Pushout (7 page)

For Jazzy, while school was “easy,” she carried a belief that her teachers did not have a vested interest in her success. This made her feel that she needed to pursue other options. She described her “normal school” as a rowdy place where children regularly fought, teachers were distracted, and she and her friends were tempted to do harmful things to themselves and to others for money.

That year, the school Jazzy had attended before being sent to the juvenile detention center had a student population that was 29 percent African American, 55 percent Latino, 8 percent Asian, and less than 2 percent White. The school's physical condition, according to its School Accountability Report Card, was “poor,” with gas leaks and mechanical and sewer conditions that required repair. More than 85 percent of the students in this school were classified as socioeconomically disadvantaged. Only 62 percent of Black students in the senior class completed their high school graduation requirements. The school's suspension rate was more than twice that of the district, and its expulsion rate was three times higher than that of the district or the state.

“I don't know, all my friends . . . we're all addicted to fighting,” she said. “We got to rob somebody so we can have money in our pockets, 'cause it's not a lot of opportunities out there for us. Like, we could get jobs at [the youth outreach programs] and stuff, but it's only going to last so long, and it takes so long to get that job. What we going to do in the meantime?”

Jazzy's statement “it's not a lot of opportunities for us” brings to life the experience behind the numbers. Nationwide, in 2013 the unemployment rate for Black youth was the highest of all groups, and it remained so through 2014.
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In California, Black youth had the lowest high school graduation rate (59 percent), which seemed to have an overall negative impact on their employment opportunities: The unemployment rate for Black Californians in 2014 was 14.6 percent, much higher than rates for White (8.3 percent) and Latino (9.9 percent) Californians.
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Notwithstanding her illegal grind for money, Jazzy wanted to lead a productive life, and she knew that education was an important element of that journey.

“I honestly can say that when I was on the run from the system, I really wanted to go to school,” she said.
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*
“It was upsetting me that I couldn't go to school 'cause I cut my [electronic ankle monitor] off.”

Jazzy admitted that when she wasn't in school, there were greater temptations that would occupy her time.

“All I did was go rob or fight somebody, and [it took] up so much time to do all that,” she said. “You gotta go meet up with the person you fighting, you gotta call your friends . . . that takes all day!”

Violence produces violence. If she was fighting, it was likely in response to not feeling safe herself.

So I asked her, “Did you feel safe in school?”

“Well, my [art] school was different,” she said in reference to a school she'd attended previously. “It wasn't like all the other
schools. Like, they wasn't so much focused on disciplining you, because they wanted you to express your creativity, like, they wanted you to teach them the way that you wanted to learn . . . We used Khan Academy on our computers . . . we had those computers and stuff [and] it brought us up to the level we on . . . so the teacher knew what level we was on. The other school, they be cussing at the teacher, throwing stuff around in the class. Like, really, I was the only girl that was doing my work in class. Everybody else was arguing [and] about . . . to fight. I'm like, ‘Oh my God. I gotta be
here
?'”

“Like, in class?” I asked.

“In class, yeah,” she replied.

It's not uncommon for educators, parents, and community stakeholders to argue that girls (of any racial or ethnic affiliation) who get into trouble in school and end up leaving “bring it on themselves.” For example, they may say that these girls are “unruly,” “talk back” to teachers and principals, fight each other, show up to school “half dressed,” and display an overall lack of self-respect or respect for others. These are the “bad girls.” “These girls are out of control,” adults say.

Control
is an operative word that carries great meaning and consequences for the girls who are deemed to lack it. Girls who challenge authority are often told that they are “wild” or problematic—sometimes to the point that they will internalize these ideas and echo them as if they were born of their own consciousness. Like Jazzy, who struggled to “other” herself out of “ratchetness,” or Destiny, who tried to make sense of being called annoying for wanting to learn.

What does it mean to suggest that Black girls dress more “ratchet” or that they ascribe to an aesthetic that negatively impacts how they are received when they go to school? What is the mentality (e.g., taking on an oppositional gaze or posture) that makes being seen so important to them? Listening to Jazzy and
Destiny with a deeper awareness of the historical and social factors at work, school leaders just might conclude that policies that fail to interrogate what is “disruptive” behavior in class, overtly marginalize so-called ghetto fashion, or mandate other punitive actions in response to Black girls' expression of cultural norms are harmful. They might begin to ponder what would happen if parents and schools worked together to construct a set of norms that wouldn't confuse or mislead girls, but would instead elevate everyone's consciousness.

Mia explained that in her experience, sometimes schools don't reach out to parents or address the learned behavior of students because they're afraid to do so.

“A lot of times, the teachers are scared to send you to the principal's office,” she said. “It's not like back in the day. [Kids will] throw a chair at you. They'll come and punch you if they really feel like it. One girl spit on a lady 'cause she was like, ‘Go to the principal's office' and whoop-tee-whoop. She didn't, like, spit in her face, but she spit on her. That's just hella nasty, but . . . other times, they'll be like, ‘Sit out until you're calm, and then you can just come back in' because they're just too scared of you.”

“Why do you think the teachers are scared?” I asked her.

“Because sometimes . . . I mean, our parents is like us, you know? Our parents get down just like us. This is how we're raised. So if we see them come after school, we could easily just beat her up. Somebody could just jump her, even shoot her if it got that serious, you know? Like anybody could see her in her car, see where she live, and follow her home. I mean, it ain't that hard, you know?”

Again, Mia was harking back to a familiar concept. Children emulate the behavior of parents, who somewhere along the way made an observation that this behavior yields results, or at least the one they might be looking for at the moment: perceived respect that is in fact fear, whether provoked or latent. Black students' academic achievement differs on the whole, a result of institutions
and curricula that have historically reinforced unequal opportunity, racism, and oppression, as well as a result of peer pressure and other factors.
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Parental expectations regarding the academic successes of their children are also important to a student's high performance.
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While there is little consensus on how to define or measure “parental involvement,” those who have researched the topic agree that parental impact can be felt in the school as well as at home.
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Most parents, regardless of racial or ethnic affiliation or economic status, want their children to succeed in school. Black parents have expectations for their children's academic achievement that are similar to those of White parents.
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Structural inequalities (underfunded schools, fewer resources to support positive educational outcomes, less access to quality early education), past negative school experiences, and their children's current experiences may negatively impact their confidence in their child's ability to be a high performer.
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Black parents who actively talk about school at home may have children who perform better in schools, as opposed to those who just engage directly in the school or simply place a high value on academic achievement, but parental involvement
by itself
is not a predictor of positive student outcomes.
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While it has been found that Black parents who are more involved in their children's education have children who perform better in school, Black student achievement is largely a function of the expectations and interactions they share with teachers.
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This had not yet been explored with Mia. Her family prioritized respect over most other things, which led to performances of power that got her into trouble.

“My family is a certain way,” Mia shared. “They always be like, if some girl call me a bitch, I have to beat her ass, or else they're going to beat my ass. But then, if I skip school, I'ma get my ass beat. So I'm like, okay, I got to go to school, but if somebody call
me something, like a bitch or something, then I got to beat they ass too.”

This was Mia struggling to make sense of her family's confounding expectations for her as a student—and as a girl. To be called a “bitch” was an insult because its roots are derogatory. There are certainly better ways to handle the situation than to fight, but I could understand why she was expected to stand up for herself. In her own way, she was asserting her humanity. Mia couldn't understand why teachers were so unforgiving, but she later admitted that these kinds of power struggles had become so commonplace that some of the students felt that they
had
to assert their own independence everywhere they went, even if it broke the rules, to prove that they could actually hold some aspect of power—
some
amount of control—in school.

Mia continued, “But sometimes I feel like we giving ourselves a bad rep. Like everybody say that White people think that Black girls is ratchet. You know, stuff like that . . . but most of the time, we are doing things that [put] us in that category. You know what I'm sayin'?”

Mia described behavior in the classroom, such as playing music in class and cursing at the teacher, that would be unacceptable to me and to most educators. But I could not help reflecting upon her words: “We are doing things that [put] us in that category [ratchet].” Her willingness to embrace personal accountability (“we give ourselves a bad rep”) can be read as an asset, but I considered the other factors that lead teenagers to push limits. Mia's understanding didn't consider the way in which Black girls' actions are particularly subject to scrutiny and public judgment. When Mia said, “Everybody say that White people think that Black girls is ratchet,” she was accepting society's marginalization of Black girls as valid—but she was obviously conflicted about it. Her conflict seemed nestled in the idea that she and her peers
had
to accept as truth this automatic characterization of them as “ratchet”—that
they had to behave in ways that provided evidence for this claim just because “everybody” said or believed it was true.

Absent a lens that factors in the forces constructing and reinforcing a “ratchet” identity, the adults charged to care for and educate Black girls may only see them as “self-harmers” who bring drama upon themselves.
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And as a function of their own internalized, gendered racial oppressions, Black girls who are rarely offered any alternative conception may also believe this of themselves.

Permission to Fail

The ghetto's impact on the student identity of Black girls also plays out in the classroom as neglect, or what Gloria Ladson-Billings has referred to as granting Black children “permission to fail.”
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In writing about Shannon, a young Black girl in the first grade, Ladson-Billings reflected on seeing Shannon routinely and intentionally refuse to complete a writing assignment.

“I ain't writin' nuttin'!” Shannon had declared, to which her teacher responded, “That's okay. Maybe you'll feel like writing tomorrow.”

But it was not okay. To this point, Ladson-Billings wrote, “Although most students were encouraged to write each day, Shannon was regularly permitted to fail. Her refusal to write was not just stubbornness but a ploy to cover up her inability to read, or more specifically, her lack of phonetic awareness.”
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Black girls in classrooms across the country have been granted permission to fail by the implicit biases of teachers that lower expectations for them. I doubt this teacher intended to lower her expectations for Shannon or treat her differently than her peers. It is safe to assume that this teacher likely believed that she was responding to Shannon with patience and respect. Indeed, teachers, like the one leading Shannon's class, are likely committed to supporting the education of all of their students, but their unconscious associations between Black girls and underperformance might lead them to assume that these girls are not capable of
performing. This is speculative; there is a dearth of research that actually explores the implicit bias and attributional stereotyping affecting Black girls in schools. Still, it is important to remember that implicit bias is often inconsistent with a person's stated values, so a teacher may believe that he or she treats all students the same even while aspects of their engagement are reflecting latent biases. The belief that it was “okay” for Shannon not to participate in the activities was facially just a decision to allow her to engage when she was “ready.” However, the determination of her readiness was a function of how the educator read her behavior and interpreted her attitude toward learning. Once again, the external is compounded by reflex: internalized, gendered racial oppressions give Black girls permission to lower expectations for themselves.