On Being an Adult
a letter about power, young people, and Andria Zafirakou's THOSE WHO CAN, TEACH
Dear friends,
I apologize to start this newsletter already with an aside, but could I just mention that I have gotten into the habit of addressing some of my emails as “Dear so-and-so,” and the quaint formality brings me buckets of joy. This is of course followed by my signature sign-off of “warmly” because I’m of the firm belief that we could all do with a bit more warmth in our lives.
My recent email habits established, let me truly begin from a place of gratitude. Thank you for your kind receipt of newsletter #1! I really appreciate the words of support in whatever form they arrived, and it was heartening to know that I’m not writing into a void.
For newsletter #2, I’d like to talk a little bit about teaching and learning. And here, let me say that I vow not to make this a space where I talk only about work because that would be such a bore, and I also refuse to live a life in which we are defined by how we spend the hours of 9-5. But I must admit, it’s a current struggle of mine not to talk about my teaching: I’m constantly reflecting on the lessons I’ve led, sharing the realizations that have surfaced from sitting again in a school, grappling with my irrational fear that I am “bad” at it (whatever that means, I know my parents would be grateful to understand).
And if we have chatted at any point in the past month, I absolutely have mentioned how I hate being called “miss” and how I recoil at the very thought of giving a detention, both of which are rooted in my alarm at the power I’ve been granted by the sheer nature of being an adult with a blue lanyard. When I’ve shared this with others, I’ve sometimes been met with surprise at my surprise. “You’re working in a school, Bella. What did you expect?” I even asked some of my students to reflect on the power of teachers and their return was: yes, teachers have too much power, but don’t you like having that authority?
If I am to answer honestly, I do and I don’t. There is a thrill in being listened to—I ask them to stop talking, and they do, I pose a question, and they answer—but I’m wary of reverence granted out of a tradition in which adults can supposedly do no wrong. This is not to say that there is no need for the responsibilities we set to establish and maintain trust and safety, nor is it a rebuttal against respect for educators, which I recognize is sorely (and scarily) lacking. Rather, it is my attempt to challenge the sense of authority that is granted immediately because you are older.
Those who know of my academic research will recognize these same points of interest. I circle back again (and again and again) to power, agency, young people, and teaching because I am convinced that this (arbitrary) hierarchy obstructs learning. And because too, in a way, I still perform to those older than me even though we could now be considered peers. I want to escape the power dynamic that I still feel subject to: when I’m the youngest in the room, I doubt my own experience and seek the validation of those who are older, forever the teacher’s pet who wants the approval of the adults in charge.
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In any case, this is a rather long preface to an interesting little book titled Those Who Can, Teach, a book I grabbed from the bookstore in part because of the colorful cover and in part because how could I resist a subtitle that reads “The Power of Art, Kindness, and Compassion in the Classroom”—that’s everything I could strive to emulate in my own teaching.
Author Andira Zafirakou is an arts educator based in London and is known for her win as the Global Teacher of the Year in 2018, an international recognition of educators who have made an outstanding contribution to the profession. And even a few pages in, it’s abundantly clear why she earned the title: she speaks passionately about promoting the arts as means of expression, connection, and learning within schools; she clearly goes the extra mile for her students to ensure their safety and success, and her efforts to uplift the reputation of the school in which she works are admirable. I know her students are lucky.
Despite these strengths, however, I must admit that I did not like the book. I fear it is, as I wrote on Goodreads, teacher inspiration and student trauma porn, written only to further the narratives that teachers are the best saviors of students facing hardship (and that the best teachers are those that devote their entire lives to caring for students, which is a whole other can of worms). Throughout, Zafirakou highlights instances in which she was able to reach “troubled” students through compassion—which, again, is admirable—but I worry those same students didn’t have a say in how they were portrayed. These critiques are a return to power: the teacher who believes young people need to be saved from themselves is no better than the teacher who believes themselves to be superior to children on the basis of age.
We might say the book relies on the idea that we must teach “for the kids,” but I’m not sure the profession has interrogated what that actually and critically means. Because while I was reading, all I could see were the ways that institutions like a school fail young people. If we think passing an exam signals learning, if we teach as if adults always know best (which no article on student-centered learning can convince me we still don’t do), if we are putting our trust into the system to support and “save” children, we’ve already lost, convinced ourselves that school as we traditionally know it—established on the unquestioned hierarchy of adults to kids—is right and good.
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So I guess what I’m saying is that I want to know why a proposal to see kids as people feels so radical. I really do long for the day in which it doesn’t.
On a date recently, we talked about a question I’ve asked myself before: would you ever give up on a child? And my instinctual response is “no,” society’s power dynamics as such that to give up on a child feels to me like a moral failure. To his credit, he challenged me in response: if we talk about giving up on children, aren’t we then also saying there’s a difference between children and adults, that though we don’t give up on children, there could come a point past the age of 18 that they would no longer be deserving of our unconditional support? Shouldn’t we instead ask: would you ever give up on a person?
And it’s a messy philosophical question and I know the parallels I’m looking to draw are not entirely clear but give me this: if we lock ourselves into distinguishing children from people—see them as what education researcher Karin Murris describes as something “less than human” or believe that one is not fully a person until they become an adult—I believe teaching and learning suffer.
And I suppose this thinking extends to us adults too, as we nurture the child within us all. What does it mean to become an adult? When does it happen? Because I won’t lie: oftentimes, I still feel like a kid. My recent acknowledgment that I still defer to those “more adult” than me was also a realization of how schools train us to dismiss the young, which means we are trained to dismiss ourselves. I recognize this is not a new realization, nor (I hope) the last time it will be recognized, but I mention it because reflecting on my personal relationship with authority has been my inspiration to teach in any way that will foster the opposite.
I think that’s all for today. I’ve read this over and I feel it’s a jumble of words, but I hope you find something in it of interest! And, of course, the beautiful thing about writing your own newsletter is that I want to write to you about everything. Seeing oneself as an artist! Choosing to be single! Consuming children’s media! Living with chronic illness! So much to say, so little time, but rest assured that I’ll have something out to you all in the next few weeks. In the meantime, a beloved professor of mine once asked: when did you feel most alive in your K-12 education? I leave the same question to you.
With love, always,
Bella
P.S. Jon Stewart’s interview with Arkansas’ Attorney General on the state’s appalling anti-trans legislation feels startlingly relevant to this very topic. If you haven’t watched the video, do yourself a favor and do so here. And please consider joining me in donating to organizations that fight for the rights of trans people, such as The Campaign for Southern Equality and Trans Lifeline.
P.P.S. I would be remiss to send this out without mentioning that today, my little sister and best friend, Lulu, turns 20! I love her like the absolute world, and so in addition to donating, you should all also send virtual hugs and joy and presents her way. :~)
P.P.P.S. Things I’m Consuming
I know I keep finding reasons to extend this letter, but for your media rota, my latest crop of recommendations:
+ On Seeing Children as “Cute”: This is me cheating as I first discovered the article a few years ago, but I returned to it in writing this essay, so link it I shall! But this article is why I try to catch myself when I start describing children as cute and why I no longer use “childish” as an insult. Really good food for thought.
+ How High We Go In the Dark: This is me cheating again, as I’m not quite finished at the time of publishing this, but I’ve enjoyed it so much I doubt not my recommendation. The chapter, “City of Laughter,” is a master class in fiction writing. I was crying on the tube.
+ Dream House Makeover: This show is pointless and yet I love it. How’s that for a pitch? Watch it if you’re in need of mindless, fluffy home decorating fun—which I know we all DO, at one point or another. I’m working my way through Season 3, and I am having a blast.