-placed narrative of an unnamed, white, classed, rural girl-child into an unnamed, white, classed, woman, rural teacher. Might this setting allow for a different narrative? Might a re-narrated white, blended-rural, woman, teacher find a place for revolutionary praxis (Baszile, 2017)? That remains to be seen. But, just as this rural place produced a forest of mighty oaks which have grown to be sturdy, strong, and wise, it harbors a place of healing. I am committed to a continuance of healing in this blended-rural place that I am. The mighty oaks offer a language of love and healing to the narrative of a broken-I, such that she is no longer broken but an I-that-is-enough. She can do this work. I can do this work. I will do this work! Part II: The Narratives has provided insights into my narrating and re-narrating, reactivating significant memories of my past, specifically as I engage in a re-narration of my future as a white, woman, rural teacher. I have brought the reader along my emotional and difficult journey toward transformation grounded in inner-healing. I’ve included a creative writing, From Whence Comes Justice? as an interlude between part two and three as a summary of the brokenness and healing that I experienced during the writing process. The following chapter will provide the reader glimpses into the direction that I envision my future work going. I consider how the healing process occurs through an intentionally intuitive managing of the growth of forest trees. I make the case for returning to past experiences and settings as a means of re-narrating an unhealthy self into one that has the capacity to replace fear with love. I explore what a curriculum which encourages and prepares students to do the same. So again, I ask, but what does it look like?
112 Interlude: From Whence Comes Justice?
Young girl-child cares for her brothers Young girl-child does her mother’s work Young girl-child is responsible Bound by the curriculum of the family – seeks approval from parents. A narrative of invisible child-self.
Adolescent girl-child studies hard Adolescent girl-child earns a wage Adolescent girl-child complies Bound by the curriculum of the institution – seeks approval from teachers. A narrative of othered-self.
Young woman-child experiments Young woman-child is alone Young woman-child disappears into darkness Bound by the curriculum of gender – seeks approval from men. Denied a narrative of woman-self – she is broken.
Woman-child seeks purpose Woman-child fears loneliness Woman-child marries, becomes mother/woman-child. Controlled by the curriculums of family, institutions, and men.
Who is she? She has no self.
Where is she? She has no place.
When is she? She doesn’t know.
113 The frightened woman-child lives in silence The frightened woman-child lives in the emptiness of Fear, guilt, and darkness...for many years, until… One day when she is woken.
Aged white child awakens Aged white child remembers Aged white child learns the language of love Re-narrating denied selves Forgiveness. Healing. Self.
She is enough. Mother/woman white child experiences a curriculum of healing Mother/woman white child forgives her child-self Mother/woman white child honors her woman-self
Light enters She hears her spiritual Truth
Fear fades She has found the language of justice...through love. (Larrick, 2018)
114 Part III: The Return
Chapter 7: A Season for Fruit: The Wild Apple Shrub Every wild-apple shrub excites our expectation thus, somewhat as every wild child. It is perhaps a prince in disguise. What a lesson to man! (Thoreau, 1887, p. 70)
Throughout this project, I have drawn on Thoreau’s (1887) speech, The Succession of Forest Trees: and Wild Apples, which he presented to a gathering of agricultural landowners in late 19th century Massachusetts. Up until this point I have written solely on the ecology of forest growth, relocation of seeds, and diverse species of forest trees which occur in the life of a forest to drive the metaphor. Essentially, I have discussed and connected the reader to The Succession of Forest Trees, my blended-forest of white, woman trees to the exclusion of the wild apples. What I wish to explore in this chapter is exactly that – the fruit of the wild apples. Thoreau writes eloquently regarding the seasons of growth for the wild apple, specifically the wild crab apple, as it remains uneaten and undetected because of its protective thorns. It survives undetected near the ground from season to season, with each successive re-birth bigger than the previous. The following is an excerpt which provides an example of Thoreau’s (1887) description: By the end of some October, when its leaves have fallen, I frequently see such a central sprig, whose progress I have watched, when I thought it had forgotten its destiny, as I had, bearing its first crop of small green or yellow rosy fruit, which the cows cannot get at over the busy thorny hedge which surrounds it, and I make haste to taste the new and undescribed variety. (p. 69) Thoreau (1887) describes the unforgotten, or unexamined, fruit lying hidden for years, until it eventually emerges as a bush like tree. Something my husband often refers to as junk because, according to him their wood is “not as useful” as other trees, and they form a thicket of undergrowth of early forest growth that hinders how one is able to wind through the forest. Thoreau considers the new and undescribed variety of wild fruit something an ungrateful earth may not desire, and in metaphoric fashion connects this idea with the pursuit of knowledge. Only the most persistent and strongest genius defends itself and prevails, sends a tender scion upward at last, and drops its perfect fruit on the ungrateful earth. Poets and
115 philosophers and statesmen thus spring up in the country pastures, and outlast the hosts of unoriginal men. Such is always the pursuit of knowledge. (Thoreau, 1887, pp. 69 – 70) Thoreau places the emergence of an unforgotten destiny and knowledge production of poets, philosophers, and statesman which spring up and outlast unoriginal, or traditional, men in October, a time of year that is typically considered representative of a slowing of growth and quietude of autumn. I cannot help but equate the emergence of a perfect fruit in the autumn, with the fruits of my own pursuit of knowledge and the decision to embark on this project as I approach the autumn years of my life. While I stop short of suggesting the fruit of this project is genius, I am moved by the persistent return of past memories (some of which are over 50 years old), the perfectness of epiphanic moments that I experienced in the writing process, and the fear that exists in what can be considered an ungrateful collective of white, U. S. citizenry on earth. In the previous chapters, I have written, considered, and examined these remembered moments in the form of a succession of re-narrated identities, but have not yet provided explicit insights into the fruits of this project. It also must be noted that most if not all of the stories I chose to share have been difficult to write as I have had to cross over a surrounding and protective hedge consisting of ugly thorns of ignorance, trauma, and fear. But now, as I prepare the final chapter of this project, I have become aware that had it not been for the spiky, hurtful thorn of the junk trees in my early forest, I would have never been able to experience the first taste of perfect fruit. I had to experience and tell narratives of a broken-I, which caused me to “get it wrong” many times in order to appreciate and recognize the beauty of a re-narrated healing-I. Pinar (2012) suggests that although “We understand that what knowledge is of the most worth? cannot be answered for others; indeed, our aspiration is to forefront the question as an ongoing stimulus to study and complicated conversation” (p. 32). So, in seeking to determine what knowledge is of the most worth for a reconstructed, white, rural, woman teacher to cause white, rural students who live in poverty to challenge a white hegemonic alliance through complicated conversations, I can only begin with my own struggles to do the same. The perfect fruit, which has emerged among the thorns of my past, holds a key to determining what knowledge is of the most worth for me as a white, rural, woman teacher of poor, white, rural students. This project served as a first step in the decolonization of my mind (Baszile, 2015) as I traveled through a personal curriculum of healing. A healing curriculum, which for me, produced
116 knowledge which prepares me to deal with the ugliness of abandonment, trauma, resistance to belonging, unexamined privilege, misinformed complicity in a banking system of schooling, and an insidious commitment to whiteness. This new knowledge not only brings to existence a language for me to re-narrate who I am in this moment in this place, but also leads me toward answers to the question: how might a rural, white, woman teacher who is herself working on healing from her own colonization and complicity create a classroom environment that engages students in a similar process to disrupt and refute how this rural place promotes narratives of poor whites who feel justified in speaking insensitivities (in some cases hostilities) toward “others?” Answers lie in examining my own process of healing. I suggest that insights into my own self-transformation will allow me to disrupt unexamined racial aggressions, as I have become more prepared to encourage, guide, and assist students to engage in a similar curriculum of healing, away from fear, toward love of different others. Although I have seen glimpses of what such a curriculum might entail, this self- reflective, healing project through the past has resulted in more questions than answers. This chapter describes how writing through my own self-transformation process brought a depth of understanding that I would have otherwise not reached. I examine and provide insights into how my next project, doing social justice work in the rural classroom, can be approached as a movement building endeavor, as revolutionary praxis toward justice (Baszile, 2017). I also consider an intuitive sense that I have floating around and within myself a personal philosophical framework waiting to be named through writing and/or dialogue. Finally, I work through how this new knowledge has changed how I returned to teach in a rural place that harbored long-held narratives of my broken-I. I draw on specific examples of my return to the white, rural, classroom, including those moments I “get it wrong” as well as the moments in which I see glimpses of hope. This perfect fruit of the wild crab apple, in the form of new knowledge, is not the end of learning, but only the beginning of future transformations, and will only contribute to the complexity of the conversations held among and between the junk trees, soft-woods, and mighty oak trees of local forests.
Trusting the Process This dissertation project was originally designed as a first step toward a more comprehensive and ongoing inquiry to inspire rural, white teachers (like me) to find a way
117 toward love and justice through the healing of rural, white, and/or patriarchal wounds of oppression (hooks, 1994) and to reclaim our educational work as the “work of women” (Grumet, 1988, p. 58), work that requires more than caring for (Noddings, 2013) students in a white, patriarchal educational system, but rather a radical deconstruction of an oppressive system of schooling. However, due to the organic nature of the process, I was not always sure of the direction my work would go, but like Dr. Poetter, I was sure that it would “go somewhere.” As I prepare to write my reflection on the process of growth and production of new knowledge, I feel it imperative to discuss how in writing this project I have experienced a healing self- transformation that has eluded me for many years and a surprising new sense of clarity toward future work. By drawing on the metaphor of a forest, framing my selves in the form of narratives (Eakin, 2008), and seeking a white, blended-rural, woman teacher language of my own (Baszile, 2015), I have found a re-narrated self in the stories of my own past educational experiences. This newly narrated self has the language, courage, and nascent knowledge to begin shaping the public work of a rural curriculum committed to social justice (Baszile, 2015). However, I discovered that engaging in the process provided more than a reconstructed, healthier self. What I also found is that just as each stage of forest growth is necessary in the development of a healthy forest, so too is each step in the currere process required for a depth of healing which would allow me “to begin the difficult work of self-love, loving others, and loving the world” (Baszile, 2015, p. 124). In this section, I wonder and address the specific steps regarding the self-transformation process as I wandered and wrote, sometimes painfully, my way through this project. I reflect back and draw on the procedural steps, guided by Dr. Poetter’s example during the Was Someone Mean to You Today (Poetter et al., 2017) project. I am cognizant of topics and themes that emerged from journaling, intentional decisions to include or omit certain intuitively recurring memories, and the powerful epiphanic moments which would have been lost had I decided to ignore or omit certain incessantly-returning, embarrassing, and/or painful experiences. When I allowed the process of writing to flow freely, I was the most productive. When I attempted to create pretty boxes for the stories and scholarly connections for presentation, I experienced blocks. Therefore, by the time I was ready to write chapter 7, I had acquired a deep commitment to trusting the process, a commitment which required me to be intentionally-intuitive regarding
118 my own immersion in currere. My narrative was reconstructed through currere, but only as I approached it through Baszile’s Critical Race Feminist currere, which provides a space for speaking in my own language and encourages creativity. An intentionally-intuitive experience. Although the purpose of this project is not to explore, inquire, or discover the depth of an intentionally-intuitive teacher (I’ll save that for a future project), I do wish to provide the reader a preview of the knowledge producing power of what I have come to name an intentionally-intuitive experience. I had been struggling with determining how to approach chapter 7 for several weeks. I was still committed to concluding this project in a neatly organized box, dressed up with a pretty bow, until one early morning of clarity which came in the form of an audio in my head – an aural message from somewhere. The following is the February 10, 2018, journal entry I wrote to record the message, the day I had scheduled to begin writing this final chapter whether I was ready or not. I provide the entry, word for word, as it was provided to me, from somewhere deep within myself, as an epiphanic moment so loud and clear that it woke me at 4:00 a.m. and moved me to sit up in bed and write… The healing process is in writing, writing as a form of managing (Refer to managing early junk trees) Manage the healing of self through writing. Returning is not enough, returning to tell is not enough, returning to journal is not enough, returning to journal with the intention to record an intuition of something different – to notice, to appreciate, to heal, to love – to change the knowledge of self. If I can do that with self, and do it with the intention of unlearning I can discover narratives of fear and a place for re-narrating a new loving self. It can be enough. It requires an intentional remembering, recording, writing, and analysis to locate the fear – to name it. In naming the fear you can battle it – manage it – re-narrate it – transform it. It requires an internal and honest engagement of myself as I exist in a different rural setting with many times of “getting it wrong”; it manifests in the writing process. This isn’t happening in schools because kids are taught to hate a decontextualized, piece- meal version of reading and writing. I have to return to teach a love of language – their own language, one that moves them from within such that they can learn to love others without.
119 In making sense of this early morning entry, I noticed that some of the insights were obvious and easy to address. For example, I needed to return to chapter 4, to revise and extend the metaphor of managing junk trees by mowing CRP ground to connect it with my own management of girl-child stories by writing and analyzing them. But on a more complex conceptual level, I realized that I was brought to the pedagogical doorway of developing a curriculum that “provides poor white students with an opportunity to unlearn their submission to non-poor whites, investment in whiteness, and learned superiority relative to people of color” (Allen, 2009. p. 220), by beginning with pedagogy which asks them to examine their own stories. I had an epiphanic moment which caused me to see not only that such a curriculum cannot be passed on in neatly packaged boxes of step-by-step how to’s and pre-determined final products, but requires a carefully managed, pedagogical combination of planned and organic educational experiences. What is necessary is for me to create an environment in which students can be encouraged, guided, and accompanied through the management of junk trees that serve to breed fear rather than love. This kind of management can only come through communicating, through writing or other forms of creative expression, experienced as a subject, not an object to be filled, but as a subject with valuable knowledge to express, explore, and refine. It comes through dialogue with oneself and/or others as a means of discovering new knowledge regarding what it means to be self and what it means to exist with different others. The perfect fruit of the wild crab apple, new knowledge, has brought me back to the Was Someone Mean to You Today (Poetter et al., 2017) currere project and Dr. Poetter’s carefully planted seeds of bits, treatments, and bridges alongside topic driven texts, example texts, and discussions. I am also reminded of the first book Dr. Poetter recommended to add to my summer reading list, Vivian Paley’s (1981) Wally’s Stories. In this text, and virtually all of her other books as well, Paley provides an example of how listening to students’ stories, conversations, questions, and disagreements serves as a starting point for making pedagogical and curriculum decisions in the kindergarten classroom. My willingness to intentionally pursue an intuitive message from within, produced a re-connection to a concrete means of what it means to engage students in dialogues from their own “withins.” By heeding and following student dialogues, I essentially provide a pathway for students to engage in complicated conversations, in whatever form they may take.
120 (Am I allowing for this form of expression in my classroom? If not, why not? What stops me from committing to this fully? I’ve tried, but failed. I find excuses. The state of schooling provides an easy out. The students have been trained away from this form of expression. The bottom line is improving test scores – improve state report card status. We have to show student growth; our students must make gains. The tests are required, we have to give the tests, they have to take the tests. It’s the system, it’s administrators, it’s the other teachers, it’s the testing… until it’s not. It’s me…I’m not big enough to resist. Do I give up too easily? Have I remained stuck in the critique of schooling and others too long? How might I move away from excuses, anger, and denial toward myself, trust, and courage to just do it? If I can name the fear I can battle it – manage it – re-narrate it – transform it. I am enough.) Building a topic of inquiry. In the process of writing Was Someone Mean to You Today (Poetter et al., 2017), I noticed and engaged in a combination of planned and organic flow of knowledge co-production. Dr. Poetter came to class prepared with years of commitment to dismantling the highly corporatized, standardized, and high-stakes schooling that has been accepted by the general population for many years. He carefully built and planned to provide resources which would prompt our moving forward with the concept. This is similar to the early childhood educators committed to the Reggio Emilia process of knowledge creation and documentation of the young children in their program. These teachers also carefully plan, provide, and record a place for children to explore, create, and document their own learning on a daily basis. As stated earlier, Paley provides another example of how one might build a topic of inquiry, as she writes of her own reflections as she listens to recordings of children’s conversations during free play. In my case, as I have returned to a predominantly, white rural place of schooling, I am interested in exploring how a curriculum of unlearning a commitment to white supremacy might be built or planned, such that my students will have an opportunity to inquire, explore, and create new knowledges of difference. Although still untested in the classroom as of the writing of this text, I have gained insights into what it means to build a curriculum for the “decolonization (unlearning) of white supremacy” (hooks, 1995, p. 264) in a predominantly white rural place, in which we begin to not
121 only see difference but also begin to narrate our own “identities and cultural legacies” such that we can discover, name, and speak “who we are and how we live in the world” (p. 265). If this sort of self-transformation is to occur in schools, I must truly love my students. I must be willing to trust, respect, and listen to their existing knowledge of the topic, and then provide pedagogical experiences and activities which allows them to deepen and/or reconsider previously held knowledges, many of which may stem from private commitments to fear, anger, and misinformation regarding different others. Such a commitment begins with my own rejection of dehumanizing and oppressive traditional schooling founded on Tylerian principles of knowledge consumption (Pinar, 1975b) and the European-centered conception of knowing as a relationship between subject and object (Baszile, 2015). In order to fully reject a deeply-entrenched, white, patriarchal system of schooling, I must draw on my new narrative of who I am as a white, rural, woman teacher who has returned to teach as one who engages in the work of women, not woman’s work (Grumet, 1988). I suggest that if students are to experience the depth of self-management (self- transformation) required to heal fear through love, that simple conversing is not enough, wondering is not enough, journaling is not enough, but, the juxtaposition of journaling with the intention to examine, name, and express curiosities, inquiries, and insights into a world of different others – to notice, to appreciate, to love – is enough to open the door to transformation. I need to create a curriculum in which academic subjects such as reading and writing provide a pathway for students to find a balance between self-knowledge and world-knowledge, such that they might begin to understand what it means to be one who exists both as individual and as a member of a diverse body of others. This post-reconceptualist form of curriculum development complicates otherwise simple conversations and provides a “through line along which subjectivity, society, and intellectual content in and across the academic disciplines [can] run. Content becomes more than a derivative of academic disciplines – but a collective montage enabling teachers to complicate the conversations they themselves lead in the classroom” (Pinar, 2006, p. 2). By carefully constructing and creating a setting for such an organic curricular process to occur, a rural teacher must maintain balance in the preparation, guidance, and timely combination of academic disciplines with interdisciplinary subjects and organic, place-driven student-led inquiries, insights, and transformation.
122 While I continue to name, speak, and heal deep-seeded fears of rejection through love, I draw on place-based ways of knowing, for myself and my students, as we seek the kind of transformative rural curriculum and productive pedagogy which is critical of institutional systems that dominate, marginalize, and suppress. Critical place-based education does not deny local culture but is relevant and responsive to children’s and families’ lives and has the potential to build well-being and community life when educators leverage the fact that curriculum and pedagogies are rooted in cultural narratives that are situated in places that have histories (McLaren, 2003, as cited in Gruenwald, 2003b). What about the local narratives of this place – have they been forgotten, re-narrated? How has the perception of racial homogeneity of the people who live in this place, been used to silence marginalization? Who are the heroes? Who are the villains? How has the setting determined who can be which? How do I address the fears of students? In order to know the fears, I have to listen, I have to engage and not know, find a means to allow us to learn together. I can’t shy away from topics because they are uncomfortable. I must engage my students in these questions and in so doing, complicate conversations that have for many years gone unquestioned, unchallenged, and sorely underexplored. Complicating the conversations. Pinar (2012) defines curriculum theory as it stems from work in interdisciplinary studies and as a means of understanding curriculum, which he often refers to as “complicated conversation” (p. 1). However, in an earlier text, The Synoptic Text Today and other essays: Curriculum Development after the Reconceptualization, Pinar (2006) offers deeper insights into post-reconceptualist, curriculum development to describe it as “simultaneously substantive and syntactical” and suggests that subject matter today is more “open and focused on recent research in the academic disciplines, interdisciplinary subjects as well as subjects prominent in popular culture” (p. x). He continues to suggest that recent curriculum research “teaches teachers more about the subjects they teach and the related and interdisciplinary subjects AND how to extend them to ‘self’ and ‘society’” (p. xii). “Contemporary curriculum research is nothing less than the intellectual formulation of the public sphere in education … in which we come to understand that self-realization and democratization are inextricably intertwined” (p. 2). In other words, teachers who seek to reconstruct themselves and their students’ self-subjectivity as they connect to society in a democratic manner must engage in a curriculum which complicates the traditional common standards to include
123 connections to interdisciplinary subjects as well as the student’s world – in this case, a local, rural world as well as a global, urban world. By taking this approach, I will be able to engage myself and my rural students in curriculum which serves as a middle ground between the private, rural, lives my students bring to school and the public, global, world they will encounter in the present and future. My new knowledge regarding a re-narrated white, blended-rural woman teacher, gained in the process of engaging in this currere journey allows me to return to teach as a co-producer of knowledge rather than one who asks students to consume and regurgitate standardized bits of knowledge created and determined by an external, non-rural, entity. As I return to teach in my small rural elementary school, I do so with a different lens from which to inquire and re-define a self, as well as how I am positioned in the world, and how this position prepares me to do social justice work (Baszile, 2015, p. 124). Through the process of self-reflection and inquiry into wounded self-identities of compliance and complicity, as well as an analysis of the transformational process, I have gained insights into what it might mean to participate and encourage complicated conversations (Pinar, 2012) about privilege, oppression, and curriculum/s in a predominantly white, rural place. And, I am now better prepared to embark on future work regarding what it means to provide a curriculum of unlearning supremacy in rural, white schools. What I have come to understand is that complicating rural, white, conversations will require me to draw on several academic disciplines in any given moment. I must continue to engage in research on social justice topics grounded in an intersection of race, class, and gender. I must keep the rejection of a white hegemonic alliance (Allen, 2009) with non-poor whites and a white patriarchal supremacist system of schooling at the forefront of my work in schools. These white-centered ideologies have served as structural and systemic forms of oppression keeping poor whites (teachers and students) not only in the margin of whiteness, but in the center of racism, as well. As a classroom teacher, I refuse to silence conversations around race, class, and gender, and seek to provide a place for students to examine unfounded fears of others and begin a knowledge-producing place which moves rural, white, students away from a commitment to whiteness toward a future commitment to social justice. (I have provided all the right words, and may have been semi-successful in tying them together into cohesive paragraphs, but what might this actually look like in a rural, white classroom? What will my students wonder? I am prepared to say that I am big enough, however,
124 I continue to wonder if my students are prepared for such a different sort of curriculum? How long will it take them to unlearn the effects of traditional, dehumanizing, object/subject schooling? Will they resist engaging in this type of work?) In acknowledging the dehumanizing effects of schooling that relies on modeling the success of white others and agreeing to the idea that teaching causes students to despise and hate others (Pinar, 1975b), I can no longer stand by and watch. I have returned to determine what a curriculum which rejects a schooling of hate, to begin the work of self-love, loving others, and loving the world (Baszile, 2015, p. 124). But in so doing, how might I extend and continue the decolonizing of my mind to include the decolonizing of my students’ minds? How might my return be an example of an ongoing practice of healing (self-actualization) – and how might it contribute to the project of collective well-being (justice)? (Baszile, 2015, p. 125). I have to reconceptualize what it means to be a teacher/learner (Freire, 1998) in an assumed racist white space during a disturbingly and openly racist time in U.S. history. The time has come for me to return and begin the work, to draw on the scholarly work of women who provide insights, clarity, and a path forward. It is time to become the change I wish to see, through self- transformation – as a movement – as one who is big enough (Baszile, 2017).
Revolutionary Praxis Baszile (2017) speaks of a world full of contradictions (p. 207) similar to Grumet’s (1988) idea of “bitter milk, fluid of contradictions: love and rejection, sustenance and abstinence, nurturance and denial” (p. xi). My return to past experiences throughout this project is full of such contradictions. For example, I return to teach in a focus school, a world in which hyper- diligence to recording, justifying, and evaluating progress toward higher test results is carefully monitored, but I do so with the intention of dismantling and resisting not only the basic philosophical foundation of these mandates, but the mandates themselves. While this is merely one example, an overgrowth of contradictions became obvious, and some eventually named in the writing process – not merely writing, but writing with the intention of analyzing them to identify fears, anger, and mistrust, and the eventual healing of such experiences through a re- narrated self who loves and is lovable. Throughout this process, I have come to acknowledge the powerful political work of education, that when armed with self-reflection and remembering, away from the oppressive
125 nature of fear toward a more liberating power of love, can have revolutionary results (Baszile, 2017). In seeking to uncover the revolutionary power hidden within my experiences and forest, I return to the Grumet-inspired (1988) question in which I asked at the beginning of this project: What does it mean to seek answers regarding how I might return to teach in an oppressive system of schooling, and at the same time contribute to a revolution of teaching as the “work of women” which acknowledges and values diverse ways of knowing, through a healing resistance to oppression of any kind? This question brings to mind the strengths and insights of the womanist (Phillips, 2006) as one who learns to recognize oppression of schooling and teaching when seen and to begin a reconciliation with past compliances and complicities in the oppression of others. By returning and forgiving myself for failed attempts to live and teach in a manner that works to “[build] structures of inclusiveness and positive interrelationships” (p. xxv), I have found strength and knowledge to refuse to participate in dehumanizing acts of denial of certain knowledge that is different from my own. Just as a variety of trees exist in my blended-rural forest, so too does a unique blend of womanist and black feminist theory exist in my version of what it means to do justice work in a rural place. I seek to do more than recognize and restore balance when I notice oppression of any sort (Phillips, 2006, p. xx), but to disrupt the social structure through radical feminist consciousness (hooks, 2000a, p. 110). As I gained consciousness, I have come to understand the existence and negative effects of a white hegemonic alliance (Allen, 2009) at a deeper level, and agree with Allen when he suggests that any hope for poor whites to find solidarity with people of color will require a rejection of such an alliance. But, at this moment, I wonder how I will challenge current elementary curriculum and practices with exclusionary accountability policies and the disappearance of meaningful social opportunities in high-poverty, low-performing rural schools while in the midst of local policies and commitments to state requirements? What will happen when I do? I can talk about the work, but can I do the work? Grumet (1988) also calls for a revolutionary change which I suggest includes the possibility of a newly reconceptualized rural curriculum, but I continue to wonder how I might exist in a space that will resist, reject, and probably even reprimand me for what they consider radical attempts to undermine progress toward excellence, in other words, toward white, supremacist, patriarchal, capitalist ways of schooling. By turning to hooks’ (2000) radical
126 feminism I see that it will require a clear understanding and radical commitment to “social change that takes into consideration the ways interlocking systems of classism, racism, and sexism work to keep women exploited and oppressed” (p. 109). In this project, specifically in chapter 6, I present an early and basic understanding of the complexities of such a system. Again, I suggest that the original scope of this project is to re-narrate a self into being that is prepared to grasp and tackle the depth of such a concept, I can only suggest that upon the conclusion of this leg of my journey as I return to teach that I will continue to explore, gain the language, and find confidence to identify what this means for my work in a predominantly white, rural school. Baszile (2017) brings this idea into the current political landscape of the 45th president as she considers the need for a “come to Jesus meeting…when [we] call folks together to reflect, remember, reassess, refocus, and recommit to the work at hand” (p. 206). She makes it clear that this change must be revolutionary and requires a movement since “[w]e are living in a time when there is not a problem but a complex of interrelated problems and in a time in which we need to shift our thinking from revolution to revolutionary praxis” (p. 212). Therefore, I return to teach with a commitment to my work in a predominantly white rural school as revolutionary praxis, with “the messy, complicated, and urgent question of justice on [my] mind and in [my] sights, [to] do good to think of [the] work – whatever it is – as movement building” (Baszile, 2017, p. 214). I will engage in dialogue with students, as well as colleagues, “to cultivate the qualities of revolutionary praxis in our own lives and work” (p. 214) – from a political stance as well as economic. In other words, I will continue to reflect, remember, reconsider significant memories, epiphanic moments, and critical conversations regarding what knowledge is of the most worth (Pinar, 2012) for rural, poor and working class, white students in this particular political moment and in this particular place which produces narratives grounded in economic struggles. Baszile (2017) offers insights into what it means for me as I seek to build an educational movement in the present era, in this rural place: It means we imagine and engage in pedagogy that centers dialectics, imagination, self- determination, community building, and love-ability. It means we craft and tell the compelling story about education and justice in the public domain. It means we invest in possibilities beyond the present and beyond what seems at this moment evident. When we do these things, revolutionary change will not be far behind. (p. 214)
127 Baszile (2017) draws on the work of Grace Lee Boggs and Kurashige (2011) and a shift from viewing change as the result of transference of power to a two-sided transformational process of changing not only ourselves but our institutions as well. The poignancy of this shift comes in one of Baszile’s examples of such a shift: “the James and Grace Lee Boggs School, a model of place-based education, where children learn all subject matter through community improvement projects” (p. 214, emphasis added). Perhaps this is the direction my future work might take, I am doing the work for self-transformation, have returned to do the work in the classroom, but continue to be unsure where I am going – I have to trust that I will “go somewhere.” Baszile’s example and insights have provided the possibility of a reconceptualized rural curriculum as one part of a movement which includes the local needs of rural communities in the quest for justice. I reconfigure my thoughts and perspective of the literature as a healing – an awakening – which shifts my work from a pedagogy for patriarchy to the work of women (Grumet, 1988), from domination to love (hooks, 2000b), and from protest to praxis (Baszile, 2017). I am one step closer to answering: What does it mean to do social justice work with poor rural white children in the current climate? Is it possible this project might be the change I wish to see? Have I moved my perspective from the constant return to uncomfortable, unframed memories of anger, frustration, and disgust to the development of revolutionary praxis in the form of a critical rural conversations of hope rather than fear? But am I big enough? I was sucked into the muck before, will I be sucked in again? (Really?! Again, with the big enough? I am big enough, for goodness sake!)
My Return In this section, I offer insights into the pedagogical and personal trials of returning to a rural place to teach poor, rural students with a reconceptualized curriculum that is “simultaneously substantive and syntactical” (Pinar, 2006, p. x). What follows are my thoughts as I reflect on the return at this moment – the moment of writing the final section of this dissertation.
128 Getting It Very Wrong I returned to teach on August 11, 2017. I am seated at my computer to write this section on February 16, 2018. If I do the math, I discover that I have been “back in the classroom” for roughly six months. I have endured two rounds of MAP testing, 20 teacher-based team (tbt) meetings to discuss differentiation, learned how to write goals for students with Individualized Education Plans (IEPs), cried tears for students who have experienced trauma deeper than I can express in words, and spoke out against “fix-the-student” initiatives to raise test scores, and in the meantime journaled, organized, analyzed, and prepared this dissertation project for my committee to review – but what I have not yet figured out is what it looks like to do justice work in a predominantly white, working class, rural place to which I belong as a blended-rural. Perhaps I am not as big as I thought I was. This is hard! Perhaps the perfect fruit of knowledge is not so perfect, I feel the wild crab apple withering in my hand. I have failed to engage myself and my rural students in place-based curriculum which might serve as a middle ground between their private, rural lives and the public, global, world. My new knowledge regarding a re-narrated white, blended-rural woman teacher, has not fully prepared me to return to teach as a co-producer of knowledge. I continuously find myself asking students to consume and regurgitate standardized bits of knowledge created and determined by an external, non-rural, entity. And, at the same time critiquing others as they do the same. I am getting it very wrong! I am stuck in the thorns of junk trees. Perhaps I need more healing, or more writing. I have discovered what it does not look like. And I have had glimpses and remain hopeful that I will figure this out. I will not quit until I do. This reflection brings me to the pedagogical next steps of my work in a high-poverty, low-performing, predominantly white rural school. The pedagogical perspective leads me to consider pedagogical questions alongside curricular concerns. Aoki (2003) offers insights into this blended inquiry, a pedagogical inquiry into lived experience as a site of both teaching and learning to ask: “Where is living pedagogy located?” (p. 1). He continues by suggesting that if I aspire to listen to what is being said, I must also listen to where the what is being said. Because I have returned to teach in the very place that I existed in the “dark night of the soul” (Grumet, 1998, p. xi) of teaching a lifeless common curriculum in a high-poverty, low-performing rural school, I return to address a different question in the healing nature of revisiting an educational
129 place of complicity and oppression and ask: What does this rural place say about local ways of knowing and experiential teaching and learning? How might I get to the bottom of this dichotomy between lived and planned curriculum in a manner that allows me to remain committed to my truth, while being closely surveilled by building, district, and state administrators and consultants? In Getting It Very Wrong, it seems evident that this question remains an elusive quandary – one that I will continue to explore through creative writing and journaling as I have come to trust the currere process of writing through my return to past experiences as a means to reconstruct a self who is better prepared to engage in revolutionary work toward justice (Baszile, 2017). I need to continue to ask myself: “Who am I? (Baszile, 2015). And how will I do the work in this place with the knowledge I have at this moment?” (Berry, personal communication, 2018). How will my return inform what this rural, curriculum work can be, must be? How does this rural setting limit how I might experience and resolve the conflict of my blended-rural narrative?
Blockages: What It is Not The first three months of school were difficult to say the least. I was attempting to learn a new position as Intervention Specialist, on a different side of the building – the side which housed grades 3-5 – the high-stakes testing wing. In Ohio, students in grade 3 begin taking the American Institute of Research (AIR) assessments to determine levels of proficiency with Common Core State Standards (CCSS). These AIR tests are especially important for third graders in Ohio (and several other states) whose promotion to fourth grade is contingent on earning a cut score – driven by Third Grade Reading Guarantee federal policies. Teachers in these grades seemed to have different priorities than those in the early childhood wing. At first glance, they appeared to me to be more content-driven than student-focused, and committed to following test-prep curriculum to raise scores on state AIR tests, rather than developing their students’ topics of interests. As testing dates draw near, the test-prep amplifies and tutoring programs become available for students identified as “at-risk.” Because our building’s assessment record has been consistently low, the scrutiny of student assessment data and intensification of interventions for these students is an ever-present priority that must be closely monitored.
130 The building in which I have worked for many years consists of 13 teachers in grades pre-K through 5, so we know each other well, in a sort of casual, social manner, but had little insights into teaching philosophies and styles. My first two weeks consisted of me struggling to figure out what it meant to teach students with IEPs in a manner that would allow them to participate with their peers as much as possible. Part of my immersion process included me sitting in classrooms quietly listening to teachers contribute bits of knowledge into the accounts of their students (Freire, 1993). For example, students engage in daily work from “test-prep” materials, which break short stories into two page sections with prompts to find evidence and practice with skills (i.e., inference, theme, summarize, compare, contrast), highlight examples of such skills, and answer pre-determined answers related to the skills of each section. I watched as students were handed “treats” as they performed in a manner the teacher deemed appropriate, were chastised for saying an answer without permission, or asking a question that wasn’t relevant to the topic at hand. (We must stay on topic at all costs.) I also sat and watched as teachers determined when it was appropriate to take care of basic bodily functions and how long it should take to do so. It was difficult for me to experience to say the least. (FYI – 5 minutes is too long to be in the restroom. And, not all of the teachers on this wing taught this way.) I couldn’t help but be reminded of Pinar’s (1975b) Sanity, Madness and the School, in which he argues against traditional schooling by suggesting the methods serve as a dehumanizing and oppressive experience for students, and drew on it often to support my critique of the “bad teachers” in the building. Pinar suggests that a discourse which names students as beasts ultimately creates a place in which they must be tamed and domesticated to internalize values of socially controlled and emotionless adults prepared to do the work of the private world. The first few days/weeks of school is the time when teachers prepare and train students to behave a certain way, speak a certain way, ask permission a certain way, and essentially be a certain way. In other words, each teacher creates a setting, or curriculum, which determines who the student may or may not be while in her place – her classroom. In our rural, predominantly white small school, that way is a white, middle-class way which screams, “I am the leader and you must be the compliant, submissive followers who are given decontextualized bits of knowledge as the teacher deems you ready to receive. Then you must dutifully regurgitate that information, sometimes in a sing-song choral response” – literally. This was enough evidence for
131 me to realize that Pinar’s madness of schooling was alive and well in my building, and I was pretty sure I would never make it through the year. I also noticed another sanity-challenging phenomenon in the moments that I was seated quietly in the prisons of hell. I saw many references to students who were doing things correctly. “I like the way Susie is sitting quietly.” “Susie raises her hand to speak.” “Susie has her supplies neatly tucked under her desk.” “Be like Susie.” “She is good, you are not.” Pinar (1975b) refers to this over-reliance on modeling, which requires that students be like something or someone else, but the use of modeling can only effective if the student (object) wants to be like the model. In order to want to be like someone else, one must lose the desire to be oneself. As I had been preparing to write this project simultaneously as I returned to sit in these places, I was curious about how or if students might be able to engage in similar self-reflection process. I watched and wondered if my students had knowledge of a self? How had this place pre-written their narratives in a manner that denied them an individual narration of self? I saw many examples where conversation, questions, and student inquiry were shut down as a means of controlling the room and the transference of knowledge deemed appropriate for raising test scores. I saw a lot of dehumanizing instruction and curriculum. I was angry – and felt the weight of an elephant on my chest for months. It was creating a block to my own progress. Why did I fear bad teachers? Why did I allow their failures to plant seeds of junk – seeds that would grow anger. How would I ever come to love them? How could I come to love teachers who persistently attempt to tame and domesticate spirited, creative, and inquisitive students? I’m still not sure, but I am sure that I must learn, because it is causing a block to my own progress. I needed to examine my experiences and the struggle to find my place, direction, as a new healthier white blended-rural, teacher self. I felt more broken than I had in years. I thought I was better, but I felt worse than I had before I left. I was angry, frequently used offensive expletives, and was in dire need of a language to help these students unlearn this madness (Pinar, 1975b). The following is a brief, yet significant, moment of shifting gears which occurred most inappropriately during my comprehensive examination defense. Fortunately, help came from my dissertation committee after one point during my comps defense when I got lost in the anger of what I was seeing in the classroom. I attempted to answer a question posed by Dr. Malin, but quickly resorted to rambling about the horrors I experienced
132 in my return. Eventually, I got some sense and could tell by their faces I needed to stop the spewing and switch gears. I tried to recover, but I’m pretty sure I failed to do so gracefully. Fortunately, I was reminded of the power of watching, literally, by Dr. Sheri Leafgren who suggested that I quit watching teachers and begin to watch the students. She reminded me of Paley, which was quite helpful and prompted me to realize that I would need to change my approach. When I went to school the next day, I began to watch students. (Again, in the writing of this memory, I now see that I failed to recognize, much less name, my own fear as I watched teachers treat students like puppies. That would come later.) So, as I returned from Oxford, again, to take my place in the place that drove me out – as my public service toward justice through love – I did so with a renewed determination to uncover what this place is trying to speak. I needed to find a way to listen to what this place has to say, what it doesn’t say, and what it has forgotten. I needed to move beyond critique of others to self- exploration. I wish I could say it was all peachy and rosy after Dr. Leafgren reminded me to watch children, but it was not. I continued to struggle with an overly critical attitude toward the teachers’ style of instruction in my new wing…until my dad died. As I indicate in chapter 4, my relationship with my dad was complicated, but the combination of returning to the past to re-narrate the present and future and the unexpectedness of his death during this time was more than serendipitous. It provided an epiphanic moment.
Dad’s Funeral I had been journaling significant memories of my relationship with my dad for several days, with the intention of using them in this project. One evening after school, I had just finished dinner when my brother called to tell me of dad’s passing. I remember an unwillingness to accept that it was true, and then thinking about what I might do next. Should I call his wife? Should I wait for her to call me? What is my place? Do I have a place? I remember going into just-do-the-next-thing mode and decided to call her. She clearly wanted to honor our (my brothers’, my son’s, and my) wishes. I could tell by the conversation that I would need (actually, wanted) to go there, to simply be present. He was my dad. I needed to be there for the arrangements. I was torn. I was not sure how to feel. He had been theirs for over 20 years. He was never mine…but he was, he was always only ever mine. So not only did I go to help make arrangements, I agreed to write the eulogy and speak at the funeral. But what
133 the heck would I say…I didn’t even really know him. I stoically did my duty as his oldest child. I was there, calm, and quietly gracious as people extended their sympathies. But, as I participated in the visitation process, observed the grieving of distant family, and moved through the formalities of the funeral I began to feel a shift. I noticed an unnamed fear lift and leave. I watched as his current family grieved his passing. I began to realize that I had lost him many years ago, but only because I had refused to forgive. I sensed an unconditional acceptance from his present family in their grief. I felt love for a family I had distanced myself from for many years. On the way home, my son and I shared our thoughts, and he had felt the same shift. It was moving and powerful. Everything was new again. The past was no longer the past, it was a new present. I soon found the language to speak of the shift. I realized that I was no longer alone in a rejection. We were all abandoned, lonely, and afraid. By sharing the grief, the weight of rejection no longer seemed so heavy. In an odd way, I finally had my dad. He is now truly mine. I am, and always had been his first-born, his only daughter, no more would earthly relationships keep us apart. I experienced a deep healing of the fear of rejection. I am finally enough. When I returned from my dad’s funeral, I had experienced a transformation. The trauma and fear of rejection I experienced as a girl-child fell away, and I literally felt a sensation of lightness as the giant weight of rejection had been removed from my heart. I found healing through experiencing grief and love. But what does this mean for my work? How does this knowledge, this bodily knowledge of healing trauma through loss and love inform my work in a predominantly white, rural place? I explore the possibilities of this healing in the following section, as I consider how trauma has served to block my ability to love myself, love others, and love the world.
Glimpses of Hope: What It Can Be I have long held a burning passion to see rural educators teaching and learning alongside their students in classrooms filled with creativity, imagination, and critical thinking regarding the beauty of a particular rural place. This project suggests that passion had been choked out by the growth and mismanagement of early junk trees in the form of trauma, fear, and darkness that I incurred as a child, young adult, and early teacher. I have also pointed out that my mis-guided
134 educational commitments to unexamined soft-woods of classism and racism, prevented me from fully examining the structural limitations of such political, social, historical, and economic constructions. In returning to consider my educational experiences as they contribute to a forest of trees, all necessary, some ugly, some scary, and some even traumatizing, but necessary nonetheless, I came to see the power of returning to the past to re-narrate my story into a collective, rather than a series of individual stories, and have begun to glimpse the wisdom of the oak tree, while at the same time tasting the perfect fruit of the wild crab apple. By tasting the wild apple, I have experienced a philosophical shift from one who held the truth (naive teacher) to one who acknowledges and seeks to understand the truth of others (research teacher) as a means of healing from a commitment to a curriculum designed to perpetuate whiteness and white supremacy. I have come to see that healing occurs in acknowledging my stories as single moments, single narratives, which can be examined as single trees in a forest of a well-balanced collection of trees. But more important, I realized the unproductive nature of critiquing all of the things that teachers in my building were “getting wrong.” I can now see that I had been focusing on the single trees, or narratives, of others in this place. The time had come for me to see their forests. This wider view has the potential to serve as the beginning step in learning what it means to love, not by blinding myself to junk trees, or bad instruction, but by seeing them for what they are – necessary entities for the growth of a balanced and healthy forest. The single moments of others, that I have the privilege of experiencing because my role as Intervention Specialist places me in their classrooms, are not my stories to examine, analyze, and/or speak. In providing my colleagues with space to explore their own stories, I have found a means for clearing a pathway away from fear and anger toward love. I have found a way to move past the critique of others and make an examination of myself a priority in what it means to reconceptualize rural education. It begins with self, specifically, a re-narrated self that can only occur through a return to the past. I drew on significant memories, epiphanic moments, and complicated conversations regarding my own racial learning and unlearning that spanned an invitation to name my own racial identity, to learning through teaching a second-language of social justice, to accepting the deeply buried fear of rejection in order to begin the healing process through love, and finally toward my own process of reading and studying my way through confusions regarding my ever
135 present question: How might a rural, white, woman teacher who is herself working on healing from her own colonization and complicity in whiteness create a classroom environment that engages students in a process to disrupt and refute how this rural place promotes narratives of poor whites who feel justified in speaking insensitivities (in some cases hostilities) toward others? And in so doing, I am prepared to provide an environment, a middle space, a curriculum which serves as a bridge between their homes and the world. I stand at the doorway of a classroom, a setting, a curriculum, in which rural, white, students are asked not only what they think, but to reflect on what they think, to engage in and inquire into what others think about the same thing, to come to see why people believe in different ways. I seek not to complete students, but to provide a curriculum in which students can complete themselves – by beginning in a place where they feel safe enough to question and explore themselves – this particular, predominantly white rural place. I will encourage them to manage their own junk trees in a way that promotes a balanced sense of individualism and self as social being.
Conclusion: Where’s the Line? In conclusion, I must ultimately return to Critical Race Feminist currere (Baszile, 2015) to attempt to summarize answers to the question I have asked throughout the project: Who am I, as a white, middle-class, woman teacher in this rural place of schooling? I am a woman who has returned to remembered stories of educational experiences and engaged in a healing process which has allowed me to begin a decolonization of my own mind and re-narrate a strong, confident, and healthier girl-woman self into being. I am a blended-rural who lives, exists, and teaches in different rural than which she is from, as one who has the unique ability to both belong and not belong – giving me an edge in listening to what is being said, what is not being said, and what has been forgotten. I am a white, woman teacher who will continue to work on healing from her own colonization, and who has gained a language, confidence, and knowledge regarding what it means to create a classroom environment that engages students in similar self- transformative process. I am prepared to love myself enough to forgive the times I get it wrong, and to learn from those times to do better the next time. I am a white, rural, woman teacher committed to engaging in revolutionary praxis which will disrupt and refute how this rural place promotes narratives of poor whites who feel justified in speaking insensitivities (in some cases hostilities) toward others. And, although I am not exactly sure what it means to teach, to study, to
136 educate in this moment in this place (Pinar, 2012), because the nature of the process requires a combination of planned and organic co-production of knowledge with and for my students, I do now clearly know what it does not mean. Just as the growth of a forest is never complete. I am not, nor ever will be healed, but I will forever know that it is in the critical moments where reflection and knowledge converge that I will experience moments of success and progress. There will be more junk trees, there will be more soft-pines, but in this mature forest there will also most certainly be enduring oaks – which will remain stoically watching over and reminding me to watch, listen, reflect, and return to the past to dream of a better future for this place – the place which I have come to be. So grows the forest…
137 Postlude: A Letter to My Students
February 20, 2018 Dear past, future, and present students, Hi. I am your new teacher, Mrs. Larrick. I am looking forward to getting to know you this year, but more important I am looking forward to you getting to know yourself. I am sure you have gifts and talents you would love to explore and exercise in the classroom. I promise you that you will have the freedom to do so this year. If you want to dance, we’ll dance. If you want to sing, we’ll sing. If you want to write poetry, we’ll write poetry. You name it – I promise, we’ll find a way to do it. With all of the passionate protests (some of which may seem scary) and violence we see on TV and on social media, I am also sure that you have questions about what is happening in our small town, our country, and some of you may even wonder what is happening in other parts of the world. Everything seems so confusing right now. I promise you that you will not only have the opportunity to ask those questions, but that we will work together to find answers – maybe even solutions – to some of the problems we notice. Unfortunately, I won’t have all the answers. But, I do know that together we might be able to find a means of making sense by exploring what others feel about similar issues to uncover what it means to heal our fears of people who are different from us. I moved to this rural place 30 years ago, but still often wonder what it means to be here. I would love to learn from you, those who are from here, and would love to encourage you to think about what it means to live here, in this remote, rural place. I would like to think about what it is that you like about this place? What is it that you don’t like? Do you want to stay here? Do you want to leave? Why? Or Why not? My goal for us is that we learn to speak a language of justice, a language which causes us to reject hurtful words about people who are different from us. I want us to find balance within ourselves, by remembering that school is a place for us to practice what it means to belong – to a family, as well as what it means to belong to a community of others. Often people who live in the cities want to decide for us (people who live in rural areas) what we are and who we can be. I say “Baloney!” We get to decide who and what we are. I promise you that I will allow you to explore that with guiding support.
138 This year, we will take a journey together. The journey will allow us to examine our own stories and what they mean not only for ourselves, but for the world in which we live. Some of these stories will cause you to rethink what you have been taught or learned to know about what it means to be different. We will work through that together – I will always be honest and use a language that speaks to how who we are as boys and/or girls, rich and/or poor, and as white, black, Hispanic, pacific islander, and/or blended. We will be kind and celebrate the differences we bring to the classroom, because it will be those differences that allow us to learn and grow away from fear and hate, toward love. Unfortunately, some of us have private stories that are quite scary. I have stories from the past that make me feel lonely, afraid, and as if I live in darkness. I promise to remember that your stories are yours, and yours alone. I will never ask you to share private stories of trauma (unless you’re ready to), but rather to think about the questions you have because you have experienced them. I promise to spend more time listening, and less time bombarding you with bits of knowledge that someone who doesn’t live near us has decided that it is important for you to know. To this, again, I say “Baloney!” We get to decide what knowledge is worth knowing (Pinar, 2012). I will help you find a way to engage in certain school requirements, or when we decide that we would rather not participate in certain “mandated” assessments to support your resistance. I want you to know that I will do my best to teach in a way that says: I am for you, I am for helping you narrate your own version of you, I am for healing fear, trauma, and anger through love, I am for a celebration of different ways of being, I am for non-violent ways toward change, but most of all I am for justice, as we exist in this remote, rural place of schooling, as we exist in families, in the community, in the country, and in the world.
Love, Mrs. Larrick P. S. I also promise to prepare a classroom setting from the heart, as a white, rural, woman teacher who “Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless” (Walker, 1983, p. xii).
139 References Abram, D. (1996). The spell of sensuous. New York, NY: Vintage. Adami, R. (2014). Re-thinking relations in human rights education: The politics of narratives. In Griffiths, M., Hoveid, M. H., Todd, S., & Winter, C. (Eds.). Re-imagining relationships in education: Ethics, politics and practices (pp. 126 - 142). West Sussex, UK: Wiley-Blackwell. Ahmed, S. (2004). The cultural politics of emotion. Edinburgh, Scotland: Edinburgh University Press. Allen, R. L. (2009). What about poor white people. In W. Ayers, T. Quinn & D. Stovall (Eds.), The handbook of social justice in education (209-230). New York, NY: Routledge. Apple, M.W. (2001). Comparing neo-liberal projects and inequality in education. Comparative education, 37(4), 409-423. Aoki, T. T. (2003). Locating living pedagogy in teacher" research": Five metonymic moments. Counterpoints, 193, 1-9. Azano, A. P. & Stewart, T. T. (2015). Exploring place and practicing justice: Preparing pre- service teachers for success in rural schools. Journal of Research in Rural Education, 30(9), 1–12. Bageant, J. L. (2007). Deer hunting with Jesus. New York, NY: Crown Publishers. Banks, J. (2013). The construction and historical development of multicultural education, 1962– 2012. Theory Into Practice, 52(sup1), 73-82. Bannerman, H. (1899). The story of little black Sambo. Brooklyn, NY: Handprint Books. Bazile, D.T. (2015) Critical Race Feminist Currere. In He, M.F, Schultz, B. D. & Schubert, W. H. (Eds.), The SAGE Guide to curriculum in education (119- 126). Los Angeles, CA.: Sage Publications. Baszile, D. T. (2017). In pursuit of the revolutionary-not-yet: Some thoughts on education work, movement building, and praxis. Educational Studies, 53 Biesta, G. J. J. (2013). The beautiful risk of education. Boulder, CO: Paradigm Publishers. Boylorn, R. M. & Orbe, M. P. (Eds.). (2016). Critical autoethnography: Intersecting cultural identities in everyday life (2nd ed.). New York, NY: Routledge. Brenner, D. (2016). Rural educator policy brief: Rural education and the Every Student Succeeds Act. The Rural Educator, 37(2), 23-27.
140 Burriss, T. L., & Gantt, P. M. (2013). Appalachia in the classroom: teaching the region. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Burton, M., Brown, K., & Johnson, A. (2013). Storylines about rural teachers in the United States: A narrative analysis of the literature. Journal of Research in Rural Education, 28(12), 1-18. Butler, T. (2013). Rainbow pie: A redneck memoir and Those who work, those who don’t: Poverty, morality, and family in rural America. Journal of Research in Rural Education, 28(5), 1–4. Castagno, A. E. (2008). “I don’t want to heat that!”: Legitimating whiteness through silence in schools. Anthropology & Education Quarterly, 39(3), 314-333. Casey, E. S. (1996). How to get from space to place in a fairly short stretch of time. In K. Basso & S. Feld (Eds.). Senses of place (pp. 13-52). Santa Fe, NM: School of California Press. Cleveland, R., Chambers, J., Mainus, C., Powell, N., Skepple, R., Tyler, T., & Wood, A. (2011). School culture, equity, and student academic performance in a rural Appalachian school. Kentucky Journal of Excellence in College Teaching & Learning, 9, 35–42. Coladarci, T. (2007). Improving the yield of rural education research: An editor’s swan song. Journal of Research in Rural Education, 22(3), 1-9. Collins, P. H. (2000). Black feminist thought: Knowledge, consciousness, and the politics of empowerment (2nd ed.). New York, NY: Routledge. Corbett, M. (2009). Rural schooling in mobile modernity: Returning to the places I've been. Journal of Research in Rural Education (Online), 24(7), 1. Delpit, L. (2006). Other’s people’s children: Cultural conflict in the classroom. New York, NY: The New Press. Eakin, P. J. (2008). Living autobiographically: How we create identity in narrative. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Edgerton, S. H. (1996). Translating the curriculum: Multiculturalism into cultural studies. New York, NY: Routledge. Fishman, D. (2015). School reform for rural America. Education Next, 15(3), 9–15. Frankenberg, R. (1993). White women, race matters: The social construction of whiteness. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.
141 Freire, P. (1993). Pedagogy of the oppressed (2nd ed.). New York, NY: Continuum Publishing Company. Freire, P. (1998). Pedagogy of freedom: Ethics, democracy, and civic courage. New York, NY: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, Inc. Freire, P. (2007). Daring to dream: Toward a pedagogy of the unfinished. A. M. A. Freire (Ed.). Boulder, CO: Routledge. Gillborn, D. (2005). Education policy as an act of white supremacy: whiteness, critical race theory, and education reform. Journal of Education Policy, 20(4), 485-505. Giroux, H. A. (1988). Teachers as intellectuals: Toward a critical pedagogy of learning. Greenwood Publishing Group. Gorski, P. C. (2012). Perceiving the problem of poverty and schooling: Deconstructing the class stereotypes that mis-shape education practice and policy. Equity & Excellence in Education, 45(2), 302–319. Graue, M. E. (1992). Meanings of readiness and the kindergarten experience. In S. A. Kessler & B. B. Swadener (Eds.), Reconceptualizing the Early Childhood Curriculum: Beginning the Dialogue (62-90). New York, NY: Teachers College Press. Gruenwald, D. A. (2003a). Foundations of place: A multidisciplinary framework for place- conscious education. American Educational Research Journal, 40(3), 619-654. Gruenwald, D. A. (2003b). The best of both worlds: A critical pedagogy of place. Educational Researcher, 32(4), 3-12. doi: 10.3102/0013189X032004003 Grumet, M. R. (1988). Bitter milk: Women and teaching. Amhurst, MA: The University of Massachusetts Press. Harris, E. (n.d. a). Ultimate Guide to Spirit Animals, Power Animals and Totems. Retrieved January 23, 2018 from http://www.spiritanimal.info/whale-spirit-animal/ Harris, E. (n.d. b) Ultimate Guide to Spirit Animals, Power Animals and Totems. Retrieved January 23, 2018 from http://www.spiritanimal.info/dolphin-spirit-animal/ He, M. F. (2003). A river forever flowing: Cross-cultural lives and identities in the multicultural landscape. Greenwich, CT: Information Age Publishing. hooks, b. (1989). Talking back: Thinking feminist, thinking black. Boston, MA: South End Press. hooks, b. (1992). Black looks: Race and representation. Boston, MA: South End Press.
142 hooks, b. (1994). Teaching to transgress: Education as the practice of freedom. New York, NY: Routledge. hooks, b. (1995). Killing rage: Ending racism. New York, NY: Henry Holt and Company, Inc. hooks, b. (2000a). Where we stand: Class matters. New York, NY: Routledge. hooks, b. (2000b). All about love: New visions. New York, NY: Harper Collins Publishers. hooks, b. (2003). Teaching community: A pedagogy of hope. New York, NY: Routledge. Hoveid, M. H., & Finne, A. (2014). ‘You have to give yourself’: Care and love in pedagogical relationships. In Griffiths, M., Hoveid, M. H., Todd, S., & Winter, C. (Eds.). Re-imagining relationships in education: Ethics, politics and practices (pp. 73 - 88). West Sussex, UK: Wiley-Blackwell. Howard, G. (1993). Whites in multicultural education. Phi Delta Kappan, 75(1), 36-41. Howard, G. R. (2006). We can’t teach what we don’t know: White teachers, multiracial schools. (2nd ed.). New York, NY: Teachers College Press. Howley, C. B., & Howley, A. (2010). Learning to be rural: Identity lessons from history, schooling, and the U.S. corporate media. In K. A. Schaft & A. Y. Jackson (Eds.), Rural education for the twenty-first century: Identity, place, and community in a globalizing world (17-33). University Park, Pa: Pennsylvania State University Press. Howley, C. B., Howley, A., & Yahn, J. (2014). Motives for dissertation research at the intersection between rural education and curriculum and instruction. Journal of Rural Education, 29(5), 1-12. Irigaray, L. (2008). Sharing the world. New York, NY: Continuum. Isenberg, N. (2016). White trash: The 400-year untold history of class in America. New York, NY: Penguin random House LLC. Kaomea, J. (2000). A curriculum of aloha? Colonialism and tourism in Hawai’i”s elementary textbooks. Curriculum inquiry, 30(3), 319 -344. Kim, J. (2016). Understanding narrative inquiry: The crafting and analysis of stories as research. Boston, MA: SAGE Publications, Inc. Kincheloe, J. L., & Pinar, W. (Eds.). (1991). Curriculum as social psychoanalysis: The significance of place. New York, NY: SUNY Press. Ladson-Billings, G. (1994). The dreamkeepers. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass Publishers.
143 Ladson-Billings, G. (2014). The pedagogy of poverty: Big lies about poor children. In P. C. Gorski & K. Zenkov (Eds.), The big lies of school reform: Finding better solutions for the future of public education (7-16). New York, NY: Routledge. Larrick, P. S. (2017). My currere journey toward a critical rural pedagogy. The Currere Exchange Journal, 1(1), 67-77. Leonardo, Z. (2002). The souls of white folk: Critical pedagogy, whiteness studies, and globalization discourse. Race Ethnicity and Education, 5(1), 29-50. Leonardo, Z. (2004). The color of supremacy: Beyond the discourse of ‘white privilege.’ Educational Philosophy and Theory, 36(2), 137-152. Ludke, R. L., & Obermiller, P. J. (Eds.) (2012). Appalachian health and well-being. Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky. Matias, C. E. (2013). Check yo’self before you wreck yo’self and our kids: Counterstories from culturally responsive white teachers? ...to culturally responsive white teachers! Interdisciplinary Journal of Teaching and Learning, 3(2), 68-81. Matias, C. E. & Mackey, J. (2016). Breaking down whiteness in antiracist teaching: Introducing critical whiteness pedagogy. Urban Review, 48(1), 32-50. Matias, C. E., & Zembylas, M. (2014). ‘When saying you care is not really caring’: emotions of disgust, whiteness ideology, and teacher education. Critical Studies in Education, 55(3), 319-337. McLaren, P. (1986). Schooling as a ritual performance: Towards a political economy of educational symbols and gestures. New York, NY: Routledge. McLaren, P. (2003). Life in Schools (4th ed.). New York, NY: Allyn and Bacon. Miller, J. L. (2005). Sounds of silence breaking: women, autobiography, curriculum. New York, NY: Peter Lang Publishing, Inc. Mullen, C. A. (2016). Corporate networks and their grip on the public school sector and education policy. In C. H. Tienken & C. A. Mullen (Eds.), Education policy perils: Tackling the tough issues. (27-62). New York, NY: Routledge. National Center for Educational Statistics. (n.d.). Rural Education in America - Definitions. Retrieved May 11, 2017, from https://nces.ed.gov/surveys/ruraled/definitions.asp Neisser, U. (1988). Five kinds of self-knowledge. Philosophical Psychology, 1(1), 35-59. Noddings, N. (2013). Caring: A relational approach to ethics and moral education. (3rd ed.).
144 Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Obermiller, P. J., & Maloney, M. E. (2016). The uses and misuses of Appalachian culture. Journal of Appalachian Studies, 22(1), 103-112. Ohio Department of Education. (2017). Ohio school report cards. Retrieved from http://reportcard.education.ohio.gov/Pages/School-Report.aspx?SchoolIRN=031039 Owen, H. (2008). Open space technology: A user’s guide (3rd ed.). San Francisco, CA: Berrett- Koehler Publishers Inc. Payne, R. K. (2003). A framework for understanding poverty. Highlands, TX : aha! Process, 2003. Peck, M. S. (1977). The road less traveled. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster. Paley, V. (1981). Wally’s stories. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Phillips, L. (2006). Womanism: On its own. In L. Phillips (Ed.). The womanist reader (xix-lv). New York, NY: Routledge. Pinar, W. F. (1975a). Currere: Toward reconceptualization. In W. F. Pinar (Ed.). Curriculum Theorizing: The Reconceptualists (396-414). Berkeley, CA: McCutcheon Publishing Corporation. Pinar, W. F. (1975b). Sanity, madness, and the school. In W. F. Pinar (Ed.). Curriculum Theorizing: The Reconceptualists (359-383). Berkeley, CA: McCutcheon Publishing Corporation. Pinar, W. F. (2006). The synoptic text today and other essays: Curriculum development after the reconceptualization. New York, NY: Peter Lang. Pinar, W. F. (2012). What is curriculum theory? (2nd ed.). New York, NY: Routledge. Pinar, W. F., Reynolds, W. M., Slattery, P. & Taubman, P. M. (2008). Understanding curriculum: An introduction to the Study of Historical and Contemporary Curriculum Discourses. New York, NY: Peter Lang Publishing, Inc. Poetter, T. S. (2015). Teacher leadership for the 21st century (3rd ed.). Cincinnati, OH: Van- Griner. Poetter, T. S. (2017). Curriculum fragments: Theorizing while practicing an educational life and building a currere oriented representation of an educational “I.” Currere Exchange Journal, 1(2), 1-11. Poetter, T. S., Googins, J., Tracey, N., Li, S., Schoen, T., Smith, C., …Winn, V. (2017).
145 Was someone mean to you today? The impact of standardization, corporatization, and high stakes testing on students, teachers, communities, schools, and democracy. Cincinnati, OH: Van-Griner, LLC. Quantz, R. (2011). Rituals and student identity in education: Ritual critique for a new pedagogy. New York: Palgrave McMillan. ISBN-10: 023010116X ISBN-13: 978-0230101166. Ranciere, J. (2003). The philosopher and his poor. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Ranciere, J. (2005). From politics to aesthetics? Paragraph, 28(1), 13-25. Scott, D. (1890). A history of the early settlement of Highland County, Ohio. Hillsboro, OH: The Hillsborough Gazette. Retrieved from https://books.google.com/books/about/A_History_of_the_Early_Settlement_of_Hig.html ?id=C04VAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=kp_read_button#v=onepage&q&f =false Semke, C. A., & Sheridan, S. M. (2012). Family-school connections in rural educational settings: A systematic review of the empirical literature. School Community Journal, 22(1), 21–47. Sleeter, C. E. (2001). Preparing teachers for culturally diverse schools: Research and the overwhelming presence of whiteness. Journal of teacher education, 52(2), 94-106. Sleeter, C. E., & Grant, C. (2006). Making choices for multicultural education: Five approaches to race, class, and gender (5th ed.). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Smith, B. E., & Fisher, S. (2016). Reinventing the Region: Defining, Theorizing, Organizing Appalachia. Journal of Appalachian Studies, 22(1), 76-79. Snyder, G. (1990). The practice of the wild: Essays. San Francisco, CA: North Point Press. Swadener, B. B. (2010). “At-risk” of “At-promise”? From deficit constructions of the “other childhood” to possibilities for authentic alliance with children and families. International Critical Childhood Studies, 3(1), 7-29. Thandeka. (1999). Learning to be white: Money race, and God in America. New York, NY: Continuum Publishing Company. Theobald, P., & Wood, K. (2010). Learning to be rural: Identity lessons from history, schooling, and the U.S. corporate media. In Schaft, K. A. & Jackson, A. Y. (Eds.). Rural education for the twenty-first century: Identity, place, and community in a globalizing world. (17- 33). University Park, Pa: Pennsylvania State University Press.
146 Thoreau, H. D. (1887). The succession of forest trees: and wild apples. New York, NY: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Retrieved from https://books.google.com/books/about/The_Succession_of_Forest_Trees.html?id=Wm5b AAAAMAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=kp_read_button#v=onepage&q&f=false Tieken, M. C. (2014). Why rural schools matter. Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press. Walker, A. (1983). In search of our mothers’ gardens. New York, NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Publishers. Woodson, C. G. (2010). The mis-education of the negro. United States: Seven Treasures Publication. (Original work published 1933). Wray, M. (2016). Not quite white: White trash and the boundaries of whiteness. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
147