Literacy Is Liberation

Working Toward Justice Through Culturally Relevant Teaching

Kimberly N. Parker

• Publisher: ASCD
• Year: 2022
• ISBN:
  9781416630920
• Topic: Education
• Subtopic: Teaching Languages

Literacy is the foundation for all learning and must be accessible to all students. This fundamental truth is where Kimberly Parker begins to explore how culturally relevant teaching can help students work toward justice. Her goal is to make the literacy classroom a place where students can safely talk about key issues, move to dismantle inequities, and collaborate with one another. Introducing diverse texts is an essential part of the journey, but teachers must also be equipped with culturally relevant pedagogy to improve literacy instruction for all.

In Literacy Is Liberation, Parker gives teachers the tools to build culturally relevant intentional literacy communities (CRILCs) with students. Through CRILCs, teachers can better shape their literacy instruction by

* Reflecting on the connections between behaviors, beliefs, and racial identity.
* Identifying the characteristics of culturally relevant literacy instruction and grounding their practice within a strengths-based framework.
* Curating a culturally inclusive library of core texts, choice reading, and personal reading, and teaching inclusive texts with confidence.
* Developing strategies to respond to roadblocks for students, administrators, and teachers.
* Building curriculum that can foster critical conversations between students about difficult subjects—including race.

In a culturally relevant classroom, it is important for students and teachers to get to know one another, be vulnerable, heal, and do the hard work to help everyone become a literacy high achiever. Through the practices in this book, teachers can create the more inclusive, representative, and equitable classroom environment that all students deserve.

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Chapter 1

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Starting with Ourselves
Why Culturally Relevant Literature Instruction Begins with Us First

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Our behaviors drive our beliefs.
—Elena Aguilar

Race is that big thing that some of us are comfortable talking about, and many of us aren't.

We should just begin there.

As a Black woman, I've always known I'm Black. When I move around in the world, my race is often the first thing people notice. Other indicators usually follow soon after, including my gender identity, and perhaps my ability, socioeconomic class, and others of the "Big 8" identity markers. (In case you're already feeling uncertain about these terms, know that I'll define them as we go.)

In the classroom, I'm often the first Black teacher my students—Black, white, and People of Color (POC)—have had in their careers (and likely might ever have given what we know about the whiteness of the teaching force). Yet, because they were often so inexperienced talking about race, these young people would talk around the topic: describing what I wore, or maybe something about my short hair or some other physical attribute. Rarely, if ever, though, did they say I was Black, even if they shared the same racial background. They lacked the confidence and practice of talking about race in a normalizing way, having become so acculturated to not acknowledging race that the practice was unfamiliar to them.

Inevitably when we started reading a text that featured a protagonist of color (again, often the first time they'd encountered accurate representations of themselves in a text) like The Autobiography of Malcolm X (Haley & X, 1965), they were willing to volunteer observations that dug beneath the physical surface. Finally, I heard them talking about a character's race, rereading descriptions about skin color that were written positively, seeing the possibilities and realities of themselves in what they read.

I like to tell people that I wasn't born "woke" or whatever language we're using to describe those we consider racially literate. In fact, I encounter moments that remind me that I have areas of willful ignorance, biases, or internalized racism all the time—daily, in fact. This process to get to a place where I understand systems of oppression, how I've been impacted (the good, the bad, and the ugly), and how that understanding directly affects my practice and the young people and preservice teachers with whom I work is not easy. At times, it can be exhausting and frustrating, especially when I'm called in by a dear friend for using language that is not inclusive (yup, it happens, and I'm also glad I have that friend who respects me enough to tell me).

Thus, we should make that admission: if you want to be an educator who is grounded in culturally relevant instruction and who considers themselves to be a culturally relevant educator, you have to be willing to mess up and to continually strive to—and then do—better.

What I know is that many educators want to do just that: they want to know how to take a hard look at what we've taken for granted and what has resulted in an educational landscape that is unequal for far too many vulnerable children. They want to own their part in it. They want to do better. Especially now. Especially today.

I know they do because they tell me, through emails, direct messages, and feedback at conferences and presentations. They ask for books: where to find them and how to teach them. They ask me to role-play what to do when a student challenges them about a racist moment in a "beloved" text (beloved by the educator, not the student). They ask me what they need to do, specifically, to become a co-conspirator for truth and justice, to make schools and other learning environments places where all children can thrive. Here, too, when I say all children, I really do mean all of them. No qualifiers.

I know that you, too, want to do this work of moving yourself and your practice into culturally relevant and racially just literature instruction. I imagine you're an educator, somewhere in your teaching career, at a place that has you questioning what you're seeing every day, when kids turn up disinterested in a book you love. You know there's something else out there for them; have even, perhaps, heard of "mirrors, windows, and sliding glass doors" (Bishop, 1990); and have a vague appreciation for what that means. Others might have had more than a passing interest in a department- or school-sponsored professional development about "diversity, equity, and inclusion" or "antiracism" that left you dissatisfied because you are all in but don't know what, exactly, to do next to effect immediate changes with the children and youth in your care. You know that becoming an antiracist, culturally competent literacy educator is more than a booklist.

This book is for you.

Together, I'm hoping we can have some "real talk," as the young people in my classrooms would often call for when they were ready to tell me the truth. Sometimes, that real talk was hard to hear: it held feedback about an instructional move that didn't resonate with them; it challenged me to learn from them; it made me go home, think hard, cry a bit sometimes, and return the next day renewed to, well, do better. It made me humble.

I'm working from a foundation that accepts you exactly as you are when you begin reading this book. Right now, you are an accumulation of your experiences—all of them, whether they be good or bad or somewhere in the middle. It's also my responsibility to make sure that you don't stay where you are. Lots of folks might get bogged down in guilt, shame, and blame as they begin to reconcile their privileges (which, again, we all have, and some have more privileges than others) with a liberatory life they want to lead. They might feel and believe, in the deepest parts of their souls, that all children deserve to read books that mirror their experiences in the texts, or that having an "ally" sticker posted visibly on their classroom doors signals solidarity, or that even by retweeting a BIPOC (Black and Indigenous Person of Color) person's words are important.

And yet.

We often can't get past those gestures into the more substantial work that must be done. We get squeamish when it comes to speaking up in department meetings about why it's time to reconsider teaching To Kill a Mockingbird and other problematic favorites. We look away or "don't hear" or "don't know what to do or say" when BIPOC children tell us about microaggressions they've experienced in our classrooms, often during the teaching of those texts. We might have completely sidetracked conversations about race because we found them too uncomfortable. We shut down attempts at progress, community building, or understanding, often because of our own fear, overwhelm, or personal discomfort. But some of us, too, are the first to say that we are "not racist."

Despite those reactions—(and I'm not here to judge you, but I am here to work with you to move into your power of being a thoughtful, vocal, racial equity co-conspirator)—you picked up this book, and you're still reading.

I have outlined a few descriptors of where you might be on your racial equity journey (and it is a journey, despite how trite that might sound; this work is never, ever done). Wherever you are at this current reading of this book is where you're supposed to be. For now. If you're still at that same point by the time you've worked your way through the book, though, then I've not achieved the goals I'd hoped.

To ensure we're clear about the overall aims for Literacy Is Liberation and what chapters address them, here's our roadmap:

1. You develop an understanding of the connections among behaviors, beliefs, and racial identity and are able to situate yourself within that understanding. (Chapter 1)
2. You can identify the characteristics of culturally relevant literacy instruction and know how to ground your practice within that framework and strengths-based literacy. (Chapter 2)
3. You know the qualities and values of a Culturally Relevant Intentional Literacy Community (CRILC) and are able to create one. (Chapters 3 and 4)
4. You are able to lead productive conversations about race, racism, and other topics with a range of students. (Chapter 5)
5. You incorporate specific high-leverage literacy practices that normalize the high achievement of all students, especially BIPOC students. (Chapter 6)

Now, after outlining the overall goals of the book, I want to circle back to why it's important for you to commit to doing the work of changing your literacy practice.

Starting with Myself

For many years, I insisted my students read the books I loved, or had been taught. Those books included The Scarlet Letter, Macbeth, Frankenstein, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and others featuring predominantly white protagonists. When my students—even the ones willing to suspend all annoyance with me because we had positive relationships—didn't engage with this "great literature" as I had anticipated, I was quick to blame them. I'm sure there were times I defended my positions to colleagues with something along the lines of "these kids need to know and have cultural capital" as I continued pushing them through the texts.

I was a Black teacher teaching predominantly Black and Latinx kids. I had more than enough savior complex to go around. I was sure that my belief in them and in the classics would be enough to catapult us all into (my own narrowly defined) stratospheres of success. It wasn't until I started listening to Black women mentors that I changed course and got serious about my own liberation. My dissertation advisor, Dr. Arlette Willis, pushed me to think about how my Blackness wasn't enough. More specifically, she challenged me to, for lack of a better phrase, "disaggregate my own data." Being Black meant more than sharing a similar melanin shade. I vaguely remember her posing a question in the margin of a draft I had submitted, as English teachers love to do, that said something like "What does this mean, exactly?" to what I thought was a complete sentence about being a Black teacher.

She pressed me to understand—and to articulate—that race and ethnicity are complex, multifaceted, and continually changing. Her push to change and expand my own understanding was essential to my critical unlearning about all the ways I've been impacted by white supremacy culture and how I'm still impacted daily.

Introduction to the Occasional Explanatory Comma

At some points in these first two chapters, I'm going to slow down and work through some important ideas. These "explanatory commas" are intended to build your background knowledge and are critical to culturally relevant literacy instruction. By no means are these explanatory commas exhaustive in their descriptions; rather, they're just enough to provide necessary context and encourage you to pursue further for your own personal growth. This additional work is required, ongoing, and work you have to do. It's not work you can, or should, ask a BIPOC or LGBTQIA+ or person who has disabilities to do for you.

White Supremacy Culture

Dismantling Racism (2021) defines white supremacy culture as

the idea (ideology) that white people and the ideas, thoughts, beliefs, and actions of white people are superior to People of Color and their ideas, thoughts, beliefs, and actions.

White supremacy culture is reproduced by all the institutions of our society. (para. 9)

What this means is that white supremacy culture is everywhere: in our schools, in our practices, in us. White supremacy culture is also inside systems and policies.

How white supremacy has worked on me. I know. I'm not white. However, I live my life in a city, a state, a nation, and a world that turns on the axis of white supremacy culture. Even Black, Latinx, and other People of Color can be impacted by white supremacy culture. After all, we all swim in the same water.

I was uncomfortable answering my professor's probing question about Blackness because, as much as I thought I was the same as my students, as I sat with my discomfort, I had to admit that

• My race is Black and my ethnicity is African American. Moreover, I was raised in the American South, by my grandparents on a farm.
• I was born into a working-class/working-poor family. Through education and profession, I'm middle class currently, while most of my family is not. It doesn't matter how uncomfortable admitting that makes me. That is my tension I constantly work through.
• I speak Standard White English (SWE). I don't speak any other languages, though I do understand Ebonics/Black English/African American Vernacular English (AAVE). Note: I use AAVE and Ebonics interchangeably. Most of my family speaks SWE and Ebonics, with regional dialects, too.
• I am currently nondisabled, cisgender, nondenominational in my religious practices, queer, and a U.S. citizen.

Moving further inward, I needed to look closely at my own schooling experiences. I had Black teachers throughout K–12. I was a "good" student: I did my homework, took Advanced Placement (AP) classes, participated in student activities. Overall, I had positive experiences with my teachers. I was also one of a few Black students in my upper-level courses. At the same time, I read one or two books by Black authors in my high school career.

All of these parts of my experiences directly impacted, and continue to impact, how I see the world and how I interact with people, especially with my students. Yet, I cannot stop with this acknowledgment.

There's more work to do, still.

Let us remember the words of antiracist literacy expert Tricia Ebarvia (2019), who reminds us, "The internal work matters … a lot. You cannot disrupt if you don't understand how systems of oppression work. You cannot understand how systems of oppression work until you come to terms with how they have worked on you."

What that means is that there's something else that accompanies my story. I'll pinpoint a few instances to demonstrate how I internalized white supremacy. Being one of a few Black students in AP classes—while the majority of my high school peers who were Black were in general track classes—led me to think I was "special," that I was "different," that I was exceptional. I'm sure I thought I worked harder than my Black peers and that I deserved to be with my white peers because of that work ethic. I had internalized the false idea of exceptionalism.

As I look at those experiences now, I realize that I wasn't any more special than my Black peers. In fact, I'm sure many were much more hard working than I was. The dissonance was because they were "loud Black girls" or "aggressive Black boys" as we so often stereotype Black youth, and that was what teachers saw. Or, they practiced literacies that were unwelcomed in our classrooms, or they had white teachers who simply refused to acknowledge and encourage their brilliance. Systems that are designed to create difference are inherently unequal. As a result, I thought I was better when, in fact, I was simply living within, and benefitting from, a system as it operated.

More ways white supremacy has worked on me. Throughout my K–12 experience, and especially in high school, I thought my hard work was the reason I was in AP classes with so few, if any, other Black students. The majority of my Black peers were in the general track. Most likely, I'm sure I thought they were where they needed to be. After all, why would my teachers steer us wrong? Black and white teachers praised my work. My sense of self was attached to what my teachers and my peer group thought about me; for the most part, they thought I was a success. Consequently, I thought, that was true. More critically, I was most concerned with the feedback from white teachers and white peers. I valued their opinions about my intelligence, my performance, myself, far more than my family or my Black teachers.

I longed to have the looks and possessions of my white friends. I longed for their clothes that they seemed to acquire and discard so effortlessly. I wished my body would squeeze into a size 2 like my lithe, blonde classmates. While I can't say that I ever wanted to be white, I will say, now, that I wanted the ease and prosperity I thought my white friends enjoyed. And I thought that if I worked hard enough, that would give me enough cachet to be white adjacent.

Meanwhile, at home, I was loved by Black grandparents who had interrupted formal schooling because my grandmother had to take care of her siblings, and my grandfather had similar responsibilities to his family. My grandmother left school after 7th grade, and my grandfather had to leave after a few years in elementary school. Together, they raised eight children in jobs as a domestic (my grandmother) and a farm manager (my grandfather). My grandparents worked hard every day of their lives, making sure their children, and later their grandchildren, had what they needed, with occasional delights as they could manage.

Yet, at the time, I thought what they did was insufficient for me. I saw my life throug...