In this blog, I describe how my class co-authored a set of community guidelines in order to create a supportive environment for discussing issues of race, class, gender, and sexuality.
This past semester, I had the deep pleasure of teaching an English course on “The Arts of Dissent” at Queens College, where I shared some of my absolute favorite works of literature — Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun, Chris Abani’s GraceLand, and Claudia Rankine’s Citizen — with twenty-eight incredibly bright students.
Since I began teaching at Queens, I have thought a lot about what it means to be a white teacher who teaches texts primarily by black authors to a diverse class of students. I want to create a classroom environment in which every student feels encouraged to share their reactions to our readings. I also hope to increase students’ awareness of their-subject positioning within intersecting axes of power, just as I am continually seeking to better understand my own positioning in this matrix. There are many times and places where “calling out” is not only appropriate, but necessary; however, as an educator, my primary means of involving students in critical reflections on sexism, racism, homophobia, and class privilege is always through calling in. I have been fortunate to have many students who are already deeply involved in these conversations and struggles for social justice and I do my best to help them understand the historical and institutional nature of these issues. For the rest, I call students into these conversations by assigning powerful readings that convey the urgency of addressing structural inequality.
This past semester, as we completed our discussions of A Raisin in the Sun and were poised to begin Citizen, it felt urgent to deliberately address with my students the ways gender, race, class, and sexuality shape classroom conversations, often in unacknowledged ways. For those who haven’t read it, Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric, is a gorgeous multimodal assemblage — at once seething and breathtaking — that tracks the pernicious effects of microaggressions across multiple scales. Ranging in breadth from Turner’s painting The Slave Ship (1840) to the Black Lives Matter movement, Citizen should be required reading not only for every student, but for everyone.
As our discussions of the text approached, I was thinking about the ways class conversations can exclude certain voices and elicit a kind of tokenism, in which the perspective of one student, especially from a minority background, is wrongfully understood to represent the perspective of an entire social group. I was worried that our class conversations, especially in terms of who gets to speak the most, would reproduce the very hierarchies that Rankine’s text works to subvert. I was thinking of students whose fears of saying the wrong thing might lead them to disengage from these important conversations entirely (and thinking about the ways disengagement is often a stance only available to the relatively privileged).
Whether you have known me as one of my students or a colleague, you may have noticed that I am obsessive about timekeeping in meetings, events, and the courses I teach. If you haven’t known me in either capacity, nice to digitally meet you. My name is Danica and I am obsessed with timekeeping. This is because, as I recently had the opportunity to explain to an audience, for me, timekeeping is a feminist issue.
I first learned this from personal experience in a graduate seminar that was, in many ways, fantastic, but with one major flaw. When the end of the semester rolled around, the final few classes were dedicated to people sharing the progress they had made on their final research essays and getting feedback from our brilliant classmates and professor. As someone who is constantly begging for people to engage with my work, I could not have been more eager to present my ideas thus far and see what suggestions my classmates would provide. All semester, our discussions had been so interesting, and I knew that their engagement with my ideas would push my research to the next level. They brought with them knowledge from many different disciplines and were always recommending additional readings that brought the class material to life in unexpected ways. In each of our final classes, during the last hour, three students would present their work, which meant we each prepared for a twenty-minute conversation comprised of brief remarks followed by a discussion. Given this limited amount of time, I painstakingly decided which sections of my project I wanted to share and framed questions that I thought my classmates would be able to help with. However, the day I was scheduled to present my work, I was assigned to go last (by now, I’m sure you know where this is going). I remember sitting in my seat and watching the hands of the clock tick by as the students before me shared their work and engaged our seminar in a lively dialogue. But apparently I was the only one watching the clock, because before I knew it there were only ten minutes left in the class and it still was not my turn. And then there were only five.
I will never forget the feeling of sitting in that chair, fidgeting with sweaty palms and unable to contribute to the conversation because I was so anxious that my turn would never come. And that’s basically what happened.
I share this anecdote not to blame anyone, but as a reminder that timekeeping is not something that comes naturally to any of us. Following this experience, I began to recognize the ways that I was guilty of neglecting time, and therefore not equitably distributing it, in my classrooms as well. I became determined not to ever leave my students or colleagues feeling like I felt that day.
It turns out that research supports my sense that time is not equitably distributed in classroom settings. This survey of research on gender bias in classroom participation describes how male students are called on more frequently than female students, receive more attention from instructors, and speak for longer than female students (further confirmed by research here, here, here, and here). Students of color experience microaggressions in the classroom, reporting that their class contributions are ignored or minimized and that they are made to feel inferior because of the ways they speak (read more here and here). Overall, classrooms reproduce social hierarchies, so that those same voices who are privileged in mainstream media, culture, and politics are also those who get the most speaking time in classrooms.
This semester students in my ENG 241 course at Queens College took what they learned and co-created their own “arts of dissent”: original websites, videos, timelines, lesson plans, poetry, photography, and drawings. (I’ve included the rationale for this assignment at the bottom of this post.)
Want to know what Queens College students think about 2017? They think stereotypes about immigrants are inaccurate & dangerous, that Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric should be “required reading” for everyone, and that microaggressions and all forms of violence against women and people of color have no place on campus or anywhere.
Some highlights include
Citizen: An Urban Collegiate Lyric (make sure to check out the original lyrics in the “Writing Center”)
Palette of the People
The timeline of historical injustices in Citizen: An American Lyric (a fantastic resource for teachers and students engaging with Claudia Rankine’s text)
The collection of original found poems based on our readings (the artwork is also original)
The lesson plan for teaching Hughes’ “Let America be America Again” alongside a field trip to Weeksville Heritage Center in Brooklyn
I leave this semester wondering where in the world are these lazy millennials I’ve read so much about. Because the students I’ve met at Queens College over the past four years have been some of the most hardworking, thoughtful, and passionate people I’ve ever had the privilege to know. It has been an honor and a deep pleasure getting to work with and learn from them.
Rationale for assignments
At the end of every semester, I provide students with an explanation for everything we did in the course. Their final assignment is to write a reflection on what worked, what didn’t, and how the course could be improved.
In a 1964 study on medical education, M.L.J. Abercrombie found that teams of medical students were able to arrive at more accurate diagnoses of test patients when they evaluated symptoms as a group, rather than individually. Since then, collaborative learning has been studied at great length by scholars such as Kenneth M. Bruffee, Rebecca Moore Howard, and Andrea Lunsford and Lisa Ede (among many others). Learning to work with other people is one of the most valuable skills that a college education can provide to prepare you for the world beyond the classroom, and yet, for most of us, our educations have taught us to compete, rather than collaborate, with the students sitting next to us.Whether we are trying to arrive at an accurate medical diagnosis, organize a resistance movement, or complete a business report, we are constantly called upon to work with other people in order to achieve our goals and meet set deadlines. While group projects are common at expensive liberal arts colleges, the experience of collaboration is often withheld from students at public colleges like Queens, where many students work full time and commute to campus. This semester we practiced collaboration in order to create final projects that were better than what any student could have produced individually.
This semester, you were challenged to design a project inspired by something you learned this semester and create something that could be shared publicly with an audience beyond the classroom. This assignment was designed to help you see your classroom learning in relation to the world and to better understand yourselves as critical and creative writers with the power to speak to, and influence, real audiences. In addition, you developed time and project management skills by having to meet set deadlines and collaborate with others.
Rather than the instructor assigning the form (such as a traditional essay) you had the more difficult task of selecting a medium (a video, lesson plan, website, timeline, etc.) that would allow you to tell the story of what you learned this semester. You had to identify a purpose for your project and figure out how to communicate effectively within that medium. Communicating effectively involves writing with an awareness of audience and the conventions of different media. My hope is that you will take what you learned from this project and apply it to the work you will be required to do in the future in many different rhetorical situations (emails, cover letters, business reports, videos, protest chants, websites, tweets, editorials, etc.).
At whose expense are service learning and diversity courses effective? Can U.S. education policy stop telling poor students what to do (and instead provide them with resources and opportunities)? How can we avoid reproducing oppressions in our social justice work in education?
These are just some of the difficult and important questions addressed at this year’s AAC&U Annual Meeting, “Building Trust in the Promise of Liberal Education.” Without a doubt, the most common refrain, resounding over and over again, was “so what do we do now?” Now that Trump is president and the intersecting axes of discrimination and oppression are multiplying, intensifying, and sanctioned by the U.S. president.
To back up a bit: the AAC&U is the Association of American Colleges & Universities. Two thousand college and university administrators, presidents, deans, faculty, graduate students, and (to my delight) undergraduates, from all over the world, attended this year’s conference in San Francisco. I was there receiving the 2017 K. Patricia Cross Future Leaders Award and to find out what this AAC&U organization is all about. Without a doubt, the highlight of the conference was getting to know the other recipients – graduate students from different schools and disciplines who are transforming education in order to improve society. Their resumes are impressive, to say the very least, but in person they far exceed what a professional bio can capture. Their generosity, kindness, fierce intellect, humor, determination, care, and bravery are, as Lee Knefelkamp, quoting Maxine Greene, kept saying “a light in dark times.” I hope we will remain friends for years to come.
One of my pet peeves as an educator is when instructors complain about students’ lack of email etiquette (though I know I have also been guilty of this in the past). Instead, like many other educators, I have stopped complaining about student emails, which are merely a product of unfamiliarity with the genre’s conventions. Just as I teach students how to write according to the conventions of academic writing as a genre (even as we critique and problematize these conventions), I have embraced teaching students to write emails as an opportunity to discuss the conventions of different rhetorical situations and strengthen their persuasive writing techniques. In this blog, I describe how I used a persuasive email competition to reinforce the semester’s lessons on rhetoric and incentivize strong student writing.
Some background: Initially, I shied away from teaching students how to write emails, worrying that it would emphasize the professional, careerist aspects of writing at the expense of critical thinking about language as a source of power. My classes aim to familiarize students with the structural nature of racism, sexism, and injustice, and I worried that, somehow, teaching students to write effective emails would undermine these lessons. Gradually, I came to realize, first, that learning how to communicate effectively in different rhetorical situations is necessary, whether you are running a major corporation or organizing a resistance movement. Second, I realized that demystifying the conventions of email writing (and cover letters), as I try to demystify the conventions of essay-writing, could make a small contribution to helping my students–many of whom are immigrants, working class, students of color, and/or the first in their families to attend college–get into the graduate programs, internships, and professions they desire.
In general, my courses emphasize collaboration: I help students develop the skills to successfully break down large projects, equitably distribute work, and collectively create a final project that is better than what any one student could have created on their own. Ask my students and they will tell you that I constantly talk about how collaboration is not natural — how, in fact, most of our education trains us to compete with one another — and how we must put deliberate effort into unlearning this individualism. However, I have also seen small-stakes competitions take students’ writing to a new level. This past semester, in my writing course on “The Purpose of Education” at Queens College, after four months of collaboration including a collaboratively-authored final project, I gave students a reprieve and assigned a small email-writing competition for students who had missed assignments earlier in the semester and were in need of some extra credit.
This blog, a reflection on my dissertation project one year into the process, was originally produced as a talk for the 2016 Futures of American Studies Institute. It includes an overview of my dissertation (a snapshot of how I’m concurrently conceptualizing it, though it continues to evolve), some more specific work from the chapter on Audre Lorde’s pedagogy, and then a sense of where I think I’m heading as I move into the next chapter on Toni Cade Bambara.
My dissertation is tentatively titled, “The Promise of Aesthetic Education: On Pedagogy, Praxis, and Social Justice.” In it, I analyze the intersectional feminist pedagogies of activists, authors, and educators in order to explore what teaching literature can do to produce a more just, equitable, and pleasurable future. Specifically, I’m looking at the formal and informal pedagogies of Adrienne Rich, Audre Lorde, June Jordan, and Toni Cade Bambara, all of whom taught during Open Admissions (1970-1976) and in the SEEK educational opportunity program at the City University of New York. These initiatives sought to make higher education more accessible to the city’s working-class black and Latino students. While I’m interested in what these unique initiatives made possible, I am perhaps even more curious about how these decolonial, antiracist, feminist, and queer pedagogies emerged in relation to many other efforts to materialize social justice nationwide. (So, for instance, this work has led me to become increasingly interested in the pedagogies of the Black Panther Party, the Black Arts Movement, and various freedom and experimental schools.)
The work of these activist authors and educators consistently challenges us to imagine education beyond neoliberal narratives and to think about pedagogy in relation to social change. It encourages us to ask difficult questions such as, how liberatory can education be in a carceral, racial state? What can education do to materialize social justice, not just pay lip service to “diversity” and “multiculturalism” but be part of the downwardly redistributive revolution we so desperately need? In these times of manufactured scarcity and austerity, how can we develop practices to counter the everyday pedagogies of structural violence and dispossession?
This project emerged from the experience of teaching at Queens College, and a realization that all of the questions I wanted to ask about material distribution, structures of injustice and inequality, and cultures of oppression were present and palpable in the classroom. I was also, at the time, involved in an informal, experimental pop-up style university that emerged from Occupy Wall Street, and thinking a lot about the kinds of education this enabled, but also its shortcomings: namely, the reasons why one might need and want institutional structures and resources.
Beyond the pedagogies of neoliberal racial capitalism
In this poetic, pedagogical fragments, the classroom is described as a space of enclosure: of privatization, dispossession, and carcerality, which contrasts sharply with dominant liberal narratives about education as Enlightenment, and the individual’s progress towards autonomy. Here, Rich concisely reflects the history of education as a mechanism of enclosure: as a means to facilitate the trickle-up economics of racial capitalism. In contrast to carceral environments like the liberal racial state, in which powerful, affluent individuals make decisions for others, Rich reimagines the classroom as a potential “commune” in which students define, rather than merely follow, the rules. As such, it is a place in which everyone participates in governance: in addressing who gets to make decisions for whom, how resources are distributed, and how a given group of individuals can best live together and flourish. While prisons seek to adjust the individuals whose desires are out of sync with the world, Rich suggests that the classroom might allow us to interrogate, and perform alternatives to, the world that is out of sync with our desires.
When Rich authored this fragment, around 1970, she was teaching at City College in the SEEK program, a context in which education was understood as proliferating collective, rather than individual, potential. There, she taught alongside many decolonial, feminist, antiracist, and LGBTQ activist educators, including those who I’ve chosen for my project: Audre Lorde, June Jordan, and Toni Cade Bambara. Here, I’ve provided a few of the quotes that led me to believe that these four figures would help me think about pedagogy, aesthetics, and social justice, and that it would be generative to place them in conversation with one another.
You’ll notice how in the Lorde quote, the open admissions classroom is directly posited as an alternative to conditions of racialized police violence; how in Bambara’s quote, she vehemently refutes any notion that the classroom could or should ever be something like a safe space; and how Jordan’s pedagogy is predicated not on relationships of identification, but of the desirability of difference, while avoiding being merely a multicultural celebration of equality in diversity. As I hope these examples illustrate, the pedagogies I’m tracing are not in the past, but are modes of responding to the long, ongoing neo/liberal moment we continue to inhabit. Indeed, these four figures use women of color feminist and queer of color critical perspectives to theorize the classroom, which may help us reframe contemporary and interrelated debates over the school-to-prison pipeline, trigger warnings, safe spaces, and abstract celebrations of diversity that often obscure conditions of institutional racism and sexism.
While these authors have shaped contemporary understandings of feminism, antiracism, and queer theory, their work as educators is rarely acknowledged. By analyzing their pedagogies, we can better understand both their literary texts and their multifaceted attempts to make political interventions, in all domains of their work.
These experimental pedagogies, I hope, will help us proliferate alternatives to the dominant neoliberal ways in which we continue to conceptualize education, particularly as an individual, rather than collective, public, social, and political undertaking. As such, I locate this project at the intersection of several intellectual and scholarly conversations. In one register, this work is in conversation with thinkers such as Paulo Freire, bell hooks, and M. Jacqui Alexander, as it explores how pedagogy functions as a mode of resistance to neoliberalism, and the centrality of pedagogy to genealogies of women of color feminism and queer of color critique. In particular, I emphasize how the praxis emerging from literary and cultural text may offer generative possibilities for critical pedagogy, so that we can think more deeply about both the critical and creative work of education: namely, the alternative, oppositional, and better worlds we can perform and produce in spaces of learning. Samuel Delany, Jose Muñoz, and Sarah Ahmed are key interlocutors in this regard; they have helped me think about the queer utopian possibilities of spaces–how spaces can contour dangerous, pleasurable, and potentially transformative encounters. This project is also in conversation with recent scholarship by Jodi Melamed and Roderick Ferguson, both of whom have illustrated the urgency of rethinking what literary studies can do to address the institutional management and depoliticization of difference and minoritarian knowledges. For those working in the neoliberal academy, but who wish to contest its very conditions of possibility, I’m hoping to elaborate collective, rather than individualistic, modes of literary studies that engage structural critique, interrogate the status quo, and can catalyze social change. Urban education scholarship has been particularly useful in this regard. While this work is rarely routed through the literary, and tends to employ social scientific methodologies, scholars like Michelle Fine, Jean Anyon, and Steve Brier have produced some of the most incisive critiques of neoliberal education, and have been the most bold in exploring collective, participatory, and socially just alternatives.
The promise of pedagogy
I’ve been thinking recently about why pedagogy is so urgent to my work. Pedagogy, I contend, can be found not only in formal teaching materials like syllabi, lesson plans, and assignments, but also in art, and so for this project I’ve been analyzing the archival teaching materials of these artist-activist-educators alongside their poetry, prose, fiction, films, and essays. I keep returning to the idea that there is something inherently optimistic about pedagogy, but that doesn’t necessarily feel cruel. Thinking pedagogically allows us to act as if things could be otherwise, despite or against all evidence to the contrary. So, through engagements with intersectional feminist literature, I examine how pedagogy holds out the promise that we might intervene in, or at least contend with, the social, political, and economic conditions that often feel out of our control. Indeed, part of what I’m doing is tracing how these artists, authors, and educators address our everyday participation in structures of injustice and inequality and theorize pedagogy as a means of social interruption.
“aesthetics of the outsider”: Audre Lorde and the Praxis of Worldmaking
This excerpt is from the introduction to my first chapter on Audre Lorde’s pedagogy, followed by a sketch of the remainder of the chapter, and some of the questions I’m still working to address. Overall, the chapter explores how poetry and pedagogy were means through which Lorde worked to transform established understandings of art, learning, and politics through the needs and desires of those historically and unequally marginalized by the social order.
While contemporary scholars and educators tend to divide critical and creative work, teaching and scholarship, and activism and education, for Audre Lorde, all of these were intertwined. Although she began writing poetry long before she started teaching, it wasn’t until her first formal teaching experience at Tougaloo College that she realized the collective power of poetry: that it could be not only a private pleasure, but a means of doing transformative work in the world. Poems, she argues, are “learning devices,” acts of “teaching–touching–really touching another human being,” imagining the transformations catalyzed by poetry through physical acts of grasping, reaching, and colliding. Following that first experience at Tougaloo and throughout the remainder of her life, the kinds of work Lorde was doing in her poetry–mapping the contemporary conditions of apocalypse, drawing our attention to collective possibilities for social interruption, and imagining pleasure where it had previously been ignored–she was also taking up through pedagogy.
Lorde theorized pedagogical praxis through the discourse of aesthetic education–literally, an education of the senses–learning to touch, listen, and look in new ways. Her praxis dramatizes how both poetry and pedagogy are forms of reaching out, of “touching,” and in touching, realizing that we are not and cannot ever know “another human being.” This idea of touching, rather than peering inside and knowing, or empathizing with others signals an alternative to liberal notions of why and how we should study literature. As such, Lorde’s work has helped me think in more nuanced terms about Jodi Melamed’s argument that dominant modes of liberal, multicultural pedagogy dematerialize antiracism by teaching privileged white students to “know” difference–an argument that I am very compelled by, but also want to explore alternatives to. As Lorde’s praxis indicates, literary studies can do other things. Her work in particular complicates this paradigm by recognizing the incommensurability of lives and experiences, rejecting the possibility of both intersubjectivity and the knowability of the other. If we live and work under the assumption that there are always gaps in our knowledge of ourselves, others, and the world, that we are always missing a part of the picture, then collaborative, dialogic acts such as writing, teaching, and organizing emerge as necessary modes of praxis through which something else–something other than the status quo–might emerge. The subject of this pedagogical praxis, if there is one, is not the discrete individual, but the intimate touch, the spark, the collision, the encounter, that aesthetic and pedagogical experiences catalyze. What I’m interested in is how Lorde taught others to understand this intimate encounter in relation to the social, political, and economic fabric in which we are embedded.
In this chapter, I tune into the generative force of pleasure in pedagogies of social justice: how dynamics of desire are entangled with acts of resistance and refusal, and how we might use such entanglements to “queer” dominant ways of thinking about education. This work is animated by several inclinations. First, I have a hunch that Lorde, like many educators, activists, and artists, was also an educational theorist who can teach us something about pedagogy in relation to neoliberal racial capitalism. While some of these insights emerge in the places we might expect such as her teaching materials and writings about education, other ideas are embedded in the subversive spaces, silences, and estrangements–the literariness, or poetics–of her poetry and prose. Because the status quo is reproduced through the regulation of common sense, certain aspects of social justice pedagogy may emerge through that which is deemed an irrational and expendable “luxury.” Second, I want to develop a method for thinking about the pedagogies of social justice that crystallize through the figure of Lorde, rather than the pedagogy that belonged to her. Doing so is crucial for understanding pedagogy as an inherently collective and unwieldy mode of resistance, and for not reproducing the individualism, partially inherited through legacies of the liberal arts, that shaped (and still shapes) the neoliberal mess we inhabit. Related is my desire not to tell the history of “what really happened,” but to craft a genealogy, or maybe a grammar, of pedagogical praxis that can illuminate the present.
In the first section of the chapter, “A genealogy of danger,” I read Lorde’s poem “blackstudies,” authored during her time teaching at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, as a commentary on the dangers and possibilities of pedagogy in relation to long ongoing conditions of racialized violence, exemplified here by the 1973 murder of a black ten-year old child, Clifford Glover by a white police officer, Thomas Shea. Not only did Glover’s murder and Shea’s exoneration dramatically influence Lorde’s poetry, it also had a profound impact on her pedagogy: her ideas about what to teach and how to teach it. In this first section, I trace Lorde’s calls for a confrontational and riotous education that would manifest dissatisfaction and dissent towards the status quo, placing this pedagogy in a much longer genealogy, through which black studies has been understood as a threat to U.S. liberal democracy. In the sections that follow, I give texture to this confrontational, riotous, and collective education of dissent.
The second section “Teaching at the end of the world” explores how several of Lorde’s lyric poems dramatize the dominant pedagogies of neoliberal New York City: the paths, possibilities, and ways of being and knowing incentivized by cultures of upward redistribution and a present in which crisis is not extraordinary, but ordinary, woven into the fabric of everyday life. I read two of these poems as cartographies of desire, shaped by the material, sensual, and embodied experience of what it feels like to have to share a world–New York City, America–with dangerous, desirable, and unknowable other people. This context illuminates Lorde’s praxis as an effort to unlearn the dominant pedagogies of austerity, privatization, liberalism, and possessive individualism. While education is typically narrated as the individual’s journey towards autonomy, two of Lorde’s poems, “Teacher” and “Dear Toni” reconfigure learning through its material conditions of possibility, directing our attention to food and mothers, and reimagining education as the process of coming-to-consciousness of our dependency. Drawing on recent work by Grace Hong, I explore how Lorde’s attention to labor and material conditions of possibility urges us to consider how worldmaking is always collaborative, but uneven, and erased through liberal notions of individualism. These poems exemplify her poetic and pedagogical praxis, which involved looking beneath, beyond, and beside the present to the labor, exploitation, and suffering that the status quo actively works to obscure.
One thing I’m continuing to work on in this section is figuring out what is at stake in thinking pedagogically about the lyric poem; to ask what lyric poetry allows for, that narrative can’t capture. So far, I’ve come up with several possible, interrelated ways of thinking about this, though I’m still working through the precise nature of many of these connections. When thinking about lyric pedagogy, I keep returning to Paulo Freire’s critique of the banking model of education, which he emphasizes is predicated on the teacher as narrator who “leads the students to memorize mechanically the narrated content.” And in fact, Lorde’s pedagogical poems were penned at the same moment in which Freire argued that education was suffering from “narration sickness” (1968/1970). Narrative understandings of education, I think, are related to modernity’s teleology of progress and the idea of human perfectibility, but I’m still working to better flesh out this connection. One avenue of inquiry that may help me get there is thinking about the relationship between bildung as the exemplary educational paradigm of modernity and its corresponding literary genre, the bildungsroman–so I’m trying to think about how Lorde’s lyric poetry refutes, complicates, or models an alternative to these. In addition, I’m interested in how Lorde uses lyric poetry, a classical genre understood through its association with the “I,” and the self, towards a different, more collective end.
In the third section of this chapter, “the intimacy of scrutiny,” I trace the collective ways of being, knowing, and relating that emerge through Lorde’s pedagogical praxis. In particular, I illustrate how her famous talk, “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” shaped and was shaped by the scene of teaching and learning. Not only did teaching help provide the material conditions of possibility for its articulation, the essay can also be read as a blueprint for a queer pedagogy, in which the classroom is used to explore the materiality of difference and intimate ways of working together that don’t rely on identification with, or the knowability of, others. Read through a pedagogical lens and alongside the additional insights of Lorde’s students, gleaned from her archival teaching materials, “The Master’s Tools,” helps bring into relief a version of aesthetic education in which the texts we read and our reactions, interactions, and conversations tell us less about ourselves as discrete individuals, and more about the social, political, and economic fabric in which we are embedded.
The chapter concludes with a discussion of “Collaboration in the archives”: the ways in which the physical materials in Lorde’s teaching archive embed her praxis in a much larger milieu of activist educators, which is useful, I think, for two reasons. First, it allows us to acknowledge, rather than ignore, the students, colleagues, and administrators who labor to produce the scene of teaching and learning. And second, placing her praxis as one node, intersection, or confluence in a much larger project may help us recognize that there are alternatives to the status quo being explored everywhere, in innumerable, though oftentimes hidden spaces, places, and interactions.
As I move into the chapter on Toni Cade Bambara, I am thinking a lot about Lorde’s poem “Dear Toni…” (1971) which is addressed to Bambara, and mentions the time in which they were both teaching at City College.
In the excerpt, Lorde imagines encountering Bambara in her office “studying” term papers, imagined here as “maps.” In a document Bambara wrote about teaching in the experimental SEEK program in 1968, she describes how, for their final term papers, students were asked to “design a course that they would like, that would fulfill their needs,” and then during the summer program, they used these ideal courses and “mapped” what they would study together. The summer course that the students ended up designing from the “maps” Bambara studies in this poem was on Colonialism, Neo-Colonialism, and Liberation. I believe that we can read these term papers, and the pedagogical praxis in which they are embedded, as maps to different configurations of power and knowledge: as blueprints for institutions not for a wealthy minority, but crafted around the needs and desires of working-class students. Moreover, I’m hoping to place this pedagogical praxis in the context of the movement for the community control of schools in NYC (1966 – 1970), and to explore how community control inspired pedagogies that extended far beyond its formal end.
In the Bambara chapter, I’m hoping to show how “mapping” was more than just a metaphor for pedagogy; drawing on Katherine McKittrick’s work on black feminist geographies, I want to explore the centrality of placemaking to pedagogical praxis. By reading Bambara’s teaching materials alongside her 1980 novel The Salt Eaters and her documentary on the 1985 bombing of the MOVE organization in Philadelphia, I hope to trace a pedagogical praxis organized around the decolonization of space and sense.
 Audre Lorde, “Poet as Teacher–Human as Poet–Teacher as Human” in I am Your Sister: Collected and Unpublished Writings of Audre Lorde, (New York: Oxford, 2009. Ed. Rudolph P. Byrd, 182.
 Here, I am thinking alongside Jean-Luc Nancy about the incommensurability of touch, how closeness emphasizes distance, how “the law of touching is separation” On Being Singular Plural, 5 -6.
Just because you have never written a statement of your teaching philosophy does not mean you do not have a philosophy. If you engage a group of learners who are your responsibility, then your behavior in designing their learning environment must follow from your philosophical orientation…. What you need to do is discover what [your philosophy] is and then make it explicit. – Coppola 2000, 1
If you want to write an explosive teaching statement that leaves your hiring committee in awe, there are at least five things you will want to consider in relation to your teaching and learning: introspection, impact, content, methods, and assessment. These five categories consistently appear throughout the many resources available to those writing a statement of teaching philosophy.
This blog is an overview of the insights generated during the Futures Initiative fellows workshop on statements of teaching philosophy, held on Wednesday, April 6. Critical contributors to this conversation include Cathy N. Davidson, Katina Rogers, Patrik Svensson, Frances Tran, Lauren Melendez, Mike Rifino, Kalle Westerling, Allison Guess, Lisa Tagliaferri, Fiona Barnett, and Michael Dorsch.
See a glimpse of the student-centered pedagogy that animates “American Literature and American Learning,” a new course offered by the Futures Initiative. Hear from Cathy N. Davidson, Distinguished Professor and Founding Director of the Futures Initiative; Danica Savonick, Doctoral Candidate in English and Graduate Fellow with the Futures Initiative; and Jade E. Davis, Associate Director of Digital Learning Projects at LaGuardia Community College.
Interview conducted by Lisa Tagliaferri, Doctoral Candidate in Comparative Literature and Graduate Fellow with the Futures Initiative.
Video by Kalle Westerling, Doctoral Candidate in Theatre and Graduate Fellow with the Futures Initiative.
On March 8, Danica Savonick and Cathy Davidson’s “Gender Bias in Academe: An Annotated Bibliography of Importance Recent Studies” was republished by the London School of Economics and Political Science Impact Blog. Read the bibliography here.
“There are personal, cultural, learning, and social reasons people don’t speak up in class. Students of color and women of all races, introverts, the non-conventional thinkers, those from poor previous educational backgrounds, returning or “nontraditional students,” and those from cultures where speaking out is considered rude not participatory are all likely to be silent in a class where collaboration by difference is not structured as a principle of pedagogy and organization and design. Who loses? Everyone. Arguments that are smart and valuable and can change a whole conversation get lost in silence and, sometimes, shame. When that happens, we don’t really have discussion or collaboration. We have group think–and that is why we all lose.”
Recently, I have been involved in several efforts to create spaces in which meaningful conversation can happen–spaces that don’t reproduce social hierarchies of privilege and power and instead welcome everyone’s contributions. In this blog, I’ll briefly highlight three examples of techniques for structuring equitable participation, whether in a classroom, meeting, or more informal conversation.
A few weeks ago, I was asked to facilitate the question and answer period for an academic event about supporting female teachers, particularly those who are teaching undergraduate humanities classes. While we often think that question and answer sessions just magically happen, these conversations often reproduce dominant hierarchies of privilege and power, especially in terms of who gets to speak and have their voice heard. Below is an except from my opening remarks on the importance of challenging these dynamics and two strategies, “progressive stack” and “step up, step back,” both of which I learned from the Occupy Wall Street movement and have since helped me in my efforts to create more inclusive environments, including in classrooms.
Taking “stack” just means keeping a list of people who wish to participate—offer a question or comment—during the Q & A. Rather than anxiously waving your hand around and wondering if you’ll be called on, if you would like to participate, signal to me in some way (a gesture, a dance move, a traditional hand-in-the-air, meaningful eye contact, etc.) and I will add you to the list.
However, we’re not just going to take stack, we are going to take progressive stack in an effort to foreground voices that are typically silenced in dominant culture. According to Justine and Zoë, two self-identified transwomen who were active in the movement, progressive stack means that “if you self-identify as trans, queer, a person of color, female, or as a member of any marginalized group you’re given priority on the list of people who want to speak – the stack. The most oppressed get to speak first.” As I take stack, I will also do my best to bump marginalized voices and those who haven’t yet had a chance to participate to the top. As you might already be thinking, taking stack is an imperfect method, especially because it relies on the perception of the person taking stack. For that reason, while I’ll start us off by taking stack, if at any point someone else wants to take over, please feel free to do so.
In addition to taking progressive stack, another way to try and structure equity into conversations is through a shared commitment, among participants, to “stepping up and stepping back.” Simply put, this entails being mindful of how much time we each take up and a collective commitment to making space for as many voices as possible.