So... in the middle of my first year teaching, I began to write a critical race narrative. I'm not sure I am happy with it. I'm not sure if I ever will be. But, if nothing else, it's an honest reflection. Here is an excerpt.
------
After my father learned my sister and I were going to be moving to the big city to teach in the Bronx, he started researching possible places for us to live. Upper East Side? Too expensive. Brooklyn? Too far. Harlem? Perhaps. On the 2 line. Washington Heights? A pain. Woodlawn? Woodlawn? Where’s that? Irish neighborhood, he replied, eyes glowing.
I asked my father why he mentioned Woodlawn in the mix of other neighborhoods and boroughs. “Woodlawn,” he said, “is a supposed sanctuary of safety and community in the middle of the Bronx.” It is isolated and bounded by Westchester County to the north, the Bronx River to the east, Woodlawn Cemetery to the south, and Van Cortlandt Park to the west. Not to mention it is a neighborhood of 8,000 people, many of whom are Irish immigrants. It suddenly made sense. My father seemed to find comfort in the idea of my sister and me living with Irish immigrants in a small tight-knit community, isolated from the poverty, violence, and despondency of Harlem. Did I find comfort in his proposition? Or, perhaps the more difficult question is, if I did in fact find comfort in it, why? What was driving that comfort? Being in a small community? Living with Irish people? The safety? Their whiteness? It is impossible for me to distinguish between the interconnected roles of race, language, community, and class to comprehend why I found comfort in the idea of Woodlawn. But, the lease had been signed. We were on our way to Harlem.
In the middle of the fall, my father emailed me about an afternoon visit he made to Woodlawn. Once again, the emails began flooding. Names of brokers, apartments for rent, names of restaurants, schools. You name it, my father had researched it. My sister and I rolled our eyes. “He just wants us to move in with a bunch of Irish lads so he can feel like he’s back in Ireland, living vicariously through us!” Who knows. Maybe the Guinness flows smoother and richer in Woodlawn’s plethora of Irish pubs. Slowly, however, by winter he had accepted defeat for the time being. We were staying put in Harlem.
In January, my parents visited the city for my mother’s New York State Bar Association meeting. On the Tuesday of their visit, I met them at my sister’s disaster of a middle school—MS 142—to watch her girls’ basketball team destroy another team. After the game, my father suggested we drive over to Woodlawn—it was only a mile away after all—for a pint. A Tuesday night, why not? We hopped in the car and drove out of the impoverished projects of Baychester, over the Nereid Avenue Bridge, into Woodlawn, the “oasis” of safety in the Bronx. Suddenly, I noticed something was different. Was it the cleanliness? No. The cars? No. The silence? Perhaps. The people walking around? Yes. White people walking. White people driving. White people entering and leaving corner stores. Where did all the Jamaicans go? (Oh, right. Living a mile away. In the projects. In poverty.)
The neighborhood divisions astonished me. To where did the incredible poverty disappear? Maybe it was all just a façade. I was astonished to see hundreds of white people all in one place in the middle of the Bronx. I felt like we actually belonged (juxtaposed to my sister’s girls’ basketball team and being one of five white people in the entire school after hours. Myself, my mother, my father, my sister, and her co-coach, another first year Teach For America teacher). Finally, I felt like I blended in somewhere.J.P. Clarke’s Pub seemed like the perfect joint on Katonah Avenue for an evening pint of Guinness. The place was empty except for a few older men sitting at the bar. The bar tender, a woman around 50, seemed excited to see us. “What can I do for you folks?” she asked with a strong brogue. “Pints all around? Out of Guinness, will Smithwicks do?” She smiled. We belonged.
I felt comfort sitting in J.P. Clarke’s with my parents and sister; I felt comfortable being in a community that reminded me of my own. People walking the streets saying hi to neighbors, helping each other with groceries. No arguing, no cursing, no hitting, no homeless people, no altercations. Woodlawn was quiet. Harlem is not. Could it be that I felt more comfortable in Woodlawn because the residents are white? Or, is it possible that Woodlawn’s sense of community and togetherness made me feel like I was in my comfort zone, and therefore reminded of home? Comfort. I often do not feel comfortable in Harlem because of the poverty and anger and despondency and litter. I feel comfortable in my school now. I feel comfortable as my students’ 5 foot nothing white, female, gay (unpronounced) English teacher. But, does that mean I belong here?
Fast forward to early February. On a sunny yet chilly Saturday, in a dire attempt to escape the poverty and bleakness of Harlem, my sister and I decided to venture north to Woodlawn after class. My father had raved about the Irish pubs and how nice the neighborhood is, so we figured it would be nice to stay out of the hood for a few more hours.
Backpacks full, scarves tied tightly around our necks, we walked along the west side of the Woodlawn Cemetery after taking the 4 train to the last stop. We were excited, I have to admit, to see a few white people walking around. I felt, once again, like I belonged. Like I wasn’t so much of an outsider.
We stopped at J.P. Clarke’s Pub because it was familiar to us. On this Saturday, unlike the Tuesday night in January, the place was packed. Rugby games aired on flat screens, soccer games playing in another corner. Upon entering the pub, heads turned. People got quiet, their voices hushed. Everyone in the pub was white. All spoke with thick brogues. Everyone was staring at us. “Do they think we’re underage or something?” I asked my sister, incredulously. “Is it because we have backpacks?” The same woman was bartending this particular afternoon, and I knew she recognized us. She walked right by us and asked two others what they wanted to drink. And then she moved on to another group. Then, instead of asking us what we wanted, she walked from behind the bar, right past us to the backdoor and had a cigarette. No other bartenders were working. My sister and I were confused. Why had she ignored us so blatantly? After she enjoyed her smoke, she came back inside and pretended not to see us. After another minute, my sister finally flagged her down with the “Hello!!??” look and wave. Finally, we ordered. But, the irritating actions on the bartender’s part didn’t stop. She then spent the next 4 minutes examining our NYS licenses under a light (apparently she didn’t remember we were there just a few weeks earlier? I was getting confused.) My sister raised her voice, “Don’t you see? My sister and I are twins!” She was not amused. I was offended. My name is Maura Brady. Is that not Irish enough? Apparently not. She scowled at us and finally served us our pint. My sister and I sat down, only to then be harassed by an inebriated Irish immigrant who thought all Americans acted like they were in the film American Pie. My sister and I decided to drink our pints quickly and leave. I was slowly starting to realize we weren’t welcome at J.P. Clarke’s.
While we walked down the street I started to notice that people looked at us funny. We were outsiders. Viewed as different, as foreign, as something “other.” Although we looked like the people in J.P. Clarke’s we were viewed as aliens and definitely different. We were not apart of the community in which they lived. We did not speak with brogues. We were not Irish Americans. The next bar we wandered into was empty with the exception of a man passed out drunk on the bar counter. Interesting. J.P. Clarke’s was full. This was bar empty. The bartender did not have a brogue and happily ordered us a few beers. “We serve everyone here,” she said. I smiled, masking the discomfort I felt.
Naively, I thought I would be welcome in a neighborhood based solely on the color of my skin. Was it possible that we did not belong in Woodlawn? Our whiteness made absolutely no difference to the residents of Woodlawn. We didn’t belong. Could it be that Harlem was more welcoming to us? It seemed that way.
We did not belong in Woodlawn because we were not a part of the Irish community of Woodlawn. Belonging, then, had nothing to do with my race or skin color; it had everything to do with culture and comfort and community. Everyone in J.P. Clarke’s was a part of the Woodlawn Irish American community. My sister and I were not. Therefore, we were not seen as fellow white people; we were viewed as intruders or outsiders. We posed a threat to the community and Irish culture they sought to preserve. We felt like pariahs.
Although I am one of only a handful of white people in an all-black and Hispanic high school, I do not feel like an outsider in the classroom. I feel embraced by my students; although they may see me as a white teacher, I am convinced that first and foremost they see me as their English teacher who wants them to excel and succeed and grow as thinkers, readers, writers, and individuals. The first day I stepped into my school for an interview I felt terrified—I felt as if I was naked walking through the halls because I was afraid all attention would be drawn to me because I was white. It took a few days but then I started to feel like I just blended into the walls as just another teacher. Now, I am comfortable in my own skin. Even though I am different, I belong in my school. I believe I belong in the classroom teaching my students, regardless of my race, class, sexual orientation, or gender.
No comments:
Post a Comment