It was a Friday. Last Friday, to be exact, and my university professor was coming to observe me teach. Thankfully, he’s a nice guy, pretty laid back, so I wasn’t too worried about him.
That day, we were doing something different. Something I’d never done before: reading in groups. But my kids can handle reading in groups. This new format wasn’t what worried me, either.
There was a piece of the content that made my heart pick up a little.
We started reading Of Mice and Men on Thursday as a class, Gary Sinise’s perfectly nasal and twanging voice leading us along the Salinas River, but now as we dove into chapter 2, my students were responsible for the reading portion.
What’s the big deal? Why was I so worried?
Lennie’s mental disability? Sure, but you can’t force people to see others the way you do.
The “glove fulla Vaseline?” Not even a second thought. (Spoiler: it went over their heads big time).
No, what worried me wasn’t comments that’d make my blood boil or vulgar humor, but something that had far more potential for trouble than either of those things.
“Alright, guys,” I called for their attention. “So in a minute here, we’re going to break up into groups and read chapter 2. But before we get started, I need to address something.” I locked eyes with various students, ensuring their attention. “This is a fair warning for all of you, especially if you read. We all know this book has what we’ll call ‘adult language.’” That got snickers out of some and smiles out of others. “Yeah, I know, we heard George call Lennie all sorts of versions of “bastard” yesterday.” More giggles. “But now: we’re going to read the ‘n’ word. You all know exactly what word I mean.”
Some nods, many cheeks break into grins, as if I had told them some piece of juicy, forbidden knowledge.
“We are not going to say this word. At all.”
That’s when the chaos busted out. Pockets of students set off in fits of laughter or chatter.
“But Ms. J!” One of my students, a young black man, called from the back row. “We say it all the time!”
Another student two seats ahead of him turned around, laughing, and offered him a low-five. “Yeah, Ms. J,” he put in. “We can say it.”
“I get it, guys.” I sighed and smiled, waiting for the disturbance to die down. “I know in today’s society, it’s a little different, but here’s a reminder: when did we say Of Mice and Men takes place?”
A moment of silence before a mumbled chorus of “during the Great Depression” rippled through the room.
“Yes, exactly, which took place: when?”
“In the 1930s,” a class regular piped up.
“Exactly. And in the 1930s, that term was only used in a mean, derogatory way, to put people down. That’s the only way that word is being used in this book. I don’t care who you are. I don’t want to hear this word. At. All. We’re not even going to go there. You can skip it. You can say ‘blank.’ You can say ‘bleep.’ You can say man. You can say African-American. You can say black man. Just don’t say that word. I don’t want any parents calling up the school and complaining that ‘Ms. J. made my kid say the “n” word!’ Understand?” I could see the reluctant acceptance in some of their faces, so I tacked on something I knew would convince them. I grinned in spite of myself, leaning forward as if telling them some great secret. “Also…I wanna get my teaching certification! I wanna graduate! Are we clear?”
A wave of nods, accented with a few grins, satisfied my worries, and I knew the issue was settled.
“Alrighty, with that fun stuff out of the way, let’s move these desks and get into our groups.”
Later, my professor would bring up this episode in our post-observation debrief. He commended me on my willingness and skill in handling an issue that some student teachers wouldn’t even attempt to tackle.
Personally, I didn’t understand how I could read Of Mice and Men, or any text containing that term, with my students and not address it.
Obviously, this word has sparked controversy in recent years. This word has been used to spread hate, to oppress, to discriminate, to beat down, to demean, to criticize, and attempt to dehumanize entire people groups. Recently, of course, in an awesome display of irony and resolution, some have tried to take the term back and turn a slur into a show of friendship and brotherhood, as some of my students have done.
I respect each and every one of my students and the personal culture and history they bring with them, but I wanted each and every one of them to remember and understand the context of what we were reading. I wanted to be sure they understood that my parameters were no slight against them, but a safeguard against issues caused by a past marred by violence and racism.
I teach English. It’s not my place to try to protect my students from the hard realities of the world but to use literature as a safe means of showing them the faces of the world. Some faces that still slink across the planet today.
Shying away from the harsh issues doesn’t make them any less harsh or any less real, but what better place to stare the world in the face than the safety of a learning environment? If my kids don’t face it with me, they’ll face it somewhere else, and at least in my room, I can rest in the assurance that I did my best to show them with patience, love, and (if possible) a healthy dash of humor.
In the end, I’ll say what I told my professor: I know my kids, and I trust them. If I treat them like people, rather than snotty little high schoolers, they’ll do the same to me. Having rapport with my students definitely helped in all of this because they knew that despite the lack of seriousness in my delivery, I expected their best behavior on the matter and nothing else.
And they came through, just like they often do.
Teaching as Storytelling 