Pilgrims, cavemen, big bang theory, the land of the free, evolution, christopher columbus, my a$$!
So when I signed my children up to be involved in our local homeschool co-op, I was fairly confident that they would be learning in a safe environment. But that didn't cause me to falter in my diligence. Months ago, when I met with the other teacher/mothers to go over course outlines and such, I had an surreal situation come up. Read it. Let me know if I am as crazy as I felt. I should have addressed issues right then and there, but to be honest, I think I was a bit too dazed.
Before we went on christmas vacation, Noah's teacher passed out scripts to the play they would be putting on about slavery. I was waiting for this. I looked over the script about Grandpappy, the little slaves, the Massa, etc. They would be singing songs 'bout da mean ole massa while they picked cotton.
I told Noah he was not going to be involved in this play. Then I explained why. Michael and I talked to him about slavery and we made a commitment to rent Roots with him so he could get a better understanding of what slavery was about. And we would answer any questions he had. But there was no way in hell I was going to let him participate in this play. You see, there is only one other Latino child in Noah's class, in the entire academy for that matter. And only one African-American, and they are in high school. The rest are white. When the class were presenting oral reports, the teacher assigned every student someone different. Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill. My son got Crazy Horse. Then later when they worked on Wanted: Dead or Alive posters, my son was assigned Pancho Villa, because he was a bad guy.
All these things added up in my head. Is this right? Is this wrong? Is this just in my imagination? It came to me one day, while reading Chicano by Richard Vasquez which was reprinted in '05 for its 35th anniversary. One of the characters contemplates a chicana...and says that she was naive enough to believe she could speak english as well as the next person, get an education, buy a nice house, live a good life and expect equality alongside everyone else who didn't have brown skin. That she believed she could function on a level playing field. And for a while she would. Until the day came when someone would show her that she was still a mexican, despite all the accomplishments and good she had done in her life. And they would treat her as such. That dialogue rose up in my head with such a crystal clear clarity.
And I was mad. Mad that my child was expected to portray slavery as this light-hearted event in history. That he wasn't told in class how a race of people were torn from their homeland and raped and pillaged, children sold and kept in ignorance. Beaten to death. Sold like cattle. Instead, they were picking glued cotton balls from a long strip of butcher paper singing, Jimmy crack corn--I don't care.
I spoke with Noah's teacher and told him he would have no part in this play. She assured me they were being taught the truths of the time. They would be learning the old negro spiritual songs like Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I don't know if that was supposed to make everything okay,but she assured me she would teach them as much as they could comprehend.
"I wouldn't necessarily call it fun." she said. But she did. I remember what she said, five months earlier and I reminded her of it. She was at a loss for words. So we staged a little walk-out. I knew the play would take place during lunch, so I purposely kept the kids home until right after that. Then we showed up for class. Another interesting point, we got to school a bit early and everyone was still out on the playground. The breezeway where the classes take place was empty save for one class. Noah's teacher was sitting there, eating an apple and reading something. She had both doors wide open. She heard us in the hallway and lifted up her head. She looked at us all and then went back to her reading. She did not say one word to us.
And what really pissed me off was after classes were over and we were driving home, I asked Noah if his teacher said anything to him about the play. He said, "Yes. She said I missed out."
I am reminded of lyrics from a song from the most kick ass band on the planet, Rage Against the Machine. I just happened to watch their Live from the Olympic Grand Auditorium dvd the other night, which never fails to inspire me. Oh, and when do I get a chance to watch that, you ask? After my kids are all asleep and I can pump up the volume and happily fold laundry.Yes I know my enemies
They're the teachers who taught me to fight me
Compromise
Conformity
Assimilation
Submission
Ignorance
Hypocrisy
Brutality
the Elite
All of which are American dreams
All of which are American dreams
All of which are American dreams
All of which are American dreams
