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Nate Bowling: American Teacher Abroad

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We have the answer, we choose to ignore it

June 22, 2016 Nathan Bowling
A child, as a pawn in a very old game.

A child, as a pawn in a very old game.

There is a version of American history that I was taught in school. You were probably taught it too: America was founded, there were Indians, we had slavery--slavery was bad. Andrew Jackson screwed the Indians and they vanished. We had a Civil War and then Lincoln freed the slaves. After the war black people were still subjugated, but only in the South. Then there were two World Wars, with a Great Depression in between, and then Martin Luther King led some protests, had a Dream, died, and now we are all equal.

This version of history yadda-yaddas through decades of struggle and intentionally obscures decades of laws and policies that helped construct and codify segregation in local, state and federal law. Segregation is not an accident of American history. It is the story of American history.

We have the power and tools to dismantle segregated schools. To do so, we must disabuse ourselves of the notion that somehow, organically, in every major urban area in our nation, a uniform pattern of segregated housing, segregated schools, and disproportionate policing practices simultaneously arose. That is, at best, magical thinking. Segregation was constructed by the government, at the behest of the people (for more on that construction see here, here and especially here). It something we chose to build; it is no different than the transcontinental railroad or the Washington Monument.

We make a choice, we make it everyday. When young, white professionals, live in a working class, mixed race neighborhood as long as they must, but flee to whiter wealthier confines, as soon as they can or when it’s time to have children, they serve as the foot-soldiers of neighborhood and school segregation. Most urban segregation is the result of the absence of white families--white flight. Put differently, people of color do not choose to live in segregation. Segregation is created by white families when they make the choice, conscious or otherwise, to leave communities, en masse. This framing is essential in understanding and solving the problem.

The hallways of my school tell this tale all too clearly. Abraham Lincoln High School was built in 1913 and we have portraits of every graduating class from 1914 through the near present. These are amazing historical markers. I often walk my students through the pictures. I point out famous grads, we discuss how the senior classes in 1942-45 were smaller because so many males enlisted. We note the appearance of the first afros. Every year the same question comes up… “What happened to all the white students?”

The photos are nearly uniformly white until the late 60s (there are a few Japanese students in the late 30s photos, but they vanish after the internment). And then poof somewhere between 1968 and 1972 everything changed. Lincoln is now 75% students of color; it is situated in a city that is 65% white, in state that is 77% white--nearly the perfect inverse. These figures are neither organic nor an accident. 

School segregation is the result of intentional policy choices and governmental interventions. It was constructed, and to end it we must deconstruct it through further interventions. We also must acknowledge that segregation was created at the behest of middle class white voters and business leaders and it can only be undone at their behest.

Frankly, I am not hopeful about that happening, longtime readers may recall my response to the Fusco letter--I think his views are more mainstream than we care to admit. When Seattle began busing, 3,000 white students vanished from the district. Today 30% of the students in Seattle attend private schools. Those Venn Diagrams overlap. 

These are all choices. We choose to live and teach our children this way, but we don’t have to. There is a better way.

In Education, Society Tags busing, segregation, integration
5 Comments

A note on graduation day

June 9, 2016 Nathan Bowling
Don't throw your caps, you'll poke your eye out.

Don't throw your caps, you'll poke your eye out.

Today is the big day y’all. To quote the great urban philosopher Christopher Wallace, aka Notorious BIG, “we did it Brooklyn: we did it!” We’re to the finish line. I am proud of you, and even if you weren’t in my government class, you are an Abe; you are family.

Before tonight’s ceremony, I want to reiterate the point that Mr. Erwin made this morning. In life there are celebrations (which are for you) and there are ceremonies (which are for the people who love you); this is the latter. Graduation is a ceremony in which we honor all the graduates. The needs of the ceremony are more important than the needs of the individuals in it. I know that sounds harsh—like I am raining on your big day—but it is reality.

It’s about the class: that’s why you all wear the same black robes; that’s why you all wear mortar boards (that’s the name for the weird square hat, in case you didn’t know) with tassels on the same side; that’s why we walk in lines and sit and rise together. It’s a ceremony, like a wedding or meeting the President—no one acts a fool when it’s time to meet the POTUS (well, some people do, but the Secret Service bum rushes them and they go to jail for it).  

The ceremony tonight is going to be a blur. And when you’re my age (if our species survives the Trump Presidency) it will be both a blur and distant, but fond memory. I graduated in 1997, the year you were born. I can’t name the four people I walked with when I entered the Dome. I have no memory of who spoke or what they said. I know I walked, I know I wore a robe, I know my parents got some blurry pics of me. I remember thinking afterwards, that it was over in an instant.

What I remember is what came next—the celebration. I remember hugging family outside the Dome as you will today. I remember seeing my cousins from out of town, who I didn’t know were coming. I remember Deacon Morris from church giving me a card with a crisp $100 bill in it (that was like infinite $$$ back in the day). I remember having the greatest cookout in the history of all of the Hilltop. There were four grills going and folks I hadn’t seen in ten years were rolling in to dap me up (and get a plate).

I am excited for you all tonight. This has been the best and toughest of my ten year career, but we did it together. We overcame obstacles, rejected excuses and tonight you will cross the stage. Remember what I said on Tuesday, graduation isn’t the end of anything—it’s the beginning of everything. You all are just beginning a lifelong journey. Every one of you is a better student than I was in high school (no really, it’s true). This isn’t a period in the sentence of your lives, it is a comma, with much more to be written.

I offer you my customary closing for the last time. “I love you all, some more than others. Chairs in and good day.”

In Education Tags graduation, Class of 2016
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Ali: Más Grande de Todos los Tiempos

June 5, 2016 Nathan Bowling

Friday night I sat at the foot of my bed, cellphone in hand, staring at Twitter, crying like a child over the death of one of my heroes. My wife repeatedly checked in with me, but I couldn’t explain why I was so upset. I get it now: the death of Muhammad Ali represents the end of an era for much of black America.

To black men of certain age, the age of my father and my uncles, Ali was the pinnacle: he was elegant and eloquent; he floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee; he was unapologetically pro-black; he was the best in the ring (back when boxing mattered); he was unafraid to speak his mind to condescending, incredulous TV personalities and audiences; and he was willing to sacrifice personal fame and fortune for his anti-war and anti-racist principles.

I am not old enough to have watched Ali in his prime, but I was raised on his legend. My father, born in Laurel, Mississippi, in 1930 and my uncles born in the mid-30s in Arkansas, loved Ali, and they taught me to, as well. I, like many brothers of my vintage, was raised on a healthy diet of Ali, Jim Brown, Kareem and Maya Angelou. Sadly, only two of them remain with us. 2016 has been a hard year of deaths. It seems that everyone I knew when I was young is old. Everyone who was old, is now dead.

Ali’s death is especially poignant because we need truth-tellers right now. In the era of $100 million endorsement deals and social media consultants, athletes have become PR trained automatons. No athlete today would or could take the stands he did. If they dared, they’d be crucified by the alleged journalists, like the clowns on First Take. Watching YouTube interviews of Ali (as I have much of today) I am reminded of Orwell: “In times of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” Muhammad Ali’s truths about the Vietnam War, about racial injustice in America, about the colonization of Africa, were revolutionary, for his time and for ours.

I believe if you have a platform, dammit use it. In this moment, when a nativist, dog-whistle blowing, reactionary right, is ascendant in American politics, we need Alis in sports and in the black community.

I think it’s why I love Michael Bennett from the Seahawks so much.

I think it’s why I have grown to love Bey; we need more “Formation.”

I know it’s why I love Kendrick, but can’t mess with Kanye. Kendrick Lamar uses his platform to talk about police brutality, critique consumerism and to discuss economic inequality. Kanye usually uses his platform to talk about Kanye.

It's why I have zero time for apolitical figures like MJ. Michael Jordan is a counter-revolutionary. I have never owned and will never buy a pair of Jordans. Kareem nailed it in 2015, in an interview with NPR: Jordan has consistently chosen “commerce over conscience” and refused speak out on matters of justice, racial or otherwise, because “Republicans buy sneakers too.”

Ali used his platform. Few ever spoke so much truth to so much entrenched power.

It kills me, my oldest students were born in 1997. They were born a year after Ali lit the Olympic Torch in the Atlanta Summer Games. By that time, Ali had battled Parkinson’s for twelve years. I may have missed Ali’s prime, but they have only seen him in a diminished state. I imagine it’d be like only knowing MJ as a sneaker-pimp or from the Crying Jordan memes, or only knowing Curtis Mayfield after the accident that paralyzed him. You know of, but you don't really know.

At some point God just stopped making men like Muhammad Ali. Today I mourn the Greatest, but I also mourn for anyone who has grown up only knowing him as a shell of his former self.

Bomaye Ali.

In Personal, Sports Tags RIP Muhammad Ali, Boxing, Civil Rights
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