 Throughout my graduate program, in seminar after seminar, we discussed, with gusto, pedagogy, teaching, learning, schooling, and all aspects of education both within schools and individual classrooms as well as macroscopically through lenses of power and oppression, in addition to sociologically and economically and, of course, politically. One of my favorite courses, titled Teaching, Learning, and Schooling, threw us headlong into our own beliefs, understandings, and ideologies regarding three distinct aspects of education that interconnect in nuanced ways but were broken apart and examined scrupulously. In fact, our final product was to produce a large, poster-sized visual, artistic representation of our views of the three subjects. Exemplars ranged from anthropomorphized tree-heads fusing together to pictorial representations of video games and the internet. Together we all wrestled with the strange interweaved connections and synthesized the information in our own way, through our own lens. One day a few weeks into the semester, we were discussing learning. The course was designed so that we would spend a week or so delving into each of the three topics, and then after that practice synthesizing them, comparing them, drawing connections between them, and also staking the differences to better understand how we can approach our own philosophy of education. In this particular class, we were discussing a subject brand new to most students, at least in theoretical terms, where we were simply asked the question: “What are you teaching your students when you’re not actually teaching them?” With my outdoor education background, not to mention an immense passion for having read Paulo Freire a second time that summer, I struggled to hold in my responses. Relentlessly, I did manage to self-regulate, at least until the conversation was beginning. Somewhere along the line, I elaborate on how, even unconsciously, humans are always adapting to their environment, taking in new information, and attempting to piece together those dilapidated data with our current processors. The idea that we could be subconsciously consuming data and then utilizing it seemed novel to some. As the teacher facilitated the conversation, he eventually explained to the class that what we had described was academically known as the hidden curriculum. The Hidden, sometimes called Invisible, Curriculum, is a name for the idea that, even though we do not plan every aspect of our learning experience for students, we are always teaching them something. When you begin to ponder this thought, it can be daunting. If students are learning even when I am not intentionally teaching them, can I as a teacher guarantee that every bit of information they devour is correct, is information that should be consumed, or is data or information that will add value to their lives in some way? The simple answer is of course not, but that is only half of the problem and the challenge. In our graduate seminar, we focused closely on how the invisible curriculum hides closely behind the intended curriculum. We examined this through racial bias, gender discrimination, and the absence of social class. For those less familiar with this topic in education, we consider these curricula that fall “short” or that don’t explain the whole story, often because they are told through only one story, with one answer, which is the back of the book. To elaborate, this idea centers around the concept that there are hidden stories, hidden messages, and hidden learning that happens in the classroom. This isn’t an Illuminati vision, though, because this is not some cryptic message or even possibly some massively huge “big brother” information sink. Rather, it is both an unintended consequence of a limitation of time and resources or is simply from ignorance. For example, in the history classroom, it can be easily identified. For most of the early education in US history, many figures didn’t make the books, literally. These ranged from prominent African American figures to Latino labor organizers to working-class folks of all skin colors, creeds, and geographic locations. Even after Howard Zinn’s groundbreaking book, A People’s History of the United States, some places have been slow to implement these important stories within their curriculum. This ignorance or rejection of these stories then teaches one of two lessons. First, it says to students that there is only one story, one version of history and it looks a certain way. In this case, that image is usually white, male, and heroic. Secondly, it dictates what is and is not important to learn within the classroom. For example, if a history teacher only focuses on wars, battles, and generals, it negates social movements, politics, and poverty, among numerous other topics, from the study of history. Once again, this negation or exemption may be intentional or not, but it is a critical aspect of education that needs to be considered when making decisions and teaching youth. For me, I move beyond even the curriculum when I consider the invisible curriculum, though, and I believe it is imperative that all teachers do the same, though in different ways. The impact of the invisible curriculum on our society is too great to otherwise ignore it. In the classroom, this develops differently for each course that I teach. Working with male students, for example, I often wonder not only whether many of them have positive male role models in their lives, but I consider who is their chief influences for positive masculinity. If we are to solve issues of gender equity in the country, we have a duty to educate young men to not only treat young women with respect and dignity and allow spaces for them to prosper, but we must also teach young men to respect each other, to engage in healthy conflict nonviolently, to express emotions, and more. In this way, as a teacher I have a tremendous opportunity to present this version of masculinity for them, to teach them, even if it is only through passive interactions with me, rather than structured material. Likewise, if we are to solve issues of the climate crisis, we must show students, modeling for them through our own beliefs and actions, the appropriate steps one could take to make changes. Language, of course, is another avenue for immense learning. Teachers model academically language in their classes consistently and many students learn just simply by being exposed to it, as many have a home life where that type of academic argumentative language simply doesn’t exist. I know that I didn’t. Moving beyond classrooms and schools and into the broader world, we must consider the invisible curriculum not only in our own fields and within informal education but also online and in other spaces where learning happens. By raising the invisible curriculum to the surface, in an intentional, critical, but humble way, we can begin to identify aspects of our curriculum and learning that are lacking, some of which do our children and society a disservice. For this reason, I believe that it is imperative that teachers ask this question of their own classrooms, of their own demeanor, and of their own ideologies of the world: What am I teaching my students when I’m not teaching them? There are many answers to our challenges, but we can start by asking good questions.
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 Debates abound in sociology amongst scholars attempting to distill the essence of class. Claims range from an inappreciable denial state to bombastic claiming that every individual other than a CEO of a Fortune 500 company can be considered working class simply based on the fact that they do not own the largest means of production. While I do not believe that a universal definition exists, I do contend that defining the terms of class in the US is an extremely useful way to promote justice, to analyze social problems, and to simply view the world. In this way, I think it is imperative for teachers to consider their position in the class system of the United States. When we begin to think of teachers’ roles in the lives of their students, it becomes critical to ponder the role they play in class politics and in power in society if we are to create a more equitable and just world--a goal I assert we strive toward. Though I will not ascribe to a particular sociologist, economist, or philosopher, my perspectives are deeply rooted in Marxist critiques of economics and politics and closely aligned with many modern progressive thinkers. To this end, a useful definition of class for teachers to initially approach the subject relates to positions of power. Beyond identity, these positions relate to the ownership of the means of production, which in the 21st century drastically differ from Marx’s Prussia and London. When we examine the world through power, we will notice that teachers are, indeed, much closer to many of their students than to a bourgeoisie owning class, even if they are highly educated and owners of a slightly large piece of the economic pie themselves. When we think traditionally about the ownership of the means of production we conjure images of foreman, of bosses, of elite CEOs wearing business suits and cruing along in a third yacht. While this image certainly holds true, we can nuance this image tremendously. Property, at least in the form of real estate, land, or equity made from those, is a tremendous asset and has been historical, though significantly less today for use in agriculture compared to other historical periods. Nevertheless, ownership of landed estates and the associated wealth demands a type of owning class. Surely there are numerous teachers, especially in smaller towns across America, that step into this category that we would traditionally associate with a middle class. This pervasive myth of middle-class politics, though, clouds our vision. In reality, when compared on a larger scale, we can begin to see the dissolution of the middle class, especially when dwarfed dynamically by the immense wealth of the upper echelons. Truly, power is held in wealth, generational wealth, but also in political purchasing power, monopolistic business power, and the continued upward concentration of true power in the form of capital. The gulf continues to widen and we begin to glance teachers solidly huddled on one side. Where our story complicates, though, is in this Bardo, this inner state between the working-class--those who work for wages and sell their labor--and an owning class that consistently distances itself, form workers, either physically or ontologically. For if a working-class is any individual or group of individuals that sell their labor for wages to be spent on goods and services, teachers unquestionably fall into the former. The creation of a middle class that separates itself from others that also sell their labor, either by becoming marginally wealthier, owning their own small businesses, or simply obtaining a small fortune is an interesting phenomenon, as it is clear that, even though they may obtain some level of privilege and distance from the lower classes, they tend to, holistically at least, rely directly upon the owners of the means of production for their existence. The difference being, of course, that their entire existence is not wholly dependent on it, as they have a measure of power and authority not granted to the average wage earner. In this way, they can begin to distance themselves culturally from the lower classes, establishing what, to them, is declared a separate state, even though, ironically, they are still closer in measure to the working class. This divide, though, has a tremendous impact, not only because many teachers consider themselves in this special unit but because the very practice of imagining this unit is horizontal hostility. For example, if there exists a class apart from the working-class that is not a true owning class, their begins to perpetuate a myth that they must somehow be severed from either class, a unique specimen separate and distant from either class, generally innocent, well-to-do, honorable. This tends to further be exacerbated in recent politics because many who fall into this category--a new educated upper-middle-class elite that includes everything from professors and doctors to nonprofit managers with masters degrees in social justice-related work--find themselves at direct odds with the working-class, preferring instead to be distinct, rather than acknowledge solidarity, choosing instead apathy or silent applause for class comrades. On the flip side, many of these folks are also the most well-meaning, critical comrades for workers because they acknowledge themselves as workers, even if they know they have important privileges. Regarding privilege, there can be no denying that this cohort, whether truly apart from the working-class or not, does have access, both economically and politically, to a world that many working-class folks do not, especially the growing class of working poor. In a world where the division continues sliding further, grasping for these advantages has become a dog fight. Teaching as a profession occupies a void somewhere in the middle of this challenge. Not only do teachers possess educational privilege and at least in some places a more marginally secure position and benefits, but they also rest on a shaky foundation. Teachers find themselves in this middle in a different way, too. Given such immense powers in the impact of the lives of young people, teachers posses both class and cultural capital that many students need to succeed. They are the ultimate gatekeepers, though they are not the sole gatekeeper, of course. This is critical for class consciousness and for building class solidarity. In acknowledging this power, teachers can begin to connect with their students across class lines. Indeed, teachers may be the best-equipped profession to hold this middle ground of class solidarity. And it is certainly a tedious balance. As has been proven across educational research, teachers and schools perpetuate a middle class (usually white) culture that can be harmful to students' own identities, values, and traditions. Though this should not be viewed as simplistically as either good or bad, it is essential to dissect this a little more. What I mean is that teachers are gatekeepers in the sense that they stand at the threshold: a middle way, a space between the solidarity of the working-class--of which they are truly a part--and that of higher educational and economic privilege, at least as society currently exists. If teachers can acknowledge this, they can build solidarity across classes. Because teachers are integral to the middle ground of class, they are working-class. Teacher's proximity, both physically and ontologically, to their students, holding, in some form, the ability to shape their lives, places them intimately close with the working class. Teachers' salaries, job security, and prestige also rest upon (literally) the shoulders, arms, and legs of working people, whose labor upholds school funding and functioning around the country, private and charter schools not withheld. In addition, nearly all the students that teachers teach in a classroom will have some connection to the working-class, whether in their communities, as workers themselves, or from their parents. Finally, many teachers also come from working-class backgrounds--like me--and have found a way to step into the fictional middle-class but have not forgotten at least aspects of their roots. This is not only something they can share with their students but is a privilege they can use to reshape society. Within all of these interconnections of teachers intimately connecting to the working class, whether by standing in the threshold, partnering with students, or coming from working-class backgrounds themselves, we can see most clearly the urgent need for teachers to understand class consciousness and begin the work of discovering solidarity with students, with communities, and, indeed, the larger working-class. So even if we do not consider teachers truly “working-class,” it is evident that they are so clearly connected with the working-class that solidarity is imperative. In fact, I hold that teachers, when they examine closely the economic and political story they are enmeshed in, will discover their place as leaders that shape the minds of future union organizers, future solidarity activists, future young people striving for social and environmental justice and equity in our world--and as members of the working-class.  Yesterday in class, I experienced a hilarious incident that also had profound meaning. I had set up a small group discussion activity with mixed groups in the classroom. I teach in a diverse and urban high school in Seattle with many students of color in the classroom alongside their white peers. It is also a college prep school, with the expectation that all students will attend college after enrollment. Because of this, it offers an interesting mix of students from a variety of socioeconomic backgrounds, as well as ethnicities and races. During our small group activity, which was highly structured, students were given the opportunity to “discuss” a particular element of which they had prepared. Mostly they were asked to answer objective questions, however, this time they were discussing an opinion based question. They were asked to collaborate as a group, either choosing to pick the best answer from everyone’s to support the group or to guide the group in synthesizing the overall ideas into one. While most groups chose the first option, a few attempted the latter. The volume level in the class grew accordingly, which was fine because students were mostly on task. Then it happened. In a moment of exhilaration, a student, a white boy from an upper-middle-class family who feels as though he is “woker” than thou, blurts out, “Did you even learn about slavery?” Mind you half the students in class turn and look at the palest student in the room. Another student, another white boy nonetheless, but one who has no filter responds, “Boy, shut up! You were a damn slave owner,” to which the class erupts in laughter. A similar phenomenon abounds in public school classrooms. Despite how hilarious this statement was and how unshaken (but maybe a tiny bit embarrassed) the well-meaning student was about his comment, it struck a chord. This chord rings well to the tune of online culture, as well as harmonizes with movements at the forefront of social justice, and it brings up an important point. While the student clearly had the best intentions (and I do not discourage him from speaking up in general), something about a white upper-middle-class student, who has probably never experienced racial oppression, teaching other students--many of whom are from lower-income families--about a reality of racism in the form of slavery, feels disjointed, off-kilter, at least in the way it came across. However, it brings up the critical difference between two important words that are shaping our world and discourse in the 21st century: knowledge and experience. Trained in experiential education, I often dream about the connections between experience and knowledge and how they reinforce each other in a positive sense. While they are often connected, it is imperative to understand them distinctly, too, especially regarding social experience. In the prior scenario, the student clearly had knowledge about the subject of slavery. He clearly pointed out the atrocities and, attempting to use the knowledge for praxis, he was speaking truth to power. However, to a group of students whose lived experience has probably more closely aligned with those oppressed folks, there is a bit of hilarity in the gesture due to the reality of having a relatable lived experience. Though this does get to the heart of some of the fights currently within social movements, I do not mean to claim that white people can never talk about racism or that men should never speak about sexism. Indeed, they should probably never claim to be experts, at least in terms of the experiences of those things. However, if we moved beyond lived experience into the realm of more objective forms of knowledge, men and white folks can be just as well versed as anyone else to relay information. For example, a white professor at a community college teaching slavery in West African history who has a Ph.D. and studied abroad and wrote books about Ghana is going to have much more content knowledge and an understanding of the lives of slaves than just your average black person. However, that same professor, being upper-middle-class mostly likely, would not necessarily have similar experiences to people of color in the US that may feel connected to Ghana through their African heritage with that country if their ancestors were brought here as slaves. The latter statement is one that gets incredibly lost in discussions of privilege, oppression, and social justice, I think. And, as of now, the world is worse off for it. In no way am I advocating that white folks or men are the experts at having a lived experience of sexism. Though if we were to really delve into the details, there can be some objections clarified in ways that the current movement also does not like. But those are comments for another time. For my purpose right now, I just want to clarify the differences between the two because they are impactful when understood discretely. When a person claims to hold the knowledge that only another group has, this is clearly a missed spot, something they should not claim to have, even if their ego inspires it. On the other hand, when folks have a certain expertise in relevant areas, they should feel empowered to use that, especially when around other people of a similar background. For example, as a white educator, not only do I feel it is my duty to teach slavery and oppression, but I think it is almost even more important for some white students to hear it. This is not because they benefit from it more, but rather because they learn just as much as well as more about the experience of those different from them. In the end, we should be careful to criticize, open to discussion, and promote as much dialogue as possible, in the true Freirean sense. To do this, though, we need to clearly define our terms, which means staking the differences between a lived experience of oppression and the knowledge of an oppression. The same is true for numerous other topics. |
About the AuthorEthan C Smith is an educator, adventurer, and thinker who is passionate about education, ecology, and social class. He happens to also spend a great deal of time reading and thinking about history, literature, philosophy, music, the future, and coffee. Archives
June 2021
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