Stereotyping Students

When I was in college I tutored with the Upward Bound Program, which helps underprivileged students become first generation college students.  One year I worked as a residential counselor and instructor in their summer program.  The students were largely, but not exclusively, African-American. 

At a weekly staff meeting early in the summer, the English teacher raised a concern about one of her students, a white boy who was giving her an inordinate amount of trouble in class.  A wide ranging discussion ensued.  Some questioned whether it was a race issue, as the teacher was black.  Or a gender issue.  Or a combination of both, which made him unwilling to accept her authority in the classroom.  But the black male math teacher had no problems with him.  Neither did the white, female computer instructor.  None of the counselors noted any friction with the black students.  One person wondered if it was a more specific, and personal, psychological issue. 

At this point the assessment coordinator spoke up:  “That boy has the lowest reading level of any kid in the program; he’s barely at a third grade level.”  There was a stunned silence and every jaw in the room—black or white—hit the floor.  None of us would have claimed to know who the weakest reader was, but all of us “knew” it was a black student.  We were wrong, and that mistake made us blind to the kid in front of us.  Cutting up in class to avoid humiliation should have been the first thing we considered.  Instead, many were ready to attribute bad attitudes—or worse—to a good kid who needed academic help and support.

It was a powerful example of how unexamined stereotypes can lead even well meaning people to make incorrect and sometimes damaging judgments.

That same year I saw another example of unconscious bias in the classroom.  It was an upper level philosophy course, taught by a white, visiting professor from Brazil.  One day, a few weeks into the term, the only black student in the room asked a thoughtful question.  The professor misunderstood the question and replied to a more basic point.  The student tried again.  Once again the question was missed.  He tried one more time, and the professor invited him to come after class if he needed more help understanding the material.  The exchange passed without a ripple in the classroom, but the insult gave me pause, and, furthermore, I had thought it a great question and I still wanted an answer.  So I re-posed the question.  I got an approving smile and a thorough answer.  I might have written it off as an off day, but it happened again. 

The second time the black student did not persist, but once again I repeated the question and was understood.  This time we exchanged a glance in class, and spoke briefly, and awkwardly in the hall afterwards.  I don’t remember that either of us mentioned race specifically, but we did acknowledge the bizarre communication gap that existed between this professor and this student, and we talked a little philosophy.  He asked few questions the rest of the semester; maybe I “translated” as needed.  

Stereotypes had made a group of capable teachers and counselors blind to a struggling student in their midst, and I believe they made a smart and amiable professor deaf to the brilliant student in front of him. 

We went on our ways—the black student to Harvard Divinity School, me on a less direct path to graduate school and college teaching. 

When I began teaching, these, and other, similar experiences made me work to be mindful of stereotypes, and not just stereotypes about race.  At the instructor orientation for the first writing program I taught in, negative stereotypes of student athletes and engineers were widespread.  Stereotypes about engineers were easy to handle—I’d started my undergraduate studies as an engineer and knew well that engineering students lacked neither verbal skills, nor broad interests.   As someone who was not an athlete, and not much of a team sports fan, I was a bit more susceptible to stereotypes about “dumb jocks.”    And at a Big Ten university, the athletes themselves were too.

So, when two sophomore football players joined my first composition class, having put off their freshman requirement as long as possible, we all had our work cut out for us.  It took three classes to get them to literally move into the discussion circle.  (They’d been sitting on the edge of the classroom, outside the group.)  Then they approached me after class to explain that they would not be able to do much work, or even attend class regularly (which I knew was false) because of their team commitments.  Even so, they hoped I’d see fit to give them a low passing grade. 

I let them know that if they participated (including attendance) and did the work, they would surely pass, but that I would not offer shortcuts.  Both did achieve solid passing grades, but there were surprises.  One became a leader in classroom discussions on some of the thorniest and most heated issues.  His mother was a sex education teacher and he was unusually well informed and sophisticated in his knowledge of issues pertaining to gender and sex.  The other was a bench warmer, who had considered quitting the team but who couldn’t afford to lose his scholarship. He struggled, then took risks, and eventually found that he liked to write, and that he was good at it.  He went on to take advanced writing courses where he impressed my colleagues.  Both discovered new talents and possibilities in themselves.  Both expanded my perspective on student athletes.

When we talk about excellence and opportunity for all, we are talking about getting past all kinds of stereotypes to see the possibilities in each and every student.