The White Teacher

My undergraduate teacher training studies prepared me in areas of subject matter, theory and pedagogy, and various classroom management techniques.  What I lacked was preparation in cultural diversity.

My first teaching position was in the barrios of East Los Angeles, CA.   My third-grade class consisted of twenty-nine students:  three blacks, one Vietnamese, and twenty-five Latinos.  At the time, I was not familiar with the term “Latino” or “Hispanic” – I could see that the three black students and one Vietnamese student in my class looked different from me, but I could not discern a difference between the Latino students and myself outside their accents.  Ladson-Billings (1) suggests that teachers who claim to be color-blind (i.e., by claiming to not notice racial difference) are actually dismissing an important part of a child’s identity.  Similarly, Delpit (2) suggests that well-intentioned teachers render their students “invisible” by claiming to not see color.  She asserts that, by stating, “I don’t see color, I only see children,” these educators send the message that “there is something wrong with being black or brown, that it should not be noticed” (p. 177).  I don’t know if I was being “color-blind” or simply ignorant in not seeing a racial difference between my Latino students and myself.  Whatever the reason, the fact was I saw 95% of the school population as just having beautiful Californian tans.

In October of that year the students were reading aloud sentences they had written for homework.  David stood up, paper in hand, and read a sentence he had composed which mentioned “the white teacher.”  Immediately, the other students audibly gasped and Victor quickly admonished his friend for saying “the white teacher.”  Shamefaced, David hung his head, mumbled an apology, and sat down at his desk.  Naïve and ignorant, I asked what the problem was.  Victor explained that David shouldn’t have said “the white teacher” in front of me.  Still confused, I asked why.  The students looked at me incredulously.  Ana Luz then reluctantly said that David’s words were an insult to me, that such words would only “hurt your feelings, Maestra.”  It was only then that I understood what was so clear to the students – I was “the white teacher” in David’s sentence.  I wasn’t offended; certainly I was well aware that I was white.  What hurt, though, was the sudden realization that the students saw me as different from them – as the “Other.”

I have taught students of culturally diverse backgrounds since that “white teacher” revelation so many years ago, and still I am the “Other.”  In The Poisonwood Bible (3), Leah Price (daughter of a white missionary in former Zaire) struggles with being the “Other.”  Over time, she identifies herself as Congolese – she marries a Congolese activist, raises three Congolese sons, speaks fluent Lingala, lives one with the people sharing their customs, way of life, extreme poverty, and political struggles.  And yet she cannot escape her “whiteness” – she will never be truly accepted by the people she has adopted as her own, they will always regard her with reserved deference.   She will always be the “Other.”   I have studied African-American culture and music; West African drumming and dancing; Javanese gamelan and wayang kulit (shadow puppets); Khmer pin peat and sbek nang (Cambodian orchestra and shadow puppets).  I teach these multicultural art forms to my students not only because musics and cultures of the world interest me but also because these are my students’ cultures and art forms.  Unlike David so many years ago, my music students have never made my “otherness” explicit or questioned the credibility of  “the white teacher” teaching multicultural art forms.  However, like Leah Price, I cannot escape my “whiteness.”  I remain the “Other.”

Students in my West African drumming/dancing ensemble raised money one semester to have a workshop with Abigail Ifatola Jefferson, a local black storyteller and dancer.  I had attended a few West African drumming/dancing workshops taught by Abigail.  Having studied cultural traditions and dance in Ghana, Nigeria, Niger, and Cuba, Abigail is mesmerizing in her storytelling and expressive in her dancing.  I wanted my students to have the pleasure of studying with her.   The students were enthralled and completely engaged as Abigail demonstrated various West African dance movements, explaining the meanings behind each move.  At one point a child commented how some of the dance moves looked like “Michael Jackson moves” which sent everyone squealing with laughter.  Abigail explained that the dance moves and rhythms of black culture have their origin in African traditions.  “Africa is our ancestral birthplace, our roots, where we come from as a people.”  She spoke with such dignity and pride, and the students (all black and Hispanic) responded with renewed energy and focus to their dancing.  I envied Abigail’s position to speak as an insider, as one who culturally identified with the students.  I could teach them the West African dances and rhythms I had studied, but I could never speak as an insider.   Once again, I could not escape my “whiteness.”

Several years later, I had five West African girls in my West African drumming/dancing ensemble – four Liberians and one Nigerian.   The irony of the situation (i.e., white Westerner teaching African dance to African girls) had been bothering me and I needed to know how the girls viewed it.  When I asked them privately, immediately they answered that they felt fine about the situation.   “You teach us dances and rhythms we don’t know and we teach you dances and rhythms you don’t know,” summed up Virginia, her arms gesturing between us.  Their responses helped me accept my “otherness” and legitimized my position as “the white teacher” teaching multicultural art forms to multicultural students.

Though I will never be able to speak as an insider, the love and respect I have for my students and their cultures – coupled with a genuine sense of reciprocity in learning (i.e., we learn from each other) – speak through me.  Because of this, my students accept me for who I am. 

I am “the white teacher.”

(1)  Ladson-Billings, G. (1994).  The dreamkeepers: Successful teachers of African-

American children. CA: Jossey-Bass.

(2)  Delpit, L. (1995).  Other people’s children: Cultural conflict in the classroom. NY:

The New Press.

(3)  Kingsolver, B. (1998).  The poisonwood bible. New York: HarperCollins Publishers.