By: G. Taylor
A few years ago I used to facilitate conversations about race and equity in classrooms for pre-service teachers at George Mason University in Fairfax, VA. A friend was the professor and she’d have me come in each semester to work with students that would soon be standing in front of kids in their own classrooms. One year an older white male, most probably a career changer, sat at his computer the entire session and never participated in the discussion unless he was throwing verbal darts at the experiences being shared by others. He was using every all-too-familiar tactic to derail the conversation and he took up as much physical and mental space in the room as he could, something else common to white males (pay attention at your next gathering if you don’t believe me).
Eventually, the ideas discussed became too much for him to bear. One participant shared his experiences as a black male at GMU, particularly the microaggressions he endured on a daily basis. This is where “John” piped in and explained to the young man why he shouldn’t be upset with how he’s treated. “You go to any country around the world and black men don’t have it any better than they do here,” he said. “You’re complaining about America? Well, go to Africa and see how your life would be.” The participants sat in stunned silence, save for a lone student, an older white woman, glaring at Mr. Man-spreading Whitesplainer-in Chief. “John,” she said pointedly as if to make him realize he had gone too far.
A few seconds ticked by that felt like hours in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. There was no retort and John sat there in cocksure bliss. In facilitator training, we’re taught to remain neutral, stay on the balcony, let the participants do the work. But it was obvious these participants were in deeper water than they were used to treading and some were already beginning to sink below the increasingly choppy waves. Faced with the choice of letting them drown or throwing in a lifeline, I decided to step off of the balcony and step out of my facilitator role. “John, when you said…I heard two things. The first is ‘America. Love it or leave it.’ The second thing I heard is, ‘go back to Africa.’ Lastly, I’m curious about your frame of reference on the firsthand experiences of black men here and around the world.”
John fumbled through his explanation, throwing in Fox News talking points and by the time he finished his classmates were eager to challenge his statements. I slipped back to the balcony without them seeming to notice. For the remainder of the session, John closed his computer and engaged in the conversation. I was horrified to learn that John would be a special education teacher in just a few short months.
I was reminded of this story this weekend when President Trump tweeted that (minority) congresswomen who disagree with the way things are run here should go back to their countries, even though all but one was born in the US. I thought back to John sitting at his computer in the back row. I thought about all of the potential damage he could have inflicted on special needs kids in the years since his graduation. I wondered how John interacted with little black boys in his classroom, how his worldview played out in his interactions with students and their families. And then a chill ran down my spine when I wondered what would happen if John ever became president.
By G. Taylor Greg T. is a veteran educator, activist and facilitator of courageous conversations about race and equity in classrooms. He reads, he observes, he writes. Everyone has an opinion. Greg has several.