Race and Ethnicity

Jack read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and made an important connection. In a journal entry he wrote:

It is just the start of the novel, but I can already feel sympathy for Jim; living during that time as a colored person must have been absolutely awful. I can’t imagine anyone treating anyone like that, but then again, I was raised in a different time. 

I’m constantly struck by the memory of my first time in a jail. It was during a tour as a part of SPLC’s efforts to monitor the conditions of detention facilities. I recall being shocked at how young some of the people looked. When I stepped into the first cellblock, I muttered a prayer. In front of me stood rows and rows of black men. I was sick to my stomach; so many of them looked like they could be my cousins, uncles and other loved ones.

Through Big Brothers, Big Sisters, I’ve been working with a little girl from the neighborhood where I used to teach. I think very highly of this group and have only had good experiences with them. However, at a recent area-wide picnic, I noticed something disturbing. Most (not all, but the vast majority) of the children being mentored were African American or Latino. Most of the adult mentors were white or Asian. Again, this was not without exception, but was apparent.

Every time a new study is released showing black students are suspended at far higher rates than any of their peers, the public seems shocked. Words like “race” and “school to prison pipeline” and “discrimination” find their way into headlines—and then the issue fades away yet again.

My ninth-grade Spanish students resisted my assignment to write about their cultures.

“My family doesn’t have any cultural traditions,” one said.

“My culture is that I’m just normal,” added another.

“I don’t have a culture,” said another.

When I was growing up, most of my friends were a lot like me. We looked a lot alike, lived in similar neighborhoods and rarely questioned the racial and cultural uniformity that was the fabric of our lives. This isn’t to say that my high school lacked all diversity. Like many high schools, our student population was fairly segregated, and I stuck with the group where I felt most comfortable. It wasn’t until college that I experienced some authentic diversity, developed friendships with people who were different from me, and began to recognize how isolated I had been in high school.

It’s summertime, and students have replaced class time with free time. In the wake of the Trayvon Martin shooting, parents and teachers are painfully aware of the widespread racial profiling targeting men of color—particularly younger men who are more apt to be out and about during these summer months.

In a recent discussion about a history reading, I asked students if they understood the need to think critically about what we read, even if the reading is labeled “historical.”

Many of my third-graders are very angry. They have good reason. Growing up in the most violent area in Oakland, many have lost family members to violence or experienced racial injustice. They distrust the people who are supposed to protect them.

Anthony was one of my angriest students. His father was in prison. Anthony told me that he wanted to kill his father because fathers aren’t supposed to leave their families. He was 6 years old at the time.

My 4-year-old daughter Sophia was confused. She looked to me for an answer. “Greyson's not black,” she said. “Her skin is brown.” This was the first time I had heard my daughter bring up the issue of race or skin color.