“I’m not coming back next year,” she said, purposefully not meeting my gaze.
“Why?” I asked, not yet convinced.
“Burnt out.”
“But the kids love you,” I reminded her.
“It has taken me a while to admit that I’m just not effective, not like you.”
This teacher and I have many similarities: We’re natural leaders, experts in our content and receive high marks on teacher evaluations. We have our differences, too: She is in her 20s; I am in my 40s. She is “college to classroom”; I am college to corporate, to entrepreneur, to classroom. She is white; I am a woman of color.
So what makes kids like us both but only perform well for one of us? It could be content. It could be age or life experience. There was something, though, a bit more latent—and it took me a while to fully grasp. She’d use terms like “those kids” or “from those families” to refer to students and families of color, suggesting there was a distinct difference between their experiences and hers. (Take note that my school’s student body is 85 percent Hispanic, 7 percent black, 4 percent white, 2 percent Native American and 1 percent Asian.) She often called herself “white girl” in her interactions with students. “What do I know? I’m just a white girl.”
Her verbalizations about students of color and their families—and even about her own racial identity—reflected implicit racial bias. It made me think about a phrase Gloria Yamato wrote in her article “Something About the Subject Makes It Hard To Name”: “With the best of intentions, and the greatest generosity of heart, whites, operating on the misinformation fed to them from day one, will behave in ways that are racist, will perpetuate racism by being ‘nice’ the way we’re taught to be nice."
This bias was hard for me to name—because if I name it, then I’m confronting her lack of skill and sensitivity with addressing racial differences. The woman-of-color part of me recognizes the urgency and need to address these issues, not to judge or persecute, but to truly begin the important conversations about what it is and how to change it. The assimilated teacher in me, having learned to code switch, knows that this particular conversation is one that can cut deep, cause a rift or destroy an opportunity to further the conversation.
I’m just not effective, not like you. Her words came back to me. I reflected on what I do that is different—and why it’s effective. Here are a few takeaways from this reflection:
I connect with students and share my own life experiences. I am willing to talk with students about my experiences as a woman of color. I tell students of color how they will need to work harder and push through perhaps more than students at more affluent schools. I share my struggles of being an outcast in my own culture, accused of speaking “white” or being “white-washed” simply because I was college bound. I tell them stories about those blonde girls who cornered me on the playground, or the white boy who wanted secret kisses but never admitted to his friends that he had a crush on me. The truth is all educators can connect with their students in culturally relevant ways that build understanding and community. We also need to make sure that students feel that it’s safe to be themselves.
I set high expectations and advocate for students. I once asked a student what he felt the “it” factor was with teachers he worked hard for. He said, “Miss, you’re more like a coach than a teacher. I don’t feel judged by you.” He also told me that he knows I check in with his other teachers and that I advocate for kids, but he also knows I’m not going to make excuses for them. Another student said, “Your class is hard, Miss, but it’s my favorite class.” She spoke about rigor and told me that the less rigorous her classes are, the more she ditches them. “It’s like you expect more from us, and that makes me try harder.”
And, most important, I love my students for who they are. I think of myself as a tia (an auntie) at school, and when students’ families are not with them, I stand in as a surrogate. They all know that I love them as though they are part of my family, and that this love comes with high expectations. I will call them out if they are not meeting their own potential. If we educators want to reach our students’ hearts and minds, we need to know who our students are at their core. We need to know them like we know our nieces and nephews. And we cannot fake that love.
Martinez is a middle and high school business teacher in the heart of downtown Denver, Colorado, where she is an eighth-generation resident.
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