Sarah Hershey
I was excited about the lesson I was about to teach. As part of a middle school English unit on identity and voice, I’ve been weaving in diverse authors and genres. Yesterday, it was Langston Hughes’s poem, “I, too, sing America.” After exploring several aspects of their identities and pushing back against misconceptions people have about them, my students were ready to dig into powerful texts and grapple with complex questions.
I had not thought about the fact that one of my classes was going to be held directly after the school-wide Halloween Parade. “Ok,” I thought when I walked on campus through a growing crowd of vampires, rainbow wigs, and princess dresses, “getting the students to focus in class might be a little more difficult this morning!” But the students were joyful and energetic, and what teacher doesn’t want an abundance of joy and energy in the classroom? “It’ll be fine!” I resolved.
Suddenly, I was approached by one of my colleagues. “Look,” he said, pointing to a small group of 7th grade boys, “they’re dressed like Arab terrorists!” We were equally stunned. I rushed over immediately. In fact, as they informed me, they had been planning this for two weeks. Some of them were dressed in U.S. military fatigues, and others had their heads covered in a combination of pillow covers, bandanas, and neckties. One of them had used a ski-mask to disguise his face. “We’re Taliban fighters, Ms. Hershey!” they said excitedly, expecting approval. All of them – Taliban and U.S. solders alike – were gripping fake assault weapons. I could feel the blood rushing to my face.
Reminding them of the school’s no weapons policy – real or fake – I immediately bundled the guns in my arms, barely able to hold all of them without dropping one, and marched through a crowd of happy parents and their cameras to the middle school director’s office. Far from the calm, cool, collected self I usually demonstrate in the administrator’s office, I was emotional and felt a tremendous a sense of urgency: the parade was about to start.
I was grateful for his immediate support as we rushed outside to explain to the “Taliban fighters” why they would have to remove their head coverings. (I later found myself providing the same explanation to some colleagues who gently questioned the necessity of our actions.) “If I were someone with an identity that’s frequently stereotyped as being synonymous with ‘terrorists,’ I would be enormously offended. Or I might think you were mocking my culture.” Their faces fell as they reluctantly pulled off their costumes. “What if someone I loved was hurt or killed by the Taliban?” I was aware that the same question could be asked of the U.S. soldiers, too, but that would be a stickier matter. Despite reassuring them that we knew there was no malicious intent on their parts, that we weren’t mad at them, and that this was an “educational moment” about cultural sensitivity, they were still (understandably) pissed. Noticing a mother across the black top wearing a hijab (one of several kinds of head coverings worn by some Muslim women), I felt relieved.
The morning’s events emphasized the need for schools to approach cultural awareness from every possible angle. On a personal level, what needs to be done among the students, faculty, staff, and parents/guardians? In examining the school’s culture, is it actively and visibly inclusive beyond a smattering of diverse faces? Who has had the social, economic, and political power to shape the school’s culture in the first place, and how can we empower underrepresented voices? How can the curriculum, support services, professional development, parent education, and official school policies promote sensitivity, awareness, and inclusion?
Who else sings America?