Looking at Culture

Orlando Patterson wrote an op-ed piece for the New York Times on March 26 called " A Poverty of the Mind."

In it, he ponders the taboo against looking at culture as the reason for the alienation of young black males from the American mainstream. Such social issues, he says, are commonly looked at only through the lens of socioeconomic factors, which fail to adequately explain the problem, or suggest any ways of effectively dealing with it.

Socioeconomics cannot explain why poor schools pump out so many illiterate black males; they cannot explain why poverty often leads to drugs and crime, since not everyone who lives in poverty turns to those things--but black males do so in overwhelmingly large numbers.

Patterson cites a number of reputable studies and a few compelling anecdotes before coming to his conclusion: in order to explain and then solve these problems, we have to look critically at culture, especially the subculture of young black men, to explain these things. Such an examination will not inherently "blame the victim" as opponents of this approach fear. The issues are too complex for such a simple outcome. This approach will, however, shed much light on what matters to these young black men who feel that the only rewards they can hope to reap from life are those that they find through their own subculture.

Culture is a sensitive topic, especially as it relates to the black-white, rich-poor divide in this country. But Patterson makes a compelling case that to ignore it is to ignore the root of the problem.

Support

The support I’ve been getting from friends, family, and (former) co-workers has been phenomenal. When I tell them I’ve quit, the most common thing they say is “congratulations.” The second most common response is “wow.”

In fact, one of those former co-workers just called to say I will be missed. I miss them, too, I even miss a few of the kids, but I’m better off taking Ralph Waldo Emerson’s advice: “Whoso would be a man must be a non-conformist . . . What I must do is what concerns me, not what the people think.”

The more I kept repeating those quotes to my students (which was everything we read of “Self-Reliance”—and even that seemed to be too much) the more Emerson seemed to be speaking to me. On March 16, I finally listened.

When I was packing up my things during 8th period, one of my good students, D, said to me “You know you’re just teaching me to run away.” I wish I’d been quick enough to quote Emerson to him. Or perhaps Thoreau: “The only obligation I have a right to assume is to do at any time what I think is right.” I was really looking forward to teaching “Civil Disobedience,” but I probably would have been more frustrated than elevated. I still got my fix, though: “Civil Disobedience” was my “comfort reading” this weekend.

I quit

I finally did it. I quit. I no longer work for Chicago Public Schools. And I feel great.

Quitting my job has given me an enormous positive rush: the dammed stress of a year and a half finally burst forth, and the release was cathartic.

Actually saying the words “I quit” out loud was a huge rush—it was like a tidal wave of frustration had finally reached the shore, and carried away all of the detritus of inertia that kept me at CPS; it carried me right out the door.

Sure, I’m a little worried about the eventual effects of my decision on my bank account, but money is less important to me than sanity. My fiancée and I moved in together in December so that I could quit then, if I wanted to (she and my counselor have been suggesting I leave this “toxic environment” since October). I thought I could tough it out until the end of the year. In the end, I refused to accept the compromises I would have to make, personally and professionally, to survive CPS until June.

It wasn’t that Thursday was any worse than any other day: it was actually about the same as every other day, and that was the problem; the students weren’t getting my lesson, they weren’t paying any attention at all, except to yell profanity or other negative language across the room at each other. Nothing I did—continuing to teach, asking them to stop, writing up the continuous offenders—had any effect. It never has any effect, and I realized it never would have any effect. Sure, the nightmare would end in June, but until then, I’d have to endure 57 more days of this. And that was 57 days too many.

I could have just taken Friday off. I could have taken every Friday off from then until the end of the school year. I was planning on taking another “sick day vacation” toward the end of May. A lot of people do it. It’s how they cope. It’s how they manage to endure this job long enough to get paid, and maybe reach one or two students in the meantime.

There were a few students I was making a difference with, but the personal cost got to be too high: you go into a burning building enough times to save others stranded in the conflagration, and eventually the flames will get you, too.

I’ve inhaled enough smoke. It’s time to save myself. I gave it my best shot. I did good work while I was there. I would rather quit now than fake my way through the rest of the year. I got out before I burned out.