The film lays bare issues related to race, class, family loyalties, self-loathing, and the undeniable role educators can play in the lives of students, for better or for worse.  While it is unwise to assume experiences are universal, the universality in the film lies in the details of the narrative and the connections to what many of us might witness in our schools today; students that feel the responsibility to speak to one’s lived experience in the classroom, simply because they alone are the only ones in the room who can, feeling “too” Black at school, but being regarded as adopting White ways of speaking and behaving at home, and the disconnect that can happen when parents live outside the realm of the norm among the parent community, feeling immensely proud, but also unaccustomed to, and unable to navigate, the school culture.

There was a sense of urgency about the story- that this is a  story that demanded to be told, and it was told in a way that rendered the story itself undeniably true.

Kenji Yoshino, the Chief Justice Earl Warren Professor of Constitutional Law at the NYU School of Law helped push my thinking further today.  Using constitutional law as his theoretical framework, he invited us to think about civil rights in an age where discrimination still exists, but has taken subtler forms since most, but importantly, not all, discriminatory legislation has been rendered illegal by our courts.

He spoke of the costs of assimilation and living as inauthentic selves, as demonstrated by concepts he coined as “conversion”, “passing”, and “covering”.  Yoshino wove his own personal narrative as a gay Asian American and his journey regarding race and sexuality, in order to illustrate the demands and pressures he felt to not be who he is, or maybe just not “as much”.

He revealed a comment a fellow colleague made to him, giving him the advice that he would be better off as a “homosexual who is a professional, rather than a professional homosexual.” In other words, Yoshino’s career would be more secure, or he would rise to greater heights if he was a traditional constitutional law scholar, and was simply gay “as an extra curricular activity”.  In other words, to become a scholar who actively addresses discrimination aimed at the LGBT community and other communities, would forever make inseparable the personal and the professional, and this could have consequences.

He spoke of a recent New York Times article describing African American job seekers as “scrubbing their resumes” in an attempt to appear more White.  Names of African origin are dropped from headers.  Associations with HBCUs are kept under wraps, all in an attempt to keep “covering”, to keep authenticity squarely in the personal realm, and to conform, and to deny.

I think about the students who might deny themselves, or might be denied the opportunities to be fully authentic at school.  How and where are those lessons taught and learned?  What do some of our students feel is necessary to hide in order to get along in our schools’ cultures, and to cover?

How can we shift the burden of responsibility onto teachers and other adults?  What teaching practices may we employ?  What systems of support are in place?  What are the goals and how will we know we are achieving them?

How can we expect all our students to feel safe being authentically themselves until we plainly tell them or demonstrate to them that it will be OK?  We mean what we say, we will stand with them,we will also risk, and we will make the first move because, after all, we are the adults.

Daryl Maeda’s workshop contained a familiar retelling of Asian American history for me.  The “Yellow Power” Movement, the Red Guard Party, and the Third World Student Strike of the late 1960s, particularly as they all occurred in the Bay Area, took over my imagination when I was a college student.  I understood this, and still do today, as American history.  The images of Asian youth looking angry, demanding better, acting self-determined, was a revelation.  Before I saw a black and white image of Richard Aoki, one of the first members of the Black Panther Party, wearing a beret and sunglasses, I didn’t know it was possible to be anything more than the fulfillment of the model minority myth personified.  That photo, and the subsequent others I poured over from this time, changed the trajectory of my notions regarding who I could be and what I could become.

But in the day-to-day, it’s easy to forget this part of my people’s history and that I can draw on the work of these elders for strength.  On some days, the images above barely register in my memory, and I am nothing like Richard Aoki in his sunglasses and beret.

And that’s because we all breathe the same air, regardless of who we are.  We all breathe in and receive and internalize the same messages, even the ones that are hurtful and directed toward us.  Daryl Maeda, a scholar of American Studies, Ethnic Studies, and Japanese American history, helped the audience understand that the model minority myth is a relatively new concept, only coming into play in the late 1960s, used effectively to pit Asians against African Americans, and today, to pit Asian Americans and Pacific Islander Americans against African Americans, Latinos and other People of Color.  From firsthand experience, it sort of feels like being the teacher’s pet, without doing anything to earn the dubious honor, yet you are resented all the same.

How do we help make visible our Asian American and Pacific Islander American students in a context framed in a binary narrative that sometimes tells us that AAPIA students are essentially “white”?  As an Asian American educator, what is my response when other Asians I meet do not consider themselves People of Color?  What is my response when other People of Color think I am not a person of color either, perhaps because I haven’t been sufficiently wronged “enough” in a side-by-side comparison?  It’s not a power grab for first place on The “Most Oppressed” List, but do we ever stop for a moment and think that the stories we believe about each other might not have been structured in a way that allows the true complexity of our lives, and our ancestors’ lives, to be heard?  Not so that we may more accurately place them into a hierarchy of oppression, but in order for us to more clearly determine the very nature of the issues themselves?

Daryl Maeda and Jay Rapp, Director of Programs, Leadership Equity and Diversity

I sat in the Asian American affinity group this afternoon, considering these and other questions.  I was honored to listen other educators speak their truths in our small group.  Every story was just like mine, and at the same time, nothing like mine.  It reminded me about the importance of context, about feeling strong inside, about recognizing the things I need to own, and about the things that have nothing to do with me.

But then again, doesn’t it all really have to do with me?  Or, in a less self-centered way, can’t I use the way I’ve been placed in this society to a greater advantage?  What are the things I can say because of the level of acceptance that has been bestowed on straight AAPIA women, for better or for worse, that my other colleagues of color and LGBT colleagues cannot?  How can I reclaim what has been a source of personal pain as a source of power, and use it to serve the larger movement?

Even though we can pick each other out at the baggage claim and in the lobby of the hotel, assembling together for Opening Ceremonies harnesses all of our collective energy in a single venue.  I’ve always enjoyed sitting in the audience before the lights dim, watching folks greet those they have not seen since the last POCC, or introduce themselves to each other, going through the familiar patterns and questions – what school are you from?  where is it?  what do you teach?  are you here with students? - questions that may seem routine at times, but are important, foundational, and immediately connective.

As the lights go down, the energy in the crowd turns to the stage, and we quiet.  We are focused and at the ready.  There is the sense that we’ve looked forward to this, and it is time.

Our Opening Keynote speaker John Quiñones, journalist and co-anchor for Primetime spoke of his childhood, of being poor, of growing up in San Antonio, of opportunities, both attained and denied. He spoke of journalism as “shining the light on the darkest corners of the world”, just as we, as advocates in our schools, strive to do for our students and for each other.

We were treated to a performance by Cleo Parker Robinson Dance, a Denver-based dance group and arts institution rooted in African American traditions.  The dancers were openly joyous, liberated, unafraid and unashamed.  Sitting in the audience, I wonder what it would take for every student of color in an independent school to feel the same.

But at this moment, watching the speakers and performers stride across the stage, all of us collected in that single space, things actually do seem possible, and the hope that I must always carry with me leans over and whispers, aren’t you glad you came?

After a school day that simply would not quit no matter how hard I tried, after I put all the noise aside, sitting on the BART train to the airport, I found myself able to fully focus on becoming present with the opening of the conference.  I am traveling with two other adult colleagues, one on her second POCC, the other on her first.  I make a mental shift every time I am reminded that I am no longer part of the younger set, and that my experience as a fellow colleague of color is valuable, and there is new role for me to fulfill.

And the students are crazy.  A super sweet, responsive, and joyful group who aren’t quite sure what they’re in for yet, but are excited to start.  Any descriptions I give, I know will fall short.  It’s difficult to describe something that is most powerfully experienced firsthand.