Counter-Narratives
On the plane to New Orleans, I sat next to a young man who sheepishly leaned over to ask if I had a Kleenex. Turns out, he needed conversation more than a nose-blow and I was ready. He attends a private school in lower Manhattan, populated by a number of foreign students as well as wealthy Americans like himself. He does especially well in French and Physics and hopes to go to college in London. He is still “working to figure out the best way to monetize his interests so that he can provide the kind of opportunities his parents have provided for him.”
Looking to unearth some sign of youthfulness, I ask “Why London?”.
Sheepishly he admits that it’s the home of his favorite soccer team. Aha!!! Life!
“So, what if you didn’t go to college?” I begin. “What if, for instance, you moved to Japan and taught English and spent some time writing?
“I love writing.” I see him thinking. “But what about my future children?”
Me: “Maybe you raise them in a tiny apartment, and they become completely bilingual and you have lots of time to take them to museums and parks. You all study flute.”
Him: “That does sound kinda cool.”
Me: “And your parents and sister (they are seated a few aisles over- his mother has on a UPenn sweatshirt, and his sister is plugged into some device) come to visit to try and talk you into returning for a degree at MIT. What might you tell them?”
In my former life as an educator, I sometimes asked kids to create counter-narratives, stories that reframe perspective, challenge power dynamics and promote agency.
“Stop it, Wendy,” I say to myself. You are not this kid’s teacher.
But then I couldn’t stop thinking about teaching the book Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred Taylor in my children’s Literature classes, a counter-narrative if ever there was one. The story, told from the perspective on 9-year-old Cassie Logan describes the struggles of an African American family living in Mississippi in the 1930’s. Now this book is frequently challenged and “routinely banned in school districts across the country for its harsh depictions of racism, racial violence, and its use of racial slurs (including the N-word).”
“Such a good book” I say to myself, recalling class discussions. White students struggled with their own identities— “but I’m not like those racists” was the most frequent complaint. “Where are the good Whites?”
And the “N-word?” Historical realism requires that slur. Descriptions of racist actions and attitudes embodied at least as much hatred as the slur, but I see no complaints in the book banning literature.
I remember watching over and over again as it dawned on students, as it inevitably did, that personal and historical perspective both matter. The discussion of decency was invariably intense and meaningful. I think about those students now, fully grown. Perhaps some are even grandparents by now. As they sit in school board meetings or head to the polls, do they ever recall Cassie Logan and her family?
My airplane seat-mate is headed to a destination wedding where a huge group of his family members will gather. Undoubtedly, he will be lauded for his excellent grades and lofty ambitions. But perhaps, as he happily settles into for bed for the night, he may smile at the thought of his spare apartment in Japan, happily eating delicious food with his loving, unpredicted family.