Ivory Tower: Lessons for a Teacher

Only one student ever told me to my face that she hated me and meant it. It happened more than 20 years ago, and I'll never forget the moment.

Shonda and I were seated across from each other in the shabby chairs of the teachers' lounge at the public high school of a small town in the Deep South. It was the only place I'd been able to find for our impromptu conference, and the matter at hand was urgent. Shonda wanted to drop out of the gifted program; in fact, she had already stopped coming to class. She had been vague with the counselor about her reasons, and she had not discussed the decision with me.

In our conference, I bombarded her with well-intentioned questions: What's going on? Is anything wrong at home? Why didn't you tell me you were having problems?

Her quiet answer shocked me: "I hate you."

"What?" I asked, even though I had heard quite clearly what she said.

"I hate you," she repeated without embellishment.

"Wh . . . Why?" I asked. But the conference was over because Shonda ran out of the room. Stunned, I couldn't even get out of my chair to go after her.

So Shonda dropped out of the program. Her parents didn't argue with her about her decision because they knew how strong-willed she was, and they wanted her to be happy. She simply stopped talking to me. For nearly a year I was left with unanswered questions. What had I done to elicit such hatred from her? How could I have failed her so miserably?

'I'm all right now'
One day, near the end of her senior year, Shonda appeared in the doorway of my classroom. For a moment, we just stood there, staring. Then she strode boldly to the desk and offered her hand to me. I shook it. Still we said nothing. I waited. I had become a better listener in the year since she and I last "talked." After a long moment, she smiled.

"I just wanted to say thank you for all you did. I think I know now what was going on."

My heart leapt. I was finally going to learn "why."

"I'm so glad you came to see me, Shonda," I gushed. I wanted to hear more, to find out everything. Most of all, I wanted her to tell me the things about myself that I hadn't been able to figure out.

But she didn't.

"I'm all right now," she assured me with a smile and left as suddenly as she had appeared.

I wish I could say that Shonda and I talked more intimately in a subsequent conversation, that we finally built a bridge of understanding that made us lifelong friends, but that is not the case. She graduated, went away to school, and her future and mine never intersected.

A divided landscape
Until I moved into Shonda's town, I had no idea how poisonous the effects of racism could be. I had much to learn. The community had traditionally divided itself by color. When integration was mandated, most of the white population abandoned the public schools for private academies. The result? The public high school was 70 percent black.

Of course, although I was a Southerner, I was certain -- confidently certain -- I was not a racist. Hadn't I been grounded as a teenager for taking the Blacks' side against my relatives during Sunday afternoon porch political debates? Hadn't I broken off my engagement with a young man because he ordered me, a first year nursing student, not to give hospital sponge baths to Blacks? As a teacher, hadn't I shown a personal interest in my black students, visited them in their homes, attended their community functions, and tried to learn more about their culture and their lives? How could I be a racist?

It has taken me years to recognize and to admit that I was and am a racist. Compassion and good intentions matter, but they do not erase racism. No matter how much I wish to be color-blind, it is impossible in a society where I am constantly forced to acknowledge differences in color. Only later would I learn that unless we first see each other as different, we can never see each other as the same.

When Shonda first came into my classroom, she was very quiet — probably shy, I concluded. Now I realize she didn't trust me or the situation. Here she was, a brilliant black girl in a pilot gifted program taught by a white teacher new to the school. What did I know about what she needed? And why did I care? At the time, of course, I was oblivious to her misgivings about my intentions and our racial and cultural differences.

Shonda told me she wanted to be a doctor. Based on my own biases, I suspected her choice was the common dream of other underprivileged youth I had known who saw becoming a doctor as the surest way to achieve status and economic success in American society. I soon learned that her desire was not fueled primarily by a desire for money or prestige; she was naturally gifted in science and had come to a measured, rational decision that the medical profession would offer her the best opportunity for making a difference in the world.

I was struck by her resolve, her sense of mission, her determination. Naturally, I wanted to help her. She was, after all, a disadvantaged Southern black girl bred in an anachronistic community suffering from deeply rooted racial tensions. She had so many challenges ahead of her. But I knew she would succeed because I was going to help her. I felt a sense of mission, too.

I tried to encourage her in every possible way. I shared with her everything I knew about getting financial aid for college. I became her liaison to the local medical community, arranging for her to work in various hospital settings as part of the mentoring program I had developed for my students. Since transportation was often a problem for Shonda, I even offered to drive her to interviews with medical professionals.

When 'helping' isn't helpful
I should have noticed sooner all was not well between us, that my "help" wasn't actually helping. One day I had arranged for her to meet with the head lab technician at the hospital. Shonda had been unusually quiet during the drive, but, as I have mentioned, she had never been a chatterbox, so I wasn't too concerned about her silence. I decided she was probably just nervous about the interview. I, on the other hand, felt especially talkative because I was so pleased and excited about how well "our" plans were working out.

The lab technician, a friendly, middle-aged white woman, seemed eager to help us arrange a work experience. Shonda, however, was strangely unenthusiastic and non-responsive. I began to feel a little panicky. What would the woman think of her? This was not a time for shyness; I wanted to show off my star student, but Shonda was not cooperating.

So what did I do? What any clueless person would do. I tried to control the situation. At first I talked to keep the three-way conversation lively, then I began to fill in the gaps that Shonda left in the conversation, and finally I began to speak for Shonda.

Predictably, my attempt to rescue the situation was a disaster. For most of the interview, Shonda sat like a stone while I blathered on. I remember vividly the frustration I felt as we drove back to the school in silence. I figured she didn't want to talk about her poor performance at the interview. Talk about clueless.

So what was going on? Here's what I've figured out. Over a period of time, Shonda built up resentment toward me. But I was too busy paving the way for her academically to notice. The more I tried to "help" her, the more damage I did to our relationship. At that time I had not learned a basic tenet of relationship psychology: The "rescued" person usually hates the "rescuer." An act of rescue necessitates both the assertion of power and the relinquishment of power. One person becomes dominant; the other becomes dominated. Few relationships can weather a rescue unless it is done quickly and the balance of power is immediately restored. Too often, it is not.

My motivation for rescuing Shonda was likely rooted in my own disadvantaged past. I had grown up the eldest of six children in a low-income household. A high school counselor told me I was not college material. Like Shonda, I knew what it felt like to be a long shot. The situation provided an opportunity for her, and for me, to prove the naysayers wrong once again.

It was also an opportunity to challenge the dominant white culture's unwritten rule that Blacks were not to be "encouraged" and, at the same time, to prove wrong the assumption that I, a young white female educator, did not have the power to threaten the status quo in that community. Subconsciously, I knew that Shonda's success would assure my own, both personally and professionally, so it is not surprising that I soon unwittingly assumed the role of rescuer.

What I was doing to Shonda was destructive. I was hammering at her self-respect during my prolonged rescue efforts. It seems incredible now that I didn't understand what was happening. Every time I suggested what she should do, I probably made her feel incompetent. Every time I spoke for her, I probably silenced her. Every time I insisted on helping her do something, I likely made her feel dependent. Every time I attempted to bolster what I perceived as her faltering self-confidence, I probably made her feel inadequate. She must have asked herself why I was doing those things. Was I helping her because I believed in her abilities? Or was it because I was a "benevolent" white teacher wanting to help a black student?

I did, in fact, care deeply about Shonda. Her race mattered to me only in the sense that I knew the fragmented culture of that town had not provided many opportunities for her, and I was determined to change that situation, at least in the realm of education. What I did not understand was that she refused to allow me, a member of the dominant culture, to define her, to write her script for success.

All of my relationships with black students did not end up like the one with Shonda. Overall, I was quite successful as teacher and mentor during my tenure at the high school. The gifted program grew, and my students flourished.

After Shonda, I became more sensitive to a student's need for self-determination. I listened with my eyes as well as my ears to the messages students were sending me about themselves, their families and their culture, about their fears and aspirations.

My independent study program became a more democratic environment, one in which students could develop decision-making power. There was more dialogue, more honesty and, eventually, more trust. I became a partner in my students' education; rather than suggesting their paths, speaking for them or trying to define their futures from my viewpoint, I gave them tools and support to do that work for themselves.

Admitting my whiteness
By the time I moved from this small Southern town, my failure with Shonda had been tempered with other, more successful outcomes. But I have never forgotten the hard lessons I learned.

With Shonda, I had tried to be color-blind, reasoning in my ignorance that blackness should not matter. But it does.

We did not talk about race; we should have. Shonda needed me to acknowledge her blackness and all its cultural implications; she also needed me to admit my whiteness and all its cultural assumptions. If I had encouraged her to talk to me about the challenges of being black in that repressive community, if I had admitted to her the difficulties of being a white teacher in a predominantly black school, if we had engaged in more honest dialogue about our racial differences, then perhaps we could have navigated the treacherous terrain of that time and place with more success.

I learned that people don't need to be rescued; they need to be respected. In Shonda's case, my protectionist attitude served only to alienate her from me. I thought I was helping her escape the bondage of a racist culture; she rightly sensed that I was, instead, impeding her path to freedom and self-determination. She knew instinctively that self-respect must be self-defined, and that, without it, she could never enjoy the respect of others.

Because of Shonda, I was forced to reexamine my motives for wanting to rescue the "oppressed." Because of Shonda, I had to struggle to find new ways of caring. In doing so, I learned about respect and courage and democracy and power. Because of her, I no longer oppress students with my egocentric visions of what their futures could become. I simply love them.