Blinding Patriotism (or why I won’t stand up)

There’s seems to be something about professional football that gets people all riled up (something in the turf, maybe?) If you haven’t read about my first encounter with ignorance at an NFL game, read this first.  Or if you haven’t read my piece on the silent protests taking place at professional sports games, read this one, too.

Yet again, my significant other and I ran into some trouble when visiting Baltimore to watch the Steelers play their rival team. After a festive bout of tailgating, we arrived at our seats with a couple minutes till kickoff. The stadium was packed (with mostly Ravens fans) but we got settled pretty quickly by the time the national anthem started to play. In hypnotic fashion, (nearly) everyone in the stadium stood to hear the rendition belted out as we remained silently seated. To our right, a rather disgruntled woman leered in our direction. “Oh my god, are you kidding me?” was audible enough for us to hear, coupled with her look of absolute disgust at our silent act of protest.

Because I was fairly certain she wasn’t just mad about us supporting the opposing team, my partner and I talked to each other about her assumptions and reaction. She initiated a conversation with my partner: “My family is full of veterans who fought to protect this country.” Little did she know (at least at first) that we both are closely related to veterans who fought in combat for the U.S only to return to face either racial discrimination or neglect from the VA. But alas, she wasn’t here to listen. She was here to feel important.

As my partner continued to advocate on our behalf for our RIGHTS AS AMERICAN CITIZENS to express ourselves freely, our disgruntled patriot friend, with her husband’s hand blocking her face so he could watch the game, started to shout profanity at us. Visibly upset by our encounter, the woman left with her husband (whom I feel some sympathy for; he missed nearly the entire game). We didn’t see the woman for the rest of the game. It was too painful for her to sit next to disrespectful, unappreciative, “assholes” who clearly have no reverence for democracy.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? People who serve in the military understand that their brave and selfless actions serve a larger purpose of freedom. You don’t become a soldier because you want people to think the same way you do; you serve in spite of those differences. You serve in the name of freedom and a democratic society where citizens have the right to express themselves, well freely.

So, angry Ravens fan, I appreciate the people who serve in the military and I value their efforts to protect my rights as a citizen. Thus, as a way to show that appreciation for what they do, I will continue to express my opinion in a way that may make you uncomfortable. My sitting for this anthem (created during a time when I would have been considered less than human) is not an attack on veterans or soldiers. It’s an attack on the institutionalized racism ingrained in our “free” society that shoots down black bodies and fuels the school to prison pipeline. The racism you might not notice as a white American thanks to your disillusioned perspective courtesy of Fox News.

I’m sorry, not sorry, that your world view can’t allow you to see the injustices marginalized people face on a daily basis (especially in a city like Baltimore.) But your insults and anger won’t deter me from continuing to exercise my rights.

 

 

Colin Kaepernick and the hypocrisy of patriotism

When I first heard about Colin Kaepernick’s move to protest the national anthem, I didn’t think much of it. Strange, perhaps, but nothing particularly outrageous.

As an HBCU grad, I became accustomed to simply standing (with a skeptical look but hands at my side) for the traditional national anthem and then raising my right fist for the black national anthem (Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing.) The double consciousness (as penned by W.E.B Dubois) permeates Black American life and so I slowly realized that 2 national anthems for the US at sporting events wasn’t the norm.

When I saw the responses coming from every corner of the internet bashing the 49’s player’s decision to express himself, I felt confused. He started to lose support, NFL viewers tuned out, and sponsors pulled out.

Fellow players, though, joined in his protest. Players from across the NFL maintained the tradition of protesting injustice in the realm of sports. The NBA and WNBA have fined players for wearing “I Can’t Breathe” shirts and Knox College suspended (and then reinstated) player Ariyana Smith for silently protesting during the national anthem, sparking the recent wave of athletes protesting injustice.

RGB put in her 2 cents on Kaepernick’s actions, using words like “dumb” “disrespectful” and “arrogant” in her response to the player’s protest. While she noted that he is within his legal right to protest and she wouldn’t arrest anyone for protesting, her words strike an unsettling nerve.

As a woman of color, it’s difficult to appease my initial urge to jump to the supreme court justice’s defense. Ruth Bader Ginsburg has championed the rights of women in the U.S and inspired plenty of women to advocate for themselves. Her comments seem thoughtless and they lack empathy; isn’t she, too, someone who has faced oppression? 

It’s frustrating to hear someone belittle the valid expression of another. I’m curious as to why “patriotism” in America is restricted to things noted as historically symbolic. Why can’t we show patriotism by both standing OR kneeling for the anthem? Throwing tea overboard (dressed as indigenous peoples who had been massacred) to dispute taxes is a show of patriotism but silently kneeling in protest of black bodies in the street is a sign of disrespect? 

As a teenager growing up in the city that’s home to Focus on the Family and the Air Force Academy, I chose to sit every day in class when my peers and teachers recited the pledge of allegiance. I grew up in a post 9/11 world, where an irrational fear of “other” permeated sacred spaces, saying those hypnotically tuned words as a 2nd grader but never really understanding what they meant. When I made the “monumental” decision to sit instead of stand, watching my peers, I abated the criticism of a few of my (white) peers, but I wasn’t alienated from my community. Life went on and I grew up with a certain cautious reverence for the country in which I currently reside.

While I don’t openly protest injustice on a daily basis, I acknowledge its existence like the persistent throb of a migraine. Progress against oppression doesn’t come without criticism (from both within and outside of the movement), but I worry that divisive comments can detract from the larger goal.

So, on the 50th anniversary of the Black Panther Party, when a former leader mentioned that Kaepernick is “not the first, and he knows he’s not the first,” I think about the actions of less publicized Americans: a singer of the anthem (a white breast cancer survivor) who took a knee during her performance. “I love and honor my country as deeply as anyone yet it is my responsibility as an American to speak up against injustice as it affects my fellow Americans,” she said. Tysse continued:

“I cannot idly stand by as black people are unlawfully profiled, harassed and killed by our law enforcement over and over and without a drop of accountability. …

“Whether or not you can see if from your vantage point, there is a deep system of institutionalized racism in America, from everyday discrimination to disproportionate incarceration of people of color to people losing their lives at the hands of the police simply for being black. This is not who we claim to be as a nation. It is wrong and I won’t stand for it. #Solidarity.”

While Tysse certainly faced criticism for the protest, she hasn’t received nearly as much negative attention for her gesture as black athletes. The NBA respected her right to express her views.

I want the same respect for people of color to express their anger.

 

 

 

Letter to the aggressive sidewalk peddlers in uptown Manhattan

Have you ever been in a situation where someone said something offensive to you, but you couldn’t think of a great response until at least 2 hours later? Well, this is my response to a couple of “sidewalk peddlers” who have been increasingly aggressive in their tone towards me recently.

“So you don’t care about police brutality?”

The words seep in through my ears and twist around my brain.

My stomach grows heavy as concrete as I turn slowly.

My eyes land on the speaker and I restrain the urge to scream.

She stood there, natural hair in an afro, glasses atop her nose, as if expecting me to smile wide and join her in her fruitless attempt to garner support midday on a progressive Ivy campus. I resisted the urge to cock my head sideways and insult her effort.

I usually ignore the comments (“seasoned” Brooklynite that I am, brushing off the catcalls en route to the subway). But this was different. The situation, my emotional fatigue, her tone. I couldn’t gather the words fast enough, but soon came face to face with her.

If only she knew, I thought! That a black body lying prone, hands up, could have very well been my brother. My father. My student. The person I love simply because the police are threatened by the color of his skin as it glistens in the sun when he reaches for his driver’s license at the traffic stop.

If only she knew that I’ve organized with others at Howard when Trayvon was shot, when all of this came into focus. That I sought the comfort of my mother when Zimmerman was acquitted, and that I’ve been numb ever since. That the killing of black women isn’t the priority right now in this country and that I’ve been dismissed in conversations when I try to assert my right as a woman of color because of the fairness of my skin.

Excuse me for not wanting to donate my money, my mental energy, my exhausted emotional state to your organization. Excuse me for not being ready to address the trauma I face when I hear about yet another civil rights violation. Excuse me for not allowing your anger about standing on the sidewalk in 95 degree weather affect my resolve. Excuse me for not letting your guilt-inducing tactics sway me into wavering on my stance.

So I’m not ready to sit down with you near the end of my lunch break (after I’ve spent all morning creating ways to engage my black and brown students in discourse about their lives and before I scroll through my feed for the umpteenth time, trying the scores of images of black bodies in the street).

Because even though I’m not ready to take the action that might suffice in your eyes, I am in front of my black and brown students day in and out, collecting the strength to look them in the eyes and say that they are worth it. That they matter.

I want them to understand who they are and why their presence in their communities is important. I want them to feel valued and know that their voices can be loud enough to enact change. I want them to see things from another perspective, so hopefully they can understand that we are all more similar than different.

Matters

I’m so tired. It doesn’t matter.

What do I do?

What can I do?

How am I supposed to feel?

How do I talk about it?

 

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you were born in a red state or a blue state. It doesn’t matter that you graduated college. It doesn’t matter that you can’t gain legal employment  as a felon because you couldn’t afford a lawyer when you were illegally stopped and frisked. It doesn’t matter that you asserted your right as an American when you rolled your window down only to be faced with the barrel of a gun. It doesn’t matter that you were on your way to work or wearing something revealing or trying to feel safe. It doesn’t matter.

Because you are distinctly un-American. Despite the fact that your ancestors died for your survival, and America has been built by immigrants, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because you are dangerous, aggressive, and untrustworthy. You are a seductive, manipulative home-wrecker. You don’t belong here and you never have.

You used to be no more than an animal. You used to be chattel, ready to be sold and traded for the wealth of others. You used to be naïve and docile. You used to suffer. It didn’t matter that you had a rich culture full of tradition and legacy and with multiple languages that could communicate volumes. It doesn’t matter.

You swallowed the injustice and fought harder. You fought for your rights as a human, as a person, as a citizen of a country that exterminated you. You fought for the rights of others afar because you empathized with their struggle. You fought to exist in a place that embarrassed you and shamed you for who you are. You fought through oppression together to assert your humanity.

You made your voice heard. It doesn’t matter that it was at first a faint whisper because it grew into an enormous roar. You screamed until your lungs were sore and you didn’t back down. You yelled from the bottom of your belly for your children whom you promised to protect. You fought with your powerful voice and demanded more. You didn’t stop until you felt justice and you kept fighting to feel valuable.

Now you’re thinking that it doesn’t matter. That you’ve fought for so long and so hard that it doesn’t matter (anymore). Nothing changes and that it’s helpless. It doesn’t matter if justice is served because we have nothing left. But it matters. It matters that you are a person who is worthy of life and humanity and love. It matters that you have people who love you and want you to keep going. It matters that you are here and you kept going when it got tough. If you don’t keep going, it will all have been for naught. It matters for you. It matters for them. It matters. You matter.

A normalized culture of violence against women

 

During my first trip to Taipei, Taiwan, as I marveled at the clean and efficient metro system and wandered around the city, something felt different. I’m used to attracting attention as a traveler when I go abroad, usually because I’m taller than average and no one can pinpoint my exact “ethnicity.” Most people (especially Germans) seem to think that staring long enough will reveal the answer on my forehead. harassment

I anticipated this in Taiwan, but I didn’t have that same feeling of being “watched” on this trip. No one noticed me, at all, and I shared this observation with a friend of a friend who is from Taipei but has also traveled and lived outside of the country.

“I can walk around late at night here with no problems. I always feel safe, no matter what time it is.” Any time of night? In such a large city? Indeed, I learned. Taiwan is famous for its “night markets,” small sections of streets filled with food and clothing vendors open until late into the night. Both locals and visitors flock to the vendors to indulge in fried, skewered, and steamed Taiwanese specialties as they bargain over other goods along narrow alleyways.

My friend mentioned that sexual harassment in the U.S, including “catcalling,” is pretty notorious. Everyone knows it happens.

When I recounted how often I opt for taking a cab as opposed to taking the subway late at night, or how I, without fail, attract attention of men on the street when I leave my home, I got very angry.

Enter a caption

It seems unfair. Unfair that as a woman in a modernized country, I  worry about how I look, how I dress, what I say (or don’t say) because it could put me in danger. Unfair that boys are not (always) taught from a young age to treat women as humans but as prizes to be “gotten.” Instead, a girl is told to dress respectably and then grows up to second guess her outfit before stuffing mace into her clutch, “just in case.”

Why is sexual harassment and violence against women such a normalized instance of American culture?

We’ve come to accept the mindset so much that government agencies have now adopted it unconsciously. In a seemingly well-intentioned campaign to warn women about fetal alcohol syndrome, the CDC shamed women into thinking that their alcohol use has some unlikely, even implausible, risks.

Risks of drinking for any woman include “sexually transmitted diseases,” “injuries/violence,” and “unintended pregnancy.” Huh? I thought sex caused pregnancy and STDs, not binge drinking (which, of course, isn’t a healthy habit to develop anyway).

The idea that women, solely, are at fault for the violence that others commit was conveyed during the recent Zika virus scare. (Go here for a NY Times article by a Brazilian woman who articulates this point much better than I can.) Several South American countries have advised women, in an attempt to prevent birth defects, to avoid “getting pregnant.”

Something’s off about that advice: it neglects to mention a man’s role in causing pregnancy.  It isn’t as if women are spontaneously impregnating themselves; men are impregnating women. However, there hasn’t been a national call from Brazil for all men to remain abstinent for 2 years. That would be ludicrous, right?

If South American countries, many of which are predominantly Catholic, had health care systems that provided women with consistent and safe birth control options, this advice wouldn’t be so far fetched. However, birth control can be difficult to come by in many other countries and the stigma associated with these methods stems from the heavy religiously influenced background of South American countries.

Reversing this incredibly biased perspective on women starts with removing the stigma around women and sexual health. This begins with parents having open conversations with their children. It continues when men avoid shaming women for their bodies and sexual health. And it looks like women and men treating each other equally in society and governments doing the same.

(UPDATE: The CDC has taken down the infographic after criticism and Anne Schuchat, the principal deputy director of the CDC, defended the agency’s intentions, told The New York Times, “we weren’t as clear as we had hoped to be.”)

 

Microagressions and privilege: did that really just happen?

 

I love to travel. Discovering new places both domestically and abroad has opened my eyes to different aspects of the human experience I would have otherwise missed had I never left my comfort zone. Besides the superficial benefits of getting to see famous landmarks and enjoy great food, meeting new people and gleaning their perspectives on life make for an enriching experience.

As a female traveler, there have often been instances where I had to take extra precautions or alter my travel plans in order to safely enjoy my adventures. In the U.S, this happens much less often than abroad, but traveling domestically always brings about the unwanted attention of those who can’t conceive why women would consider traveling alone.

On a recent trip to Pittsburgh, I experienced a typical sexist remark from a (drunk) football fan who probably thought paying me a “compliment” would boost my self esteem. (Note that this remark came during the brief 5 minutes out of the weekend where I was alone- we’ll save that for another post). Surprisingly, this instance of misogyny wasn’t the most disturbing expression of white male privilege that I witnessed while in the Steel City.

When I travel in the U.S or abroad, people are usually perplexed and intrigued by the color of my skin. In most cases, I’m privileged enough to escape any overt discrimination and, outside of the occasional catcalls from men, I get to really enjoy the cities that I visit because I avoid most overt negative attention. During this trip, though, there were a number of subtle racial microagressions that my travel companion and I experienced that seemed to compound as the trip wore on.

Seemingly insignificant slights at JFK during the check-in and security process hadn’t deterred my vacation mood. I did notice, however, the constant glares in downtown Pittsburgh, a city not necessarily known for welcoming diversity. Even though I was overjoyed at the constant stream of black and gold at every corner, the tension of feeling like “outsiders” when walking around the city crept into consciousness often enough.

At Heinz field, as the Steelers game neared the end of the first half, my partner ventured out of our row, as several other people had already done during the game. On his way out, he heard the person sitting in the aisle seat mumble “you should go around next time.” Not thinking much of it, he returned to the row and the man remained seated. “Pardon me, sir I need to get to my seat.” The man remained seated and asked him, again, to walk around (we were sitting much closer to one side than the other). After a back and forth exchange that ended with the older white man begrudgingly stepping to the side, the element of this exchange that stuck out was the look of unwarranted”fear and anger” from the man.

He wore no Steelers gear, just a camouflaged jacket that’s often used by serious game hunters. He couldn’t have been younger that 75, and since so many other (white) fans had already left and come back to their seats, his reaction at this particular moment seemed bizarre.

If you’ve ever been to a football game, you understand that part of the experience is being squeezed into a plastic seat among thousands of other fans, thus having to let others in and out of your row whenever they want. Sure, this can be slightly annoying, but you get over it after a while if you have the slightest bit of empathy.

I find something very fascinating about this man’s reaction to having to stand up and let someone through the row. As a Steelers fan, this man supports a team that is comprised of 80% African-American players and is 1 of 5 NFL teams that boast a black head coach. Our camouflaged “friend” supports black players each and every week, yet his experiences with people of color  on a personal level suggest that he believes in deep seated racist ideologies.

The Problem with Calling it Out

 Microaggressions are naturally very difficult to explain or rationalize. Anyone who is unaware of cycles of oppression or discrimination would find it difficult to understand the humiliation of racial slights.

Let’s say that in a parallel universe, we had called out this man for his overtly racist comments and actions. Let’s say we, rationally, had confronted him in a calm manner and mentioned that he is now in 2015 and legal segregation is, in fact, over and done. The myths he was probably fed about black people were indeed false and miscegenation is no longer a crime. An ideal situation would dictate that he and his friends would have offered a prompt and sincere apology.

Anyone who has experienced a microaggression or any racial discrimination understands that this is out of the question for many reasons. This kind of peaceful outcome would require:

• the white person to acknowledge his racist perspective

No one in the 21st century wants to be outwardly labelled as a racist. Even people who interact very rarely with people of color, and have little insight into what the experience is like, would balk at the idea of associating themselves with members of the KKK. Americans typically summon an image of white hoods on horseback when you mention the word “racism” because there haven’t been many opportunities to discuss race and racism openly on a national level before. If anything, Barack Obama’s election made it easier for white Americans to remove the notion of racism from their consciousness. If you had voted for him, there’s no way you could be considered racist. Even if you didn’t vote for him, it’s because you disagreed with his policies. Even if you doubted his American citizenship, it was because his dad was Kenyan.

• Americans to acknowledge that racism still exists.

America seems like a colorblind society to anyone chooses to ignore the institutional and structural discriminatory practices of the U.S government. The U.S is a free country “for all” if you’re under the impression that all people acquired the right to vote in 1870. Politicians who are now in power are the sons (and daughters) of former politicians/citizens who supported segregation. They are the children who grew up with black nannies and images of black “comedians” and entertainers who showcased plastered smiles on their faces. Many of these politicians haven’t adapted to an America where black men and women hold equal power. This adaptation requires a huge ideological change before true equality can even be considered a possibility in the U.S.

• a shift in the power structure between people of color and whites

Very similarly, this can only happen when the overused tropes of people of color in the media are no longer the only archetypes that represent black and brown men and women. Outdated archetypes, like the black athlete or the aggressive black woman make it acceptable, in the minds of whites, to carry those stereotypes over to reality. Unless this unbalanced structure is broken down, and the stereotypes are seen as just that, encounters on a personal level like the one at the stadium will continue to occur everyday for people of color.

 

(un)safe Spaces in Black Academia

In case you missed it in these past few weeks, attending a university is yet another thing people of color cannot do in the U.S. Between Mizzou and Harvard, the message of exclusion for people of color in higher academia has been made loud and clear.

COLUMBIA, MO – NOVEMBER 9: Jonathan Butler (c), a University of Missouri grad student who did a 7 day hunger strike listens during a forum speaking to students on the campus of University of Missouri – Columbia on November 9, 2015 in Columbia, Missouri. Students celebrate the resignation of University of Missouri System President Tim Wolfe amid allegations of racism. (Photo by Michael B. Thomas/Getty Images)

In response to widespread racism and discrimination against black students on Mizzou’s campus, several students rallied together to demand focus on the reality of living as black students on predominately white institutions (PWIs). As several voices have pointed out, protests like these are nothing new; students of color (and their allies) across the country have demanded attention to bring change and awareness to their campus communities.

In this particular case though, the backlash from the protests at Mizzou have highlighted why black voices remain silenced in largely white spaces. Conservative pundits, color blind well-meaning white people, and even outwardly racist folks alike were quick to shame protesters for voicing their concerns, accusing protesters of ignoring other issues around the world.

Meanwhile, the blatant acts of racism on Harvard’s campus demonstrate the reality that blacks are especially excluded from ivy league institutions which have been built upon the notorious legacies that founded this country. The irrational fear, grounded solely in illusions of white privilege, has emboldened white students, born of this legacy of hatred, to commit hateful (yet cowardly) acts on college campuses.

The seemingly inherent fear of blacks somehow diluting the pure prestige of ivy league schools has trained many white college students to believe that racism and discrimination are normal aspects of college culture. An NPR story on the future of Mizzou after the protests featured an interview with a white student.

“I honestly want these protests to try and die down,” he says. “I want the message to continue, but I think it’s attracting a lot of unnecessary national attention from just everywhere. And it’s giving Mizzou a bad image in my opinion … I don’t think we deserve what’s going on right now. I just kind of want things to go back to normal, how they were. Nice and quiet.”

Many of the phrases used here are elements of coded language that get thrown around in an effort to lessen the sting of racism (and make white people more comfortable with expressing their ideas publicly.) The idea of a “normal” highlights the lack of awareness of students who don’t understand what it’s like to feel unsafe in most spaces. The privilege of power extends to these students when they can walk freely to class instead of avoiding potentially fatal threats on campus.

While the issues surrounding these recent incidents remain, it’s clear that the next generation of leaders refuse to allow racism to subtly coat the surface of academic spaces. The black lives matter movement has continued to gain momentum, despite it’s inner struggle in grappling with intersectionality. In order to see true change in public spaces, the uncomfortable conversations about race must continue.

Otherwise, things might just go back to how they were. Nice and quiet.

Addressing the Cause instead of the Symptom: Standardized Testing

I’m a terrible test taker. I’ve always gotten at least a slight amount of testing anxiety during exams, whether I was taking a state standardized test or a midterm in college. Despite having usually prepared for my exams as thoroughly as I could have, there’s something about the pressure of success being whittled down to a numerical score that makes me most nervous.

On Friday, my 6th graders took a standardized test, one which is administered several times throughout the year, to measure their growth over the school year. I could feel some of their anxiety as I tried to encourage them, all the while stifling my inner voice that wanted to whisper advice or comment on their written portion.

In the broad scope of public education, tests are a vital way to determine whether students are learning and retaining content and skills taught in their core subjects. In theory, exams should provide an objective measure to educators to assess their areas of instructional growth.

Standardized testing in the U.S has become a mandatory element of educational policy, especially with the passage of No Child Left Behind. This piece of legislation made it possible for the federal government to supply specific states with more funding if they met AYP (annual yearly progress). School districts which weren’t meeting this goal were swiftly penalized while those that were proficient continued to receive federal funding.

Unsurprisingly, this legislation didn’t produce the desired outcomes and it certainly didn’t close the “achievement gap” it sought to cure. By 2014, all students between 3rd and 8th grade were to be on or above grade level in both math and reading, according to NCLB. Today, 41 states in the U.S have been approved for flexibility from the law, thus allowing each state to reconfigure a system to both accurately assess student progress and provide accountability measures for school districts.

Legislation that addresses the end product (student results) without also investing in the means (teacher/school input) is bound for failure. By placing school districts under the boot of higher stakes testing and high pressure measures, NCLB ignored the resources necessary to prepare students for those measures. With the shift in legislation and the incoming Common Core standards, it seems that testing will continue to be a major part of educational reform in the U.S.  In addition to providing a standard measure of student achievement, the move now is to standardize skills that students will learn across states.

How can we focus on other variables that affect student achievement? 

Reinvesting in authentic and realistic teacher training programs 

Teacher input, although only one variable in equation of public education, is an important factor in a student’s success. (If you haven’t already, check out my post about a particular teacher preparation program that seeks to provide more trained teachers in high needs areas.) A focus on reinvesting in teacher training, both before educators are in front of children and while they are fine tuning their practice, could address HOW students are learning. There certainly isn’t one model that guarantees successful teachers across the board, but by collaborating with higher education institutions and public school districts, state and federal governments could begin to invest in the way teachers learn their practice.

Fair and objective measures and tests

Despite the misleading name, it can be nearly impossible to administer an exam to several children that will be completely fair and objective. If an exam question for a 6th grader contains vocabulary that a student doesn’t recognize, thus preventing the student from understanding the question, what is the question assessing? Vocabulary, or an important critical thinking skill? While these exams try to account for these instances, it’s arguable that a student in Brooklyn, NY might not encounter the same vocabulary, even in a school setting, as a student who lives in Buffalo, NY. Without eliminating tests completely, test design that takes into account the diverse population of students who will be taking the exam could help equalize student outcomes.

Equal educational opportunities

This variable is much more nuanced than simply rewriting an exam. The intrinsic nature of inequality among school districts, sometimes even within the same city, is a difficult issue to address with major, structural reform. Providing each student in each school with an equal chance at a quality education would outweigh the need for looking more closely at standardized exams. Examining the racial and socioeconomic factors that affect schools, particularly in urban neighborhoods, could refocus the conversation around meaningful reform.

Are any of these easy solutions? Of course not. But only addressing the symptoms of ineffective public education legislation is unfair to dedicated educators and especially students. Until we have a fair, objective way to assess whether students are learning the critical skills they need to be successful, I’ll continue to encourage my students to “try their best” and discover ways to take the test so they can focus on learning the critical thinking skills they’ll truly need in life.

The Perfect Archetype: My Critique of “The Perfect Guy”

If you’ve been to see a film at the movie theater recently, you’re probably still pondering a better use of the $14 you spent on the ticket. This past weekend I saw “The Perfect Guy” with similarly skeptical friends who critically analyzed the entire thing along with me.

DISCLAIMER: Spoilers ahead.

This time around I was less regretful of the price I paid and more critical of the overplayed tropes of black characters that were represented in the film. Now, this wasn’t the usual Mammy or Uncle Tom type of caricature. The film was directed by a white male, produced and written by men of color. The portrayal of women of color in the film, then, is simply not based in reality.

Instead, the movie depicts the main character, Leah, as an overworked “career woman” who is seemingly forced to choose between two men in her life. The film is a thriller as we learn that one of the men isn’t who he, at first, appears to be. Throughout the film, it seems as if Leah is making good, logical decisions that don’t always make you want to yell at the screen. These choices include walking away at the right time, involving the police, and asking her sassy black friend for advice. When forced to take extreme measures thanks to the ineptitude of the police force, she arms herself and tries to outsmart her stalker. She “wins” in the end by eventually killing the man who has become obsessed with her by shooting him dead with a shotgun in her house.

The part of the plot that was overly hyped in the previews was the reintroduction of Leah’s ex boyfriend. When her current partner begins stalking her, she reaches out to the other man. For some reason, he seems to be the most well equipped for the job at outsmarting a cyber expert who creates security systems for a living.

Of course you want to root for Leah and you want her to come out making the right decision. Unfortunately, the movie seems to give her no real options to do this. She is cornered into a box of always depending on a male figure, whether it’s the ex or the investigator, to aid her in risky situations. Overall, Leah’s character lacks depth and I would’ve loved to see her take on a truly independent role in which she evolves into a stronger character. I left thinking, “perhaps she should’ve tried singledom for awhile.”

“The Perfect Guy,” while boasting an all black cast, just doesn’t deliver on so many aspects. The story line lacks imagination and the ending is predictable. The misogynistic undertones in the way the men treat Leah (as an object) make the movie painful to watch at times.

A great start to avoiding these pitfalls would be to include people of color in the writing and production phases of movies being created in Hollywood. Diverse representation in every aspect of the film making process can help to illuminate the issue of stereotyping more.

Without black female film makers, these awful movies will continue to make millions on the backs of those who have been waiting to see all black casts in Hollywood. We support these films hesitantly because we want blacks to do well, but we HAVE to do better.

The evolving face of Gentrification

Hello, my name is Christine and I am a gentrifier. The feeling behind those words feel very similar, I imagine, to a white male embracing his own privilege in society.

I stick out when I walk through Brownsville, NY, (or Ocean Hill as it is now being referred to) down Eastern Parkway to start my run towards the Brooklyn Museum. I head out early over the weekend, both to avoid the copious number of other runners who hit the path around 9am and to avoid the stares and snickering of men who sit on the bench and attempt to blow cigarette smoke towards me. People glance at me as I pass bus stops and jog over crosswalks. It’s not until I reach Franklin Ave that runners become a more common occurrence.

Over the summer, in addition to running around the neighborhood, I’ve sought out more small businesses and attended a local church’s block party. While still feeling disconnected from the people who have lived in this area for decades, it was refreshing to have “regular” shops where I buy groceries and people who recognize me on the street.

A little over a year ago, I moved here to teach at a charter school which seeks to close the achievement gap. Enough cringe-worthy acronyms and educational buzzwords float around our hallways in a day to make me almost forget that Brownsville is considered one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in NYC.

I hadn’t really considered what it would be like to live in this neighborhood before I accepted the position. I knew my school was in Brooklyn and that it was a part of the “urban education movement” pushing rigor and data. (The extreme end of this reform movement can be found in post-Katrina New Orleans’ education system.)

I sometimes like to imagine that our kids are insulated from everything outside of our walls once they put on their uniform shirts and sit in our classrooms. I like to think that every intention and hope we have for them will come to fruition in due time. That the product of our labor (and theirs) will pay off in the long run and we know that we are, actually, doing something right.

This inflated sense of hope shields me from reaching out to the community that I have infiltrated. It’s taken me a year to explore more parts of this neighborhood thanks to an irrational fear that I can’t quite place. The stigma of Brownsville presents itself in so many interactions that I have with people; transplants will cringe and offer a “that’s so admirable” when I give my profession and location.

The redevelopment of Brownsville is simmering. There have been very subtle, almost undetectable changes within the year I’ve lived here. 8 weeks of construction on the subway tunnel’s entrance, planted trees on the sidewalks and repaving the concrete around those plants, the opening of the Planet Fitness on Rockaway Ave. A major change that has taken place is the demolition of a large housing project and the construction of several “affordable housing” units in the Ocean Hill area.

As someone caught in the middle of this transitional phase, it’s difficult to gauge how much the neighborhood has already changed and to predict what it will look like in another 5 years. Redevelopment of any area always has it’s benefits: nicer facilities, updated store fronts, repaved and safer roads. But those are always balanced out by consequences: higher rent, less space, changing dynamics of a neighborhood.

We take the bad for good and, eventually, everyone’s memory of the original neighborhood fade to black. People forget, (are forced to) move away, and move on. As an educator in this evolving neighborhood, my new hope is for my students to understand the power they wield as young people. If they can use that power to reinvest in their own communities, gentrification can become less of a dirty word. We won’t need to “redevelop” neighborhoods because we’ll build a strong foundation from the start, beginning with the children who were raised in those neighborhoods.