Diversity exists in every classroom. Even students who look and sound the same can have very different backgrounds, experiences, personalities, ideologies, and learning styles. Throughout this book we have encouraged teachers to view differences among their students as a source of dialogical strength, not a liability. In fact, one central purpose of discussion is to broaden horizons and deepen understanding by taking full advantage of the many differences that are inherent in any group. We would even go so far as to say that without a willingness to confront and exploit differences, very little of real value or meaning can emerge. As daunting as it may seem, at least initially, to address diversity, it serves no useful purpose to sweep it under the rug or pretend it doesn’t exist.
Some people argue that by using good teaching practices and by showing respect for all one’s students, the special problems of racial, class, and cultural diversity will take care of themselves. Perhaps. But in the new world order brought about by the information superhighway and the abolition of affirmative action, racial and class divides will continue to grow, and injustice will remain a source of enormous cultural tension. As one African American student said to us, “White people think they can forget color: treat everyone the same, and race will cease to be an issue. But for people of color it is always the issue. We see everything in the world through the lens of race.” As Cornel West tersely stated, “race matters” (1993). Compounding the problem is the conjunction of class and race. Disproportionately large numbers of ethnic minority students come from either working-class backgrounds or the underclass. For them the worlds of pain (Rubin, 1976) and the injuries of class (Sennett and Cobb, 1973) documented in two famous American studies are felt at a level of deep hopelessness and alienation. When a group of Latino scholars analyzed the history of Puerto Rican students in the United States, they framed these students’ experience as working class resistance (Nieto, Ramos-Zayas, Pantoja, and Associates, 1998).
So at least some of the special problems of discussion in culturally diverse groups must be confronted in a book like this. However, we want to acknowledge that we have written this chapter in an American context. The problems we address, and the exercises we suggest, spring from experiences in American university and college classrooms with students from diverse cultural backgrounds. Many of these students define themselves by their primary cultural allegiance first and their American identity second—as African Americans, Asian Americans, Native Americans, Hispanic Americans, and so on. The American aspect of their identity, and the way this identity intersects with the traditions, values, and behaviors of their primary culture, gives rise to particular social configurations and tensions that would not manifest themselves in the same way for, say, British Muslims or New Zealand Maoris. So readers of this book outside the United States may justifiably feel that some of our comments in this chapter fall well outside their own cultural framework.
All communication is hard, but communicating across racial and ethnic barriers can be particularly agonizing. For example, in the United States, many Americans of European extraction view genocide, slavery, and colonization as regrettable events of long ago that should be laid to rest. The same could be said of the attitudes of some European Australians and New Zealanders toward Aboriginal and Maori people. Yet these histories continue to cast a long and tragic shadow over all efforts to find common ground. Race-based intolerance has been so widely practiced and accepted that some people persist in the belief that it is not a problem that warrants any political attention or public debate. In their minds, affirmative action legislation has taken care of racist discrimination, and we can now move on with the project of building a color-blind society. To those who hold this view, people of color have ample opportunity to claim their share of society’s benefits. If they can’t get decent jobs, adequate health care, and safe communities (so this argument goes), it’s because they still haven’t learned how to work the system that’s set up to help them or because they can’t be bothered to make the effort. But for many nonwhites, racism and cultural bigotry remain pervasive.
Despite the fact that phrases like “equality of opportunity” and “fairness for all” have long been part of the American cultural fabric, minority groups’ efforts to voice their concerns and to share power with the white majority have frequently been subverted and denied. Many people in the dominant culture believe that divergence from a white Anglocentric norm is a legitimate ground for expressing hostility toward the “other” and for repressing the other’s opportunities to advance. Political and public debate on race has sometimes been little more than an opportunity for the white majority to silence and exploit the least privileged members of society, rather than the creation of a space where the right to speak was vigilantly protected for all. Today, as Ellsworth (1989) notes, many well-intentioned people who advocate dialogue as the basis of democratic education unwittingly use discussion to silence certain groups and bolster cultural divisions.
Race, class, and culture frame how people interpret, understand, and explain others’ words and actions. The fewer values, assumptions, and beliefs shared by a group of people who gather to talk, the harder it is for them to understand one another. Although differences can to some extent be overcome, they present formidable obstacles. Discussions held in the face of such differences require participants to be unusually patient and sensitive. They need to be aware of the tendency to think that views diverging significantly from one’s own are by definition wrongheaded or corrupt. This tendency must be fought if honest and probing discussion is going to occur among people from different backgrounds and cultures. When the approach to talking across difference is fraught with anxiety about what might happen, a productive exchange of ideas is almost impossible. So it’s important to stress that talking across differences can be an enlightening and mutually satisfying experience, particularly when discussants come to it with hope. A realistic appraisal of the difficulties must always be balanced by a realization of the benefits such talk can bring.
At the same time as we acknowledge other cultures and worldviews, we must avoid stereotyping whole groups and the individuals that constitute them. Good teachers always respond to the individuals in their classes first, not the students’ racial or ethnic groups. Although it’s important to acknowledge that people often define themselves in terms of race or ethnicity, it is ill-advised and insulting to treat individual students from a particular group as if they automatically embody the tastes, ideological affiliations, and learning styles supposedly characteristic of that group. That is not only bad teaching but also a form of aggregate thinking that comes close to racial stereotyping. Assuming that all members of a given group think and learn alike ignores each person’s individuality. As an African American student said to one of us, “Jesse Jackson doesn’t speak for me, Louis Farrakhan doesn’t speak for me, Toni Morrison doesn’t speak for me. I speak for me.”
Even when participants in a discussion make every possible effort to break through cultural and ethnic barriers, there will be times when these differences keep people apart and stall a seemingly good start. Failures and false starts happen in all discussions, but they are especially common when race and ethnicity stand in the way. But we shouldn’t give up before we start. Attempts to keep the conversation going within diverse groups is a great challenge that must be aggressively yet tactfully pursued.
In one of our classes, a thoughtful African American student told the rest of the class (who were all white) that he could never trust a white person or what a white person said, no matter how respectfully that white person treated him. The others in the class were shocked and upset. But this statement was not uttered in anger or as a way of embarrassing the rest of the group. It was said nonchalantly, as a simple fact so obvious that it hardly needed stating. The reaction of one equally thoughtful white woman was, “So where does that leave all of us? Where we go from here?” These are the questions this chapter addresses.
Who we are and how we see the world are substantially shaped by perceptions of our racial, class, and ethnic identities. Minority groups draw great strength and character from racial, religious, or national solidarity. So early in a discussion-based course, we need to introduce some exercises that seek to name, honor, and explore our differences. One of the cardinal rules for discussion across class and ethnic boundaries is to begin by acknowledging the fact of diversity. Honoring differences is a way of recognizing that racial, class, and ethnic identifications have greatly enriched many people’s lives. As William Gudykunst (1994) says, “We need to respect the identities others claim for themselves if we want to develop a relationship with them” (p. 59).
A good opening activity is to get people to talk about themselves as members of cultural groups or social classes. This means that serious dialogue doesn’t begin until participants have shared not only how they want to be addressed as individuals but also the cultural groups and classes they identify with and the name they prefer for those chosen cultural groups. A black person might identify with African American culture and want to explain why this is meaningful to her. She should also be permitted to choose whether she wants to be known as African American, African Ameripean, Jamaican American, black, a person of color, or some other designation. A white person may identify with a European ethnic heritage or proclaim a strong class allegiance. He may wish to be known as Italian American, Breton, Scottish, Jewish, Celtic, or simply working-class.
In choosing how we wish others to think of us, we can explore how identifying with a particular class or culture influences our behavior, language, and attitudes. We start to think how we can show respect for different cultures and what words and actions might be interpreted as disrespectful. For instance, one of our students was a Native American woman who had a highly descriptive and traditional Indian name of which she was very proud. Yet she had to deal frequently with unthinking white people who found her name amusing and made it the butt of many jokes. Humiliated and saddened by this constant teasing, she refrained from using this traditional name for a long time. She endeavored to “fit in” by using a rather bland Western name, over time almost losing touch with her Indian roots. Finally, however, she realized she was denying her true identity and readopted her traditional Indian name. The jokes and teasing occasionally still occurred, but now they bothered her less. In reaffirming her Indian name, she gained the strength to rebuke those who continued to see humor in an identity that was so meaningful to her.
We must also be aware that people of color who prefer not to identify closely with any particular racial group have less choice in this matter than, say, European ethnics because their pigmentation, speech, or customs mark them as different. The revelation that some people in the group claim no particular cultural identity usually prompts some provocative discussion. Why it is that certain individuals tend not to experience strong cultural affiliations? Does it have something to do with the fact that white Europeans are not obliged, by virtue of their dominance and power, to identify with any particular group? Are they blind to their own whiteness and to the way whiteness constitutes the dominant cultural norm? When whiteness becomes named as one racial, ethnic, or cultural category among others, the way is open to investigate how it came to represent the standard against which other cultures were to be judged.
Here are the instructions we give out to describe the activity we call “naming ourselves”:
We want to begin the session today with an activity that may make some people feel uncomfortable. In the long run, though, doing this exercise improves our chances of enjoying relatively open and revealing exchanges of ideas.
The exercise starts with each person spending five minutes in quiet reflection. Use this time to think about the cultural group or social class you most identify with. When time is up, gather in a circle. Your task is to introduce yourselves to each other as members of the cultural groups you see yourselves belonging to.
One person will volunteer to begin the introductions by giving a name; the racial, ethnic, cultural group, or social class this person identifies with; and the label this person would like the rest of us to use in referring to that group. The person to the left of the first speaker will go next, giving the same information. The opportunity to speak will continue around the circle until everyone has had a chance to talk. Everyone’s opportunity to speak will occur without interruption from anyone else.
We will then go around the circle again, only this time all participants will briefly relate how their cultural identifications may have affected their language, their behavior, and their commitments—the things they care about most. What does it mean to you to be Navajo or Japanese, Cambodian or Irish, Jewish or Hindu, African American or Hispanic, Swedish or Ecuadorian, and so on?
The most frequent criticism of this exercise is that it may serve to drive students farther apart or overemphasize their differences. We acknowledge this risk but think it’s worth taking. It seems to us that if one of our primary goals is to engage everyone in dialogue that is mutually enlightening, talking about our differences openly and unashamedly is unavoidable. Still, we sympathize with discussion leaders and participants who shy away from such an exercise, particularly if they sense that the group is not ready. One way to set the stage for this kind of openness is for the teacher to describe himself or herself in terms of ethnic, cultural, or class categories. Another is to expose students to historical figures who found it personally and politically important to refer to themselves in such terms. We have learned, though, that some students are more ready than others to speak this way. Those who are ready will often take the lead, without prompting, to introduce themselves in terms of ethnicity, culture, or class. When this happens, teachers can broach the topic of naming ourselves and invite others in the group to characterize themselves in this way.
The circle of objects is an exercise developed by the Fetzer Institute in San Francisco as part of its work on diversity dialogues (Harbour, 1996). These dialogues are kept as simple as possible with few expectations. They focus on key questions of identity that are constantly revisited. In the circle of objects, participants talk briefly about an object they have brought with them that reflects something about their ancestry. These artifacts represent some aspect of the culture or class they see themselves originating from. People talk about their objects without interruption but not in any special order. When “inspired“ to speak, they rise and put the object they have brought with them on a table. They then talk about their object and its links to their culture and family history.
Because it is important for the discussion leader to model self-disclosure, this person goes first, speaking for no more than two or three minutes as a way of setting a time guideline. The circle of objects exercise requires everyone to learn respect for silence. Sometimes as much as a minute goes by between contributions, partly because people need time to find the words to express what they are feeling and partly out of respect for the often moving words that have just been said. The temptation to fill this void is great, but it is important to resist it. The discussion will be richer, more reflective, more truly an outgrowth of honest deliberation when silence is honored as an important aspect of this process.
As the objects are placed on the table, they are positioned in an arrangement that reproduces the circle in which the participants are sitting. At the end of the exercise, the objects on the table reflect the ancestries of all group members. When everyone has spoken, people may add comments about their objects. They may also comment on others’ stories or ask questions of each other.
This activity is highly revealing. People share their hopes and dreams, their disappointments and tragedies. It can be overwhelming. A recurring theme is the limits and constraints imposed by racial consciousness. Native Spanish speakers frequently recall the expectation to reject their Hispanic roots, African Americans sometimes cite the social and economic advantages of acting or looking white, and American Indians often recount the painful stereotypes that were used again and again to stigmatize them. These recollections sting, but they are a bridge to authentic dialogue and an eye-opening experience for participants who have not faced such prejudice.
An important feature of this process is the way it acknowledges diverse learning styles. As we noted in Chapter Six, some research indicates that certain minority cultures prize kinesthetic and visual learning (Hale, 1994; Swisher and Deyhle, 1992). Although this research should never be used to stereotype, it can be assumed that a variety of learning preferences and styles are represented in any group. Having people bring objects to class introduces visual and kinesthetic elements to the discussion.
An activity that the Fetzer Institute suggests as a follow-up to the circle of objects is to ask participants to grapple with the question “What is at stake?” This question is intentionally vague, though most groups find themselves interpreting it as “What is at stake when diversity is embraced?” Participants work in groups of three or four to give their responses. The facilitators warn people “not to go up into their heads” but “to stay with their heart” and allow themselves to be vulnerable during these conversations. These discussions are meant to be open. No guidelines are given other than focusing on the heart.
On returning to the large group, two members of each small group reprise the issues and themes they discussed. They do this summing up as an inner circle seated at the same table in the center of the classroom where the circle of objects is placed. The rest of the group listens and watches, forming an outer circle. The facilitators urge participants in the inner circle to avoid trying to distance themselves from their experiences. They are asked to monitor their own words and behavior so that they can catch themselves when they move from heart to head, or from the personal to the general. The idea is for members of the inner circle to focus on their own experiences and not to speak in abstract generalizations. They are thanked for being concrete, specific, and descriptive and for openly expressing anger, sorrow, and grief.
Finally, everyone in both inner and outer circles is invited to deal with the question “Is there something more?” By this time a sense of community has evolved that is often absent from groups that have been meeting for much longer periods. Consequently, people are usually willing at this point to consider some tough issues. Some of the themes that commonly arise from asking “Is there something more?” include racism’s deep and seemingly ineradicable roots, the frustration and sense of futility experienced by those who have been promoting antiracist causes for some time, and the ways in which social class and economic inequality continue to intrude on efforts to promote democracy or increase civic participation. This is a time when frustration and anger are expressed. These displays of emotion should be respected by the group, with group members doing all they can to support their angrier peers.
Classrooms are not inherently safe places for people to talk forthrightly about their cultural identifications and the differences among them. Ellsworth (1989) has argued that “dialogue in its conventional sense is impossible in the culture at large because at this historical moment, power relations between raced, classed, and gendered students and teachers are unjust” (p. 316). Although her conclusion may appear to be an extreme example of radical pessimism, it is crucial to keep in mind her caveat that even when dialogue appears to be equal and fair, this may be an illusion.
If we don’t choose to bring our dialogical efforts to an abrupt halt, however, what alternative is left? One approach is to broaden the range of discussion forms available to us. White (1990) concludes a review of research involving different cultural groups in discussion by observing that “to achieve their academic objectives in classroom discussions, teachers need to be willing to adapt their classroom organization and management to incorporate aspects of participant structures found in the home community” (p. 170). Another answer may be found in Ellsworth’s phrase “dialogue in its conventional sense” and her notion that we make use of the affiliation groups that form naturally outside of classrooms. Instead of relying exclusively on individuals to voice their experiences and knowledge in discussion, teachers can ask the cultural groups with which individuals affiliate to choose a spokesperson to express the opinion of that group. These spokespersons are charged to report what the group as a whole feels or believes. They are given periodic opportunities to speak out and talk back about such taboo subjects as institutional racism and sexism or the ways in which traditional, individualistic classrooms have a tendency to silence the least visible members of society—blacks, women, Native Americans, homosexuals. The relative safety and anonymity that one enjoys as a member of a group increases the likelihood that the discussion that ensues is honest, open, even defiant.
Affiliation group discussions are similar to circles of voices, only instead of individuals taking turns to speak without interruption, each group is allotted time to express its members’ concerns and share their experiences of discrimination and injustice. Groups can prepare a presentation ahead of time, or members can all agree to speak about a particular theme. Either way, affiliation groups are an opportunity for people to be heard in an atmosphere that provides the support they need to express outrage.
But affiliation groups must always be balanced with an awareness of the potential they have for separating people and further marginalizing already excluded groups. Sometimes an overemphasis on affiliation can stall people’s realization of their common humanity and interests. In one of his last books, Paulo Freire (1994) warned about the importance of creating unity in diversity. Finding allies and building common ground against oppression, he insisted, involves us in articulating differences while maintaining an understood commitment to solidarity and love. Freire is talking here about an armed, embattled, challenging love, not a sentimental, greeting card version. To him, unity in diversity is most effectively achieved when cultural groups assert their differences proudly while respecting the differences of others. Such a strain of respectful acceptance of other cultural identities was also woven through Alain Locke’s ideas on Afrocentrism (Gyant, 1996). Open, inclusive, and sometimes fierce discussion is a way for different cultural groups to realize their common interests while retaining their sense of their own identities.
In the documentary film The Color of Fear (Wah, 1994), a racially mixed group meets to discuss racism and prejudice in American society. One of the white members rejects example after example of contemporary racism from the people of color sitting around him and responds instead with these words: “You have no comprehension that the world is open to you. You have put up the dam and the block yourself.” The others in the group grow increasingly frustrated and angry with this white male until, in an exasperated rage, one of the black participants erupts with a torrent of accusatory words directed at the white skeptic. He says he is sick of being told to live as white people want him to live because his skin and hair make that impossible. Why should he be the one to change? Can’t white people be transformed by his experience rather than the other way around?
Despite the powerful words that fill the room, the white participant is unswayed. But then a little later the facilitator of the group asks the white man what he would say if everything the black man said was true. What if he could be black for a while and experience this racism as reality? How would he feel? The white man admits he would feel terrible. Somehow this simple moment of empathizing with the black man’s plight breaks the dialogical logjam. Instead of relying on his habit of doubting, the white man experiences the habit of believing, of assuming for the sake of discussion that something is true.
This instance of what Peter Elbow (1986) calls methodological belief can be adapted to address some of the cultural differences that prevent discussion participants from engaging with each other. Elbow proposes what he calls the “believing game,” the simplest application of which is the five-minute rule. This rule states that any discussion participant who feels that a particular point of view, however outlandish, is not being taken seriously has a right to point this out. The group then agrees to refrain from criticizing this perspective for five minutes and, in fact, to make every effort to believe it. Here are some of the questions people might ask to help them believe:
What’s interesting or helpful about the view?
What are some intriguing features that others might not have noticed?
What would be different if you believed this view, if you accepted it as true?
In what sense and under what conditions might this idea be true?
Participants who are not able to answer these questions or to provide support for answers given in response to them must remain silent and attend to those who can muster responses. Sometimes unbelief turns into belief, at least for the duration of the discussion. More important, the habit of believing can help us take a more sympathetic stance toward controversial ideas and broaden our horizon of what is conceivable. Here’s an example of how this habit might be applied to issues of diversity.
As already suggested, this exercise can stretch students’ capacity to engage seriously with seemingly implausible ideas. By providing a set of structured circumstances for empathizing with a believer, students are brought to appreciate diversity in some important new ways. The five-minute rule may, however, provide an excuse for sloppy thinking and permit students to believe, however temporarily, in some frightening things. For example, what if a student suggests we spend five minutes believing that the Holocaust never happened and that reports of it are a Jewish conspiracy to undermine the legitimate supremacy of the Aryan race? Does such an assertion deserve even five minutes of serious consideration? Will Humphreys, who is a colleague of Elbow’s, notes that if we practice believing “things that are false we will end up with more false beliefs” (Elbow, 1986, p. 282).
Elbow points out, though, that it is not false beliefs that are the danger so much as unexamined beliefs. He argues that the believing game gives people a chance to try unfamiliar beliefs on for size as a way of preventing them from adopting unexamined beliefs. After the game is over, the thinking processes that are employed to promote belief can be critiqued and the beliefs put aside if they turn out to be unconvincing.
The scene we described from The Color of Fear brings up the issue of anger. Is it possible for discussion to provide an outlet for great anger or deep sorrow? Teachers sometimes think that classrooms are an inappropriate place for expressing anger or grief. But if we want people to express themselves honestly and openly, tolerating and even respecting expressions of strong feeling may be an important part of talking across differences. People who have not experienced day-in, day-out discrimination don’t really understand its power to breed hostility and bitterness. Providing an outlet for anger about racism allows victims to reveal their honest feelings and gives witnesses opportunities to appreciate the impact of bigotry more concretely and deeply.
There are at least two ways to structure discussion to allow for the venting of strong feelings about race. One is to ask people to recount their own experiences of prejudice and discrimination or to relate examples in which they witnessed such cruelty toward others. The other is to invite them to read about historical events that were motivated by racial or ethnic bigotry. In both cases, the purposes are to help people learn more about the pervasiveness of racism and to give them a chance to experience it vicariously. The expectation is that group members will support each other in expressing anger and grief. The following are the instructions we give students regarding the expression of anger and grief.
We are not accustomed to expressing ourselves in the open and unrestrained manner this exercise demands. Consequently, it can easily turn into a poorly facilitated sensitivity session in which emotions get out of hand and things are said that unintentionally hurt others’ feelings. But because most of us have so little experience with the brute power of bigotry, the risks of this exercise are worth taking. It provides a way of gaining some idea of the impact racism and intolerance have on people’s lives. Also, by collectively reexperiencing these incidents and actively supporting one another in expressing feelings about them, group members can attain a new level of trust and a deeper appreciation for how challenging it is to move toward a more inclusive and multicultural society.
As Harry Boyte points out in his book Commonwealth (1989), the etymological roots of the word anger “suggest grief—the sense that grows from separation, deep loss, failure to attain fundamental goals” (p. 132). History has been deeply scarred by racial bigotry and discrimination. To allow this anger and grief to go unacknowledged in a forum where cultural differences are the focus is a great error. But it is probably also a mistake to allow the venting of rage to stand on its own without trying to build on it in constructive ways. The culmination of this activity, therefore, is to find a way to use the experience of expressing anger to talk across differences more effectively and take action that will diminish future intolerance.
One of the great challenges of cross-cultural communication is learning to say what we mean in a way that is not disrespectful or demeaning to those who hear our words. In diverse groups it is especially easy to choose words, use nonverbal cues, or develop arguments that are hurtful to others. We will examine two simple processes that can aid people to become more aware of how their comments are heard.
Regardless of the topic chosen, a panel of multiracial students can be appointed by the class to monitor the discussion for signs of racial or multicultural insensitivity. They note words, phrases, expressions, body language, assumptions, and arguments that may be insulting to one of the participants. However, they do not interrupt the discussion to raise these points. When the main discussion has ended, the multiracial panel, using detailed notes, gives its judgment on group members’ use or avoidance of racist speech.
Anyone may participate as the panel airs its concerns, and anyone can disagree strongly with the findings of the panel. This second discussion has many of the same purposes as the first—to get people involved, increase understanding, clarify points of view, and even bring people closer together. However, it is meant especially to heighten awareness to the way race and culture frame, and sometimes distort, how we hear the words others use. Like many discussions with a critical edge, the atmosphere can become accusatory and raw. But if participants have gone through some of the preparatory steps we outlined in Chapters Three and Four, there is a good chance that this interchange will be enlightening.
We frequently assume that we know what others are feeling or thinking, but we rarely take the awkward step of probing explicitly and nonjudgmentally, “You seem upset? Are you?” or “I get the impression that this exchange has hurt your feelings in some way. Is that true?” Gudykunst (1994) suggests that one of the most important ways to improve intercultural communication is to introduce fairly frequent perception checks. In perception checks, we describe what we think a particular person is feeling or thinking and request that the person confirm or correct this description.
By using perception checks, you send a message to those with whom you are in conversation that you genuinely want to understand how they interpret your words. Perception checks are especially important in diverse groups. If it is true that people from different cultures interpret and understand the world very differently, perception checks can be a great aid in making communication less ambiguous.
As with the five-minute rule, perception checks take precedence over other discussion issues. When someone asks for a perception check (for example, “Are you saying that racism always has an underlying economic cause?” or “Did I paraphrase your last comment incorrectly?”), the discussion stops so that the person to whom the check is addressed may answer. Further exchanges are allowed that clarify what was said earlier or confirm the check. Only after both parties involved are satisfied that they have checked their perceptions and clarified their meanings does the discussion resume its normal course.
Although this process can interrupt the flow of discussion, it is probably worth doing to enhance communicative accuracy and improve mutual understanding. Perception checks help people ensure that they are interpreting intended meanings accurately. They also give those who may be chronic victims of miscommunication another chance to make their own views clear.
We want to say something specifically about the factor of social class and how this affects discussion. Class is the unspoken, invisible social factor in American life. Unlike Europeans, Americans generally do not like to talk about class. They believe that, with the exception of a few very rich and very poor people, they live in a classless society. Part of the democratic ethos is the insistence that class identity doesn’t matter very much since in the last analysis we’re all middle-class, or have the opportunity to become so. Of course, acknowledging that everyone can become middle-class implicitly acknowledges that class differences do exist.
We don’t want to get into a detailed sociological definition of exactly what constitutes a working-class or middle-class identity, nor do we want to elaborate in any detailed way the characteristics of working-class or middle-class culture. But we do want to emphasize three things. First, working-class students do see a difference between their own class origins and identities and those of their teachers and many of their peers. As two anthologies of working-class academics demonstrate, even when working-class students become university professors, they continue to define themselves by their class of origin, whether or not they take on middle-class speech forms, interests, and affectations (Ryan and Sackrey, 1984; Dews and Law, 1995). Ira Shor (1987, 1992, 1996) has written evocatively of the attitudes of the working-class students he encounters in his life at a state college in New York. These students are “achingly traditional and proudly insubordinate at the same time” (1996, p. 2), are “often baffled at the language, requirements, and rituals of higher education” (p. 5), and are “largely unimpressed by professors and intellectuals, not easily persuaded, not pushovers” (p. 7). They expect “an authoritarian rhetorical setting: teacher-talk, teacher-centered standard English, an official syllabus with remote subject-matter, and unilateral rule-making” (p. 16).
Second, talking about “working-class culture” as a generic phenomenon displays the same kind of misguided aggregate thinking we warn against where ethnic stereotyping is concerned. Though we know that certain attitudes are more common among working-class students, we don’t want to imply that they are universal. As Shor writes, “I would say that there is no stereotypical working-class student. Their typical traits and social conditions are identifiable, but this general reality does not exhaust their individual differences. Their diversity can produce a group personality in one class very different from the personality of another class” (1996, p. 7). To use cinematic and literary terms, working-class students can just as easily be from the pages of Jude the Obscure as from the cast of films such as Blackboard Jungle or Dangerous Minds.
Third, we want to stress that most teachers’ idea of what constitutes appropriate forms of classroom discourse is much closer to middle-class than working-class speech norms. This is as true of working-class academics as it is of their middle-class counterparts. In her analysis of class differences in conversational style, bell hooks (1994, p. 186) observes that “students from upper and middle class backgrounds are disturbed if heated exchange takes place in the classroom. Many of them equate loud talk or interruptions with rude and threatening behavior. Yet those of us from working class backgrounds may feel that discussion is deeper and richer if it arouses intense responses.” She describes a “collective professorial investment in bourgeois decorum” (p. 188) that shapes notions of appropriate tone and speech forms in class discussion. In Pierre Bourdieu’s (1986) terms, middle-class students’ greater linguistic competence constitutes a valuable form of cultural capital that they bring to college classrooms.
The research of sociologist Basil Bernstein (1977, 1986, 1990) has shown us how what he describes as “elaborated” codes of language are valued over more restricted codes that use a smaller vocabulary, frequently repeat colloquialisms, and prefer short, terse sentences. Ethnographic studies of schooling such as those by McLaren (1989) and Willis (1977) show how teachers use these ways of talking to distinguish the smartest students. Richness of language, precision of definition, frequent use of authors’ names or of specialized terms, fluidity of sentence construction, and the use of subclauses are all taken as evidence of intelligence. Colloquialisms and the use of catch-all terms such as stuff or neat evince a lack of seriousness. Curse words are banished as the last resort of the unimaginative.
Talking of curse words and their prevalence in working-class speech brings us, naturally enough, to the ubiquitous “f-word.” All social classes say “fuck” and “fucking,” but middle-class students are likely to use this less and to banish it from formal classroom discussion. In working-class communities from Harlem to Glasgow, Detroit to Bootle, it attains near mantra status, being used in highly original ways every second or third word. If you stood on the now-demolished terraces of Spion Kop at Anfield (the home of the Liverpool football club) you would know what we mean. Mike Rose (1990) tells a story of how it was used to frame one of the highest pedagogical compliments a student ever paid him. When a Vietnam veteran wanted to show how Rose’s teaching was affecting him, the man declared to Rose after class one day, “you-are-teaching-the-fuck-outta-me!” (p. 146).
Working-class students are usually smart enough to know that language used casually and colloquially in a bar or locker room will be inappropriate in a seminar discussion. This places an extra strain of self-censorship on them. Knowing that swearing offends “bourgeois decorum” (to use bell hooks’s phrase), they have to monitor their discourse to purge it of a word that is used as an all-purpose noun, verb, adjective, and expletive. If it slips out in an exclamation such as “What a fucking brilliant idea!” it is usually treated as a slip of the tongue. The students either quickly apologize or remain studiedly defiant, daring someone in the room to challenge them. They know that cursing can easily lead to their being labeled unsophisticated, slow, and lacking diligence. This adds another layer of anxiety to the feelings of “impostorship” and cultural suicide they already experience. Impostorship is the sense among working-class students that they possess neither the talent nor the right to become college students. Students who feel like impostors imagine that they are constantly on the verge of being found out to be too dumb and unprepared for college-level learning. They imagine that once this discovery is made, they will be asked to leave whatever program they’re enrolled in, shrouded in a cloud of public shame, humiliation, and embarrassment. Each week that passes without this happening only serves to increase the sense that a dramatic unmasking lies around the corner. “Surely,” these students tell themselves, “sooner or later someone, somewhere, is going to realize that letting me onto this campus was a big mistake. I don’t belong here, and I’m not smart enough to succeed.”
The psychological and cultural roots framing impostorship are hard to disentangle, but most who speak about impostorship view it as having been produced by their awareness of the vast distance between the idealized images of omniscient intellectuals they attached to anyone occupying the role of student and their own daily sense of themselves as stumbling and struggling survivors (Brookfield, 1990). This distance between the idealized image of students’ and professors’ high-status discourse and the actuality of students’ own conversations is so great that they believe it can never be bridged. Although many working-class students live with impostorship, it is usually kept private, masked behind a veneer of tough cynicism regarding all things intellectual. To admit to a sense of impostorship would be equivalent to admitting one cared about how one was perceived in a classroom, which in itself conveys that one takes education seriously as an important end in itself. Working-class students are willing to show that they take education seriously as a way of getting themselves out of their neighborhood and as a way of gaining work that pays better and has higher status than the work they do now. But showing that one takes ideas and educational processes seriously risks breaking with the “culture of cool,” which mandates that extrinsic motivation (“I’m in it for the money”) is OK but condemns as class betrayal any belief in the intrinsic importance or enjoyment of intellectual exchange.
The triggers that induce this sense of impostorship occur at distinct times in working-class students’ lives. The first ordinarily occurs at the moment of public definition as a student. The news that one has been admitted into an educational program is greeted with a sense of disbelief and doubt that is not entirely pleasurable. Perhaps the acceptance letter was a fraud, or there has been a bureaucratic error in the admissions office. Another trigger occurs when the student gets to her first classes and is asked, along with everyone else, to introduce herself to the rest of the group. Teachers do this as a way of relieving students’ anxieties and making them feel welcome. But this practice often seems to have the reverse effect of heightening the anxiety of many working-class students. Rather than affirming and honoring their prior experiences, this roundtable recitation of past activities, current responsibilities, and future dreams serves only to convince the student that everyone else in the class will succeed but she won’t. Everyone else seems smarter, more articulate, more experienced, and more confident than she is. They have mastered the middle-class, elaborated speech code.
Of course, what students who feel like impostors don’t realize is that this feeling is universal. It crosses lines of class, gender, and culture. Once one student talks about her own sense of impostorship, there is a domino-like collapse as, one by one, almost all the other students in the class admit to the same feeling. This is why it’s so important to name impostorship early on in the course. A teacher can talk about his own feelings of impostorship as both student and teacher. After all, many college and university teachers identify themselves as coming from working-class backgrounds. The anthologies by Ryan and Sackrey (1984) and Dews and Law (1995) pay eloquent testimony to this feeling of being strangers far from home. The conventions and speech codes of academe are as exotic and intimidating to them as they are to many of their students. Speaking about the feelings of impostorship arising from their class identity can surprise and reassure working-class students.
Working-class and ethnic minority academics will also know much about the risk of cultural suicide run by many working-class students who learn a new way of speaking. Cultural suicide describes the process whereby families, peer groups, and communities exclude from their midst students whom they see as changing in front of their eyes as a result of their engaging in learning. The student who was formerly seen by friends and intimates as “speaking like us” is now seen as adopting an artificial and arrogant form of speech. She poses a real threat to those who see themselves as being betrayed. Her friends, colleagues, and family see her as taking on airs and pretensions, as growing “too big for her boots.” She is seen as aspiring to the status of intellectual while those left behind feel that they are now somehow perceived as less developed creatures grubbing around in the gritty gutters of daily life outside academe. In the eyes of those left behind, the working-class student is perceived as having “gone native,” having become a full-fledged member of the middle-class culture of academe. This is one of the central themes of Willie Russell’s play (and later film) Educating Rita, concerning a working-class Liverpool woman who enrolls at the British Open University.
What does all this mean for the conduct of discussion? We wish to make three observations. First, teachers from working-class backgrounds can make their class identities public by talking about their own struggles as students and academics. This autobiographical disclosure will be welcomed by most students, particularly those from working-class homes. It is reassuring to know that the person in authority has walked in their shoes and is likely to be sympathetic to their use of nonacademic language. Second, teachers can acknowledge and encourage a wide variety of expressive forms. When students slip naturally into speech that teachers find annoying or unhelpful, they can hold their natural irritation in check unless they feel things have gotten completely out of hand. Mocking, however affectionately, a student’s preferred way of talking is deadly to the development of trust. Third, any speech norms, ground rules, or codes of discourse the students generate should address explicitly the use of words people find offensive.
The problem is, of course, knowing in advance who will be offended by what. Most students can live with someone saying, “That argument is a crock.” But someone saying, “that argument is a crock of shit” or “a fucking crock of shit” makes things much more tense and complicated. As with so many situations we’ve examined in this book, the CIQ will tell you the effect that different forms of speech have on different students. If some people’s regular use of curse words offends others, that fact will be reported on the CIQ. This finding can then be turned back to the class, who will have to grapple, with the teacher’s help, with what to do next. A discussion of what constitutes appropriate academic speech is not lightweight or idle. It cuts to several core issues: how we privilege certain ways of speaking and conveying knowledge and ideas, who has the power to define appropriate forms and patterns of communication, and whose interests these forms and patterns serve.
This chapter has provided just a few of the innumerable strategies for assisting people in doing a better job of communicating across differences. What we have tried to do is to present a few principles that underlie good discussions in general but that inform especially conversations involving cultural differences and feelings of racial intolerance. We have stressed that groups must openly confront racism, taking time to express anger and grief over the unfulfilled lives that result directly from bigotry. People must frankly assert their cultural identifications and the meaning these identities have for their lives. Teachers must try to create conditions that make people more comfortable with diversity, even as they use difference to generate greater respect for each other.
Doing these things is not an exercise in political correctness in which only the stories of those who feel themselves oppressed are told. Rather it is an attempt to offer as many different interpretations of experience as possible. A nation’s story can be told many different ways, but it is really only recently that we have begun to acknowledge this. A Native American interpretation of U.S. history is going to be very different from an interpretation put forward by a Russian Jew, just as an African American’s story will be starkly at odds with that of a descendant of a plantation owner, and an Aboriginal tale will be in stark contrast to that told by a European invader. The object of multicultural dialogues is to carve out spaces for many different versions of experience and to encourage people to cope with their complexity and to revel in their richness.
We do this not to impose equal acceptance of every story advanced but to create new appreciation for collective depth and diversity. We oppose the hegemonic intentions of those who claim there is only one, highly privileged American, English, Canadian, South African, or Australian story that must be protected and perpetuated. It is this hegemony of the official story, this enemy of pluralism, multiplicity, and complexity, that genuine dialogues about and across differences must be enjoined to combat (Bruner, 1996). When we honor a plethora of stories and interpretations and when we strive through discussion to find a place within our own stories for at least some of these other perspectives, we can begin to rebuild and reinvent commonalities. Unity does not entail jettisoning cultural richness and reinstating old, canonical models. This solution might seem neat and precise, unburdened by the messiness and turmoil of an ongoing conversation about our differences. But it is also blatantly undemocratic. It rejects the value of multiple stories and the importance of a cultural conversation that simply has no finish.