This post is part of a two-part series that considers digital learning platforms as an issue of critical pedagogy.
HASTAC as Critical Pedagogy
I teach students to write and research with HASTAC.org because I’m committed to critical, engaged, student-centered education that prepares students for the world beyond the classroom. For me, this involves both preparing students for a rewarding career and helping them better understand how language is a source of power that can reproduce and challenge conditions of inequality. As I’ve said elsewhere, having students write not just for the professor, but for an audience beyond the classroom teaches them the power of their voices and stories. It helps them understand that they are critical participants in longer, ongoing conversations, and that learning offers an opportunity to contribute to the public and social good. But we also have to be careful in encouraging students to join these conversations: careful because they are capable, but still learning, because public writing always entails the risk of exposure, because students live complicated lives that may require the cover of confidentiality, and because the digital leaves traces everywhere.
This is the work of critical pedagogy. Critical pedagogy encourages students to participate in the construction of a shared learning environment, involving those who will be affected by decisions about readings, assignments, and classroom policies in the decision-making process. At its best, students then use this critical approach to think about how they can use their decision-making power in the world beyond the classroom to address social issues.
I am writing these remarks at the Digital Pedagogy Lab Institute in Fredericksburg, Virginia, where debate and disagreement abound, but all participants seem to agree that software is not neutral, and that teaching students to think critically about digital technologies is a central component of engaged pedagogy. Here, I discuss how HASTAC.org can function as an open learning platform that protects student data while helping their writing reach an audience of readers beyond the classroom. As such, HASTAC plays a key role in facilitating student-centered learning.
Danica Savonick, SUNY Cortland
Thursday, August 2
1:00 – 2:15
Digital Pedagogy Lab Institute
Today I was honored to share some of my favorite writings about teaching with a group of passionate educators at the Digital Pedagogy Lab Institute in Fredericksburg, Virginia. I was so grateful to our participants, and for everything they refused to leave at the door and instead throw on our messy table. As I told them from the get-go: this was an experiment. Together we tested the modest hypothesis that poetry can help us think differently about learning. I had never tried this before, and it was thrilling to see how these activities I’d been imagining (fantasizing about, really) for weeks were experienced by participants. Together, around that oblong table on the secluded fourth floor, we braved an impending tornado to try and unlearn, or at least briefly bracket, the ways we’ve been trained to think about learning through narrative.
In the wake of the workshop, I have come to think of these intrepid participants as the DPL Poets. I hope they won’t mind the moniker. #dplpoem
What would happen if we wrote about the classroom not through narrative, but as a collaboratively-authored poem? How can space—on the page, on the screen—convey the complexities of learning? Is the classroom, in Adrienne Rich’s words, a “prison cell,” a “commune,” or something else entirely, and what do metaphors make possible? These are just some questions participants will be invited to consider in this hour-long workshop, in which we think with and alongside four feminist teacher-poets—Toni Cade Bambara, June Jordan, Audre Lorde, and Adrienne Rich—about the art of teaching. While these authors are most often studied for their literature, they were no less bold in their pedagogical creativity; in fact, their literary sensibilities shaped student-centered classrooms organized around social justice across multiple registers and scales. In addition to discussing the aesthetic, literary, and rhetorical strategies these authors use in their essays and poems on teaching, participants will experiment with the techniques we encounter and author short reflections inspired by their writings.
As you well know, this is a rough time to be pursuing an advanced degree. We are underfunded, overworked, exploited, and devalued by a society that (to take just one recent example) attempted to tax our tuition waivers as income, which would have made graduate education untenable for most of us and available only to the wealthiest students. There are gross disparities in funding for M.A and Ph.D. programs. Many of us face a job market that looks nothing like the landscapes our advisors experienced. And yet, the world needs M.A. and Ph.D. recipients now more than ever.
This system is deeply flawed and I earnestly hope that our generation will be the ones to overhaul it. As part of that project, I want to pass on some insights that helped me navigate my institution towards a successful dissertation defense and a job.
One reason I write this is because I was lucky to have wonderful peers, colleagues, and professors who supported me throughout this journey, though I’m continually meeting grad students who haven’t been so fortunate. As Annemarie Pérez’s recent post (“A Radical Idea About Adjuncting”) showed me, being explicit about the ways we’ve been lucky is part of a larger project of building universities that don’t rely so heavily on luck, but rather, are structured for the flourishing of diverse students and faculty, and engaged, urgent knowledge projects that serve the public good.
I also write this somewhat selfishly. I want to live in a world in which everyone has, in Fred Moten and Stefano Harney’s words, “everything that they need and 93% of what they want–not by virtue of the fact that you work today, but by virtue of the fact that you are here.” I believe that the hours you spend reading, thinking, writing, teaching, organizing, working to change your classrooms and institutions, learning so that you may improve the lives of others, and taking to the streets to demand change will help bring that world to fruition.
Don’t be afraid to change your mind. This was the single best piece of advice I received going into graduate school. Don’t be afraid to learn new things, to become obsessed, to fall in love with different subjects. You don’t have to leave graduate school pursuing the project that you identified in your application materials. Take courses with the faculty members who students can’t stop talking about, even if you’re completely unfamiliar with the subject area. Kyla Wazana Tompkins put it best: “we aren’t here to learn what we already know.” We are here to do research: to be unfaithful to the known.
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.
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.
Where we have cultures of oppression & survival / we need a different way of measuring,” a student noted in a class taught by feminist, antiracist, lesbian, activist, warrior poet and educator Audre Lorde, in 1984. Systems of measurement and assessment are key indicators of what we value. If we want to change the system but continue to evaluate success using the same methods we have always used, we cannot achieve structural transformation.
Rethinking pedagogy for institutional and social change
During the late 20th century as racial minorities and white women increasingly gained access to academic institutions, Lorde and her contemporary interlocutors were involved in the process of queering and decolonizing the educational institutions of a white supremacist, heteropatriarchal society. This included figuring out what could be salvaged from the wreck and what would need to be rebuilt in the service of something new. As minoritarian knowledge practitioners, many of us continue to ask the kinds of questions that were of central importance to Lorde and her co-conspirators: How much of what goes on in schools is a means towards justice, equity, and pleasure? What paradigms, practices, and assumptions still need to be reimagined? In my dissertation research, I focus on the overlooked site of the classroom as a critical space for making these interventions. In particular, I trace how the pedagogies of aesthetic education function as a means of social interruption, rather than reproduction.
While I have written elsewhere about alternative modes of assessment (JITP and HASTAC), here I want to frame this work as part of the process of decolonizing learning institutions. As Cathy Davidson argues in Now You See It, our dominant modes of assessment, including tests and letter grades, emerged from an industrialized society that valued standardization, hierarchization, and disciplining a new labor force, reducing what was once “a qualitative, evaluative, and narrative practice—to a grade” (112). Indeed, grades are a tidy academic rubric for making the messiness of learning legible.
In this blog, I ask, how can assessment catalyze and proliferate learning, rather than punishing or shaming students for not learning enough, or not learning the right things in the allotted (and always inadequate) amount of time? This is admittedly a huge question, one which I take up at greater length in my dissertation. For now, I offer just one example of an unexpected mode of assessment from the “Great Works of Global Literature” class I taught in fall 2015 at Queens College. In particular, I explore what happened when I asked students to illustrate what they had learned by making, rather than just analyzing, literature.
“Because nothing is sufficient, we must use everything,” Rebecca Fullan recently remarked, which is how I’ve come to understand the relationship between academia and activism. Since beginning my Ph.D. program in English at the CUNY Graduate Center, I’ve struggled with the relationship between academic institutions and the grassroots, community-based, activist work that takes place on the streets (and other spaces). Instead of allowing a feminist interpretation of a text to substitute for, rather than inspire, political action, I want to ask how activism and academia can mutually inform one another without collapsing the meaningful differences between the two. How, for instance, is a class on African-American literature different from the #BlackLivesMatter movement, and how might the two work in tandem to take down the capitalist, white supremacist heteropatriarchy? In addition to troubling the activism/academia binary, I also want to emphasize that talking about feminism, antiracism, and material conditions of inequality from within a classroom will never be enough. I honestly hope that when students leave my class they feel uncomfortable and upset about our present, but also eager, desirous, and capable of changing it.
Recently, I was invited by the Futures Initiative and HASTAC to offer opening remarks for a year-long conversation, The University Worth Fighting For, a year-long project designed to tie student-centered, engaged practices in our classrooms to larger issues of institutional change, equality, race, gender, and all forms of social justice. Here is an excerpt from my remarks:
What would a classroom look like if it were designed not to reproduce traditional hierarchies of privilege and power, but instead to produce justice and equity? Would it begin with a privilege checklist, or with everyone sharing their preferred gender pronouns? Would there be a values statement in the syllabus, or would you ask students to draft a class constitution? Would someone be assigned to take progressive stack to ensure that marginalized and excluded voices get to drive the conversation? What would you ask students to produce in order to demonstrate what they have learned? Would you ask them to produce it alone or together, and why? Who would read, evaluate, and provide feedback on their work?
Recently, I had the opportunity to collaborate in drafting a set of questions to help digital humanists think about designing their teaching and research in ways that might help produce social justice. This got me thinking, what would a similar list look like for pedagogy? What questions can we ask ourselves to work not just towards an equitable classroom, but a more equitable world?
Important practitioners of critical and creative pedagogy, included in the suggested readings and viewings for this conversation and in the resources and references cited below, invite us to think about how our teaching and learning practices relate to conditions of inequality and injustice beyond the classroom. This discussion is intended to take up the challenge.
You can read the full post and contribute to the conversation here.