thoughts
The end of my high school teaching career began exactly two years ago today.
As the head of the English department (a title I’d earned by being hired one week before the junior high English teacher), I had inserted myself into a discussion between the principal and the junior high English teacher. She wanted to teach the novel Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson to her freshman class and had been granted permission. Until the school counselor stepped in and convinced the principal that the book would do more harm than good for the students and wasn’t appropriate for high school students. When I later approached her about her opinion, she laughed it off and said she didn’t want the book taught because the issues it dealt with would cause more work for her. Because I’m incapable of keeping my mouth shut, I chose to voice my opinion to the principal, saying that if he believed freshmen shouldn’t read the book, I would gladly teach it to one of the older grades. He tried to brush me off by blaming the final decision on the superintendent, thinking this would end the discussion. Instead, I asked for a meeting between the English department and the administrators. For reasons I will never understand, the principal decided the counselor needed to be present at the meeting as well. The other English teacher and I arrived for the meeting together, presenting a united front. I was armed with a stack of highlighted articles from one of my college professors, detailing the importance of teaching young adult “problem” novels to high school students. Before the others arrived, the other teacher looked at me nervously. “Whatever happens, you can’t let me start crying,” she said, appearing already on the verge of tears. “Deal,” I promised. “And you can’t let me start yelling.” We would both fail to keep these promises. (From here on out, I’m going to refer to everyone as if their job title is their name: Teacher, Counselor, Principal, and Superintendent. Except myself. Because you already know who I am.) “Good afternoon, girls,” Superintendent said, entering the library and taking a seat across the table from us. “It seems we’re here because Teacher wants to teach a controversial book. And Ms. Carter decided to involve herself because?” “Because I am also interested in incorporating young adult novels, even this one if possible, into my curriculum,” I replied, biting my tongue against the “duh” that begged to follow. “Young adult literature is quickly becoming a common addition to English classes, and…” Superintendent held up her hand and smiled sympathetically. “Let me just take care of this now. I’m sure that young adult literature has a place somewhere. But that place is not in a high school.” Teacher looked at her incredulously, but I didn’t hesitate to pounce. “Then where would you suggest we put young adult novels, if not in the hands of young adults?” I asked, balancing on the very edge of my chair. Superintendent rolled her eyes toward Principal, who looked away. She dodged my question and insisted, “We’re just trying to protect your professional integrity. How do you think some parents would react to their children reading a book with that sort of content?” Rape. She was referring to rape. Speak is a novel about a 14-year-old girl who is raped at a party and then bullied to the point where she stops talking, until the one teacher who bothers to reach out to her manages to help pull her out of herself enough to overcome the horror to which she was subjected. Teacher was still silent, so I nudged her, saying, “I believe Teacher prepared a letter to send to the parents before the kids started the novel.” That was a lie. I’d written the letter. But I figured they were already refusing to listen to me, so I hoped she’d have more luck. Instead, Superintendent didn’t even bother to look at the letter before pushing it back across the table. “I’m not familiar with the novel personally,” Superintendent admitted. “I hadn’t even heard of it before all of this, but after it was brought to my attention I grabbed a copy and read the first paragraph. I must say, it does not paint a very positive portrait of the high school environment. (For those of you who haven’t read Speak, the first paragraph describes the main character trying to find a seat on the school bus because the other students won’t share their seats with her. The first paragraph is maybe three sentences long.) “That’s why it’s so relevant,” I explained. “The character feels misunderstood and excluded by her peers, so she reacts to her surroundings based on those feelings. Teenagers will relate to that and be able to better understand the book and its themes.” She held up her hand, again accompanied by that smile. I was suddenly struck by her similarity to Dolores Umbridge (Harry Potter reference, for those of you who were unsure), sitting smugly on her pink throne, awaiting an unsuspecting victim to pass a little too close. Worried about falling into her trap myself, I slid back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. “I think it could only hurt students to be exposed to that kind of negativity aimed at education,” Superintendent explained. As though snapped out of a hypnotic trance, Teacher jumped in. She attempted to argue the benefits of the themes taught throughout the book. She held out for a few minutes before I could hear the tears creeping into her voice. I was prepared to take over, but Superintendent interrupted. “Now, I don’t want you girls to think I’m a prude,” she laughed. “Although, I have not read 50 Shades of Grey.” I saw an opening and attacked. “But a lot of our students have. They’ve read it and they’ve watched it and they discuss it. As educators…” “No!” Superintendent interrupted. “As educators, isn’t our job…” I persisted. “No!” she repeated. “It’s our job to teach them how to identify the signs of an unhealthy…” “No!” “An unhealthy relationship and to show them it is possible…” “No!” “It is possible to overcome a dangerous experience…” “No!” “Using literature that is more age appropriate.” I wasn’t aware that we’d been getting progressively louder with each interruption. By the time I was finished, though, Principal had reached over and was tapping the table next to my elbow. I looked at him, hoping he was finally going to step in and help, but instead received a warning look. “I’m interested to know, Ms. Carter, why you’re allowing your students to discuss 50 Shades of Grey in your classroom,” Superintendent said. “I can’t censor their conversations in the hallway.” I knew I needed to watch my tone, but I was determined to spit out a sentence without being interrupted again. “In my classroom, we discuss novels with literary merit.” “I’m glad you mentioned literary merit, Ms. Carter,” Principal said, speaking for the first time since arriving. “I also have not read this particular novel, but English wasn’t my content area, so I’m a little out of my depth here. But I have a hard time believing that a novel that’s been placed on the banned books list could possibly have any literary merit.” “You know that To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, and The Diary of Anne Frank are also considered banned books, right?” I tried not to sound condescending, but at that point I was sitting on my hands to avoid flipping the table in frustration. “It’s usually the books with literary merit that make the list because people are afraid of books that might actually make them think.” “My other concern,” he continued, ignoring me, “and I know that Counselor agrees with me, is that a novel like this might encourage some of the girls to fabricate a story about being raped in order to get attention.” I looked at Counselor to see if she truly agreed with this statement, but she averted her eyes. She wasn’t here to be on our side. “You worry that Speak, which is about an actual rape that leaves a girl in such a state of shame that refuses to talk, will cause girls to lie about being raped. But we’re expected to teach To Kill a Mockingbird, which is about a girl who actually lies about being raped in order to get someone else in trouble. I’m sorry, but I’m having a little trouble understanding your reasoning here.” “What you need to understand, Ms. Carter, is that it’s not your job to discuss these matters with the students,” Superintendent said, speaking with the deliberate slowness of someone accustomed to working with small children. “As I said, we want to protect your professional integrity. If a student approaches you about an issue like this, you need to direct them immediately to Counselor. Teaching a book like this might encourage them to think it’s okay to discuss emotional issues with you girls.” “Yeah, for instance, Ms. Carter’s Facebook post the other day,” Counselor said, finally speaking up. The post in question dealt with my yearbook girls expressing their fears of being assaulted when they went to college the next year. They’d heard so many stories about college students being attacked or raped, and they wanted to talk to me about how to protect themselves and what to do if something happened. “I wish you’d brought me in while they were talking to you about that,” Counselor continued. “Because you’re not qualified to discuss those matters with them.” “These girls trust me, which is why they chose to come to me in the first place. I went to the college they’re all going to, and I lived by myself during that summer when several girls were attacked around campus in the span of a couple weeks. I slept with a knife by my bed. I was terrified to leave my house at night or go anywhere alone. I think that makes me qualified to talk to the senior girls about fear,” I argued. “Absolutely not,” Superintendent insisted. “That is not your job.” “Back on the topic of curriculum,” Principal put in awkwardly, desperately trying to get the conversation under control again. “I don’t know that these young adult novels can be taught in a way that meets Common Core standards.” “In a college class I wrote an 85-page Common Core-aligned lesson plan over a young adult novel,” I replied. “The standards are flexible if you know what you’re doing.” Superintendent looked like she was going to slap me. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. “Well, as it stands, young adult novels will not be incorporated into the curriculum here. You have to understand, girls, we just want to protect your professional integrity.” I clenched my teeth together, and I felt my nostrils flare. I bit the insides of my cheeks, refusing to allow a single angry tear to escape. Not in front of these people. “Do you have anything else to say?” Superintendent asked, looking back and forth between us. “Because if you have something to say, go ahead. It doesn’t do you any good to just think it.” "I still have a lot to say,” I replied, pushing back my chair and standing up. “But I want to protect my professional integrity.” I wrote my first resignation letter after that meeting, and promptly deleted it. It was honest, but it was nasty. If I’d handed that letter to the board, I’m sure they would have refused to accept my resignation just so they could fire me. My final resignation letter came several weeks (and drafts) later, but that’s a story for another time. Instead, I’ll end this post by saying that I don’t regret standing up for my students and their right to read the types of books that will help them grow. A few months ago, I was a guest on a panel about banned books. After telling this story (a more condensed form, of course), I admitted that if I could go back and do it all over again, the only thing I would change is that I wouldn’t have asked permission. I would have just bought the books on my own dime and taught them.
1 Comment
Bre Ryan
3/9/2017 08:31:59 pm
I'm so glad you wrote about this experience. I just asked my principal to approve The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, and of course the answer was no. I did however find a stash of books that have been purchased by the school in the past but have been stored away due to the inappropriate content--guess which book I have found and decided to teach instead...Speak. :)
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