Today, I read a poem with my students entitled,” I’m Mexican,
Chicana, y Tejana.” Perhaps obviously, it was written by a Mexican American
living in Texas, it reads in perfect Spanglish and details the struggles of
Mexicans (Chicanas and Tejanas) and an unwavering “we won’t give up until we
have equal rights” passion. Throughout
the year, I’ve shown my students countless examples of ways they, as Hispanics
living in small town Texas, are given grossly different opportunities than I
was (and than many other people are). Sometimes they get mad about it, other times
they express disgust, but mostly, their responses can be summarized as such:
“Our white teacher, who has only lived her for two years is
telling us that we’re being treated unfairly or unjustly even though we don’t
feel it or even see it.”
Although my unveiling of injustices I perceive my students
as victims of has induced good conversations and even better inquisitions,
there seems to be something vain about it, certainly, something lacking
fluidity. Today, though, as we read this poem about the struggles of
Mexican-Americans as perceived by a Mexican-American, it felt as if the poet
herself was in our classroom, begging my kids to unify their voices and provoke
their own waves of change.
Last year, I was conceited enough to think that I had the
power to close the achievement gap within the four walls of my classroom. As a
result, I burdened my students with the incredibly low expectation of simply
learning the material I presented to them. Although my students from last year
grew far more than was expected of them in a year, it was my vanity that held
them back from bridging the gap that needed to be thwarted. They needed
empowerment, a sense of responsibility to look at the disparities that face
them and respond by saying, “Si se puede.” Not, “si se puede pass the test, but
si se puede change our lives as individuals and in turn, shake the soul of our
community. This year, I took a vastly different approach. Certainly I wanted my
students to achieve unreal amounts in the short year I had them, but more than
that, I wanted them to be secure in themselves. I wanted them to seek what it
was that made them tick because I knew that when they unleashed it, seeds of
justice would be planted and sprouts of a change movement would peek out of the
dry Tejas soil.
Our poem today, for many of my students, sealed the deal. As
they read the words of someone so similar to them, I could see the ground
cracking, giving rise to self-advocating activist. Today was such a powerful
day because I felt confident handing over the reigns of responsibility to my
brown-skinned 14 year olds. The last line of the poem reads:
“because being who I really am means I know I can.”
The greatest love, the greatest power, the greatest means of
change is rooted in individuals who are secure in themselves, individuals who
are “being who they really are.”
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