I grew up in rural Caswell County here in North Carolina where it was said that the one stoplight in the entire county was turned on only at Christmas so people could watch the lights change colors. I am the son of working-class parents who spent their entire adult lives working in hosiery mills. Every summer, my family went to the beach for a weekend, leaving home on Friday and coming back on Sunday. My parents couldn’t miss more than a day of work at a time because doing so would affect their paychecks too much.
When I finished college (thanks to a full scholarship), I continued the family tradition of going to the beach for vacation. After several years, I got tired of doing that and I found a group that was going to Australia and New Zealand. I decided that I was going to join this group on this adventure and I can honestly say that that trip was the beginning of a change in my life in terms of seeing beyond my own little corner of the world.
When I returned home, I was excited to tell people about my trip. My friends here in Greensboro were excited to hear about my journey - what I did, what I ate, my fondest memory, etc. These were more middle-class individuals. When I went to visit my family and friends back in Caswell County (just a 45-minute drive from Greensboro), I didn’t get the same reaction. (These people were more of the working-class crowd.) They were happy I got to go, but they just couldn’t relate to my experiences since most of them had never traveled to such an extent and never had aspirations, or the means, to do so. I will never forget talking to my high school English teacher about my trip. He said, “I’m glad you got to go to those places, but you know what? When you die, they’re still gonna put you in a hole in the ground and throw dirt in your face, just like they will with me.” Needless to say, that statement shocked me! I didn’t know what to make of it, but he explained that no matter what I did in my life, whether it be traveling around the world, living in a one-room shack, cleaning toilets for a living, or becoming President, I was still going to end up dead and buried. While his statement may seem harsh, I realized there was truth in his words.
My reason for starting with that story was to illustrate the distinct cultural discourses we all have, to one extent or another. We have the ability to move between various cultural worlds. What I discuss with people in Caswell County is typically different from what I discuss with people in Greensboro. In a similar vein, things I discuss with my straight friends are not necessarily the same things I discuss with my gay friends. In many ways, this is like the “code-switching” mentioned in the Delpit and Dowdy articles. There are certain circumstances where language and practices are used differently based on the surrounding environment. I will say, however, that I find the “cultural hybrid” notion mentioned on page 25 of Reading Lives to be interesting, in that I can see where my discourse with those in Greensboro and those who are gay to be more of a blending (a “hybrid,” if you will) of my experiences from earlier in my life with those in my current life. When I go back to Caswell County or when I speak with those who are straight and don’t know I’m gay, I find myself to be much more self-limiting and self-censoring in what I say. I don’t allow the breadth of my experiences to become part of the discourse.
One part of the reading that I found particularly interesting was the section on page 29 which dealt with the preschool students arguing over the Legos. In the transcript of their argument, the two boys use some pretty harsh words to comment on their classmate (“cunt”) and their teacher (“Take all your clothes off, your bra off.”). Hicks states that the boys are trying to achieve a position of power by using this language. This got me to thinking about an incident a few years ago when one of my students told me on the playground that another student (a male) had called her a bad name. I asked her what he had said, but she wouldn’t say it. I then called the offending student over and asked him what he had said. He told me, “I called her the ‘B-word.” I wanted to see if he knew what he was talking about, so I asked, “What’s the ‘B-word’? Is it “boy,” “ball,” “banana,” . . .? He said, “I called her a bitch.” I thanked him for telling me the truth. I then told him that if he used that kind of language at home, that was between him and his parents, but here at school, that kind of language was unacceptable. (I was proud of him, however, for knowing that that word started with the letter “b” because he certainly couldn’t have told me that at the beginning of the school year! He had learned something!)
After reading this article and thinking of the incident described above, I tried to think of different words used as “put-downs” or used to put the ones speaking them in a position of authority. Other than the “B-word,” I also thought of the “N-word” and the “L-word.” There are also words like “dyke,” “kike,” “chink,” “cracker,” “gook,” etc. that are part of the cultural discourse of certain groups of people to elevate themselves above the others they are trying to put down. In many instances, I found the ones that I could think of were ones that were derogatory terms for other groups, not the “white male” group of which I am a part. I would be interested to know if that would be the same for people from other groups. Can they more easily think of “put-downs” of groups other than the ones of which they are a part? Or could the case be that since the “white male” has traditionally been seen as the authority figure, there are simply more derogatory words to describe groups that white males have seen as “beneath” them?
Another thing upon which I felt it was necessary to comment was the idea of the “gendered social worlds” of the Roadville children (p. 24). In this particular section, it was said that the objects that the kids play with are distinctly different. In my classroom of pre-kindergartners from mostly working-class families, I see this happening quite frequently. Every year, there will be a boy telling a girl, “You can’t play with the trucks because trucks are a boy toy.” There are also the girls who say, “Boys can’t like pink because pink is a girl color.” I can’t tell you how much that INFURIATES me! My typical response is something along the lines of “Who says so?” For my National Board recertification, one of the ways I listed that I had grown professionally was in my willingness to challenge threats to diversity. After hearing comments about boy things vs. girl things as described above and after a particular incident when a male student said a character in a book HAD to be a girl since the character was wearing pink, I decided to do an activity in which my students had to choose a shirt to wear out of a big bag. All the students had to describe if wearing the shirt changed them in any way – did it change their name, how smart they were, whether they were girls or boys, etc.? Thankfully, one of my boys chose a pink shirt and we had a good discussion about how his choice of pink meant nothing other than he liked pink and that it didn’t change anything about him at all. (Interestingly enough, in my research for that part of my National Board recertification, I found that pink used to be considered a “manly” color because it was seen as a variant of red, which was deemed to be a color of power. One reason this began to change, around the end of World War II, was that gays who were captured by the Nazis and put in concentration camps were forced to wear inverted pink triangles. Pink then began to be seen as a more “feminine” color.) I don’t know if my efforts made any change in the discourse regarding boys vs. girls that these students engaged in at home, but I know that it did make a difference at school.
Back to the story I started with . . . when I talk to my high school English teacher again and tell him of my lastest trip, I'm sure he'll say, "I'm glad you got to go, but when you die, they're still gonna put you in a hole in the ground and throw dirt in your face, just like they will with me." This time, however, I've thought of what I can say - "Afraid not, Mr. Slayton. I'm going to be cremated and have my ashes sprinkled over Sydney, Australia, at the Gay Pride Festival." That would certainly rub against the working-class values and practices of my hometown!
Clyde Rice