When I taught fourth and fifth grade, one of my favorite literature units focused on social justice. Each day for a week or so, I would give a broad overview of an "-ism" that impacted our society: racism, ageism and classism, among others. I read aloud a fiction or non-fiction picture book featuring that topic. My students always detested the cruel and oppressive treatment of individuals like Anne Frank and Jackie Robinson
Then we would hit sexism.
For the picture book to introduce that topic, I chose between two fiction books: Oliver Button is a Sissy by Tomie dePaola or William's Doll by Charlotte Zolotow. In each book, the main character is asked to conform to societal norms for boys, despite his interests. Oliver Button is called a “sissy” when the boys at school find out he loves to dance. William's brothers call him the same word when he insists on wanting a doll.
As I’d read the story, eventually someone would begin to giggle. It usually started with one person, and by the time the story was done, several kids would be laughing. It wasn't uproarious laughter but more like uncomfortable, nervous laughter.
Normally I would have addressed their reaction immediately, but in this case, I intentionally let it continue.
After finishing the story, I’d start with questions. "I'm confused. When we read about Anne Frank and Jackie Robinson, I didn't hear anyone giggle. But when I read this book, I heard several people giggle. Why do you think that is?"
Students would struggle with this question, some making weak excuses or even laughing that I’d asked it. "Well," one student finally chimed in, "it wasn't funny that people said mean things about Jackie Robinson."
"Well then, why is it funny about Oliver being called a sissy?"
My students would glance sideways at each other, hoping someone would give the "correct" answer. Even my more talkative students would find themselves silent. Finally, a student would speak up about how boys do “boy things” and girls do “girl things,” and a sissy was a boy who did girl things.
They were describing—without having the language for it—society’s binary gender conditioning of our boys and girls.
To explore this concept visually, I’d draw a line down the middle of a chart pad on my easel, with the words boys and girls on either side. I’d ask kids to tell me what interests they associate with boys and what interests they associate with girls. On the boy side, I’d always hear about sports, video games, cars and trucks. For girls, I’d hear about dresses, dolls and jump rope. It was obvious this conditioning had started early on and was deep-set within my students.
Once the chart was made, I'd ask the kids if it's OK that people "cross the line." I’d start with my own personal perspective. I had told my students on countless occasions that I have no basketball skills, that I love art and music, and that reading is one of life's great joys. After reminding them of this, I’d tell my students, "According to this list, then, I guess I'm a sissy. Would any of you laugh at that?"
That question was always met with dead silence as my students entered the ripe learning space of cognitive dissonance.
After this lesson, it was common for some of the boys to begin talking about the things they liked doing. One year, I had a boy who came to school wearing his dance costume. He spoke openly about how all of his brothers would often get teased because they were dancers. Other boys talked about loving art, drawing and cooking.
The girls in the class talked about crossing the line as well. Every year, I’d have girls in class that were known for their sports acumen. Some were video game experts. One year, I had a girl in class who knew just about every truck and car in the world (and wrote about them endlessly).
This ongoing conversation usually ended with students realizing that there shouldn't be a line at all. Some years my classes reached that point quickly. In other years, it took some time.
Allowing my students to sit with their discomfort and question the “line” opened dialogues and conversations about serious issues that my students needed to confront. I loved these teaching moments because they built awareness of stereotypes while helping create safety for all of my students—for my boys who loved to knit, my girls who loved to arm-wrestle and for anyone who might like to do both.
And, after this unit, I wouldn’t hear much giggling when it came to gender roles...unless my kids were watching me trying to shoot a basketball.
Hiller is a mentor to first- and second-year teachers in Oregon and a member of the Teaching Tolerance Advisory Board.
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