TEACHING WHERE (AND WHO) WE ARE: EMPLACING CURRICULUM THROUGH STORIES OF LIVING By Mark Thomas Kissling A DISSERTATION Submitted to Michigan State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY Curriculum, Instruction and Teacher Education 2012 
 
 1
 
 ABSTRACT
 
 TEACHING WHERE (AND WHO) WE ARE: EMPLACING CURRICULUM THROUGH STORIES OF LIVING 
 By
 
 Mark
Thomas
Kissling
 
 Schools
are
pivotal
social
institutions
for
the
present
and
future
of
the
communities
 that
they
serve.

Students
attend
schools
in
order
to
learn
to
better
their
lives
and
the
lives
 of
all
that
surround
them.

Within
schools,
teachers
are
central
to
this
learning.

While
there
 are
many
inputs
that
structure
work
in
classrooms,
it
is
teachers
who
are
the
orchestrators
 of
what
students
do.

Increasingly,
though,
the
work
of
teachers
is
strongly
influenced
by
 curriculum
standards
and
accountability
systems
created
by
external
authorities.

The
 results
are
displacing:
teachers
and
their
students
are
positioned
to
grow
disconnected
 from
the
communities
in
which
they
work
and
live.


 
 Although
teachers
are
positioned
as
displacing
agents
in
this
educational
setup,
they
 have
been
strongly
shaped
by
particular
places.

Indeed,
all
people
possess
a
living
course
 of
learning
experiences—a
living
curriculum—that
has
taken
place.

Learning
is
inherently
 embedded
in
a
social
context.

As
place
is
constructed
by
one’s
relationships
to
one’s
social
 surroundings
(social,
political,
cultural,
ecological,
etc.),
learning
is
a
product
of
place.

 Across
a
lifetime,
then,
people
undergo
a
course
of
learning
in
places.

A
segment
of
this
 living
curriculum
that
a
teacher
possesses
is
a
teaching
curriculum,
which
is
a
living
course
 that
is
specific
to
learning
to
teach.

Experiences
in
various
places,
from
the
schools
in
a
 teacher’s
youth
to
the
school
at
which
a
teacher
teaches
in
the
present,
shape
this
teaching
 curriculum.

Experiences
outside
of
schools
also
influence
it.

Even
if
asked
to
teach
a
 displacing
content
curriculum,
a
teacher
has
experienced
a
course
of
learning
in
places.
 
 
 i
 
 In
this
study,
I
examine
how
three
teachers
are
emplaced
in
their
lives
and
in
their
 teaching.

Each
is
a
public
school
teacher
in
a
different
region
of
the
U.S.,
and
each
teaches
 at
a
different
grade
level
and
in
a
different
subject
area.

In
a
chapter
on
each
teacher,
I
first
 story
the
teacher’s
living
curriculum,
and
then,
narrowing
my
focus,
story
the
teacher’s
 teaching
curriculum.

I
pay
particular
attention
to
the
ways
in
which
these
curricula
 intersect
and,
ultimately,
shape
the
teacher’s
work
in
school,
with
students.

I
worked
 closely
and
collaboratively
with
each
teacher,
across
a
series
of
interviews,
and
I
 participated
in
the
teachers’
lives
at
school
and
away
from
it.

Stories
that
the
teachers
 shared,
alongside
the
stories
of
my
experiences
with
the
teachers,
structure
the
stories
that
 I
tell
here.


 
 I
find
that
each
teacher
in
this
study
underwent
a
process
of
rooting
in
the
places
 where
they
live
and
teach.


Although
they
possess
different
living
curricula,
especially
up
to
 the
points
at
which
they
began
teaching,
they
all
became,
and
continue
to
be,
rooted
in
their
 current
communities.

Comparing
those
processes
of
rooting
to
their
work
as
teachers,
I
 find
strong
parallels
between
their
lived
experiences
and
their
purposes
in
teaching.

As
 they
became
rooted
in
their
adult
lives,
they
began
to
help
their
students
learn
to
cultivate
 roots.

Theorizing
“rooted
teaching,”
I
argue
that
teachers
who
are
rooted
in
their
home
and
 school
communities
teach
their
students
about
forming
roots
in
their
own
places.

This
 teaching
not
only
teaches
students
to
be
active
and
productive
citizens,
it
is
an
act
of
 citizenship
on
the
part
of
the
teachers.

At
a
time
when
schools
increasingly
displace
 students,
I
posit
that
rooted
teaching
serves
students
and
their
communities.
 
 
 
 
 ii
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 iii
 
 
 Copyright
by
 MARK
THOMAS
KISSLING
 2012
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 
 
 
 My
favorite
poet
rock
star,
Bruce
Springsteen,
introduces
his
band
at
concerts
by
 exclaiming,
“you’ve
got
to
have
help!”

We
all
need
a
band
in
our
lives—and
especially
when
 doing
things
like
writing
a
dissertation.

 
 In
Boston,
I
am
grateful
for
the
help!
of
Tommy
and
Penelope
Allen;
their
Friday
 Night
Crew;
Atlantic
High
School’s
staff,
students,
and
boys
soccer
team;
and
Chris
and
Erin
 Martell.

In
Mobile,
I
am
grateful
for
the
help!
of
Rosie
and
Rick
Baker;
Violet
Elementary
 School’s
staff
and
discipuli;
and
Bob
and
Maryann
Frankenberg.

In
Mid‐Michigan,
I
am
 grateful
for
the
help!
of
Dan,
Laura,
Sarah,
Paul,
Kevin,
and
Kara
Torres;
their
Thursday
 Family
Night
Crew;
Parker
Intermediate
Middle
School’s
staff
and
students;
Beth
Hoger
and
 Lisa
Swem;
and
Barb
and
Tom
Kissling.
 
 At
Michigan
State
University,
I
am
grateful
for
the
help!
of
Angie
Calabrese
Barton,
 Anne‐Lise
Halvorsen,
Suzanne
Wilson,
Linda
Brandau,
Trudy
Sykes,
Michael
Sedlak,
Avner
 Segall,
Steve
Weiland,
my
graduate
student
colleagues,
and
my
students
in
the
teacher
 education
program.

I
am
particularly
grateful
for
the
help!
of
Kyle
Greenwalt:
the
best
of
 this
work
has
been
cultivated
by
him.

At
Penn
State
University,
I
am
grateful
for
the
help!
of
 my
many
colleagues
and
students,
who
eagerly
and
supportively
welcomed
a
Spartan
into
 their
midst.

Also,
from
Chicago,
I
am
grateful
for
the
help!
of
Bill
Ayers.
 
 I
am
grateful
for
the
help!
of
so
many
others,
from
all
the
places
of
my
living
 curriculum.

I
name
those
many
wonderful
beings—family,
friends,
fellow
travelers
on
the
 course
of
life
who
have
gone
before
or
elsewhere—in
my
heart
right
now.

And,
with
tears
 in
my
eyes
as
I
type,
I
am
grateful
for
the
help!
of
Madison,
Malcolm,
Scout,
and
Atticus,
 
 v
 whose
pawprints
are
all
over
this
dissertation,
and
their
mother,
my
love,
my
greatest
 help!er,
Erica
Frankenberg.
 
 
 
 
 vi
 TABLE
OF
CONTENTS
 
 
 INTRODUCTION
 DISPLACED
LEARNING:
STUDENTS,
TEACHERS,
SCHOOLS

 AND
THE
QUESTION
OF
WHERE……………………………………………………………………………..……...1
 
 CHAPTER
ONE
 THE
PLACE
OF
CURRICULUM
AND
THE
CURRICULUM
OF
PLACE………………………….…….…12
 
 CHAPTER
TWO
 METHOD/OLOGY:
STUDYING
EXPERIENCE
THROUGH
STORY……………………………………….41
 
 CHAPTER
THREE
 TOMMY’S
CITIZENSHIP:
TEACHING
AS
AN
ACT
OF
AND
FOR
BALANCE…………………………71
 
 CHAPTER
FOUR
 ROSIE’S
MOTHERING:
FOSTERING
FAMILY
INSIDE
THE
CLASSROOM
AND
OUT………..…104
 
 CHAPTER
FIVE
 DAN’S
STORYTELLING:
BUILDING
COMMUNITY
AS
THE
FOG
LIFTS………………………….…136
 
 CHAPTER
SIX
 THE
CITIZENSHIP
OF
ROOTED
TEACHERS………………………………………………………………….180
 
 CONCLUSION
 EMPLACING
TEACHING
AND
LEARNING…..…………………………………………………………………212
 
 APPENDIX
 PARTICIPANT
EMAIL
QUESTIONNAIRE……..……………………………………………………………..…225
 
 REFERENCES…………………………………………………………………………………………………………...…227 
 vii
 INTRODUCTION
 
 DISPLACED
LEARNING:
 STUDENTS,
TEACHERS,
SCHOOLS
AND
THE
QUESTION
OF
WHERE
 
 
 A
few
weeks
into
my
student
teaching
experience
in
Lebanon,
New
Hampshire,
my
 mentor
teacher,
Bill,
and
I
got
into
a
disagreement
during
class.

I
was
teaching
a
lesson
 about
the
New
England
colonies
when
a
student
asked
me
which
states
comprise
present‐ day
New
England.

I
responded,
“Maine,
New
Hampshire,
Vermont,
Massachusetts,
Rhode
 Island,
Connecticut,
and
New
York.”

Bill,
a
life‐long
New
Englander,
interrupted
from
the
 side
of
the
classroom,
half‐chuckling
and
half‐grumbling.

The
students
and
I
turned
and
 looked
at
Bill:
“spoken
by
a
guy
from
Michigan!

New
York
is
NOT
part
of
New
England.”


 
 I
challenged
what
Bill
said.

I
like
to
think
that
I
felt
comfortable
tugging
and
pulling
 with
Bill
during
class,
as
a
part
of
class,
but
I
imagine
that
a
good
part
of
me
didn’t
want
to
 appear
like
I
didn’t
know
what
I
was
talking
about.

I
had
driven
many
times
through
 upstate
New
York,
between
Michigan
and
New
Hampshire,
and
observed
what
was
along
 the
side
of
the
road:
upstate
New
York
looks
like
Vermont
and
New
Hampshire.

Bill
 laughed
at
this
and
retorted
by
saying
that
New
York
State
is
fundamentally
different
from
 the
New
England
states.

He
then
talked
about
town
structures,
regional
affiliation,
and
 history,
including
the
Hartford
Convention
of
1815
(which
considered
New
England’s
 secession
from
the
United
States),
and
other
reasons
for
a
boundary
that
clearly
delineates
 New
York
as
separate
from
New
England.

 
 1
 
 My
disagreement
with
Bill
wasn’t
just
about
facts.

It
was
also
about
the
differences
 between
his
life
experiences
and
mine.

Viewed
in
a
certain
way,
his
50‐plus
years
of
living,
 both
in
schools
and
out,
is
one
large
curriculum
in
what
New
England
is,
as
well
as
what
it
 means
to
live
in
New
England.

From
his
experiences,
Bill
simply
knew
that
New
England
 didn’t
include
New
York.

As
he
pointed
out,
I
didn’t
know
New
England
in
any
deep,
 embodied
sense
like
he
did.

The
majority
of
my
life
had
been
lived
outside
of
New
England.

 I
mostly
knew
of
it
from
reading
history
books
and
watching
sports
on
television,
not
from
 talking
to
my
neighbors
or
walking
to
school
or
eating
locally
(all
of
which,
and
much
more,
 taught
Bill
about
New
England).


 
 But
even
though
Bill
had
his
lived
truths,
I
had
mine.

To
be
sure,
I
listened
to
Bill,
 and
since
then
I
rarely
think
and
speak
of
New
England
as
including
New
York;
my
lived
 truths
about
New
England
now
include
this
interaction
with
Bill
in
our
classroom.

But
 what
I
learned
on
those
drives
across
upstate
New
York
still
resonates
with
me.

What
I
felt
 there
as
I
looked
out
across
the
landscape
was
similar
to
what
I
felt
in
Vermont
and
New
 Hampshire.

Yes,
history
and
much
of
present‐day
living
separate
New
York
from
New
 England,
but
my
life
history—my
living
curriculum—also
connects
them
in
at
least
one
 aesthetic
respect.

 
 My
disagreement
with
Bill
over
New
England’s
state
composition
serves
as
a
useful
 entry
into
this
study.

Succinctly,
it
raises
the
main
topics
that
I
discuss:
curriculum,
place,
 and
teaching.

All
people,
through
mere
living,
undergo
a
course
of
learning
experiences.

 This
is
a
life
course,
a
curriculum
vitae.1

The
experiences
of
this
course,
what
I
call
a
living
 























































 1
In
academia,
a
curriculum
vitae
is
a
document
that
details
one’s
education,
research,
 teaching,
and
service
over
a
professional
lifetime.

A
curriculum
vitae,
in
the
sense
that
I
use
 
 2
 curriculum,
shape
who
we
are.

The
course
(and,
thus,
each
of
us)
is
always
in
a
process
of
 becoming.

As
with
a
course
that
a
runner
might
follow,
one’s
living
curriculum
occurs
in
 and
across
places.

It
takes
place.

Our
relationships
to
our
surroundings
in
these
places,
 which
are
also
always
becoming,
shape
our
experiences
and
the
meaning
we
make
of
them.
 That
is,
we
know
who
we
are—what
we
believe,
what
we
value,
what
we
desire,
and
so
 forth—in
relation
to
our
surroundings.

Our
places
structure
our
identities,
realities,
and
 possibilities.


 
 Place
is
a
common
but
complex
term.

I
use
it
to
refer
to
one’s
relationships
with
 surroundings.

Thus,
a
place
is
constructed
through
a
person’s
interaction
(in
the
past,
 present,
and
future)
with
other
living
beings,
the
land,
natural
and
human‐made
structures,
 cultures,
histories,
and
so
forth.

In
everyday
discourse,
when
used
as
a
noun,
place
 connotes
a
position
or
location.

As
a
verb,
to
place
refers
to
the
positioning
or
locating
of
 something,
and
its
past
participle,
placed,
indicates
that
something
has
been
positioned
or
 located.

While
the
word
place
does
not
necessarily
have
quality
statements
attached
to
it
 (e.g.,
it
is
inherently
good
or
bad),
the
related
words
emplace
and
displace
do.

To
emplace
is
 to
put
something
“in
place,”
which
implies
that
there
is
a
fitting,
healthy
position
or
location
 for
that
thing.

To
displace
is
to
do
the
opposite,
to
move
the
thing
“out
of
place,”
which
 implies
the
loss
of
its
fitting,
healthy
position.

Emplacing
allows
for
and
ensures
high
 quality
whereas
displacing
inhibits
high
quality.

A
plant
in
a
garden
that
is
overrun
by
an
 aggressive
weed
is
displaced.

But
a
plant
that
is
surrounded
by
healthy
plants
and
able
to
 grow
from
established
roots
is
emplaced.

Emplacing
cultivates
roots;
displacing
stunts
 roots,
or
uproots.
 


















































































































































































 it
here,
is
much
more.

It
is
a
life
of
lived
experiences,
which
unfold
across
all
realms
of
 living.

 
 3
 
 While
all
people
can
be
placed,
emplaced,
and
displaced,
I
am
interested
particularly
 in
the
work
of
teachers
(and
thus
students
and
schools)
in
relation
to
their
places.

 Teaching,
as
the
story
above
raises
for
both
Bill
and
me,
is
shaped
by
a
teacher’s
living
 curriculum
(in
all
its
places).

Teachers
learn
to
teach
through
what
I
call
a
teaching
 curriculum,
which
is
a
lived
course
of
learning
how
to
be
a
teacher.

The
make‐up
of
it
is
 personal
to
each
teacher
but
it
is
constructed
socially.

This
course
of
learning
to
teach
is
a
 segment
of
the
larger
life
course.

It
takes
place
in
the
schools
of
one’s
youth,
as
a
student,
 as
well
as
in
the
schools
of
pre‐service
and
in‐service
teaching,
as
a
teacher.

It
also
takes
 place
in
the
life
experiences
across
many
places
that
inform
one’s
life
in
school.

Indeed,
 teachers’
lived
truths
across
the
times
and
places
of
our
lives,
in
and
out
of
schools,
 determine
who
we
are
as
teachers.

These
truths
shape
our
experiences
with
students.

At
 the
same
time,
students
live
in
our
classrooms
(as
well
as
outside
of
them)
with
their
own
 living
curricula.

They
are,
at
once,
shaped
and
placed
just
like
the
teachers
with
whom
they
 interact
every
single
school
day.
 
 Thus,
classrooms
are
daily
sites
of
important
interaction
among
teachers
and
 students.

The
learning
relationships
that
are
placed
there,
in
the
pedagogical
moment,
are
 shaped
by
the
lives
that
teachers
and
students
have
led
into
the
classroom
and
will
lead
out
 of
it.

Where
(and
who)
these
learning
agents
are,
and
where
(and
who)
they
have
been
and
 will
be,
are
key
determinants
in
the
learning
that
transpires.

Therefore,
it
is
imperative
 that
we
take
up
the
question
of
where
in
schools
and
how
it
is
central
to
the
work
of
 teachers
and
students.

This
is
a
question
that
is
concerned
with
the
past,
present,
and
 future.

It
is
also
concerned
with
individuals
as
they
relate
to
their
larger
communities.

But
 this
question
of
where
is
addressed
less
commonly
in
today’s
schools.
 
 4
 
 The
Place
Of
Place
In
U.S.
Schooling
 
 In
The
World
Is
Flat
(2007),
Thomas
Friedman
argues
that
new
and
emerging
forms
 of
digital
technology
are
rapidly
connecting
people
from
different
geographic
places
in
 ways
in
which
the
world
has
never
seen.

The
result
is
that
individuals
from
almost
 anywhere
can
compete,
alongside
everyone
else,
in
a
world
economy
that
has
been
 flattened.

One
implication
of
this
is
that
distance
becomes
largely
irrelevant.

With
the
 proper
technology,
a
person
in
Malaysia
can
compete
alongside
a
person
in
Mexico.

It
is
as
 if
the
heights
and
depths
of
land
and
sea
have
been
leveled,
and
then
compressed.

People,
 seemingly,
are
not
rooted
in
the
uneven
earth
that
surrounds
them.

Another
implication
of
 this
flat
world
is
that
people
are
more
visibly
connected
to
each
other.

Globalization
is
not
 a
new
concept,
but
digital
technology
makes
it
easier
to
comprehend.

In
a
matter
of
 seconds,
a
person
anywhere
in
the
world,
with
internet
access,
can
communicate
with
a
 friend
anywhere
else
who
also
has
internet
access.

If
I
want,
almost
instantly,
I
can
look
up
 the
weather
in
Madrid,
Melbourne,
and
Moscow.


 
 But
as
Americans
(and
certainly
other
groups
of
people),
through
digital
technology,
 become
more
interconnected
with
people
in
different
places
across
the
earth,
they
are
 losing
connections
with
the
people
with
whom
they
live
nearest
(Putnam,
2000).

There
is
a
 tradeoff
occurring:
one’s
physical
surroundings
are
becoming
less
important
as
one’s
 cyberspace
is
developed.

In
this
sense,
people
are
losing
relationships
to
their
many
landed
 surroundings.

They
are
increasingly
becoming
displaced
from
their
“land
community”
 (Leopold,
1966).

While
the
causes
of
this
displacement
are
likely
found
across
many,
if
not
 all,
aspects
of
daily
living,
one
of
the
most
important
causes
lies
within
the
displacing
work
 
 5
 of
schools
(Gruenewald
&
Smith,
2007;
Smith
&
Sobel,
2010a;
Theobald,
2006).

Through
 abstracted
standards
and
non‐local
content
curricula,
schools
teach
students
to
be
people
 from
anywhere
and
nowhere
(Noddings,
2002).

Instead
of
teaching
students
about
living
 where
they
are,
they
teach
students
to
leave
where
they
are,
psychologically
and
physically
 (Berry,
1990).

Local
land,
community,
and
culture,
the
points
at
which
people
are
directly
 connected
to
each
other,
are
marginalized
despite
the
natural
reality
that,
as
Orr
(1994)
 eloquently
argues,
“we
are
of
the
earth;
our
flesh
is
grass”
(p.
204).

Schools,
by
and
large,
 serve
to
disconnect
students
from
where
they
live
and
learn.

Increasingly,
teachers
are
 asked,
or,
coercively,
required,
to
teach
a
highly
scripted
content
curriculum
that
overlooks
 the
inherent
diversity
of
learners
and
their
places
(Gruenewald
&
Smith,
2007;
Smith
&
 Sobel,
2010).

This
furthers
a
curriculum
of
“placelessness.”

Not
only
does
schooling
look
 beyond
the
specific
contexts
in
which
students
live,
but
also
it
subverts
them,
by
teaching
 students
outright
contempt
for
the
earth
(Bigelow,
1996).

The
message
is
that
one’s
places
 do
not
matter.

Schools
are
displacing
agencies.
 
 
 This
displacement
is
contrary
to
integrated
living
and
learning,
what
Jardine
(2003)
 asserts
“has
to
do
with
keeping
things
in
place,
nested
in
the
deep
communities
of
relations
 that
make
them
whole,
healthy,
and
sane”
(p.
198).

Schools
and
teachers
are
charged
with
 the
task
of
grounding
students
in
their
homes,
tending
to
the
wholeness
of
a
student’s
life
 (Dewey,
1902/1959).

Pedagogical
work,
then,
teaches
students
to
love,
understand,
and
 make
better
the
tangible
places
and
communities
that
they
inhabit.

Schooling
is
for
place.

 This
charge,
however,
is
largely
unrealized
in
many
U.S.
schools.

Discussing
the
impact
of
 food
consumers
losing
connections
to
the
places
from
which
the
food
they
consume
comes,
 Berry
(1989/2009)
argues
that
there
is
“a
remarkable
obliviousness
to
the
causes
and
 
 6
 effects,
the
possibilities
and
the
purposes,
of
the
life
of
the
body
in
this
world”
(p.
230).

 Schooling
that
displaces
achieves
the
same
problematic
ends.


 
 In
the
last
two
decades,
the
rise
of
place‐based
educational
theory
has
begun
to
 respond
to
this
growing
problem.

Place‐based
education,
or
place‐conscious
education,
 seeks
to
challenge
and
reorient
many
of
the
ways
in
which
schools
connect
to,
shape,
and
 are
shaped
by
the
communities
in
which
they
are
embedded.

At
the
center
of
these
efforts
 is
the
goal
of
education
for
current
and
future
sustainability.

Pedagogical
attention
to
 place,
however,
is
hardly
an
easy
undertaking.

Nel
Noddings
explains
the
stakes:

 at
the
beginning
of
the
twenty‐first
century,
policymakers
are
promoting
 globalization
and
a
strong
global
economy.

Schools
are
urged
to
adopt
 “world‐class”
standards
and
to
produce
graduates
who
will
maintain
the
 status
of
the
United
States
as
an
economic
leader.

Where
does
a
love
of
place
 fit
into
this
picture?

Should
schools
teach
for
an
understanding
and
love
of
 place
or
should
they
now
offer
curricula
designed
to
transcend
place?
(2003,
 p.
119)
 There
is
a
decision
to
be
made
here,
a
problem
to
be
reconciled,
about
the
displacing
 tradition
of
schools
and
the
grounded,
particular
life
contexts
of
students.

Mindful
of
the
 problem
of
schooling
that
displaces
students,
and
informed
by
the
call
for
place‐conscious
 learning,
I
turn
to
investigate
the
living
and
teaching
of
three
teachers
in
their
particular
 places.
 
 Studying
Curriculum
And
Place
In
The
Lives
And
Work
Of
Teachers
 
 7
 
 In
Chapter
One,
I
investigate
the
topics
of
curriculum
and
place
in
their
respective
 literatures,
as
well
as
in
the
small
segment
of
literature
that
considers
them
in
tandem.

 Seeking
to
broaden
traditional
conceptions
of
curriculum
that
are
prominent
in
schools,
I
 frame
curriculum
as
a
living
course
of
learning,
across
the
times
and
places
of
a
person’s
 life,
including
those
of
school.

I
then
move
into
a
discussion
of
place,
which
I
argue
is
a
 central
but
often‐overlooked
aspect
of
curriculum.

Simply
stated,
people
learn
in
particular
 settings.

I
conclude
the
chapter
looking
at
the
relationship
between
curriculum
and
place
 and
posit
that
we
cannot
think
about
one
without
the
other.
 
 Attuned
to
the
relationship
between
curriculum
and
place,
Chapter
Two
outlines
the
 methodology
and
methods
of
this
study.

I
begin
with
a
discussion
about
the
importance
of
 how
one
approaches
research.

I
then
situate
my
approach
to
this
particular
study,
which
 draws
heavily
from
the
strand
of
narrative
inquiry
work
set
forth
by
Clandinin
and
 Connelly
(2000).

I
also
explain
my
commitments
to
intimate
research
that
seeks
to
 collaborate
closely
and
deeply
with
participants.

I
then
detail
my
criteria
for
finding
the
 three
participating
teachers
and
briefly
introduce
them,
noting
my
connection
to
each
 teacher.

I
conclude
the
chapter
with
discussion
of
my
research
methods.

While
I
seek
to
 make
clear
what
I
did
with
the
teachers
to
generate
the
field
texts
that
structure
my
 analysis
and
conclusions,
I
also
intend
for
this
discussion
to
provide
helpful
context
to
my
 interactions
with
the
teachers.


 
 After
Chapter
Two,
each
of
the
ensuing
three
chapters
focuses
on
an
individual
 teacher.

In
each
chapter,
I
seek
to
tell
a
story—each
teacher’s
story—and
my
approach
is
 intentionally
novelistic.

Chapter
Three
takes
the
reader
to
Dorchester,
Massachusetts,
and
 the
places
of
Tommy
Allen,
a
white,
male,
high
school
English
teacher.

Teaching
for
over
a
 
 8
 decade
in
a
school
continually
deemed
failing,
his
students
are
almost
entirely
non‐white
 and
poor.

They
are
society’s
most
marginalized.

I
story
how,
in
many
respects,
Tommy’s
 life
is
quite
different
from
his
students’
lives,
and
yet
he
operated
on
the
margins,
much
like
 them,
through
the
first
half
of
his
life.

Not
until
he
began
teaching
in
Dorchester,
and
then
 when
he
moved
there,
did
he
establish
strong
ties
to
a
particular
community
and
find
a
 sense
of
life
balance.

I
show
that
this
balance
positions
him
to
teach
his
students
to
work
 through
their
margins
toward
a
life
balance.
 
 Chapter
Four
takes
the
reader
to
Mobile,
Alabama,
and
the
places
of
Rosie
Baker,
a
 black,
female,
elementary
school
teacher.

In
her
sixth
year
of
teaching
gifted
education,
 after
three
years
of
grade‐level
classroom
teaching,
Rosie
is
comfortably
rooted
in
 suburban
Mobile
in
all
aspects
of
her
life.

I
story
how
she
came
to
this
time
and
place,
 beginning
with
her
childhood
in
urban
Mobile.

From
an
early
age,
she
sought
family‐like
 relationships
from
a
number
of
different
communities,
including
pediatric
cancer
survivors
 and
their
supporters,
peers
and
teachers
at
the
schools
she
attended,
and
fellow
 parishioners
at
her
church.

After
earning
her
teaching
degree,
she
taught
in
a
school
with
a
 student
population
that
was
entirely
black
and
overwhelmingly
poor.

After
three
years,
 particularly
as
she
became
frustrated
with
standardized
testing
and
its
impact
on
her
 students
and
her
teaching,
she
sought
a
new
teaching
context.

Now,
she
teaches
in
a
 predominantly
white,
middle‐class
setting
with
a
commitment
to
fostering
family
in
her
 classroom.
 
 Chapter
Five
takes
the
reader
to
Mid‐Michigan,
and
the
places
of
Dan
Torres,
a
 Filipino
American,
male,
social
studies
middle
school
teacher.

For
over
two
decades,
Dan
 has
lived
in
Lansing
and
taught
in
the
nearby
community
of
Parker.

At
the
current
time,
 
 9
 and
in
both
places,
he
is
“cranking”—that
is,
happy
and
living
meaningfully.

I
story
how
life
 has
not
always
been
that
way
for
Dan.

He
struggled
through
a
departed
father
when
he
 was
young,
difficult
schooling
during
high
school
and
college,
and
a
divorce
with
his
first
 wife.

But
he
emerged
from
those
experiences.

He
is
happily
re‐married
and
the
lives
of
his
 four
children
are
central
to
his
living.

The
city
of
Lansing,
where
he
lives,
is
central
to
his
 life
too.

Having
“survived
the
fog,”
his
teaching
is
structured
around
stories
of
his
survival
 and
it
focuses
on
his
students
being
able
to
survive
their
fog.
 
 Following
the
participant
chapters,
Chapter
Six
looks
at
these
three
teachers’
stories
 of
living
and
teaching
collectively.

It
considers
how
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
can
help
us
 think
about
who
teachers
are
and
the
differences
that
they
make
in
the
lives
of
their
 students.

In
bringing
their
stories
together,
I
seek
to
engage
scholarship
focused
on
the
 question,
as
Nieto
(2003a)
asks,
“what
keeps
teachers
going?”

These
three
teachers
are
not
 only
going
after
many
years
in
the
classroom
but
going
strongly.

I
posit
that
their
living
 curriculum,
rooted
in
the
places
where
they
live
and
teach,
is
central
to
why
they
continue
 to
teach.

Additionally,
their
living
curriculum
is
central
to
what
they
do
in
their
teaching.

 As
each
underwent
a
process
of
rooting
in
their
current
contexts,
I
argue
that
they
are
 working
to
help
students
become
rooted.

I
conclude
Chapter
Six
by
asserting
that
these
 teachers,
from
different
places,
grade
levels,
and
subject
areas,
with
different
living
and
 teaching
curricula,
are
teaching
for
citizenship
and,
in
the
process,
teaching
as
an
act
of
 citizenship.

I
raise
the
importance
of
such
teaching/citizenship,
especially
as
schools
are
 positioned
to
displace
students
from
the
communities
that
they
inhabit.
 
 Finally,
expanding
my
focus,
in
the
concluding
section,
I
offer
recommendations
for
 various
aspects
of
schooling
based
on
this
study.

I
consider
how
teacher
education
could
 
 10
 be
well‐served
to
attend
to
the
different
life
paths
of
teachers.

I
also
suggest
that
 discussions
of
teacher
quality
could
be
informed
by
keeping
in
mind
teachers’
living
 curricula
alongside
of
their
teaching
curricula.

Returning
to
the
problem
of
displaced
 schooling
that
I
raise
in
this
introduction,
I
close
with
consideration
of
how
students,
 teachers,
and
schools
can
benefit
from
an
emplaced
environment
of
learning
that
attends
to
 an
integrated
curriculum
(Jardine,
2000).

Such
a
curriculum
approaches
schooling
as
an
 act
of
living,
learning
to
be
in
communion
with
our
surroundings
for
the
betterment
of
the
 whole.


 
 If
schools
are
going
to
continue
to
be
pivotal
social
institutions
for
the
present
and
 future
of
the
communities
that
they
serve,
they
must
be
re‐rooted
in
their
places.

They
 must
find
ways
to
educate
students
about
local
living
within
an
interconnected,
global
 world.

Students
must
be
positioned
to
learn
that
bettering
their
lives
and
the
lives
of
all
 that
surround
them
starts
with
the
communities
in
which
they
are
embedded.

It
is
teachers
 who
are
an
essential
element
in
this
work
in
schools
that
has
important
implications
far
 beyond
school
walls.

Thus,
here,
we
dwell
in
three
teachers’
stories
of
curriculum
and
 place,
living
and
teaching.
 
 
 
 
 11
 CHAPTER
ONE
 
 THE
PLACE
OF
CURRICULUM
AND
THE
CURRICULUM
OF
PLACE
 
 The
living
place,
the
learner’s
extended
family,
the
clan
and
tribe
provided
the
context

 and
source
for
teaching.

In
this
way,
every
situation
provided
a
potential
opportunity

 for
learning,
and
basic
education
was
not
separated
from
the
natural,
social,
or
spiritual

 aspects
of
everyday
life.

Living
and
learning
were
fully
integrated.
 
 —Gregory
Cajete
(1994)2
 
 Introduction
 
 As
a
college
sophomore,
my
university
considered
closing
its
education
department.

 A
small
department
with
one
tenured
faculty
member,
it
lacked
an
academic
major
and
 held
little
clout
in
campus
politics.

But
if
the
department
was
closed,
it
would
have
had
a
 major
impact
on
students.

The
department’s
introductory
course
on
contemporary
issues
 in
education
was
one
of
the
most
popular
and
highly‐enrolled
courses
on
campus,
even
 though
it
was
not
required.

Personally,
since
I
aspired
to
be
a
teacher,
no
education
 department
would
mean
no
opportunity
for
me
to
gain
my
teaching
licensure
as
a
student
 there.

At
a
rally
in
support
of
saving
the
education
department,
on
the
steps
of
the
 university’s
administration
building,
an
adjunct
education
professor
spoke
to
the
student
 crowd.

I
vividly
remember
him
saying
that
“education
is
not
preparation
for
life
but
life
 itself.”

His
point
was
that
our
present‐lives,
not
merely
our
future‐lives
(or
the
lives
of
the
 children
who
would
be
taught
by
graduates
of
the
department’s
teacher
education
 























































 2
This
quote
is
taken
from
Cajete’s
overview
of
the
Tribal
foundations
of
American
Indian
 Education.

 
 12
 program),
were
implicated
in
the
threat
to
close
down
the
department.

With
our
and
 others’
lives
involved,
we
had
a
right
to
make
our
concerns
known.
 
 The
professor
was
paraphrasing
John
Dewey.

At
the
beginning
of
the
second
article
 of
“My
Pedagogic
Creed”
(1897/1959),
Dewey
writes,

 I
believe
that
the
school
is
primarily
a
social
institution.

Education
being
a
 social
process,
the
school
is
simply
that
form
of
community
life
in
which
all
 those
agencies
are
concentrated
that
will
be
most
effective
in
bringing
the
 child
to
share
in
the
inherited
resources
of
the
race,
and
to
use
his
own
 powers
for
social
ends.
(p.
22)
 Dewey
highlights
the
unique
position
and
power
of
the
school
in
the
work
of
social
 progress.

The
health
of
the
community,
its
sustainability,
is
tied
to
the
work
of
the
school.

 Dewey
then
continues,
“I
believe
that
education,
therefore,
is
a
process
of
living
and
not
a
 preparation
for
future
living.”

Life
is
lived
in
schools.3

In
going
to
school,
students
are
not
 extracted
from
the/ir
world.

Thus,
the
work
of
teachers
and
schools
must
be
approached
 as
in
the
world,
not
as
an
entry
to
it.

The
school’s
curriculum,
what
students
learn
inside
 the
school’s
walls,
needs
to
focus
on
the
social
contours
of
students’
lives
in
the
present
and
 not
solely
in
the
future.

In
this
sense,
Dewey
argues
that
schooling
is
living.

Schools
are
 places
for
students
to
grow
individually
and
socially,
and
the
learning
that
accompanies
 this
growth,
across
all
students,
is
significant
to
societal
progress.

Therefore,
schools
must
 teach
a
curriculum
appropriate
to
the
needs
of
students
and
their
communities.
 























































 3
Although
Dewey
writes
of
“education,”
here,
he
is
specifically
taking
up
education
in
the
 context
of
schooling.
 
 13
 
 In
this
chapter,
I
discuss
my
conceptions
of
curriculum
and
place
and
the
 relationship
between
the
two.

Examining
some
of
the
literature
bases
on
these
two
 subjects,
as
well
as
some
of
the
writing
that
has
been
done
about
their
relationship,
I
argue
 that
curriculum
is
placed
and
that
place
is
a
curriculum.

I
begin
by
considering
how
there
 are
many
conceptions
of
curriculum,
and
I
offer
the
simple
notion
that
curriculum
is
a
lived
 course
of
learning.

I
then
suggest
that
curriculum,
given
its
many
definitions,
is
in
need
of
 preceding
adjectives
that
situate
its
meaning.

For
me,
then,
the
most
basic
form
of
 curriculum
is
a
“living
curriculum.”

From
there,
all
other
curricula
emerge.

I
then
turn
to
 place.

Like
curriculum,
place
is
a
term
used
widely
and
I
seek
to
situate
it
as,
generally
 speaking,
one’s
relationship
with
many
lived
surroundings.

This
definition
reflects
the
idea
 that
place
is
exceedingly
complex
despite
its
ubiquity
in
everyday
discourse.

However,
I
 contextualize
my
conception
of
place
by
grounding
it
in
the
earth,
arguing
that
one’s
 relationship
to
the
earth
is
a
fundamental
component
of
one’s
place
(or
sense
of
place).


 With
these
notions
of
curriculum
and
place
in
place,
I
examine
the
deep
relationship
 between
the
two.

Curriculum
is
fundamentally
placed
as
life
is
lived
amid
a
particular
set
 of
relationships.

Thus,
I
say
that
place
is
a
curriculum
while
noting,
at
the
same
time,
that
 educative
experiences
are
placed.

I
conclude
the
chapter
by
returning
to
Dewey,
 highlighting
the
importance
of
thinking
about
curriculum
and
place
with
respect
to
schools
 and
social
progress.
 
 Curriculum

 
 The
English
word
curriculum
is
derived
from
the
Latin
word
of
the
same
spelling.
 The
root
of
the
word
is
currere,
which
means
“to
run,”
and
its
English
derivatives
are
words
 
 14
 such
as
current
(“running
water”)
and
recur
(“happen
again”
or
“rerun”).

Building
off
of
 currere,
a
general
translation
of
curriculum
is
“race
course,”
which
indicates
running
in
a
 particular
direction.

Literally,
a
person
runs
a
particular
course.

Contemporary
usage
of
 curriculum
in
English
tends
to
conjure
notions
of
metaphorical
running,
in
the
context
of
 learning.

No
longer
an
overt
physical
act,
it
is
typically
seen
as
a
course
of
various
learning
 experiences
through
which

a
person
journeys
(or
“runs”).
 
 As
a
word,
curriculum
is
used
in
many
different
social
contexts.

However,
it
is
 central
to
talk
about
schooling.

Teachers,
administrators,
parents,
policy‐makers,
and
 researchers
speak
of
curriculum
and
combine
it
with
adjectives
like
rigorous,
child‐ centered,
rigid,
common,
core,
Common
Core,
watered‐down,
and
others.

Ironically,
and
 troublingly,
the
one
group
involved
in
schooling
that
speaks
of
curriculum
the
least
is
 students.

While
curriculum
is
often
at
the
center
of
educational
dialogue,
it
rarely
is
 defined,
whether
an
adjective
is
attached
to
it
or
not.

 
 Nearly
a
century
ago,
Franklin
Bobbitt
wrote
that
curriculum
is
“that
series
of
things
 which
children
and
youth
must
do
and
experience
by
way
of
developing
abilities
to
do
the
 things
well
that
make
up
the
affairs
of
adult
life;
and
to
be
in
all
respects
what
adults
should
 be”
(italics
original;
1918,
p.
42).

Although
considerable
debate
from
curriculum
scholars
 about
what
curriculum
is
has
ensued,
it
is
my
sense
that
this
definition
holds
strong
as
the
 implied
definition
of
most
school‐related
people
talking
about
curriculum.

At
the
same
 time,
many
comprehensive
surveys
of
curriculum
show
that
curriculum
in
American
 schools
has
been
and
continues
to
be
conceived
of
in
various
ways
(e.g.,
Flinders
&
 Thornton,
2004;
Jackson,
1992;
Pinar,
Reynolds,
Slattery,
&
Taubman,
2008).

In
everyday
 parlance,
curriculum
is
content‐based
or
process‐oriented;
it
is
composed
of
outcomes,
 
 15
 standards,
goals.
In
the
academy,
for
example,
it
is
planned
or
intended,
enacted
or
 implemented,
implicit
or
null
(Wilson,
2005).

What
is
less
commonly
heard,
though,
is
that
 curriculum
is
personal,
storied,
and
lived.

 
 I
understand
curriculum
to
include,
but
extend
far
beyond
the
walls
and
efforts
of,
 schools,
to
be
what
William
Schubert
(2006)
calls
the
“BIG
CURRICULUM.”

Curriculum
is
a
 life
of
education,
one’s
running
or
movement
through
life
experiences,
learning
all
the
 while,
and
this
notion
builds,
in
addition
to
John
Dewey,
on
the
work
of
Ted
Aoki
 (1986/2005,
1993/2005,
1996/2005),
Jean
Clandinin
and
Michael
Connelly
(1987,
1992,
 2000;
Connelly
&
Clandinin,
1988;
Clandinin,
1985,
1989),
and
William
Pinar
and
 Madeleine
Grumet
(1976).
 
 A
school­based
living
curriculum.
 
 In
“The
Child
and
the
Curriculum”
(1902/1959),
Dewey
wrote
of
two
educational
 sects
in

early
twentieth‐century
schooling.

The
first
“fixes
its
attention
upon
the
 importance
of
the
subject‐matter
of
the
curriculum
as
compared
with
the
contents
of
the
 child’s
own
experience”
(p.
94).

The
child,
or
student,
is
immature
and
a
course
of
 academic
subject
matter
learning
will
bring
her
or
him
to
maturity.

In
the
second
sect,
“the
 child
is
the
starting
point,
the
center,
and
the
end.”

No
outside
standards
are
sought
for
the
 child
other
than
that
individual
growth
is
maximized.

The
goal
is
self‐realization
with
little
 regard
for
social
surroundings.

With
these
sects
defined,
Dewey
works
to
challenge
both,
 arguing
that
the
curriculum
(the
first
sect)
and
the
child
(the
second
sect)
exist
in
relation
 to
the
other.

They
are
on
a
spectrum
and
one
cannot
be
emphasized
without
the
other.

 The
best
schooling,
then,
provides
for
individual
growth
amid
social
participation,
and
it
is
 the
work
of
the
teacher
to
facilitate
experiences
along
these
lines,
“to
transform
the
 
 16
 material;
to
psychologize
it—that
is…to
take
it
and
to
develop
it
within
the
range
and
scope
 of
the
child’s
life”
(p.
110).
 
 Ted
Aoki
conceives
of
a
similar
situation
in
classrooms.

For
Aoki
(1986/2005),
 there
are
two
worlds
of
curriculum,
and
teaching
exists
between
them.

There
is
the
world
 of
“curriculum‐as‐plan,”
which
is
a
scripted
program
of
learning
for
students
in
the
 classroom,
and
there
is
the
world
of
“curriculum‐as‐lived,”
which
is
the
experience
of
living
 in
the
classroom
with
students.

Writing
about
Miss
O,
a
grade
5
teacher
in
Canada,
Aoki
 argues
that
teaching
is
“indwelling”
between
these
two
worlds.

Both
of
these
worlds
make
 claims
on
the
teacher,
demanding
her
attention
and
effort.

One
world
cannot
be
foregone
 for
the
other;
rather,
they
must
be
negotiated
in
relation
to
each
other.

Miss
O
“knows
that
 indwelling
in
the
zone
between
curriculum‐as‐plan
and
curriculum‐as‐lived
experience
is
 not
so
much
a
matter
of
overcoming
the
tensionality
but
more
a
matter
of
dwelling
aright
 within
it”
(p.
163).

Instead
of
fleeing
the
tension,
it
is
to
be
embraced.
 
 By
studying
this
“Zone
of
Between,”
Aoki
contends,
we
can
develop
a
deeper
 understanding
of
who
teachers
are
and
what
teachers
do.

While
it
is
easy
and
common
to
 look
singularly
at
the
implementation
of
curriculum‐as‐plan,
such
an
investigation
severely
 limits
our
understanding
of
teachers
and
teaching.

We
need
to
see
the
logics
of
the
two
 curriculum
worlds
and
the
dialectic
between
them.

Aoki
does
not
use
the
word
dialogic
but
 it
might
be
said
that
the
Zone
of
Between
creates
a
dialogic
between
the
logics
of
each
 world.

In
recognizing
this
dialogic,
then,
it
is
clear
that
tension
pervades
it.

School
life
 “means
living
simultaneously
with
limitations
and
with
openness,”
but
also
acknowledging
 that
“this
openness
harbours
within
it
risks
and
possibilities
as
we
quest
for
a
change
from
 the
is
to
the
not
yet”
(p.
164).

Thus,
students
and
teachers
are
indwelling
in
the
tension
 
 17
 between
“is”
and
“not
yet.”

I
would
add,
thinking
naratively,
that
they
are
also
dwelling
 between
these
stages
and
a
third
stage:
“was.”

Aoki’s
indwelling,
then,
is
synonymous
with
 becoming.

Learning
is
a
process
of
becoming,
the
context
of
which
is
constant
tensionality.
 
 Aoki
is
mindful,
though,
that
indwelling
inherently
plays
out
in
particular
spaces.

He
 writes:
 In
Miss
O’s
indwelling
in
the
Zone
of
Between
we
see
the
teacher’s
dwelling
 place
as
a
sanctified
clearing
where
the
teacher
and
students
gather— somewhat
like
the
place
before
the
hearth
at
home—an
extraordinarily
 unique
and
precious
place
dedicated
to
ventures
devoted
to
a
leading
out,
an
 authentic
“e(out)/ducere(lead),”
from
the
“is”
to
new
possibilities
yet
 unknown.
(p.
164)
 Classrooms,
through
the
learning
interactions
of
teachers
and
students,
are
meaningful
 places
of
lived
experience.
 
 In
later
writings
(1993/2005,
1996/2005),
Aoki’s
conception
of
the
world
of
 curriculum‐as‐lived
takes
on
more
nuance.

His
notion
of
“lived
curriculum”
offers
an
 escape
from
traditional
notions
of
curriculum
(what
he
calls
the
“C&I
landscape”
or
the
 “arboreal
landscape”4)
that
are
tied
tightly
to
curriculum‐as‐plan
(1993/2005).

These
 traditional
notions
refer
to
the
curriculum:
teaching
the
curriculum;
implementing
the
 curriculum;
maintaining
fidelity
to
the
curriculum.

Curriculum
is
already
made,
not
living.

 























































 4
Aoki
challenges
traditional
conceptions
of
curriculum
that
put
forth
a
singular
curriculum
 that
is
“a
master
curriculum
planned
under
an
authority,
authorizing
sameness
and
 homogeneity
throughout
the
province”
(1996/2005,
p.
417).

Such
a
singular
curriculum,
 he
contends,
is
like
a
tree
that
dominates
an
entire
landscape.

“The
lone
tree
casts
its
 benign
shadow
over
the
landscape
such
that
‘teaching’
becomes
‘implementation’
and
 ‘instruction’
becomes
in‐structuring
students
in
the
image
of
the
given”
(pp.
417‐418).
 
 18
 But
a
lived
curriculum,
which
is
rooted
in
students’
authentic
experiences
of
learning,
 provides
a
pathway
to
a
new
curricular
landscape
(the
“C&C
landscape”)
that
is
“textured
 by
a
multiplicity
of
lines
moving
from
between
to
between,
is
ever
open,
knowing
no
 beginning
and
no
end,
resisting
enframing”
(p.
207).

This
landscape
embodies
the
 curriculum‐as‐plan
and
curricula‐as‐lived.

Curriculum
is
not
pre‐made
but
in­the­making,
 through
the
betweenness,
tensionality
of
living.

 
 Still
wrestling
with
the
curriculum
(i.e.,
“Why
is
it
that
we
seem
to
be
caught
up
in
a
 singular
meaning
of
the
word
curriculum?”;
italics
original;
1996/2005,
p.
417),
Aoki
later
 reworked
“lived
curriculum”
into
“live(d)
curriculum.”

He
writes,
“the
word
experience
is
a
 hybrid,
including
the
notions
of
‘past
experiences’
(lived
experiences)
and
‘ongoing
 experiences’
(live
or
living
experiences)”
(italics
original;
p.
418).

From
this
place
of
 thought
that
is
marked
by
a
process
of
becoming,
I
emerge
excited
by
the
term
“living
 curriculum.”

It
is
the
best
representation
for
me
of
how
I
understand
curriculum.

Living
 signals
learning
in
process,
always
subject
to
change
as
circumstances
change.

At
the
same
 time,
it
emphasizes
how
life
is
lived,
experienced,
by
people.
 
 A
life­based
living
curriculum.
 
 Although
Dewey
and
others
wrote
about
curriculum
prior,
the
curriculum
field
was
 born
in
the
1920s,
on
the
heels
of
Bobbitt’s
book
The
Curriculum
(Pinar,
1978/2004).

In
 the
ensuing
half
century,
curriculum
was
a
classroom‐based
concept.

However,
in
the
 1970s,
some
curriculum
scholars
began
to
frame
curriculum
with
respect
to
lived
 experience,
which
takes
places
inside
and
out
of
the
classroom.5
 























































 5
I
frequently
use
the
adjectives
lived
and
living
to
modify
words
like
experience.

In
this
 respect,
these
adjective
speaks
to
immediate,
embodied,
intuitive
aspects
of
life,
as
opposed
 
 19
 
 William
Pinar
and
Madeleine
Grumet
(1976),
in
launching
the
currere
movement
in
 curriculum
work,
proposed
the
idea
of
a
“poor
curriculum,”
a
curriculum
that
is
“stripped
 of
its
distractions”
(p.
vii).

Extending
back
to
curriculum’s
Latin
roots,
currere
emphasizes
 the
individual’s
running
of
a
life
course.

But
more
than
that,
it
dwells
in
the
individual’s
 unique
experiences
of
that
course.

Currere
is
not
simply
an
idea
but
also
a
method
of
study.

 It
is
a
way
to
strip
the
curriculum.

Pinar
summarizes
its
purpose
as:
“I
don’t
know,
and
I
 must
study,
and
search.

I
must
be
open
to
my
experience,
open
to
others’,
and
be
willing
to
 abandon
what
I
think
in
the
face
of
what
I
see”
(p.
viii).

Currere
is
marked
by
tension
and
a
 need
for
action.
 
 Currere
emphasizes
that
life
is
lived
and
experienced,
and
it
makes
fluid
the
walls
of
 classrooms
and
schools.

Biography—or,
more
precisely,
autobiography—is
essential
to
it
 as
it
requires
study
of
one’s
lived
experiences.

I
am
influenced
by
currere,
but
I
also
find
 that
it
can
lose
sight
of
social
living
(and
learning),
especially
with
respect
to
schools.

 Informed
by
the
thoughts
of
Dewey
and
Aoki
that
I
outline
above,
currere
dwells
in
the
 experiences
and
story
of
the
individual.

Psychoanalysis
is
one
of
its
main
tools.

But
its
 relationship
to
the
social
is
always,
for
me,
in
question.

In
currere,
I
see
Dewey’s
sect
of
 educational
thought
that
focuses
solely
on
the
child,
as
well
as
Aoki’s
curriculum‐as‐lived.

I
 struggle
to
see
the
betweenness,
the
indwelling,
that
locates
curriculum
amid
the
individual
 and
the
social.

In
doing
this,
the
importance
of
schools
can
be
obscured,
failing
to
see
them
 as
pivotal
places
of
individual
and
social
learning.
 


















































































































































































 to
the
reflective,
discursive
aspects
of
life.

While
it
is,
in
some
sense,
obvious
that
 experience
is
lived
(or
living),
I
assert
that
it
is
particularly
important
to
draw
attention
to
 this
fact.

In
focusing
on
what
is
lived,
we
better
understand
the
significance
of
how
 experience
is
lived
and
what
it
means
for
future
living.
 
 20
 
 In
the
1980s,
a
decade
after
the
rise
of
currere,
another
movement
in
the
field
of
 curriculum
arose
that
centered
on
lived
experience
in
all
places
of
life
but
also
maintained
 an
emphasis
on
schooling
(and
particularly
teaching).

Within
this
movement,
I
focus
on
the
 work
of
Jean
Clandinin
and
Michael
Connelly
(Connelly
&
Clandinin,
1988),
who
write
 about
“personal
curriculum”
and
“personal
practical
knowledge.”6

Like
currere,
this
notion
 of
curriculum
that
Clandinin
and
Connelly
offer
is
a
course
of
lived,
meaningful
experiences.

 It
has
a
past,
present,
and
future,
and
it
is
directional,
moving
through
and
across
places.

 But
the
experiences
that
make
up
one’s
curriculum
are
personal,
while
still
overtly
situated
 in
a
social
context.

Dewey’s
work
on
experience
(1916;
1934;
1938)
informs
this
 conception
of
curriculum.

For
Dewey,
learning
is
linked
to
experience,
and
in
every
 experience
there
are
two
aspects:
continuity
and
interaction.

First,
all
experiences
exist
in
 a
continuum
of
experience.

Thus,
for
a
given
experience,
there
are
prior
experiences
that
 influence
it
and,
in
turn,
it
influences
future
experiences.

Dewey
writes
that
“every
 experience
both
takes
up
something
from
those
which
have
gone
before
and
modifies
in
 some
way
the
quality
of
those
which
come
after”
(1938,
p.
35).

Second,
all
experiences
are
 interactive
as
they
happen
amid
the
interplay
of
personal
and
social
conditions.

Personal
 conditions,
or
“internal
conditions,”
as
Dewey
calls
them,
are
specific
to
the
individual.

 One’s
preference
for
a
certain
kind
of
food
is
a
personal
condition.

However,
personal
 conditions
stand
in
relation
to
social
conditions,
what
Dewey
calls
“objective”
or
 “environing”
conditions.

While
a
person
might
prefer
a
certain
kind
of
food,
this
is
in
 relation
to
the
kinds
of
food
that
have
been,
are,
and
will
be
available.

These
social
 























































 6
The
journal
Curriculum
Inquiry
ran
a
multi‐year
series
of
articles
in
the
1980s
on
personal
 practical
knowledge
and
Clandinin
and
Connelly
served
as
the
editors
of,
and
contributed
 articles
to,
that
series.
 
 21
 conditions
surround
the
person
and
an
experience
takes
place
in
the
interaction
of
these
 with
personal
conditions.
 
 Building
on
this
framework,
Dewey
writes
that
individuals
“live
in
a
series
of
 situations”
(1938,
p.43).

These
situations
are
the
context
of
the
continuity
and
interaction
 of
experiences.

In
fact,
situations,
continuity,
and
interaction
are
inseparable.

While
 Dewey
lumps
together
interaction
and
situation,
calling
them
inseparable,
I
am
interested
 in
distinguishing
between
the
two.

For
me,
a
situation
connotes
surroundings.

It
is
a
 setting
in
which
life
is
lived,
and
interaction
is
one’s
relational
engagement
with
those
 surroundings.

This
point
is
not
to
declare
interaction
and
situation
disconnected—indeed,
 they
are
deeply
connected—but
rather
to
acknowledge
the
importance
of
how
situation
 and
interaction
(and
continuity)
influence
each
other.


 
 In
their
earlier
work,
Connelly
&
Clandinin
(1988;
Clandinin
&
Connelly,
1994)
 follow
Dewey’s
notion
of
experience
closely:
an
experience
involves
continuity
and
 interaction
and
it
happens
in
a
situation.

Curriculum,
then,
is
a
string
of
experiences.

In
 their
later
work
(Clandinin
&
Connelly,
2000),
although
curriculum
remains
the
same,
the
 elements
of
experience
shift.

They
offer
the
“three
dimensional
narrative
inquiry
space,”
 which
includes
the
dimensions
of
continuity
and
interaction.

But
“situation”
is
pulled
from
 the
contextual
overlay
of
those
dimensions
in
the
form
of
a
third
dimension
called
place.

 Continuity
(forward
and
backward
in
time)
and
interaction
(inward
to
the
personal
and
 outward
to
the
social)
are
seen
as
directional
while
place
is
contextual
(the
site
of
the
 experience).


 
 The
three
dimensional
narrative
inquiry
space
is
not
solely
specific
to
schools
but,
in
 their
work
on
curriculum,
Clandinin
and
Connelly
focus
on
teachers.

As
human
beings,
 
 22
 teachers
have
personal
curricula
made
up
of
“personal
practical
knowledge”
that
shape
 who
they
are
and
what
they
do.

Thus,
their
teaching
in
classrooms
is
informed
by
their
 personal
curricula
(from
both
inside
and
out
of
schools).

What
they
plan
for
is
constructed
 out
of
their
experiences.

What
unfolds
in
classrooms,
then,
with
a
teacher’s
personal
 curriculum
and
the
students’
personal
curricula,
amounts
to
Aoki’s
C&C
landscape,
where
 there
is
a
multiplicity
of
interactive
experiences
that
create
a
situation
of
learning.
 
 Living,
schooling,
and
teaching
curricula.


 
 What
Connelly
and
Clandinin
call
personal
curriculum,
I
call
living
curriculum.

I
seek
 to
highlight
the
importance
of
the
many
aspects
of
one’s
life
for
what
one
does
as
a
teacher,
 and
then
locate
these
aspects
as
ongoing,
in
process.

This
living
curriculum
is
what
a
 person
learns
over
the
course
of
her
or
his
life.

It
is
as
broad
as
I
can
conceive;
it
includes
 one’s
educative
experiences
in
the
past,
present,
and
future,
and
extends
across
various
 lived
places,
including
but
not
limited
to
schools.

I
posit
that
one’s
learning
at
one
time,
and
 in
one
particular
place,
is
interactive
with
the
other
aspects
of
one’s
life.

This
learning
is
 perpetually
in
Aoki’s
Zone
of
Between,
existing
amid
life’s
realities
and
possibilities.

Living,
 then,
is
inherently
educative
and
curricular.


 
 For
me,
curriculum
means
living
curriculum.

Because
of
many
other
conceptions
of
 curriculum,7
I
look
for
modifying
adjectives
to
describe
how
life
is
lived
and,
particularly,
 























































 7
Much
of
the
talk
of
curriculum
in
and
about
schools
refers
to
curriculum‐as‐plan.

Other
 terms
for
this
notion
include
the
modifying
adjectives:
overt,
explicit,
written,
or
intended
 (Wilson,
2005).

Whatever
the
term,
the
idea
is
akin
to
Bobbitt’s
early
conception
of
 curriculum:
an
educational
authority
lays
out
a
course
of
learning
for
the
students.

Even
 though
curriculum,
in
this
sense,
is
externally
imposed,
the
student
still
experiences
it,
lives
 it.

What
teachers
actually
teach
is
sometimes
called
the
implemented
curriculum
(Snyder,
 Bolin
&
Zumwalt,
1992),
while
what
students
actually
learn
is
sometimes
called
the
 received
curriculum
(Wilson,
2005).

As
received
positions
students
as
passive
and
conjures
 
 23
 how
life
is
lived
in
school.

While
I
am
interested
in
curriculum
across
the
times
and
places
 of
lives,
my
focus
on
curriculum
is
grounded
in
the
work
of
schools,
or
a
schooling
 curriculum—that
is,
students’
living
courses
of
learning
at
or
in
relation
to
school.

Much
of
 students’
daily
lives
takes
place
in
schools
and,
therefore,
much
of
their
learning
takes
place
 in
schools
or
in
other,
related
places
(e.g.,
on
a
school
field
trip,
in
a
school
sporting
 competition,
doing
“homework,”
and
so
forth).

Indeed,
schools
are
significant
social
 institutions
for
individuals
and
their
communities,
both
historically
in
the
U.S.
(e.g.,
Cremin,
 1980,
1988)
as
well
as
at
the
present
time
(Darling‐Hammond,
2010).

They
are
legally,
but
 also
culturally,
charged
with
the
mission
of
caring
for
and
teaching
students
as
they
 develop
from
young
children
to
adults
(Noddings,
1992,
2003).

Further,
what
happens
in
 schools
interacts
with
and
shapes
the
other
elements
of
society
(Nespor,
1997),
and
one
 need
not
look
for
too
long
in
a
newspaper
to
find
impassioned
debate
about
the
impacts
of
 schools
and
what
students
are
learning
there.

As
most
all
youth
in
the
U.S.
spend
so
much
 directed
time
in
schools,
I
posit
that
work
focused
on
living
curriculum
cannot
overlook
 learning
in
schools.

Indeed,
schools
are
some
of
students’
most
educative
places.

At
the
 same
time,
schools
are
institutions
central
to
the
(re)formation
of
society.
 
 As
the
people
in
schools
who
work
most
closely
with
students—hundreds
if
not
 thousands
of
students
over
the
course
of
a
teaching
career—and
who
have
a
major
impact
 on
students’
schooling
curricula
(Darling‐Hammond
&
Bransford,
2005),
I
focus,
in
this
 study,
on
teachers.

I
am
interested
in
their
teaching
curricula.

In
schools,
this
term
would
 


















































































































































































 notions
of
Freire’s
“banking
method”
of
education
(2000),
what
students
learn
might
also
 be
called
the
learned
curriculum.

Part
of
what
is
learned
(and
experienced)
by
students
 includes
the
hidden
curriculum
(Jackson,
1990)
and
the
implicit
curriculum
(Eisner,
1985).

 These
refer
to
student
experiences
that
are
not
intended
but
lived
nonetheless.

What
 students
do
not
learn
is
the
null
curriculum,
which,
Eisner
(1985)
notes,
seems
strange,
but
 experience
is
shaped
by
what
is
present
as
much
as
what
is
not.
 
 24
 probably
be
taken
as
synonymous
with
curriculum‐as‐plan,
or
what
the
teacher
is
going
to
 teach.

However,
I
do
not
think
of
it
in
this
respect.

A
teaching
curriculum
is
a
living
course
 of
learning
through
which
a
teacher
learns
to
teach.

It
is
a
component
of
a
living
 curriculum,
but
its
focus
is
the
learning‐to‐teach
process.

Much
of
a
teacher’s
teaching
 curriculum
happens
during
what
Feiman‐Nemser
(2001)
calls
the
“professional
learning
 continuum”
of
teachers,
which
includes
pre‐service
teacher
education,
induction,
and
 professional
development,
but
I
extend
learning
to
teach
further,
across
time
and
place.

 The
teaching
curriculum
includes
Lortie’s
“apprenticeship
of
observation”
(1975),
which
 takes
place
for
students
through
their
many
years
of
schooling.

But
it
also
takes
place
 outside
of
school,
for
students
and
teachers,
through
everyday
living
(Dalton,
2004;
 Mitchell
&
Weber,
1999;
Weber
&
Mitchell,
1995).

Indeed,
following
Britzman
(2003),
all
 aspects
of
a
teacher’s
biography
shape
a
teacher’s
teaching
curriculum.

Thus,
one’s
 teaching
curriculum
is
a
part
of
one’s
living
curriculum.

And,
I
posit
that
both
shape
and
 are
shaped
by
one’s
work
as
a
teacher:
shaping
students’
schooling
curricula.

The
concept
 of
place
is
central
to
these
curricula
(living,
schooling,
and
teaching).

I
will
momentarily
 move
away
from
curriculum,
here,
in
order
to
consider
place
specifically,
but
then
I
will
 make
my
way
back
to
the
important
relationship
between
the
two.
 
 Place
 

 
 Place,
like
curriculum,
but
even
more
so,
is
an
everyday
word
that
is
meaningful
in
 all
sorts
of
contexts.

The
word
place,
as
a
verb,
signals
a
process
of
positioning.

I
will
place
 the
cup
on
the
table.

As
a
noun,
it
usually
connotes
a
location
or
a
position.

The
place
 beyond
the
forest
is
beautiful;
I
finished
in
second
place.

While
these
forms
of
place
make
up
 
 25
 many
of
its
most
common
usages,
there
is
much
more
to
place.

The
philosopher
Edward
 Casey
writes
that
“place
is
not
one
kind
of
thing:
it
can
be
psychical
as
well
as
physical,
and
 doubtless
also
cultural
and
historical
and
social”
(1996,
p.
31).

Informed
by
Casey,
I
 consider
place
to
reflect
a
person’s
lived
relationships
with
physical
and
social
 surroundings.

Thus,
place
is
conceived
individually
but
constructed
socially
through
 interaction
with
surroundings.

Many
people
who
live
in
the
same
city—for
example,
 Pittsburgh—might
refer
to
Pittsburgh
as
a
place
(location)
in
which
they
all
live.

However,
 each
person
likely
has
a
different
lived
experience
of
Pittsburgh.

It
is
that
lived
experience
 that
constructs
the
place
of
Pittsburgh
for
that
person
and
signals
the
place
it
holds
in
the
 person’s
overall
life
narrative
and
identity.

Thus,
place
is
central
to
who
people
are,
in
 addition
to
where
they
are.
 
 As
Entrikin
(1991)
writes,
“place
presents
itself
to
us
as
a
condition
of
human
 experience.

As
agents
in
the
world
we
are
always
‘in
place,’
much
as
we
are
always
‘in
 culture’”
(p.
1).

But
place
is
often
overlooked
in
everyday
living.

Place
is
something
lived
 but
not
directly
scrutinized;
it
is
commonplace
(Casey,
1993).

Geertz
echoes
this:
 “something
that
is
a
dimension
of
everyone’s
existence,
the
intensity
of
where
we
are,
 passes
by
anonymous
and
unremarked.

It
goes
without
saying”
(1996,
p.
259).

And
yet
 academics
and
authors
across
many
fields
write
effusively
about,
and
in
relation
to,
place,
 making
it
a
focus
of
thought
and
inquiry
(Adams,
Hoelscher
&
Till,
2001;
Ardoin,
2006;
Feld
 &
Basso,
1996).

The
variety
of
ideas
shared
by
writers
show
that
place
is
an
 interdisciplinary
concept,
not
anchored
in
one
particular
segment
of
life,
but
present
in
all
 aspects
of
life.

 
 26
 
 The
geographer
George
Demko
suggests
that
“when
we
give
ourselves
to
a
place,
we
 put
it
on,
the
surroundings
included,
as
if
it
were
our
very
own
clothing”
(Demko,
Agel,
&
 Boe,
1992,
p.
14).

This
notion
begins
with
place
as
a
location,
but
hints
toward
place
as
a
 living
relationship.

Demko
calls
this
“sense
of
place,”
and
he
argues
that
“civilization,
as
we
 know
it,
is
the
poorer
when
we
lose
the
sense
of
place…[which
is]
central
to
our
very
 comprehension
of
the
world”
(p.
17).

Included
in
this
sense
of
place
is
the
notion
that
 places
are
not
static.

“All
places
change.

They
change
in
themselves
and
they
change
 relative
to
other
places,
and
they
may
cause
change
in
other
places”
(p.
14).
Just
as
humans
 are
connected
to
other
humans
in
a
social
network,
so
too
are
places.

Thus,
alongside
 everyday
living,
places
are
dynamic,
constantly
in
flux,
as
the
factors
that
constitute
them
 are
shifting.


 
 While
Demko
touches
on
place
as
relational,
his
focus
is
on
place
as
a
location.

This
 perspective,
which
is
often
taken
up
in
the
geography
content
curriculum
of
schools
 (Schmidt,
2008),
is
quite
traditional.

The
work
of
critical
geography
over
the
past
few
 decades
has
sought
to
move
beyond
location,
focusing
on
the
concepts
of
space
and
place
 (Cresswell,
2004).

One
strand
of
critical
geography
suggests
that
a
feeling
of
“here”
is
the
 result
of
a
person
attaching
meaning
to
a
space
(Helfenbein,
2006).

In
this
work,
space
is
 the
area
in
which
people
live
and
move.

Place,
then,
“is
the
transformation
of
space
 through
investments;
it
is
space
filled
with
meaning
for
those
who
spend
time
in
it”
 (Helfenbein,
2006,
p.
2).

Thus,
place
is
space
made
meaningful
by
people.

Space
is
placed
 in
context,
in
relation
to
other
spaces,
people,
and
ideas.

Indeed,
it
is
only
through
the
 interaction
of
these
that
place
is
possible.


 
 27
 
 While
critical
geography
focuses
on
the
turning
of
spaces
into
places,
Casey
(1996)
 asks,
“what
if
the
very
idea
of
space
is
posterior
to
that
of
place,
perhaps
even
derived
from
 it?”
(p.
16).

Casey
contends
that
since
humans
understand
the
world
through
perception,
 the
contexts
in
which
humans
exist
place
them
prior
to
any
conception
of
space.

“We
come
 to
the
world—we
come
into
it
and
keep
returning
to
it—as
already
placed
there.

Places
are
 not
added
to
sensations
any
more
than
they
are
imposed
on
spaces.

Both
sensations
and
 spaces
are
themselves
emplaced
from
the
very
first
moment,
and
at
every
subsequent
 moment
as
well”
(p.
18).

This
means
that
humans
live
locally,
in
the
places
in
which
they
 find
themselves.

As
a
result,
they
are
“not
only
in
places
but
of
them”
(p.
19).

More
than
 earthlings,
Casey
argues
that
humans
are
placelings.

By
definition,
then,
place
 acknowledges
diversity,
as
one
place
(and
one
human)
is
inherently
different
from
another,
 and
yet
places
(and
humans)
are
interconnected
in
a
larger
whole.

By
developing
a
strong
 understanding
of
one’s
place,
Casey
contends
that
other
places
are
better
understood
and
 humans
(and
their
places)
are
provided
the
opportunity
to
be
brought
together
more
 closely.

He
writes,

 Standing
in
this
place
thanks
to
the
absolute
here
of
my
body,
I
understand
 what
is
true
of
other
places
over
there
precisely
because
of
what
I
 comprehend
to
be
the
case
for
this
place
under
and
around
me.

This
does
 not
mean
that
I
understand
what
is
true
of
all
places,
but
my
grasp
of
one
 place
does
allow
me
to
grasp
what
holds,
for
the
most
part,
in
other
places…
 (p.
45)
 Thus,
local
knowledge
derived
from
a
particular
place
serves
one’s
connection
to
other
 places.
 
 28
 
 Surveying
the
literature
on
place,
David
Gruenewald8
(2003b)
recognizes
Casey’s
 focus
on
perception
as
well
as
other
dimensions
of
place.

The
five
dimensions
that
he
 outlines
are:
perceptual,
sociological,
ideological,
political,
and
ecological.

These
 dimensions
are
interrelated
and
they
connect
to
a
host
of
different
traditions
including
 philosophy,
geography,
anthropology,
and
indigenous
thought.

Instead
of
trying
to
fix
an
 essential
notion
of
place,
Gruenewald
seeks
to
show
that
each
dimension
“is
in
its
own
way
 an
expression
of
the
fundamental
idea
that
places
are
pedagogical”
(p.
623).

Of
 Gruenewald’s
five
dimensions,
three
are
the
most
salient
to
me.

The
perceptual
dimension,
 rooted
in
phenomenological
thought,
shows
that
“places
are
the
ground
of
direct
human
 experience”
(p.
623).

The
body,
and
all
bodies,
are
set
in
close
connection
to
the
natural
 world.

But
at
the
same
time,
the
sociological
dimension
casts
place
as
a
social
construct.

 Although
it
might
be
counterintuitive
to
consider
what
is
natural
as
socially
constructed,
 Gruenewald
(2003b)

argues
that
“it
is
people
and
cultures
that
invest
places—ecosystems,
 oak
trees,
nature
itself—with
meaning”
(p.
626).

Thus,
people
are
placemakers.

For
the
 ecological
dimension,
Grunewald
looks
to
Wendell
Berry,
who
“advances
a
bioregional
 understanding
of
place,”
(p.
634)
one
that
is
rooted
in
what
Berry
(1993)
calls
“local
life.”

 Under
this
dimension,
Gruenewald
also
notes
the
rise
of
ecofeminism,
which
seeks
“to
 recognize
how
dominant
cultural
patterns
destroy
diversity
in
particular
places
and
to
take
 the
political
action
needed
to
conserve
diverse
cultures
and
ecosystems”
(2003b,
p.
635).
 In
this
work
(2003b),
Gruenewald
lays
out
a
“multidisciplinary
framework
for
place‐ conscious
education.”

Elsewhere
(2003a),
he
conceives
of
a
“critical
pedagogy
of
place,”

 























































 8
Recently,
Gruenewald
changed
his
last
name
to
Greenwood
and
now
publishes
under
that
 name.
 
 29
 and
across
his
work,
he
calls
attention
to
the
displacement
of
place
in
schools,
and
the
need
 for
schools
to
be
(re)emplaced.

When
a
person
is
emplaced,
he
or
she
is
positioned
in
a
life
 context
that
is
natural
and
life‐sustaining.

The
person’s
health
and
growth
is
prioritized
 and
it
does
not
come
at
the
expense
of
others’
health
and
growth.

But
when
a
person
is
 displaced,
he
or
she
is
disconnected
from
such
a
life
context.

The
person
is
made
to
flee.

In
 thinking
about
emplacement
and
displacement,
I
often
focus
on
the
metaphor
of
a
garden
 and,
in
particular,
the
life‐giving
roots
of
the
plants
within
it.

A
garden
is
a
community
of
 life.

The
individual
living
organisms
thrive
as
the
entire
community
thrives,
and
vice
versa.

 Each
plant’s
roots,
which
allow
it
to
live
and
grow,
work
their
way
through
the
 community’s
soil.

Properly
cared
for,
the
plants
become
emplaced,
with
their
deep
 rootedness,
in
the
garden.

Emplacement
(and
displacement)
involves
the
cultivation
(and
 stunting
or
uprooting)
of
roots.
 While
Gruenewald
largely
dwells
in
a
theory
of
place‐conscious
education
(or
 “place‐based,”
as
it
is
also
called),
laying
out
the
importance
and
purposes
of
people
and
 other
living
beings
to
be
and
live
emplaced,
Smith
and
Sobel
(2010a,
2010b)
examine
 place‐
and
community‐conscious
education
by
detailing
ongoing
pedagogical
efforts
that
 take
place
in
schools.

They
find
that
students
who
are
rooted
in
their
local
places,
with
 developed
senses
of
place,
are
more
connected
to
others
(and
other
places),
both
near
and
 far,
and
better
citizens
of
their
communities.

This
connection
and
citizenship
is
grounded
 in
the
land
under
foot.
 
 A
landed
conception
of
place.
 Writing
about
the
history
of
indigenous
knowledge,
American
Indian
scholar
Vine
 Deloria
offers,
“while
tribal
peoples
did
not
have
a
detailed
conception
of
the
whole
planet
 
 30
 in
the
sense
that
Western
scientists
presently
do,
they
did
have
a
very
accurate
knowledge
 of
the
lands
they
inhabited,
and
the
plants,
animals,
and
other
life‐forms
that
shared
their
 environment”
(2001,
p.
21).

Deloria
goes
on
to
describe
how
American
Indian
knowledge
 was
predicated
on
the
idea
of
respect
for
surroundings,
particularly
the
land
under
one’s
 feet,
which
sustained
life.

There
was
an
integrity
to
all
living
relationships
and
humans
saw
 themselves
set
within
a
system
of
life,
not
as
the
controller
of
all
life.

Human
actions
were
 understood
to
have
far‐ranging
impacts.

Therefore,
it
was
important
for
all
relationships
to
 be
complete:
“completing
the
relationship
focuses
the
individual’s
attention
on
the
results
 of
his
or
her
actions.

Thus,
the
Indian
people
were
concerned
about
the
products
of
what
 they
did,
and
they
sought
to
anticipate
and
consider
all
possible
effects
of
their
actions”
(p.
 23).

Sustainability,
over
the
time
of
generations,
was
a
focal
point
of
living.
 Not
only
was
place
important
to
indigenous
knowledge,
it
was
indigenous
 knowledge.

“The
key
to
understanding
Indian
knowledge
of
the
world
is
to
remember
that
 the
emphasis
was
on
the
particular,
not
on
general
laws
and
explanations
of
how
things
 worked”
(p.
22).

Although
writing
of
indigenous
knowledge
in
the
past
tense,
Deloria
 quickly
moves
to
call
for
American
Indian
education
and
American
education
in
general— both
in
a
perceived
state
of
crisis—to
learn
from
this
knowledge.

Cajete
(1994),
Grande
 (2004),
and
Wildcat
(2009)
write
from
similar
stances.

Wildcat
links
this
educational
crisis
 to
the
crisis
of
climate
change.

His
solution
to
both
is
singular:
we
need
to
pay
attention
to
 “indigenous
realism,”
which
starts
from
the
premise
that
“our
human
knowledge
of
reality
 must
always
be
approached
with
humility”
(p.
9).

Wildcat
argues
that
indigenous
peoples
 possess
“place‐shaped
knowledges”
that
can
bring
about
“a
rethinking
of
our
diverse
 
 31
 human
cultural
development
as
shaped
by
places”
(p.
11).

Understanding
knowledge
in
 one
place,
then,
serves
all
places,
all
living
beings.
 For
these
American
Indian
scholars,
place
and
education
are
interwoven.

 Embedded
in
this
understanding
of
life,
and
the
world,
is
a
rooting
in
the
physical
earth.

 People
live
in
relation
to
the
land
and
their
knowledge
is
landed.

Mother
Earth
is
alive
and
 people
live
in
relationship
with
her.

Thus,
in
the
words
of
the
title
of
Basso’s
book
about
 place
and
the
Western
Apache,
“wisdom
sits
in
places”
(1996).
 Many
of
the
ideas
of
indigenous
realism,
particularly
the
importance
of
a
committed
 relationship
to
land,
are
found
in
other
writings
about
place
(e.g.,
hooks,
2009;
Snyder,
 1990;
Stegner,
1992;
Thoreau,
1854/1981).

These
writings
are
all
marked
by
a
human’s
 lived
responsibility
to
care
for
the
earth.

But,
more
than
that,
they
assert
the
unity
of
 humans
and
the
earth
in
one,
interrelated
community.

For
Aldo
Leopold,
this
is
a
“land
 ethic,”
which
“enlarges
the
boundaries
of
the
community
to
include
soils,
waters,
plants,
 and
animals”
(1966,
p.
219).

Thus,
humans
live
in
an
intimate
relationship
with
the
land,
 possessing
a
feeling
of
deep
connectedness
to
a
larger
whole
in
an
“I‐Thou”
relationship
 (Knapp,
2005).

They
are
cultivators
and
conservationists
of
the
land,
and
not
mere
 consumers
of
it.

This
land
ethic,
then,
requires
place
to
be
considered
not
just
as
a
living
 relationship
with
other
people
and
man‐made
structures,
but
also,
perhaps
even
foremost,
 with
the
land.


 As
I
read
this
literature
on
the
intimate
relationship
between
humans
and
land,
I
 find
the
deepest
connections
in
the
extensive
writings
of
the
farmer
and
writer
Wendell
 Berry
(1977,
1981,
1990,
1993,
2010;
Prakash,
1994).

Berry
writes,
“no
matter
how
urban
 our
life,
our
bodies
live
by
farming;
we
come
from
the
earth
and
return
to
it,
and
so
we
live
 
 32
 in
agriculture
as
we
live
in
flesh.

While
we
live
our
bodies
are
moving
particles
of
the
earth,
 joined
inextricably
both
to
the
soil
and
to
the
bodies
of
other
living
creatures”
(1977,
p.
97).

 Elsewhere,
Berry
(2010)
takes
up
place
as
the
relational
point
at
which
our
lives
interact
 with
the
land.

He
writes
of
“the
difficulty
of
separating
my
work
from
my
life,
and
the
place
 from
either”
(p.
2).

All
are
wrapped
up
into
one,
integrated
relationship.

Speaking
about
 his
collection
of
many
writings
over
many
years,
Berry
offers
that
“[it]
originates
in
part
in
 actual
experience
of
an
actual
place:
its
topography,
weather,
plants,
and
animals;
its
 language,
voices,
and
stories”
(p.
4).

This
definition
of
place
focuses
on
the
relationship
of
 people
with
their
surrounding
environments.

For
me,
it
locates
the
sometimes‐ ungrounded
ideas
about
place
in
the
earth
with
a
land‐based
conception
of
place.

Berry’s
 list
of
elements
of
“an
actual
place”
stem
from
inhabited
land
and
participation
in
its
local
 communities
and
cultures.

Meaning
that
transforms
this
land
into
a
place
comes
through
 one’s
relationship
to
the
land
and
those
that
live
upon
it.9

As
Berry
reflects
on
the
 relationship
of
his
writing
to
his
farm
in
Kentucky,
he
offers,
“[what]
I
have
written
here,
I
 suppose,
must
somehow
belong
here
and
must
be
different
from
any
[writing]
I
might
have
 written
in
any
other
place”
(2010,
p.
4).

What
he
writes—indeed
who
he
is—is
a
product
of
 where
he
is.

Place
matters
unquestionably
in
the
shaping
of
lives.
 One
feature
of
Berry’s
conception
of
place
is
that
he
is
suspicious
of
what
he
calls
 “global
thinking.”10

He
writes:
“properly
speaking,
global
thinking
is
not
possible.

Those
 























































 9
Similarly,
Orr
(1992)
writes
of
place
as
a
source
of
“food,
water,
livelihood,
energy,
 materials,
friends,
recreation,
or
sacred
inspiration”
(p.
126).

The
groundedness
of
these
 aspects
of
place
lead
Orr
to
argue
that
“place,
by
definition,
is
specific”
(p.
127).

 10
It
is
important
to
note
that
Berry’s
definition
of
global
is
different
from
definitions
put
 forward
by
global
education
scholars.

For
example,
Graham
Pike
writes:
“Global
education
 
 33
 who
have
‘thought
globally’
(and
among
them
the
most
successful
have
been
imperial
 governments
and
multinational
corporations)
have
done
so
by
means
of
simplifications
too
 extreme
and
oppressive
to
merit
the
name
of
thought”
(1993,
p.
19).

Since
people
live
 locally,
any
form
of
world‐scale
action
must
involve
the
work
of
localities
coming
together.

 One
local,
or
entity,
cannot
act
internationally
by
itself
since
humans
have
a
finite
capacity
 to
interact
with
land,
people,
and
cultures.

Life
and
living,
Berry
contends,
is
made
up
of
 many
relationships
at
local
scales
that
are
all
interdependent
on
each
other.

For
any
 problem,
then,
“a
good
solution
in
one
pattern
preserves
the
integrity
of
the
pattern
that
 contains
it”
(1981,
p.
7).

Thus,
good
local
living
is
the
best
form
of
good
global
living
 (1993).

 Gruenewald
(2003b)
notes
that
Berry’s
“bioregionalism”
has
come
under
attack
 from
social
justice
advocates
who
say
that
solely
local
living
dwells
too
deeply
in
one
place,
 while
greater
injustice
exists
elsewhere.

Berry,
however,
in
condemning
his
conception
of
 global
thought,
does
not
promote
isolationism.

“A
good
solution
[to
any
problem]
acts
 within
the
larger
pattern
the
way
a
healthy
organ
acts
within
the
body.

But
it
must
be
 understood
that
a
healthy
organ
does
not—as
the
mechanistic
or
industrial
mind
would
 like
to
say—‘give’
health
to
the
body,
is
not
exploited
for
the
body’s
health,
but
is
a
part
of
 its
health”
(1981,
p.
3).

Injustice
in
one
place,
in
one
pattern,
mars
all
patterns.

Thus,
 “solving
for
pattern”
is
critical
for
the
sustainability
of
all
living
beings
and
communities
as
 


















































































































































































 is
a
tapestry
in
the
making:
it
weaves
together
the
separate
threads,
such
as
economy,
 environment,
society
and
technology,
by
which
we
currently
make
sense
of
the
world.

It
is
 needed
to
help
us
fully
realize
our
interdependence
with
all
life
forms,
to
understand
that,
 ultimately,
survival
in
isolation
is
neither
desirable
nor
possible”
(2000,
p.
218).

Berry
also
 advocates
for
the
importance
of
understanding
interconnectedness;
his
definition
of
global
 assumes
an
international
scale
that
fails
to
have
a
rooting
in
local
places
and
a
commitment
 to
the
sustainability
of
those
places.

 
 34
 they
are
fundamentally
interconnected.

Pattern,
then,
requires
recognition
of
diversity—
 “which
exists
and
is
pleasant
but
also…is
necessary
and
we
need
more
of
it”
(1990,
p.
114).

 Pattern
is
predicated
on
an
understanding
of
and
commitment
to
a
unified
whole.

 
 A
landed
conception
of
place
acknowledges
that
a
place
is
both
a
location
on
the
 earth
and
a
living
relationship
with
it.

It
also
recognizes
that
places
and
people
are
 interconnected
with
other
places
and
people.

People
inhabit
places
alongside
of
 constructing
them,
and
this
takes
place
throughout
people’s
lives.

At
this
point,
we
return
 to
curriculum,
emphasizing
the
deep
connections
between
curriculum
and
place.
 
 Curriculum
And
Place
 
 I
conceive
of
curriculum
(or,
a
living
curriculum)
as
a
person’s
living
course
of
 learning.

I
conceive
of
place
as
a
person’s
living
relationships
with
surroundings.

As
life
is
 not
lived
in
abstract
space,
curriculum
is
always
placed.

These
places
of
a
curriculum
are
in
 flux,
changing
with
new
lived
experiences,
but
they
are
never
detached
from
that
 curriculum.

Thus,
curriculum
and
place
are
intricately
enmeshed;
they
are
integrated.
 
 Two
decades
ago,
Pinar
wrote,
“place
as
a
concept
is
largely
absent
in
the
 curriculum
literature,
predictably
so”
(1991,
p.
165).

Since
the
rise
of
the
field
in
the
first
 half
of
the
twentieth
century,
Pinar
contends
that
curriculum
has
mostly
been
considered
 in
the
abstract.

It
has
often
looked
beyond
particularity,
which
is
a
hallmark
of
place.

Pinar
 and
Grumet’s
“poor
curriculum”
(1976)
and
Clandinin
and
Connelly’s
“personal
 curriculum”
(1988)
were,
in
some
sense,
exceptions
to
this
tradition,
but
they
did
not
 overtly
locate
the
importance
of
place.

Kincheloe
and
Pinar
(1991)
eventually
sought
to
 bring
place
to
the
forefront.

“Curriculum
theory,”
they
argued,
“cannot
advance
if
it
 
 35
 abstracts
itself
from
time,
history,
place,
and
human
intention”
(p.
20).

Thus,
they
worked
 “toward
a
curriculum
theory
of
place,”
in
which
they
focused
particularly
on
the
American
 South.

This
work
has
spawned
deeper
investigations
of
curriculum
and
place
in
the
South
 (e.g.,
Casemore,
2008;
Ng‐A‐Fook,
2007;
Whitlock,
2007),
but
it
has
not
been
taken
up
with
 respect
to
other
regions
of
the
United
States,
and
place
is
cast,
foremost,
regionally.

 Perhaps
this
is
not
surprising,
though,
as
Kincheloe
and
Pinar
argue
that
“southerners
are
 wary
of
individuals
without
place”
(1991,
p.
13).
 
 But
place
is
an
issue
in
all
places,
and
for
all
people.


Whether
people
find
 themselves
emplaced
or
displaced—or,
more
likely,
in
some
tensionality
in
between— place
is
present.

The
question
is:
how
is
place
shaping
life,
and
in
turn,
how
is
life
shaping
 place?

Although
the
curriculum
literature
is
sparse
with
respect
to
work
about
place,
there
 seems
to
be
growing
talk
about
place
with
respect
to
curriculum.

 
 One
scholar
that
has
been
writing
about
curriculum
and
place
for
over
two
decades
 is
David
Jardine.

Jardine
writes
about
curriculum
integration,
which
“has
to
do
with
 keeping
things
in
place,
nested
in
the
deep
communities
of
relations
that
make
them
whole,
 healthy,
and
sane”
(Jardine,
LaGrange,
&
Everest,
2003,
p.
198).

He
is
concerned
with
the
 “integrated
curriculum,”
which
is
an
attempt
to
ground
education
in
our
relationships
with
 the
earth.

The
voices
of
all
living
beings
are
interwoven
into
one
whole
life.

Education
is
 “an
ecological
and
spiritual
matter,
involving
images
of
our
place
and
the
place
of
our
 children
on
‘this
precious
Earth’”
(Jardine,
1998,
p.
73).
 
 For
Jardine,
what
students
learn
and
what
teachers
teach
must
be
earthen.

Their
 work
in
classrooms
must
serve
the
sustainability
of
all;
it
must
cultivate
oneness,
integrity.

 For
this
reason,
he
is
wary
of
contemporary
ways
of
schooling
that
are
grounded
in
student
 
 36
 learning
of
displacing
academic
content.

“The
disassembling
of
curriculum
into
disparate
 disciplines
is
all
too
akin
to
the
ecologically
disastrous
and
life‐threatening
disassembling
 of
our
Earth”
(2006,
p.
172).

An
integrated
curriculum
is
not
void
of
academic
content;
 rather,
the
academic
content
is
determined
in
relation
to
where
(and
who)
the
students
and
 teachers
are.

Jardine
explains
this
point
by
telling
a
story
of
his
teaching:
he
asked
his
 teacher
education
students
to
consider
how
a
sheet
of
paper
could
be
used
in
teaching
any
 curricular
topics.

Initial
responses
involved
writing
on
the
paper,
folding
it,
and
reading
 what
is
printed
on
it.

But
possibilities
opened
up
when
a
student
suggested
looking
at
how
 paper
is
made.

This
led
to
the
idea
that
studying
trees
would
be
“on
topic.”


Jardine
writes,
 Once
this
shift
of
focus
occurred,
what
began
was
a
giddy
onrush
of
sun
and
 soil
and
water
and
logging
and
chainsaws
and
gasoline
and
refineries.

That
is
 to
say,
because
of
this
serendipitous
“turn,”
of
attention,
suddenly
and
 unexpectedly,
everything
came
to
be
co‐present
with
this
paper,
everything
 seemed
to
nestle
around
it.
(italics
original;
1998,
p.
69)
 Relevant
relationships
abounded
as
nothing
seemed
disconnected.

The
students
came
to
 the
realization
that
“every
object
is
a
unique
center
around
which
all
others
can
be
gathered
 while
at
the
same
time
that
very
object
rests
on
the
periphery
of
all
others,
proximal
to
 some,
distant
to
others”
(italics
original;
p.
70).
 
 There
is
a
form
of
placelessness
in
this
realization.

If
everything
is
tied
to
 everything
else,
then
what
matters?

But
Jardine
reminds
us,
like
Berry
and
Casey
above,
 that
we
are
of
the
earth.

Made
from
the
earth,
we
stand
upon
it,
and
ultimately
return
to
it.

 Our
lives
are
unique
centers
where
we
are,
and
yet
they
are
also
on
the
margins
of
all
other
 lives.

As
we
lead
our
lives
from
our
centers,
our
places,
it
is
critical
that
we
recognize
our
 
 37
 relationships
with
our
surroundings.

For
Jardine,
then,
this
is
the
work
of
education.

The
 schooling
curriculum
is
to
be
rooted
humbly
in
our
relationships
with
our
surroundings.
 
 In
No
Place
But
Here
(1996),
Garret
Keizer
provides
insight
into
his
work
as
a
 teacher
mindful
of
where
he
teaches.

He
writes
of
his
first
years
teaching
in
the
Northeast
 Kingdom
of
Vermont.

His
story
begins
with
his
introduction
to
Vermont
and
the
 community
in
which
he
teaches.

Although
he
had
purposefully
departed
the
heavy
 industry
of
New
Jersey
for
a
more
rural
setting,
his
new
hometown
featured
a
furniture
 mill.

This
made
his
move
“a
bit
like
carrying
coals
to
Newcastle”
(p.
2).

That
is,
Vermont
 wasn’t
necessarily
so
different
from
New
Jersey,
as
tough,
smelly,
unsung
factory
work
is
 not
specific
to
one
place.

And
yet,
Keizer
goes
on
to
frame
his
story:
 Rurality
is
my
context
more
than
my
subject,
though
to
some
extent
it
must
 be
both.

I
write
my
essay
on
teaching
in
a
rural
community
not
as
a
soldier
 would
write
about
making
war
in
a
desert—where
lack
of
water
and
cover
 define
the
very
strategy—but
as
a
lover
might
write
about
his
affair
in
a
 village,
where
the
mountains
and
verandas
have
determined
the
moods
and
 the
occasions
of
love,
but
have
made
the
loving
itself
little
different
than
it
is
 elsewhere.
At
least
this
is
what
I
suppose—as
I
say,
I
have
taught
no
place
but
 here.
(p.
3)
 Although
the
book
is
foremost
about
place,
and
specifically
teaching
in
a
particular
place,
 this
paragraph
is
as
close
as
Keizer
gets
to
defining
the
concept
of
place.

There
is
a
subtle
 distinction
made
between
place
as
“defin[ing]”
and
“determin[ing].”

With
the
former,
place
 is
a
matter
of
fact,
preceding
human
action.

The
limits
of
what
is
possible
are
set.

But
with
 the
latter,
place
is
made
in
the
interaction
of
people
and
their
environments,
which
means
 
 38
 place
is
inherently
subjective
and
constructed.

Keizer
sides
with
place
as
determiner,
 arguing
that
place
is
woven
into
living,
or
vice
versa;
it
is
not
the
mere
boundary
that
 encloses
life.


 
 It
is
common
to
hear
the
idiom,
“good
teaching
is
good
teaching,”
as
the
point
is
 made
that
the
work
of
good
teaching
is
important
everywhere,
regardless
of
context.

 Keizer
recognizes
that
embedded
in
this
saying
is
the
idea
that
a
good
teacher
understands
 and
accounts
for
her
particular
context
(i.e.,
her
students,
courses,
school,
community,
local
 culture,
personal
beliefs
and
so
on),
as
a
part
of
her
good
teaching.

In
this
respect,
Keizer’s
 book
isn’t
about
teaching;
it’s
about
teaching
“here.”

Whether
it
is
recognized
or
not,
I
posit
 that
all
teaching—and,
indeed,
all
learning—is
placed
in
the
sense
that
Keizer’s
is.

If
not
 mountains
and
verandas,
some
particular
environmental
aspects,
physical
and
social,
set
 the
“moods
and
occasions”
of
the
teaching—and
of
the
learning.
 
 Conclusion
 
 Keizer’s
book
is
a
story
about
the
relationship
between
curriculum,
place,
and
 schooling:
it’s
about
what
his
students
learn
living
and
going
to
school
in
the
Northeast
 Kingdom
of
Vermont;
and,
it’s
about
what
he
has
learned
living
and
teaching
there.

It
 shows
how
living,
learning,
and
teaching
are
inherently
placed.

It
shows
how
his
teaching
 is
shaped
by
the
particularities
of
where
and
who
he
teaches.

And
it
shows
how
his
past,
 present,
and
future—his
narrative
life
history,
including
the
places
in
which
that
history
is
 set—are
intertwined
with
his
teaching.
 
 In
this
chapter,
I
have
laid
out
a
conception
of
curriculum
that
is
interested
in
 learning
and
living
far
beyond
the
place
of
school.

And
yet,
returning
to
Dewey
 
 39
 (1897/1959),
school
is
a
critical
place
to
attend
to
learning
and
living.

At
the
present
time,
 over
a
century
after
Dewey’s
“insist[ence]
upon
the
school
as
the
primary
and
most
 effective
interest
of
social
progress
and
reform”
(p.
31),
schools
are
still
a
central
institution
 to
the
communities
(and
the
whole
community)
they
inhabit.

It
is
schools,
as
charged
by
 the
National
Council
for
the
Social
Studies,
that
are
“to
help
young
people
make
informed
 and
reasoned
decisions
for
the
public
good
as
citizens
of
a
culturally
diverse,
democratic
 society
in
an
interdependent
world”
(NCSS,
2010,
p.
3).

And,
standing
at
the
point
of
this
 charge,
are
teachers.

In
the
ensuing
chapters,
I
take
up
a
study
of
how
three
teachers— shaped
by
their
living
curricula,
rooted
in
particular
relationships
with
their
 surroundings—carry
out
their
important
work.
 
 
 
 40
 CHAPTER
TWO
 
 METHOD/OLOGY:

 STUDYING
EXPERIENCE
THROUGH
STORY
 
 All
you
can
write
is
what
you
see.
 —Woody
Guthrie,
New
York
City,
194011
 
 Introduction
 
 For
the
past
five
years,
I
have
taught
“methods”
courses
comprised
of
college
seniors
 who
are
studying
to
be
social
studies
teachers.

The
aim
in
these
courses
is
for
students
to
 become
acquainted
with,
and
enact
in
their
classrooms,
different
teaching
methods.

When
 we
gather
on
the
first
day
of
the
class,
however,
I
raise
what
I
feel
is
a
critical
distinction
 about
the
framing
of
the
course.

Our
course,
I
say,
is
about
social
studies
methods
and
 methodologies.

The
distinction
is
essential
to
how
I
approach
teaching
the
course.
 
 A
method
is
a
manner
of
doing
something.

In
a
classroom,
lecture
is
often
a
method
 of
instruction.

An
essay
is
often
a
method
of
assessment.

Writing
out
a
lesson
plan
is
often
 a
method
of
preparing
to
teach.

These
and
so
many
other
methods
structure
life
in
 classrooms.

What
gets
overlooked
in
focusing
on
methods,
though,
are
the
assumptions
 embedded
in
them.

Use
of
lecture
can
assume
that
the
teacher
is
all‐knowing
and
the
 students
are
all‐lacking.

Use
of
an
essay
can
assume
that
student
knowledge
is
best
 demonstrated
or
utilized
through
formal,
argumentative
writing.

Use
of
a
lesson
plan
can
 























































 11
Noted
at
the
bottom
of
the
original
lyrics
to
“This
Land
Is
Your
Land.”
 
 41
 assume
that
the
teacher
can
know
how
the
class
will
unfold.

The
point
is
not
to
argue
for
 the
eviction
of
methods
from
classrooms;
rather,
the
point
is
to
contextualize
methods
with
 thought
about
their
usage.

This
contextualized
thought
is
methodology.

My
students
 typically
want
to
talk
about
methods,
not
methodology,
because
they
are
not
eager
to
make
 the
hard
decisions
required
by
methodology.

They
want
to
learn
how,
not
think
about
why,
 to
lecture,
but
my
goal
is
for
them
to
consider
both.

For
this
reason,
I
insert
a
forward
slash
 in
the
chapter’s
title,
constructing
“method/ology,”
in
order
to
give
some
pause
to
reading
 of
the
term.


 
 In
this
chapter,
I
seek
to
make
clear
my
actions
and
purposes,
my
methods
and
 methodologies,
in
this
study.

I
begin
with
a
discussion
of
the
general
act
of
researching.

I
 then
move
into
the
particular
methodologies
of
this
study.

The
second
half
of
the
chapter
 focuses
on
the
methods
I
used
to
carry
out
the
study.

In
describing
these
methods,
I
 introduce
the
study’s
participants
and
begin
to
tell
a
story
of
my
research
with
them.

This
 chapter
serves
to
map
out
the
landscape
for
the
stories
that
follow
in
the
ensuing
chapters.
 
 

 Research
As
Pedagogical
And
Curricular
 
 In
Researching
Lived
Experience
(1997),
Max
van
Manen
positions
research
as
an
act
 of
pedagogy.

“One
does
not
pursue
research
for
the
sake
of
research”
(p.
1),
he
writes.

 Rather,
one
does
research
because
of
a
prior
interest.

For
van
Manen,
this
interest
is
 pedagogy,
which
he
defines
broadly
as
“the
activity
of
teaching,
parenting,
educating,
or
 generally
living
with
children,
that
requires
constant
practical
acting
in
concrete
situations
 and
relations”
(p.
2).

I,
too,
approach
research
pedagogically,
although
my
interest
in
 
 42
 pedagogy
tends
to
be
a
bit
narrower
than
van
Manen’s,
focusing
largely
on
school‐related
 pedagogy.


 
 To
this
notion
of
research‐as‐pedagogy,
I
would
add
research‐as‐curriculum.

 Pedagogy
is
about
the
activity
of
educating.

Curriculum,
as
I
outline
in
Chapter
One,
is
 about
learning
through
and
from
lived
experiences.

The
two
practices
are
intertwined.

 While
I
see
research‐as‐curriculum
implicit
in
van
Manen’s
work,
I
seek
to
highlight
it
here.

 This
research
is
phenomenological
and
hermeneutic
as
it
focuses
on
the
lived
meanings
of
 people’s
experiences.

It
approaches
people
as
unique
individuals
and
it
dwells
in
the
 specific
experiences
of
their
lives.

Thus,
the
job
of
the
researcher
is
to
take
what
is
implicit
 (embodied)
in
the
participant’s
life
and
make
it
explicit
(discursive).

From
such
a
research
 stance,
van
Manen
writes,
 to
do
research
is
always
to
question
the
way
we
experience
the
world,
to
 want
to
know
the
world
in
which
we
live
as
human
beings.

And
since
to
 know
the
world
is
profoundly
to
be
in
the
world
in
a
certain
way,
the
act
of
 researching—questioning—theorizing
is
the
intentional
act
of
attaching
 ourselves
to
the
world,
to
become
more
fully
part
of
it,
or
better,
to
become
 the
world.
(italics
original;
1997,
p.
5)
 Such
research
is
a
caring
act
by
an
actor
who
asks
questions
and
seeks
to
answer
them.

 The
purpose
is
to
cultivate
integrity:
lives
living
more
completely.


 
 Committed
to
this
line
of
interpretive
work,
Garman
(2007)
posits
that
research
in
 its
written
form
often
features
three
types
of
“essential
texts”:
experiential,
theoretic,
and
 discursive.

Experiential
text
“is
based
on
stories
that
focus
on
the
self
in
social
context”
(p.
 6).

Building
on
the
work
of
Maxine
Greene,
Garman
argues
that
experiential
text
has
an
 
 43
 inherent
gap
in
what
we
think
of
as
reality.

While
we
focus
on
“what
happened,”
we
cannot
 ignore
that
we
interpret
“what
happened
when,
why,
and/or
how”
(italics
added;
p.
6).

 Therefore,
imagination
is
required
to
bridge
this
gap
in
order
for
the
text
to
have
 significance
on
our
actions
and
educational
futures.

Theoretic
text
is
an
author’s
work
at
 interpreting
experiential
text
through
reflection
and
at
a
distance.

Using
reason—what
van
 Manen
calls
“a
broadened
notion
of
rationality”
(1997,
p.
16)—an
author
makes
meaning
of
 these
stories
of
living.

Citing
Elliot
Eisner’s
work,
Garman
describes
theoretic
text
as
 persuasive
writing,
in
which
an
author
constructs
an
interpretation.

The
third
text,
 discursive
text,
is
generated
by
“immersing
ourselves
in
multiple
discourses”
(2007,
p.
8).

 An
author
brings
relevant
scholarly
discourses
to
the
phenomenon
and
interpretation
of
it
 in
an
effort
to
reach
intellectual
depth.

“The
discursive
text
serves
to
enhance
the
author’s
 persuasive
ideas
and
to
legitimize
the
insights
of
theoretic
text.

In
addition,
the
discursive
 text
provides
the
public
space
of
intellectual
dialogue
and,
as
such,
keeps
the
dangers
of
 solipsism
at
bay”
(p.
8).

These
three
texts,
as
central
components
of
interpretive
research,
 are
woven
throughout
my
study.
 
 Garman’s
three
essential
texts,
what
I
call
writing
texts,
refer
to
types
of
writing.
 They
build
on
“preliminary
texts,”
and
Garman
notes
a
line
of
scholars
from
various
fields
 who
have
taken
up
discussion
of
what
constitutes
a
text.

Little
is
said,
though,
about
the
 creation
and
usage
of
these
preliminary
texts.

Clandinin
and
Connelly
(2000),
however,
 focus
closely
on
them,
what
they
call
field
texts.


 
 Field
Texts
As
Representations
Of
Experience
 
 44
 
 What
many
researchers
refer
to
as
data,
I
call
field.

Field
texts
are
informational
 texts
that
are
records
of
experience.

They
take
many
forms
and
are
generated
in
a
 particular
context,
and
they
overtly
signal
how
the
products
of
research
are
always
 emplaced.

Field
texts
do
not
exist
independent
of
the
researcher
and
the
participant;
 rather,
they
exist
as
products
of
a
collaboration
between
the
two.

Geertz
writes,

 in
short,
anthropological
writings
are
themselves
interpretations,
and
second
 and
third
order
ones
to
boot.

(By
definition,
only
a
“native”
makes
first
order
 ones:
it’s
his
culture).

They
are,
thus,
fictions;
fictions,
in
the
sense
that
they
 are
“something
made,”
“something
fashioned”—the
original
meaning
of
 fictio—not
that
they
are
false,
unfactual,
or
merely
“as
if”
thought
 experiments.
(1973,
p.
15)
 With
Geertz’s
insight,
I
approach
field
texts
as
made.

This
process
of
making
field
texts
 does
not
follow
a
simple
formula,
and
it
is
certainly
subject
to
issues
of
(mis)representation
 (Britzman,
2000;
Fine,
Weiss,
&
Wong,
2002),
but
it
is
marked
by
inherent
collaboration.

 Thus,
as
Harding
(1987)
argues,
a
researcher
does
not
partake
in
the
work
of
documenting
 field
texts
that
pre‐exist
“elsewhere.”

Instead,
the
researcher
collaborates
with
the
 participant
to
make
field
texts.

This
collaboration
means
that
field
texts
are
shaped
within
 both
the
continuity
and
interaction
of
living.

As
a
result,
field
texts,
and
research
in
general,
 are
always
in
process,
never
having
clear,
natural
beginnings
or
endings.

Clandinin
and
 Connelly
(2000)
call
this
“being
in
the
midst,”
asserting
that
a
researcher
must
 acknowledge
that
the
time,
space,
and
context
of
a
study
are
boundaries
in
need
of
seeing
 
 45
 and
understanding.12

Thus,
what
is
learned
from
the
research
is
structured
by,
and
 specific
to,
the
lived
relationship
of
researcher
and
participant.


 
 
 I
entered
this
work
with
the
conviction
that
the
study
participants
possessed
deep
 embodied
knowledge
and
it
was
my
privilege
to
care
for
that
knowledge.

We,
the
 participants
and
I,
were
all
knowers,
having
many
lived
experiences
and
stories
to
tell.

We
 each
had
our
own
living
curricula.

For
this
reason,
during
the
study,
I
sought
to
interact
 with
the
participants
as
dialogic
partners,
and
I
focused
on
hearing
their
stories
of
living.

I
 brought
an
initial
framing
of
topics
and
questions
to
our
relationships—indeed,
I
was
the
 impetus
for
the
study—but
our
interactions
over
the
study
dictated
the
course
of
our
 shared
experience
and
the
content
of
the
various
field
texts
generated.

This
research
 relationship,
then,
necessitated
that
I
engage
in
communication
and
collaboration
with
 each
participant
to
a
degree
that
allowed
for
us
to
connect
on
a
substantive
level,
one
that
 was
deeper
than
a
simple
researcher/researched
dynamic.

With
a
narrative
inquiry
focus,
 it
was
imperative
that
I
build
close,
collaborative
relationships
with
the
study
participants.


 
 In
this
study,
I
sought
to
investigate
how
truths
are
constructed
through
lived
 experience,
and
how
they
inform
current
and
future
experience,
particularly
with
respect
 to
teaching.

I
wanted
to
immerse
myself
in
the
personal,
living
curricula
of
a
small
group
of
 teachers
and,
following
van
Manen,
question
how
their
living
in
different
places,
and
at
 different
times,
shaped
their
teaching.

Through
various
methods
focused
on
storytelling,
I
 experienced
the
teachers’
living
and
teaching.

In
my
re‐presentation
of
these
stories,
I
 constructed
a
story
about
how
lived
experience
shapes
the
work
of
teaching.
 























































 12
Along
similar
lines,
Geertz
writes
of
“being
here”
and
“being
there,”
with
the
former
 being
the
place
of
a
scholarly
life,
and
the
latter
simply
being
a
“postcard
experience”
in
the
 field
(1988).
 
 46
 
 Hearing
And
Learning
From
Stories
 
 I
conducted
this
study
with
a
commitment
to
a
narrative
inquiry
methodology,
 specifically
the
line
of
narrative
research
developed
by
Clandinin
and
Connelly
(Clandinin
&
 Connelly,
1994,
2000;
Connelly
&
Clandinin,
1988).

Building
on
Dewey’s
framing
of
 experience
that
I
discuss
in
Chapter
One,
Clandinin
and
Connelly
write
that:
 narrative
inquiry
is
a
way
of
understanding
experience.

It
is
a
collaboration
 between
researcher
and
participants,
over
time,
in
a
place
or
series
of
places,
 and
in
social
interaction
with
milieus.

An
inquirer
enters
this
matrix
in
the
 midst
and
progresses
in
this
same
spirit,
concluding
the
inquiry
still
in
the
 midst
of
living
and
telling,
reliving
and
retelling,
the
stories
of
the
 experiences
that
make
up
people’s
lives,
both
individual
and
social.

Simply
 stated…narrative
inquiry
is
stories
lived
and
told.
(italics
added;
2000,
p.
20)
 Thus,
narrative
inquiry
is
concerned
with
collaborative
investigation
of
“lived
experience”
 through
the
telling
of
stories
with
particular
attention
to
time,
place,
and
interaction.

 Clandinin
and
Connelly
call
the
site
of
this
research
the
“three
dimensional
narrative
 inquiry
space”
(2000).

Narrative
links
together
experiences
in
the
past,
present,
and
 future,
and
this
continuity
over
time
is
directional,
always
moving
with
new
knowledge
 from
one
understanding
of
the
world
to
another.

Any
aspect
of
this
experiential
narrative
 (like
the
present)
is
always
situated
in
relation
to
the
other
aspects
(like
the
past
and
 future).

For
this
reason,
I
am
interested
in
the
experiential
range
of
teachers’
narratives;
 that
is,
their
pasts,
presents,
and
futures.


 
 47
 
 But
I
am
also
interested
in
teachers’
places,
across
their
lives
but
particularly
within
 their
schools.

Experiences
are
situated
by
a
second
dimension:
place.

They
take
place,
in
 particular
settings,
and
for
a
teacher,
a
prominent
setting
is
the
school.

An
experience
is
 contextualized
by
surroundings
and
different
surroundings
shape
different
experiences.

 This
closely
relates
to
a
third
dimension:
interaction.

An
experience
is
marked
not
only
by
 surroundings
but
by
interaction
with
those
surroundings.

Thus,
I
am
interested
in
 teachers’
relationships
with
their
surroundings.

For
this
reason,
the
schools
and
the
 classrooms
of
the
teachers
are
central
sites
to
the
study.

Likewise,
the
teachers’
 relationships
with
their
students
and
colleagues,
the
people
who
coexist
with
them
at
 school,
are
central
to
the
study.

 
 My
method
for
making
sense
of
these
placed
narratives
of
interaction
in
the
lives
of
 teachers
is
through
story.

Umphrey
(2007)
writes,
“ask
someone
to
tell
you
the
most
 important
thing
he
or
she
has
learned,
and
you
will
be
told
a
story.

Deep
learning
always
 takes
the
form
of
a
story”
(p.
15).

For
Clandinin
and
Connelly,
to
live
is
to
tell
stories,
and
 the
way
to
study
experience,
then,
is
to
attend
carefully
to
stories.

Although
experience
 cannot
be
translated
perfectly
into
words,
stories
of
experience
offer
glimpses
of
living.

 Through
storytelling,
one
reaffirms,
modifies,
and
creates
stories,
and
“stories
such
as
 these,
lived
and
told,
educate
the
self
and
others,
including
the
young
and
those,
such
as
 researchers,
who
are
new
to
their
communities”
(Clandinin
&
Connelly,
1994,
p.
415).

 Looking
across
these
stories,
at
teachers’
living
curricula,
I
examined
the
narrative
arcs
of
 how
place
matters
in
the
teachers’
lives,
then
extended
that
examination
to
the
teachers’
 pedagogical
imaginings.

In
the
research
phases,
it
was
my
task
as
the
researcher
to
elicit
 these
stories,
hear
them,
interact
with
them,
and,
eventually,
incorporate
them
into
the
 
 48
 stories
that
I
told
about
the
ways
in
which
teachers’
living
curricula
are
placed.

As
I
 worked
with
the
participants’
stories,
it
was
imperative
that
I
access
their
depth
and
 richness,
moving
into
their
inherent
complexity.


 
 Thus,
narrative
inquiry
is
both
deeply
personal
and
deeply
social.

With
the
study’s
 participants,
I
wanted
to
engage
both
of
these
aspects.

Given
the
richness
and
complexity
 of
lived
experience,
though,
I
looked
to
dwell
in
a
small
number
of
real
lives.

Clandinin
and
 Connelly
(2000)
write,
“in
the
grand
narrative,
the
universal
case
is
of
prime
interest.

In
 narrative
thinking,
the
person
in
context
is
of
prime
interest”
(p.
32).

 
 
 Foregrounding
Participant
Diversity
And
Engagement
 
 Any
research
study,
simply
by
its
design,
foregrounds
some
issues
and
backgrounds
 others.

Entering
this
study
I
emphasized
the
importance
of
participant
diversity,
with
 respect
to
where
they
live
and
what
they
teach.

I
also
emphasized
the
engagement
level
of
 the
participants,
seeking
to
have
them
work
with
me
as
collaborators.

 
 Participant
diversity:
Region.
 
 I
wanted
each
participant
to
be
a
K‐12
teacher
in
a
distinct
region
of
the
United
 States.

Concerned
with
how
place
shapes
teachers’
lived
experiences,
I
approached
the
 participants
first
by
the
regions
in
which
they
live
and
teach.

Following
Demko
and
 colleagues
(1992),
a
region
is
a
classification
of
geographic
space.

It
is
one
geographic
area
 made
up
of
smaller
geographic
areas.

The
link
across
these
smaller
areas
is
a
set
of
 commonalities.

Comparatively,
regions
feature
distinct
landforms,
climates,
cultures,
and
 histories.

And
yet,
any
of
these
features
of
a
region
are
entirely
dependent
on
other
 regions.

Indeed,
regions
are
constructions,
made
by
humans,
and
lacking
definitive
 
 49
 boundaries.

For
this
reason,
one
might
speak
of
the
American
Southwest
as
separate
from
 the
American
West,
and
yet
another
might
easily
include
the
Southwest
in
the
West.


 
 Regions
are
an
important
part
of
the
past,
present,
and
future
of
the
U.S.
(Ayers,
 Limerick,
Nissenbaum,
&
Onuf,
1996).

Although
popular
narratives
in
the
U.S.
associate
 regions
with
American
history
and,
thus,
consider
them
nostalgically
(as
if
they’re
being
 lost
in
the
present),
Ayers
and
Onuf
argue
that
American
regions
are
clearly
not
 disappearing.

“Americans
refuse
to
let
regional
identity
die,
because
it
offers
something
 that
appears
to
be
hard
to
find
in
a
mass
society:
a
form
of
identity
that
promises
to
 transcend
ethnic
boundaries,
to
unite
people
across
generations”
(p.
3).

Regions,
therefore,
 are
complex
and
evolving
places,
especially
amid
(re)emerging
global,
national,
and
local
 discourses
(Wilson,
1998).
 
 I
selected
three
regions—the
Northeast,
the
Midwest,
and
the
South—and
 specifically
three
metropolitan
areas—Boston,
Massachusetts;
Lansing,
Michigan;
and
 Mobile,
Alabama—for
several
reasons.

Each
of
these
areas
has
a
compelling
set
of
physical
 and
human
characteristics.

Like
their
larger
regions,
over
time,
the
different
waves
of
 people
who
have
come
to
these
areas
have
built
communities
and
cultures
that
are
specific
 to
their
surroundings
and
shared
values.

While
the
three
areas
do
possess
the
 commonality
that
each
is
located
in
the
United
States,
thus
tying
them
to
the
powerful
 hegemonic
narratives
of
the
nation‐state,
regional
differences
are
present
in
many
aspects
 of
living.

For
example,
Boston’s
schools
have
a
holiday
for
Patriot’s
Day,
while
Mobile’s
 schools
have
holidays
for
Confederate
Memorial
Day
and
Jefferson
Davis’
Birthday.

 Lansing’s
schools
do
not
have
a
holiday
for
any
of
these
days.

Similarly,
these
regions
 
 50
 feature
multiple
school
district
structures.13

Differences
such
as
these,
with
respect
to
 schools
but
also
the
larger
communities,
serve
to
create
unique
regional
narratives
for
each
 area
(and
these,
of
course,
are
in
addition
to
the
unique
narratives
of
sub‐regional
areas,
 narrowing
all
the
way
to
small
groups
and,
ultimately,
individuals).

Comparatively,
these
 three
areas
are
distinct
and
offer
a
collection
of
unique
locales.

Thus,
as
place
is
marked
by
 difference
and
diversity,
these
three
areas,
in
relationship
to
each
other,
offer
both
 elements
to
my
study.

And
yet,
it
is
important
to
emphasize,
they
are
also
interrelated
 parts
of
larger
wholes
(e.g.,
the
United
States
or
the
earth).

Research,
to
some
degree,
 always
situates
the
unique
within
larger,
more
common
frames
of
being.
 
 While
it
is
important
to
my
study
that
these
areas
are
similar
and
different
in
 compelling
ways,
they
also
cannot
stand
apart
from
me
as
the
researcher.

All
three
 regions/areas
are
significant
in
my
life.

As
I
describe
below,
each
holds
particular
personal
 meaning
that
is
derived
from
my
living
curriculum.

I
have
experienced
these
areas
 differently,
and
the
ways
in
which
each
is
meaningful
and
compelling
to
me
is
unique,
but
I
 lump
them
all
together
as
some
of
my
most
meaningful
places.

Many
of
the
stories
that
I
 tell
about
my
life
are
about
these
geographic
locations
and
my
communities
rooted
there.

 As
a
group,
compared
to
other
regions/areas,
they
particularly
interest
me.

Following
a
 narrative
inquiry
approach,
in
which
the
life
of
the
researcher
is
unavoidably
implicated
in
 the
research,
I
started
with
my
stories
in
order
to
consider
meaningfully
the
stories
told
by
 the
study’s
participants.


 























































 13
Schools
in
Massachusetts
and
Michigan
typically
have
city
boundaries
for
school
 districts
while
schools
in
Alabama
typically
have
county
boundaries
for
school
districts.
 
 51
 
 My
own
living
curriculum
served
as
an
important
interpretive
lens
throughout
the
 study,
one
that
allowed
for
a
relationship
of
depth
and
intimacy
with
these
regions/areas
 and
the
participants
who
lived
there.

Prior
to
the
study,
I
possessed,
to
varying
degrees,
a
 literacy
of
some
of
the
cultural
traditions
and
norms
in
each
place.

Periods
of
my
life
had
 been
lived
in
each
place
and
my
resulting
experiences
brought
some
level
of
understanding
 about
local
terminology,
discourses,
geography,
history,
and
so
forth.

For
example,
in
each
 place,
over
the
course
of
years,
I
had
read
a
local
newspaper
periodically
(if
not
daily),
 gaining
some
sense
of
pertinent
local
issues.

This
lived
knowledge
provided
important
 context
for
hearing
and
interpreting
the
stories
of
the
participants,
which
were
structured
 by
some
of
that
same
context.
 
 Participant
diversity:
Interdisciplinary
and
intergraded.
 Interested
in
K‐12
schooling
as
a
whole,
I
wanted
participants
across
grade
levels
 and
subject
areas.

With
only
three
participants,
I
was
not
able
to
extend
into
all
grades
and
 subjects
(and,
of
course,
I
could
not
have
participants
from
all
regions/areas
in
the
U.S.),
 but
I
was
able
to
court
some
diversity
in
these
areas,
and
this
diversity
helped
me
stretch
 my
research
focus
to
implicate
different
parts
of
K‐12
whole.

Although
this
approach
is
not
 common
in
the
scholarship—schooling
researchers
often
focus
in
elementary
or
secondary
 education
and/or
in
subject
areas
like
math,
literacy,
science,
and
social
studies—it
stems
 from
meaningful
aspects
of
my
teaching
and
research
up
to
this
point
in
my
career,
and
it
 shapes
the
work
that
I
seek
to
do
in
the
future.


 By
looking
at
teachers
across
the
grade
level
and
subject
area
spectra,
I
was
 interested
in
considering
the
relationships
among
the
different
parts
of
the
schooling
 system.

Although
schooling
is
often
cleaved
by
grade
level
and
subject
area,
the
aims
of
 
 52
 schools
extend
across
all
aspects
of
the
school.

Rather
than
root
myself
in
one
place
of
 schooling
(e.g.,
social
studies
education
or
middle
school
education),
as
with
my
 participants’
regional
identities,
I
wanted
to
enter
different
places
and
consider
their
 contexts.

I
also
wanted
to
consider
the
relationships
among
these
contexts
since
grade
 levels
and
subject
areas
exist
in
relation
to
each
other.

Interested
in
the
integrity,
or
 wholeness,
of
schooling,
an
interdisciplinary
and
intergraded
group
of
participants
 highlights
the
act
of
teaching
in
the
places
of
schooling
as
well
as
across
them.
 
 Participant
engagement.
 
 Beyond
diverse
teaching
contexts,
I
sought
participants
who
would
be
willing
to
 engage
deeply
in
the
research
effort.

Although
I
was
conducting
the
study,
I
wanted
the
 participants
to
see
and
feel
the
research
project
as
an
act
of
pedagogical
inquiry,
for
both
 themselves
and
me.

Certainly
this
inquiry
was
initiated
by
me:
it
was
taking
place
under
 the
auspices
of
my
dissertation
effort
and
none
of
the
participants
had
this
same
academic
 motivation.

Likely,
none
of
the
participants
would
have
engaged
in
similar
study
without
 my
impetus.

While
this
motivation
gap
is
customary
for
much
research,
it
makes
explicit
 large
ethical
considerations
that
encompass
this
work
(Fine,
Weiss,
&
Wong,
2002).
 
 Before
my
participants
agreed
to
participate,
I
highlighted
the
ways
in
which
I
 viewed
their
involvement
in
the
study
as
an
opportunity
for
educational
exploration
of
 their
teaching
selves.

I
noted
how
the
study’s
procedures
would
ask
participants
to
explore
 the
ways
in
which
they
make
sense
of
the
surrounding
world
and
their
experiences
and
 places
within
it.

They
would
share
stories
of
their
living
and
teaching
and,
in
the
process,
 have
an
opportunity
to
rethink
their
personal
curriculum.

Leaning
on
Clandinin
&
 Connelly’s
notion
that
“educational
researchers
are,
first,
educators”
(2000,
p.
xxii),
I
 
 53
 sought
for
the
research
process
to
be
a
meaningful
learning
experience—for
the
 participants
and
for
myself—that
could
have
social
significance
for
future
living
and
 teaching,
not
just
my
professional
career.


 
 I
planned
for
the
participants
to
devote
ample
time,
thought,
and
action
to
this
 study—a
large
commitment
on
their
parts.

It
was
essential
that
I
find
people
who
would
be
 committed
through
the
phases
of
the
project.

More
importantly,
though,
I
wanted
to
work
 with
people
with
whom
I
would
be
able
to
connect
deeply.

I
purposefully
sought
out
 people
with
whom
I
was
previously
acquainted
in
some
manner.

Thus,
we
would
already
 have
a
relationship,
which
would
facilitate
our
ability
to
work
closely
and
collaboratively.

 Although
not
to
the
degree
of
Laura’s
work
(2010),
in
which
she
studies
her
own
family,
I
 valued
an
“intimate”
inquiry.

As
Laura
writes,
such
inquiry
emphasizes:
 a
familiar
and
significant
relationship
that
would
exist
even
if
the
research
 did
not…
“Intimate”
inquiry
is
grounded
in
the
idea
that
the
fastest
way
to
get
 to
the
“truth,”
that
is
the
reality
that
a
person
constructs,
is
to
delve
close
to
 the
sources
of
the
quandary—to
ask
the
simplest
questions
and
pay
 scrupulous
attention
to
what
the
individual
thinks
that
he
or
she
is
up
to— and
in
light
of
the
person’s
social
surrounds,
to
interpret
(to
the
best
of
our
 ability)
what
these
meanings
tell
us.
(p.
280)
 I
would
enter
the
participants’
living
contexts.

In
doing
so,
we
would
establish
a
mutual
 context
that
recognized
who
both
of
us
were
and
made
transparent
our
close
collaboration.

 This
proximity,
I
felt,
would
not
only
be
a
decided
benefit
for
my
research
but
also
a
 requirement
as
I
sought
to
hear,
learn,
and
share
in
the
stories
of
each
participant’s
life.
 
 
 54
 Participants
 
 The
three
participants
in
this
study
were
Dan
Torres,
Rosie
Baker,
and
Tommy
 Allen.

These
names
are
all
pseudonyms.

Many
of
the
names
of
people,
locations,
and
so
 forth
are
pseudonyms.

I
have
disguised
these
names
according
to
contemporary
research
 conventions,
but
I
do
not
change
all
names.

As
you
have
already
read,
Boston,
Lansing,
and
 Mobile
have
all
been
named.

These
are
“real”
locations
and
I
purposefully
do
not
conceal
 them.

As
this
is
a
study
about
curriculum
and
place,
I
do
not
want
to
shy
away
from
 particularity.

The
names
of
Boston,
Lansing,
and
Mobile
matter.

Each
connotes
a
host
of
 ideas
and
meanings.

To
conceal
their
names
is
to
displace
them.

With
these
few
names
 (and
some
others)
that
are
placed
in
this
study,
I
feel
the
names
that
are
concealed
still
 stand
in
relation
to
their
geographic
areas.


 
 Through
the
study’s
methods
below,
and
then
through
the
ensuing
chapters,
I
dwell
 in
the
lives
and
stories
of
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy.

While
their
lives
are
explicit
in
what
 follows,
my
life,
for
the
most
part,
is
implicit.

Therefore,
before
describing
them,
I
provide
a
 brief
description
of
my
life,
which
is
intended
to
situate
me
in
relation
to
the
participants.

 Then,
I
offer
a
brief
description
of
each
teacher
so
as
to
locate
her
or
him
with
respect
to
 the
study’s
participant
criteria
above.
 
 Mark.
 
 A
resident
of
State
College,
Pennsylvania,

I
am
a
doctoral
student
in
education
at
 Michigan
State
University
(MSU).

While
I
write
my
dissertation,
I
teach
social
studies
 teacher
education
courses
at
Penn
State
University
(PSU).

A
white
male,
now
in
my
thirties,
 I
was
born
in
the
mid‐sized
city
of
Lansing,
Michigan,
and
grew
up
in
“Mid‐Michigan,”
in
a
 suburb
of
Lansing.

After
attending
Dartmouth
College
in
New
Hampshire,
I
taught
social
 
 55
 studies
at
a
public
high
school
in
Framingham,
Massachusetts,
twenty
miles
west
of
Boston.

 While
living
in
Massachusetts,
I
married
my
wife,
Erica,
a
white
female,
who
was
born
and
 grew
up
in
Mobile,
Alabama.

Each
year
that
we
lived
in
Massachusetts,
Erica
and
I
traveled
 to
Mid‐Michigan
to
see
my
immediate
family
at
Thanksgiving,
and
to
Mobile,
to
see
Erica’s
 immediate
family
over
the
December
holidays.

In
2007,
we
moved
to
East
Lansing
as
I
 enrolled
at
MSU.

Three
years
later,
after
completing
my
MSU
coursework,
we
moved
to
 State
College
as
Erica
accepted
an
assistant
professorship
at
PSU.
 
 Dan.
 
 A
resident
of
Lansing,
Michigan,
Dan
is
an
eighth
grade
social
studies
public
school
 teacher
in
Parker,
a
suburb
of
Lansing.

A
Filipino
American
male,
he
was
born
in
the
 Philippines
but
raised
predominantly
in
Stella,
a
small
city
in
southeast
Michigan.

He
 settled
in
Lansing
after
earning
his
bachelor’s
degree
at
MSU.

He
is
in
his
forties
and
has
 been
teaching
at
the
same
school
for
over
two
decades.

Divorced
and
re‐married,
he
has
 two
daughters
and
two
sons,
one
of
each
under
five
years
old,
and
one
of
each
over
17.
 
 I
met
Dan
five
years
ago,
in
my
first
year
of
graduate
school
at
MSU.

Dan
served
as
a
 mentor
teacher
for
teaching
interns,
some
of
whom
I
taught
in
the
lab
section
of
a
teaching
 methods
course.

In
my
second
and
third
year
at
MSU,
I
worked
with
Dan,
along
with
a
 small
group
of
MSU
professors
and
graduate
students,
to
create
some
new,
innovative
 experiences
for
teaching
interns.

In
addition
to
taking
my
students
out
to
observe
Dan’s
 teaching,
Dan
came
into
my
classroom
on
multiple
occasions,
and
worked
with
my
 students.
 
 
 Rosie.
 56
 
 A
resident
of
unincorporated
Mobile
County,
Alabama,
Rosie
teaches
gifted
 education
at
a
public
elementary
school
that
is
five
miles
from
her
house.

A
black
female,
 she
was
born
and
raised
in
the
City
of
Mobile,
in
a
neighborhood
known
as
The
Loop.

After
 attending
college
in
central
Alabama,
Rosie
returned
to
live
in
Mobile
City.

She
taught
in
 the
nearby
city
of
Prichard
before
moving
to
her
current
school,
which
is
just
south
of
 Mobile
City’s
boundaries.

In
her
thirties,
she
has
taught
for
nine
years,
the
last
six
at
her
 current
school.

Rosie
is
married,
and
at
the
end
of
this
study,
she
learned
that
she
was
 pregnant.

In
the
time
since,
she
has
given
birth
to
her
first
child.
 
 I
met
Rosie
through
my
wife,
Erica.

They
attended
the
same
high
school
in
The
 Loop,
where
they
became
friends,
sharing
some
of
the
same
classes
and
participating
 together
in
the
school’s
band.

Although
both
left
Mobile
for
college,
they
remained
friends,
 and
saw
each
other
when
they
were
back
home
from
school.

In
2003,
shortly
after
Erica
 and
I
began
dating,
I
met
Rosie
during
my
first
visit
to
Mobile,
where
she
was
living
and
 teaching
after
college.

At
the
time,
I
was
working
as
a
tutor
with
elementary
and
middle
 school
students
and
Rosie
and
I
connected
over
discussions
about
education.

In
the
 ensuing
years,
I
continued
to
see
Rosie
when
I
was
back
in
Mobile
with
Erica.

 
 Tommy.
 
 A
resident
of
Boston,
Massachusetts,
and
specifically
a
neighborhood
called
 Dorchester,
Tommy
teaches
English
at
a
public
high
school
near
his
home.

A
white
male,
he
 was
born
in
France,
but
the
majority
of
his
youth
was
spent
in
Maine.

After
being
expelled
 during
his
senior
year
of
high
school,
Tommy
drifted
for
years
across
the
U.S.
and
Europe,
 before
moving
to
Boston
and,
eventually,
Dorchester.

He
is
in
his
forties
and
has
taught
for
 
 57
 over
a
decade,
all
of
the
years
at
the
same
school.

Tommy
is
married
and
he
does
not
have
 children.
 
 I
met
Tommy
in
the
summer
of
2005
at
a
summer
enrichment
program
for
high
 school
students
from
under‐resourced
backgrounds.

Tommy
and
I
co‐taught
the
 humanities
component
of
the
three‐week
program.

Although
we
had
not
met
previously,
 we
learned
that
we
lived
within
a
few
miles
of
each
other.

In
the
weeks
leading
up
to
the
 summer
program,
we
met
a
few
times
to
plan
the
unit
that
we
would
teach.

As
we
talked
 during
these
planning
sessions,
and
then
during
the
program,
we
joked
about
“random
acts
 of
fortuity,”
like
our
mutual
interests
in
soccer
and
poetry,
which
were
coincidences
that
 provided
common
ground.

 
 Project
Phases
 
 I
implemented
a
two‐phase
study
plan,
the
parts
of
which
I
named
Pre‐Place
and
 Place.

As
these
names
connote,
the
project
centered
around
the
places
where
the
teachers
 live
and
teach.

I
named
the
phases
from
my
perspective,
as
I
was
going
to
visit
their
places.

 These
phases
were
specific
to
the
individual
participants,
unfolding
as
I
worked
with
 them.14

 
 Pre­Place
Phase.
 
 The
Pre‐Place
Phase
began
with
a
questionnaire.

I
emailed
a
document
with
 questions
and
the
participants
typed
in
their
answers,
saved
the
document,
and
emailed
it
 back
to
me.

The
questionnaire
provided
some
basic
personal
and
professional
background
 























































 14
For
example,
at
one
moment,
I
had
already
visited
Rosie
and
Mobile,
I
was
in
Boston
 with
Tommy,
and
Dan
was
in
the
Pre‐Place
phase.
 
 58
 information
(see
Appendix).

It
also
featured
a
series
of
questions
designed
for
participants
 to
describe
various
aspects
of
their
living
and
teaching
situations.

The
intent
of
this
 questionnaire
was
to
give
me
a
baseline
of
information
about
each
participant
that
would
 inform
my
Place
Phase
visit.


 
 After
reading
the
questionnaires
and
reflecting
on
them,
I
then
interviewed
each
 participant
with
a
call.

Rosie
and
I
conducted
an
audio
Skype
call
while
my
calls
with
Dan
 and
Tommy
took
place
over
the
phone.15

The
calls
were
opportunities
for
me
to
dialogue
 with
the
participants
about
their
questionnaire
answers.

I
asked
clarifying
and
follow‐up
 questions,
and
encouraged
concrete
and
richly
detailed
stories
about
their
lived
 experiences
and
the
places
in
which
they
currently
live
and
teach.

At
the
conclusion
of
 these
calls,
which
preceded
the
Place
Phase
by
several
days,
I
spoke
with
the
participants
 about
the
logistics
of
my
upcoming
visit.16

In
all
three
cases,
this
seemingly
mundane
 discussion
of
logistics
yielded
anecdotes,
stories,
and
interesting
particularities
about
each
 person.

 
 Place
Phase.
 
 In
the
Place
Phase,
I
traveled
to
where
each
participant
lives
and
teaches.
In
a
five‐ week
stretch,
I
visited
Rosie
in
Mobile,
then
Tommy
in
Boston,
then
Dan
in
Lansing.

I
spent
 roughly
a
week
in
each
place.

I
stayed
nights
with
family
or
friends
in
each
place,
but
I
 























































 15
These
calls
generally
lasted
an
hour
and
fifteen
minutes.
 16
I
inquired
about
the
kind
of
attire
that
I
needed
at
school
and
away
from
it.

I
found
out
if
 I
should
bring
a
lunch
to
school
or
plan
to
buy
it
in
the
school
cafeteria.

I
finished
each
call
 by
asking
if
I
should
be
mindful
of
anything
else
or
bring
anything
in
particular.

To
this,
 Tommy
told
me
to
bring
my
soccer
cleats
in
order
to
participate
in
his
team’s
practice.
 
 59
 spent
almost
entirely
the
remainder
of
my
time
with
the
participants.17

I
attended
all
 school‐related
activities
as
well
as
most
of
the
teachers’
“life‐related”
activities.

In
the
 morning,
on
school
days,
I
met
the
teachers
at
home
and
then
rode
to
school
with
them,
or
I
 was
picked
up
on
the
way,
or
I
met
them
at
school
before
the
first
bell.

Then
I
spent
the
 day,
afternoon,
and,
in
many
cases,
the
evening
with
them.

Prior
to
these
visits,
I
told
the
 participants
that
I
would
participate
in
any
activities
of
theirs
as
long
as
both
of
us
saw
no
 problems
related
to
it.

As
a
result,
Rosie
invited
me
to,
and
I
attended,
a
funeral
of
one
of
 her
former
campers
who
had
died
of
cancer
immediately
prior
to
my
visit;
with
Tommy
 and
his
wife,
I
attended
a
charity
fundraiser;
with
Dan
and
his
daughter,
I
went
used‐car‐ shopping.

Others
of
these
life
activities
in
which
I
participated
are
raised
in
the
ensuing
 chapters.


 
 At
school,
I
made
a
point
of
participating
in
the
life
of
each
teacher’s
classroom
to
 the
degree
that
it
seemed
like
it
would
not
interfere
with
planned
activities.

I
was
mindful
 that
I
could
not
walk
into
the
classroom
and
merely
observe
without
fundamentally
 altering
the
learning
context
(Angrosino
&
Mays
de
Pérez,
2000;
Hatch,
2002).

Therefore,
I
 sought
to
achieve
observation
goals—i.e.,
seeing
the
teacher
living
in
the
classroom:
 interacting
with
students,
telling
stories,
executing
various
teaching
actions,
etc.—through
 participation.

I
entered
each
school
ready
to
teach
and
not
planning
to
take
observation
 notes
or
act
like
a
wallflower.18

 























































 17
While
I
suspect
that
each
participant
and
her/his
family
would
have
invited
me
to
stay
in
 their
homes,
I
made
it
clear
at
the
onset
that
I
would
stay
with
family
or
friends
because
I
 wanted
the
participants
to
have
at
least
some
time
when
I
was
not
present.
 18
During
the
Pre‐Place
call,
each
teacher
had
briefed
me
about
their
teaching
plans
and
 how
I
might
be
useful
to
them
as
an
adult
in
the
classroom.
 
 60
 
 In
Rosie’s
classroom,
I
taught
a
20‐minute
lesson
on
Rome
and
Latin
each
of
the
 days
that
she
had
students.

I
also
served
as
a
teacher’s
aide
while
students
worked
on
a
 big,
ongoing
invention
project.

In
Tommy’s
classroom,
which
featured
much
small
group
 work,
I
circulated
among
groups,
usually
settling
down
to
work
closely
with
one
or
two
 groups
in
each
class.

In
Dan’s
classroom,
I
participated
largely
as
a
teacher’s
aide.19

In
 each
case,
I
did
not
humor
the
teacher
or
myself
by
thinking
that
I
would
be
able
to
offer
 transformative
teaching.

But,
as
a
teacher,
and
as
a
person
who
particularly
cared
about
 these
teachers
with
whom
I
was
working,
I
hoped
to
be
of
pedagogical
use
to
the
degree
 that
I
could.


 
 I
conducted
two
formal
interviews
during
each
visit.

One
interview
took
place
at
 school,
in
the
teachers’
classrooms.20

The
other
interview
took
place
away
from
school,
at
 the
participants’
homes,
even
though
I
made
clear
that
I
was
open
to
conducting
it
 anywhere
but
school.21

Interestingly,
during
all
three
interviews
at
home,
family
members
 or
friends
of
the
participants,
or
both,
were
also
in
the
houses.22

These
nearby
people
did
 























































 19
However,
in
order
for
Dan
to
take
his
ill
son
home
from
school
on
one
day,
I
taught
one
 of
his
classes
(with
a
school
administrator
in
the
room
for
legal
coverage).
 20
Dan’s
interview
was
during
his
45‐minute
prep
period,
on
two
consecutive
days.

Both
 days
we
sat
across
from
each
other
at
a
table
where
students
sit
during
class.

Tommy’s
and
 Rosie’s
interviews
took
place
at
their
teacher
desks.

Tommy’s
was
during
his
90‐minute
 prep
period,
while
Rosie’s
was
immediately
following
the
dismissal
of
students
for
the
day.
 21
With
Dan
and
Rosie,
we
sat
at
their
dining
room
tables.

Dan’s
interview,
as
with
his
 interview
at
school,
was
on
two
different
days,
one
on
a
weekend
afternoon
and
the
other
 on
a
weekday
night.

Rosie’s
was
in
the
early
evening
of
a
weekday.

With
Tommy,
we
sat
in
 front
of
his
fire
place,
looking
at
a
fire
that
he
had
made.

The
interview
took
place
on
a
 Friday
evening.
 22
As
I
talked
with
Rosie,
her
husband,
Rick,
worked
in
another
room.

As
I
talked
with
Dan
 for
the
first
part,
his
wife,
Laura,
and
three
of
his
children
talked
and
played
in
their
family
 room.

At
the
start
of
our
discussion,
his
oldest
child,
Sarah,
arrived
home
with
two
friends,
 
 61
 not
participate
in
the
interviews
but,
in
each
participant’s
case,
their
presence
 contextualized
the
stories
that
the
participants
told
about
the
importance
of
these
people
in
 their
lives.

 
 The
events
of
each
visit
determined
the
flow
of
these
interviews.23

Together,
I
 planned
for
these
interviews
to
be
my
organizing
field
texts.

While
I
would
have
many
 research
experiences
with
the
participants,
these
were
the
most
structured
experiences
 during
the
Place
visit.

And
yet,
the
interviews
themselves
were
a
mixture
of
structured
and
 unstructured
discussion,
what
some
researchers
call
semi­structured
(Fontana
&
Frey,
 2000).

As
I
describe
below,
in
each
interview,
I
had
certain
specified
intentions,
one
of
 which
was
to
allow
space
for
our
conversations
to
move
in,
and
even
court,
unforeseen
 directions.


 
 My
intent
with
the
interview
away
from
school
was
to
dwell
in
each
participant’s
 living
curriculum.

This
included
drawing
specific
attention
to
the
times
and
places
of
lived
 experiences.

Influenced
by
Clandinin
and
Connelly’s
use
of
annals
that
visually
represent
 and
mark
important
life
experiences
(1994,
2000),
I
asked
the
participants
to
construct
a
 


















































































































































































 one
of
whom
Dan
had
taught
several
years
prior.

Not
only
did
Dan
introduce
me
to
Sarah
 and
her
friends,
he
told
a
story
about
the
friend
whom
he
had
taught.

During
the
second
 part
of
our
interview,
Dan’s
two
youngest
children
slept
upstairs
while
Laura
and
her
 parents
talked
and
watched
television
in
the
family
room.

The
interview
had
followed
 “family
night,”
which
is
a
weekly
meal
that
Dan
cooks
for
his
immediate
family
and
Laura’s
 parents.

Somewhat
similar
to
Dan’s
family
night,
Tommy
and
his
wife,
Penelope,
have
 friends
over
weekly
on
Friday
nights.

They
play
ping
pong,
throw
darts,
listen
to
music,
 and
talk.

The
interview
took
place
as
break
from
that
gathering.
 23
For
each
Place
Phase
visit,
I
made
a
basic
itinerary
based
on
our
discussion
of
logistics
at
 the
end
of
the
Pre‐Place
phone
call.

I
emailed
the
itineraries
to
the
participants
and
asked
 them
to
alter
or
add
to
them
as
they
felt
was
appropriate.

As
my
time
in
each
place
was
 devoted
entirely
to
the
participants,
I
wanted
my
itinerary
to
fit
their
schedules.

Therefore,
 I
noted
some
of
the
research
methods
that
I
wanted
to
carry
out
while
we
were
together,
 and
they
then
placed
them
at
the
best
times.
 
 62
 table
of
contents
for
an
autobiography
that
they
would
write,
using
a
pencil
and
a
blank
 sheet
of
paper.

With
these
lists,
I
asked
them
to
tell
me
about
what
they
had
created.

Then,
 I
asked
them
to
annotate
the
list
with
key
words
that
represented
some
of
the
stories
that
 they
would
likely
tell
within
each
chapter.24

The
discussions
from
this
point
forward
 played
out
differently
as
the
participants
told
some
of
these
stories.


 
 During
this
storytelling,
on
the
whole,
I
spoke
very
little.

I
asked
clarifying
questions
 at
some
points,
and,
at
other
points,
I
took
the
participants
back
to
a
detail
and
asked
them
 to
expand
on
the
story.

However,
I
listened
with
attention
as
the
participants
opened
up
 and
narrated
their
lives.

I
was
audio‐recording
the
interviews
and
I
knew
that
I
would
 write
reflective
notes
later,
so
I
chose
to
take
no
notes
throughout
the
interview.

My
work
 was
to
hear
the
participants’
stories
of
lived
experience.
 
 With
the
school
interview,
I
was
also
looking
to
hear
their
stories
of
lived
 experience,
but
with
a
specific
focus
on
their
work
as
teachers.

I
began
each
interview
 asking
about
the
curricula
of
their
classes.

I
then
asked
the
teachers
to
tell
me
stories
of
 their
teaching,
which
I
prompted
with
questions
or
topics.25

I
also
listed
a
number
of
 major,
national
topics
or
events
and
I
asked
the
teachers
to
describe
their
classrooms
 around
the
times
of
these.26

Similarly,
I
asked
each
participant
about
some
topics
local
to
 























































 24
All
three
participants
noted
these
stories
rather
quickly,
although
Dan
surprised
me
by
 writing
down
twenty
stories
in
a
matter
of
a
few
minutes.
 25
I
asked
them
to
tell
me
a
story
about
one
powerful
moment
in
their
teaching
career.

I
 also
asked
them
to
tell
me
a
story
about
their
first
year
of
teaching.
 26
For
example,
I
brought
up:
September
11,
2001;
Hurricane
Katrina;
the
election
of
 President
Obama;
the
oil
spill
in
the
Gulf
of
Mexico;
and
the
killing
of
Osama
bin
Laden.
 
 63
 where
they
live.27

The
teachers’
stories
that
emerged
from
these
topics
and
events
 directed
much
of
the
interview.

As
with
the
home
interview,
I
audio‐recorded
and
chose
 not
to
take
any
notes,
but
my
participation
was
intentionally
active
(Holstein
&
Gubrium,
 2002),
as
I
was
not
relying
on
an
organizing
tool
(like
the
autobiography
chapter
list
in
the
 home
interview).


 The
final
component
of
the
school
interview
involved
use
of
the
words
of
Woody
 Guthrie’s
“This
Land
Is
Your
Land.”

I
asked
the
teachers
to
read,
either
aloud
or
silently,
the
 lyrics/stanzas
and
annotate
the
text
in
any
ways
that
they
saw
fit.

I
used
this
particular
 text
because
it
is
a
popular
national
text
that
is
rich
with
ideas
and
images.28

After
the
 participants
finished
marking
the
text,
I
asked
them
to
speak
about
the
annotations
that
 they
made.

In
doing
this,
I
came
to
understand
some
of
the
ways
in
which
they
made
sense
 of
the
text,
and
I
was
able
to
see
what
words,
ideas,
and
images
most
resonated
with
each
of
 them.

They
told
some
stories
that
were
either
tangential
to
the
text
or
about
their
prior
 interactions
with
it.29

We
finished
by
my
asking
how
they
might
use
the
text
in
their
 teaching.

Through
this
research
activity,
I
wanted
to
explore
how
an
alternative
text
on
 national
identity
intersected
with
their
locally‐lived
identities.

As
you
will
see
in
Chapter
 Five,
the
text
turned
out
to
feature
prominently
in
my
discussions
with
Dan.
 























































 27
For
example,
I
asked:
Rosie
about
Mobile’s
annual
Mardi
Gras
celebration;
Tommy
about
 a
recent
shooting
that
took
place
near
his
school;
Dan
about
several
incidents
in
his
school
 district
that
were
reported
by
the
local
news.
 28
In
another
study
that
I
conducted,
I
used
this
text
and
activity
and
found
both
 generative.
 29
All
three
participants
were
familiar
with
some
of
the
stanzas
but
none
knew
of
all
of
 them.
 
 64
 
 In
addition
to
the
these
interviews,
as
well
as
my
“living”
with
the
participants,30
my
 Place
visits
featured
several
other
methodological
strategies.

Near
the
end
of
each
visit,
I
 gave
each
teacher
a
copy
of
a
poem
called
“I
Write
America”
(Simmons,
2003).

The
poem
 comes
from
Def
Poetry
Jam,
a
nine‐poet
show
on
Broadway
in
New
York
City
in
2002.

 Concluding
the
show’s
first
act,
the
nine
performers
each
share
a
personal
stanza
that
 begins
with
the
words,
“I
write
America,”
or
some
variation
of
them.

I
asked
the
teachers
to
 read
the
poem
at
some
point
when
I
was
not
present
and
then
write
a
personal
 contribution
to
the
poem
and
share
it
with
me
over
email.31

As
with
the
analysis
of
“This
 Land
Is
Your
Land,”
even
though
each
of
the
teachers
in
this
study
lived
and
taught
in
 distinct
regions,
I
sought
to
consider
their
lives/places
in
relation
to
national
identity.

The
 participants’
writings
of
their
own
stanzas
also
positioned
them
to
write
poetry,
which
was
 a
form
of
writing
different
from
other
writing
features
of
the
study.

These
poems
proved
to
 be
powerful
statements
by
the
participants
and
I
begin
Chapters
Three,
Four,
and
Five
with
 them.
 
 Additionally,
at
some
point
during
my
visit,
I
sought
to
take
each
participant
out
for
 a
“thank
you”
dinner
at
restaurant
chosen
by
the
participant.
32

My
main
goal
was
to
treat
 the
participant
to
a
nice
meal
and
show
my
appreciation
of
her
or
his
time
and
effort
 























































 30
“Living”
in
the
sense
that
I
spent
almost
the
entire
time
with
them,
save
staying
the
 nights
at
their
homes.
 31
This
research
activity
emerged
from
earlier
research
that
I
conducted
about
the
teaching
 of
patriotism
and
nationalism.
 32
Rosie
and
Rick
took
me
to
a
small
Jamaican
restaurant
next
to
a
shopping
strip,
where
 they
had
frequented
for
years
and
where
Rosie
once
threw
a
surprise
birthday
party
for
 Rick.

Dan
and
Laura
took
me
to
a
Chinese‐American
restaurant
near
their
house
that
had
 recently
opened.

Neither
of
them
had
been
there
and
they
wanted
to
try
it
out.

Instead
of
 treating
Tommy
and
Penelope
to
a
meal,
they
invited
me
to
join
them
at
a
fundraising
 dinner
for
which
they
were
given
three
free
tickets.

 
 65
 throughout
the
course
of
the
study.33

I
also
figured
that
it
would
be
a
nice
space
for
 general
conversation.

 
 I
planned
for
one
other
activity
during
my
Place
visits.

Calling
it
“Place/s
Day,”
I
 asked
the
participants
to
carve
out
half
to
a
full
day
of
their
schedule
during
which
they
 could
take
me
to
some
of
the
personally
meaningful
places
where
they
lived.

I
wanted
to
 visit
some
of
the
local
settings
where
they
ascribed
particular
lived
meaning.

As
we
 “toured”
these
places,
I
was
eager
to
dialogue
about
why
they
were
meaningful
and
hear
 stories
of
the
lived
experiences
that
created
that
meaning.

Like
the
thank
you
dinner,
I
did
 not
take
notes
or
audio‐record
the
discussions.

Rather,
I
accompanied
the
participant,
and
 later
I
wrote
reflective
notes
and
mapped
our
path.

Place/s
Day
unfolded
differently
with
 each
of
the
teachers.

With
Rosie,
we
had
a
full
day
of
visiting
her
places.34

With
Dan,
we
 drove
past
some
of
his
places
and
then
revisited
them
in
discussion
later
in
my
visit.35

 With
Tommy,
Place/s
Day
never
materialized;
he
only
noted
and
talked
about
a
few
of
his
 places
en
route
to
his
various
activities.36


 























































 33
Each
participant
also
received
a
stipend
of
one
hundred
dollars
at
the
conclusion
of
the
 study.
 34
I
spent
an
entire
Saturday
with
Rosie
and
Rick.

Rosie
asked
if
Rick
could
come
along
 since
he
had
not
been
to
some
of
the
places.

We
met
in
the
morning
at
a
favorite
coffee
 shop
of
Rosie’s,
and
then
she
drove
us
to
a
handful
of
different
places,
including
two
 restaurants,
two
parks,
two
book
stores,
and
a
candy
shop.

At
the
end
of
the
day,
we
 returned
to
the
coffee
shop,
where
I
asked
her
to
sketch
a
map
of
where
we
had
gone.
 35
Place/s
Day
with
Dan
was
on
a
Sunday
afternoon
and
it
unfolded
under
unexpected
 circumstances.

Dan’s
oldest
daughter,
Sarah,
needed
to
look
for
a
used
car
and
her
 schedule
aligned
with
Dan’s
only
on
Sunday
afternoon.

Thus,
Sarah
joined
us
on
a
Place/s
 drive
through
Lansing,
and
I
joined
them
in
the
search
for
a
car.
 36
Tommy’s
Place/s
Day
never
materialized
because
of
his
busy
schedule.

Deep
in
the
 midst
of
coaching
and
playing
soccer,
he
simply
didn’t
have
much
un‐scheduled
time
while
 I
was
there.


 
 66
 
 Field
Text
Analysis

 
 As
I
detailed
above,
following
Clandinin
and
Connelly
(2000),
field
texts
are
the
data
 of
a
study
in
that
they
are
created
in
the
“field”
of
the
study.

They
are
close
to
experience
 and
they
can
possess
descriptive
and
recording
qualities.

A
“research
text,”
then,
is
more
 distant,
reflective,
and
interpretive.37

It
seeks
to
question
the
meaning
of
field
texts,
 inquiring
about
the
relationship
between
a
particular
field
text
and
its
larger
contexts.

 
 The
participants
and
I
generated
a
variety
of
field
texts
from
several
research
 methods.

In
sum,
the
methods
included
my
reflective
journaling;
a
questionnaire;
 interviews
(i.e.,
long‐distance
and
in‐person),
all
of
which
I
audio‐recorded
and
 transcribed;
textual
analysis
and
discussion;
my
observation
of
and
participation
in
the
 teachers’
lives,
including
in
the
teachers’
classrooms
and
during
Place/s
Day;
and
poetry
 writing.

The
field
texts
generated
from
these
methods
included:
detailed
journal
notes;
 questionnaire
answers;
audio
and
transcribed
recordings
of
interviews;
autobiographical
 chapter
lists;
annotated
sheets
of
“This
Land
Is
Your
Land”;
poems;
and,
in
the
case
of
 Rosie,
a
map
of
her
Place/s
Day.

I
also
collected
various
documents
that
factored
into
our
 discussions
(e.g.,
local
newspapers
from
during
my
visits).

 
 In
my
reflective
journal,
which
I
maintained
throughout
the
entire
study,
I
wrote
 notes
related
to
all
aspects
of
the
research
process.

The
writings
in
this
journal
ranged
 from
notes
I
typed
about
my
initial
emails
with
prospective
participants;
to
late
evenings
 during
the
Place
visits
when
I
storied
the
events
of
the
day
(often
with
my
initial
analyses);
 























































 37
Clandinin
and
Connelly’s
“research
text”
is
comparable
to
a
mix
of
Garman’s
“theoretic”
 and
“discursive”
texts
(2007).
 
 67
 to
notes
that
I
wrote
as
I
transcribed
interviews;
and,
even,
to
my
writing
of
the
 preliminary
drafts
of
the
“participant
chapters.”

In
this
sense,
these
writings
ranged
from
 field
texts
to
research
texts.
 
 The
audio
recordings
of
the
interviews
were
field
texts.

The
transcriptions,
coupled
 with
my
handwritten
notes,
existed
in
the
tension
between
field
texts
and
research
texts.

I
 transcribed
all
of
the
interview
audio‐recordings.

This
process
was
deliberate,
as
I
worked
 my
way
chronologically
through
Rosie’s
recordings,
and
then
Tommy’s,
followed
by
Dan’s.

 In
doing
this,
I
was
particularly
mindful
of
my
need
to
re‐hear
our
conversations.

Although
 the
participants’
words,
stories,
and
thoughts
are
shared
here
in
print
form,
I
am
attentive
 to
the
fact
that
most
of
these
were
articulated
in
spoken
form.

Inevitably,
something
is
lost
 in
the
transmediation
of
their
words.

A
pained
pause
in
the
middle
of
a
spoken
story
can
 hardly
be
done
justice
in
written
form.

However,
my
close
attention
to
how
the
 participants
spoke,
I
believe,
can
help
me
better
represent
what
they
said,
when
it
appears
 in
written
form.

 
 Immediately
prior
to
transcribing
the
participants’
interviews,
I
read
through
my
 reflective
journal
parts
that
pertained
to
them.

From
reading
my
written
words,
coupled
 with
my
immediate
mental
analyses
that
I
made
during
my
Place
Phase
visits
and
had
 thought
about
since,
I
created
a
list
of
big
themes
to
keep
in
mind
as
I
transcribed.

For
 Rosie,
I
listed:
“mothering,”
“Mother
James,”
and
“Prichard.”

For
Tommy,
I
listed:
 “becoming
a
citizen,”
“happenstance,”
and
“happiness.”

For
Dan,
I
listed:
“storyteller,”
 “Landing
in
Lansing,”
and
“it
gets
better.”


 Then,
as
I
transcribed
each
participant’s
interviews,
which
happened
a
minimum
of
 one
month
after
that
participant’s
Place
Phase
visit,
I
re‐entered
their
lives
and
our
shared
 
 68
 time
and
place.

Having
experientially
read
these
interviews
initially
when
they
took
place,
 both
in
the
moment,
and
later
in
the
day
when
I
reflected
in
my
journal,
I
re‐read
them
 aurally
through
my
headphones,
as
well
as
through
my
memory,
when
I
listened
to
the
 recordings.

Attached
to
this
second
read
was
my
work
of
turning
the
sounds
into
written
 text.

While
I
transcribed,
I
kept
detailed
notes,
some
of
which
I
organized
under
my
big,
 pre‐transcription
themes.

By
the
end
of
transcribing
each
participant’s
interviews,
I
had
 several
pages
of
handwritten
notes
to
re‐visit
later.
 
 With
all
of
the
interviews
transcribed,
I
noted
interesting
similarities
and
 differences
across
the
participants.

For
example,
they
all
told
memorable
stories
about
 former
students.

And
they
all
spoke
minimally
about
their
immediate
families
when
they
 were
young.

But
they
represented
three
very
different
paths
to
teaching,
and
their
 schooling
experiences
ranged
from
loving
high
school
to
never
graduating
from
it.

With
 these
ideas
in
mind,
I
was
ready
to
read
the
interviews
a
third
time—as
transcripts—and
 begin
to
make
sense
of
the
field
texts
en
masse.

I
dug
back
into
their
individual
cases.
 
 I
began
with
Tommy
because
his
talk
of
“becoming
a
citizen”
was
the
clearest
 organizing
narrative
of
the
three,
for
me,
at
that
point.

I
read
through
hard
copies
of
all
of
 the
transcripts,
annotating
them
liberally.

I
noted
the
many
stories
that
he
told
and
pulled
 out
main
points,
topics,
and
ideas.

I
read
most
mindful
of
his
individual
themes
but
I
kept
a
 list
of
notes
for
themes
that
spanned
the
participants.

After
a
full
read
of
Tommy’s
 interviews,
I
began
to
write
analytically
about
the
most
salient
stories
and
themes.

As
I
did
 this,
my
story
about
Tommy
began
to
take
shape.

I
then
outlined
a
chapter
devoted
to
him
 that
focused
on
his
living
curriculum
first,
and
then
moved
to
his
teaching
curriculum.

 
 69
 Once
I
had
a
draft
chapter
for
Tommy,
I
moved
to
Rosie
and
followed
the
same
process
for
 her.

With
a
draft
chapter
for
Rosie,
I
did
the
same
for
Dan.


 
 With
draft
chapters
for
all
three
of
the
participants,
then,
I
zoomed
out
from
their
 individual
stories
in
order
to
consider
them
as
a
group.

Chapter
Six
takes
up
this
work,
as
I
 look
at
the
differences
and
similarities
across
the
participants,
examining
how
these
are
 relevant
to
thinking
about
the
teaching
and
emplacement
of
teachers
writ
large.
 
 Conclusion
 
 As
human
beings,
we
share
our
lived
experiences
through
story.

As
researchers,
one
 of
the
ways
we
can
make
sense
of
lived
experience
is
by
attending
to
participants’
stories
of
 living
and
faithfully
representing
those
stories
in
the
stories
that
we
tell.

Working
 collaboratively
and
closely
with
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy,
I
invited
their
stories
of
living
and,
 particularly,
teaching.

I
also
walked
into
the
midst
of
their
lived
stories
in
the
time
that
I
 spent
with
them
at
and
beyond
school.

In
the
three
ensuing
chapters,
I
tell
a
story
of
these
 rich
lives,
which
shows
the
deep
ties
between
a
teacher’s
many
curricular
places
of
living
 and
the
focused
places
of
teaching
at
school
and
in
the
classroom.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 70
 CHAPTER
THREE
 
 TOMMY’S
CITIZENSHIP:

 TEACHING
AS
AN
ACT
OF
AND
FOR
BALANCE
 
 I
write
America
thinking
about
Balance.
 
 If
Education
is
the
great
equalizer
in
the
Equation
of
Democracy,
 Why
are
our
urban
schools
so
unstable?
 
 Standardized
tests,
graduation
rates,
disciplinary
logs,
attendance
percentages
are
like
 steel
cables
tethered
to
our
schools.
Built
by
well­intended
minds,
anchored
with
hope
 and
research,
they
only
provide
the
illusion
of
possible
stability.
 
 The
foundation
underneath
is
incomplete.
 The
cables
are
fastened
to
the
wrong
anchors.

 They
will
never
be
strong
enough
to
balance
the
effects
of
poor
Nutrition,
Poverty,
 Violence
and
the
attendant
Apathy
they
spawn.
 These
are
the
Unseen.
 Will
we
continue
to
pay
them
so
little
attention?
 
 The
obstinate
dance
our
steel
intentions
require
 can
only
be
performed
by
the
most
determined
children.

 A
resolve
born
from
a
place
of
mystery
within
inspires
them
 to
rise
despite
any
obstacle.
 And
there
are
many,
who
do
rise,
 but
what
about
the
children
who
have
yet
to
find
their
Balance?
 
 So,
today
I
write
America
about
this
because
it
is
important
and
so
 She
may
listen
and
hear.

 
 
 
 —Tommy
Allen,
High
School
English
Teacher,
New
England,
2011
 
 In
the
two
previous
chapters,
I
discussed
my
framing
for
this
study.

In
Chapter
One,
 I
looked
at
the
theoretical
lenses
of
curriculum
and
place,
and
I
considered
the
importance
 of
looking
at
those
concepts
in
relation
to
each
other.

In
Chapter
Two,
I
looked
at
the
 
 71
 methodological
lens
of
narrative
inquiry,
which
focuses
on
hearing
and
telling
stories.

I
 then
detailed
how
I
carried
out
my
narrative
inquiry
with
the
three
participants
of
this
 study:
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy.
 
 In
this
chapter
and
the
next
two,
I
tell
three
stories
of
the
living
and
teaching
of
 these
participants.

Each
chapter
dwells
in
one
participant’s
story,
which
is
intertwined
 with
the
story
of
my
lived
experience
with
the
participant.

I
organize
each
chapter
into
 four
sections:
introduction,
living
curriculum,
teaching
curriculum,
and
conclusion.

Each
 introduction
seeks
to
bring
the
reader
into
salient
points
of
the
teacher’s
life
and
work.

In
 the
bulk
of
each
chapter,
then,
I
story
the
participant’s
living
and
teaching
curricula.


While
 the
former
unfolds
as
a
“life
story,”
the
latter
features
more
analysis
that
positions
the
 teacher’s
teaching
in
the
context
of
the
life
story.

There
is
still,
though,
a
central
 commitment
to
each
teacher’s
stories
of
teaching.

Each
conclusion,
then,
serves
as
a
place
 for
me
to
revisit
key
experiences
in
the
teacher’s
life
and
work
—considering
continuity,
 interaction,
and
place—while
also
raise
some
of
the
loose
ends
that
I
do
not
seek
to
tie.
 
 Committed
to
stories,
these
chapters
are
written
as
stories.

They
seek
to
dwell
in
 the
immediacy
of
each
participant’s
life.

Thus,
these
chapters
are
deeply
placed
in
the
lives
 of
the
participants.

For
this
reason,
when
I
offer
analysis
about
the
teacher’s
lives,
I
do
not
 engage
scholarly
or
other
outside
texts.

I
foreground
the
participant’s
life.


Returning
to
 Garman’s
(2007)
notions
of
“essential
texts,”
these
participant
chapters
are
a
combination
 of
experiential
and
theoretic
text.

I
immerse
myself
in
the
participants
storied
experiences
 and
my
experience
of
hearing
and
thinking
about
their
stories.

After
these
chapters,
in
 Chapter
Six,
I
weave
in
discursive
text
as
I
consider
how
various
scholarly
discourses
can
 interact
with
the
participants’
stories.

 
 72
 
 Here,
I
begin
with
Tommy.

I
then
move
to
Rosie
and,
finally,
Dan.
 
 Introduction
 
 Prior
to
spending
a
week
with
Tommy
Allen,
a
teacher
in
an
urban
school
in
Boston,
 Massachusetts,
he
told
me
a
story
about
a
student,
Felipe.

At
the
beginning
of
the
school
 year,
Felipe
had
transferred
to
Tommy’s
school
and
was
placed
in
one
of
Tommy’s
classes.

 Felipe
had
a
relative
who
worked
at
the
school
and
he
came
there
because
his
mom
was
in
 and
out
of
the
hospital
and
his
father
was
not
in
the
picture.

Tommy
recalled
that
when
 Felipe
arrived
in
his
classroom,
he
was
“clearly
depressed,
unhappy,
and
a
little
 overweight.”

In
the
ensuing
weeks,
Felipe
was
playing
video
games
every
night
until
four
 in
the
morning
and
then
coming
into
class
and
putting
his
head
down
to
sleep.

When
 Tommy
would
prod
him
to
participate
in
the
class,
Felipe
would
respond
in
anger:
“what
 the
fuck
are
you
bothering
me
for?

I’m
not
bothering
you.”


This
kind
of
action
was
 repeated
over
and
over
as
the
school
year
unfolded.


 
 “Eventually,”
Tommy
said,
“Felipe
started
coming
around
because
I
wouldn’t
let
up
 on
him.”

Then,
in
March,
Felipe
wanted
to
play
soccer.

As
the
school’s
varsity
soccer
coach,
 Tommy
made
it
clear
that
Felipe
needed
to
be
at
practice
every
single
day.

A
bit
 surprisingly
to
Tommy,
Felipe
made
that
commitment.

And,
as
the
soccer
season
picked
 up,
he
became
more
invested
in
Tommy’s
classroom.

“Now,”
Tommy
said
enthusiastically,
 “he’s
the
first
kid
in
my
classroom
in
the
morning
and
he’s
trying—and
he’s
doing
much
 better.”

Having
finished
the
story,
he
reflected:
“those
are
the
constants
that
keep
me
 coming
back
[to
school
each
day]…there’s
not
a
lot
of
them
[but]
they
happen
every
week,
 every
year.”


 
 73
 
 Tommy
wrote
his
poem
above
“thinking
about
Balance.”

Schools,
he
says,
struggle
 with
balance,
as
do
people
and
particularly
students.

Schools
and
all
their
features— “cables,”
he
calls
them—“will
never
be
strong
enough
to
balance
the
effects
of
poor
 Nutrition,
Poverty,
Violence
and
the
attendant
Apathy
they
spawn.”


That
is,
at
least
as
long
 as
this
imbalance
is
“Unseen.”

Save
major
change,
only
“the
most
determined
children,”
 who
possess
“a
resolve
born
from
a
place
of
mystery
within”
can
overcome—“rise”
above
 or
beyond—the
obstacles
that
shape
the
landscape
of
their
lives.

“But,”
Tommy
wonders,

 “what
about
the
children
who
have
yet
to
find
their
Balance?”
 
 By
the
middle
of
soccer
season,
Felipe
might
not
have
found
his
Balance.

He
had
 many
obstacles:
an
absent
father,
an
ill
mother,
a
school
change,
depression,
a
daily
 dependence
on
video
games.

He
hadn’t
previously
had
the
determination
to
overcome
 these
things.

But
by
committing
to
soccer,
and
then
Tommy’s
class,
perhaps
he
was
on
the
 way
to
his
Balance.


 
 Many
of
Tommy’s
stories
about
teaching
track
along
a
similar
arc.

A
student,
like
 Felipe,
undergoes
a
personal
transformation
that
begins
in
extreme
difficulty
and
moves,
 even
if
slightly
(although
some
times
much
more),
toward
Balance.

In
these
stories,
 Tommy
is
in
the
picture
but
he
is
not
the
main
character:
the
students
are.
But
these
stories
 parallel
Tommy’s
life
story.

He
has
overcome
many
obstacles
in
his
life,
albeit
ones
unique
 to—or
placed
by—his
circumstances.

Relative
to
his
students,
he
grew
up
amid
 considerable
privilege,
both
racial
and
socioeconomic.

The
obstacles
of
nutrition,
poverty,
 and
violence
were
not
concerns
for
him—and
yet
apathy
was.

Lacking
the
support
that
he
 needed,
he
wandered
through
the
first
half
of
his
life
displaced,
searching
for
a
meaningful
 
 74
 connection
to
others.

He
sought
his
Balance,
but
he
didn’t
achieve
it
until
he
settled
in
 Boston,
made
a
series
of
lasting
friendships,
and
then
started
to
teach
in
Dorchester.

 
 In
this
chapter
focusing
on
Tommy,
a
white
male
in
his
late
forties
who
has
a
 gruffness
to
his
voice,
as
if
it’s
worn,
I
story
Tommy’s
living
curriculum
and
then
shift
to
 consider
his
teaching
curriculum,
focusing
on
the
place
of
his
teaching—Room
317
of
 Atlantic
High
School—across
his
teaching
career,
during
which
he
has
learned
to
be
a
 teacher.
Throughout,
I
focus
on
the
intersection
of
his
living
and
teaching
curricula,
his
 search
for
Balance,
and
consider
how
place
shapes
and
re‐defines
this
purpose.

Although
 the
first
half
of
his
life
was
spent
living
on
the
fringes
of
various
communities,
he
now
finds
 himself—a
teacher
and
coach—firmly
rooted
in
a
meaningful
community
and
purposefully
 contributing
to
the
betterment
of
the
most
marginalized
within
it.

He
has
intentionally
 become
a
citizen
in
this
community,
and
at
school
he
pursues
his
students’
Balance
as
a
 way
of
pursuing
his
own.
 
 
 Tommy’s
Living
Curriculum:
Youth
Transience
Until
Becoming
A
Citizen

 


 When
I
asked
Tommy
to
tell
me
about
the
chapters
of
his
autobiography
if
he
were
 to
write
one,
he
made
sure
that
I
wanted
an
autobiography
and
not
a
memoir.

“Maybe
it’s
 the
English
teacher
in
me
but
there’s
a
distinct
difference.”

Memoir,
he
says,
is
configured
 around
a
central
conflict,
usually
a
tragedy,
that
somebody
has
to
overcome.

When
I
give
 him
the
option
of
choosing
autobiography
or
memoir,
he
chooses
the
former
thinking
that
 much
of
the
same
content
would
appear
in
both.

But,
if
he
were
to
write
a
memoir,
“the
 central
thing
would
be
education
because
it’s
the
closest
thing
to
me,
to
the
progression
of
 [my]
experience.”
 
 75
 
 Tommy’s
progression,
or
continuity,
of
experience
began
with
wide
geographic
 swings.

Born
in
France,
he
spent
his
childhood
in
two
distinct
regions
of
the
United
States,
 first
in
the
South
and
then
in
the
Northeast.

Living
in
suburbia
in
East
Texas,
he
was
active
 in
his
neighborhood
with
other
kids
near
his
age,
particularly
through
sports.

“Wiffle
ball
 integrated
me
into
the
community.”

But,
of
all
the
places
he
has
lived,
he
is
the
least
fond
of
 Texas.

Speaking
in
the
present
about
his
experience
there,
he
said
simply,
“beauty
lacks.”

 Despite
“some
fond
memories
of
occasional
forays
out
into
the
woods
and
meadows,”
he
 lived
in
a
neighborhood
with
little
aesthetic
diversity.

It
was
a
subdivision
with
many
 houses,
all
of
which
looked
similar.

Even
if
he
couldn’t
name
it
as
such
at
the
time,
he
felt
 where
he
lived
was
ugly.

It
wasn’t
natural;
everything
was
manmade.

He
felt
disconnected,
 displaced.
 
 When
he
was
a
third
grader,
Tommy’s
father,
a
hospital
executive,
accepted
a
 management
position
at
a
small
hospital
in
Maine.

The
family
moved
there.

If
he
only
felt
 like
an
outsider
in
Texas,
Tommy
embodied
an
outsider
in
Maine.

The
landscape
that
he
 encountered
in
Maine
resonated
with
him
powerfully,
in
a
way
that
has
significantly
 shaped
his
life—I
think
of
Henry
David
Thoreau
saying
“I
went
to
the
woods”
when
Tommy
 talks
about
Maine—but
to
his
school
peers
he
was
a
kid
from
somewhere
else.

He
spoke
 differently
than
everyone
else.

“I
learned
how
to
fight
as
a
result
of
having
a
southern
 accent…[I
fought]
constantly.

It
was
little
kid
fighting,
but
it
was
fighting.”

An
outsider
 with
his
peers,
he
was
also
an
outsider
in
his
family.

“I
grew
up
with
the
cocktail
thing— physicians
and
people
coming
over
and
all
that
kind
of
stuff—and
I
was
like,
‘this
sucks.’”

 Everyone
in
his
family
was
an
achiever,
which
was
defined
in
relation
to
the
amount
of
 money
one
makes
(or
would
make),
and
that
was
expected
of
Tommy.

The
family’s
implicit
 
 76
 mantra
was,
“if
you
have
the
ability,
the
intellect,
then
you
should
go
out
and
make
money.”

 But
such
an
aspiration
did
not
jibe
with
his
sensibility
about
himself
and
the
world.

 
 At
age
14,
Tommy
began
skiing.

Not
only
was
he
good
at
it—he
skied
competitively
 at
state,
regional,
and,
ultimately,
national
levels—it
was
a
strong
determinant
of
his
 identity.

At
16,
after
competing
in
a
prominent
event
called
the
Junior
Olympics,
he
joined
 a
national
developmental
team
and
began
to
focus
on
one
particular
form
of
skiing
called
 Nordic
Combined,
which
involves
both
ski
jumping
and
cross‐country
skiing.

Tommy
said,
 “it’s
an
individual
sport
and
it
defined
me
as
a
person
for
a
long
time.”

Skiing
was
a
 stabilizing
counter
to
his
lack
of
roots
in
other
aspects
of
his
life.

In
Nordic
Combined,
 displacement
wasn’t
such
a
bad
thing.
 
 Indicative
of
his
familial
distance,
Tommy
attended
high
school
at
a
private
boarding
 school
in
New
Hampshire,
a
couple
hours
from
his
home
in
Maine.

Each
January,
he
would
 leave
school
and
go
to
the
U.S.
Olympic
training
facility
in
Lake
Placid,
NY.

He
would
train
 rigorously
with
coaches
who
had
him
on
a
detailed
workout
regimen.

The
trajectory
of
his
 skiing
career
changed,
though,
in
his
senior
year
of
high
school.


Just
several
weeks
prior
to
 his
graduation,
he
was
kicked
out
of
the
school
permanently
for
disruptive
behavior.

 Although
the
expulsion
was
the
school’s
mistake—unbeknownst
to
him
at
the
time,
his
 mother
returned
to
the
school
and
was
told
that
it
was
a
mistake
that
he
was
kicked
out—it
 altered
his
plans
for
college.

Up
to
that
point,
he
was
going
to
enroll
at
a
university
near
 Lake
Placid
and
continue
to
train
for
skiing.

Without
a
high
school
diploma,
though,
the
 university
wouldn’t
allow
him
to
matriculate.

Even
his
skiing
future,
now,
was
uncertain.
 
 After
being
kicked
out
of
school,
Tommy
went
west
to
Berkeley,
California,
where
he
 spent
the
summer
working
for
a
classmate’s
father
who
ran
a
construction
company.

He
 
 77
 worked
on
homes
being
built
out
of
redwood.

Although
the
labor
was
largely
unskilled—“I
 was
basically
carrying
stuff
around
and
nailing
stuff
in
and
doing
some
framing
that
I
 couldn’t
screw
up”—he
became
familiar
with
operating
power
tools
and
doing
woodwork,
 which
is
a
favorite
hobby
of
his
today.

In
some
respects,
his
construction
work
was
as
far
 removed
from
school
as
possible.

In
one
sense
this
was
good,
but
it
didn’t
provide
long‐ term
promise.

With
the
end
of
summer,
he
returned
to
Maine
to
an
uncertain
future.

His
 father
gave
him
a
choice:
Tommy
could
attend
a
small
college
in
New
Hampshire,
which
 would
accept
him
without
a
high
school
diploma,
or
he
could
live
and
work
in
Lake
Placid
 while
ski‐training
and
his
father
would
subsidize
his
expenses.


 
 Interestingly,
Tommy
chose
college.

Either
way,
his
family
was
going
to
support
his
 efforts,
and
he
could
ski
in
both
situations,
but
he
chose
the
option
that
involved
school.

 There
was,
perhaps,
something
more
to
his
life
than
wild
pursuit
of
skiing.
Perhaps,
too,
his
 exit
from
high
school
left
him
with
a
need
to
alter
his
schooling
experience.

But
mindful
of
 his
present‐day
commitment
to
balance,
I
see
college
as
an
opportunity
for
him
to
bring
 stability
to
his
future.

He
could
find
a
community,
a
place,
that
would
hold
promise
for
his
 long‐term
future.

That,
though,
did
not
happen.
 
 He
intended
to
ski
for
the
college’s
intercollegiate
team
but
differences
with
his
 coach
about
training
for
Nordic
Combined
led
him
to
quit
the
ski
team.

His
coach
was
an
 “old‐time”
ski
coach,
demanding
that
skiers
build
endurance
through
running,
not
skiing.

 When
the
coach
dismissed
Tommy’s
workout
regimen
developed
in
Lake
Placid,
Tommy
 told
him
“fuck
you”
and
left
the
team.

What
had
been
his
anchor,
his
identity,
was
now
a
 void.

Uncertain
about
what
would
be
next,
he
went
with
several
classmates
down
to
New
 York
City
for
the
first
time
in
his
life.

Sitting
in
the
back
seat
of
a
packed
Subaru
with
 
 78
 headphones
over
his
ears,
he
listened
to
an
album
called
“Rain
Dogs”
by
the
singer
and
 musician
Tom
Waits.

The
album
was
made
in
New
York
City
and
focused
on
urban
life
 there.

As
the
city
became
visible,
Tommy
had
a
powerful
experience
of
connecting
what
he
 was
seeing
and
hearing;
he
thought,
“this
is
what
New
York
sounds
like.”

With
his
friends,
 he
went
to
concerts
across
the
city
and
experimented
with
drugs.

In
the
heart
of
the
city,
 he
had
discovered
a
feeling
of
community
that
he
had
previously
lacked.

It
was
a
transient
 experience,
but
it
was
thrilling.

“From
that
moment
on,”
he
says,
“it
was
a
wrap
for
me
on
 the
skiing
tip.”
 
 He
wasn’t
done
skiing,
but
he
was
done
skiing
competitively.

Training
for
national
 championships
and
the
Olympics,
in
the
past
what
had
brought
him
pleasure,
was
over
 despite
his
feeling
of
regret
at
times
over
the
next
decade
about
his
decision
to
go
to
college
 instead
of
Lake
Placid.

But
after
his
failed
college
experience
in
New
Hampshire,
he
 enrolled
at
the
University
of
Maine,
seeking
a
new
collegiate
opportunity.

As
with
the
 previous
experience,
it
didn’t
work
out.
 
 On
holiday
break
from
the
university,
when
nobody
else
was
in
the
room,
Tommy
 turned
to
his
father.

They
had
been
dressing
the
family’s
Christmas
tree
and
he
wanted
to
 talk
with
his
father
alone.

Tommy
was
a
miserable
student
and
he
wanted
to
drop
out.

 Upon
sharing
this
news,
his
father
barked
at
him,
“well
what
do
you
want
to
do,
boy?”

After
 being
kicked
out
of
high
school
and
leaving
his
first
college,
going
to
school
just
wasn’t
 working
for
him.

To
his
father’s
query,
he
responded,
“ah,
the
thing
that
makes
me
happy
is
 skiing.

I
think
I
want
to
go
to
Colorado.”

Tommy’s
father
considered
what
he
said
and
then
 responded,
“okay,
I’ll
give
you
a
thousand
bucks—and
that
includes
the
plane
ticket.

I
don’t
 want
you
to
ask
me
for
money
ever
again.”

Three
weeks
later,
Tommy
was
living
in
Vail.


 
 79
 
 He
was
“pursuing
happiness.”

He
was
in
search
of
new
pleasures,
experiences
akin
 to
the
thrill
of
his
first
visit
to
New
York
City.

In
Vail
he
found
work
at
a
restaurant
and
 then
at
a
ski
shop,
which
brought
him
a
free
ski
pass
to
a
mountain.

He
began
skiing
 Alpine—downhill
skiing—as
opposed
to
Nordic
Combined.

Grinning
at
me
as
he
recalls
 this
time,
Tommy
says,
“huge
air,
people
were
videotaping,
it
was
awesome.”

He
was
 having
fun
in
the
moment
and
that
was
all
that
mattered
to
him.
 
 Then,
“I
kind
of
fell
a
little
in
love
with
a
Swedish
girl.”

She
had
been
traveling
in
the
 U.S.
and
had
stopped
for
some
time
in
Vail,
where
Tommy
had
been
for
two
years.

With
no
 long‐term
ties
to
anyone
or
anything,
Tommy
found
possibility
with
this
woman.

The
two
 set
off
for
more
travel
in
the
U.S.

Then
they
went
to
Europe
and
spent
the
better
part
of
a
 year
backpacking
around
the
continent.

They
didn’t
have
a
specific
plan
but
they
had
each
 other’s
companionship.

They
worked
a
variety
of
temporary
jobs,
lived
frugally,
and
 moved
around
when
it
felt
right.

They
stayed,
when
possible,
with
relatives
or
friends,
 sometimes
for
stretches
as
long
as
a
month
or
two.

Much
of
the
time,
though,
they
camped
 in
a
tent,
going
to
bed
late
and
rising
early
so
as
to
avoid
notice.

They
carried
everything
 they
needed
on
their
backs.

Then,
exhausted
by
travel,
they
settled
in
her
hometown
of
 Gothenburg,
Sweden,
before
ultimately
returning
to
the
U.S.,
to
Boston,
so
that
she
could
 study
to
be
an
actress.

There,
for
the
third
time,
Tommy
enrolled
in
college.
 
 To
this
point,
Tommy’s
life
was
characterized
by
movement
and
few
emplacing
 roots:
his
family
picking
up
and
settling
in
multiple
places;
his
attending
different
schools;
 his
skiing,
competitively
and
for
fun;
his
travel
around
America
and
Europe.

His
skiing
 event,
Nordic
Combined,
was
a
fitting
metaphor
for
his
uprootedness.

Not
only
did
he
 compete
individually,
he
soared
and
traversed
large
tracts
of
land
in
the
process.

In
all
of
 
 80
 this
movement,
his
identity
was
highly
individualized
and
transient.

He
had
a
strong
 disconnect
with
his
family
and
he
didn’t
view
his
purpose
in
life
to
be
to
make
money.

Only
 in
his
last
years
did
he
have
a
sustained,
mutually‐dependent
relationship
with
another
 person.

He
was
always
on
the
margins
of
any
communities,
lacking
roots
in
any
particular
 geographic
locations.

He
was
an
outsider,
which
he
both
suffered
from
and
enjoyed.
 
 Tommy’s
move
to
Boston
maintained
his
status
as
an
outsider
but
it
marked
the
end
 of
his
frequent,
one‐direction
travels.

His
life
interactions
shifted
from
an
inward
focus
to
 an
outward
focus.

Although
he
separated
from
the
Swedish
woman
with
whom
he
had
 spent
his
last
years,
his
arrival
in
Boston
began
a
process
of
growing
roots,
creating
 emplacement,
what
he
referred
to
as
“becoming
a
citizen.”

While
he
went
to
school,
 earning
a
bachelor’s
degree
in
English
and
then
a
master’s
degree
in
fine
arts,
he
worked
as
 a
bike
messenger
in
order
to
support
himself.

Although
living
a
student’s
life
of
liminality,
 through
bike
messaging,
he
cultivated
a
community
of
friends
that
surrounds
him
to
this
 day.

He
became
familiar
with
Boston
and
neighboring
Cambridge
as
he
crisscrossed
the
 area
on
his
bike.

He
played
soccer
with
his
fellow
bike
messengers
and
he
hung
out
almost
 exclusively
at
a
bar
called
The
Deluxe,
“which
is
a
tiny
joint,
like
a
railroad
car,
but
where
 messengers
and
artists
and
kids
would
hang.

People
would
show
their
art
or
their
 photographs
and
it
would
change
every
week.”

Tommy
and
his
friends
embraced
the
idea
 that
they
were
outsiders
of
a
sort
in
relation
to
the
bustling
insider­citizens
of
the
city,
but
 they
had
carved
out
their
own
space
in
the
city.
 
 Through
his
friends
at
The
Deluxe,
Tommy
met
Penelope,
with
whom
he
fell
in
love
 and
eventually
married.

When
they
met,
Tommy
was
34
years
old
and
he
had
“never
had
a
 real
job
other
than
traveling
around,
being
a
waiter,
bartender,
or
whatever.”

The
arrival
of
 
 81
 Penelope,
who
was
born
and
raised
in
New
York
City
but
living
in
Boston,
brought
a
change
 in
outlook.

Even
though
Penelope
also
valued
life
as
an
outsider,
Tommy
felt
that
he
 “needed
to
be
reputable
because
I
wanted
to
build
a
life.”

This
meant
doing
things
like
 asking
Penelope’s
father
for
her
hand
in
marriage,
even
if
it
felt
uncomfortable,
and
paying
 taxes.
 
 Tommy
stopped
working
as
a
bike
messenger
and
began
a
short
stint
“living
my
 perceived
idea
of
a
struggling
writer
of
fiction.”

Not
having
a
steady
income
flow
but
 needing
it
to
pay
off
student
loans,
he
worked
briefly
as
an
assistant
to
a
friend
who
was
a
 handyman.

This
wasn’t
a
long
term
solution,
though,
and
friends
tried
to
suggest
other
 possibilities.

Then,
by
sheer
“happenstance,”
as
Tommy
described
it,
he
was
talked
into
 entering
a
teaching
program.

He
was
riding
his
bike
toward
Penelope’s
apartment,
the
 wrong
way
down
a
one‐way
street,
and
the
owner
of
The
Deluxe
approached
him
in
his
car.

 Both
slowed
down,
and
in
a
quick
conversation,
the
bar
owner’s
girlfriend,
riding
in
the
 passenger’s
seat,
suggested
to
Tommy
that
he
think
about
entering
the
teaching
program
in
 which
she
was
enrolled.

It
was
a
master’s
degree
program
in
education
through
a
local
 university.

Participants
took
a
series
of
teaching
courses
while
working
full‐time
at
a
local
 high
school.

In
one
full
year,
participants
could
earn
their
teaching
degree.

The
program
 was
about
to
begin
for
the
year,
so
Tommy’s
time
was
limited
if
he
wanted
to
apply,
but
his
 friend
thought
he
would
likely
be
a
good
candidate
for
admission.
 
 Tommy
took
down
the
relevant
information
and
then
biked
on
to
Penelope’s
 apartment
where
she
quickly
approved
of
the
idea.

The
next
day,
Tommy
set
in
motion
the
 process
that
had
him
walking
into
Atlantic
High
School,
in
Dorchester,
a
few
days
later
for
 an
interview.

He
was
then
admitted
to
the
program
and
he
spent
the
year
earning
his
 
 82
 master’s
degree
in
education
while
teaching
at
Atlantic
High.

In
the
spring
of
that
year,
the
 school
offered
him
a
full‐time
position
as
an
English
teacher,
which
he
accepted.

Now,
 twelve
years
later,
despite
multiple
changes
in
the
school’s
structure,
Tommy
is
one
of
four
 people
from
his
cohort
who
continue
to
teach
at
the
school.


 
 For
this
time
period,
on
his
list
of
autobiography
chapter
titles,
Tommy
wrote
that
 he
was
“trying
to
become
a
citizen,”
and
he
underlined
the
last
word.

He
had
sought
to
 become
“reputable”
as
Penelope
came
into
his
life,
but
with
his
entry
into
teaching,
he
was
 committed
to
becoming
a
citizen.

This
meant
contributing
to
the
larger
society
around
him
 in
meaningful,
productive
ways.

Interaction
with
his
surroundings
was
no
longer
a
 movement
inward;
it
was
now
also
an
expansion
outward.

Paying
taxes
was
a
part
of
this,
 but
it
extended
far
beyond
general
civic
duties.

As
a
teacher,
he
would
work
as
a
citizen.

 To
be
sure,
though,
he
would
be
an
outsider­citizen,
contributing
to
the
larger
whole
in
the
 ways
(e.g.,
teaching)
and
settings
(e.g.,
Dorchester)
that
he
felt
fit
him
best.
 
 After
years
of
teaching
in
Dorchester
but
living
outside
of
the
neighborhood,
Tommy
 and
Penelope
bought
a
home
in
Dorchester.

They
had
lived
most
recently
in
Beacon
Hill,
a
 prominent
and
largely
affluent
neighborhood
near
the
city’s
downtown.

While
Penelope
 was
lukewarm
about
the
move,
Tommy
was
committed
to
seeing
it
happen,
even
as
it
was
 difficult
to
find
a
reasonably‐priced
home
to
buy.

Reminiscent
of
his
upbringing
amid
 cocktail
parties,
he
said,
“I
never
liked
living
in
Beacon
Hill…it
was
just
something
that
 rubbed
me
the
wrong
way.”

Also,
they
had
been
living
in
an
apartment
and
he
was
ready
 for
his
own
home.

“I
wanted
to
have
a
woodshop;
I
wanted
a
lawn;
I
wanted
space.”

For
 the
youthfully
transient
Tommy,
these
wants
amount
to
a
sizable
development,
a
detailed
 vision
for
his
future,
which
was
set
in
Dorchester.
 
 83
 
 Calling
Dorchester
a
neighborhood
in
Boston
is
somewhat
misleading.

Like
New
 York
City,
Boston
is
divided
into
geographical
sections,
but
there
is
not
an
equivalent
to
 New
York
City’s
boroughs,
except
for
“neighborhoods.”

Neighborhoods,
though,
typically
 connote
a
rather
small
area
of
street
blocks
and
corners.

But
Dorchester,
as
Tommy
said,
is
 to
Boston
as
Queens
is
to
New
York
City.

It’s
a
neighborhood
with
many
neighborhoods.

Of
 Dorchester,
Tommy
wrote,
“it
is
the
largest
geographical
neighborhood
in
Boston
and
has
a
 rich
and
storied
history.

There
are
pockets
of
very
beautiful
areas
within
the
borders
of
 what
is
considered
Dorchester,
but
there
are
also
very
poor
and
violent
areas.

The
latter
 being
predominant.

It
is
considered
one
of
the
more
dangerous
parts
of
the
city.”

Tommy
 had
not
lived,
at
least
for
an
extended
duration
of
time,
in
a
comparable
place.
 
 Tommy’s
house
is
near
his
school,
with
a
few
busy
streets
and
a
“T”
(subway)
 station
in
between.

Where
Tommy’s
home
is
located,
the
area
is
old
and
beautiful.

In
the
 earlier
days
of
the
city,
elites
from
Beacon
Hill
would
summer
in
the
large
Victorian
homes
 that
now
comprise
the
neighborhood.

While
population
patterns
have
changed,
many
of
 the
homes
are
still
standing
and
in
decent‐to‐good
condition.

Tommy’s
house,
though,
was
 in
“shambles”
when
they
bought
it.

Freshly
painted
a
deep
purple
when
I
visited
it,
Tommy
 and
Penelope
have
put
significant
work
into
repairing
it,
which
he
says
he
loves
doing.

The
 house
has
many
rooms
across
four
stories
and
both
its
front
and
back
yards
are
bounded
 by
a
fence.

Importantly,
the
fence,
which
serves
to
disconnect
the
yard
from
neighbors’
 yards,
is
the
feature
he
dislikes
most
about
the
home.

When
I
first
arrived
at
his
house,
 Tommy
took
me
on
a
tour:
wood
floors,
tall
ceilings,
built‐in
bookcases
with
numerous
 books,
rooms
tucked
into
corners.

After
circling
the
living
areas
of
the
first
floor,
we
 peeked
in
on
bedrooms
on
the
second
floor
and
an
attic
room
on
the
third
floor.

The
top
 
 84
 floor
is
one
whole,
undivided
space
but
it
features
a
chimney
running
through
the
center
of
 it.

On
the
side
opposite
the
chimney
from
the
entryway,
there
is
a
drum
set
that
belongs
to
 Penelope.
 
 As
Tommy
pointed
out
areas
of
the
house
where
work
projects
had
been
finished,
 were
ongoing,
and
were
planned,
we
walked
back
down
to
the
basement,
which
is
 primarily
Tommy’s
space.

It
is
his
woodshop,
complete
with
an
assortment
of
tools
and
a
 multitude
of
wood
scraps
donated
by
friends
or
found
in
scrap
heaps.

There
is
a
giant
rug,
 something
that
he
rescued
from
his
school’s
trash
pile,
that
spans
much
of
the
floor
and
 features
a
map
of
the
United
States.

The
place
also
doubles
as
a
game
area
with
a
 dartboard
in
one
corner.38

As
we
ascended
the
basement
stairs
and
walked
out
into
the
 backyard,
we
passed
the
cats
that
share
the
house
with
Tommy
and
Penelope.

Then
 outside,
we
encountered
a
neighborhood
cat,
one
of
several,
that
visits
frequently
to
get
 food
scraps
from
Penelope
on
the
back
steps.

Despite
living
in
the
city,
the
backyard
is
a
 nice
grassy
patch
that
features
a
shed.39

Smaller
than
its
immediate
neighbors,
some
of
 which
are
undergoing
major
reconstruction
projects,
the
house
still
fits
in
with
its
peers.

 Tommy
said
they
live
“in
a
relatively
safe
neighborhood
where
the
majority
of
the
people
 live
in
single
family
homes
in
which
they
have
a
mortgage.”

And
he
noted,
“this
is
not
true
 of
all
of
Dorchester.”
 
 When
I
asked
him
why
he
wanted
to
move
to
Dorchester
in
particular,
he
responded
 in
the
present
tense:
“I
want
to
live
in
a
place
that’s
multicultural.

I
want
to
live
in
a
place
 























































 38
Later
in
the
week,
when
a
group
of
his
friends
congregated
at
the
house
for
their
weekly
 Friday
get‐together,
we
threw
darts,
talked,
and
listened
to
music
there.
 39
Inside
the
shed,
among
other
things,
is
a
ping
pong
table
that
is
wheeled
out
in
the
 summer
when
friends
are
over.
 
 85
 that’s
real,
not
one
that’s
full
of
people
that
are
transient
and
wealthy.

I
want
to
live
in
a
 place
where
there’s
some
real
shit
going
on.”

While
he
never
said
it,
I
sense
that
this
 rationale
for
living
in
Dorchester
mirrors
his
rationale
for
teaching
in
Dorchester.

It’s
a
 complicated
environment,
a
place
of
real
living,
comprised
of
largely
social
outsiders,
and
 that’s
where
he
wants
to
be.

At
the
same
time,
Tommy
was
mindful
of
where
in
Dorchester
 he
and
Penelope
chose
to
live.

“I
don’t
live
in
the
hood.

I
live
next
to
it,
but
not
in
it,
cause
I
 don’t
want
to
live
in
it—but
I
want
to
live
in
that
community.”

The
hood,
an
ambiguous
 reference
to
which
Tommy
at
one
point
noted
“whatever
that
means,”
is
where
violence
is
 more
acute,
as
well
as
poverty.

It’s
where
multiple
families
cram
into
less‐than‐desirable,
 rented
living
spaces.


It’s
where
most
of
his
students—almost
entirely
students
of
color— live.

And,
it’s
where
Tommy’s
school
is
located.


 
 Included
in
his
reasons
for
moving
to
Dorchester
is
the
proximity
of
his
school
and
 students.

For
years,
like
the
majority
of
his
colleagues,
he
drove
into
Dorchester
for
school
 and
left
when
school
was
out
for
the
day.

He
didn’t
have
a
deep
sense
of
the
setting
where
 he
taught
and
his
students
lived.

That
is
changing
now
as
his
daily
actions,
related
to
 school
and
not,
all
take
place
in
Dorchester.

He
reflected
on
this:
“I
like
the
fact
I
live
in
the
 community
that
the
majority
of
the
students
I
teach
live
in
as
well.”

There
seems
to
be
a
 sense
that
he’s
a
better
teacher
of
his
students
now
that
he
lives
in
Dorchester,
although
 this
wasn’t
the
stated
reason
for
moving
there.

He
moved
to
Dorchester
to
root
himself,
to
 become
a
citizen.
 
 Tommy
talks
about
the
process
of
“becoming
a
citizen,”
which
he
pinpoints
to
the
 time
when
he
began
teaching.

While
I
see
that
as
a
pivotal
moment
in
his
citizenship,
I
also
 identify
a
second,
later
stage
that
seems
equally
pivotal:
his
move
to
Dorchester.

Still
 
 86
 interested
in
this
move
after
he
had
talked
at
length
about
it,
I
asked
him
to
tell
me
a
story
 related
to
it.

“There
was
a
very
old,
weird,
almost
completely
circular,
tied
with
yellow
 plastic,
metal
rocker
chair
that
was
left
in
the
backyard,”
he
says.

“It
was
like
the
third
day
 we’d
been
here.

I
had
had
a
soccer
game
and
I
had
come
back
[home]…I
had
a
couple
of
 beers
inside
and
then
I
walked
out
[into
the
backyard]
and
it
was
dark.”

In
the
back
of
the
 yard,
near
the
boundary
fence,
“I
sat
in
the
chair
and
I
looked
up
at
the
house
and
I
was
like,
 ‘I
win!

This
is
awesome.’”

After
a
pause,
he
adds,
“and
I’ve
always
felt
that
way.

I
love
this
 place.”

Interestingly,
in
the
process
of
rooting
himself
in
a
community,
he
felt
that
he
 personally
won.
 Tommy’s
life
in
Boston
brought
a
reversal
of
many
of
the
themes
of
his
early
life.

He
 changed
his
perspective
about
what
happiness
was
for
him.

Individual
thrill‐seeking
gave
 way
to
a
desire
for
social
contentment,
and
he
found
his
Balance.

His
purposes
were
re‐ defined,
cast
in
a
social
light,
and
teaching
had
much
to
do
with
this
(and
I
speak
to
this
 below).

He
came
to
love
where
he
lived
and
those
who
lived
around
him.

Gone
was
the
 constant
flight
from
one
location
to
another.

With
that
lack
of
movement,
he
began
to
root
 in
a
community—as
he
said,
he
became
a
citizen—and
that
is
central
to
his
identity
today.


 
 Tommy’s
Teaching
Curriculum:
Teaching
For
Balance,
Citizenship

 
 Mindful
of
his
living
curriculum,
I
turn
to
Tommy’s
work
as
a
teacher,
examining
 how
his
life
experiences
shape
his
professional
actions.

A
transient‐turned‐citizen,
I
 consider
how
many
of
Tommy’s
vivid
stories
of
teaching
and
coaching
center
on
his
 students
“find[ing]
their
Balance,”
which
is
a
central
theme
in
his
own
life.

In
doing
this
 work,
Tommy
is
on
the
margins
of
mainstream
society
with
students
who
have
been
made
 
 87
 outsiders
by
the
circumstances
of
their
lives.

This
commitment
to
others
is
the
content
of
 his
teaching
more
than
any
subject‐specific
set
of
standards.


Who
he
teaches,
and
where
 he
teaches
them,
defines
the
curriculum
of
his
classroom,
as
does
his
own
living
 curriculum.

I
begin
with
descriptions
of
his
teaching
setting
and
then
move
to
explore
his
 stories
about
teaching.
 
 Atlantic
High
School
and
its
Room
317.

 
 Atlantic
High
School,
is
a
stately
three‐story
brick
building
in
one
of
the
more
violent
 areas
of
Dorchester.

Reminiscent
of
1930s
American
architecture,
it
sits
box‐like,
 embedded
in
a
small
neighborhood,
and
it
looks
down
and
out
on
to
a
large
grassy
space
 that
is
divided
up
into
various
sporting
fields.

A
walking
path
extends
from
the
front
 corner
of
the
school’s
parking
lot
across
the
playground,
passing
by
a
long,
aged
set
of
 concrete
bleachers,
which
may
very
well
have
been
built
during
the
Great
Depression
by
 the
Works
Progress
Administration.

Although
bus
lines
run
near
the
school,
the
closest
T
 station
is
a
sizable
walk
beyond
the
school,
in
the
direction
of
Tommy’s
house.

A
few
blocks
 in
another
direction
of
the
school,
there
is
a
big
and
busy
intersection
of
two
main
streets.
 
 Tommy
wrote,
“I
would
describe
the
school
as
an
old
facility
that
lacks
many
of
the
 amenities
a
functioning
school
should
have
in
2011.”

An
impressive
structure,
both
inside
 and
out
it
conjures
a
feeling
of
a
‘gem
of
yesteryear.’

Mammoth,
largely
barren
hallways
 line
the
interior.

The
colors
are
drab
and
few
recent
photos,
posters,
or
signs
adorn
the
 walls.

At
the
main
entrance
there
is
a
guard
post
with
a
metal
detector.

Although
I
always
 passed
through
these
doors
at
times
when
few
students
were
around,
my
sense
is
that
the
 security
setup,
with
the
metal
detector
crammed
into
one
end
of
the
wide
entryway,
is
not
 exhaustive.

Despite
a
benign
dreariness
inside,
the
building
can
be
a
haven.

According
to
 
 88
 Tommy
in
his
Pre‐Place
questionnaire,
“the
surrounding
area
immediately
around
the
 school
is
dangerous.

For
example,
last
week
a
17
year
old
kid
was
murdered
100
yards
or
 so
from
the
school.
Executed
by
a
gunshot
to
the
head
at
point
blank
range.”

While
not
an
 everyday
occurrence,
such
violence
is
not
foreign
to
the
school
and
neighboring
 community.
 
 Atlantic
High
School’s
school
structure
has
undergone
significant
changes
in
the
last
 decade.

At
the
time
of
my
visit,
yet
another
change
was
in
the
works.

These
changes
 involve
teacher
and
student
movement,
both
within
the
school
and
to
other
schools.

They
 also
include
multiple
alterations
of
the
school’s
content
curriculum,
moving
from
one
 general
focus
to
another,
and
then
to
another.

As
a
teacher
amid
all
of
these
changes,
 Tommy
speaks
to
a
high
level
of
frustration
with
school
and
district
leaders
who
call
for
the
 changes.

The
result
of
this
constant
upheaval,
in
Tommy’s
opinion,
has
largely
served
to
 stunt
student
progress
and
break‐up
successful
faculty
partnerships.

For
example,
an
 excellent
block
of
ninth
grade
teachers,
including
Tommy,
at
one
point
was
fragmented
by
a
 new
wave
of
changes.

In
the
shuffle,
only
Tommy
remained
of
the
four
colleagues,
and
 years
of
collaboration
and
resulting
student
success
were
abruptly
cast
aside.

A
departed
 teacher
from
this
block
was
shifted
to
one
of
the
highest
achieving
public
schools
in
the
city
 and
another
was
moved
to
a
nearby
charter
school
that
had
been
touted
as
flourishing.

In
 Tommy’s
estimation,
great
teachers
were
being
sent
from
a
school
deemed
to
be
struggling
 to
schools
that
were
already
seen
as
successful.
 
 On
my
second
day
at
Tommy’s
school,
a
math‐teaching
colleague
of
Tommy’s,
Billy,
 dropped
by
Tommy’s
classroom
during
his
prep
period.

Small
in
stature
but
possessing
a
 booming
Boston
accent,
Billy
is
a
veteran
teacher,
having
taught
at
Atlantic
High
School
for
 
 89
 twelve
years
and
many
more
years
before
that
in
another
part
of
the
city.

In
addition
to
 coaching
the
school’s
varsity
soccer
team
with
Tommy
as
his
assistant
(until
Tommy
took
 over
the
job
when
Billy
stepped
down),
Billy
has
been
a
mentor
to
Tommy
and
it
is
clear
 that
Tommy
reveres
him.

As
the
three
of
us
talked
about
changes
in
the
school
in
his
 tenure
there,
Billy
shared
some
staggering
numbers.

There
had
been
six
principals
in
a
 twelve‐year
span.

In
the
past
eight
years,
200
different
teachers
had
come
through
the
 school.

In
one
year
alone,
there
were
eight
different
science
teachers
for
one
position.
 
 Although
the
teaching
staff
is
balanced
with
respect
to
gender
and
racially
diverse,
 transience,
as
detailed
in
Billy’s
numbers,
is
a
theme.

The
school’s
current
administrators,
 Tommy
assessed,
“are
a
combination
of
youth
at
the
front
end
of
their
career,
and
a
few
 who
are
retiring
this
year
or
will
be
soon.”


At
another
point,
Tommy
said,
“The
principal
is
 a
very
nice
guy
but
in
way
over
his
head.

And
the
assistant
principal
is
completely
 incompetent,
to
put
it
lightly.”
 
 The
school’s
students
are
lost
in
the
endless
shuffle.

And,
all
of
this
school
turmoil
 compounds
the
turmoil
of
many
of
the
students’
lives.

When
I
asked
Tommy
to
describe
 his
school’s
student
population,
he
wrote,
“98%
of
students
are
eligible
for
free
or
reduced
 price
lunch,
which
is
another
way
of
saying
they
are
at
or
below
what
is
considered
the
 poverty
line
in
this
country.”

The
same
percentage
of
students
is
non‐white,
with
the
two
 largest
groups
being
Black
(two‐thirds)
and
Hispanic
(just
under
one‐third).

Some
of
the
 most
marginalized
students
in
the
public
education
system
(in
Boston
and
across
the
 United
States),
they
face
extreme
instability
in
their
school.
 
 Although
Tommy
has
taught
in
various
classrooms
in
his
school,
his
current
room,
 317,
is
a
comfortable
space
and,
with
its
door
closed,
it
separates
Tommy
and
his
students
 
 90
 from
some
of
the
school’s
turmoil.

I
wrote
the
following
notes
after
my
first
day
at
Atlantic
 High:
 
 When
we
entered
the
room
for
the
first
time,
I
looked
around,
taking
 it
in,
finding
it
romantically
nice
in,
probably,
a
sentimental
and
ignorant
 way—i.e.,
it
was
not
an
amazing
educational
setting
but
I
liked
it—and
 Tommy
straightened
the
tables,
picked
up
some
papers,
straightened
chairs.

 He
then
ran
to
make
some
copies
while
I
looked
around.


 
 The
door
is
virtually
in
the
stairwell,
as
you
have
to
pass
through
the
 hallway‐ending
doors
to
get
to
it.

It
is
a
corner
room
of
the
school,
and
 looking
out
the
large,
rectangular
windows
(which
don’t
have
screens;
 Tommy
had
opened
two
of
them
to
get
in
air),
I
can
see
the
soccer
field
and
 the
rest
of
the
sporting
fields.

Directly
beneath
is
the
front
parking
lot,
and
 later,
students
in
the
room
will
come
over
to
the
windows
and
shout
hellos
 down
to
friends
until
Tommy
closes
the
windows.

As
he
closed
them,
 Tommy
shouts
down
to
one
student,
“what
are
you
doing
down
there?”—and
 this
is
after
the
bell
has
rung.
 
 The
room
is
large
and
spacious.

The
ceilings
must
be
13‐15
feet
high.

 The
room,
like
the
rest
of
the
place,
looks
worn.

It
has
seen
many
people,
 many
events.

There
are
wood
floors.

The
tables
are
arranged
in
an
“E,”
with
 the
open
end
at
the
front
of
the
classroom.

The
room
is
not
tidy,
but
the
 emptiness
of
the
room
does
not
make
it
feel
like
a
sty.

Around
the
room
 there
are
various
shelves
and
cabinets,
none
in
good
condition,
and
these
 hold
different
books
related
to
Tommy’s
teaching.

The
school’s
book
sets
are
 
 91
 out
in
the
open,
accessible
to
all.

There
is
a
tiny
TV
mounted
in
the
back
of
 the
room.

There
seems
to
be
something
hanging
from
the
ceiling
that
might
 be
an
LCD
projector
mount,
but
there
is
no
projector
there.

And,
there
is
no
 screen
in
the
room
that
would
signal
projector
usage.

There
is
an
old
 whiteboard
that
spans
the
front
wall.

A
newer
white
board
overlaps
about
 half
of
the
old
whiteboard.

Tommy’s
desk
is
in
the
front,
non‐window
side
of
 the
room.

There
is
a
rickety,
locking
cabinet
outside
his
desk
and
an
old
 computer/printer
next
to
his
desk.

I
don’t
know
if
they
work;
he
has
a
Mac
 laptop
that
he
uses
periodically
during
the
class.
 
 Along
the
walls
there
are
various
posters
and
other
visuals,
although
 the
space
is
not
overwhelmed
or
used
entirely.

In
the
front
window
corner
 there
is
a
picture
of
Bob
Marley.


In
the
back,
on
the
door
to
the
adjacent
 room,
there
is
a
picture
of
Spike
Lee,
and
a
caption
that
endorses
libraries.

 There
are
two
small
sheets
of
pictures
of
writers
and
“great
Americans”
in
 the
back
window
corner.

They
all
appear
to
be
black.

I
recognize
Frederick
 Douglass,
Langston
Hughes,
and
others.

Up
high
on
the
back
and
non‐ window
walls,
there
are
movie
posters
for
Of
Mice
and
Men,
Freedom
Writers,
 The
Grapes
of
Wrath,
and
others…There
are
many
English‐related
postings.

 Things
about
“who/whom,”
“can/may,”
etc.
rules.

Posters
with
reading
 strategies.

Lower,
on
the
back
and
non‐window
walls,
there
are
bulletin
 boards
that
say
something
like
“Products
and
Writings.”

Stapled
to
the
wall
 are
about
40
essays
written
by
students,
dated
March
22
[i.e.,
about
8
weeks
 prior],
and
they
are
all
about
the
American
Dream.
 
 92
 
 
 At
the
time
of
my
visit,
Tommy
was
teaching
three
block
sections
of
ninth
grade
 English,
a
course
that
he
had
taught
a
number
of
times
in
his
teaching
career.

At
the
 beginning
of
the
year,
the
rosters
for
these
classes
were
around
30
students
each,
but
there
 was
sizable
change
between
then
and
May.

Over
the
days
that
I
was
in
his
room,
he
 averaged
between
14
and
18
students
per
class.

With
a
core
of
6
or
8
in
each
class
who
 were
present
each
day,
the
remaining
students
showed
up
only
once
or
twice
during
my
 visit.
 
 When
I
asked
him
to
speak
about
the
curriculum
of
his
ninth
grade
course,
Tommy
 said,
“generally,
the
class
is
literature‐based
with
a
focus
on
story
structure,
figurative
 language,
diction,
syntax,
tone,
mood,
characterization,
setting
and
various
types
of
written
 products.”

Literature
includes
a
unit
on
short
stories
written
by
diverse
writers
across
 diverse
times
and
places,
plays
like
Raisin
in
the
Sun,
novellas
such
as
Of
Mice
and
Men,
and
 narratives
such
as
Black
Boy.


 
 As
he
described
his
course
to
me,
I
understood
how
what
he
had
up
on
his
 classroom
walls
contextualized
his
teaching
and
his
students’
learning—except,
though,
for
 the
Freedom
Writers
(2007)
movie
poster.

Having
seen
the
film,
I
wondered
about
the
 poster’s
place
in
Tommy’s
classroom.

The
film
depicts
a
white,
affluent,
female
teacher
in
a
 struggling
urban
school.

Tommy’s
biography
features
all
of
these
characteristics
except
for
 his
gender.

But
the
film
tells
a
“miracle
story”
about
a
teacher
who
overcomes
all
odds
to
 save
her
incredibly
marginalized
students,
working
independently
from
the
bumbling
 teachers
and
corrupt
administrators
that
surround
her.

While
Tommy
certainly
talks
of
 working
independently
and
experiencing
frustration
with
those
who
surround
him
at
 
 93
 times,
and
his
students
are
similarly
marginalized,
Tommy
is
not
a
savior
in
his
stories
of
 teaching;
he
is
a
member
of
a
community
looking
to
help
students
improve
their
lives.
 
 Tommy’s
learning
to
teach.
 
 Prior
to
my
Place
visit,
I
had
asked
Tommy
if
his
reasons
for
teaching
at
the
present
 time
are
the
same
as
they
were
when
he
entered
the
field
[in
2000].

He
wrote,
“they
 remain
the
same.

The
reasons
evolve
and
have
taken
on
a
certain
complexity
over
the
past
 eleven
years
but
the
essence
is
still
the
same:
To
try
and
make
a
difference
in
the
lives
of
 kids
who
struggle
with
poverty
and
the
attendant
misery
it
spawns.
I
also
like
the
work
 because
it
is
hard
and
each
day
is
different,
which
is
important
to
me.”
 
 At
the
present,
Tommy
thinks
of
his
classroom
as
his
fiefdom,
but
this
was
not
 always
the
case.

In
some
of
the
prior
years,
the
organizational
structure
was
far
from
a
row
 of
classrooms
with
closed
doors.

But
that
structure
has
given
way.

Now,
“there
are
45
 fiefdoms
in
this
dysfunctional
country.

But
in
my
fiefdom,
everybody’s
fed
well
and
shit’s
 running
right.

When
they
come
in
and
try
to
screw
it
up,
I
resist
as
much
as
I
possibly
can
 and
I
go
back
to
what
works
for
my
fiefdom.”

But
recognizing
problems
inherent
in
this
 approach,
Tommy
added,
“that’s
ultimately
not
what
you
want
in
a
system
or
a
school.

You
 want
the
whole
thing
being
in
community.”
 
 Despite
a
“wonderful”
year
of
teaching
during
his
teaching
certification
internship,
 his
second
year
at
Atlantic
High,
and
first
as
a
solo
classroom
teacher,
was
a
“trial
by
fire.”

 He
lacked
“backup”
in
the
form
of
support
from
a
mentor
teacher
but,
more
importantly,
he
 lacked
institutional
support
from
the
school.

His
classes
were
large,
some
as
big
as
35
 students,
and
he
had
only
32
seats
in
his
room.

He
talked
about
his
experience
in
the
 second
person,
“completely
on
your
own.

And
if
you
complained,
it
was
perceived
by
 
 94
 everybody
else
as
a
sign
of
inability
or
weakness.”

He
was
determined
not
to
complain,
 despite
a
number
of
trying
events.
 
 On
his
first
day
of
school
that
year,
an
announcement
was
made
from
the
office
that
 first
period
would
be
extended
for
a
total
of
three
hours
for
attendance‐records
purposes.

 On
top
of
this,
a
gratuitous
error
with
his
class
roster
had
posited
two
times
as
many
 students
in
his
first
period
class.

He
needed
to
extend
his
50‐minute
lesson
plan
to
three
 hours,
and
he
had
to
do
so
with
60‐plus
students
and
half
as
many
seats.

In
the
second
 hour
of
the
period,
a
student
stabbed
another
student
with
a
pencil,
and
Tommy
took
the
 bleeding
student
into
the
hall
so
that
someone
else
could
take
him
to
the
nurse.

When
 Tommy
reentered
the
room,
another
student
had
lit
a
marijuana
joint.

Imagining
and
 dreading
this
scene
as
Tommy
described
it,
I
asked
him
if
he
ever
considered
quitting
 teaching.

He
responded,
“that’s
never
really
an
option.”

Surprised
at
not
even
a
hint
of
 possibility,
I
asked
if
it
wasn’t
an
option
for
financial
reasons:
perhaps
he
just
needed
a
 paycheck.

“No,
I
guess
it’s
a
philosophical
thing,”
he
replied.

“If
you’re
going
to
walk
away
 from
something,
you
walk
away
on
your
own
terms,
not
because
you
got
your
ass
 whooped.”

At
hearing
this,
I
thought
of
his
three
instances
of
enrolling
in
college
after
 being
expelled
from
high
school.
 
 As
he
taught
deeper
into
his
first
year,
Tommy
received
and
began
to
believe
some
 important
advice
from
a
colleague:
“if
you’re
consistently
here
and
present
and
prepared
 every
day,
whatever
behavior
is
happening
will
eventually
wear
down
a
little
bit.”

After
a
 while,
not
only
did
he
like
the
daily
teaching
challenges,
“I
began
to
kind
of
embrace
the
 difficulty.”

He
had
a
student
named
Derrick
in
a
class
of
35.

He
was
a
“skinny,
little
kid
but
 everyone
was
afraid
of
him
because
he
purportedly
carried
a
gun.”

Derrick
would
walk
 
 95
 into
class
each
day,
constantly
talking.

It
was
always
negative
and
usually
directed
at
 Tommy.

After
days
of
the
same
actions
from
Derrick
and
mounting
frustration,
Tommy
 said
to
Derrick
in
the
middle
of
class,
“you
know
what,
Derrick?

You’re
not
angry
at
us
as
a
 class,
and
you’re
not
angry
at
me,
you’re
doing
this
because
you
don’t
like
yourself.

You’re
 angry
because
you
don’t
like
yourself.”

Derrick
collapsed,
as
if
Tommy
had
unveiled
his
 great
vulnerability.

Although
Tommy
wasn’t
carrying
out
a
plan
of
action,
with
his
 momentary
comment,
“all
of
[Derrick’s]
behavior
and
all
of
that
anger
was
finally
 understandable
to
him.”

From
that
point
on,
Derrick
was
no
longer
angry
and
disruptive
in
 class.

Tommy
remembers,
“he
stopped
fighting.

And
even
better,
he
started
participating.”
 
 A
big
moment
for
the
student
(Derrick),
it
was
also
a
big
moment
for
Tommy.

It
 brought
a
realization
about
what
he
was
trying
to
do
in
the
classroom.

He
had
learned
that
 he
needed
to
be
present
constantly,
both
physically
and
mentally,
as
well
as
prepared.

But
 he
identified
that
he
also
was
“using
strategies
to
tag
the
psychology
behind
behavior,
 instead
of
just
reacting
to
the
behavior.”

In
talking
about
Derrick,
I
heard
Tommy
talking
 about
himself.

I
envisioned
Tommy
the
teacher
addressing
Tommy
the
aimless
wanderer.

 The
wanderer,
like
Derrick,
didn’t
like
himself
but
he
couldn’t
name
it.
 
 Although
I
read
Tommy’s
interaction
with
Derrick
in
deeply
personal
terms,
Tommy
 spoke
little
about
overtly
sharing
his
personal
stories
with
students
and
I
did
not
 experience
him
telling
any
of
those
stories
in
the
classroom.

As
with
Derrick,
he
may
have
 been
living
out
his
stories
in
the
classroom.
but
he
was
not
overtly
sharing
them.

This
was
 somewhat
surprising
to
me.

Although
he
is
an
avid
reader
and
writer
of
stories
outside
of
 school,
in
my
days
in
Room
317,
Tommy
did
not
tell
one
personal
story
to
the
class.

The
 closest
he
got
to
that
was
his
brief
description
of
his
team’s
soccer
game
the
previous
 
 96
 evening
went
when
a
student
asked
about
it.

The
content
curriculum
of
his
classes,
though,
 is
wrapped
in
stories.

As
an
English
teacher,
his
students
are
constantly
reading
and
 analyzing
stories.

They
are
also
writing
stories.


 
 But
Tommy
was
quick
to
tell
me
stories
about
his
teaching.

When
I
interviewed
him
 in
his
classroom,
I
asked
him
to
share
any
stories
that
came
to
mind
about
various
prompts
 that
I
provided
him.

I
began
by
asking
for
him
to
share
one
powerful
experience
from
his
 twelve
years
teaching
at
Atlantic
High.

After
thinking
for
15
seconds,
he
responded,
“okay,
 I
had
a
student
who
was
in
my
sophomore
class,
my
honors
class,
and
her
behavior
was
 really
strange.”

The
student,
Jayla,
would
be
kind
and
open
toward
him
and
then,
as
if
a
 switch
had
been
flipped,
she
would
turn
nasty—toward
him,
specifically.

In
previous
years
 Jayla
had
been
an
“A
student,”
but
in
Tommy’s
class
she
was
earning
mediocre
grades.

The
 situation,
though,
seemed
larger
than
a
change
in
grades.

At
moments
when
she
was
calm,
 Tommy
began
speaking
with
her,
attempting
to
understand
why
she
was
undergoing
such
 drastic
mood
changes.

“It
was
me
telling
her
that
it’s
really
important
to
get
things
that
are
 bothering
you
out
into
some
arena,
[to
create]
some
sense
of
openness.”

Unable
to
get
 beyond
“I
don’t
know”
responses,
Tommy
reached
out
to
other
staff
in
the
building,
asking
 them
to
speak
with
Jayla
and
help
her
address
her
anger.
 
 Tommy
soon
learned
that
Jayla’s
home
life
was
horrific.

She
was
repeatedly
being
 raped
by
her
uncle
who
was
living
in
the
same
home‐space.

Additionally,
her
mother
was
a
 drug
addict,
which
meant
that
she
was
taking
care
of
her
two
younger
siblings
almost
 exclusively.

From
the
point
at
which
Jayla
shared
what
was
happening
to
her,
drastic
life
 changes
ensued.

She
and
her
siblings
were
removed
from
their
household.

Jayla
entered
a
 local
program
that
allowed
for
her
to
live
on
her
own
in
a
subsidized
apartment
while
her
 
 97
 siblings
went
into
foster
care.

She
continued
going
to
school
and
found
a
supportive
 teacher
in
Tommy.

He
nominated
her
for
a
summer
program
aimed
at
providing
urban
and
 under‐resourced
participants
powerful
experiences
in
natural
settings.

The
program
also
 paired
participants
with
a
local
adult
mentor
intended
to
become
a
large
influence
in
their
 lives.

Tommy
also
worked
with
Jayla
to
apply
for
a
scholarship
that
provides
full
coverage
 of
tuition
and
expenses
for
four
years
of
college.

Jayla
was
one
of
the
recipients,
and
with
 the
scholarship,
as
Tommy
explained,
“she
went
to
a
good
local
university,
where
she
 struggled
mightily,
but
because
of
her
experience
here,
using
the
resources
that
were
 available—counseling,
the
summer
program,
et
cetera—she
knew
how
to
use
those
 support
systems
and
was
able
to
graduate.”

Jayla
now
works
in
Boston,
and
every
year
she
 comes
back
to
Atlantic
High
to
visit,
even
though
Tommy
is
one
of
the
few
people
that
 remains
from
her
time
there.
 
 After
Tommy
told
me
this
story
about
Jayla,
I
asked
how
the
various
staff
at
the
 school,
including
him,
were
able
to
help
Jayla.

He
said,
“there
were
enough
adults
that
had
 maybe
proven
to
her
that
they
weren’t
going
to
take
advantage
of
her
and
they
weren’t
 going
to
leave.

And
they
weren’t
going
to
take
‘I
don’t
know’
for
her
answer
to
a
clear
 problem.”

While
Tommy
was
an
important
character
in
this
story,
I
was
struck
by
how
it
 was
about
a
community
of
people,
the
staff
at
his
school
and
later
local
support
services,
 working
for
and
with
Jayla
to
better
her
life.

It
is
not
a
story
of
Tommy
saving
a
life,
but
it
is
 a
story
of
him
contributing
to
making
a
student’s
life
better.

When
he
tells
her
that
it’s
 important
to
get
what’s
bothering
her
out
into
“some
arena,”
and
when
he
says
that
“I
don’t
 know”
is
not
an
acceptable
answer,
I
hear
the
wisdom
of
his
living
curriculum
talking.

 Again,
I
hear
him
speaking
words
that
his
younger
self
needed
to
hear.
 
 98
 
 Indeed,
Tommy’s
story
about
Jayla
is
reminiscent
of
his
own
life’s
story.

Although
 he
did
not
experience
the
same
life
obstacles
as
Jayla,
and
his
basic
needs
as
a
person
were
 not
threatened
to
the
degree
that
Jayla’s
were,
he
did,
like
her,
live
a
powerful
 transformation
that
led
toward
finding
a
balance
of
life’s
circumstances.

In
telling
me
 Jayla’s
story,
he
was
re‐telling
his
story.

The
big
difference,
though,
is
that
he
is
a
 participant
in
helping
Jayla
find
her
Balance.
 
 Tommy
told
other,
similar
stories
about
students
and
his
teaching,
although
he
 never
directly
connected
them
to
his
own
life.

In
the
middle
of
Jayla’s
story,
he
paused
and
 took
a
brief
tangent:
“I’ve
found
a
phrase
that
really
works—it
resonates
with
these
kids— and
I
just
kind
of
stumbled
on
it
in
happenstance
one
of
my
first
years.”

He
was
teaching
“a
 big,
huge,
white
kid…that
had
real
behavior
issues.”

The
student
would
be
seen
by
other
 students
sleeping
on
park
benches
before
school.

Tommy
had
forged
a
connection
with
 him,
and
“I
turned
to
him
one
day
in
the
hallway
and
I
said,
‘you
know,
it’s
not
always
going
 to
be
this
hard.’

And
just
the
look
on
his
face
was
if
I
had
stunned
him.”

Again,
there
is
a
 striking
similarity
to
Tommy’s
lived
experience.

Life
was
hard
when
he
was
younger,
but
it
 got
better.
 
 I
didn’t
ask
Tommy
how
this
student’s
life
unfolded
after
that
moment.

He
quickly
 moved
back
to
Jayla
because
it
was
something
that
he
had
said
to
her,
and
it
resonated
with
 her.

Tommy’s
actions
toward
both
students,
regardless
of
the
outcomes,
show
a
concerted
 work
on
his
part
to
teach
students,
particularly
those
facing
mammoth
challenges,
about
 making
it
to
a
better
time
and
place
of
life.

As
Tommy
must
have
thought
numerous
times
 in
his
own
life—when
he
was
kicked
out
of
high
school,
for
example—he
told
his
students
 they
had
to
persevere,
that
it
was
worth
the
difficulty
of
confronting
their
obstacles.
 
 99
 
 These
stories
that
Tommy
told
about
his
teaching
center
on
his
involvement
in
 helping
students
improve
their
lives.

His
teaching
might
be
characterized
as
‘Balance
 work,’
aimed
at
working
with
students
so
they
can
find
a
stability
to
live
meaningful
lives.

 His
coaching
is
similar
to
his
teaching
in
this
respect.

The
content
of
his
coaching
is
soccer:
 how
to
pass,
shoot,
play
as
a
team,
face
an
opponent’s
strategy,
and
so
forth.

These
are
the
 mechanics
of
soccer,
just
like
the
mechanics
of
reading
and
writing
in
his
English
class.

But
 the
purpose
of
this
coaching,
like
his
teaching,
far
exceeds
any
curriculum
specific
to
this
 content.

What
happens
on
the
field
is
framed
in
the
larger
context
of
his
players’
lives.

 Lessons
from
practices
and
games
are
lessons
about
the
process
of
maturation
from
 childhood
to
adulthood,
resilience
in
the
midst
of
adversity,
success
and
failure
individually
 and
communally,
and
so
on.


 
 At
the
behest
of
Billy,
his
teaching
colleague
and
former
fellow
soccer
coach,
Tommy
 told
one
particular
soccer
story.

It
was
about
a
student,
Ship,
and
it
took
place
several
 years
back,
when
Billy
was
the
head
varsity
coach
and
Tommy
was
his
assistant.

Ship
was
 a
big
kid,
nicknamed
for
his
size,
who
bugged
Billy
and
Tommy
to
let
him
play
on
the
team.

 Eventually,
the
coaches
agreed
despite
some
reluctance.

Ship
hadn’t
played
much
soccer
 and
was
known
for
being
a
major
disturbance
in
school.

When
Ship
stepped
on
to
the
field
 during
practice,
a
younger
student
from
the
junior
varsity
team
accidentally
ran
into
him.
 The
younger
player
did
not
intend
for
this
to
happen
but
Ship
reacted
angrily.

Billy
and
 Tommy
stepped
in
and
explained
to
Ship
that
the
collision
wasn’t
on
purpose.

Ship
 redirected
his
ire
from
the
player
to
the
coaches.

He
started
swinging
his
fists.

The
coaches
 managed
to
talk
Ship
into
settling
down
and
leaving
practice.

But
as
he
walked
toward
the
 parking
lot,
he
shouted
out
that
he
would
be
coming
back
with
weapons.

Although
Ship
did
 
 100
 not
return,
Billy
and
Tommy
wrote
up
an
incident
report
with
the
school
and
the
police.

 The
report
resulted
in
a
court
hearing
at
which
Billy
testified
and
spoke
to
how
it
was
clear
 that
Ship’s
needs
were
not
being
met.

A
judge
ordered
money
to
be
appropriated
for
 testing
and,
later,
medication
for
Ship.

The
result
was
that
Ship
turned
his
life
around.

 Although
he
didn’t
continue
playing
soccer,
years
later,
Ship
came
back
to
the
school
and
 thanked
the
coaches
for
saving
his
life.

He
was
certain
that
he
would
have
killed
somebody
 soon
if
he
had
not
received
the
medications
that
the
court
mandated.
 
 Ship’s
story
mirrors
Jayla’s.

Although
Tommy
plays
less
of
a
direct
role
in
Ship’s
 story,
they
both
are
about
students’
lives
changing
dramatically
with
the
aid
of
adults
at
the
 school
and
within
the
community’s
support
system.40

Tommy
tells
these
stories
with
 pride,
even
when
he
is
quick
to
point
out
that
these
are
not
everyday
stories.


But
they
 signal
his
most
important
work.

And
importantly,
they
are
often
framed
by
a
context
larger
 than
his
classroom.


 
 This
is
Tommy’s
citizenship,
and
it
is
founded
on
his
lived
experiences
over
the
 course
of
his
life.

As
a
teacher,
he
is
working
for
the
benefit
of
a
larger
community.

He
is
 working
to
help
his
students
improve
their
lives.

While
these
stories
are
of
individual
 students,
the
community
is
invoked
in
supporting
the
students
toward
success.

Tommy
is
 working
with
other
teachers,
coaches,
guidance
counselors,
and
people
beyond
the
school
 to
support
students.

But
the
community
is
also
invoked
by
having
its
members
improve
 their
lives.

Further,
Tommy
is
not
just
acting
as
a
citizen,
he
is
teaching
citizenship
to
his
 























































 40
I’m
curious
as
to
why
Billy
was
adamant
that
Tommy
tell
this
story.

I
don’t
believe
it
 was
to
stroke
Billy’s
ego—there
were
no
signs
of
Billy
investing
in
that
kind
of
exercise.

 Perhaps
it
was
that
Billy
felt
Tommy
would
do
the
story
justice,
as
Billy
repeatedly
 commented
about
Tommy’s
“superior”
intelligence
and
eloquence.
 
 101
 students.

Evidenced
by
Jayla
and
Ship’s
returns
to
the
school
years
later
to
thank
their
 teachers,
the
students
are
becoming
citizens.

This
student
citizenship
is
directly
linked
to
 Tommy’s
citizenship.

In
Tommy’s
case,
as
well
as
his
students’,
there
is
a
two‐step
process:
 find
Balance,
then
act
as
a
citizen.
 
 Tommy
is
adamant
that
he
is
not
interested
in
teaching
elsewhere
than
Atlantic
 High.

Certainly
not
in
suburbia,
which
he
feels
warrants
too
much
attention
in
education
 circles,
and
not
in
a
rural
setting,
which
would
pull
him
away
from
where
he
lives
(and
 wants
to
stay).

If
he
were
to
hit
a
certain
level
of
frustration
at
his
school,
he
might
 consider
teaching
at
another
school
in
Boston,
but
he
does
not
hope
or
plan
for
that.

Last
 year,
he
did
consider
the
possibility
of
enrolling
in
a
Ph.D.
program
in
education,
but
none
 of
the
programs
that
he
looked
into
allowed
for
him
to
continue
teaching
full‐time
and
 pursue
a
line
of
study
specific
to
his
interests
and
future
at
Atlantic
High.


 
 
 Conclusion

 
 It
is
clear
to
me
that
Tommy
has
a
deep
commitment
to
his
students
and
his
school.

 His
school
is
not
touted
as
a
high‐flying,
academic
success.

It
is
plagued
by
constant
 structural
and
personnel
change,
a
student
population
deeply
impoverished,
a
parental
 community
with
little
political
and
educational
clout,
and
real
and
daily
safety
concerns.
 The
school
and
its
students
are
outsiders,
confined
to
the
margins
of
society.

All
of
these
 characteristics
are
reasons
why
Tommy
loves
where
he
teaches
and
where
he
lives.

He
 sees
himself
as
an
outsider,
too,
albeit
in
some
ways
that
are
different
from
his
students’
 outsider
status.

Dorchester
has
provided
him
a
place
to
find
Balance
and
become
a
citizen,
 the
kind
of
citizen
who
is
embedded
in
a
community
and
working
to
better
it.


 
 102
 
 On
the
day
that
I
arrived
in
Boston
for
my
Place
visit
with
Tommy,
he
had
a
fight
 break
out
in
his
classroom.

A
female
student
had,
as
he
said,
“pestered”
another
and
he
had
 to
step
in
to
physically
remove
her
from
his
classroom.

In
fact,
he
carried
her
from
his
 third‐floor
classroom
down
to
the
main
office
below.

Minutes
later,
she
left
the
school
in
 handcuffs
with
the
police.

Tommy
told
me
this
story
as
we
drove
to
his
house
after
he
 coached
a
soccer
game,
and
I
asked
him
how
the
student
would
react
to
him
the
next
time
 she
was
back
at
school.

“We’ll
be
cool,”
he
said,
“she’s
just
angry
with
the
world.”

Resilient
 in
his
own
life,
having
found
his
Balance,
he
is
resilient
with
his
students.
 
 I
return
to
the
movie
poster
for
Freedom
Writers
that
adorns
his
classroom
wall.

 Why
is
it
there
for
all
who
enter
to
see?

I
don’t
know
the
story
of
its
posting.

Perhaps
 someone
else
put
it
up
there
and
he
shrugged,
or
maybe
he
ignored
it.

Perhaps
a
student,
 maybe
seeing
herself
in
the
picture,
brought
it
in,
thinking
Tommy
would
like
it,
and
asked
 that
it
be
put
up.

In
which
case,
how
could
he
not
post
it?

But
perhaps
Tommy
posted
it— purposefully.

It
could
have
been
a
point
of
connection
with
students,
or
a
chance
to
talk
 about
the
American
Dream,
about
which
his
students
wrote
essays.

It
could
also
be
a
 constant
challenge
to
himself.

Despite
being
an
outsider‐citizen,
he
is
an
outsider
among
 his
students.

He
has
personal
Balance
and
he
also
benefits
from
society’s
configuration
of
 privilege.

Whatever
the
context
surrounding
that
poster,
it
is
a
reminder
that
Tommy’s
 Balance,
his
citizenship,
is
contested
daily.
 
 103
 CHAPTER
FOUR
 
 ROSIE’S
MOTHERING:
 FOSTERING
FAMILY
INSIDE
THE
CLASSROOM
AND
OUT
 
 I
write
America
for
the
ones
I
will
mother
 
 
 Who
won't
be
just
black
or
white
 
 But,
who
won't
want
to
be
an
"other".

 Their
parents
chose
to
love

 
 And
to
rise
above
 
 What
is
less
understood.

 They
looked
beyond
the
skin
 
 To
the
heart
of
a
friend
 
 And
saw
their
future.
 They
envisioned
the
complexion
and
hair
texture

 
 Every
feature
 
 The
beauty
of
two
races
creating
one.
 I
write
to
multi­racial
America.
 
 —Rosie
Baker,
Elementary
Gifted
Education
Teacher,
The
South,
2011

 
 
 Introduction
 
 Rosie
Baker
wrote
the
poem
above
during
the
week
that
I
visited
her
elementary
 school
classroom
in
Mobile
County,
AL.

In
these
words,
Rosie
focused
on
her
yet‐to‐be‐ born
children
“who
won’t
be
just
black
or
white.”

Rosie,
a
black
woman,
is
married
to
Rick
 Baker,
a
white
male.

She
thinks
that
their
future
children
won’t
want
to
have
to
identify
as

 “other.”

As
part
of
her
job
as
an
elementary
gifted
education
teacher,
Rosie
handles
a
large
 amount
of
paperwork
that
her
students
(and
their
families)
must
complete
in
order
to
 apply
for
the
program.

Some
of
this
paperwork
includes
“state
forms,”
on
which
parents
 must
indicate
their
child’s
race.

For
parents
whose
children
have
a
mixed
racial
 
 104
 background,
the
option
is
to
select
one
singular
race
(like
“black”
or
“white)
or
“other.”

 That
some
of
her
future
students’
parents
have
to
make
this
tough
decision—with
an
 inaccurate,
limiting
outcome
either
way—bothers
Rosie.

“They
should
have
a
choice
that
is
 a
fair
choice.”

But
Rosie
is
not
just
bothered
as
a
teacher.

She
is
bothered
as
a
future
 parent.

Some
day,
she
and
Rick
will
need
to
negotiate
the
same
problem
on
these
or
similar
 forms,
and
her
future
children
will
need
to
negotiate
the
same
problem
in
their
daily
living.

 She
wants
them
to
have
a
fair
choice.
 
 When
I
read
Rosie’s
poem
for
the
first
time,
I
thought
it
pertained
to
her
multiracial
 students
and
their
interracial
parents
since
she
so
often
speaks
about
teaching
in
a
 language
of
mothering.

I
interpreted
the
line,
“the
ones
I
will
mother,”
as
referring
to
the
 students
she
will
teach
in
the
future.

But
then
in
speaking
about
the
poem,
I
realized
her
 intent.

She
said
she
had
considered
writing
about
her
gifted
education
students—how
they
 are
sometimes
“others”
and
how
misconceptions
about
them
abound—but
then
she
 decided,
“I
want
to
do
something
more
personal…My
husband
and
I
will
have
kids
sooner
 rather
than
later.”


 
 In
the
fourth
line
of
the
poem,
Rosie
moves
from
first
person
to
third
person.

The
 subject
is
“their
future
children,”
even
though
“their”
is
a
form
of
our,
referring
to
Rosie
and
 Rick.

Such
a
rhetorical
move
is
intriguing;
it
signals
a
change
from
the
nearby
and
 subjective
toward
the
distant
and
objective.

A
larger,
societal
point
is
being
made,
perhaps,
 but
seemingly
without
the
passion
of
the
personal.

They
“chose
to
love
/
And
to
rise
above
 /
What
is
less
understood.”

Despite
living
in
a
society
that
is
not
necessarily
accepting
of
 interracial
relationships,
they
chose
to
love
each
other,
marry,
and
live
their
lives
together.

 “They
looked
beyond
the
skin
/
To
the
heart
of
a
friend
/
And
saw
their
future.”

In
such
 
 105
 action,
they
sought
to
distance
themselves
from
the
lingering
racism
of
a
society
that
hasn’t
 moved
beyond
skin
color,
including
miscegenation.

They
were
friends
in
love—why
should
 their
skin
colors
prevent
their
friendship
and
love,
especially
when,
together,
the
future
 was
brighter?
 
 Maintaining
the
storyline
from
the
distant
third
person,
Rosie
notes
that
the
parents
 of
the
“other[ed]”
children—she
and
Rick—thought
about
the
ramifications
of
their
union.

 They
considered
“every
feature”
of
their
future
children,
particularly
“envision[ing]
the
 complexion
and
hair
texture,”
and
foresaw
“The
beauty
of
two
races
creating
one.”

Their
 children
would
be
beautiful,
not
just
in
physical
appearance
but
also
in
societal
chemistry.


 Then,
returning
to
the
passion
of
her
first
person,
Rosie
closes:
“I
write
to
multi‐racial
 America.”

A
simple,
powerful
statement,
I
read
the
possibility
of
double
meaning
in
this
 ultimate
line.

Perhaps
“multi‐racial”
is
an
adjective
that
describes
“America.”

She
might
be
 sharing
her
sentiment
with
an
America
that
is
comprised
of
peoples
of
many
different
 races.

Perhaps,
though,
“multi‐racial”
is
a
verb
in
the
infinitive
form,
indicating
that
her
 writing
is
action.

With
these
words,
she
might
be
making
America
racially
mixed.

 
 Rosie’s
poem
raises
two
central
themes
of
her
life:
familial
relations,
particularly
 with
respect
to
the
mothering
of
children,
and
race.

While
the
former
was
explicit
 throughout
my
research
with
her,
the
latter
was
implicit.

And
yet
the
two
themes
are
 deeply
intertwined
in
her
life
experiences.

This
chapter
explores
the
complicated
 relationship
of
family
and
race
in
Rosie’s
living
and
teaching
curricula.

In
the
first
section
I
 tell
a
story
of
Rosie’s
life,
in
which
I
track
the
development
of
her
notion
of
family
from
her
 birth
to
the
present.

In
the
second
section
of
this
chapter,
I
tell
a
story
of
Rosie’s
life
as
a
 teacher,
including
her
focus
on
creating
family
in
her
classroom.

The
reader
will
note
that
 
 106
 in
both
stories
I
tell,
family
is
an
explicit
theme.

With
a
broad
conception
of
family,
Rosie
is
 active
in
various
families
as
she
(re)defines
who
comprises
her
family.

Largely
implicit
in
 these
two
stories,
though,
is
the
issue
of
race,
which
is
buried
in
the
unspoken
context.

Her
 living
and
her
teaching
is
shaped
by
these
themes.
 

 Rosie’s
Living
Curriculum:
(Re)Defining
Family
And
Home
 
 At
the
present
moment,
Rosie
is
in
her
early
thirties,
married,
teaching,
and
living
in
 South
Mobile.

She
is
pregnant,
awaiting
the
birth
of
her
first
child.41

Of
modest
height
and
 a
slender
build,
she
speaks
softly
in
conversation,
smiling
and
laughing
often.

Her
 “Southern
accent”
is
easily
distinguishable
from
my
“Midwestern
accent.”

Even
though
she
 has
taught
elementary
school
for
nine
years,
she
is
routinely
assumed
to
be
a
college
 student
by
people
she
meets
in
the
public,
non‐school
sphere.

Gentle
outside
of
the
 classroom,
inside
it
she
is
a
powerful
presence
as
she
regulates
the
activities
of
her
 students.

 
 Rosie
was
born
in
Mobile.

She
says
she
has
“strong
ties”
to
the
city
and
that
it
has
 always
been
“home”
for
her.

But
the
scale
of
home
does
not
reduce
solely
to
Mobile.

When
 I
asked
Rosie
if
she
would
identify
strongly
with
being
a
“Mobilian”—i.e.,
the
term
 commonly
used
to
represent
a
person
from
Mobile—she
said
that
she
would.

But,
“I
think
 more
specifically
than
a
Mobilian,
I
would
probably
say
that
I’m
from
The
Loop,
which
is
a
 specific
area
in
Mobile.”

She
grew
up
in
The
Loop,
the
boundaries
for
which
are
not
starkly
 defined
but
it’s
location
is
near
the
city’s
center.

Porous
boundaries
reflect
the
diversity
 that
defined
the
area
during
her
childhood.

The
Loop
possessed
“all
of
these
different
 























































 41
She
shared
this
news
with
me
via
email,
after
my
Place
visit.


 
 107
 groups,
just
all
mixed
into
one.

You
had
the
kids
whose
mom
and
dad
made
sure
that
 everything
was
paid
for,
because
they
could…And
then
you
had
the
kids
who,
as
soon
as
the
 bell
for
lunch
rang,
ran
across
campus
to
get
to
the
cafeteria
because
that
was
their
meal
 that
day.

You
had
the
entire
spectrum.”

 
 Perhaps
the
biggest
reason
why
Rosie
marks
The
Loop
as
home
is
because
Mother
 James
lived
there.

At
the
time
of
Rosie’s
birth,
her
parents
had
recently
divorced.

As
a
 result,
she
grew
up
with
her
mother
and
two
sisters,
apart
from
her
father.

Because
her
 mother
worked
full‐time,
Rosie
spent
much
of
her
childhood
at
Mother
James’
house.

In
 describing
Mother
James,
Rosie
did
not
specify
to
me
her
race
but
she
did
make
clear
that
 Mother
James
was
not
biologically
related
to
her.

A
mother
of
16
children,

Mother
James
 looked
after
the
children
of
women
in
the
community
who
worked
or
went
to
school
during
 the
day.

“I
lived
at
her
house
more
than
my
own
home
when
I
was
really
little,”
Rosie
said.

 When
she
was
old
enough
to
attend
school,
she
went
to
Mother
James’
house
after
the
 school
day
ended.

And
she
was
not
alone.

“Anyone
who
wanted
to
drop
their
kid
off
at
 Mother
James’
[house]
could.

So
there
were
always
two,
three,
or
four
kids,”
and
this
was
 in
addition
to
any
number
of
Mother
James’
biological
children.


 
 Rosie
recalls
that
each
child
at
Mother
James’
house—those
there
for
the
day
as
well
 as
the
ones
to
whom
she
gave
birth—thought
that
she
or
he
was
Mother
James’
favorite.

 The
children
would
debate
the
issue,
each
certain
of
her
or
his
own
exceptionality,
and
this
 included
Rosie.

“I
really
think
I
was
the
favorite,”
she
says
now.

“I
don’t
even
know
that
 there’s
anything
that
can
be
said
to
convince
me
otherwise.”

When
I
asked
Rosie
why
she
 possessed
this
certainty,
she
replied
that
Mother
James
“would
always
speak
highly
of
me
 while
I
was
standing
in
front
of
her,
whether
she
knew
I
was
there
or
not.”

Rosie
then
 
 108
 shared
a
more
recent
story,
which
took
place
at
a
60th–year
wedding
anniversary
party
for
 Mother
James
and
her
husband.

Mother
James’
youngest
child,
while
giving
a
celebratory
 speech
that
thanked
the
guests
for
attending,
said,
“there’s
someone
in
the
audience
who
is
 here
and
my
mom
loved
her.

Mom
loved
her
like
she
loved
one
of
us
[children].

And
she
 loved
her
more
than
everybody
else,
I
think.”

Hearing
this,
Rosie
thought,
“that
must
be
 me,
I’m
her
favorite.”

Then,
Mother
James’
husband
shouted
out
“where’s
Ro‐Ro?”,
his
 nickname
for
Rosie.

Mother
James
followed,
“Rosie,
stand
up
so
everybody
knows
who
you
 are.”


 
 Mother
James
was
the
most
prominent
adult
in
Rosie’s
childhood
life,
which
caused
 a
young
Rosie
to
sometimes
refer
to
her
as
“mom.”

Mother
James,
though,
would
quickly
 correct
her:
“no,
no,
no.

I’m
not
your
mom.

Your
mom’s
coming
[to
pick
you
up].”

But
 looking
back,
Rosie
calls
Mother
James
a
“definitive
mother”
and
credits
her
for
teaching
 Rosie
what
it
means
to
be
a
mother.

Talking
about
her
vision
of
the
ideal
mom,
Rosie
said,
 “with
mom
is
where
you
are
most
cherished
and
most
loved.

You
are
disciplined.

She
finds
 the
best
in
you
and
she
corrects
the
worst
in
you.

She
points
you
in
the
direction
you’re
 supposed
to
go.

And
you
don’t
doubt
her
love
at
all.”

Mother
James
was
this
mom
for
 Rosie.

Mother
James
was
a
disciplinarian,
giving
correction
when
it
was
warranted,
but
she
 also
was
caring
and
endlessly
patient.

And
when
Rosie
thinks
about
this
mothering
 multiplied
out
across
all
of
the
children
for
whom
Mother
James
cared,
she
calls
it
an
 “ultimate
love
and
sacrifice.”

Reflecting
with
awe,
she
said,
“I
don’t
know
how
you
spread
 your
love
so
equally
that
your
kids
think
that
you
love
them
more
than
everyone
else.”


 
 When
she
was
four
years
old,
Rosie
was
diagnosed
with
cancer
in
her
nervous
 system.

Shortly
after
her
fifth
birthday,
she
underwent
major
surgery
that
removed
a
 
 109
 bundle
of
cancerous
tissue
that
was
located
behind
her
lungs.

The
surgery
also
targeted
 and
fixed
a
heart
murmur.

With
a
timely
diagnosis
and
the
necessary
surgical
response,
 Rosie’s
cancer
was
quickly
and
effectively
halted.

The
process
was
certainly
life‐ threatening,
but
it
did
not
play
out
over
a
number
of
years,
as
is
the
case
with
many
cancer
 treatments.

While
Rosie
had
a
series
of
doctor’s
visits
in
the
years
after
her
surgery,
they
 were
largely
“check‐ins”
aimed
at
making
sure
that
all
signs
remained
positive.


 
 As
a
result
of
her
cancer,
Rosie
entered
a
new
community
that
was
starkly
different
 from
her
previous
experiences
with
her
family
and
Mother
James.

There
were
the
people
 at
the
hospital,
during
and
beyond
her
treatment:
patients,
families,
advocates,
doctors,
 nurses,
and
other
medical
professionals.

Since
cancer
afflicts
a
diversity
of
people
across
 many
different
characteristics
(such
as
age,
geographic
location,
gender,
and
so
forth),
 Rosie
met
a
variety
of
people.


And
not
only
did
these
people
come
from
different
 backgrounds,
their
experiences
with
cancer
were
quite
varied
since
cancer
afflicts
people
 differently
given
its
many
types
and
the
uniqueness
of
each
person’s
body.


After
Rosie’s
 successful
treatment,
this
community
opened
up
further
in
the
form
of
a
camp
for
youth
 who
were
battling
or
had
survived
cancer.

Each
year,
during
one
week
in
June,
Rosie
 attended
Camp
Golden
at
a
campground
in
southern
Alabama.

She
was
a
camper
for
her
 first
ten
years
there
until
she
was
eligible
to
be
a
“counselor
in
training”
and,
eventually,
a
 counselor.

Today,
after
24
years,
she
remains
involved
as
one
of
the
camp
planners.
 
 Camp,
for
a
young
Rosie,
“was
this
separate
life
that
I
had.”
It
was
an
intense
 experience,
and
she
loved
it.

She
met
other
youth
and
adults
who
became
recurring
figures
 in
her
life,
and
she
learned
skills
like
horseback
riding,
which
had
not
been
a
part
of
her
life
 previously.

“Two
weeks
before
camp
[each
year],
I
had
my
bags
packed
and
everything
 
 110
 was
ready
to
go.

When
I
would
get
home,
I
would
sleep
and
then
call
friends
from
camp
 and
we
would
stay
on
the
phone
for
a
week
or
so.”

Then
she
would
turn
back
to
the
 particulars
of
non‐Camp
life
until
the
following
June.
 
 Although
Camp
was
a
separate
world
for
camper
Rosie,
it
became
more
integrated
 into
daily
life
for
counselor
Rosie.

Especially
as
she
thought
about
becoming
a
teacher,
she
 realized
“I
am
to
that
8‐year‐old
what
my
counselors
were
to
me.”

She
started
thinking
 about
the
need
“to
give
[campers]
the
normalcy
that
they
don’t
find
at
school
or
at
home
 cause
no
one
else
can
identify.”

Rosie
followed
up
this
comment
by
saying,
“I
definitely
 can’t
identify
to
some
degree
because
my
treatment
was
so
quick
and
so
easy—some
of
 them
have
had
such
a
difficult
time—but
there
are
some
people
that
can
[identify].”

She
 found
that
she
was
able
to
connect
well
with
campers,
particularly
“in
situations
that
they
 are
not
always
comfortable
in…I
will
look
for
the
kids
who
are
timid
or
don’t
want
to
get
on
 the
bus
[to
camp]
because
they’re
so
scared
and
try
to
really
coax
them
in
and
get
to
know
 them.”

She
is
committed
to
making
Camp
a
welcoming
community
for
all
campers.
 
 Unlike
Camp,
school
and
church
were
significant
daily
places
for
Rosie
throughout
 her
childhood.

She
was
a
student
in
the
Mobile
County
Public
School
System
(MCPSS),
a
 large
and
extensive
district
that
spanned
the
urban,
suburban,
and
rural
areas
of
the
 county.

Rosie
enjoyed
school
and
excelled
at
it.

She
recalls
how
in
elementary
school,
after
 usually
finishing
her
week’s
work
by
Tuesday,
her
teachers
would
ask
her
to
teach
her
 peers
during
the
remaining
days
of
the
week.

Although
her
elementary
school
had
a
gifted
 education
program
and
she
was
tested
for
it,
she
did
not
enter
gifted
education
until
later
 in
her
schooling.

She
attended
a
magnet
middle
school
in
downtown
Mobile
that
was
 
 111
 focused
on
performing
arts.

In
high
school,
she
attended
a
prestigious
public
high
school,
 where
she
entered
into
and
participated
in
the
gifted
education
program.


 
 Similar
to
her
experience
with
her
Camp
community,
through
school,
Rosie
met
and
 befriended
a
variety
of
youth
her
age.

Because
of
the
nature
of
her
magnet
middle
school
 and
the
academic
lure
of
her
high
school
(as
well
as
its
vast
zone
from
which
it
pulled
 students),
she
attended
school
with
students
from
across
Mobile
County.

Her
high
school
 featured
the
academically‐rigorous
International
Baccalaureate
(IB)
program
and
all
 county
students
were
eligible
to
apply
for
it.

As
Rosie’s
closest
friends
participated
in
 gifted
education
and
IB,
she
was
interacting
with
people
from
different
geographic,
 intellectual,
and
experiential
backgrounds.
 
 During
these
schooling
years,
Rosie
became
active
in
her
church
community,
which
 opened
her
to
yet
another
community
from
across
the
county.

When
she
was
very
young,
 her
maternal
grandmother
had
worked
at
a
local
church,
cleaning
it
and
taking
care
of
 babies
in
the
nursery.

As
a
result,
her
grandmother
began
worshiping
there,
and
Rosie,
her
 mom,
and
her
sisters
did
as
well.
But
when
Rosie
was
seven,
some
of
the
parishioners
at
 the
church
founded
a
new
church,
and
they
asked
her
grandmother
to
make
the
move
with
 them.

Rosie
and
the
rest
of
her
family
moved
to
Spring
Church
as
well.

The
church
was
not
 located
in
The
Loop
but
it
was
not
far
away
either.

Although
she
did
not
speak
in
depth
 about
the
racial
composition
of
Spring,
the
congregation
was
predominantly
white.

Over
 the
next
two
decades,
Rosie
was
an
active
member
of
Spring,
even
as
all
the
other
members
 of
her
family
gradually
left
it.

She
attended
and
later
worked
at
“children’s
church.”

As
a
 teen
and
an
adult,
she
worked
in
the
church’s
nursery
during
services.

She
also
 participated
in
the
youth
and
young
adult
groups.

 
 112
 
 During
her
high
school
years,
Rosie
participated
in
the
“Spring
Church
Bus
 Ministry.”

A
group
from
the
church—which
was
located
near
Interstate
65
in
a
bustling
 area
of
Mobile—would
board
a
bus
and
drive
15
minutes
north
on
I‐65,
leaving
behind
the
 bustle,
to
Prichard.

Prichard,
as
Rosie
described
it,
was
a
place
“of
huge
poverty.”

It
was:

 high
in
crime
and
low
in
money…just
this
other,
other
world.

The
street
 signs
were
off
the
streets—and
this
is
of
course
before
the
days
of
GPS— because
if
you
take
the
street
signs
down,
the
police
don’t
go
in
at
nighttime
 because
they
can’t
find
their
way
in,
around,
and
they
can’t
find
their
way
 back
out.

So
it
was
just
like
this
crazy
danger
zone
where
we
did
bus
 ministry.
 In
her
description
of
Prichard,
Rosie
omitted
the
nearly‐all‐black
racial
composition
of
the
 city.


 
 Children
from
Prichard
were
invited
to
board
the
Spring
bus.

They
would
then
go
to
 Mobile,
to
the
church,
for
an
“incredible
service.”

After
the
service,
sometimes
the
bus
 would
go
to
a
nearby
mall
or
movie
theater,
places
that
the
Prichard
children
rarely,
if
ever,
 frequented.

Rosie
summarized
that
the
church
group
would
“love
on
[the
participants],
 give
them
candy
and
junk,
and
then
drive
them
back
home.”

Reflecting
on
her
experience
 with
the
bus
ministry,
she
said,
“I
think
that
is
where
I
learned
that
people’s
concept
of
the
 hardest
thing
is
different.

That
the
hardest
thing
that
you’ll
ever
deal
with
is
the
hardest
 thing
for
you,
but
it
might
be
a
cakewalk
for
someone
else.”

Rosie
added
that
it
“was
a
time
 in
my
life
when
it
was
just
incredible
to
realize
that
these
kids
are
going
through
some
very
 tough
stuff.”

She
had
survived
cancer
and
lived
in
a
family
split
by
divorce,
but
she
 experienced
a
different
kind
of
“tough”
through
the
bus
ministry.
 
 113
 
 Rosie
stopped
participating
in
the
bus
ministry
when
she
left
Mobile
after
 graduating
from
high
school.

She
attended
a
small,
private,
liberal
arts
college
in
central
 Alabama,
a
several‐hour
drive
from
Mobile.
She
studied
elementary
and
early
childhood
 education
and
her
hope
was
to
become
a
kindergarten
teacher.

In
addition
to
her
course
 work,
she
worked
in
an
after
school
program
at
a
nearby
private
school.

She
babysat
often,
 particularly
for
one
family
with
whom
she
became
very
close.

In
the
summers
after
her
 junior
and
senior
years,
instead
of
returning
to
Mobile
for
a
full
summer,
Rosie
worked
at
a
 children’s
camp
in
the
Catskill
Mountains
of
New
York.

Many
of
the
children
and
the
staff
 at
the
camp
were
from
different
countries,
which
Rosie
said
gave
her
a
“taste
of
the
world.”


 
 But
after
her
second
summer
at
the
New
York
camp,
which
followed
her
graduation
 from
college,
Rosie
returned
to
Mobile.

She
completed
what
she
called
her
“last
limbo
 move,”

and
now
she
would
“be
home
for
as
long
as
I
want
that
to
be
home.”

I
asked
Rosie
 why
she
came
back
to
Mobile
and
she
said,
“I
don’t
think
I
thought
of
it
much…I
don’t
think
 I
even
considered
living
anywhere
else
for
my
adult
life.”

At
another
point
in
our
 interviews,
while
talking
about
her
“strong
ties”
to
Mobile,
she
said
that
her
feeling
after
 college
was,
“I’m
ready
to
go
back,
I’m
ready
to
be
back
in
Mobile.”

She
then
referenced
a
 friend’s
article,
published
in
a
local
monthly
magazine,
“about
how
Mobile
leaves
its
mark
 on
people.

They
go
and
live
in
other
places
but
there’s
nothing
quite
like
being
back
in
 Mobile.”

Even
though
her
friend
who
wrote
the
article
had
moved
away
from
Mobile,
 calling
himself
an
“expatriate,”
Rosie
noted
that
“a
lot
of
Mobilians
will
move
back
to
Mobile
 after
years
of
being
some
place
else.”



 
 Rosie’s
move
back
to
Mobile
signified
a
return
to
where
she
was
rooted.

As
we
 talked,
I
raised
the
metaphor
that
it
was
almost
like,
if
she
were
a
rubber
band,
her
time
at
 
 114
 college
and
at
the
camp
in
New
York
were
moments
when
the
rubber
band
was
stretched,
 but
then
it
retracted
to
its
regular
position
with
her
return
to
Mobile.

Her
past
was
located
 in
Mobile
and
she
had
no
reason
not
to
see
her
future
there,
especially
as
the
people
and
 communities
to
which
she
was
closest
were
in
Mobile.
 
 Rosie
once
again
began
attending
Spring
Church
regularly
and
there
she
rekindled
 her
friendship
with
Rick
Baker.

A
white
male
from
Mobile,
Rick
met
Rosie
at
Spring
when
 both
were
in
high
school,
even
though
they
were
from
different
parts
of
the
city.

Rosie
 lived
in
The
Loop;
Rick
lived
in
the
southern,
suburban
part
of
the
city,
known
as
South
 Mobile.

The
two
had
different
schooling
backgrounds
as
well:
he
went
to
private
schools
 while
she
attended
public
schools.

And,
Rick
was
two
years
younger,
so,
as
Rosie
 remembers,
“we
didn’t
really
hang
out
in
the
same
group”
as
teens.

But
when
Rosie
 returned
to
Mobile
after
college,
they
quickly
became
close
friends
and,
after
a
few
years,
 married.
 
 

 In
addition
to
meeting
Rick
at
Spring,
she
met
two
married
couples
that
she
said
 became
her
“extended
‘family.’”
She
was
13
years
old
when
she
first
met
the
Pinckneys.

 They
had
a
daughter
who
was
ten
years
older
than
Rosie
but
working
with
her
on
a
church
 project.

In
the
ensuing
years,
Rosie
spent
considerable
time
over
at
the
Pinckney’s
house
 and,
in
the
process,
the
Pinckneys
became
“like
second‐nature
parents
to
me…There
are
 surgeries
that
my
mom
has
no
idea
that
I’ve
had
and
I’ve
just
gone
to
[the
Pinckney’s]
 house
and
let
them
take
care
of
me.”

Like
the
Pinckneys,
Rosie
met
the
Hendricksons
at
 Spring,
and
“they’ve
been
kind
of
surrogate
parents
to
both
Rick
and
me.”

The
 Hendricksons
were
a
married
couple
with
four
children,
the
oldest
of
which
was
the
same
 age
as
Rosie.

The
Hendricksons
were
the
leaders
of
the
young
adult
group
at
Spring
to
 
 115
 which
both
Rosie
and
Rick
belonged.

They
hosted
Rosie
and
Rick’s
wedding
reception
at
 their
house
and
paid
the
majority
of
their
wedding
expenses.

“They
have
been
extremely
 supportive
of
us
individually
and
of
us
when
we
got
married.

They’re
definitely
invited
to
 any
[events
and
celebrations]
that
we
have
and
it’s
the
other
way
around.”

Rosie
said,
 even,
that
Mr.
Hendrickson
frequently
jokes
that
she
is
his
“adopted
daughter.”

When
I
 asked
Rosie
why
she
thought
she
became
so
close
with
the
Hendricksons,
she
responded,
 “gosh,
I
don’t
know.

It
was
just
a
complete
connection.”

But
she
then
noted
the
 Hendricksons’
roles
as
leaders
of
Spring’s
young
adult
group,
especially
at
a
time
when
no
 one
from
Rosie’s
blood‐related
family
was
attending
the
church.
 
 When
I
asked
why
Rosie
referred
to
the
Pinckneys
and
the
Hendricksons
as
 “extended
‘family,’”
with
family
in
quotation
marks,
she
said
it
was
because
they
“are
not
 really
blood‐related.”

I
then
mentioned
Mother
James’
name,
wondering
why
she
hadn’t
 noted
this
same
distinction
with
respect
to
her.

Rosie
responded
with
a
smile,
“Mother
 James
surpasses
everything
for
me.

You
know,
she’s
just—I’ve
never
thought
about
the
fact
 that
she’s
not
really
related
to
me.”

Rosie
then
made
a
distinction:
“[Mother
James]
was
 always
there,
whereas
with
these
extended
family,
I’ve
added
them
along
as
I’ve
grown
 older.”
 
 In
recent
years,
many
of
the
important
places
of
Rosie’s
life
have
shifted
to
South
 Mobile.

After
teaching
in
Prichard
for
three
years,
she
moved
to
Violet
Elementary,
near
 the
city’s
southern
boundary.

After
being
married
for
a
couple
years,
Rosie
and
Rick
 decided
to
leave
Spring
Church
for
another
church,
which
is
near
Violet.

And,
with
these
 other
moves,
they
bought
a
house
in
a
new
subdivision
in
South
Mobile.

Given
that
her
 house,
church,
and
school
are
all
located
in
South
Mobile,
Rosie
does
not
venture
back
to
 
 116
 The
Loop
very
often.

In
this
sense,
while
Rosie
remains
a
Mobilian,
what
that
moniker
 means
for
her
has
evolved.

For
example,
Rosie
and
Rick’s
expected
child
will
grow
up
a
 Mobilian,
but
likely
with
strong
ties
to
South
Mobile,
not
the
Loop.
 
 As
Rosie’s
living
curriculum
shows,
family
is
a
central
topic
in
her
life.

In
all
the
 spaces
of
her
life,
there
is
family.

She
speaks
about
her
immediate
family,
her
camp
family,
 her
church
family,
her
extended
family,
and
her
school
family.

Siblings
are
family.

Friends
 are
family.

Teaching
colleagues
and
students,
as
I
will
describe
below,
are
family.

This
is
a
 dynamic
notion
of
family;
family
is
not
limited
to
biological
relations,
which
fix
a
person
 foremost
to
blood
relatives.

Rather,
family
is
constructed
for
Rosie
through
lived
 experience.

The
people
central
to
her
daily
living
become
family.

To
this
point
in
her
life,
 family
has
always
been
in
process,
becoming.
 
 
 This
becoming,
though,
has
not
been
a
journey
that
Rosie
navigated
with
her
 immediate
family.

Indeed,
when
I
look
across
the
transcripts
of
our
conversations,
Rosie’s
 biological
mother
and
sisters
are
minor
characters
in
her
stories.

Her
varied
experiences
 brought
her
into
new
communities
(and
families)
by
herself,
largely
without
her
immediate
 family.

The
few
experiences
with
her
family
that
she
talked
about
show
her
in
opposition
 to
relatives.

For
example,
when
talking
about
Mobile’s
Mardi
Gras
celebration,
which
is
one
 of
the
city’s
biggest
community
events
each
year,
she
said,
“I
had
to
go
to
Mardi
Gras
 because
my
family
loves
Mardi
Gras,
which
is
so
funny
because
I
hated
it.”


 
 Rosie’s
familial
progression
through
the
families
of
her
living
curriculum
served
to
 redefine
her
home.
One
aspect
of
the
notion
of
home
is
that
it
is
a
place
where
one
returns.

 In
her
youth,
influential
markers
of
home
for
Rosie
were
Mobile,
Mother
James,
Camp,
 church,
and
school.

When
she
graduated
from
college,
Rosie
returned
“home
for
as
long
as
 
 117
 I
want
that
to
be
home.”

She
returned
to
these
markers,
but
as
an
adult.

Over
the
ensuing
 years,
Mobile
shifted
for
her
from
The
Loop
to
South
Mobile.

Instead
of
Mother
James
 mothering
her,
she
came
to
mother
her
students
in
the
vein
of
Mother
James
(as
I
will
 describe
below).

No
longer
a
camper,
she
was
a
counselor
and
then
a
director.

No
longer
 an
attendee
of
children’s
church,
she
was
a
leader
of
it.

No
longer
an
acquaintance
of
Rick
 Baker’s,
they
were
married.

No
longer
a
student,
she
was
a
teacher.


 
 

 Rosie’s
Teaching
Curriculum:
From
Miss
Leonard
To
Mrs.
Baker

 
 As
Rosie
told
me
about
her
work
as
a
Camp
counselor,
she
moved
in
and
out
of
 talking
about
her
present‐day
teaching.

“Every
new
kid
who
comes
into
school,
as
soon
as
I
 see
them,
I
go
up
to
them
and
talk
to
them
and
say,
‘hey,
I’m
Mrs.
Baker,
you
have
to
be
my
 friend.

You
know,
you
just
have
to.

There’s
no
way
you
can
come
here
and
not
be
my
 friend.’”

She
views
campers,
who
are
also
often
timid
about
the
new
experience
in
front
of
 them,
similarly.

She
coaxes
them
on
to
the
Camp
bus,
or
a
horse,
or
the
dance
floor.

This
 approach
to
children
symbolizes
how
the
act
of
teaching
for
Rosie
is
not
bounded
by
her
 classroom
and
school
as
much
as
it
is
by
her
life.


She
wants
people
to
feel
welcome,
a
part
 of
something
larger
than
themselves,
a
member
of
a
family.
 
 In
her
third
year
of
teaching,
Rosie’s
principal
from
when
she
was
an
elementary
 student
visited
the
school
in
which
Rosie
was
teaching.

Although
she
did
not
know
that
 Rosie
taught
there,
the
principal
greeted
her
by
name
when
they
saw
each
other.

“Oh
my
 gosh,”
Rosie
remembers
thinking
after
the
principal’s
greeting,
“she
knows
who
I
am!

It’s
 been
forever.”

After
learning
that
Rosie
was
teaching
in
the
school,
the
principal
 commented,
“why
Rosie
Leonard,
I
knew
you’d
end
up
teaching.”

Rosie
credits
the
 
 118
 educators
of
her
past
for
“propelling
me
forward
into
a
future
career
in
education.”

From
a
 young
age,
she
had
always
said
that
she
wanted
to
be
a
teacher,
and
her
teachers
 recognized
and
nurtured
this
passion,
giving
her
small
teaching
opportunities
as
an
 elementary
student,
both
in
her
own
classroom
and
in
the
classrooms
of
grades
younger
 than
hers.

When
I
asked
how
she,
even
at
that
early
age,
knew
that
she
wanted
to
be
a
 teacher,

she
said,
“as
mystical
as
it
sounds,
I
felt
I
was
destined
to
be
a
teacher.”

Later,
in
 her
high
school
years,
her
experiences
at
Children’s
Church
and
at
Camp,
both
educational
 settings,
added
to
her
desire
to
teach.

 
 I
asked
Rosie
about
her
purposes
in
teaching.

In
her
early
days,
she
aimed
to
“help
 my
students
grow…as
individuals
and
contributors
in
society.”

As
her
teaching
 responsibilities
and
contexts
changed
in
the
ensuing
years,
she
came
to
think
of
her
 teaching
as
“helping
students
adapt
to
their
changing
environments.”

Speaking
about
the
 present
moment
of
her
teaching,
she
added,
“my
greatest
passion
is
to
help
[students]
 realize
that
everyone
has
differences,
strengths,
and
desirable
qualities.”

Across
these
 teaching
purposes,
Rosie
noted
her
two
teaching
selves:
Miss
Leonard
and
Mrs.
Baker.

She
 talked
about
recently
“having
to
go
Miss
Leonard
on
[one
student]”
in
order
to
“straighten
 this
thing
out.”

Miss
Leonard
is
Rosie
in
her
early
years
of
teaching;
“this
nice
Mrs.
Baker
 gal”
is
Rosie
as
she
currently
teaches.

Clearly
the
change
is
marked
by
when
she
married
 Rick
and
took
his
surname.

However,
it
is
also
marked
by
the
move
from
her
first
teaching
 setting
to
her
second.
 
 Barnes
Elementary
School
in
Prichard.
 
 After
college,
when
Rosie
moved
back
to
Mobile
as
a
certified
teacher
in
the
State
of
 Alabama,
she
began
teaching
at
Barnes
Elementary
School,
part
of
the
county’s
public
 
 119
 school
system.

During
her
senior
year
of
college,
she
had
attended
a
teaching
job
fair
in
 Mobile.

While
she
met
representatives
from
different
schools
across
the
county,
“I
just
 really
loved
one
of
the
principals
and
I
found
out
that
her
school
was
in
Prichard.”

The
 school
was
Barnes.


Rosie
did
not
set
out
to
teach
in
Prichard;
rather,
“it
was
pure
 coincidence
that
[this
principal’s]
school
was
in
Prichard.”

Across
Mobile
County,
Prichard
 had
a
reputation
as
“such
a
tough
area.”

Rosie
said
that
for
“most
people,
when
they
hear
 about
teaching
in
Prichard,
it’s
fear,”
meaning
that
they
were
afraid
for
Rosie
teaching
 there.

“But
with
my
background
of
working
there
for
four
years
in
high
school
[with
the
 Spring
Church
Bus
Ministry],
[fear]
didn’t
even
come
into
play.

I
was
like,
‘yeah,
let’s
do
it.’”

 As
a
follow‐up
question
to
these
statements,
I
asked
Rosie
if
she
had
been
excited
about
 teaching
in
Prichard
specifically
because
it
was
regarded
to
be
a
“tough
area.”

She
 responded,
“probably
not—I
grew
up
in
an
area
that
was
not
Prichard
but
not
very
high
on
 the
socioeconomic
ladder
and
so
I
don’t
think
it
was
a
factor.”

Rosie
was
at
Barnes
 foremost
because
of
the
principal.
 
 Although
she
taught
in
Prichard,
Rosie
lived
in
Mobile.

Each
morning
she
drove
the
 same
direction
as
the
Spring
Church
bus
to
the
school.

Not
only
was
Barnes
located
in
 Prichard,
but
also
many
of
the
students
at
the
school
lived
in
the
two
neighborhoods
where
 the
Spring
bus
would
stop.

Most
of
the
kids
that
participated
in
the
bus
ministry
while
 Rosie
was
in
high
school
were
older
when
she
began
teaching
there,
but
there
was
one
 student
at
Barnes
who
Rosie
instantly
recognized
from
it.

When
she
left
the
bus
ministry,
 Roosevelt
was
five
years
old.

When
she
began
at
Barnes,
he
was
“this
huge
fourth
grader.”

 Roosevelt
came
up
to
Rosie
and
said,
“you
came
on
the
Spring
Church
bus,
didn’t
you?”

 From
that
point
forward,
Roosevelt
was
protective
of
Rosie.

“Don’t
mess
with
her,”
he
 
 120
 would
say
to
other
students,
“I
know
her.”

This
made
Rosie
laugh—“I
can
take
care
of
 myself,
it’s
okay”—but
it
pleased
her
to
think
that
the
bus
ministry
had
such
a
positive
 impact
on
him.
 
 As
Rosie
talked
about
her
teaching
experience
in
Prichard,
I
asked
her
to
tell
me
a
 story
about
one
powerful
moment
from
her
time
at
Barnes.

“I
think
about
all
the
craziness
 that
happened,”
she
responded
immediately.

She
then
began
describing
one
morning
from
 her
third
year
at
the
school.

Like
every
morning,
she
had
arrived
around
6:15am,
one
of
 the
first
people
in
the
building.

On
her
way
to
make
copies,
she
heard
a
woman
yelling
at
 the
locked
front
door
of
the
school.

As
she
approached
the
door,
she
saw
a
grandmother— “I
just
remember
the
wildness
in
her
eyes”—and
her
grandson.

The
latter
was
a
student
at
 the
school
but
Rosie
did
not
know
him.

“Where’s
that
kid?”
the
grandmother
shouted.

“I
 am
going
to
find
that
kid
as
soon
as
he
gets
off
the
bus
and
I
am
going
to
whip
him.

You
can
 call
Prichard
[i.e.,
the
police].

You
can
call
whoever
you
want…He
did
something
to
my
 baby
on
the
bus.”

Rosie,
knowing
that
buses
filled
with
students
would
be
arriving
shortly,
 tried
to
get
the
woman
and
her
grandson
to
come
into
the
office
and
wait
to
speak
with
the
 principal,
who
was
yet
to
arrive.

The
grandmother
refused;
she
wanted
her
grandson
to
 point
out
the
student
when
he
exited
the
bus.

In
a
moment
when
the
grandmother
turned
 her
back,
Rosie
instructed
the
grandson,
“do
not
tell
her
who
[that
student]
is,
do
you
 understand?

You
are
not
allowed
to
say
who
he
is.”

The
principal
arrived
shortly
 thereafter
and
was
able
to
de‐escalate
the
situation
without
the
grandmother
acting
on
her
 threat.

But
that
instance,
for
Rosie,
reflected
the
“craziness”
of
Barnes.42
 























































 42
As
a
follow‐up
to
the
story
of
the
grandmother
and
the
“craziness”
of
Barnes,
Rosie
 explained
how
at
another
point
a
car
had
crashed
through
the
wall
of
her
classroom.

Over
 
 121
 
 Rosie’s
description
of
Prichard,
both
when
she
talked
about
the
Spring
Church
Bus
 Ministry
and
her
teaching
at
Barnes
Elementary,
focused
on
the
high
level
of
poverty
in
the
 community.

She
referred
to
Prichard
as
low
on
the
“socioeconomic
ladder”
and
talked
 about
attendant
issues
like
high
crime.

Interestingly,
though,
she
did
not
speak
about
the
 racial
make‐up
of
Prichard
until
I
asked,
“Prichard’s
African
American
community
is
huge,
 isn’t
it?”

According
to
data
from
the
2000
U.S.
Census,
Prichard’s
population
was
85%
 black,
14%
white,
and
1%
a
combination
of
other
single‐race
categories
and
“two‐or‐more
 races.”

According
to
the
2010
U.S.
Census,
the
numbers
are
similar:
86%,
13%,
and
1%,
 respectively.

Although
I
was
not
aware
of
these
particular
statistics
at
the
time
of
the
 interview,
my
understanding
was
that
the
community
was
predominantly
black.

Rosie
 affirmed
my
understanding:
“Yes,
but
it
wasn’t
always
that
way.

A
generation
ago
it
was
 the
opposite…I’ve
heard
people
my
mom’s
age
talk
about
how
Prichard
was
mostly
white.”
 
 In
the
three
years
that
Rosie
taught
at
Barnes,
the
racial
make‐up
of
the
student
 population,
which
averaged
509
students
per
year,
was
100%
black
(NCES,
2011).

I
asked
 Rosie
if
she
thought
the
issue
of
race
impacted
daily
life
at
Barnes.

“Sometimes
the
parents
 didn’t
understand
the
push
for
something
better…When
you
have
one
group
only
and
one
 mindset
only,”
she
said,
“it
stunts
it,
where
there
isn’t
a
whole
lot
of
growth”
(italics
added).

 She
did
not
specify
what
she
meant
by
it,
but
I
interpret
that
she
could
have
been
referring
 to
the
progress
of
society,
the
community,
the
school,
student
learning,
and
other
 possibilities.

She
continued,
“there
isn’t
an
understanding
of
growth
or
the
understanding
 of
growing
pains.

So
I
think
that’s
where
race
played
a
factor—that
you
don’t
realize
a
need
 


















































































































































































 a
weekend,
there
had
been
a
car
chase
and
one
of
the
cars
ended
up
barreling
through
her
 classroom
wall.

The
inside
shelving
was
destroyed
and
the
foundation
of
the
room
was
 cracked.

As
a
result,
Rosie
and
her
students
had
to
move
out
of
their
classroom
for
months
 while
it
was
repaired.
 
 122
 for
even
the
outside
world...You
don’t
understand
the
need
for
other
experiences.”

She
 returned
to
this
idea,
adding,
“just
the
experience
of
interaction
with
someone
who
is
not
in
 your
own
home
community
can
just
grow
you
exponentially.”

This
wisdom
was
a
product
 of
Rosie’s
living
curriculum.

Through
Camp,
school,
and
church,
Rosie
had
repeatedly
 grown
in
her
interaction
with
new
communities.

 
 Her
first
two
years
at
Barnes
were
in
a
third
grade
classroom,
which
was
the
oldest
 grade
in
the
range
of
grades
that
she
wanted
to
teach.

She
reflected,
“I
loved
the
 independence
of
those
kids
that
were
still
very
dependent
on
us.”

But
then
going
into
her
 third
year,
her
principal
asked
her
to
move
to
fifth
grade.

There
was
an
opening
and
the
 principal
said
she
“needed
someone
strong
there.”

Rosie
made
the
move
because
that
was
 what
was
needed,
but
she
did
not
enjoy
the
year
as
much
as
the
previous
ones.

One
reason
 was
that
she
knew
her
students
would
move
to
a
new
school
for
sixth
grade:
“I
really
like
to
 see
them
a
year
or
two
after
they’ve
left
my
classroom.”

But
the
main
reason
she
disliked
 fifth
grade
was
the
emphasis
on
testing.

“The
students
were
making
huge
gains
but
 because
they
weren’t
meeting
the
state
requirements,
they
were
seen
as
unsuccessful.”

 Rosie
then
added,
“that
was
heartbreaking.”

One
of
her
fifth
graders
had
begun
the
year
at
 a
second‐grade
reading
level.

Over
the
course
of
the
year
in
Rosie’s
classroom,
the
student
 rose
to
a
fourth‐grade
reading
level.

But
when
Barnes’
scores
were
reviewed,
this
 student—along
with
many
of
her
peers—“wasn’t
considered
a
success.”

As
a
result
of
this
 experience,
Rosie
sought
a
new
teaching
context.

“I
really
kind
of
fell
out
of
love
with
 regular
education
and
I
wanted
to
get
back
to
teaching
so
my
students
just
could
learn.

And
 teaching
without
the
pressures—just
teaching
for
the
fact
of
learning
and
to
grow
kids
and
 to
help
them
grow
as
individuals.”
 
 123
 
 So
Rosie
began
looking
for
a
new
school
in
Mobile
at
which
to
teach.

Beyond
the
 woes
of
her
year
of
teaching
fifth
grade,
I
asked
her
if
the
“craziness”
of
Barnes
also
played
 into
her
decision
to
leave
the
school.

“Maybe
not,”
she
responded.

“I
think
every
school
has
 its
craziness,
and
so
you
leave
one
known
craziness
for
the
unknown
craziness.”
 
 Gifted
education
in
South
Mobile.
 
 Rosie
was
granted
an
interview
at
Violet
Elementary
School.

Violet
is
located
in
 South
Mobile,
which
is
a
largely
suburban
area
of
Mobile
that
comprises
neighborhoods
in
 and
beyond
the
southern
part
of
City,
including
unincorporated
parts
of
Mobile
County.

 These
parts,
beyond
the
boundaries
of
the
city,
tend
to
be
rural
and
sparsely
populated.

 The
population
of
South
Mobile
is
predominantly
white
and
it
possesses
a
wide
 socioeconomic
range.

Violet
in
South
Mobile
was
certainly
a
different
teaching
context
 than
Barnes
in
Prichard.
 
 At
the
end
of
one
school
day,
Rosie
left
Barnes
and
drove
to
Violet
for
her
interview.

 Although
the
school
was
less
than
15
miles
from
where
she
grew
up,
she
had
not
been
to
it
 prior.

After
having
“a
very
comfortable
interview”
with
the
principal,
Rosie
left
thinking,
 “okay,
I’m
here—this
is
definitely
a
school
that
I
could
see
myself
fitting
very
well
with.”

 When
she
was
offered
the
job
of
gifted
education
teacher
for
grades
3‐5
in
the
ensuing
 days,
she
accepted
it.

“My
personality
type
is
well
suited
for
some
schools
and
not
so
much
 for
others,”
Rosie
reflected.

“Finding
the
right
place
to
teach
is
a
lot
like
finding
the
right
 place
to
live—since
so
much
of
your
life
is
given
to
that
school.”

Drawing
this
connection
 between
school
and
home,
after
Rosie
and
Rick
married,
they
settled
in
South
Mobile,
near
 Violet.
 
 124
 
 Violet’s
gifted
education
program
did
not
have
a
full
enrollment,
so
Rosie’s
duties
 included
working
one
day
a
week
at
other
elementary
schools
and
teaching
(at
Violet)
 classes
of
students
who
were
integrated
from
the
different
schools.

In
her
six
years
at
 Violet,
Rosie
has
taught
gifted
students
from
three
additional
elementary
schools.

At
the
 time
of
my
visit,
the
majority
of
her
students
were
from
Violet
with
a
fraction
in
each
class
 from
Fields
Elementary,
a
school
in
a
small
city
south
of
Mobile.


 
 In
prior
years,
she
had
also
taught
students
from
two
rural
schools
in
the
 unincorporated
community
of
Lawson,
also
south
of
Mobile.

Interestingly,
when
I
asked
 Rosie
to
describe
these
other
schools,
she
drew
comparisons
to
Barnes
Elementary
and
 Prichard.

The
first
time
she
walked
into
Fields,
it
felt
like
“I
had
walked
into
an
inner‐city
 school—and
I
had
taught
in
an
inner‐city
school
in
Prichard.”

According
to
NCES,
86%
of
 Fields
current
students
are
eligible
for
free
and/or
reduced
lunch,
while
58%
percent
of
 students
are
black
and
37%
are
white.

She
later
described
Fields
as
“kind
of
wild,”
with
 students
who
“grow
up
a
lot
on
their
own
in
their
community,
or
so
it
seems.”

 
 Describing
the
two
schools
in
Lawson,
Rosie
said
that
the
surrounding
communities
 were
isolated,
which
she
compared
to
Prichard.

She
then
noted
that
while
Prichard
is
 mostly
black
and
Lawson
mostly
white,
“Prichard’s
[socioeconomic
status
is]
lower
but
 Lawson
is
not
very
many
rungs
higher.”

She
then
added
that
the
Lawson
schools
were
“laid
 back”
and
“really
kind”
but
there
was
not
an
efficiency
to
the
schools’
operations
like
there
 is
at
Violet,
which
is
very
important
to
her.


 
 Rosie
speaks
about
Violet
differently.

While
she
spends
time
in
the
other
schools,
 and
teaches
students
from
them,
Violet
is
her
school.

She
is
there
four
days
a
week.

Her
 classroom
and
all
of
her
teaching
materials
are
there.

She
is
identified
by
the
district
as
a
 
 125
 Violet
teacher
and
she
participates
as
a
faculty
member
there
alongside
all
of
the
other
 teachers.

In
this
respect,
in
her
teaching
career,
she
has
had
two
home
schools:
Barnes
and
 Violet.

Considering
the
two,
she
offered,
“at
Barnes
I
had
to
be
a
tougher
teacher.

I
had
to
 be
very
strict
and
very
stern,
whereas
I
can
allow
my
students
a
little
more
room
at
Violet
 just
because
of
the
nature
of
the
schools.”

Unlike
Barnes,
where
over
90%
of
students
 qualified
for
free
and/or
reduced
lunch,
just
over
50%
of
students
at
Violet
qualify,
and
the
 racial
composition
of
Violet
is
83%
white,
11%
black,
and
7%
a
mixture
of
the
remaining
 categories.

According
to
these
socioeconomic
and
racial
metrics,
Violet’s
student
 population
is
more
diverse
than
Barnes’
student
population.

Looking
across
the
past
nine
 years
in
all
of
her
schools,
Rosie
offered
that
“teaching
at
the
different
schools
has
given
me
 such
an
appreciation
for
how
diverse
our
county
is.”

 
 As
the
lone
gifted
education
teacher
at
Violet
(and
Fields),
Rosie
teaches
many
of
her
 students
for
three
consecutive
years,
from
third
through
fifth
grade.

She
sees
each
grade
 level
for
a
full
day
once
a
week.

The
scripted
curriculum,
which
is
developed
at
the
county
 level,
for
the
three
grade
levels
is
the
same,
changing
every
year
so
that
students
do
not
 have
repeated
content
and
themes.

As
a
result
of
this
three‐year
process,
Rosie
becomes
 very
close
with
her
students
and
their
families.

Not
only
is
she
the
students’
teacher,
she
 becomes
an
advocate
for
them
in
their
regular
grade‐level
classroom.

This
is
especially
 true,
she
said,
for
gifted
students
who
excel
in
some
areas
but
struggle
in
others.

Rosie
 noted
that
“teachers
don’t
mean
to
have
this
perception
but
they
think
a
gifted
student
is
 someone
who
is
highly
motivated,
who
does
really
well
on
all
of
their
assignments…That
 can
be
a
gifted
student
but
it’s
not
necessarily
the
typical
gifted
student.”

Thus,
Rosie
sees
 
 126
 her
role
as
a
gifted
education
teacher
extending
in
her
school
beyond
the
walls
of
her
 classroom.
 
 During
my
week
with
Rosie,
she
frequently
talked
to
her
students’
parents
on
her
 cell
phone,
both
during
and
outside
of
school
hours.

And,
at
other
points,
she
spoke
to
how
 she
will
plan
assignments,
classroom
activities,
and
field
trips
with
input
from
some
 parents.

These
facts
speak
to
a
close
connection
that
Rosie
nurtures
with
her
students
and
 their
families.

In
fact,
as
Mother
James
became
an
impromptu
family
member
of
Rosie’s,
 she
becomes
something
similar
for
her
students.

Certainly
a
three‐year
period
with
most
 students
(although
some
do
come
in
after
third
grade)
aids
this
development.

But
this
also
 fits
with
Rosie’s
method
of
interaction
with
her
students.

“They
[i.e.,
her
students]
know
 almost
all
of
my
stories,”
she
said.

“I
use
as
much
of
my
personal
life
as
possible
to
wrap
 them
into
whatever
it
is
that
they
need
to
be
wrapped
into.

They
love
it.

They
love
 knowing
about
the
Mrs.
Baker
that’s
not
in
the
classroom.

I’ll
exploit
myself.”


 
 In
turn,
Rosie
learns
much
about
her
students
when
they’re
not
in
the
classroom.

 For
example,
one
of
her
female
students
had
a
sister
who
was
going
to
get
married.

Rosie’s
 student,
though,
was
prevented
from
attending
the
ceremony
because
of
the
family’s
 religious
beliefs.

This
was
difficult
for
the
student;
she
wanted
to
attend
the
ceremony.

 Rosie
remembers,
“we
spent
several
weeks
in
a
row
talking
about
what
[the
student]
was
 going
to
be
a
part
of
and
how
she
could
still
be
a
part
of
the
wedding
but
not
get
to
go
to
the
 ceremony.”

They
also
talked
about
how
the
student’s
life
was
going
to
change
with
her
 sister
moving
out
of
her
home.
 
 Rosie
told
me
a
number
of
stories
about
her
teaching,
but
one
she
told
me
twice.

In
 our
first
interview,
before
I
visited
Mobile,
she
described
a
moment
when
one
of
her
 
 127
 students
shared
with
the
class
that
his
mom
tried
to
commit
suicide.

The
context
for
Rosie
 sharing
this
story
was
a
discussion
about
how
she
strives
to
help
her
students
adapt
to
 their
changing
environments.

Rosie
recalled
how
another
student
responded
by
asking,
 “do
you
really
think
you
should
have
told
us
that?”

Rosie
then
talked
with
the
students
 about
“how
you
support
someone
who’s
going
through
something
that’s
difficult,”
but
she
 shared
with
me
that
“I
was
not
prepared
to
talk
about
[the
situation]
with
the
entire
class,”
 even
though
she
was
aware
of
it
prior.

Then,
during
our
interview
at
school,
I
asked
Rosie
 to
tell
me
a
powerful
story
from
her
time
at
Violet.

After
thinking
for
some
seconds,
she
 said,
“there
is
one
experience
that
I
[already]
told
you
about.”

I
asked
her
to
re‐tell
the
 story:
 Rosie:
 We
were
actually
over
on
that
carpet
[in
the
corner
of
the
classroom]
 and
that
was
a
very
small
group
of
students.

Their
class,
I
only
had
 boys.

So
it
had
to
have
been
their
fourth
grade
year.

I
only
had
boys
 and
there
were
7
or
8
of
them.

I
don’t
remember
what
we
were
 talking
about—we
were
probably
reading
a
book
and
discussing
just
 whatever
when
it
came
to
the
book—and
just
out
of
the
blue,
he
said,
 “I
think
a
hard
time
was
when
my
mom
went
crazy
and
she
tried
to
 kill
herself.

We
had
to
put
her
away
and
so
I
went
to
go
live
with
my
 grandmother.”

And
the
entire
class
just
stopped
and
watched
him.

 One
of
the
kids
said,
“wow,
that
was
probably
more
than
you
should
 have
said
there.”
 Mark:
 One
of
the
kids
actually
said
that?
 Rosie:
 Yeah,
he
was
just
shocked.

He
was
like,
“I
can’t
believe
you
just
said
 
 128
 all
of
that.”

And
I
told
him,
“well,
you
know,
it’s
very
good
that
he
 wanted
to
share
that
with
us.”

And
then
we
talked
about,
“how
do
 you
talk
to
someone
when
they’ve
shared
more
than
you
expected
 them
to?”

It
ended
up
being
a
very
productive
conversation,
and
 validating
his
feelings
about
that
being
a
very
tough
thing
to
live
 through.

And
how
it’s
a
great
thing
that
he
had
a
grandma
who
could
 step
in
and
take
care
of
him
and
his
little
brother.

The
opportunity
 having
arisen
to
share
that
was
very
good.

And,
you
know,
we
just
 talked
through
it
as
best
as
we
could.

The
kids
didn’t
look
at
him
 stranger
after
they
realized
that,
“wow,
he’s
just
shared
something
 big
that
I
never
expected.”


 Mark:
 Do
you
recall
if
he
seemed
to
think
at
some
point,
“oh,
wait,
I
 shouldn’t
have
said
that?”
 Rosie:
 No.

He
just
threw
it
out
there.

Even
when
that
kid
said,
“that’s
a
 little
more
than
you
probably
could
have
told
us,”
he
was
just
like,
 “this
is
it,
this
is
just
the
way
it
is.”
 Mark:
 Was
your
initial
reaction
like
the
kids’
[reaction],
like,
“whoa,
why’d
 you
share
that?”
 Rosie:
 I
was
just
shocked
that
he
would.

I
was
completely,
cause
I
knew
his
 back‐story
and
I
was
not
at
all
prepared
that
he
would
say
that
much.

 And
I
just
thought,
“where’d
that
come
from?

Wow!

I
can’t
believe
 that.

I
can’t
believe
that
he’s
actually
telling
us
this.”
 Mark:
 Was
that
moment
referenced
at
all
in
the
class
ever
again?
 
 129
 Rosie:
 I
don’t
remember,
I
don’t
remember.

 Mark:
 Why
do
you
think
it
stands
out
for
you
so
much?
 Rosie:
 I
want
my
students,
I
want
them
to
feel
safe
with
me
and
comfortable
 with
me
in
that
they
can
be
who
they
are.

And
sometimes
I
tell
them,
 “I
have
to
put
you
back
in
check.

You
are
who
you
are
and
you’re
 wonderful
but
sometimes
I
have
to
correct
you.”

But
also
that
they
 feel
they
can
tell
me
anything.

And,
you
know,
let
me
in
on
their
 world,
and
let
me
know
what’s
bothering
them.

And
really
that
I’m
 not
just
their
teacher
who’s
here
but
someone
who
really
cares
about
 them.

And
I
want
our
classroom
to
be
a
safe
zone,
where,
“if
 someone
does
something
to
you,
I’m
going
to
back
you
up,
I’m
going
 to
help
you.

And
that
you
have
emotional
support
here.”

And
so,
 working
so
hard
to
try
to
help
my
students
feel
safe,
just
really,
it’s
a
 fist
pump.

It’s
like,
“wow,
that
happened!

That’s
awesome!

That’s
 really
cool.”
 Rosie’s
statement
that
she
wants
her
students
to
understand
that
she’s
“not
just
their
 teacher
who’s
here
but
someone
who
really
cares
about
them”
is
central
to
her
work
as
a
 teacher.

I
hear
Mother
James
in
these
words,
particularly
as
she
talks
of
putting
students
 “back
in
check”
while
also
recognizing
that
they
are
wonderful.

This
instance
is
an
example
 of
her
cultivating
a
family
in
her
classroom.

Indeed,
the
language
of
family,
and
particularly
 of
mothering,
infuses
her
teaching
and
her
talk
about
teaching.
 
 She
often
spoke
about
Violet
as
a
family
school.

Not
only
are
parents
supportively‐ involved
in
their
children’s
education,
the
staff
of
the
school
is
close
and
caring.

As
an
 
 130
 example,
Rosie
described
how
the
staff
had
pulled
together
to
support
and
comfort
one
of
 the
classroom
teachers
whose
husband
was
in
need
of
a
lung
transplant
by
staging
multiple
 fundraisers
for
the
family.

Interestingly,
Rosie
attributed
much
of
this
family
atmosphere
 to
the
principal,
whom
she
characterized
as
having
“not
a
mothering
personality
but
a
 mentoring
personality.”

Rosie
juxtaposed
Violet’s
principal
with
a
teaching
friend’s
 principal
at
another
school
who
was
upset
that
a
teacher
was
missing
school
in
order
to
 undergo
cancer
treatment.

For
Rosie,
particularly
given
her
life
history,
such
action
from
a
 school’s
leader
was
unfathomable.
 
 During
my
week
in
her
classroom,
Rosie
often
talked
about
babies.

Some
of
her
 students
had
baby
siblings.

Multiple
teachers
at
the
school
either
were
pregnant
or
had
 recently
given
birth.

And,
often,
she
referred
to
her
students
as
“my
sweet
babies,”
both
 directly
to
them
and
to
me.

Additionally,
as
Rosie
explained
a
task
to
students
that
 required
them
to
think
about
their
personal
interests,
she
told
them
that
she
likes
to
study
 babies
in
her
free
time.




 
 In
this
context
of
family
and
mothering,
I
began
to
see
that
Rosie
brings
Mother
 James
to
her
classroom,
that
she
interacts
with
students
like
Mother
James
interacted
with
 her.

She
is
stern
and
correcting,
but
she
is
also
caring,
liable
to
give
a
hug
at
any
moment.

 She
offers
an
assessment
of
her
teaching:
“when
it
comes
to
my
classroom,
I
have
to
set
 boundaries,
I
have
to
teach
kids
about
responsibilities,
I
have
to
expect
of
them
because
 they
haven’t
learned
to
have
those
responsibilities
on
their
own.

They
haven’t
learned
to
 meet
expectations,
necessarily.”

At
another
point
she
says,
“I
expect
a
lot
out
of
them.

I
 think
they
can
be
responsible
for
a
whole
lot,
that
we
do
them
a
disservice
when
we
don’t
 make
them
responsible
for
a
whole
lot.”

Then,
she
concludes,
“I’m
strict
but
I’m
not
bad.”

 
 131
 This,
I
imagine,
is
the
firm
imprint
of
Mother
James.

Although
she
never
made
the
direct
 connection,
how
she
described
Mother
James
is
how
she
described
her
teaching
self.

In
my
 limited
time
in
her
classroom,
I
saw
her
embody
her
description
of
the
ideal
mother
that
 Mother
James
set
out
for
her.
 
 At
the
end
of
my
visit,
on
a
Saturday
while
having
coffee
at
a
favorite
shop
of
hers
 called
Carpe
Diem,
Rosie
asked
me
a
lone,
reflective
question
about
my
time
spent
with
her
 that
week.

She
wondered
if
I
noticed
her
favoring
any
students
in
the
classroom
more
than
 others.

She
made
no
connection
to
Mother
James,
but
in
this
question
she
was
striving
to
 live
up
to
the
standard
that
Mother
James
set
for
her.

With
“ultimate
love
and
sacrifice,”
it
 was
Mother
James
who
made
each
child
feel
favored.

Whether
it
was
true
or
not,
the
 children
at
Mother
James’
house,
including
Rosie,
felt
like
they,
individually,
were
the
 favorite.

In
this
light,
Rosie’s
“stern”
and
“strict”
treatment
of
her
students—but
also
her
 hugs
with
them—made
sense
to
me.

She,
like
Mother
James,
was
her
students’
mother
(but
 not
their
mom).
 
 Although
Rosie
feels
she
was
destined
to
teach,
she
is
not
necessarily
set
 on
teaching
for
the
rest
of
her
working
career.

When
I
inquired
about
this,
she
said
that
she
 would
like
to
become
a
midwife,
working
with
women
about
to
deliver
babies.

In
fact,
as
 recently
as
last
year
she
looked
into
what
it
would
take
for
her
to
gain
the
necessary
 certification
in
order
to
switch
occupations.

While
it
is
hard
for
me
to
tell
how
likely
such
a
 jump
would
be,
it
is
interesting
to
consider
why
the
move
is
enticing
for
her.

Committed
to
 the
act
of
mothering,
working
as
midwife
would
place
Rosie
at
the
earliest
stages
of
life.

 While
teaching
is
concerned
with
the
development
of
the
child,
midwifery
is
focused
on
the
 human’s
birth.

When
she
studied
to
become
a
teacher,
Rosie
was
interested
in
 
 132
 kindergarten,
the
earliest
phase
of
formal
public
schooling.

Although
she
currently
enjoys
 teaching
her
upper
elementary
students,
working
as
a
midwife
would
take
her
beyond
the
 limits
of
a
schoolteacher.

However,
we
also
had
this
conversation
at
a
point
when
Rosie
 was
not
pregnant.

I
wonder,
now,
how
her
pregnancy
may
or
may
not
change
her
desire
to
 be
a
midwife.
 
 
 Conclusion
 
 
Whereas
the
topic
of
family
was
central
to
the
living
and
teaching
stories
that
Rosie
 told
me,
she
seldom
made
explicit
the
topic
of
race
in
those
stories.

Indeed,
outside
of
her
 poem
(from
the
beginning
of
the
chapter),
she
rarely
engaged,
or
even
mentioned,
race.

 And
she
never
overtly
engaged
the
topic
of
racism.


 
 The
absence
of
race
surprises
me.

Given
the
racial
history
of
the
United
States,
race
 is
difficult
to
extricate
from
any
person’s
life.

On
top
of
this,
Rosie
is
a
black
woman
and
she
 is
married
to
a
white
man.

She
and
Rick
live
in
a
main
city
in
a
state
that
was
a
prominent
 site
a
half‐century
ago
of
the
Civil
Rights
Movement—and
at
the
present
time,
Alabama
has
 become
a
national
focus
after
it
passed
some
of
the
strictest
immigration
legislation
in
the
 country.

In
the
past
decade,
Rosie
has
taught
in
schools
that
are
largely,
and
some
entirely,
 racially
isolated.

And
yet,
race
was
not
explicit
in
her
storytelling.
 
 Perhaps,
though,
this
should
not
be
surprising
to
me.

I
am
a
white
male
from
the
 U.S.
north
writing
about
her,
a
black
female
from
the
U.S.
south.

With
respect
to
race,
 gender,
region—as
well
as
research—my
identity
is
tied
to
a
history
of
oppressing,
hers
to
 a
history
of
being
oppressed.

Regardless
of
any
commitment
I
make
to
living
and
working
 for
social
justice
for
all
living
beings,
I
cannot
simply
step
out
of
these
legacies;
nor
can
she.

 
 133
 Or
can
she?

As
Rosie’s
poem
clearly
shows,
race
is
a
significant
issue
in
her
life.

Family
and
 mothering
are
explicitly
central
to
her
living
(and
teaching)
and
she
will
soon
give
birth
to
a
 child
who
will
have
both
black
and
white
ancestry.

This
child,
in
a
society
not
fully
ready
 for
her
or
him,
will
be
an
“other.”

Thus,
family
for
Rosie
is
intertwined
with
race.

But
she
 writes
about
her
ability,
with
Rick,
to
“rise
above”
race
and,
I
implicitly
read,
racism.
In
her
 poem,
but
also
in
her
marrying
and
mothering,
she
is
confronting
race(ism).

Indeed,
what
 is
most
near
to
her—her
family—is
the
very
tool
for
challenging
the
limitations
of
 race(ism).

Raising
a
multiracial
family
is
a
direct
challenge
to
the
limitations
of
race
and
 the
traditional
workings
of
racism.
 
 Rosie’s
stance
with
respect
to
race
might
be
called
“post‐racial.”

Such
a
description
 is
tenuous,
though,
because
“post”
indicates
moving
beyond,
which
for
me
stands
in
contrast
 to
rising
above.

In
our
last
interview,
Rosie
spoke
about
several
incidents
that
took
place
in
 her
school
during
the
school
year:
the
suicide
of
a
father,
a
parental
fight
at
a
youth
baseball
 game
attended
by
a
number
of
students,
and
the
death
of
a
teacher’s
husband.

In
each
of
 these
instances,
the
school’s
counselor
chose
to
close‐off
student
discussion
about
what
 happened.

Students
were
simply
not
supposed
to
talk
about
it,
and
no
action
was
taken
by
 the
school
to
help
students
process
what
happened.

Rosie
expressed
frustration
with
how
 these
events
were
handled
by
the
school.
“[Students]
don’t
know
how
to
cope
with
loss
or
 major
tragedies
if
we
don’t
teach
them
how
to
cope
with
those
things.”

She
then
added,
“it
 doesn’t
help
our
kids
at
all
for
them
to
just
not
talk
about
it.”

This
latter
comment,
 juxtaposed
with
Rosie’s
omission
of
race
in
her
stories,
strikes
me.

I
wonder
about
the
 impact
on
Rosie
and
those
around
her
when
she
doesn’t
talk
about
race.

What
are
the
 implications
for
her
life?

What
are
the
implications
for
her
students’
lives?
 
 134
 
 While
talking
about
Rick’s
impact
on
her
life,
Rosie
raised
two
questions
that
she
 said
she
often
thinks
about:
“Who
am
I?”
and
“How
odd
are
we?”

She
said,
“when
you
talk
 about
a
marriage,
it
sometimes
changes
you.

Sometimes
you
have
an
influence
on
the
 person,
but
it
even
more
magnifies
the
person
that
you
are.”

Mindful
of
the
second
 question,
she
reflected
on
how
she
and
Rick
embark
on
“odd”
activities
that
might
be
unlike
 a
typical
couple:
they
spend
a
great
deal
of
time
in
bookstores,
they
like
to
browse
flea
 markets,
and,
in
general,
they
spend
a
good
amount
of
time
together,
be
it
watching
DVDs,
 reading,
or
attending
church.

This
“odd”
description
struck
me
as
odd.

What,
really,
is
a
 normal
couple?

And
why
would
it
be
odd
for
couples
to
do
these
things?

While
I
wondered
 about
what
she
meant
with
these
questions,
I
figured
that
part
of
her
sentiment
might
 involve
the
fact
that
she
and
Rick
are
an
interracial
couple.

But
Rosie
did
not
speak
to
that.

 I
wonder
if
what
Rosie
said
about
her
student
who
shared
with
the
class
that
his
mother
 attempted
suicide
has
ramifications
for
her
own
life:
“sometimes
kids
don’t
realize
how
 difficult
their
story
is.”

 
 135
 CHAPTER
FIVE
 
 DAN’S
STORYTELLING:

 BUILDING
COMMUNITY
AS
THE
FOG
LIFTS
 
 I
hope
America
can
live
up
to…

 The
promise
and
dreams
of
US
democracy
 The
responsibility
of
protecting

 Mother
Earth
always
 I
hope
America
embraces…
 Moms
and
Dads
who
model
respect,

 compassion,
and
understanding
 Teachers
who
teach
 I
hope
America…
 Learns
from
its
mistakes
 Prospers

 I
“heart”
America
 I
believe
America
can
have
a
better
tomorrow
 
 —Dan
Torres,
Middle
School
Social
Studies
Teacher,
The
Midwest,
2011
 
 
 Introduction
 
 Below
are
two
vignettes
from
my
time
with
Dan
Torres,
a
middle
school
social
 studies
teacher.

The
context
for
each
vignette
is
a
research
interview.

In
the
first,
we
are
 sitting
across
from
each
other
at
a
student
table
in
Dan’s
classroom.

In
the
second,
we
are
 sitting
across
from
each
other
at
the
dining
table
in
Dan’s
house.

In
both,
he
is
working
on
 an
activity
that
I
raised.
 
 Vignette
One.
Dan
had
a
copy
of
Woody
Guthrie’s
poem/song
“This
 Land
Is
Your
Land”
in
front
of
him.

I
had
asked
him
to
read
through
and
 
 136
 annotate
the
lyrics,
marking
up
the
text
in
any
way
that
he
saw
fit.

In
 Guthrie’s
fifth
stanza,
Dan
circled
one
word.

The
stanza
reads:

 When
the
sun
came
shining,
then
I
was
strolling
 In
wheat
fields
waving,
and
dust
clouds
rolling;
 The
voice
was
chanting
as
the
fog
was
lifting:

 This
land
was
made
for
you
and
me.

 The
word
that
he
circled
was
fog.

Referring
to
this
annotation,
he
said,
“from
 a
teacher’s
perspective,
I
think
one
of
the
most
important
things
I
can
impart
 on
my
students
is—”
and
then
he
paused.

He
was
considering
how
to
 articulate
his
thought.

Then
he
continued:
“how
will
you
deal
with
the
fog?”

 My
sense
is
that
he
didn’t
initially
mean
to
frame
it
as
a
question
but
such
a
 phrasing
best
captured
his
feeling.

A
person,
perhaps,
cannot
survive
the
fog
 with
another’s
ideas;
one
must
answer
the
question
authentically.

But,
for
 Dan,
there
is
an
essential
point
in
this
process
of
dealing
with
the
fog:
“there’s
 nothing
wrong
with
getting
lost
or
falling
down
as
long
as
you
get
back
up,
as
 long
as
you
find
yourself
again.”

This
is
one
of
Dan’s
central
messages
in
 teaching:
sometimes
life
is
foggy
and
just
needs
to
be
survived
until
the
fog
 lifts.


 
 Vignette
Two.

With
a
blank
sheet
of
paper,
Dan
began
writing
down
 titles.

I
had
asked
him
to
list
the
titles
of
the
chapters
of
his
autobiography,
 were
he
to
write
one.

After
less
than
five
minutes,
he
had
scribbled
out
a
list
 of
seven.

I
then
asked
him
to
annotate
the
list
by
noting
some
of
the
stories
 that
he
would
likely
share
in
each
chapter.

Again,
in
less
than
5
minutes,
he
 
 137
 was
finished.

There
were
twenty
stories
total.

Not
only
was
it
“pretty
easy”
 to
construct
the
list,
he
added,
“I’m
looking
at
this
and
I’m
like,
‘man,
this
is
 pretty
complete,’
too.”

Thinking
about
how
such
a
task
might
not
be
easy
for
 many
people,
I
wondered
why
Dan
not
only
found
it
easy
but
also
why
he
 was
able
to
make
it
“pretty
complete.”

He
explained:
“I
incorporate
a
lot
of
 these
into
the
stories
I
tell
in
my
classroom.

As
soon
as
you
said
‘stories,’
it
 was
like
[an
open]
floodgate.”

Looking
back
over
his
list,
he
said,
“the
only
 one
that
I
don’t
elaborate
on
is
‘partying
at
MSU.’”

But,
he
noted,
even
that
 story,
in
a
distilled
form,
gets
incorporated
into
his
story
about
‘academic
 probation.’

“If
I
wasn’t
a
teacher,”
he
offered,
“I
think
this
list
would
be
 different
looking
because
all
of
these
I
talk
about,
or
have
formally
crafted
 into
a
story,
for
my
classes.”


 
 In
this
chapter
I
focus
on
Dan
Torres.

In
his
mid‐40s,
Dan
lives
in
Lansing,
the
 capital
city
of
Michigan.

He
is
married
and
has
four
children,
who
range
from
toddler
to
 college‐aged.

For
the
past
two
decades,
he
has
taught
middle
school
social
studies
in
 Parker,
Michigan,
a
suburban
community
outside
of
Lansing.

Dan
describes
himself
as
 “very
energetic,
very
lively,
and
bubbly.”

His
energy
matches
the
youthful
spirit
of
his
 students
who
are
over
three
decades
younger.

He
talks
rapidly,
in
bursts,
and
his
 expressive
face
and
moving
limbs
speak
as
much
as
his
talk.

Inside
his
classroom,
as
well
 as
outside
of
school,
Dan
is
constantly
in
motion,
mentally
and
physically.

He
is
a
pinball,
 bouncing
up,
over,
down,
across
the
terrain
of
his
life.

While
he
says
that
his
lack
of
a
full
 head
of
hair
indicates
that
he’s
an
old‐timer,
it’s
hard
to
take
such
a
statement
seriously
 given
the
speed
at
which
he
lives.

Indeed,
he
sleeps
only
a
few
hours
each
night;
instead
of
 
 138
 wasting
hours
in
bed
when
his
body
doesn’t
need
it,
he
takes
up
storytelling
activities
such
 as
typing
out
his
latest
idea
for
a
screenplay
or
planning
for
a
book
about
parenting.

 
 At
the
present
moment,
Dan’s
motion
in
all
aspects
of
his
life
is
fervent
with
no
 deceleration
in
sight.

He
is
excited
about
his
marriage,
his
kids,
his
community,
his
 teaching,
his
storytelling—in
short,
his
living.

But
the
rapid
pace
of
his
living
hasn’t
always
 been
this
way.

Only
in
recent
years
has
Dan
flourished
“as
the
fog
was
lifting.”

This
 flourishing
is
intimately
tied
to
his
family,
his
life
in
Lansing,
and
his
teaching.
 
 As
Dan
welcomed
me
into
his
life
through
this
study,
I
quickly
learned
that
stories
 are
an
explicit,
essential
element
of
living
for
him.

Not
only
does
he
tell
stories
about
his
 living,
like
any
human,
but
also
he
approaches
daily
living
as
an
opportunity
to
create
and
 share
his
stories.

In
this
sense,
perhaps
different
from
many
humans,
Dan
is
a
self‐ described
storyteller.

Further,
I
learned
that
stories
are
the
foundation
of
his
teaching.

His
 life
experiences,
in
the
form
of
stories,
overtly
structure
his
classroom’s
curriculum.

He
 made
it
through
the
fog
and
he
uses
his
lived
stories
to
teach
students
about
doing
the
 same.
 
 Dan’s
Living
Curriculum:
Surviving
The
Fog,
“Cranking”
As
It
Lifts
 
 Dan
was
born
in
the
Philippines.

At
the
age
of
22
months,
his
parents
and
he
moved
 to
Maryland
in
order
for
his
mother
to
finish
her
medical
residency
at
a
hospital
in
 Washington,
D.C.

Despite
his
young
age
and
the
short
span
of
time
that
he
lived
in
 Maryland
(two
years),
he
reflected,
“I
really
do
feel
there
were
some
pretty
epic
things
that
 happened
there.”

The
first
major
change
came
when
his
father
“took
off,”
leaving
his
 mother
and
him
in
a
tough
situation.


 
 139
 
 Dan
has
three
vivid
memories
of
his
father
in
Maryland.

The
first
two
involve
his
 father
hitting
him.

Both
times,
they
were
laying
down
on
a
bed
in
a
dark
room.

A
light
was
 on
in
an
adjacent
room,
from
which
a
sliver
of
light
crept
through
the
nearly‐closed
 adjoining
door.

“I
remember
him
looking
at
the
crack
in
the
door
and
then
I
think
he
just
 punched
me
in
the
gut.”

When
this
happened
the
second
time,
Dan
remembers
seeing
his
 father’s
glance
at
the
door
and
thinking,
“oh,
is
this
going
to
happen
again?”

In
sharp
 contrast
to
this
horrific
scene
of
a
father
physically
abusing
his
two‐year
old
son
is
Dan’s
 third
memory.

He
was
in
his
mother’s
arms,
crying,
and
he
reached
out
to
his
father.

Dan
 remembers
his
father
then
“taking
me
from
my
mom
to
calm
me
down.”

Upon
sharing
this
 memory,
Dan
chuckled
ironically,
commenting,
“that
was
a
very
nice
scene.”
 
 After
struggling
to
find
work
in
the
first
six
months
in
Maryland,
Dan’s
father
left
the
 family,
talking
about
looking
for
work
in
Detroit.

A
year
prior,
Dan’s
maternal
uncle,
who
 was
a
surgeon,
had
moved
to
Detroit
in
order
to
start
a
practice
in
Michigan.


But
instead
of
 going
to
Detroit,
Dan’s
father
severed
ties
with
his
wife
and
child.

An
FBI
all‐points‐bulletin
 was
put
out
for
his
father,
as
there
was
some
speculation
about
his
involvement
in
“foul
 play,”
but
nothing
materialized.

Later,
Dan
learned
that
his
father
had
gone
to
Tokyo
where
 he
had
a
mistress.
“My
dad
was
a
dirtball,
he
really
was.

He
was
a
chauvinist,
abusive.”

He
 fathered
a
number
of
other
children,
all
of
whom
Dan
has
never
met.
 
 As
Dan
grew
older,
he
heard
from
his
father
periodically
but
they
had
no
 relationship.

His
father
would
come
to
the
U.S.
for
short
periods
of
time
and
call
Dan.

He
 would
say
that
he
was
sick
and
needed
money
for
treatment.

Dan’s
paternal
aunt,
who
 remained
very
close
to
Dan’s
mother,
warned
him
that
these
calls
were
attempts
to
get
 money
in
order
to
feed
a
gambling
habit.


When
Dan
graduated
from
high
school,
his
father
 
 140
 came
to
the
U.S.
wanting
to
spend
time
with
him.

Dan,
having
not
seen
his
father
since
he
 was
two
years
old,
was
interested
to
“meet”
him.

The
two
met
up
in
Seattle
and
spent
a
 week
together.

Of
this
experience,
Dan
reflected,
“we
had
a
very
nice
visit
but
I
could
tell
 right
away
that
him
leaving
might
have
been
the
best
thing
that
ever
happened
to
me.”

His
 father
passed
away
“maybe
10‐15
years
ago.”
 
 For
Dan,
the
story
of
his
father
is
“a
terrible
soap
opera.”

But,
he
marks
it
as
a
 blessing.

Now,
as
a
father
himself,
he
has
a
model
in
his
father
that
he
actively
avoids
as
a
 parent.

He
is
spurred
on
to
be
a
caring,
known
father
to
his
children
like
the
one
he
never
 had.

But
his
father’s
departure
also
led
to
the
second
major
change
in
his
life
in
Maryland.

 Shortly
after
his
father
left,
Dan’s
maternal
grandparents
and
his
maternal
aunt
moved
to
 Maryland
from
the
Philippines.

While
his
mom
spent
long
hours
at
the
hospital,
his
 grandparents
and
aunt
cared
for
him.
“My
earliest
memories
are
in
D.C.
with
those
 people…They
started
to
raise
me
all
the
way
through
high
school.”


 
 At
the
age
of
four,
the
entire
family
(consisting
of
Dan,
his
mom,
his
maternal
 grandparents,
and
his
maternal
aunt)
moved
from
Maryland
to
Michigan.

His
mother
was
a
 pediatrician
looking
for
a
place
to
practice
medicine,
and
she
decided
to
move
near
 relatives
in
and
around
Detroit,
including
her
surgeon
brother.

After
living
in
different
 apartments
for
a
year
or
two,
the
family
moved
to
the
small
city
of
Stella,
where
Dan’s
 mother
began
her
pediatric
practice.

Stella
is
in
the
southeast
corner
of
Michigan,
70
miles
 southwest
of
Detroit.

Predominantly
white,
its
Filipino
population
was
extremely
small
 when
Dan’s
family
moved
there
in
the
late
1960s.


 
 Reflecting
about
growing
up
in
Stella,
Dan
said,
“I
had
one
of
the
best
childhoods
a
 guy
could
ever
have…
I
have
so
many
cool
memories
that
really
point
out
the
beautiful
 
 141
 ignorance
of
childhood.”

Although
he
was
his
mother’s
lone
child,
and
he
did
not
grow
up
 with
any
brothers
and
sisters,
he
was
“very
tight”
with
his
cousins.

He
was
also
very
close
 with
the
familial
elders
who
lived
with
him.

He
remembers
“play[ing]
GI
Joes”
with
his
 grandfather
and
he
recalls
his
first
dog,
Jumbo.


 
 Despite
the
distance
between
Stella
and
any
sizable
Filipino
communities,
Dan
said
 that
he
grew
up
immersed
in
a
Filipino
“lifestyle.”

All
of
the
people
he
lived
with
were
from
 the
Philippines
and
had
lived
the
majority
of
their
lives
there.

On
top
of
that,
he
frequently
 saw
his
other
Filipino
relatives
who
lived
in
Michigan.

He
remembered,
“my
household
 was
very,
very
Filipino
and
my
network
of
social
life
outside
of
my
school
friends
was
 Filipino.”

As
he
grew
older
and
associated
with
non‐Filipinos
more,
his
relationship
to
 Filipino
culture
changed.

“When
I
got
on
my
own,
starting
in
college,
that
part
of
my
life
 just
kind
of
dropped
off.”

Speaking
about
the
present
time,
Dan
said,
“I
don’t
hang
out
with
 Filipinos.

At
the
same
time,
I
recognize
my
heritage,
but
it’s
not
a
priority
in
my
line
of
 thinking.”
 
 In
his
early
elementary
school
years,
after
seeing
a
movie
about
two
paramedics,
 Dan
decided
that
he
wanted
to
be
a
fireman.

Then,
“after
I
got
a
little
older,
maybe
upper
 elementary,
I
very
much
wanted
to
become
a
doctor.”

He
was
starting
to
learn
about
his
 mother’s
work
as
a
pediatrician,
especially
as
he
helped
out
at
her
summer
camps
for
youth
 who
suffered
from
asthma.

But,
his
desire
to
become
a
doctor
waned
as
he
saw
“how
my
 mom
pulled
off
all
of
these
long
hours…I
thought,
‘I
want
to
be
home,
I
don’t’
want
to
be
 coming
in
late
at
night.’”

As
if
that
realization
wasn’t
enough,
Dan
told
me
that
his
 aspirations
to
be
a
doctor
“came
to
a
screeching
halt
my
sophomore
year
in
high
school
 when
I
realized,
‘I’m
not
very
good
in
math
and
I’m
not
very
good
in
science,
and
I
don’t
 
 142
 really
like
studying.’”

That
sophomore
year
marked
the
lone
year
that
he
did
not
attend
a
 public
school
in
Stella.

 
 Dan’s
sophomore
year
took
place
at
Hemingway,
a
private
boarding
school
in
a
 northern
suburb
of
Detroit,
a
two‐hour
drive
from
Stella.

“I
did
not
want
to
go
to
 Hemingway
but
my
mom
had
completely
lost
faith
in
public
school
systems.”

As
a
result,
 Dan’s
mom
forced
him
to
go
to
Hemingway.

He
spent
one
year
there,
which
he
called
 “nothing
more
than
a
testament
of
survival.”

During
the
first
semester,
“I
cried
every
night,
 called
home
every
night,
and
the
worst
part
about
it
was,
at
Hemingway,
you
don’t
have
 roommates.”

Each
student
had
a
separate
dormitory
room,
which
limited
Dan’s
ability
to
 process
his
experiences
with
peers
at
the
school.

He
didn’t
have
his
cousins
or
his
friends
 from
Stella
to
work
through
the
difficulties
of
his
new
setting.

“I
think
that
would
have
 been
the
time
when
I
needed
a
roommate.

I
missed
my
friends,
I
missed
my
family.

It
was
 horrible.”


 
 At
Hemingway,
Dan
struggled
with
depression.

It
was
most
intense
in
his
first
 semester
there,
and
it
lessened
some
during
his
second
semester
when
he
competed
for
the
 school’s
wrestling
team.

He
was
a
good
wrestler
and
his
participation
inserted
him
into
a
 group
of
other
students.

But
his
greatest
relief
came
at
the
end
of
the
year
when
his
mother
 gave
him
a
choice
of
staying
at
Hemingway
or
returning
to
Stella
and
its
public
high
school.

 His
response
was
immediate:
“YEEAAH,
I’m
coming
home.”

He
returned
to
Stella
and,
most
 importantly
to
him
at
the
time,
his
friends
and
family.

Although
school
had
been
difficult
to
 that
point,
he
finished
out
his
junior
and
senior
years
in
Stella
and
then
set
off
for
college
at
 Michigan
State
University
(MSU).
 
 143
 
 
In
his
first
two
years
at
MSU,
Dan’s
social
purposes
for
college
trumped
his
 academic
ones.

He
was
there,
foremost,
to
meet
new
people
and
party.

He
quickly
 developed
a
new
friend
group,
and
the
structure
of
this
group
was
different
from
his
prior
 friendships.

“I
had
a
lot
more
friends
in
college
that
I
was
tighter
with
than
I
did
in
high
 school—significantly
more.”

After
his
sophomore
year,
he
was
forced
to
consider
his
 academic
purposes.

With
a
grade‐point‐average
of
2.1,
he
received
a
letter
from
the
Dean’s
 office
that
stipulated
that
he
must
maintain
a
3.0
GPA
for
the
remainder
of
his
 undergraduate
courses.

If
he
failed
to
maintain
such
a
standing,
Dan
recalled,
“I
would
be
 terminated
from
the
university
without
the
opportunity
to
reapply.”

He
was
officially
on
 academic
probation.
 
 Going
into
college,
Dan
was
unsure
what
kind
of
professional
career
he
might
 pursue
through
his
studies.

“I
had
no
idea
what
I
wanted
to
be,
and
I
had
no
interest
[in
 determining
a
future
occupation].”

Initially
he
declared
psychology
as
his
major
“to
get
my
 mom
off
my
back.”

If
he
went
undeclared,
which
was
an
option
for
incoming
freshman,
she
 would
not
pay
his
tuition.

He
stayed
a
psychology
major
for
six
quarters
until
the
summer
 session
of
his
sophomore
year
when
he
moved
to
the
College
of
Veterinary
Medicine.

“I’m
 not
sure
exactly
how
that
occurred
but
I
was
in
the
College
of
Vet
for
one
term.”

He
 shadowed
a
veterinarian
during
that
time,
and
despite
having
“an
amazing
experience,”
he
 concluded
that
the
field
was
not
for
him
after
witnessing
the
euthanizing
of
a
number
of
 cats
and
dogs.

Dan
completed
the
term
but
was
uncertain
about
where
to
turn
next,
even
 though
he
was
at
the
point
“when
you
have
to
start
making
firm
decisions
about
what
your
 major
is
going
to
be.”

Dan
recounted
how
the
next
steps
unfolded:
 
 144
 So
here
I
am,
it’s
like
Welcome
Week
of
junior
year,
and
I
have
no
idea
what
I
 want
to
be.

And
somebody
said
there’s
a
new
interdisciplinary
program
 coming
out
of
Baker
Hall
and
you
could
combine
several
majors
into
an
 interdisciplinary
kind
of
thing.

I’m
like,
“oh,
that’s
what
I
need,
a
little
 variety.”

So
I
spoke
to
the
advisor
at
Baker
Hall
and
I
narrowed
it
down
to
 three
majors:
health
studies,
international
relations,
and
social
science
 teaching.

The
first
thing
I
asked
was,
“what
is
this
social
science
teaching?”

 And
they
were
like,
“you
would
be
a
middle
school
or
high
school
social
 studies
teacher.”

And
in
the
back
of
my
mind,
I
thought,
“ok,
I’m
not
doing
 that.

That’s
the
last
thing
I
want
to
do
is
be
a
teacher.

Who
would
be
stupid
 enough
to
be
a
teacher.

Why
would
I
ever
go
back
to
that
environment?”


 
 But
these
other
two,
international
relations
and
health
studies,
they
 didn’t
interest
me
all
that
much
either.

And
then,
it
happened.

I
looked
at
the
 coursework.

For
international
relations
and
health
studies,
there
were
 classes
that
I
had
to
take
but
I
had
already
fulfilled
that
requirement.

In
 other
words,
I
would
be
wasting
credit;
it
wouldn’t
go
to
anything.

Where
 the
social
science
teaching
curriculum,
every
single
class
went
towards
my
 graduation,
and
so
nothing
would
be
wasted.

So
I
thought,
“I
know,
I’ll
sign
 up
for
social
science
teaching.

I
know
that
I
don’t
want
to
be
a
teacher
but
all
 of
these
classes
will
go
toward
fulfilling
graduation
requirements.

And
it
will
 give
me
three
months…to
stall
and
figure
out
what
I
want
to
be
in
life
and
 then
come
winter
quarter,
I’ll
change
my
major.”


 
 145
 
 That’s
how
I
got
into
the
College
of
Education.

My
very
first
class
that
 fall
term
was
educational
psychology
and
I
loved
it.

And
so
I
thought
I
would
 stay
on
for
another
term,
and
in
that
term
I
actually
had
a
couple
classes— one
of
them
was
an
observation
of
teaching
class—and
I
loved
it.

I
started
to
 realize
that
I
really
like
teaching
and
it
kind
of
comes
easy
to
me.

And
the
 rest
is
history.

It’s
unbelievable.

It’s
the
most
amazing
stroke
of
good
luck
 I’ve
ever
had
in
my
life
because
I
literally
accidentally
fell
into
teaching.

The
 best
accident
I’ve
ever
had.
 Dan
maintained
the
mandated
3.0
in
MSU’s
teacher
education
program
as
his
accident
 turned
into
a
blessing.

At
the
end
of
the
program,
he
completed
his
student
teaching
 practicum
and
began
substitute
teaching
until
he
found
a
permanent
teaching
job
in
Parker
 Intermediate
Public
Schools.



 
 After
graduating
from
MSU,
Dan
married
a
woman,
Jill,
that
he
had
begun
dating
in
 college.

Without
feeling
a
pull
toward
another
geographic
area,
the
couple
decided
to
live
 in
Lansing,
next
door
to
East
Lansing
and
MSU.

Although
Dan
had
not
lived
in
Lansing
by
 that
point,
he
had
a
growing
knowledge
of
the
city.

As
an
MSU
student,
with
his
fishing
pole
 firmly
secured
under
his
arm,
he
would
bike
from
the
campus
to
some
of
Lansing’s
many
 fishing
spots.

His
fellow
students
thought
such
behavior
was
“weird,”
especially
as
he
often
 set
out
late
at
night
“because
that’s
when
the
fishing
is
best.”

A
byproduct
of
such
 excursions,
though,
was
that
he
came
to
know
different
parts
of
the
city.
 
 One
of
the
first
places
in
which
Dan
and
Jill
lived
in
Lansing
was
Reo
Town.

 Immediately
south
of
the
city’s
downtown,
and
at
the
confluence
of
the
Grand
and
Red
 Cedar
Rivers,
Reo
Town
was
one
of
the
centers
of
Michigan’s
automobile
industry
until
the
 
 146
 mid
1970s.

But
in
the
wake
of
the
car
industry’s
departure,
the
area
deteriorated.

It
 became,
as
Dan
described
it,
a
red‐light
area
that
was
overrun
by
prostitution
and
illegal
 drugs.

The
first
house
that
they
rented
was
in
the
heart
of
this
area.

Dan
learned
that
the
 house’s
prior
tenants
had
operated
a
drug
and
prostitution
ring
out
of
the
house.

The
 renting
contract
featured
a
number
of
stipulations
that
forbade
illicit
activities.

 Throughout
the
time
they
lived
at
the
house,
cars
would
pull
into
the
driveway
and
then
 leave
after
a
matter
of
minutes
when
a
prostitute
or
a
drug
dealer
didn’t
emerge
from
the
 house.


 
 After
living
in
Reo
Town,
Dan
and
Jill
also
lived
on
the
west
side
of
Lansing,
in
an
 area
of
the
city
quite
different
from
Reo
Town.

There
they
gave
birth
to
two
children,
first
 Sarah,
and
then
Paul
two
years
later.

By
this
time
Dan
was
several
years
into
teaching
in
 Parker,
and
as
the
kids
grew
older,
they
began
to
attend
a
nearby
elementary
school.

 However,
after
six
years
of
marriage,
Dan
and
Jill
separated.

“There
wasn’t
anything
 monumental,”
Dan
said.

“No
one
cheated
on
the
other.

No
one
was
abusive
to
the
other.

 She
just
fell
out
of
love—I
think
that’s
something
that
we
both
would
mutually
agree
upon.”

 Jill
filed
for
divorce,
and
two
years
after
the
separation,
it
was
finalized.


 
 But
the
divorce
was
devastating
for
Dan.

In
a
soft,
pained
voice,
he
recalled
to
me,
“I
 begged
for
it
not
to
happen.”

He
had
kept
asking,
“What
can
I
do
for
this
not
to
happen?”

 Through
the
separation
and
divorce,
he
entered
a
multi‐year
spell
of
depression,
about
 which
he
said,
“I
think
it
probably
fell
in
the
realms
of
clinical
[but]
I
never
saw
anyone
for
 it,
I
never
took
any
medication.”

He
found
it
difficult
to
sleep,
and
yet
it
was
also
difficult
to
 get
out
of
bed.

He
described
“one
of
the
lowest
moments”
of
his
life,
when,
at
2am,
“I
just
 
 147
 remember
facing
the
wall,
curled
up
in
bed…writing
invisibly
on
the
wall,
 ‘please__come__back.’”


 
 Dan’s
children
and
his
students
were
the
two
groups
that
saw
him
through
“that
 entire
period
of
hell.”

He
called
them
his
“life
buoys”
that
kept
him
“afloat.”

Although
“I
 didn’t
come
into
work
crying
[and]
I
was
still
a
bubbly
person,”
Dan
said,
“Paul
and
Sarah
 for
sure
knew
just
how
bad
I
was
emotionally.

I
don’t
think
my
students
knew,
but
at
the
 same
time,
they
knew.”

At
one
point
during
this
period,
a
counselor
at
his
school
sought
 him
out
and
said
to
him,
“I’ve
got
to
tell
you
that
[your
students]
are
just
aching
with
you,
 Dan...you
just
need
to
know
that.

You
just
need
to
keep
floating.”

One
way
in
which
he
 floated
was
to
undertake
special
activities
with
Sarah
and
Paul.

He
decided
that
he
would
 take
his
kids
to
“a
different
national
something—a
monument,
a
park—each
year.”

While
 they
visited
national
parks
like
Mammoth
Cave
and
the
Great
Smoky
Mountains,
Dan’s
most
 vivid
memory
recalls
their
trip
to
Acadia
National
Park,
an
island
in
the
Atlantic
Ocean,
off
 the
coast
of
Maine.

It
was
a
camping
trip,
and
Dan
called
it
“powerful,”
“amazing,”
and
 “special.”

After
the
trip,
“for
literally
like
a
year,
there
probably
wasn’t
a
week
that
went
by
 when
Paul
or
Sarah
said,
‘man,
I
miss
Maine.’”

Dan
always
replied,
“I
do
too.”
 
 During
a
separate
conversation,
when
Dan
and
I
were
driving
through
Lansing,
we
 pulled
up
to
a
red
light
two
blocks
from
the
capitol
building.

He
pointed
out
my
passenger
 window
at
the
City
Rescue
Mission
of
Lansing.

The
City
Rescue
Mission’s
purpose,
 according
to
its
website,
is
“to
meet
physical
needs
to
bring
those
with
spiritual
needs
to
 Jesus
Christ.

Our
ministries
reach
out
to
men,
women,
and
children
in
the
capital
area,
and
 we
provide
food,
shelter,
and
clothing
to
those
who
are
homeless
or
low
income.”

Dan
 
 148
 explained
that
he
started
volunteering
there
when
he
got
divorced
and
that
it
helped
him
 understand
that
he
had
much
for
which
to
be
thankful.
 
 Dan
also
began
playing
in
multiple
volleyball
leagues
across
Mid‐Michigan,
and
this
 introduced
him
to
a
new
group
of
people.

One
of
the
people
he
met
through
volleyball
was
 a
woman
named
Laura.

In
due
time,
they
were
competing
together
in
volleyball
 tournaments,
and
then
they
began
dating.

Laura
was
from
Mid‐Michigan
and
younger
than
 Dan.

They
realized
that
she
was
in
eighth
grade
when
he
began
substitute
teaching
after
 college.

Then,
five
years
beyond
his
divorce,
Dan
and
Laura
married.

Dan
had
gone
“to
hell
 and
back”
and
he
said
that
Laura
“saved
my
life
in
a
lot
of
ways.”

Although
he
had
been
 managing
the
depression
tied
to
his
separation
and
divorce,
it
was
Laura
who
lifted
him
out
 of
it.

And,
with
her,
he
was
excited
to
be
able
to
grow
his
family,
something
that
he
felt
had
 become
impossible
with
his
divorce.
 
 He
had
bought
a
small
house
on
the
east
side
of
Lansing
during
his
separation
with
 Jill.

After
he
and
Laura
married,
she
moved
into
the
house.

However,
as
he
held
shared
 custody
of
Sarah
and
Paul,
and
then
as
Laura
became
pregnant
with
their
first
child,
Kevin,
 the
family
needed
more
space.

They
moved
to
a
new
home,
about
a
mile
away,
and
Laura
 also
gave
birth
to
their
second
child,
Kara.

Dan
and
his
family
have
lived
in
that
house
 since,
and
he
is
effusive
with
praise
for
their
fit
with
the
surrounding
neighborhood
and,
 indeed,
the
city.
 
 As
Dan
describes
it,
Lansing
has
survived
the
fog.

Since
the
early
1980s,
he
has
seen
 the
city’s
transformation.
“It
was
just
kind
of
a
pit
really,
even
into
the
1990s.”

As
he
drove
 me
around
Lansing,
he
talked
about
formerly
high
rates
of
crime,
prostitution,
and
illegal
 drugs.

He
pointed
out
multiple
red‐light
areas
in
the
city
in
addition
to
where
he
lived
in
 
 149
 Reo
Town.

But
in
the
time
that
he’s
lived
in
Lansing,
he
said
that
the
community
has
 “started
to
take
the
neighborhood
back.”

Signs
“protesting
the
local
vices”
became
 commonplace
as
groups
of
residents
demanded
greater
police
presence.

And
some
of
the
 abandoned
buildings
were
razed
or
renovated.

Reflecting
on
these
changes,
Dan
said
that
 he
thinks
Lansing
is
“one
of
the
most
improved
cities
in
the
entire
nation
over
the
last
 twenty
years.”

And
yet,
“I
feel
like
I’m
one
of
the
few
people
in
the
world
that
loves
 Lansing.”

He
talked
about
a
friend
living
in
Santa
Barbara,
California,
who
trumpets
how
 great
life
is
there.

But
Dan
tells
him,
“I
don’t
long
for
anything
else
but
here.”

In
fact,
he
 added,
“I
long
for
this
place
when
I’m
on
vacation.”


 
 Why
is
Lansing
so
important
to
Dan?

Lansing
is
“such
an
underdog
city,”

he
said.

 He
likened
it
to
Miller
beer.

When
he
buys
beer
at
the
store,
he
often
looks
for
Miller,
even
 though
friends
make
fun
of
him
for
buying
it
since
Miller
is
not
generally
regarded
as
a
 good
brand
of
beer.

He
doesn’t
particularly
love
the
taste,
but
that’s
not
the
point.

It’s
 cheap,
which
is
partially
the
point.

But
most
importantly
for
Dan,
Miller
represents
the
 gritty,
hard‐nosed,
working
class.

It’s
not
fancy,
which
is
a
virtue
in
his
mind.

“Miller,”
he
 says,
“is
like
Lansing,”
which
is
one
of
the
best
complements
he
can
pay
the
beer.
 
 But
even
more
important,
Lansing
is
like…Dan.

“Part
of
why
I
like
Lansing
so
much
 is
because
it’s
a
lot
like
me.

It’s
just
this,
almost
like,
underachieving
kind
of
thing
that’s
got
 a
lot
to
offer.

You
know,
and
it
just
kind
of
took
time
for
it
to
develop.

I
think
that’s
what
 happened
to
me,
more
or
less.”

Lansing,
like
Dan,
is
the
“little
guy,”
and
as
Dan
exhorted,
 “don’t
count
the
little
guy
out.”

 
 Like
Lansing,
Dan
has
survived
the
fog.

To
be
sure,
there
are
still
foggy
days
for
him,
 and
he
knows
there
will
continue
to
be
foggy
days
in
the
future,
but
he
has
reached
a
point
 
 150
 in
which
he
feels
his
life’s
fog
has
lifted.

He
survived
his
father’s
departure
and
his
 upbringing
without
a
father.

He
survived
the
struggles
of
his
schooling
in
high
school
and
 college.

He
survived
the
ravages
of
his
divorce
and
the
related
depression.

The
result
of
 this
survival
is
what
Dan
labeled
as
“cranking
with
creativity,”
a
kind
of
living
that
he
had
 not
experienced
prior.

He
is
a
loving
husband
and
father.

He
is
actively
involved
in
the
 very
different
stages
of
his
children’s
lives.

He
is
“on
such
a
mission”
with
his
teaching,
 feeling
“much
more
purposeful”
in
the
classroom
and
with
his
students
than
at
the
start
of
 his
career.

In
addition
to
teaching
his
middle
schoolers,
he
is
also
teaching
pre‐service
 teachers
from
MSU
as
he
increasingly
works
more
closely
with
MSU’s
teacher
education
 program.

He
is
also
developing
a
series
of
workshops
for
schools
and
businesses
about
 pedagogy
and
public
speaking.

And
he
has
become
a
member
of
the
National
Storyteller’s
 Network
and
a
participant
at
gatherings
of
the
Network’s
local
chapter.

Various
 storytelling
projects,
including
a
second
screenplay
and
a
book
on
parenting,
are
in
the
 works.

There
are
a
host
of
other
activities
as
well,
including
playing
volleyball,
fishing
 Lansing’s
rivers
at
night,
teaching
Sunday
School
at
his
church,
and
cooking.
 
 This
flurry
of
activity
energizes
Dan.

He
is
excited
about
the
future
of
his
life
in
all
 these
different
directions.

And
yet
it
doesn’t
come
without
some
concern.

Sarah,
his
oldest
 child,
worries
that
he’s
doing
too
much.

If
he
keeps
it
up,
she
thinks
he
might
be
heading
 quickly
toward
a
heart
attack.

While
he
noted
Sarah’s
concern,
he
was
too
excited
about
his
 various
projects,
having
too
much
fun
with
them,
to
feel
that
they
were
detrimental
to
him.
 
 At
the
time
of
my
visit,
Sarah
was
a
freshman
in
college,
Paul
a
junior
in
high
school,
 Kevin
a
five‐year‐old,
and
Kara
a
two‐year‐old.

Dan
excitedly
introduced
me
to
all
of
his
 children,
as
well
as
Laura
(and
her
parents,
who
come
over
to
their
house
every
Thursday
 
 151
 for
“Family
Night,”
for
which
Dan
is
always
the
esteemed
chef).

I
was
eager
to
meet
these
 pivotal
people
in
Dan’s
life,
but
I
learned
that
I
was
not
the
only
person
who
knew
about
 them.

Dan’s
students,
another
group
of
pivotal
people
in
his
life,
know
his
immediate
 family
in
detail.
 
 Dan’s
Teaching
Curriculum:
Teaching
Through
Story
About
The
Fog
And
Its
Lifting

 
 Dan
has
survived
the
fog
and
his
students
know
it.

In
fact,
they
know
in
some
form
 much
of
Dan’s
life
story
that
I
told
above.

While
they
might
not
know
it
as
a
full
story,
over
 the
course
of
the
school
year,
they
hear
the
individual
stories
and
details
as
they
pertain
to
 Dan’s
curriculum‐as‐plan
for
the
class.

As
I
argue
below,
this
is
a
storytelling
pedagogy,
 which
features
story
as
the
basis
for
learning
in
his
classroom.

The
stories
articulate
Dan’s
 general
teaching
purposes—helping
students
consider
how
to
survive
the
fog,
and
as
the
 fog
lifts,
helping
them
better
their
lives
and
the
surrounding
community.

Included
in
this
 learning
about
community
is
a
curriculum
about
Lansing,
a
place
familiar
to
Dan
but
not
his
 students.

Of
course,
two
decades
into
teaching,
Dan
has
developed
these
purposes
and
 grown
into
a
teacher
different
from
who
he
was
when
he
graduated
from
MSU.

As
with
the
 rest
of
his
life,
his
storytelling
pedagogy
took
some
time
to
develop.
 
 Living
in
Lansing,
teaching
in
Parker.
 
 Fresh
out
of

MSU,
Dan
worked
various
teaching
jobs
as
he
looked
for
permanent
 teaching
employment.

He
substitute
taught
across
the
Lansing
area,
in
both
high
schools
 and
middle
schools,
and
eventually
he
became
a
regular
substitute
teacher
in
Parker.

 Parker
was
a
fast‐growing,
suburban
community,
and
Dan
enjoyed
the
people
in
its
 secondary
schools.

When
a
job
opened
up
in
Parker
Intermediate
Public
Schools’
(PIPS)
 
 152
 alternative
education
program,
Dan
applied
and
was
hired
for
the
job.

Then,
a
year
and
a
 half
later,
a
position
opened
up
in
social
studies
at
Parker
Intermediate
Middle
School
 (PIMS),
for
which
Dan
was
hired.

At
the
time,
Dan
was
more
interested
in
teaching
high
 school,
but
he
quickly
grew
to
love
middle
school
(and
in
the
time
since,
he
has
turned
 down
three
opportunities
to
move
to
Parker’s
high
school).

For
the
past
twenty
years,
Dan
 has
taught
eighth
graders,
except
for
a
brief
stint
in
seventh
grade
social
studies.

 Additionally,
Dan
has
taught
drug
and
sex
education
classes.

He
currently
teaches
four
 sections
of
eighth
grade
social
studies
and
one
section
of
a
course
called
“Decisions,”
which
 is
an
elective
class
for
eighth
graders
that
focuses
on
developing
healthy
life
skills.

The
 eighth
grade
at
PIMS
is
structured
in
two
different
disciplinary
teams,
which
means
that
 Dan
teaches
half
of
the
grade’s
students
in
his
social
studies
classes.

In
Decisions,
he
 teaches
a
mix
of
his
students
and
the
other
social
studies
teacher’s
students.
 
 Parker
is
a
suburb
of
Lansing.

According
to
the
2010
U.S.
Census,
the
population
of
 Parker
is
just
over
15,000
residents,
of
which
80%
are
white,
11%
Asian,
5%
black,
and
4%
 multiracial.

The
Hispanic
population,
which
can
fit
under
any
race,
is
less
than
5%.

Median
 household
income
is
over
$50,000.

Comparatively,
the
city
of
Lansing
has
114,000
 residents,
of
which
61%
are
white,
24%
black,
6%
multiracial,
and
4%
Asian.

In
Lansing,
 Dan
is
one
of
less
than
a
hundred
Pacific
Islanders,
who,
as
a
group,
are
less
than
.1%
of
the
 resident
population.

The
Hispanic
population
is
13%
and
the
median
household
income
is
 $35,000.


 
 By
various
business
metrics,
Parker’s
schools
are
well
regarded.

Parker
ranks
 highly
on
national
lists
of
top
education
towns
and
places
to
raise
a
family.

PIMS’
student
 population
reflects
Parker’s
resident
population.

According
to
recent
data
from
the
 
 153
 National
Center
for
Educational
Statistics
(NCES),
of
PIMS’
students,
86%
are
white,
7%
are
 black,
5%
are
Asian/Pacific
Islander,
and
2%
are
Hispanic.

Just
over
10%
of
students
 qualify
for
free
and/or
reduced
lunch.

These
statistics
about
PIMS’
population
do
not
 reflect
Lansing’s
population.

The
Lansing
School
District,
as
a
whole,
is
more
racially
 diverse
with
a
larger
percentage
of
students
who
qualify
for
free
and/or
reduced
lunch.

 The
reputation
of
Lansing’s
public
schools,
generally,
is
not
as
esteemed
as
Parker’s.
 
 I
hold
Parker
and
Lansing
in
comparison
because
both
are
significant
in
Dan’s
life.

 For
the
duration
of
Dan’s
tenure
at
PIMS,
he
has
lived
in
Lansing.

In
fact,
at
the
onset,
he
 was
eager
not
to
live
in
Parker.

For
one,
housing
prices
in
Lansing
were
far
cheaper
than
 Parker.

And
there
was
his
growing
love
for
Lansing
as
a
city.

But,
two
additional
reasons,
 both
having
to
do
with
his
teaching,
supported
living
in
Lansing.

First,
he
did
not
want
to
 live
in
the
district
where
he
taught
because
of
the
proximity
that
he
would
have
to
his
 students
outside
of
school.

He
thought,
“I
want
to
be
able
to
go
out
into
the
front
yard
in
 my
boxer
shorts
to
get
the
paper
and
not
have
to
worry
about,
‘oh
my
God,
Mr.
Torres
is
out
 in
the
yard
in
his
boxer
shorts.’”

Similarly,
he
did
not
want
to
run
into
his
students
and
 their
families
at
a
convenience
store
with
a
six‐pack
of
beer
in
his
hand.

His
second
reason
 for
living
outside
of
Parker
involved
his
children.

“I
had
the
idea
that
I
never,
never
wanted
 my
own
children
to
be
in
the
district
I
teach
in.”

Dan
worried
about
the
attendant
pressure
 his
children
would
feel
as
the
children
of
Mr.
Torres.

Framing
his
thinking
at
the
time,
he
 said,
“you
know
how,
when
you’re
young,
the
last
thing
you
want
at
a
party
is
for
your
mom
 or
dad
to
show
up?

It
was
that
kind
of
mentality.”
 
 But
Dan’s
thinking
changed.

As
Sarah
and
Paul
entered,
and
made
their
way
 through,
elementary
school,
Dan
became
frustrated
with
his
kids’
schooling.

He
felt
Sarah
 
 154
 and
Paul
were
not
getting
the
high
quality
of
education
that
Parker’s
schools
offered.

As
a
 result,
“I
did
a
complete
180
[degree
change]
in
terms
of
my
philosophy
about
the
kids
 being
in
the
same
district.”


Michigan
law
featured
“Schools
of
Choice,”
which
made
it
 possible
for
schools
to
accept
non‐local
residents,
so
Sarah
and
Paul
enrolled
in
Parker
in
 their
sixth
and
fourth
grade
years,
respectively.
 
 Two
years
later,
both
kids
attended
PIMS.

And,
with
Sarah
entering
eighth
grade,
 Dan
was
one
of
two
possible
social
studies
teachers
for
her.

With
the
school’s
 endorsement,
Dan
left
it
up
to
Sarah
to
choose
if
she
wanted
him
as
her
teacher.

When
I
 asked
Dan
if
he
had
any
concern
about
teaching
Sarah,
he
responded,
“I’m
sure
that
I
did
 but
nothing
that
ever
made
me
think
twice
about
it.”

Sarah
chose
Dan’s
classroom,
as
did
 Paul
a
year
later
(when
Dan
taught
seventh
grade
social
studies),
and
Dan
could
not
 overstate
the
significance
of
this
for
him
as
a
father.


Although
he
tried
to
approach
Sarah
 and
Paul
as
regular
students
in
his
classroom,
their
choice
of
him
as
their
teacher
was
 “about
the
greatest
gift
a
child
could
ever
give
a
parent…[It
will]
keep
me
happy
for
a
 lifetime.”

 
 Although
Sarah
and
Paul
had
the
daily
lived
experience
of
Lansing
and
Parker,
the
 vast
majority
of
Dan’s
students
through
the
years
have
not.

Parker
is
their
living
and
 schooling
context;
Lansing
is
certainly
in
the
area
but
it
is
not
lived
by
the
students
in
 substantive
ways.

He
described
how
he
often
has
mentioned
in
class
upcoming
events
in
 Lansing
(like
the
annual
chili
cook‐off
run
by
the
local
utility
or
one
of
the
festivals
in
Old
 Town,
a
revitalized
area
on
the
north
side
of
Lansing)
but
his
students
usually
express
 minimal
interest
in
attending
(but
presumably
they
would
attend
similar
events
in
Parker).

 
 155
 
 For
Dan,
there
is
a
stereotype
about
Lansing
that
his
students
implicitly
learn
living
 in
Parker.

Generally
speaking,
he
said
“people
look
at
Lansing
as
the
hood,
the
ghetto.”

 They
don’t
learn
about
“what
Lansing
has
to
offer.”

Dan
noted
the
existence
of
social
 differences
along
racial
and
economic
lines
as
a
cause
for
fear
by
some
people
living
in
 Lansing’s
suburbs.

To
illustrate
his
students’
perceptions
about
Lansing,
Dan
told
a
story
 from
some
years
back:
 I
get
this
phone
call
from
a
former
student
of
mine.

I
had
her
as
an
eighth
 grader.

She
calls
me
up
and
she’s
like
a
senior
or
junior
in
high
school.

She’s
 crying,
she’s
really
scared,
and
what
happened
is
she
went
with
friends
of
 hers
to
a
party
in
Lansing
and
they
left
her.

So
here
she
was,
in
Lansing,
 freaking
out
because
she’s
in
Lansing,
she’s
so
scared,
she’s
in
the
hood,
and
 I’m
like,
“well,
where
exactly
are
you?”…She’s
like,
“I’m
at
this
Quality
Dairy.”

 “Which
Quality
Dairy
are
you
at?

Do
you
know
a
street?”

She’s
like,
“well,
I’m
 across
from
a
Kentucky
Fried
Chicken.”

I’m
like,
“are
you
on
the
corner
of
 Robin
and
Saginaw?”

“Yeah,
I
think
this
is
Robin.”

And
I’m
like
[laughing],
 “honey,
that’s
a
great
part
of
town.”

But
she
was
so
scared
because
she
had
 seen
clientele
that
she’s
not
used
to
seeing
walking
in
and
out
of
a
Quality
 Dairy.

I’m
like,
“honey,
you’re
in
the
St.
Gerrard
area,
that’s
a
really
nice
area.

 You
don’t
have
to
worry
about
anything.”

 When
fears
about
Lansing,
like
the
student’s
fear
above,
arise
in
Dan’s
classes,
he
 challenges
them.

“I’m
like,
‘the
worst
part
of
Lansing
now
is
not
that
bad
at
all.

I
don’t
 know
of
any
place
in
Lansing
where
I
would
feel
afraid
at
one
in
the
morning.’”

He
talks
 about
fishing
in
different
spots
of
the
city,
in
the
early
hours
of
the
morning,
and
how
police
 
 156
 officers
will
check
up
on
him.

He
usually
asks
the
officers
if
he
should
be
worried
about
his
 safety
and
they
frequently
reply
along
the
lines
of
“no,
this
neighborhood’s
great.”

But
Dan
 doesn’t
just
react
to
fears
about
Lansing.

He
purposefully
talks
and
teaches
about
the
city.

 “I
do
a
pretty
consistent
‘rah‐rah’
about
Lansing.”
 
 Lansing
is
not
a
part
of
Dan’s
content
curriculum
standards,
but
it
is
certainly
part
of
 his
classroom
curriculum,
even
if
it
is
sometimes
implicit.

For
example,
at
the
beginning
of
 a
unit
that
he
teaches
about
19th
Century
social
reforms
in
America,
he
wears
an
“I
love
 Lansing”
shirt
to
school.

He
bought
the
shirt
because
the
proceeds
went
toward
a
program
 in
Lansing
called
Complete
Streets.

He
explains
Complete
Streets
to
his
class:
“when
a
 street
is
being
worked
on—like,
for
example,
if
you
have
to
tear
up
the
street
in
order
to
 put
in
a
sewer
line—it
will
be
fixed
so
that
there
is
a
bike
lane,
so
that
there
is
a
rumble
pad
 for
visually‐impaired,
inclines
for
wheelchairs”
and
sidewalks
are
either
made
or
widened
 in
the
process.

He
then
connects
that
concept
of
community
improvement
to
various
 reforms
in
19th
Century
America.

While
Lansing
is
not
the
overt
focus
of
Dan’s
teaching
in
 this
example,
it
is
a
purposeful
part
of
it.
 
 Given
Dan’s
affinity
for
Lansing,
I
asked
him
if
he
ever
thought
about
leaving
PIMS
in
 order
to
teach
in
Lansing.

The
answer
was
a
quick
“no.”

I
then
proposed
a
hypothetical
 situation:
what
if
the
Lansing
School
District
courted
him
to
teach
in
one
of
its
nearby
 schools?

He
still
didn’t
think
he
would
leave
PIMS,
“and
it’s
only
because,
I
guess,
my
heart
 is
in
Parker.”

Had
I
asked
him
twenty
years
ago,
“when
I
didn’t
have
any
allegiance
to
any
 district,”
it
might
be
a
different
story.

But
after
his
time
in
Parker,
“I’m
crazy
about
the
 community…I
can’t
really
imagine
a
better
community
to
teach
for.”

In
fact,
with
two
 decades
past
in
Parker,
he
thinks
he
might
be
only
halfway
through
his
tenure
there.

He’d
 
 157
 be
able
to
retire
after
nine
more
years,
but
“no
way
I’m
retiring
in
nine
years.

Maybe
in
20
 years
or
so,
I’d
think
about
it.”

At
that
point,
he
joked,
maybe
he’d
retire,
move
to
northern
 Michigan,
to
a
small
community
on
the
shore
of
Lake
Michigan,
“and
teach
up
there.”
 
 Learning
to
teach:
Dan’s
school
stories.
 
 Dan
may
have
found
his
way
into
teaching
by
accident,
but
it
didn’t
take
long
for
him
 to
feel
that
he
landed
in
the
right
spot.

“I
think
I
felt
comfortable
almost
immediately
in
 front
of
a
classroom.”

This
was
a
bit
surprising
since
he
had
never
particularly
loved
school
 as
a
student.

But
“once
in,
I
realized
that
it
came
easy
to
me
and
that
I
loved
it.”

This
is
not
 to
say,
though,
that
Dan’s
teaching
hasn’t
included
moments
of
fog.


 
 The
opening
vignette
of
this
chapter
storied
Dan’s
circling
of
fog
in
Woody
Guthrie’s
 “This
Land
Is
Your
Land”
lyrics.

Dan
circled
another
word
in
Guthrie’s
sixth
stanza,
which
 reads:
 One
bright
sunny
morning
in
the
shadow
of
the
steeple
 By
the
relief
office
I
saw
my
people—
 As
they
stood
hungry,
I
stood
there
wondering
if
 This
land
was
made
for
you
and
me.
 Dan
circled
if.

Gathering
his
thoughts
for
what
he
wanted
to
say
about
this
annotation,
he
 murmured,
“the
big
if—the
if
question.”

I
italicize
if
in
his
speech
because
Dan
emphasized
 the
word
in
a
way
that
suggested
it
could
stand
importantly
with
little
or
no
surrounding
 context.

After
several
moments
of
silence,
he
said,
“I
think
my
role
as
a
social
studies
 teacher
is
to
try
to
create
good
citizens
that
make
decisions
that
are
helpful
for
themselves,
 each
other,
and
the
planet.”

Implying
that
good
citizenship
is
tied
to
asking
questions,
he
 said,
“this
whole
‘what
if’
thing…is
a
good
way
to
question
lots
of
things.”

He
gave
a
few
 
 158
 examples:
“What
if
President
Lincoln
had
never
been
shot?

What
if
the
Confederacy
had
 won?

What
if
Jamestown
failed?”

Then,
moving
to
the
content
of
another
realm
of
social
 studies
teaching,
he
said,
“what
if
you
stop
teasing
that
kid?”

Dan
read
Guthrie’s
lyric
as
an
 inquiry
about
how
people’s
lives
could
be
better.

The
if
signals
inquiry,
and
it
opens
the
 opportunity
for
meaningful,
positive
change.

“If
is
a
pretty
powerful
word.

It’s
a
word
that
 I
think
can
also
uncover
improvements
all
the
way
around.”
 
 If
if
was
so
important
to
Dan’s
pedagogical
thinking,
I
wondered
if
it
was
also
 important
to
his
growth
as
a
teacher.

Does
he
ask
what
if
about
his
teaching?

“Yes,”
he
 replied.

“Sometimes
it’s
like,
‘well,
what
if
I
had
not
reacted
so
harshly
toward
that
 student?’”

He
suggested
other
kinds
of
‘teaching
what
ifs’
(e.g.,
“what
if
I
had
only
woken
 up
two
hours
earlier
so
I
could
grade
those
papers?”)
but
they
are
not
as
compelling
for
 him
as
his
self‐critique
about
his
interactions
with
his
students.

He
told
me
two
stories
 along
these
lines.


 
 Some
years
back,
he
had
a
student
named
Liz
who
had
been
diagnosed
with
a
severe
 form
of
Asperger’s
Syndrome.

While
Dan
knew
of
Liz’s
diagnosis
during
his
year
teaching
 her,
he
was
not
prepared
to
teach
her
effectively.

“I
knew
nothing
about
Asperger’s.

I’d
 heard
of
it
but
I
really
knew
very
little
about
it.”

His
goal
was
to
be
patient
and
 understanding
with
Liz,
but
that
was
his
goal
with
any
student.

The
result
was
that
he
felt
 like
he
was
“running
into
a
brick
wall.”

It
was
a
frustrating
year
for
him
and
he
was
certain
 the
same
was
true
for
Liz.

Eventually,
the
year
ended
and
Liz
moved
beyond
Dan’s
 classroom.

He
didn’t
feel
great
about
his
year
with
her
but
he
felt
that
there
wasn’t
too
 much
that
he
could
do.

But
the
following
year,
a
professional
development
presentation
for
 the
school’s
faculty
and
staff
was
devoted
to
working
with
students
with
Asperger’s
 
 159
 syndrome.

“I
was
like,
‘oh
my
gosh,
if
I
only
knew
then
what
I
know
now.’

I
could
see
 immediately—I
was
playing
it
all
in
slow‐motion
replay—how
bad
the
interaction
was
 because
I
didn’t
know
about
Asperger’s.”

Dan
couldn’t
go
back
and
alter
his
year
with
Liz,
 which
makes
him
feel
uneasy
to
this
day.

But,
he
could
take
that
feeling
of
“what
if”
and
 keep
it
with
him
as
he
taught
current
and
future
students.
 
 His
second
story
tracked
along
similar
lines,
with
a
similar
lesson
learned,
but
with
a
 more
palatable
ending.

“This
one
young
man
that
I
had,
he
and
I
never
got
along
and
I
think
 it
got
to
the
point
where
I
don’t
think
I
was
ever
happy
to
see
him
and
he
wasn’t
ever
happy
 to
see
me.”

This
student’s
name
was
Tom.

Dan
routinely
had
to
speak
to
Tom
out
in
the
 hallway
during
class.

Tom
was
not
only
disrespectful
to
Dan,
he
was
also
mean
to
his
 peers.

While
Dan
considers
himself
to
be
“an
empathic
guy”
with
“a
tremendous
amount
of
 patience
and
understanding,”
he
struggled
with
Tom.
“There
were
times
when
frustration
 got
the
better
of
me.”

He
paused
and
reflected
to
me,
“man,
if
I
could
have
only
handled
 that
a
little
better,
with
a
little
more
empathy,
maybe
a
little
more
patience.”

But,
like
with
 Liz,
it
was
just
“one
of
these
situations
where,
‘yep,
probably
could
have
handled
it
a
little
 bit
better
that
year—but
oh
well.’”


 
 Several
years
later,
though,
when
Tom
was
a
senior
in
high
school,
Dan
ran
into
him
 at
a
high
school
volleyball
game.

“So
we’re
sitting
there
in
the
stands
and
I
remember
 thinking,
‘this
is
an
awkward
moment.’

But,
I
said,
‘hey,
Tom,
how’s
it
going?’”

Although
 Dan
was
“not
expecting
to
do
anything”
with
this
brief
hello,
the
two
began
talking
 cordially.

The
cordial
talk
continued.

At
all
of
the
remaining
volleyball
matches
that
season
 (Tom’s
sister
played
on
the
team
alongside
of
Dan’s
daughter),
the
two
talked.

Dan,
then,
 saw
Tom
in
other
settings,
including
at
a
community
park
in
Lansing,
and
had
similarly
nice
 
 160
 conversations.

Reflecting
on
these
interactions,
Dan
said,
“I
got
lucky.

It
turned
out
okay,
 [even
though]
I
still
think
I
could
have
handled
him
better
[as
a
student].”

Seeing
that
Tom
 had
changed
(or
“grown
up,”
as
Dan
framed
it)
years
beyond
his
classroom
was
meaningful
 to
Dan.

He
didn’t
see
that
change
while
Tom
was
his
student,
but
he
felt
good
knowing
that
 that
change
took
place.

He
could
interact
with
current
and
future
students
with
a
 knowledge
about
all
the
other
inputs
and
opportunities
in
students’
lives
outside
of
his
 classroom.

Even
his
students
didn’t
survive
the
fog
in
his
classroom,
they
could
still
survive
 it
later,
or
elsewhere.
 
 The
stories
of
Liz
and
Tom
are
largely
set
beyond
the
years
in
which
Dan
taught
 them.

They
are
about
Dan
considering
how
he
could
have
been
a
better
teacher
of
them.

 They
show
his
frustration
while
teaching
the
students,
but
more
emphasized
is
his
 thinking,
in
both
cases,
that
takes
place
in
the
years
after
the
students
had
left
his
 classroom.

This
is
a
central
theme
for
Dan:
his
students
are
important
to
him
well
beyond
 the
time
and
place
of
his
classroom.

Indeed,
the
majority
of
Dan’s
stories
about
his
 teaching
experiences
that
he
told
me
are
not
set
in
his
classroom.

They
take
place
over
 years,
extending
well
into
the
students’
lives
after
eighth
grade.

However,
he
told
me
one
 story
that
was
set
in
his
classroom
and
took
place
within
one
school
day.

Although
he
did
 not
raise
it
as
a
“what
if”
story,
it
clearly
is:
“It’s
a
teaching
moment
that
I
wish
I
could
have
 back.”


 
 For
Dan,
the
school
day
on
September
11,
2001
(9/11)
began
during
his
second
 hour
period.

Since
he
had
a
first
hour
prep
period,
the
class
was
his
first
of
the
day.

It
was
 early
in
the
school
year
and
he
was
starting
to
teach
his
students
his
process
for
grading
 tests.

A
teacher
knocked
on
his
door
and
said,
“there’s
something
going
on
in
New
York
 
 161
 City.

There’s
some
sort
of
rocket
attack.”

Not
knowing
what
to
make
of
the
teacher’s
 message,
Dan
closed
the
door
and
continued
with
class.

But
then
his
classroom
phone
 rang.

It
was
another
teacher
who
said,
“Dan,
my
son
just
witnessed
a
second
plane
fly
into
 the
World
Trade
Center.”

When
Dan
expressed
his
confusion
about
what
was
happening,
 the
teacher
told
him
to
turn
on
the
television.

Dan
turned
on
the
television,
“—and
that
is
 the
moment
I
wish
I
could
have
over.”


 
 Shortly
after
turning
on
the
television,
a
replay
of
the
second
plane
crashing
into
the
 towers
was
shown,
and
one
of
Dan’s
students
reacted,
“whoooa,
neat!”

After
ten
seconds
or
 so,
it
registered
with
Dan
and
his
students
that
what
they
were
watching
was
real,
not
a
clip
 from
a
movie.

“That’s
when
[the
classroom]
got
very
subdued.

From
there
we
witnessed
 this
absolute
chaos
and
the
constant
replaying
of
[the
crashes].”

Second
hour
ended,
and
 when
his
third
hour
class
arrived,
Dan
felt
it
was
important
for
him
to
talk
to
the
class
 about
the
known
facts.

“I
remember,
I
was
standing
up
there,
and
the
TV’s
behind
me,
and
 the
towers
are
a‐blazing
and
I’m
talking,
talking,
talking
and
[the
students]
are
looking
over
 me.

All
of
a
sudden,
I
saw…their
eyes
got
really
big
and
it
caused
me
to
turn
around.

That’s
 when,
as
I’m
turning
around,
the
first
tower
is
already
halfway
falling.”

Dan
then
 punctuated
this
moment
to
me:
“this
is
live!”

A
student
asked,
“did
that
building
just
fall
 down?”

Dan’s
knee‐jerk
reaction
was,
“no—cause
buildings
don’t
fall
down.”

Then
Dan
 looked
at
the
TV
and
he
muttered,
“did
it?”
 
 There
was
“bedlam
on
television”
in
the
following
moments
as
he
and
his
students
 struggled
to
comprehend
what
they
had
seen.

A
short
time
later,
they
watched
the
second
 tower
fall.

As
with
second
period,
Dan
wishes
he
had
the
opportunity
to
re‐visit
that
third
 period
and
turn
off
the
television.

“I
wish
I
could
turn
back
the
hands
of
time
so
that
they
 
 162
 don’t
say,
‘yeah,
I
remember
where
I
was
at—I
was
in
Mr.
Torres’
classroom
when
I
saw
 that.”

While
third
period
was
traumatic,
the
scariest
period
of
the
day
was
fifth.

With
no
 air
conditioning
on
a
hot
day,
the
classroom
windows
were
open.

The
television
 broadcasts
were
reporting
confusion
about
whether
all
aircrafts
had
been
located,
and
Dan
 and
his
students
could
hear
the
sound,
through
the
open
windows,
of
airplanes
above
the
 school.

The
students
were
unnerved
by
the
sound
of
the
airplanes,
and
then
“one
kid
 literally
put
several
things
together
and
said
the
thing
that
I
wish
I
could
have
muzzled:
 ‘well,
aren’t
we
a
target
because
we’ve
got
the
anthrax
thing
over
here?’”

The
student
was
 referring
to
the
lone
anthrax
lab
in
the
United
States,
which
is
in
Lansing.

“That’s
the
last
 thing
you
want
anyone
to
say
under
those
circumstances,”
Dan
said
to
me.

Dan
responded
 instinctively:
“We’re
fine…those
planes
are
just
flying
around
to
wait
their
turn
to
land
at
 Capital
City
airport.”

But
Dan
didn’t
know
that:
“hell,
I
don’t
know
what
it
was—I
was
a
 little
scared
myself.”

It
wasn’t
until
the
following
day
that
he
learned
that
all
non‐military
 planes
had
been
grounded
by
that
point.

But
fifth
hour
“was
the
most
fearful
of
all
of
the
 classes
just
because
of
the
sound
of
the
planes
and
the
comment
made
by
the
young
man.”
 
 Not
able
to
take
retroactive
action
for
9/11
in
his
classroom,
Dan
became
more
 attuned
to
regulating
visual
images
that
surrounded
future
“breaking
news.”

Several
years
 later,
he
left
the
television
off
as
the
news
media
broadcasted
from
a
flooded
New
Orleans
 after
Hurricane
Katrina
passed
through
the
city.

“I
didn’t
show
any
images—I
purposely
 didn’t
show
that
body
under
the
bridge
floating
because
of
9/11.”

He
had
determined
that
 he
and
his
students
would
be
better
off
without
the
mediation
of
television
news.


 
 Dan’s
“what
if”
stories
point
to
his
efforts
to
achieve
his
main
goal
in
teaching:
“the
 most
important
thing
that
I
can
do
is
help
people
become
better
people.”

In
his
social
 
 163
 studies
classes,
this
involves
his
students
learning
the
course’s
U.S.
history
subject
matter,
 study
skills
for
current
and
future
learning,
and
knowledge
of
current
events.

But
more
 important
than
these
“three
main
focuses”
is
that
Dan’s
students
learn
about
their
roles
as
 members
of
the
communities
they
inhabit.

He
routinely
makes
this
point
to
his
classes:
 “you
are
going
to
be
future
parents.

You
will
determine
whether
sexism
stays
the
same
or
 decreases,
whether
racism
stays
the
same
or
decreases—or
increases,
for
that
matter— whether
we
continue
to
trash
Planet
Earth
or
whether
we’re
going
to
give
her
a
break.”

 While
Dan
does
not
dismiss
social
studies
subject
matter,
he
views
his
students
mastery
of
 it
as
of
secondary
importance.

His
primary
focus,
reminiscent
of
his
own
life,
is
to
teach
his
 students
about
bettering
themselves
and,
in
turn,
bettering
their
communities.
 
 Dan’s
starting
point
for
this
teaching
begins
with
his
relationships
with
his
students.

 He
seeks
to
establish
close
connections
with
them,
which,
in
turn,
he
hopes
will
enable
 them
to
make
their
own
connections
with
the
surrounding
world.

Through
the
course
of
a
 year,
not
only
does
Dan
come
to
know
his
students
extremely
well,
but
also
his
students
 come
to
know
him
extremely
well.

An
underlying
point
seems
to
be
that
if
students
are
 going
to
become
good
citizens
who
work
for
the
benefit
of
their
various
communities,
then
 they
must
feel
welcomed
in
Dan’s
classroom
community.

 
 
His
commitment
to
fostering
community
through
his
teaching
dates
back
to
his
first
 year
at
PIMS,
when
he
taught
all
of
the
sections
of
eighth
grade
social
studies
and
every
 single
eighth
grader
except
for
one.

The
lone
student
that
he
did
not
have
in
his
classroom,
 and
Dan
remembers
her
vividly,
was
Candace
Patterson.

Instead
of
taking
eighth
grade
 social
studies,
she
attended
a
special
education
class
designed
for
her.

However,
on
a
 weekly
basis
that
year,
Candace
would
run
up
to
Dan
in
the
hallways
and
say,
“Mr.
Torres,
I
 
 164
 wish
I
had
you
as
a
teacher!”

Although
he
didn’t
teach
Candace,
she
helped
him
realize
that
 he
was
privileged
to
get
to
know
and
teach
every
other
student
in
the
eighth
grade.

He
 recognized
that
this
teaching
extended
beyond
the
parameters
of
eighth
grade
social
 studies.

Indeed,
he
was
influencing
the
lives
of
the
entire
community’s
youth.

He
was
an
 important
figure
in
the
formation
of
the
community’s
future.

All
of
the
students
would
 walk
through
his
classroom
door,
get
to
know
him
and
learn
from
him,
on
their
way
 through
Parker
Intermediate
Public
Schools.

He
was
teaching
people,
not
merely
social
 studies
content;
he
was
a
part
of
a
community
schooling
project.

With
this
long‐term
vision
 about
his
teaching,
Dan’s
personal
connections
with
his
students
had
him
invested
in
them
 well
beyond
the
time
and
place
of
his
classroom.

 
 One
of
Dan’s
students
from
his
first
year
at
PIMS
was
Aaron.

Dan
told
me
about
 Aaron
when
I
asked
him
to
tell
me
a
powerful
story
from
his
years
of
teaching.

When
 Aaron
was
in
Dan’s
class,
“he
had
the
entire
world
stacked
against
him.”

He
was
a
big
kid
 whose
face
was
disfigured.

With
one
leg
considerably
shorter
than
the
other,
he
walked
 with
a
limp.

His
family
was
one
of
the
poorest
in
the
district
and
“it
showed
in
his
clothing,
 hygiene,
and
support.”

In
class
he
was
highly
unmotivated
and
sluggish.

“But
he
and
I
 always
had
a
good
relationship.

I
feel
pretty
good
about
the
fact
that
he
smiled
more
in
my
 class
than
I
ever
saw
him
smile
in
the
hallway.”

Nevertheless,
Dan
noted
that
if
he
were
to
 drop
out
of
school,
no
one
would
be
the
least
bit
surprised.
 
 Four
years
later,
Dan
attended
the
high
school
graduation
of
his
first
class.

He
was
 filled
with
pride
because
of
the
accomplishments
of
all
of
his
former
students,
but
he
was
 particularly
thrilled
when
Aaron
walked
across
the
stage.

“He
made
it!”

Dan
said,
 embodying
his
excitement
from
that
day.

“It
was
an
unbelievably
proud
moment
for
me.”

 
 165
 Although
Dan
hasn’t
seen
Aaron
since,
he’s
learned
that
Aaron
is
a
mechanic
and
owns
his
 own
auto
shop
in
Lansing.

Ending
with
this
scene,
years
beyond
when
Aaron
sat
in
his
 classroom,
Dan
remarked,
“so
he
made
it:
that’s
about
as
good
as
it
gets
right
there.”

The
 story
mirrors
the
arc
of
the
story
that
Dan
tells
about
his
own
life.

Aaron,
like
Dan,
had
 survived
the
fog.
 
 On
top
of
this
parallel,
it’s
interesting
to
me
that
Dan’s
story
about
Aaron
dates
back
 to
his
early
days
of
teaching
at
PIMS.

I
have
no
doubt
that
Dan’s
entire
tenure
at
PIMS
has
 been
filled
with
memorable
moments,
and
yet
Dan
took
me
to
the
time
when
he
was
the
 most
green
as
a
teacher.

Maybe
there
is
something
to
be
said
here
about
the
heightened
 emotion
of
early‐career
teaching,
when
all
the
aspects
of
the
job
are
negotiated
for
the
first
 time.

And
yet,
the
story
extends
into
his
years
as
a
teacher,
taking
place
in
Dan’s
fifth
year
 at
PIMS
(when
Aaron
graduated)
and
then
some
time
later
with
the
news
of
Aaron’s
 current
work.

Dan’s
story
needs
years
in
order
for
it
to
be
told.

To
tell
a
similar
but
more
 recent
story
would
be
difficult.

The
marker
of
Aaron’s
graduation
also
resonates
with
me
 as
I
think
about
how
Dan
told
me
that
he
most
loves
teaching
eighth
graders
and
college
 seniors
(as
pre‐service
teachers),
both
of
whom
are
on
the
precipice
of
big
schooling/life
 change.
 
 At
another
point,
I
asked
Dan
if
he
remembered
any
of
his
former
students’
names
 from
his
time
teaching
in
alternative
education,
which
took
place
prior
to
his
arrival
at
 PIMS.

He
did,
and
one
particularly
stood
out:
Alex
Ware.

While
Dan
remembers
Alex
as
a
 student
in
his
alternative
education
classroom,
Alex’s
name
came
to
mind
because
of
a
visit
 to
PIMS
years
later.

Dan
was
well
into
his
teaching
at
PIMS,
and
on
one
day
he
was
eating
 lunch
when
a
message
was
sent
from
the
office:
“Dan,
there’s
this
guy
that
really
wants
to
 
 166
 see
you
and
we’re
really
kind
of
worried
about
this.”

When
Dan
learned
that
it
was
Alex,
he
 excitedly
asked
for
him
to
be
sent
down
to
the
lunch
room.

Alex
showed
up,
“all
disheveled
 and
rough
looking.”

Dan
gave
him
a
hug
and
asked,
“what’s
up?”

Alex
told
him
that
he
had
 just
been
released
from
prison.

Dan
wasn’t
surprised
by
this,
as
Alex
had
been
involved
 with
drugs
in
his
student
days.

Dan
asked
Alex,
“are
you
ready?”,
which
I
interpret
to
mean

 “are
you
ready
to
live
meaningfully,
beyond
prison?”

The
two
talked
until
Dan’s
next
class,
 and
they
parted
with
Dan
saying,
“don’t
ever
go
back,”
and
Alex
shrugging,
“I
know.”

Alex
 was
still
in
the
fog.
 
 I
asked
Dan
if
he
was
surprised
that
Alex
visited
him,
especially
after
getting
out
of
 prison.

“No,
not
at
all,”
he
responded.

Dan
chalked
it
up
to
Alex’s
nature;
he
was
the
type
of
 kid
who
walked
into
class
and
always
had
a
joke
he
wanted
to
tell
to
Dan.

But
I
thought
 there
was
more
to
it.

I
said,
“it
seems
you
want
to
be
in
touch
with
[any
of
your
students]
 and
you
want
them
to
come
back
to
visit.”

I
noted
how
Dan’s
classroom,
in
addition
to
 being
covered
with
student
work,
has
some
wall
areas
devoted
to
senior
portraits
of
his
 former
students
and
various
newspaper
clippings
about
their
extracurricular
exploits.

He
 responded
that
although
“they’re
all
crying
at
the
end
of
the
[eighth
grade]
year
and
they’re
 all
giving
me
hugs,”
very
few
come
back
into
his
life
as
former
students.
 
 But
some
do
come
back,
especially
when
they
are
in
need.

Each
year
Dan
makes
a
 pact
with
his
students.

He
says
to
them,
“if
you
ever
get
the
notion
of
wanting
to
drop
out
 of
school,
call
me.

I’ll
buy
you
lunch
or
dinner,
your
choice,
but
we
can’t
go
to
a
super
fancy
 restaurant
because
I
can’t
afford
that.

I’ll
take
you
anywhere
else;
give
me
two
hours
to
try
 to
talk
you
out
of
it.”

While
this
pact
applies
to
the
present
year,
his
eye
is
more
focused
on
 his
students’
years
beyond
his
classroom.

Two
of
his
former
students
have
taken
him
up
on
 
 167
 this
pact.

Both
ultimately
decided
to
drop
out,
but
Dan
was
able
to
talk
them
through
the
 decision.

In
this
context,
Dan’s
story
above
about
his
former
student
contacting
him
while
 lost
in
Lansing
is
not
surprising.

Likewise,
it
is
not
surprising
that
Alex
would
return
to
see
 Dan
upon
release
from
prison.

Dan
makes
clear
to
his
students
that
he
is
there
for
them,
 especially
after
they
leave
PIMS.

These
moments
of
interaction
with
former
students
are
 examples
of
Dan’s
teaching
in
ways
that
are
not
customarily
considered
in
discussions
 about
the
parameters
of
teaching.

They
show
that
Dan’s
students
are
not
just
the
ones
who
 are
currently
enrolled
in
his
classes.

Seemingly,
it’s
not
what
happens
in
the
classroom
that
 matters
as
much
as
what
happens
beyond,
after
it.

The
student’s
story—past,
present,
but
 particularly
future—is
cherished
by
Dan.
 
 A
storytelling
pedagogy:
Dan’s
schooling
stories.
 
 Dan’s
teaching
focus
is
clear:
“I
put
a
pretty
high
priority
on
the
message
of,
‘do
the
 best
you
can
to
yourself,
to
your
fellow
people,
and
to
the
planet.

Everything
else
will
 follow.’”

This
end
goal
is
served
by
a
particular
pedagogical
mean:
storytelling.

As
a
 teacher,
he
wasn’t
always
a
storyteller.

“I
think
what
it
evolved
out
of
is
the
fact
that
I
have
 so
many
thoughts
that
go
through
my
head,
and
here
I
am
teaching,
and
all
of
a
sudden
 something
is
brought
up…and
the
next
thing
I
know
I’m
telling
a
story.

I
learned
very
 quickly
that
my
kids
would
love
when
I
do
that.”

In
his
early
years
of
teaching,
this
 amounted
to
class
periods
in
which
the
lesson
plans
were
skipped
in
favor
of
a
series
of
 stories.

Dan
knew
that
his
students
tried
to
get
him
on
storytelling
tangents,
but
he
also
 knew
that
his
students
enjoyed
his
stories.

He
“started
to
realize
that
there’s
some
 powerful
potential
here.”

Over
the
last
15
years,
as
he
gained
more
experience
teaching,
 his
classroom
storytelling
“developed
into
this
very
conscientious,
purposeful
[method].”
 
 168
 Tracking
the
change
in
his
lesson
preparation,
he
reflected,
“the
majority
of
my
stories
now
 are
very
carefully
planned.”

The
stories
structure
“my
connecting
with
students
and
[my]
 helping
them
connect
with
the
subject
matter…each
of
them
has
a
lesson,
a
moral.”


 
 Like
all
teachers,
Dan
has
many
“school
stories”
from
his
time
spent
teaching.

In
the
 previous
section,
the
stories
about
Liz,
Tom,
Candace,
Aaron,
and
Alex
are
“school
stories,”
 and
they
are
just
some
of
the
ones
he
told
me.

They
undoubtedly
come
from
a
trove
of
 lived
teaching
experience
that
is
overflowing
with
stories.

But,
unlike
some
teachers,
Dan
 has
a
full
repertoire
of
“schooling
stories.”

These
are
stories
that
he
tells
purposefully
in
his
 teaching.

School
stories
are
about
lived
experiences
in
school;
schooling
stories
are
about
 pedagogy.

Schooling
stories
are
texts
used
to
facilitate
learning.

Dan
tells
these
stories
as
 part
of
his
storytelling
pedagogy.
 
 
 Dan’s
stories
are
intimate
because
they
are
about
his
life.

In
the
schooling
stories
 that
he
shared
with
me
and
that
I
heard
him
tell
in
his
classroom,
he
was
almost
always
a
 character.

Further,
he
tells
the
stories
from
the
first
person,
giving
them
a
deeply
personal
 feel.

But
the
content
of
the
stories
are
also
deeply
personal.

Dan’s
students
know
much
 about
his
wife
and
children
based
on
their
repeated
appearances
in
his
stories.

And
they
 know
much
about
him:
his
students
know
about
his
father’s
departure,
his
academic
 probation
at
MSU,
and
his
struggle
through
divorce.

All
of
these
stories
allow
Dan
to
make
 points
about
surviving
the
fog
of
life.
 
 In
addition
to
the
intimacy
of
Dan’s
stories,
he
is
adept
at
telling
them.

He
builds
the
 plot
lines
dramatically,
foreshadowing
key
moments,
circling
back
to
established
 knowledge,
raising
suspense.

He
weaves
humor,
often
times
of
a
self‐effacing
nature,
into
 the
events.

He
courts
sad,
gruesome,
scary,
and
controversial
details,
and
yet
he
often
 
 169
 cycles
through
to
an
uplifting,
hopeful,
moral
outcome.

After
all,
these
stories
are
not
 intended
solely
to
be
entertaining;
they
are
meant
to
be
educative.


 
 The
stories
also
serve
as
a
method
for
building
community,
both
inside
the
 classroom
and
out.

Inside,
the
stories
are
texts
that
connect
Dan
to
the
students.

Beyond
 the
initial
telling
of
a
story,
the
stories
are
re‐visited
and
re‐told.

They
become
common
 texts;
knowledge
of
them
marks
one’s
acceptance
in
the
group.

They
structure
the
 collective
memory
of
the
class.

But
the
stories
also
elicit
other
stories.

On
several
 occasions
when
I
observed
Dan
tell
a
story,
a
period
of
student
talk
ensued
in
which
 students
told
their
stories
that
came
to
mind
while
hearing
Dan’s.

This
storytelling
call‐ and‐response
seemingly
further
established
the
classroom
community
by,
importantly,
 adding
new,
student
voices
to
the
community’s
collection
of
stories.

 
 On
my
last
day
in
Dan’s
classroom,
I
experienced
his
storytelling
work
to
build
 community
at
multiple
levels.

It
was
the
day
before
the
eighth
grade’s
big
class
field
trip
to
 Cedar
Point,
an
amusement
park
located
in
Ohio,
about
four
hours
from
Parker.

For
years
 PIMS
students
and
Dan
had
been
going
on
this
day
trip.

It
was
always
something
to
which
 students
looked
forward,
as
well
as
Dan.

In
the
days
leading
up
to
the
trip,
Dan
mentioned
 many
times
how
he
would
tell
some
of
his
Cedar
Point
stories
on
Thursday,
the
day
before
 the
trip.

When
Thursday
came,
in
each
of
the
social
studies
classes,
Dan
gave
the
students
a
 brief
quiz
and
then
he
said,
“clear
your
desks,”
which
is
his
cue
that
it
is
time
for
a
story
or
a
 set
of
stories
that
will
fill
the
rest
of
the
class
period.

In
each
class
he
asked,
“are
you
ready
 for
Torres’
Cedar
Point
tips?”

With
eager
listeners,
he
used
his
“tips”
as
an
avenue
to
share
 his
stories.

(Dan’s
Cedar
Point
stories
unfolded
differently
in
each
of
the
classes
but
the
 content
of
the
stories
and
the
messages
behind
them
were
the
same.)

Tip
1:
if
you
love
 
 170
 roller
coasters,
sit
in
the
very
back
of
the
train.

Then
he
told
a
story
about
how
once
he
was
 waiting
in
line
for
the
back
of
the
train
on
“Raptor.”

But
instead
of
boarding
the
train,
 Cedar
Point
employees
washed
it
down
and
then
sent
it
for
an
empty
run.

A
person
in
the
 front
of
the
train
had
vomited
during
the
previous
run.

He
asked
the
class,
“what
if
I
had
 been
in
the
back
seat
on
that
run?”

As
students
realized
the
direction
that
the
vomit
might
 travel,
Dan
impersonated
a
rider
in
the
back
of
the
train,
with
his
hands
waving
and
his
 mouth
open,
screaming.

Dan’s
open
mouth,
with
the
imaginary
vomit
traveling
to
the
back
 of
the
train,
was
impetus
for
many
students
to
laugh
and
others
to
squeal
from
the
 disgusting
thought.

“So
remember
Tip
#1—the
back
of
the
train
is
fun,
but
there
could
be
a
 pukefest.”
 
 Tip
#2
involved
wearing
appropriate
clothing.

Dan
told
a
detailed,
vivid
story
about
 a
rider
who
put
her
cell
phone
in
her
bra
because
she
didn’t
have
any
pockets
in
her
 clothing.

During
the
ride,
the
cell
phone
came
loose
and
struck
another
rider.

Dan,
waiting
 in
line
for
the
ride
but
still
far
from
the
platform,
saw
paramedics
rush
to
the
train
once
it
 pulled
into
the
station.

He
wondered
about
what
had
happened
but
he
learned,
later,
from
 some
PIMS
students
that
were
on
that
train,
that
the
person
was
hit
in
the
face
by
the
cell
 phone
and
bleeding
profusely.

Tip
#3
involved
Dan’s
warning
that
students
better
be
on
 time
for
the
6am
departure
from
the
school.

Once
he
had
pulled
into
the
parking
lot
just
as
 the
buses
were
about
to
depart.

Other
tips
and
stories
followed,
including
his
ideas
about
 what
and
where
students
should
eat
at
the
park—and,
with
a
story
about
a
student
getting
 sick
on
the
ride
home,
why
they
should
consider
his
advice.
 
 171
 
 In
these
Cedar
Point
stories,
which
consumed
the
bulk
of
each
class
period,
it
was
 clear
to
me
that
Dan
was
doing
much
more
than
simply
telling
some
stories.

My
field
notes
 that
I
wrote
after
school
speak
to
Dan’s
purposes:
 Dan’s
stories
were
(en)gross(ing)
and
performative…It’s
fascinating
to
think
 about
these
stories,
how
they
got
kids
excited.

How
they
sucked
kids
into
 this
Parker
ritual,
teaching
them
some
of
the
tradition
but
also
preparing
 them
for
what’s
to
come.

Perhaps
he
calmed
some
nerves.

Perhaps
he
 scared
some.

But
this
supremely
built
up
the
event.

I
suspect
that
Dan’s
kids
 are
in
a
different
spot
than
the
other
eighth
grade
teacher’s
kids,
who
had
a
 substitute
teacher
today.
 In
these
stories,
I
saw
Dan
building
community
on
many
levels.

Community
in
his
 classroom.

Community
at
PIMS.

Community
in
Parker.

I
saw
him
teaching
about
the
 concept
of
community,
and
specifically
what
it
means
to
be
a
member
of
a
community.

And
 he
did
this
in
a
gripping
manner—speaking
in
the
first
person,
with
sound
effects
and
 considerable
physical
movement,
even
drawing
diagrams
on
the
board.

The
moment
was
 meaningful
and
dramatic,
and
its
context
had
little
to
do
with
the
subject
matter
of
his
U.S.
 history
course
(although
it
had
everything
to
do
with
his
work
as
a
social
studies
teacher).
 
 Dan’s
Cedar
Point
tips
were
schooling
stories
that
featured
his
school
stories.

Even
 though
the
experiences
took
place
away
from
PIMS,
they
unfolded
in
the
context
of
school.

 Dan’s
story
of
9/11
is
also
both
a
school
story
and
a
schooling
story,
but
it
is
set
in
his
 classroom.

Each
year,
on
or
near
the
anniversary
of
9/11,
he
takes
his
current
students
 through
that
day
as
it
unfolded
in
his
classroom.

He
says
that
telling
the
story
is
a
way
for
 him
to
commemorate
what
happened
to
the
nation.

He
seeks
to
situate
9/11
in
recent
 
 172
 American
history,
linking
it
to
the
wars
in
Afghanistan
and
Iraq,
as
well
as
the
 ideas/practices
of
homeland
security
and
racial
profiling.

He
is
increasingly
aware
that
his
 students,
who
live
in
an
era
marked
by
9/11,
were
very
young
in
2001
and
soon
will
not
 have
been
born
when
it
took
place.

Thus,
his
purpose
is
to
share
his
lived
experience
of
the
 event:
“I
hope
it’s
more
than
any
textbook
could
ever
give
them.”

He
intends
for
students
to
 understand
that
there
was
a
strong
sense
of
uncertainty
on
that
day,
across
the
country
and
 world,
but
also
specifically
in
his
classroom.

 
 While
Dan
experienced
9/11
at
school,
many
of
his
schooling
stories
are
from
non‐ school
parts
of
his
life.

They
come
from
his
lived
experience
over
the
course
of
his
life.

But,
 interestingly,
Dan
noted
that
he
has
realized
that
his
stories
as
a
father
are
different
from
 his
stories
as
a
teacher.

When
Sarah
was
in
sixth
and
seventh
grade,
prior
to
having
her
 dad
as
her
teacher
in
eighth
grade,
some
of
her
friends
who
had
Dan
as
a
teacher
 mentioned
stories
that
he
told
in
class.

Some
of
these
stories
were
foreign
to
her
and
she
 questioned
him,
“how
come
you
don’t
tell
us
[i.e.,
she
and
Paul]
stories
like
you
tell
the
 classes?”

This
stunned
Dan
and
made
him
“really
sad.”

After
all,
“when
I
tell
stories,
I
really
 feel
like
I’m
giving
a
gift,
and
so
why
shouldn’t
I
do
that
for
my
own
kids?”

But
he
noted
 that
stories
he
tells
at
home
are
“not
under
the
parameters
of
a
53‐minute
class,
right
after
 attendance,
with
a
connection
to
a
lesson
that
I’m
trying
to
make.”
 
 In
my
week
with
Dan,
he
described
many
of
his
schooling
stories,
formally
in
 interviews
and
informally
during
casual
conversation.

I
also
experienced
some
of
his
 schooling
stories
simply
by
spending
a
week
in
his
classroom.

The
reflections
that
I
wrote
 after
each
school
day
are
littered
with
notes
about
Dan’s
different
stories
that
he
told
and
I
 share
only
some
of
them
here.

However,
one
story
that
he
told
during
class
stands
out
to
 
 173
 me
the
most.

Dan
calls
it
“the
Smoking
story”
and
he
tells
it
in
Decisions,
his
elective
class.

 In
past
years,
he
told
it
at
the
end
of
a
unit
about
nicotine.

Last
year,
though,
several
 students
suggested
that
he
tell
the
story
at
the
beginning
of
the
unit
so
there
is
more
time
 to
think
about
it
and
ask
questions.


 
 After
taking
attendance
and
making
a
few
announcements
at
the
start
of
class,
Dan
 told
his
students
to
clear
their
desks.

He
then
explained
that
he
was
going
to
do
something
 very
controversial
but
he
noted
that
he
had
the
support
of
the
school’s
administrators
in
 doing
it.

He
proceeded
to
tell
a
story
about
his
nicotine
addiction:
how
he
started
smoking
 in
college;
how
he
quit
“cold
turkey”
after
less
than
three
years;
how
he
developed
 smoking‐induced
asthma;
how
he
had
a
“near
death”
experience
when
he
was
alone
with
 Sarah
and
Paul,
when
they
were
young,
and
he
didn’t
have
a
working
inhaler;
how
he’s
 been
cigarette
free
for
over
twenty
years
and
yet
he
craves
them
every
single
day.

As
with
 the
other
stories
that
I
heard
him
tell,
this
story
was
dramatic,
funny
at
points,
and
filled
 with
markers
along
the
way
(that
served
to
give
students
a
breather,
remind
them
of
 important
points,
and
then
re‐engage
them).

This
story,
though,
was
presented
more
 methodically
than
the
others.

It
was
purposeful
throughout
all
its
minutes.

After
bringing
 the
story
to
the
present
day,
Dan
acknowledged
how
wonderful
it
is
that
he
is
healthy.

But,
 he
tacked
on,
if
he
develops
lung
cancer,
he’ll
know
why.

He
reiterated
this
bleak
 possibility
and
a
student
told
him
to
stop
because
she
was
starting
to
cry.

He
then
ended
 the
story
saying,
“it
doesn’t
ever
have
to
happen
to
any
of
you.”
 
 Dan’s
telling
of
the
Smoking
story
was
an
example
of
his
storytelling
pedagogy
in
 action.

His
life
experience
served
as
the
text
for
teaching
about
the
addictive
nature
of
 nicotine.

The
message
was
clear:
he
survived
the
fog,
to
this
point
at
least,
but
his
students
 
 174
 can
avoid
it.

He
had
no
problem
leveraging
what
he
had
learned—and
how
he
had
learned
 it—in
order
to
teach
his
students.


 
 While
I
suspect
he
approaches
the
majority
of
his
schooling
stories
in
this
way,
he
 told
me
about
two
that
are
noticeably
different
from
the
rest.

There
is
one
particular
 lesson
from
the
Decisions
class
that
Dan
dreads
and
it
is
because
of
his
storytelling
 pedagogy.

He
calls
it
the
“date
rape
lesson”
and
in
the
past
he’s
received
many
concerned
 emails
and
calls
from
parents
about
it.

As
a
result
of
parental
concern,
he
now
reminds
his
 students
in
the
days
prior
to
“tell
your
folks
that
the
date
rape
lesson
is
going
to
be
next
 week.”

The
lesson
consists
of
two
stories
that
Dan
tells.

Prior
to
explaining
them
to
me,
he
 said,
“I
love
storytelling
[but]
it’s
weird,
I
dread
that
day.”

The
first
story
involves
a
14‐year
 old
girl
that
he
taught
in
PIPS’
alternative
education
program.

She
was
pregnant
when
she
 entered
the
program.

Eight
months
prior,
she
had
gone
to
a
party
and
had
so
much
to
 drink
that
she
passed
out.

A
few
weeks
after
the
party,
she
was
late
for
her
period
and
her
 mother
took
her
to
the
doctor.

When
she
learned
that
she
was
pregnant,
she
told
her
 mother
and
the
doctor
that
she
couldn’t
be,
that
she’d
never
had
sex
before.

The
only
thing
 that
she
could
point
to
was
that
she
had
passed
out
at
the
party.

As
a
result
of
the
 pregnancy,
the
girl’s
parents,
who
Dan
referred
to
as
“high‐powered,”
disowned
her,
calling
 her
a
“slut”
and
saying,
“you’re
no
longer
a
daughter
in
our
eyes.”

By
the
time
she
entered
 Dan’s
classroom,
she
was
living
with
a
friend
and
hoping
to
emancipate
herself
from
her
 parents.
 
 Dan
then
tells
a
second
story,
which
he
called
“roughest.”

A
former
student
of
his,
 who
was
a
sophomore
in
high
school
at
the
time
of
the
story,
came
to
see
him
after
school.

 Before
she
could
say
anything,
she
began
sobbing
and
she
struggled
to
explain
to
Dan
that
 
 175
 she
thought
she
had
been
raped.

Dan
asked,
“what
do
you
mean
by
‘I
think?’

Were
you
 taken
advantage
of?”

She
said
“no.”
She
and
her
boyfriend
had
planned
a
romantic
evening
 while
his
parents
were
going
to
be
away.

They
had
talked
about
having
sex
for
the
first
 time
that
night.

But,
as
the
night
progressed,
she
began
to
have
second
thoughts.

Dan
said,
 “the
boyfriend
gave
her
all
the
lines—‘if
you
love
me
you
would,’
‘come
on,
baby,
don’t
you
 trust
me?’—that
sort
of
thing,
all
that
shit.”

He
remembered
wanting
her
to
build
a
case
of
 rape
as
she
talked
about
what
happened,
but
then
when
he
asked
her
if
she
ever
told
her
 boyfriend
“no,”
she
said
that
she
did
not.

She
said,
“I
just
laid
there
and
took
it.”

When
 telling
this
story
to
his
class,
he
asks
at
this
point:
“is
this
rape?

Cause
in
a
court
of
law,
it’s
 not
rape.

She
never
said
‘no.’”

And,
there
was
planning
and
preparation
for
the
event.
 
 After
telling
me
about
the
date
rape
lesson,
Dan
reiterated,
“I
dread
those
stories.”

I
 asked
why
he
tells
them
if
he
dreads
them.

“I
think
they’re
both
really
good
examples
of
 how
date
rape
occurs,”
he
responded.

“I
think
it
makes
it
unique
that
that
one
girl
comes
 from
a
very
high‐powered
environment
of
wealth,
just
to
be
cast
out
like
that.

And
the
 other
girl,
just
to
be
unsure.”

I
then
asked
if
similar
messages
could
be
taught
through
a
 different
medium,
one
that
he
would
not
dread.

“I’m
sure
I
could
find
something
to
do
the
 same
thing.

I
tell
those
stories,
though,
probably
for
the
same
reason
I
tell
all
the
other
 stories.

It’s
just—those
really
hurt
to
tell.”
 
 For
Dan
not
to
tell
those
stories,
he
seemingly
would
have
to
become
a
different
 teacher,
a
different
person.

His
pedagogy
is
to
tell
the
powerful
stories
of
his
life
in
order
to
 teach
his
students.

In
a
way,
how
could
he
not
tell
those
stories?

And
yet,
I
found
it
hard
to
 understand
his
logic.

If
the
medium
invokes
dread,
change
it,
I
thought.

While
I
had
not
 sensed,
and
he
had
not
spoken
to,
pain
or
dread
related
to
any
other
stories
he
tells,
these
 
 176
 two
stories
stood
out
to
me
as
different.

I
commented,
“it
seems
like
it
puts
you
in
a
 sacrificial
spot.

Almost
like
you
endure
the
pain
for
the
story
to
be
heard.”

He
found
some
 truth
in
the
idea
of
sacrifice,
but
he
said,
“the
sacrificial
pain
that
I
feel
really
is
for
sure
 offset
by
the
love
that
I
feel
for
my
students.”

Not
only
are
those
stories
“the
best
way
to
 get
the
message
across”
to
his
students,
his
telling
of
them
is
an
act
of
love.
 
 Conclusion
 
 This
chapter
begins
with
the
“I
Write
America”
poem
that
Dan
wrote
after
my
week
 with
him
in
Mid‐Michigan.

When
I
read
the
poem,
I
see
it
succinctly
addressing
the
 contours
of
his
life.

In
the
first
section,
he
has
concern
for
his
political
and
ecological
 communities.

In
the
second
section,
he
advocates
for
acceptance
and
understanding
of
his
 two
strongest
identities:
good
parent
and
good
teacher.

In
the
third
section,
he
tells
the
 story
of
his
living
curriculum:
he
is
prospering
after
learning
from
mistakes.

The
fourth
 section,
the
conclusion,
diverges
from
the
poem’s
pattern.

No
longer
does
he
hope.

Rather,
 he
asserts
his
love
for
America
and
his
optimism
for
the
future.
 
 But
as
I’ve
read
Dan’s
poem
many
times
now,
I
can’t
help
but
translate
“America”
as
 “my
students.”

This
is
not
to
say
that
Dan
doesn’t
hope
and
“heart”
America.

Rather,
in
 saying
“America,”
I
see
him
specifically
writing
about
his
students.

In
this
annotated
 version,
his
purposes
in
teaching
(both
in
general
and
in
the
area
of
social
studies)
are
 there.

His
belief
that
the
health
of
communities,
big
and
small,
depends
on
the
future
 actions
of
his
students
is
there.

His
message
that
life
is
foggy
but
survivable
and
thrive‐able
 is
there.

And
his
optimism,
which
is
a
hallmark
of
his
schooling
stories,
is
the
concluding
 point.
 
 177
 
 But
optimism
doesn’t
always
feature
certainty.

In
the
final
minutes
of
our
last
 interview,
as
Dan
and
I
sat
at
his
dining
table
and
his
young
kids
slept
upstairs,
he
said,
“so
 are
you
ready
for
the
last
chapter?”

I
wasn’t
entirely
sure
what
Dan
meant
but
I
said
I
was.

 Dan
then
talked
at
length
about
our
visit,
noting
how
he
had
enjoyed
our
many
 conversations
and
how
he
had
so
much
to
think
about.

“Your
visit
really
makes
me
feel
 good
about
who
I
am
as
a
teacher,”
he
said
to
me.

“You
know,
I
feel
like
I’m
on
the
right
 track.”

After
these
sentiments,
he
said
with
slight
hesitation,
“but
I
keep
asking
myself,
‘is
 Mark
really
getting
what
he
needs—not
to
write
a
dissertation,
but
to
discover
 something?’”

He
returned
to
the
discourse
of
story:
“I’ve
been
thinking,
‘well
how
am
I
 going
to
prepare…[a]
last
chapter
ending
where
Mark
will
have
this
epiphany?”

He
paused
 and
said,
“you
know
what,
I
don’t
think
that’s
going
to
happen.”
 
 Although
Dan
didn’t
know
this
in
any
formal
way,
I
was
mindful
that
my
time
with
 him
(and
the
other
participants
in
my
study)
would
never
capture
the
whole
story.

Not
 only
was
that
impossible,
I
knew,
but
also
the
moment
I
left
the
Place
visit,
Dan’s
life
would
 carry
on.

While
my
writing
about
Dan
would
be
a
story,
it
would
not
be
the
story,
and
it
 would
end
without
the
ending.

I
held
off
on
sharing
these
ideas
of
mine
and
I
simply
asked,
 “Why
do
you
need
to
do
that?”

In
other
words,
why
did
Dan
need
to
“write”
a
last
chapter?

 This
exchange
ensued:
 Dan:
 I
don’t
[need
to
write
a
last
chapter].

I
guess
I’ve
just
been
so
 intrigued
by
this
week
that
I’ve
been—it’s
almost
like,
I
guess
I’m
 expecting
the
puzzle
to
be
completed.

And
it’s
not
[going
to
be].

But
 that’s
okay.
 Mark:
 Can
I
frame
it
a
similar
way?
 
 178
 Dan:
 Yeah.
 Mark:
 You’re
a
storyteller.

I’m
wondering
if
you’re
not
wanting
to
give
the
 punch‐line
or
finish
the
story
but
you’re
kind
of
like,
“I’m
not
sure
 what
it
is.”
 Dan:
 And
sometimes
that’s
the
best
way
to
finish
the
story.
 
 
 179
 CHAPTER
SIX
 
 THE
CITIZENSHIP
OF
ROOTED
TEACHING
 
 Here,
let
me
break
it
down
for
you,
so
you
know
what
I
say
is
true:
 Teachers
make
a
goddamn
difference!
Now
what
about
you?
 
 —Taylor
Mali,
New
York
City,
200243
 
 
 I
love
that
poem.
 
 —Rosie,
Mobile,
2011
 
 
 Introduction
 
 Dan
Torres
has
taught
for
over
two
decades
at
one
school.

Tommy
Allen
has
taught
 for
over
one
decade
at
one
school.

Rosie
Baker
has
taught
for
almost
a
decade,
at
two
 schools,
with
the
last
six
years
at
her
current
school.

None
of
these
teachers
appear
to
be
 leaving
their
schools,
or
the
teaching
profession,
any
time
soon.

Rosie
talked
briefly
about
 the
possibility
of
becoming
a
midwife,
but
she
wasn’t
actively
pursuing
that
occupational
 change.

Tommy
talked
about
his
interest
to
enter
a
Ph.D.
program
in
education,
but
only
 with
the
condition
that
he
could
continue
teaching
at
Atlantic
High.

Finding
no
such
 opportunity
when
he
investigated
the
possibility
last
year,
he
decided
it
wasn’t
going
to
 happen.

Dan,
envisioning
a
teaching
career
of
over
40
years,
sees
no
end
in
sight.

Maybe
in
 twenty
years,
he
said,
he
might
retire,
move
to
northern
Michigan,
and
teach
there.
 























































 43
These
are
the
final
lines
from
his
poem,
“What
Teachers
Make”
(Mali,
2002).
 
 180
 
 While
some
teachers
stay
in
the
teaching
profession
for
their
entire
working
 careers,
many
do
not
(Aud,
Hussar,
Kena,
Bianco,
Frohlich,
Kemp,
&
Tahan,
2011;
Ingersoll,
 2001).

There
is
significant
teacher
attrition,
particularly
for
beginning
teachers
(Darling‐ Hammond,
2003).

Those
teachers
that
do
stay
in
the
profession
tend
to
teach
in
contexts
 where
there
is
considerable
support,
adequate‐to‐good
compensation,
needed
resources,
 and
other
teaching
essentials
(Darling‐Hammond,
2003;
Nieto,
2003a).

When
such
 essentials
do
not
exist,
many
teachers
leave
the
profession
or
become
“voluntary
movers,”
 looking
for
a
teaching
context
that
does
provide
these
features
(Moore
Johnson
&
 Birkeland,
2003).

With
many
different
possible
teaching
contexts,
it
is
pivotal
that
teachers
 are
well‐prepared
as
they
enter
the
field
(Darling‐Hammond
&
Bransford,
2005;
Feiman‐ Nemser,
2003).
 
 Why
have
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
not
only
stayed
in
the
teaching
profession
but
 also
thrived
in
it?

In
the
three
previous
chapters,
I
dwelled
in
each
teacher’s
living
and
 teaching
curricula.

In
this
chapter,
I
consider
what
we
might
learn
from
these
teachers
as
a
 group.

I
begin
by
looking
at
who
they
are,
noting
some
of
the
prominent
differences
and
 similarities
across
their
curricula,
and
exploring
why
these
courses
of
living
and
learning
 can
inform
discussion
about
the
work
of
teachers.

Then,
I
consider
why
we
see
three
 teachers
who
are
deeply
committed
to
teaching
in
their
particular
contexts,
while
many
 other
teachers
struggle
and,
in
some
cases,
wonder
whether
they
should
even
continue
in
 their
school
or
the
profession
itself.

In
doing
this,
focusing
on
the
intersection
of
 curriculum
and
place,
I
argue
that
these
teachers
are
emplaced
in
their
living
and
teaching,
 possessing
deep,
life‐giving
roots.

Further,
I
contend
that
their
work
as
“rooted
teachers”
 gives
students
the
desire
and
ability
to
find
roots
in
their
own
lives.

I
conclude
by
asserting
 
 181
 that
this
work
of
rooted
teaching
is
an
act
of
citizenship,
for
both
students
and
their
 communities,
but
also
for
the
teachers
themselves,
and
their
communities.

Indeed,
this
 citizenship
is
one
of
the
powerful
ways
in
which
teachers
make
“a
goddamn
difference.”
 
 Who
These
Teachers
Are
 
 Recent
statistics
published
by
the
U.S.
Department
of
Education
show
that
the
U.S.
 had
98,706
public
elementary
and
secondary
schools
in
the
2008‐09
school
year
(Aud,
et.
 al,
2011).

In
these
schools,
there
were
49.3
million
students
and
3.4
million
full‐time
 teachers.

Of
these
teachers,
8%
of
them
left
teaching
at
the
end
of
the
school
year
while
 7.6%
of
them
moved
to
another
school.

These
are
mammoth
numbers
and,
spread
out
 across
all
the
states
and
counties
of
the
U.S.,
they
speak
to
a
vast
system
of
public
 education.

Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
are
three
people
in
three
schools
who
teach
a
small
 fraction
of
the
country’s
students.

And
yet,
I
posit
that
their
stories
provide
much
to
think
 about
with
respect
to
the
entire
public
education
system,
not
just
the
teaching
and
learning
 of
particular
people
in
particular
places.
 
 Differences
across
living
and
teaching
curricula.
 
 These
three
teachers
are
different
in
a
number
of
ways.

First,
many
elements
of
 their
lived
curricula
are
certainly
different.

Tommy
is
a
white,
male,
high
school
English
 teacher
in
Dorchester,
Massachusetts,
which
is
an
urban,
multiracial
community
in
Boston.

 He
is
in
his
forties
and,
with
his
wife,
he
lives
in
a
middle
class
enclave
of
Dorchester,
which
 is
near
his
school.

Rosie
is
a
black,
female,
elementary
school
gifted
education
teacher
in
 Mobile
County,
Alabama.

She
is
in
her
thirties
and
expecting
her
first
child.

With
her
 husband,
she
lives
on
the
southern
edge
of
Mobile
City,
near
her
school,
in
a
middle
class,
 
 182
 suburban
area.

Dan
is
a
Filipino
American,
male,
middle
school
social
studies
teacher
in
 Parker,
Michigan,
an
affluent
suburb
of
Michigan’s
capital
city,
Lansing.

He
is
in
his
forties
 and,
with
his
wife
and
four
children,
he
lives
in
a
working‐to‐middle
class
neighborhood
in
 Lansing.
 
 In
these
brief
descriptions
we
see
a
number
of
differences
across
the
three
teachers.
 They
have
different
races
and/or
ethnic
backgrounds.

They
teach
different
subjects
in
 different
grade
levels.

They
live
and
teach
in
different
regions
of
the
U.S.

The
dynamic
 between
where
they
live
and
teach
is
different
for
each
of
them.

That
is,
Tommy
lives
and
 teaches
in
a
large
city
(and
he
grew
up
in
a
suburban
context),
Rosie
lives
and
teaches
in
a
 suburban
area
(and
she
grew
up
in
a
mid‐sized
city),
and
Dan
lives
in
a
mid‐sized
city
and
 teaches
in
a
suburban
area
(and
he
grew
up
in
a
small
city).

The
two
men
are
in
their
 forties,
although
Dan
has
been
teaching
for
23
years,
while
Tommy
has
been
teaching
for
 eleven.

Rosie,
a
female,
is
in
her
thirties
and
she
has
been
teaching
for
nine
years.

All
three
 are
married.

Tommy
has
no
children,
Rosie
is
expecting
her
first,
and
Dan
has
four
children
 (two
with
his
wife
and
two
with
his
ex‐wife).

These
are
three
individuals,
all
teachers,
on
 different
life
courses.

 
 To
be
sure,
all
people
lead
unique
lives.

One’s
living
curriculum
is
experienced
by
no
 one
else.

However,
in
popular
narratives
about
who
teachers
are,
that
basic
fact
is
often
 forgotten
(Dalton,
2004;
Weber
&
Mitchell,
1995).

But
Britzman
(2003)
reminds
us
that
we
 cannot
lose
sight
of
this
fact.

Writing
about
how
teachers
learn
to
teach,
she
says,
“to
 understand
the
process
whereby
experience
becomes
meaningful
requires
that
we
situate
 ourselves
in
history
and
recognize
as
critical
the
relationships
and
intersections—both
 given
and
possible—of
biography
and
social
structure”
(p.
232).

Teachers’
biographies,
in
 
 183
 all
their
messy
contexts,
are
essential
to
the
work
that
they
do
in
classrooms
(Nieto,
 2003a).


 
 Some
of
the
stark
differences
among
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
are
quite
salient.

One
 trope
about
teachers
is
that
they
uniformly
love
their
own
schooling
experiences.44

That
 was
largely
true
for
Rosie.

She
loved
her
public,
K‐12
schools
at
all
levels,
as
well
as
her
 collegiate
experience
at
a
small,
private
university.

For
Dan
and
Tommy,
though,
school
 was
not
a
pleasurable
place.

Dan’s
time
in
school—particularly
high
school,
when
he
 attended
two
different
schools,
one
public
and
one
private—saw
the
advent
of
depression
 and
loneliness.

When
he
made
it
to
college,
at
a
large,
public
university,
life
outside
of
the
 classroom
was
far
more
interesting
than
life
inside
of
it,
until
he
teetered
on
the
verge
of
 academic
expulsion.


 
 For
Tommy,
his
schooling
experiences
were
even
worse
than
Dan’s.

Like
Dan,
he
 went
to
school
in
different
places,
but
Tommy
had
to
negotiate
having
a
Texan
accent
on
 the
playground
of
a
school
in
Maine.

In
high
school,
each
winter,
Tommy
left
his
regular
 private
school
in
New
Hampshire
in
order
to
train
for
skiing
in
Lake
Placid,
New
York.

As
 skiing
was
the
most
important
aspect
of
his
life
at
that
time,
school
stood
in
stark
contrast
 to
his
time
in
Lake
Placid.

At
the
end
of
his
senior
year
in
high
school,
Tommy
was
kicked
 out
of
the
school,
thus
failing
to
graduate
and
earn
his
diploma.

His
plans
to
attend
college
 and
ski
were
thwarted.

Over
a
number
of
ensuing
years,
he
attended
three
different
 colleges
before
graduating
from
the
third.


 























































 44
An
occasional
exception
to
this
trope
is
the
notion
that
some
teachers
hate
their
 schooling
experiences,
and
so
they
enter
the
profession
in
order
to
provide
different
 experiences
for
their
students.
 
 184
 
 By
the
time
each
of
these
teachers
stepped
into
a
classroom
as
a
teacher,
they
had
 had
some
positive
school
experiences,
and
once
they
had
committed
to
teaching,
all
three
 teachers
earned
master’s
degrees
in
education
while
they
taught.

But
their
schooling
paths
 were
anything
but
uniform.

Dan’s
and
Tommy’s
schooling
careers
do
not
fit
the
notion
that
 teachers
go
into
teaching
because
they
loved
their
schooling.

Here
are
two
teachers
who
 disliked
or
hated
school,
and
yet
they’re
over
a
decade
(or
two)
into
and
enjoying
their
 teaching
careers.
 
 As
these
teachers’
living
curricula
are
different,
so
too
are
their
teaching
curricula.

 Despite
a
changing
teacher
education
landscape
(Grossman
&
Loeb,
2008;
Zeichner,
2003),
 many
teachers
in
schools
today
have
earned
their
teaching
credentials
through
traditional
 teacher
education
programs
at
colleges
and
universities.

In
these
programs,
an
 undergraduate
student
typically
works
through
the
required
course
framework,
which
 culminates
with
a
student
teaching
internship
or
field
experience.

Dan
and
Rosie
are
 products
of
such
a
system.

Rosie
hardly
referenced
her
teacher
education
experience
but
 Dan
talked
about
how
it
provided
the
context
that
turned
him
into
a
teacher.


 At
first
Dan
scoffed
at
the
prospect
of
becoming
a
teacher:
“who
would
be
stupid
 enough
to
be
a
teacher?

Why
would
I
ever
go
back
to
that
environment?”

The
only
reason
 he
considered
teaching
was
that
the
MSU
major
associated
with
it
did
not
require
him
to
 complete
additional
coursework
and
pay
for
the
associated
credits.

But
once
in
his
teacher
 education
program,
he
realized
that
he
enjoyed
the
work
and
he
felt
that
he
was
naturally
 good
at
it,
particularly
as
a
teacher
in
a
classroom.

Teacher
education
became,
for
him,
“the
 best
accident
ever.”


 
 185
 
 Rosie,
unlike
Dan,
knew
from
a
young
age
that
she
wanted
to
enter
teaching.

When
 she
started
college
and
her
teacher
education
program,
she
had
no
apprehension
or
doubt:
 she
was
going
to
be
a
kindergarten
teacher.

Her
first
teaching
job
set
her
at
third
grade,
 and
then
fifth
grade,
and
after
three
years,
she
looked
for
a
new
set
of
circumstances.
 Similar
to
what
Flores
(2006)
found
with
novice
teachers,
Rosie
struggled
initially,
but
then
 settled
into
her
work
as
a
teacher
when
she
moved
to
a
new
school,
and
moved
from
 general
grade‐level
teaching
to
gifted
education.

 
 Tommy
came
to
teaching
later
in
life
than
Dan
or
Rosie,
and
he
did
not
do
it
through
 a
traditional
teacher
education
program.

In
fact,
he
already
had
his
bachelor’s
degree
and
 his
master’s
degree
in
fine
arts.

He
was
simply
looking
for
work
that
could
help
him
pay
off
 his
schooling
loans
and
support
him
while
he
worked
as
a
writer,
when
he,
by
 “happenstance”
(as
he
termed
it),
was
talked
into
enrolling
in
a
teacher
certification
 program
by
a
friend.

A
crash
course
of
classes
about
education
and
pedagogy,
coupled
with
 a
year‐long
teaching
internship,
left
him
credentialed
to
teach.

He
then
got
a
job
teaching
at
 the
school
where
he
interned.

Although
the
initial
weeks
were
incredibly
challenging— akin
to
what
Lortie
(1975)
terms
“sink‐or‐swim”—he
came
to
embrace
the
difficulty
as
he
 followed
a
colleague’s
advice
that
simply
showing
up
each
day
and
being
prepared
to
teach
 would
help
him
survive.
 
 Feiman‐Nemser
(2001),
noting
“the
lack
of
connective
tissue”
between
teacher
 preparation,
induction,
and
professional
development
programs,
writes
that
“the
need
for
a
 continuum
of
serious
and
sustained
professional
learning
opportunities
for
teachers
is
 clear”
(p.
1049).

The
“professional
learning
continuum”
for
which
she
calls
is
not
apparent
 across
the
teaching
curricula
of
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy.

But,
the
diverse
experiences
of
 
 186
 these
teachers
show
that
many
elements
are
in
need
of
consideration.

Teaching
“clicks”
at
 different
moments
and
in
different
contexts
for
each
of
these
teachers.
 
 Similarities
across
living
and
teaching
curricula.
 
 While
there
are
important
differences
across
these
teachers’
lives,
there
are
also
 notable
similarities.

One
point
is
obvious
but
important:
these
three
teachers
are
 extremely
busy
people.

Like
so
many
teachers,
they
each
put
in
many
hours
related
to
their
 classroom
teaching,
both
at
school
and
at
home.

But
in
addition
to
the
demands
of
their
job
 as
teachers,
they
take
on
numerous
school‐
and
non‐school‐related
activities.

Tommy,
for
 example,
coaches
Atlantic
High
School’s
soccer
team.

My
week
with
him
fell
in
the
middle
 of
soccer
season,
and
during
it,
his
team
played
games
on
three
separate
days
and
practiced
 on
two
others.

During
his
daily
prep
period,
he
was
on
the
phone
multiple
times
setting
up
 bus
pick‐ups,
rescheduling
rainouts,
and
dealing
with
other
soccer‐related
matters.

 Outside
of
school,
Tommy
plays
on
three
different
adult
soccer
teams.

After
his
full
week
of
 coaching
soccer
while
I
was
there,
he
was
a
player
in
games
on
both
days
of
the
weekend.
 
 While
Tommy
coaches
after
school,
Dan
and
Rosie
tutor
students
after
school
(and
 Dan
coached
volleyball
in
prior
years).

Both
Dan
and
Rosie
tutor
former
students
weekly,
 and
they
do
so
on
multiple
days
each
week.

Both
tutor
at
their
homes
and
often
they
 transport
the
students
that
they
tutor.

Dan
and
Rosie
also
take
on
additional
school‐related
 duties.

Rosie
manages
her
school’s
website.

Dan
facilitates
an
after‐school
group
that
was,
 when
I
visited,
preparing
for
a
public
presentation
at
the
local
mall
about
the
community’s
 groundwater.

Away
from
school,
both
Dan
and
Rosie
are
active
in
their
church
 communities,
including
teaching
in
the
youth
programs.

Additionally,
as
I
noted
in
their
 chapters,
Rosie
works
at
a
camp
for
youth
impacted
by
cancer,
and
Dan
has
taken
up
a
 
 187
 number
of
storytelling
projects
as
well
as
work
with
pre‐service
teachers.

The
teaching
 and
living
realities
of
these
teachers
contradict
the
popular
narrative
that
teachers
do
not
 work
the
type
of
long
hours
and
lead
the
type
of
complicated
lives
of
other
high‐status
 professions
such
as
doctors
and
lawyers.45

 
 As
a
teacher
educator
and
former
teacher,
the
busy‐at‐school
part
of
these
teachers’
 lives
is
not
surprising
to
me.

But
I
was
taken
aback
with
their
activities
outside
of
 classroom
teaching.

In
the
weeks
that
I
spent
with
them,
each
had
little
to
no
“down
time”
 during
their
days
and
nights.

When
I
taught
high
school
social
studies,
I
felt
as
though
I
 needed
all
the
down
time
that
I
could
get,
away
from
school.

I
believed
in
the
importance
of
 “teacher
shape,”
which
had
to
do
with
being
able
to
stand,
move,
and
talk
the
entire
school
 day,
for
five
days
straight,
for
the
entire
school
year.

But
I
needed
my
nights,
weekends,
 and
vacations
to
recover.

On
most
weekdays,
my
life
activities
were
structured
by
the
 opening
and
closing
bells
of
the
school
day.

I
would
go
home
at
night
and
continue
to
plan
 or
grade,
but
I
could
at
least
relax
in
my
home
while
doing
that.

Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy,
 though,
reformed
my
conception
of
teacher
shape
to
place
it
in
the
context
of
what
might
 be
called
“teacher
life
shape.”

Each,
I
found,
was
constantly
in
motion,
tapping
into
a
 seemingly
endless
reservoir
of
energy.

Additionally,
their
activity
was
marked
by
the
fact
 that
they
are
each
extremely
good
at
the
many
things
in
their
lives
that
they
do.

Looking
 across
their
living
curricula,
they
are
highly
competent
and
skilled
people
in
many
different
 areas.


 























































 45
This
narrative
stems
from
a
variety
of
sources:
the
history
of
teachers’
struggle
to
be
 seen
as
professionals
(Clifford
&
Guthrie,
1988;
Herbst,
1989);
the
feminization
of
teaching
 (Grumet,
1988);
teacher
portrayal
in
popular
culture
(Dalton,
2004;
Weber
&
Mitchell,
 1995);
even
people’s
lived
schooling
experience
(Jackson,
1990;
Lortie,
1975).
 
 188
 
 Another
similarity
across
their
living
curricula
involves
their
relationships
with
 their
families,
both
in
their
youth
and
at
the
present
time.

In
my
Place
Phase
visits,
I
 experienced
how
their
immediate
families
are
vital
to
their
lives.46

Prior
to
and
during
the
 my
visits,
the
teachers
spoke
often
about
the
people
who
make
up
their
immediate
families
 and
their
relationships
with
them.

But
in
addition
to
hearing
stories
about
these
people,
I
 met
all
of
them
and
spent
time
with
them.

I
was
welcomed
into
the
homes
of
the
teachers,
 which
allowed
me
to
interact
with
all
of
their
family
members
and
see
the
teachers
 interacting
with
them.


 
 That
teachers
have
important
family
lives
is
not
surprising.

Teachers
are
members
 of
families
just
like
other
professionals.

Even
though,
as
Grumet
(1988)
argues,
teachers
 (and
particularly
those
that
are
mothers)
are
asked
to
check
their
familial
knowledge
and
 practices
at
the
classroom
door,
their
lived
experiences
with
their
families
shape
who
they
 are
with
their
students.

Of
the
three
teachers
in
this
study,
the
most
obvious
example
of
 this
is
Dan,
who
uses
many
stories
about
his
family
in
his
teaching,
to
the
point
that
he
just
 calls
his
family
members
by
their
first
names
and
students
know
immediately
who
he
is
 talking
about.

But
present‐day
immediate
families
are
not
the
only
familial
influences
on
 teachers.

Their
families
across
their
lives
have
a
significant
impact
on
their
biography
 (Britzman,
2003).



 
 Given
this
familial
backdrop,
it
is
interesting
to
me
that
all
three
teachers
spoke
little
 about
their
immediate
families
when
they
were
young.

Dan
spoke
about
his
the
most,
in
 relation
to
his
father
and
his
father’s
departure
from
his
family.

He
recalled
separate,
 























































 46
Dan’s
immediate
family
consists
of
his
wife,
Laura,
and
his
four
children:
Sarah,
Paul,
 Kevin,
and
Kara.

For
Rosie,
Rick,
her
husband,
is
her
immediate
family,
and
Tommy’s
wife,
 Penelope,
is
his
immediate
family.
 
 189
 intimate
moments,
when
his
father
punched
him
and
comforted
him.

He
spoke
about
how
 the
void
created
by
his
father’s
absence
was
filled
by
his
maternal
grandparents
and
aunt,
 when
they
moved
to
the
U.S.
from
the
Philippines.

But
he
did
not
speak
much
more
deeply
 than
laying
out
his
familial
contours.

He
noted
that
he
was
close
with
his
cousins,
who
also
 lived
in
Michigan,
but
he
never
told
any
stories
about
them.

As
Dan
self‐indentifies
as
a
 storyteller,
and
he
tells
many
stories
about
his
life,
the
general
absence
of
his
original
 immediate
family
in
his
stories
indicates
a
disconnect.
 
 Rosie
and
Tommy
spoke
about
their
families
when
they
were
young
even
less
than
 Dan.

For
Tommy,
family
simply
didn’t
occupy
much
space
in
his
life,
or
at
least
that’s
how
 he
stories
his
experiences
now.

He
told
me
few
stories
from
his
youth,
and
in
none
of
those
 does
his
immediate
family
figure
intimately.

His
family
members
were
present
in
the
sense
 that
he
lived
with
them
in
Texas
or
Maine,
but
they
weren’t
characters,
as
much
as
pieces
of
 the
setting.

He
talked
about
his
disdain
for
the
cocktail
parties
that
his
parents
would
host.

 And
he
told
a
story
about
how
his
father
gave
him
$1000
prior
to
his
departure
from
the
 family
to
Colorado.

There
is
no
sense
of
human
intimacy
in
Tommy’s
stories
until
after
he
 leaves
his
original
immediate
family.
 
 Like
Tommy,
Rosie
spoke
minimally
about
her
immediate
family
when
she
was
 young.

As
I
describe
in
her
chapter,
she
had
a
strong
intimacy
at
that
age
with
Mother
 James,
but
not
her
biological
mother.

She
noted
how
she
grew
up
with
her
mother
and
two
 sisters
(one
full
and
one
half‐maternal),
which
she
contrasted
with
her
father
and
her
half‐ paternal
siblings,
whom
she
did
not
know
well.

On
her
autobiography
chapter
list,
she
 wrote
“in
the
middle
or
am
I,”
in
reference
to
her
relationship
to
all
of
her
siblings,
but
she
 spoke
in
no
detail
about
any
of
them.

Her
stories
from
that
time
focus
on
Mother
James
and
 
 190
 her
time
at
camp,
school,
and
church.

Indeed,
twice
when
she
did
reference
her
immediate
 family
members,
it
was
to
show
her
distance
from
them
(e.g.,
how
she
hated
Mardi
Gras
 while
they
loved
it;
how
she
went
to
church
while
the
others
stopped
attending).
 
 I
wonder
what
influence
this
seeming
lack
of
importance
of
Dan,
Rosie,
and
 Tommy’s
immediate
families,
when
they
were
young,
has
on
their
work
as
teachers
today.
 From
my
visit
with
each
teacher,
I
learned
that
their
teaching
contexts—at
the
classroom
 and/or
school
level—are
sites
for
the
establishment
of
a
kind
of
family.

These
families
are
 not
immediate,
in
the
sense
that
there
is
no
connection
through
blood
or
marriage
(with
 the
exception
of
Dan
teaching
his
children,
Sarah
and
Paul),
but
they
are
immediate
in
that,
 during
the
school
year,
the
teachers
interact
closely
each
day
with
students,
teachers,
and
 other
school
personnel.

While
this
is
mostly
implicit
for
Tommy,
both
Dan
and
Rosie
spoke
 regularly,
and
taught
accordingly,
about
treating
others
at
school,
and
particularly
students,
 as
family;
their
language
of
teaching
was
a
familial
language.

In
the
case
of
all
three,
and
 especially
Dan
and
Rosie,
the
classroom
is
an
environment
of
intimacy
that
bears
some
 resemblance
to
a
home.


 
 Good
teaching
involves
meaningful
relationships.

In
order
for
students
to
learn
 authentically,
teachers
must
develop
close
relationships
with
them.

Where,
though,
do
 teachers
learn
to
develop
meaningful
relationships?

The
stories
of
these
teachers
indicate
 that
they
did
not
learn
to
develop
such
relationships
with
family
members
in
their
youth.

 While
not
all
teachers
have
similar
childhood
experiences,
I
wonder
if
there
might
be
a
link
 between
teachers’
familial
experiences
in
their
youth
and
their
familial
work
in
their
 classrooms
and
schools.

Is
it
possible
that
we,
as
teachers,
are
trying
to
reclaim
something
 that
we
never
had,
or
revisit
something
that
we
did
once
have,
by
spending
our
days
 
 191
 around
other
people’s
children?

Unlike
most
professions,
teaching
locates
teachers
within
 the
worlds
of
youth.

While
adults
(e.g.,
other
school
personnel
and
parents)
also
inhabit
 those
worlds,
they
are
on
the
periphery
of
them.

A
teacher
spends
far
more
time
at
school
 each
day
interacting
with
youth
than
adults.

Perhaps
this
work
allows
us
to
avoid,
to
some
 degree,
the
adult
world.

At
the
same
time,
perhaps
working
with
youth,
who
can
be
more
 eager
than
adults
to
connect
in
caring
ways,
allows
us
to
cultivate
meaningful
relationships
 that
we
need
on
deeply
personal
levels.

This
is
not
to
say
that
teachers
do
not
have
 meaningful
relationships
with
adults—Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
show
otherwise.

However,
 teachers’
daily
work
focuses
foremost
on
relationships
with
students.
 
 A
last
important
similarity
across
these
teachers
involves
what,
or
rather
who,
they
 teach.

Most
U.S.
schools
are
divided
by
grade
levels
and
subject
areas.

For
example,
third
 grade
is
separated
from
fourth
grade
and
science
is
separated
from
math.

This
practice
 segregates
students
into
groups
and
it
divides
the
work
that
they
do.

At
the
younger
ages,
 grade
level
is
a
major
determinant;
as
students
get
older,
subject
area
becomes
equally,
if
 not
more,
important.

Thus,
the
content
knowledge
to
be
learned
in
schools
is
organized
 according
to
grade
and
subject
(even
though
the
lines
of
grades
and
subjects
do
not
easily
 divide
content
knowledge).


 
 This
“graded”
and
“subjected”
structure
of
schools
positions
teachers
as
graded
and
 subjected.

They
teach
somewhere
between
(pre)kindergarten
and
twelfth
grade,
in
 elementary
school,
or
middle
school,
or
high
school.

Likewise,
they
teach
one
or
more
 subjects.

Thus,
teachers
identify
and
are
identified
with
teaching
grade
levels
and/or
 subjects.

Subtly,
the
weight
of
the
work
of
a
teacher
is
placed
on
teaching
the
content
 knowledge
that
has
been
linked
to
a
grade
and
a
subject.

This
means
that
the
weight
is
not
 
 192
 overtly
placed
on
teaching
the
particular
students
who
dwell
in
the
classroom
with
the
 teacher.

In
other
words,
the
purpose
is
to
teach
appropriate
content
knowledge,
not
 people.


 
 Dan
(eighth
grade
social
studies),
Rosie
(third,
fourth,
and
fifth
grades
gifted
 education),
and
Tommy
(ninth
grade
English)
are
graded
and
subjected.

To
be
sure,
they
 teach
a
host
of
content
knowledge.

But
their
stories
show
them
as
teachers
who
do
more
 than
that;
they
are
teachers
who,
foremost,
care
for
students.

These
teachers
care
about
 who
their
students
are,
what
they
know,
why
they
know
what
they
know,
and
what
they
 need
to
learn.

In
none
of
their
stories
did
they
focus
on
a
powerful
teaching
moment
that
 centered
around
teaching
disciplinary
content.

Their
powerful
moments
involved
students
 struggling
through
personal
tragedy,
fear,
or
hardship;
the
context
for
these
powerful
 moments
was
teaching
about
individual
and
community
growth,
and
academic
content
was
 folded
into
that
goal.
 
 These
stories
also
show
teachers
who
care
deeply
about
their
students,
well
beyond
 the
time
and
place
of
a
shared
classroom.

Surprisingly
to
me,
many
of
the
stories
the
 teachers
told
me
focused
on
former
students.

When
I
asked
for
stories
about
teaching,
I
 heard
about
the
lives
of
students,
with
a
particular
focus
on
these
lives
after
they
left
the
 teacher’s
classroom
for
the
year.

I
learned,
for
example,
that
one
of
Rosie’s
frustrations
as
a
 general
education
fifth
grade
teacher
at
her
first
school
was
that
she
would
not
see
her
 former
students
in
the
school’s
hallways,
because
they
would
leave
her
classroom
and
 immediately
go
to
middle
school.

For
good
reason,
much
talk
and
research
about
teaching
 focuses
on
the
teacher
at
work
with
students
in
the
classroom.

The
emphasis
is
on
the
 
 193
 pedagogical
moment:
what
is
the
teacher
doing,
and
why,
and
how?

What
are
the
students
 doing,
and
why,
and
how?

How
can
student
learning
be
assessed
now?


 
 But
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy’s
stories
were
often
not
consumed
with
the
pedagogical
 moment.

They
were
consumed
with
the
living
curriculum
of
their
students.

All
three
told
 stories
that
took
their
former
students
many
years
beyond
schooling.

All
three
talked
of
 their
connections
that
they
maintain
with
former
students.

They
get
calls
about
 achievements
and
graduation
at
higher
levels.

They
are
frequently
visited
by
former
 students,
and
the
impact
of
those
visits
are
seen
around
their
classrooms,
and
in
their
 classroom
stories.

In
fact,
the
majority
of
their
stories
about
former
students
hardly
 focused
on
the
time
when
teacher
and
student
shared
the
same
classroom.

Rather,
the
 stories
focused
on
the
students’
lives
beyond
the
classrooms.

Teaching,
in
this
context,
is
 not
bounded
by
grade
or
subject.

It
is
not
fixed
solely
to
one
moment
or
space
in
a
 student’s
life.

Teaching
is
relational
and
alive.

It
continues
well
beyond
the
end
of
 particular
school
years.

 
 As
they
focus
on
their
students
in
the
pedagogical
moment,
they
are
certainly
still
 teaching
content.

That
content,
though,
is
leveraged
toward
student
growth,
which,
 importantly,
cannot
be
considered
in
a
moment.

But
the
content
is
there,
in
two
forms.

 There
is
the
academic
content
of
the
course,
and
there
is
also
the
lived
experience
of
the
 teachers.

Regarding
the
latter,
they
are
undoubtedly
teaching
themselves
and
their
 story/stories.

Dan
and
Rosie
speak
quickly
to
this
fact.

Their
students
“know
all
[their]
 
 194
 stories.”

For
Tommy,
his
lived
experience
is
much
more
implicit
in
his
teaching.47


But,
as
 is
evident
in
his
stories
of
Derrick,
Felipe,
Jayla,
and
Ship,
his
story
is
present.
 
 What
these
teachers
know,
then,
is
their
students.

They
also
know
pedagogy
and
 academic
content,
but
they
have
an
intimate
understanding
of
who
their
students
are
that
 allows
them
to
utilize
their
pedagogical
and
content
knowledge.

 
 

 Why
These
Teachers
Keep
Going
 
 In
What
Keeps
Teachers
Going?
(2003a),
Sonia
Nieto
writes
of
her
extended
 collaboration
with
seven
urban
teachers
in
Boston.

While
getting
to
know,
and
working
 with,
these
teachers
intimately,
she
constructed
a
list
of
the
main
reasons
why
the
teachers
 in
this
group
continued
to
teach,
despite
difficult
circumstances
that
included
teaching
 marginalized
students
in
under‐resourced
schools.

They
“kept
going”
because
of
their
 autobiographies,
love
for
teaching,
feelings
of
hope
and
possibility,
anger
about
the
 educational
system,
intellectual
stimulation
working
with
colleagues
and
students,
 engagement
in
democratic
practices,
and
belief
in
their
ability
to
shape
the
future.

Looking
 across
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy’s
teaching,
some
of
these
reasons
are
salient
to
their
work.

 As
I
have
tried
to
show
across
all
of
the
chapters,
their
teaching
is
a
product
of
their
 biographies.

Dan
and
Rosie
“love”
teaching;
Tommy
“like[s]”
it.48

As
evident
in
all
three
of
 their
“I
write
America”
poems,
hope
is
fundamental
to
their
lives
(and
therefore
their
 























































 47
Tommy
did
not
speak
about
his
students
knowing
much
about
him
outside
of
the
 classroom,
and
I
did
not
see
him
offer
any
stories
in
the
classroom
about
his
life
outside
of
 school.
 48
One
who
attends
very
closely
to
the
words
he
chooses,
I
think
Tommy
would
use
the
 word
love
sparingly
about
most
anything.
 
 195
 teaching),
and
it
is
tied
to
their
beliefs
that
their
actions
with
students
can
shape
the
future.

 And
in
those
poems,
as
well
as
in
some
of
their
stories,
anger
about
the
educational
system
 is
implied,
if
not
outright
explicit:
frustration
with
high‐stakes
standardized
testing,
 educational
policies,
school
and
district
leadership,
to
name
a
few
causes
for
anger.


 
 Writing
about
a
similar
topic—how
school
leaders
can
keep
good
teachers— Darling‐Hammond
(2003)
offers
four
criteria
that
influence
teachers’
decisions
to
stay
at
 their
schools,
move
to
others,
or
leave
teaching
outright:
salaries,
working
conditions,
 preparation,
and
mentor
support.

The
presence
of
these
criteria
in
the
stories
of
the
 teachers
varied.

None
of
them
spoke
about
their
salaries
in
great
detail,
although
Dan
and
 Tommy
indicated
that
they
could
comfortably
live
on
their
pay.

Although
Rosie
did
not
 speak
to
this,
my
sense
is
that
she
would
agree.

Working
conditions,
in
various
forms,
were
 discussed
frequently,
and
the
teachers
feelings
ranged
from
sizable
frustration
for
Tommy
 and
Rosie
(at
her
first
school),
to
great
content
for
Dan
and
Rosie
(at
her
second
school).49

 Formal
teacher
preparation,
through
their
certification
programs,
was
raised,
but
with
little
 specifics.

Dan
spoke
to
it
the
most,
crediting
it
with
helping
him
realize
his
“best
accident
 ever.”

Interestingly,
mentoring
support
from
colleagues
and
school
leaders
was
almost
 entirely
absent
from
their
stories.

Tommy
talked
about
his
informal
mentoring
by
Billy,
 























































 49
The
frustration
of
Rosie
and
Tommy,
similar
to
Nieto’s
teachers
(2003a),
is
tied
to
their
 urban
schools
and
the
difficult
circumstances
of
schooling
in
those
settings.

Alternatively,
 the
content
of
Dan
and
Rosie
is
tied
to
their
suburban
schools,
which
do
not
feature
many
 of
those
difficult
circumstances.
 
 196
 with
whom
he
coached
soccer,
but
none
of
the
teachers
spoke
of
important
mentoring
 relationships
with
other
teachers.50


 
 Following
Darling‐Hammond
and
Nieto,
the
attrition
of
teachers
has
a
major
impact
 on
student
learning.

The
best
teachers
tend
to
be
experienced
teachers,
and
when
teachers
 leave,
new,
often
inexperienced,
teachers
replace
them.

There
is
also
a
high
financial
cost
 to
teacher
attrition:
schools
and
districts
save
significant
amounts
of
money,
which
could
 be
spent
on
other
important
aspects
of
schooling,
when
teachers
stay
at
their
schools.

 Importantly,
the
impact
of
these
two
costs
is
most
severe
in
the
places
where
students
are
 the
most
marginalized,
since
teachers
leave
struggling
schools
at
a
significantly
higher
 rate.51


 
 Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
are
fascinating
teachers,
given
this
backdrop.

Despite
very
 different
teaching
contexts,
each
has
stayed
in
teaching
for
a
number
of
years,
and
there
is
 only
one
lateral
school
move
between
them.

Further,
their
teaching
contexts
plot
 differently
on
the
landscape
of
teacher
attrition.

Consider
the
following
questions:
 1. Why
has
Tommy
stayed
at
Atlantic
High
School?
 2. Why
did
Rosie
leave
Barnes
Elementary
School
but
stay
at
Violet
 Elementary
School?
 3. Why
does
Dan
hope
to
teach
twenty
more
years
at
Parker
Intermediate
 Middle
School?
 























































 50
Rosie
did
speak
very
highly
of
her
second
school’s
principal,
who
has
been
very
 supportive.

Also,
a
lack
of
mentoring
relationships
does
not
mean
that
the
teachers
did
not
 have
meaningful
personal
relationships
with
other
teachers.
 51
These
struggling
schools
often
have
high
percentages
of
students
of
color
and
poor
 students,
like
Tommy’s
school
and
Rosie’s
first
school
(see
also:
Moore
Johnson
&
 Birkeland,
2003).
 
 197
 Despite
Atlantic
High
having
many
of
the
indicators
attached
to
teacher
attrition,
Tommy
 has
stayed
put,
and
he
is
adamant
about
not
wanting
to
teach
elsewhere,
particularly
in
 schools
where
such
indicators
do
not
exist.

Rosie
left
Barnes
Elementary,
which
had
many
 of
the
attrition
indicators,
after
three
years
of
teaching.

She
moved
to
Violet
Elementary,
 where
those
same
indicators
were
significantly
less,
comparatively,
and
she
has
enjoyed
 remaining
there
for
the
past
six
years.

Dan,
over
two
decades
at
Parker
Intermediate
 Middle,
wants
to
teach
nowhere
else,
even
in
Lansing,
the
city
that
he
loves.

In
Parker,
the
 attrition
indicators
are
not
an
issue.

Based
on
the
research
literature,
Tommy’s
teaching
 tenure
is
the
most
surprising
of
the
three.


 
 But
as
Nieto
(2003a)
points
out,
one’s
biography
can
be
a
powerful
reason
for
 staying
put,
which
is
quite
likely
the
biggest
reason
why
Tommy
continues
to
teach
at
 Atlantic
High.

Tommy
said
that
he
seeks
to
“make
a
difference
in
the
lives
of
kids
who
 struggle
with
poverty
and
the
attendant
misery
it
spawns.”

At
Atlantic
High,
this
means
 that
he
teaches
students
who
are
almost
entirely
of
a
different
racial/ethnic
background.

 This
is
interesting,
in
light
of
what
Nieto
writes:
 even
though
most
teachers
enter
the
profession
for
noble
reasons
and
with
 great
enthusiasm,
many
of
those
in
urban
schools
know
little
about
their
 students
and
find
it
hard
to
reach
them.

Thus,
despite
their
good
intentions,
 many
teachers
who
work
with
students
of
racial
and
cultural
backgrounds
 different
from
their
own
have
limited
experience
in
teaching
them
and
 become
frustrated
and
angry
at
the
conditions
in
which
they
must
work.
 (2003b,
p.
15)
 
 198
 All
three
teachers
are
racial/ethnic
minorities
in
comparison
to
their
student
populations.

 At
Rosie’s
first
school,
which
was
urban
and
entirely
black,
she
was
not
a
minority;
her
 second
school,
though,
is
suburban
and
predominantly
white.

While
there
was
certainly
 more
context
that
surrounded
her
move
from
school
to
school,
this
reversal
of
the
trend
is
 curious.
 
 Since
Dan
has
not
strongly
identified
with
his
Filipino
background
in
over
three
 decades,
and
since
his
school
is
not
similar
to
the
urban
schools
that
Nieto
is
talking
about,
 it
is
hard
to
see
his
situation
as
a
reversal
of
the
trend.

But
Tommy’s
situation
is
also
a
 reversal,
and
it
is
curious
as
well.

What
stands
out
to
me
the
most
in
Nieto’s
statement
is
 that
the
teachers
that
she
is
characterizing
often
“know
little
about
their
students
and
find
 it
hard
to
reach
them.”

While
I
don’t
doubt
this,
I
do
think
there
is
something
in
Tommy’s
 story
that
makes
his
continued
teaching
at
Atlantic
High
particularly
salient.

In
fact,
I
 believe
what
makes
Tommy
stay
at
Atlantic
High
has
strong
parallels
with
what
makes
Dan
 and
Rosie
stay
at
their
respective
schools:
all
three
teachers
are
emplaced
where
they
live
 and
teach.

That
is,
the
relationships
they
have
cultivated
with
their
surroundings
have
 added
significant
quality
to
their
lives.

They
are
parts
of
meaningful
and
life‐giving
 communities.

Revisiting
the
metaphor
of
a
thriving
plant
in
a
well‐tended
garden,
these
 teachers
have
established
deep,
durable
roots.
 
 Living
And
Teaching
Roots
 
 During
the
Second
World
War,
the
French
writer
Simone
Weil
wrote,
“to
be
rooted
 is
perhaps
the
most
important
and
least
recognized
need
of
the
human
soul”
(1952,
p.
43).

 Her
topic
of
focus
with
these
words
centered
on
the
impact
of
colonialism
on
strong
and
 
 199
 weak
peoples
alike,
specifically
through
military
conquest.

The
historical
pasts
of
the
weak,
 she
argued,
were
being
destroyed
by
the
wealth,
education,
and
scientific
might
of
the
 strong,
and
this
act
created
a
self‐propagating
uprootedness
that
had
inflicted
virtually
all
 people,
from
strong
to
weak.

Weil
wrote,
“a
human
being
has
roots
by
virtue
of
his
[sic]
 real,
active,
and
natural
participation
in
the
life
of
a
community,
which
preserves
in
living
 shape
certain
particular
treasures
of
the
past
and
certain
particular
expectations
of
the
 future”
(p.
43).

Without
such
roots,
that
human
is
“severed
from
the
universe
surrounding
 him”
(p.
46);
that
human
is
uprooted.
 
 Following
Weil’s
conception
of
uprootedness,
Tommy,
in
the
first
half
of
his
life,
had
 no
“real,
active,
and
natural
participation
in
the
life
of
a
community.”

At
a
young
age,
he
 had
already
lived
in
three
distinctly
different
parts
of
the
world:
France,
Texas,
and
Maine.

 After
his
family
settled
in
Maine,
he
still
lived
out
of
state
while
he
attended
school
and
 skied.

He
felt
alienated
by
his
upbringing,
which
afforded
him
privileged
opportunities
 with
schooling
and
skiing,
but
did
not
ground
him
in
any
communities.

Through
his
late
 teens
and
twenties,
he
traveled
in
the
U.S.
and
Europe,
until
he
moved
to
Boston.

Up
to
this
 point,
he
had
been
transient
across
physical
places,
but
he
had
no
deep
sense
of
place
 attached
to
where
he
had
lived,
or
to
the
people
who
lived
around
him.

In
each
geographic
 location,
he
lacked
relationships
with
supportive
and
affirming
communities.

He
was
 displaced,
uprooted.

But
after
arriving
in
Boston,
he
began
to
establish
roots.

He
formed
 meaningful
relationships
with
Penelope,
his
bike‐messenger
friends,
and
his
students
and
 teaching
colleagues.

With
his
teaching
in
Dorchester,
and
then
his
move
there,
he
not
only
 wanted
to
be
a
citizen—which
could
be
framed
as
a
longing
for
a
deep,
rooted
sense
of
 place—but
a
citizen
in
that
place.

He
became
emplaced
in
Dorchester.
 
 200
 
 Unlike
Tommy,
Rosie
was
rooted
in
the
first
half
of
her
life.

But
like
Tommy,
her
 family
did
not
strongly
define
her
relationships
of
place.

First
with
Mother
James,
and
then
 through
the
people
and
surroundings
she
met
through
camp,
school,
and
church,
Rosie
had
 developed
roots
in
and
around
The
Loop,
a
racially‐
and
socioeconomically‐diverse
 neighborhood
of
Mobile.

But
after
going
to
college,
and
then
returning
to
Mobile
to
teach
in
 Prichard,
which
was
an
entirely
black
community,
Rosie
re‐rooted
herself
in
another
part
 of
Mobile.

Her
hallmarks
of
place—home,
church,
school—all
shifted
southward
for
her.

 This
shift
coincided
with
her
marriage
to
Rick,
who
was
from
South
Mobile.

While
Mobile
 has
always
been
where
she
has
been
emplaced,
on
a
more
micro
level,
Rosie
uprooted
 herself
from
urban
Mobile
to
suburban
Mobile.

Like
Tommy,
she
established
roots
in
a
 community
different
from
the
one
in
which
she
grew
up.

Also
like
Tommy,
she
settled
into
 teaching
at
a
school
where
the
majority
of
her
students
were
not
of
her
race.
 
 Similar
to
Rosie,
Dan
was
rooted
in
the
first
half
of
his
life
but
then
re‐rooted
himself
 as
an
adult.

Born
in
the
Philippines,
he
grew
up
immersed
in
Filipino
culture
in
a
non‐ Filipino
geographic
area.

His
earliest
relationships
were
with
his
extended
family
that
lived
 in
southeast
Michigan.

As
he
grew
older
and
made
friends,
he
did
not
seek
out
others
with
 Filipino
heritage.

After
he
graduated
from
MSU,
Dan
said
that
he
“landed
in
Lansing,”
 where
he
had
no
Filipino
ties.

He
has
lived
in
Lansing
ever
since,
and
during
this
time,
he
 has
become
devoted
to
his
surroundings.

His
open
advocacy
for
the
“awesomeness”
of
 Lansing
is
a
marker
of
his
emplacement.

Through
these
Lansing
years,
though,
Dan
has
 taught
in
a
separate
community,
Parker.

While
both
Lansing
and
Parker
are
in
Mid‐ Michigan
and
interdependent
with
each
other,
the
human
and
social
make‐ups
of
the
 
 201
 communities
are
different.

Dan’s
love
for
living
in
Lansing
and
love
for
teaching
in
Parker
 show
roots
in
two
separate
geographic
communities.


 
 All
three
teachers
underwent
a
processes
of
rooting
in
their
lives.

Notably,
all
three
 became
emplaced
in
the
regions
where
they
spent
the
bulk
of
their
youth,
but
in
 communities
different
from
the
ones
in
which
they
grew
up.

Across
these
three
life
stories
 of
becoming
emplaced,
the
issues
of
race
and
class
are
present
in
different
ways.

Tommy
 chooses
to
root
himself,
in
both
teaching
and
living,
in
racially‐
and
socioeconomically‐ diverse
Dorchester.

White
and
raised
upper‐middle‐class,
he
is
different
from
most
of
his
 students,
who
are
almost
entirely
non‐white
and
poor.

He
is
mindful
that
his
societal
 positioning
and
his
personal
history
are
different
from
his
students’
lives,
but
he
is
drawn
 to
teach
these
particular
students
who
are
different
from
him.

Indeed,
he
told
me
he
would
 never
teach
in
the
suburbs,
in
a
setting
similar
to
his
upbringing.

He
feels,
despite
his
race
 and
class
differences
with
his
students,
that
he
can
be
a
positive
influence
in
their
lives
as
 they
face
their
realities
situated
by
societal
racism
and
classism.
 
 By
living
and
teaching
in
Dorchester,
Tommy
chose
to
live
and
teach
in
a
community
 where
whites
are
not
the
racial
majority.

Rosie,
in
her
process
of
re‐rooting
from
urban
to
 suburban
Mobile,
similarly
chose
to
live
and
teach
where
blacks
are
a
racial
minority.

 Unlike
Tommy,
though,
Rosie
never
spoke
of
moving
to
South
Mobile
in
order
to
teach
a
 particular
student
population.

But
she
moved
from
teaching
at
Barnes
in
Prichard,
where
 the
student
population
was
racially
and
socioeconomically
comparable
to
Tommy’s
 students,
to
teaching,
predominantly,
at
Violet,
in
South
Mobile,
where
the
population
was
 more
diverse
but
majority
white
and
middle
class.

In
moving
to
South
Mobile,
she
was
 moving
closer
to
her
husband’s
roots.
 
 202
 
 While
Rosie
and
Tommy
sought
out
their
particular
communities
in
which
they
now
 teach,
Dan
sought
to
teach
where
he
could
get
a
full‐time
job
and
he
has
stayed
there,
in
 Parker,
ever
since.

Like
Rosie
and
Tommy,
he
is
a
racial
minority
in
his
school.

But
unlike
 them,
he
does
not
live
in
the
same
community
as
his
school.

Dan
lives
in
a
more
diverse
 community,
racially
and
socioeconomically,
than
his
students.


He
is
mindful
that
his
 students
tend
to
have
a
different
set
of
lived
experiences
than
they
would
living
in
Lansing,
 and
he
teaches
accordingly,
making
Lansing
part
of
his
curriculum.


 
 All
three
teachers
love
the
communities
in
which
they
live.

They
are
embedded
in
 many
different
activities
there,
work
and
non‐work
alike,
and
they
do
not
seek
other
living
 circumstances.

Part
of
each
teacher’s
living
roots
are
teaching
roots.

At
school,
like
in
life,
 they
are
rooted
in
their
teaching
circumstances.

Even
though
frustrations
exist
for
each,
to
 different
degrees,
they
like
where
they
teach.

They
feel
as
though
they
are
able
to
teach
 effectively,
and
none
of
them
is
searching
for
a
better
work
context.

Over
time,
each
has
 become
a
fixture
in
the
school’s
community
and
all
three
had
both
teaching
colleagues
and
 school
administrators
speak
highly
of
their
teaching.

Thus,
each
has
Weil’s
“real,
active,
 and
natural
participation
in
the
life
of
a
community,”
both
at
school
and
in
their
larger
lives.

 It
is
this
rootedness
of
their
teaching
and
living
curricula
that
I
raise
as
“what
keeps
these
 teachers
going.”

These
teachers
like
what
they
do
and
where
they
do
it.
 
 The
implications
of
this
rootedness
are
important.

Weil
writes
further,
“whoever
is
 uprooted
himself
uproots
others.

Whoever
is
rooted
in
himself
doesn’t
uproot
others”
(p.
 48).

As
rooted
teachers,
not
only
do
I
see
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
not
uprooting
their
 students,
I
see
them
working
to
root
their
students.

For
Dan,
it’s
helping
his
students
 understand
the
fog
and
consider
how
to
navigate
it.

For
Rosie,
it’s
welcoming
students
into
 
 203
 a
classroom
family
in
which
she
hugs
and
corrects
them.

For
Tommy,
it’s
helping
his
 students
find
their
“Balance.”

In
each
case,
these
are
pedagogies
that
seek
to
empower
 students
as
members
of
their
communities.

These
are
acts
toward
students
developing
 their
senses
of
place
and
learning
how
they
can
become
grounded
in
their
surroundings.


 
 But
this
is
a
tricky
premise.

For
some
of
the
teachers’
students,
their
lives
are
filled
 with
struggle
and
tragedy.

Attempting
to
put
down
roots
within
that
hardship
might
 quickly
seem
disastrous
and
an
act
to
perpetuate
hardship.

This
is
not
the
work
of
rooting,
 though,
that
I
see
these
teachers
conducting.

In
Tommy’s
story
about
Jayla—who
goes
 from
an
abusive,
drug‐plagued
home‐life;
to
living
as
a
high
school
senior
on
her
own
with
 the
support
of
the
state;
to
a
fully‐paid
college
education—Tommy
is
not
working
to
 condemn
Jayla
to
a
life
of
misery.

Rather,
he
is
seeking
to
help
her
understand
the
 surrounding
circumstances
that
structure
her
life
and
work
and
to
change
them
in
her
 favor.

There
is
some
degree
of
reckoning
that
must
take
place
in
this
process
of
 understanding;
that
is,
Jayla
had
to
make
sense
of
how
her
life
circumstances
allowed
for
 her
uncle
to
rape
her
repeatedly,
for
her
mother
to
suffer
from
a
drug
addiction,
and
so
 forth.

Tommy
was
quick
to
show
that
he
did
not
save
Jayla,
that
he
worked
alongside
many
 people,
in
the
school
and
beyond
it,
and
with
her,
to
help
her
move
beyond
her
horrific
 home‐life.

This
teaching
is
an
example
of
how
Tommy,
having
lived
through
his
own
 uprootedness,
teaches
for
his
students
to
understand
what
it
means
to
be
rooted.
 
 Across
all
three
teachers’
stories,
such
examples
of
“teaching
for
rootedness”
are
 frequent.

Rosie’s
story
about
her
student
whose
mother
attempted
suicide
shows
a
teacher
 working
on
personal
and
communal
levels.

She
is
supporting
the
student,
hearing
his
need
 to
share
what
he
knows,
and
helping
him
process
his
lived
experience
that
has
produced
 
 204
 this
knowledge.

At
the
same
time
she
is
working
with
the
larger
class
to
help
them
support
 the
student.

When
one
student
wonders
if
too
much
was
shared,
she
not
only
validates
the
 sharing,
but
helps
the
class
work
through
how
the
students
can
be
supportive
in
that
 instance,
as
well
as
future
instances
when
a
surprising
confession
ensues.

This
is
an
 example
of
Rosie
cultivating
a
family
in
the
classroom,
with
an
eye
set
on
the
community
 beyond
it.


 
 Dan’s
story
about
his
student
recently
getting
out
of
jail
and
coming
to
see
him
at
 school,
years
after
he
taught
the
student,
is
an
indicator
of
his
role
as
a
community
worker.

 He
is
there
to
see
his
students
through
the
fog,
which
is
why
he
creates
the
pact
with
 students
that
he’ll
take
them
out
for
a
meal
and
conversation,
if
they’re
ever
considering
 dropping
out
of
school.


While
a
few
have
taken
him
up
on
this,
many
circle
back
to
Dan,
in
 his
classroom
or
outside
of
it,
in
their
years
beyond
middle
school,
and
even
while
lost
in
 Lansing.


 
 The
living
and
teaching
stories
of
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
show
that
they
are
rooted
 teachers
who,
through
their
teaching
(in
many
forms),
seek
to
root
their
students.

Why
do
 they
do
this?

I
find
Weil’s
argument
compelling:
an
act
of
being
rooted
is
to
root
others.

 Rooted
living,
and
thus
rooted
teaching,
leads
to
rooted
student
learning.

Returning
to
 Nieto’s
statement
that
new
urban
teachers
often
“know
little
about
their
students
and
find
 it
hard
to
reach
them,”
all
three
of
these
teachers,
urban
and
suburban,
know
their
students
 intimately.

Some
of
this
knowledge,
I
posit,
is
directly
related
to
the
teachers’
knowledge
of
 where
they
live
and
teach.

Their
developed
sense
of
place
leads
to
better
understanding
 their
students’
senses
of
place.

Both
Rosie
and
Tommy
live
where
they
teach.

They
walk
 the
same
streets,
frequent
the
same
restaurants,
as
their
students.

While
Dan
doesn’t
live
 
 205
 in
Parker,
he’s
now
taught
there
for
over
two
decades,
and
seen
two
of
his
children
work
 their
way
through
the
school
system
there.

All
three
teachers
know
where
they
teach,
 which
helps
them
know
who
they
teach.


 
 To
be
sure,
good
teachers
do
not
always
live
near
their
students.

I
recall
some
of
my
 best
teachers
living
over
an
hour
away
from
the
community
where
I
went
to
school.

And
 when
I
taught
high
school
students,
some
of
my
colleagues
lived
up
to
90
miles
away
from
 our
school,
in
very
different
communities
than
the
one
surrounding
our
school.

But
to
 teach
students
deeply
about
place,
and
particularly
the
places
in
which
they
live,
I
 speculate,
based
on
what
I
have
learned
from
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy,
that
teachers
are
 well‐served
to
have
deep
senses
of
the
places
in
which
their
students
live.

This
 understanding
of
the
importance
of
place
in
student
learning
is
imperative
to
good
 teaching.


Such
teaching,
and
such
living,
in
students’
places
is
a
genuine
act
of
citizenship
 that
can’t
go
unnoticed.
 
 Rooted
Teaching
As
An
Act
Of
Citizenship
 
 The
topic
of
citizenship
in
the
content
curriculum
of
public
schooling
is
often
seen
as
 the
domain
of
social
studies
education.

After
all,
the
stated
purpose
of
social
studies— according
to
the
National
Council
for
the
Social
Studies
(NCSS),
the
main
organization
in
the
 U.S.
of
social
studies
teachers,
teacher
educators,
and
researchers—is
“to
help
young
 people
make
informed
and
reasoned
decisions
for
the
public
good
as
citizens
of
a
culturally
 diverse,
democratic
society
in
an
interdependent
world”
(NCSS,
2011,
p.
3).

In
short,
social
 studies
teachers
work
to
create
effective
citizens.
 
 206
 
 Dan
was
the
lone
social
studies
teacher
in
this
study,
and
this
purpose
was
a
 frequent
thread
through
his
stories
and
talk
about
teaching.

He
sets
out
to
teach
his
 students
to
be
effective
citizens.

As
one
example,
he
teaches
so
that
his
students
from
 Parker
have
an
understanding
of
Lansing
as
a
community,
one
beyond
any
of
its
 stereotypes.

Such
an
understanding
allows
his
students
to
engage
effectively
in
the
civic
 life
of
Parker
and
beyond.

But
Rosie
and
Tommy,
who
are
not
steeped
in
a
social
studies
 background,
also
teach
citizenship.

It
might
not
be
the
central
purpose
of
their
curricula‐ as‐plan,
or
professional
organizations
in
gifted
and
English
education,
but
they
are
teaching
 citizenship
alongside
of
their
social
studies
colleagues.


 
 I
posit
that
knowing
how
to
support
someone
who
has
undergone
a
traumatic
 experience
(like
Rosie’s
student
whose
mother
attempted
suicide)
is
important
civic
 knowledge.

Likewise,
knowing
that
current
circumstances
do
not
have
to
remain
the
same
 (like
Tommy’s
students,
Jayla
and
Ship)
is
also
important
civic
knowledge.

Civic
knowledge
 certainly
includes
a
content
base
of
information
that
is
relevant
to
carrying
out
the
duties
of
 civic
life
(e.g.,
having
an
understanding
of
how
governmental
processes
work),
but
it
also
 includes
learning
about
life
as
a
citizen.

Learning
to
care
for
the
public
good
is
not
 something
that
a
student
can
fully
internalize
from
mastering
a
content
curriculum
 (although
the
student
does
need
to
learn
conceptions
of
the
public
good);
rather,
it
must,
to
 some
degree,
be
learned
through
lived
experience.

Furthermore,
merely
telling
students
to
 be
participatory
citizens
is
not
enough.

They
must
live
out
experiences
of
how
active
 citizenship
makes
a
difference
in
one’s
life
and
the
lives
of
others.

This
is
what
I
see
Rosie
 and
Tommy
teaching
(as
well
as
Dan).
 
 207
 
 At
the
beginning
of
this
study,
I
asked
the
teachers
if
their
reasons
for
teaching
are
 the
same
today
as
they
were
when
they
first
began
teaching.

All
three
spoke
to
maintaining
 their
reasons
but
with
more
nuance
after
their
years
in
the
classroom.

They
all
said
that
 they
have
enjoyed
the
work
of
teaching
throughout
their
careers.

Dan
and
Rosie
expressed
 their
love
for
teaching;
Tommy
said
that
teaching
“is
hard
and
each
day
is
different,”
which
 are
two
reasons
why
he
enjoys
it
so
much.

But
each
also
spoke
to
enjoyment
derived
from
 aspects
of
teaching
beyond
the
personal.

Dan
said
that
he
enjoys
“serving
the
 community…by
helping
people
become
better
people.”

Nearly
echoing
Dan’s
focus,
Rosie
 said
that
she
began
teaching
in
order
to
“help
my
students
grow…as
individuals
and
 contributors
in
society,”
which
includes
helping
students
understand
that
all
people
have
 “strengths
and
desirable
qualities.”

Tommy,
focusing
on
his
particular
students
in
 Dorchester,
said
that
his
main
reason
in
teaching
has
always
been
“to
try
to
make
a
 difference
in
the
lives
of
kids
who
struggle
with
poverty
and
the
attendant
misery
it
 spawns.”

These
reasons
point
to
the
communal
and
personal
work
of
these
teachers.

 These
are
three
teachers
deeply
committed
to
improving
the
lives
of
their
students
and,
in
 turn,
the
lives
of
their
students’
communities.

But
this
“communal
work,”
which
is
about
 the
lives
of
students,
is
also
“personal
work.”

Improving
the
lives
and
communities
of
the
 students
is
an
act
to
improve
each
teacher’s
life
and
her
or
his
communities.

Thus,
this
 teaching
for
student
citizenship
is
itself
an
important
act
of
citizenship.
 
 David
Orr
(1992)
writes
that
“citizenship
places
common
interests
over
self‐ interest”
(p.
77).

To
this,
I
would
add
that
citizenship
entails
recognizing
one’s
self‐interest
 in
common
interests.

In
a
healthy,
justice‐oriented,
sustainable
community,
the
welfare
of
 all
participants
is
central
to
the
survival
of
the
community.

One
citizen’s,
or
one
group
of
 
 208
 citizens’,
self‐interest
cannot
trump
the
basic
needs
of
other
citizens
in
the
community.

 Elsewhere,
Orr
(1994)
talks
of
cheap
citizenship
and
real
citizenship.

Cheap
citizenship
is
 founded
on
the
idea
of
a
lottery,
that
outcomes
are
not
tied
to
one’s
actions,
but
the
mere
 result
of
luck.

There
is
little
sense
of
a
just
and
healthy
community
beyond
the
individual,
 and
the
resources
that
surround
individuals
are
viewed
as
fair
game
for
one
to
seize.

 Contrasting
this
approach
is
real
citizenship,
in
which
citizens
“pay
their
bills,
exercise
 foresight,
assign
costs
and
benefits
fairly,
work
hard
at
maintaining
their
communities,
and
 are
willing
to
sacrifice
when
necessary
and
consider
doing
so
a
privilege”
(p.
124).


 
 The
work
of
these
three
teachers
is
marked
by
Orr’s
real
citizenship.

It
features
 Westheimer
&
Kahne’s
(2004)
three
types
of
good
citizenship:
personally
responsible,
 participatory,
and
justice‐oriented.

Importantly,
though,
the
teachers’
work
as
citizens
is
 rooted
in
the
schools.

They
are
working
to
make
their
students
personally
responsible
 citizens
who
participate
in
the
civic
life
of
their
communities.

Less
overt,
but
present
 nonetheless,
is
framing
this
citizenship
as
an
act
of
social
justice,
in
which
all
members
of
 the
community
are
valued.

I
think
of
Tommy:
even
though
he
fails
to
attend
his
 neighborhood
association’s
meetings
(which
he
doesn’t
want
to
attend),
he
makes
a
point
 to
talk
with
his
neighbors
to
learn
what
transpired.

Perhaps
he
is
hardly
any
of
 Westheimer
&
Kahne’s
good
citizens
since
he
misses
out
on
these
meetings.

And
yet,
I
see
 all
three
“good
citizen”
types
in
his
work
at
Atlantic
High,
with
his
students,
where
he
helps
 them
confront
the
injustice
that
marks
their
lives.
 
 All
teachers—regardless
of
their
grade,
subject,
school’s
location,
sense
of
place,
 living
curriculum,
and
so
forth—teach
about
citizenship
(Ayers
&
Ayers,
2011;
Noddings,
 2003).

Citizenship
education
is
not
simply
the
domain
of
social
studies
teachers.

Some
of
 
 209
 the
content
knowledge
attached
to
citizenship
might
be,
but
the
skills
of
citizenship
are
 ideally
developed
through
lived
experience
across
one’s
schooling
curriculum
(as
well
as
 across
one’s
living
curriculum).

Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
give
us
insight
into
how
three
very
 different
teachers,
in
different
places,
work
as
citizens
to
teach
their
students
about
the
 importance
of
roots
and
their
communities.

As
rooted
people,
they
root
others.

As
citizen‐ teachers,
they
teach
their
students
to
be
citizens.
 
 
 Conclusion
 
 Near
the
end
of
our
Place/s
Day,
I
was
walking
with
Rosie
and
her
husband,
Rick,
on
 a
forest
trail
at
a
municipal
park
near
their
house.

During
a
wide‐ranging
conversation,
 Rosie
said
that
she
would
never
be
voted
“teacher
of
the
year”
at
her
school.

The
award
is
 handed
out
at
the
end
of
each
school
year
and
it
is
voted
on
by
the
school’s
teachers.

Her
 reasoning
was
simple:
the
other
teachers
in
the
school
do
not
fully
understand
her
work
as
 the
school’s
lone
gifted
education
teacher.

Then,
scaling
out
the
issue,
she
likened
it
to
how
 society‐at‐large
doesn’t
understand
the
work
of
teachers.

Although
the
teachers
at
her
 school
are
proximate
on
a
daily
basis
to
Rosie’s
teaching—just
like
how
most
people
have
 spent
many
hours
in
a
classroom
with
teachers—they
just
don’t
understand.

Her
comment
 reminded
me
of
Taylor
Mali’s
poem
(2002),
“What
Teachers
Make,”
a
poem
that
she
said
 she
knew
and
appreciated.
 
 In
the
poem,
which
is
briefly
excerpted
at
the
beginning
of
this
chapter,
Mali,
who
 was
a
teacher,
tells
a
presumably
autobiographical
story
about
a
dinner
party
that
he
 attended.

During
polite
conversation,
a
lawyer
mocks
the
work
of
teachers.

Then
the
 lawyer
directly
asks
Mali,
“what
do
you
make?”

Mali
retorts
by
unleashing
a
litany
of
 
 210
 reasons
why
he
makes
so
much
more
than
money.

A
quick
search
on
YouTube
will
bring
 many
renditions
of
Mali
performing
the
poem.

In
the
versions
that
I’ve
seen,
he
starts
 slowly
through
the
lawyer’s
initial
comments.

The
tone
is
painful
and
grinding.

But
with
 his
retort
to
the
lawyer’s
question,
his
convictions
cascade
like
a
waterfall.

The
tempo
is
 rapid,
escalating,
and
aggressive.

By
the
middle
of
the
poem,
the
audiences
are
in
full
 support
of
Mali,
as
if
he
is
charging
toward
a
finish
line
and
they
want
to
join
his
cause.

He
 finishes:
“Teachers
make
a
goddamn
difference!

Now
what
about
you?”


 
 The
most
important
difference
that
I
see
Dan,
Rosie,
and
Tommy
making
is
that
of
 working
to
root
their
students
as
citizens.

Teaching
is
inherently
about
the
social
aspect
of
 citizenship:
living
interactively
and
collaboratively
with
the
people
that
surround
us.

But
it
 is
also
inherently
about
the
ecological
aspect
of
citizenship:
living
humbly
and
sustainably,
 where
we
are,
with
all
that
surrounds
us.

At
a
time
when
Mali’s
lawyer
still
scoffs
at
 teachers,
but
also
at
a
time
when
education
increasingly
is
flattened
(Darling‐Hammond,
 2010),
how
might
we
learn
and
build
from
the
work
of
existing
teachers
like
Dan,
Rosie,
 and
Tommy
to
counter
the
notion
of
cheap
citizenship
that
is
quickly
spreading?
 
 
 
 
 211
 CONCLUSION
 
 EMPLACING
TEACHING
AND
LEARNING
 
 
 In
the
final
minutes
of
the
last
period
that
I
spent
in
Dan’s
classroom,
he
performed
 a
magic
trick
for
his
students.

He
had,
apparently,
been
talking
about
the
trick
for
weeks
 and
his
6th
period
students
were
clamoring
for
it
the
entire
time
that
I
was
in
his
classroom.

 After
calling
for
all
materials
to
be
put
away,
he
grabbed
a
deck
of
cards
and
had
the
class
 gather
around
him
in
the
center
of
the
room.

Before
commencing
the
trick,
he
asked,
“what
 is
the
purpose
of
magic?”

One
student
said
“fun”
and
another
said
“entertainment.”

Dan
 responded
affirmatively
to
each.

And
then
he
added
that
magic
involves
“drama…and
 wonder!”

He
then
shuffled
the
cards
a
few
times.

He
had
multiple
students
cut
the
deck,
 and
then
he
made
piles
with
the
cards.

After
a
series
of
other
moves,
he
asked
a
student
to
 pick
a
card,
show
it
to
the
class
while
hiding
it
from
him,
then
resubmit
it
to
the
pile.

 “Remember
that
card,”
he
warned.

He
then
paused:
“what,
again,
is
the
purpose
of
magic?”

 Fun.

Entertainment.

Drama.

Wonder.


 
 Then,
after
several
more
shuffles
and
cuts,
he
asked
a
different
student
to
pick
a
 card
and,
like
before,
show
it
to
all
but
Dan,
and
then
resubmit
it.

“Remember
that
card.”

 After
a
quick
breath:
“what
is
the
purpose
of
magic?”

The
usual
answers
followed.

Having
 started
slowly,
methodically,
Dan’s
actions
at
this
point
became
frantic.

His
voice
was
 louder
and
the
pace
of
his
words
swift.

He
was
moving
around,
making
sure
that
students
 could
see
the
proceedings.

Students
in
the
back
began
to
stand
on
chairs.

One
student
 ascended
a
table.

“Magic
is
about
fun,
right?”

“Yes!”
students
shouted.

“It’s
about
 
 212
 entertainment,
drama,
and
wonder,
right?”

Yessss!

Then
the
school
bell
rang,
ending
the
 day.
It
was
his
cue.

He
explained
that
he
would
now
overturn
two
particular
cards.

“Do
 you
remember
the
two
secret
cards?”

Yes!

“And
do
you
remember
the
purpose
of
magic?”

 Yes!
 
 When
he
overturned
the
two
cards,
there
was
a
silent
moment.

The
cards
were
not
 the
same
as
the
secret
cards.

Then,
before
any
students
could
speak,
Dan
offered
a
series
of
 questions:
“Did
you
have
fun?

Were
you
entertained?

Was
it
dramatic?

Were
you
 wondering?

That’s
magic!”

 
 Following
Dan’s
notion,
this
study
has
been
magic
for
me.

I
had
fun.

I
was
 entertained.

I
often
felt
like
I
was
in
the
middle
of
(a)
drama.

I
was
filled
with
wonder,
both
 in
the
senses
of
awe
and
perplexity.

There
were
a
host
of
other
experiences
and
feelings
 too.

What
Dan
was
pointing
to
with
his
students
is
that
the
significance
of
magic
is
not
the
 final
outcome.

It
is
not
that
the
revealed
cards
match
the
concealed
cards.

It
is
the
process
 along
the
way,
the
fun,
the
entertainment,
the
drama,
and
the
wonder
that
make
the
 experience
meaningful.

This
study
was
certainly
a
meaningful
experience
for
me.

And,
in
 the
preceding
chapters,
I
best
try
to
capture
it
so
that
it
might
be
of
worth,
of
meaning,
to
 others.
 
 In
Chapter
One,
I
began
with
curriculum.

Reduced
in
most
aspects
of
schooling
to
a

 content
course
that
students
must
navigate—what
Aoki
(1986/2005)
calls,
“curriculum‐as‐ plan”—I
sought
to
re‐frame
curriculum
as
a
living
course
of
learning,
which
takes
place
in
 and
out
of
schools.

Not
only
do
schools
need
to
recognize
that
students
learn
beyond
their
 walls,
they
need
to
direct
learning
inside
their
walls
mindful
of
this
fact.

Thus,
as
Dewey
 (1897/1959)
writes,
schooling
becomes
living,
not
solely
preparation
for
future
living.

 
 213
 While
the
living
curricula
of
students
is
important,
so
is
the
living
curricula
of
teachers.

I
 posit
that
teachers’
living
curricula
shape
who
they
are
in
the
classroom,
as
teachers
of
 their
students.

One
aspect
of
teachers’
living
curricula
is
their
teaching
curricula,
which
is
 how
they
learn
to
teach.

As
with
student
learning,
this
kind
of
teacher
learning
takes
place
 in
all
times
and
places
of
living,
not
solely
during
the
pedagogical
moment
of
a
classroom.
 
 In
the
second
half
of
Chapter
One,
I
considered
how
the
conception
of
place
is
 central
to
this
notion
of
living
and
teaching
curricula.

Although
place
is
often
used
in
 everyday
discourse
to
signal
location
or
position,
I
offer
that
we
need
to
take
seriously
 place
as
a
living
relationship.

Sensed
or
conceived,
it
is
a
person’s
relationships
with
her/his
 surroundings.

What
is
significant
about
place
is
constructed
in
the
individual’s
interaction
 with
the
social.

Meaning
is
made
through
experience.

It
is
important
to
note,
I
argue,
that
 such
experience
takes
place
with
our
feet
on
the
ground.

That
is,
place
is
not
just
an
 abstraction.

It
is
lived
on
land.

It
is
landed.

Thus
the
landed
sites
of
a
person’s
living
 course
of
learning,
her
or
his
living
curriculum,
are
central
to
who
that
person
is
and
how
 she
or
he
makes
sense
of
the
world.
Wendell
Berry
writes
that
people
who
don’t
know
 where
they
are
do
not
know
who
they
are
(Stegner,
1992).

If
we
do
not
consider
“the
 where”
of
teachers,
across
the
times
and
places
of
their
lives,
we
cannot
know
who
they
are
 in
the
classroom,
teaching
their
students.
 
 With
this
framework
focusing
on
the
place
of
curriculum
and
the
curriculum
of
 place,
Chapter
Two
details
my
methodological
commitments
and
the
methods
by
which
I
 carried
out
this
study.

Interested
in
what
we
can
learn
from
the
particularities
of
lived
 experience,
I
worked
intimately
with
three
teachers.

Despite
the
inevitable
limits
of
 research,
I
sought
to
engage
with
the
teachers
foremost
as
collaborators.

I
was
entering
 
 214
 into
their
“midsts,”
studying
their
lived
experiences,
and
the
meaning
that
they
make
out
of
 them.

I
was
attuned
to
their
stories
as
the
closest
representations
of
their
realities.

In
 hearing
their
stories,
and
then
telling
them,
though,
I
was
mindful
that
I
was
mediating
the
 stories,
ultimately
writing
my
own
versions
of
their
stories.

My
criteria
for
choosing
the
 teachers
was
two‐fold:
first,
as
a
group,
they
needed
to
live
and
teach
in
different
regions
of
 the
U.S.
and
teach
across
the
grade
and
subject
spectra
of
public
schooling;
second,
they
 needed
to
be
people
with
whom
I
could
work
intimately
(and
thus
all
three
were
people
 who
already
held
significance
in
my
living
curriculum).

These
criteria
allowed
me
to
 consider
teaching
across
regional
areas,
grades,
and
subject
areas.

 
 Chapters
Three,
Four,
and
Five
present
the
living
and
teaching
stories
of
the
three
 participants.

In
the
first
half
of
each
chapter,
I
story
the
teachers’
living
curricula,
paying
 specific
attention
to
the
times
and
places
of
the
teachers’
experiences.

In
the
second
half
of
 each
chapter,
I
story
the
teachers’
teaching
curricula
in
light
of
their
living
curricula.

In
 doing
this,
I
focus
particularly
on
how
the
teachers’
stories
of
teaching
are
contextualized
 by
their
stories
of
living.
 
 Chapter
Three
focuses
on
Tommy
Allen,
a
white,
male,
high
school
English
teacher
 in
Dorchester,
Massachusetts.

Transient
in
his
youth,
and
disconnected
from
his
upper‐ middle‐class
family,
he
struggled
to
connect
meaningfully
with
people
at
and
away
from
 school.

Skiing
was
his
best
counter
to
his
uprootedness.

After
being
expelled
from
his
high
 school,
and
then
leaving
two
different
colleges,
he
traveled
around
the
U.S.
and
Europe,
 “pursing
happiness.”

When
he
moved
to
Boston
and
enrolled
at
a
third
college,
he
began
to
 enter
a
community,
the
likes
of
which
he
had
not
previously
experienced.

He
developed
 and
sustained
friendships,
met
the
woman
he
eventually
married,
and
found
his
way
into
 
 215
 teaching
at
a
school
with
a
socially‐marginalized
student
population.

Through
all
of
this,
he
 found
that
he
desired
to
“become
a
citizen.”


After
a
handful
of
years
teaching
at
his
school,
 he
moved
close
to
his
school
and
his
students,
an
act
that
symbolized
his
rootedness.
 
 Rosie
Baker
is
the
focus
of
Chapter
Four.

A
black,
female,
elementary
gifted
 education
teacher
in
suburban
Mobile,
Alabama,
she
grew
up
rooted
in
a
diverse
 community
in
urban
Mobile.

Although
her
ties
to
her
immediate
family
were
loose,
she
 developed
a
close
relationship
with
the
woman
who
watched
her
each
day,
as
her
mother
 worked.

Growing
older,
she
developed
important
new
relationships
in
the
other
areas
of
 her
life.

After
surviving
cancer,
she
became
embedded
at
a
camp
for
youth
whose
lives
 were
marked
by
cancer.

And,
she
established
close
ties
with
people
from
her
school
and
 church
communities.

Always
wanting
to
teach,
she
took
her
first
teaching
job
in
Prichard,
a
 nearly‐all‐black
community
on
the
northern
boundary
of
Mobile.

After
three
tough
years,
 she
looked
for
a
new
teaching
position,
which
materialized
in
gifted
education
in
suburban
 South
Mobile.

At
the
same
time,
she
married
her
husband
and
they
eventually
moved
their
 home
and
church
to
South
Mobile,
where
they
have
lived
happily
for
several
years.
 
 In
Chapter
Five,
I
story
the
living
and
teaching
of
Dan
Torres,
a
Filipino
American,
 male,
social
studies
teacher
in
Parker,
Michigan.

Although
he
was
born
in
the
Philippines,
 the
bulk
of
his
childhood
took
place
in
southeast
Michigan,
in
a
home
with
his
mother,
and
 her
parents
and
sister.

After
struggling
through
two
different
high
schools,
Dan
attended
 college
and
faced
academic
probation
there.

Then,
by
accident,
he
found
himself
en
route
 to
a
degree
in
social
studies
teaching,
which
turned
around
his
academic
career
and
 propelled
him
into
something
that
he
quickly
realized
he
loved.

Upon
graduation,
he
 settled
in
Lansing
and
began
teaching
in
the
nearby
community
of
Parker.

Two
different
 
 216
 communities
with
respect
to
racial
and
socioeconomic
make‐up,
he
liked
operating
in
both.

 After
marrying
and
having
two
children,
he
endured
a
difficult
divorce,
one
that
he
 struggled
to
live
through,
until
the
time
at
which
he
met
the
woman
who
became
his
 second
wife.

At
the
present
time,
after
the
birth
of
his
third
and
fourth
children,
he
is
 happily
rooted
living
in
Lansing
and
teaching
in
Parker.
 
 As
Chapters
Three,
Four,
and
Five
take
up
the
stories
of
Tommy,
Rosie,
and
Dan
 separately,
Chapter
Six
looks
across
them.

I
move
from
dwelling
in
the
deeply
personal
of
 each
teacher’s
life,
to
considering
how
the
teachers’
stories,
as
a
collection,
speak
to
 teaching
at
the
present
moment
in
the
U.S.

First,
I
look
at
who
these
three
teachers
are,
 noting
some
of
their
differences
and
similarities,
as
a
way
of
challenging
who
we
think
 teachers
are,
writ
large.

I
then
focus
on
the
fact
that
these
three
teachers,
who
teach
in
 different
circumstances,
all
have,
in
Nieto’s
(2003a)
words,
kept
going.

After
considering
 how
some
of
the
research
on
teacher
retention
speaks
to
these
three
teachers,
I
consider
an
 element
about
these
teachers
that
is
not
seen
in
the
literature:
each
teacher
is
rooted
in
 their
living
and
teaching.

The
results
of
this
rootedness,
which
I
use
the
teachers’
stories
to
 support,
are
that
the
teachers
teach
their
students
about
roots.

As
rooted
people,
and
 specifically
rooted
teachers,
they
give
tools
to
their
students
for
their
future
rooting.


 
 On
my
way
to
this
teachers‐rooting‐students
argument,
I
note
that
each
teacher’s
 stories
about
teaching
frequently
transcend
time
and
place.

Rather
than
dwelling
in
 particular
pedagogical
moments,
their
stories
often
engage
the
lives
of
former
students
 well
beyond
the
times
and
places
of
their
classrooms.

From
this,
I
argue
that
these
teachers
 foremost
teach
students,
not
particular
content
associated
with
grade
levels
and
subject
 areas.

Their
teaching
is
about
relationships
with
students,
and
their
students’
living
 
 217
 curricula
are
squarely
in
their
pedagogical
focus.

I
conclude
Chapter
Six
by
asserting
that
 this
teaching
by
these
three
teachers
is
not
only
teaching
students
about
citizenship,
but
it
 is
also
an
act
of
citizenship
by
the
teachers.
 
 In
this
concluding
section
of
my
study,
I
circle
back
to
the
problem
raised
in
the
 introduction:
American
public
education
suffers
from
displaced
learning
that
results
in
 uprootedness.

Overtaken
by
standardization
and
high
stakes
assessment,
the
landscapes
of
 students’
lives
have
been
flattened
into
a
placeless
“anywhere,”
or
worse,
as
Noddings
 (2002)
fears,
“nowhere.”

I
raise
the
recommendations
below
as
a
call
for
a
reversal
of
this
 placeless
schooling
curriculum.

 
 Paths
To
And
Through
Teaching
 
 The
landscape
of
teacher
education
is
changing
(Grossman
&
Loeb,
2008;
Zeichner,
 2003).

Teachers
find
their
ways
into
classrooms
through
a
variety
of
paths.

In
this
study,
 the
three
teachers
show
that
there
is
no
formula
or
straight‐forward
identification
process
 for
who
becomes
a
teacher.

Rosie
was
committed
to
teaching
from
her
earliest
days
as
a
 student.

Dan
mocked
the
idea
of
becoming
a
teacher
until
he
found
himself
by
accident
in
 his
teacher
education
program.

Tommy
came
to
teaching,
at
a
friend’s
suggestion,
after
 struggling
as
a
writer
and
at
a
loss
for
what
else
to
do.

He
entered
an
intensive
master’s
 degree
program
in
education.

Dan
and
Rosie
entered
at
younger
ages,
through
more
 traditional,
undergraduate
programs.

Looking
across
the
three
of
them,
we
see
very
 different
paths
up
to,
and
through,
these
programs.

These
paths
serve
as
a
reminder
that
 we
should
be
cautious
when
thinking
of
teacher
education
students
and
teachers
as
being
 cut
from
a
particular
trajectory
and
series
of
life
experiences.

While
this
may
seem
like
an
 
 218
 obvious
point,
it
is
important
to
remember
that
all
three
of
these
teachers,
years
down
the
 road
from
their
entry
into
teacher
education,
are
dedicated,
hard‐working,
long‐term
 teachers.


 
 Teacher
educators,
myself
included,
need
to
remember
this
multi‐path
reality,
as
all
 of
our
students
walk
into
our
classrooms.

We
need
to
conceive
of
the
deciding‐to‐teach
 process
that
leads
students
into
teacher
education
in
complex
ways,
remembering
that
all
 of
our
students
have
unique
living
and
teaching
curricula,
which
structure
myriad
reasons
 for
teaching.

While
teaching
these
pre‐service
teachers,
and
mindful
that
teachers’
living
 shapes
their
teaching,
we
need
to
help
our
students
critically
read
their
living
and
teaching
 curricula.

They
need
places
(at
different
times)
in
their
teacher
education
curricula
to
 make
sense
of
how
their
living
is
impacting
their
teaching.

And
they
need
to
develop
skills
 so
as
to
be
able
to
continue
to
reflect
on
these
connections
as
their
experiences
in
the
 classroom
grow
numerous
beyond
their
teacher
education
programs.

Likewise,
induction
 and
professional
development
programs—indeed,
all
aspects
of
a
“professional
learning
 continuum”
(Feiman‐Nemser,
2001)—also
need
to
provide
places
for
teachers
to
continue
 to
reflect
on
how
their
living
experiences
place
their
teaching.
 
 Teacher
Quality
 
 Wilson
(2011)
notes
that
teacher
quality
cannot
be
considered
solely
in
relation
to
 individual
teachers.

Teachers’
surrounding
contexts
are
major
factors
in
their
 effectiveness.

Therefore,
in
addition
to
recruiting
promising
teachers,
adequately
 preparing
them,
retaining
and
rewarding
successful
teachers,
and
providing
helpful
 professional
development
opportunities,
“we
also
need
to
invest
in
working
conditions,
 
 219
 because
teacher
quality
is
fundamentally
tied
to
school
climate
and
a
school’s
resources
to
 support
a
professional
learning
environment”
(p.
64).

Teachers
with
good
working
 conditions
are
better
teachers.

As
I
argue
that
teachers
who
are
rooted
work
to
root
their
 students,
this
important
point
about
working
conditions
can
be
extended
to
teachers’
living
 circumstances
outside
of
schools.

Of
course,
stepping
over
school
boundary
lines
moves
 the
discussion
into
many
other
social
realms.

Teachers,
like
all
people,
need
adequate
 compensation,
housing,
health
care,
and
other
considerations.

These
implicate
much
more
 than
educational
policy,
but
they
are
all
tied
to
teachers
living
rooted
lives.

In
the
same
 way
that
a
well‐fed
student
stands
a
better
chance
of
learning,
a
well‐rooted
teacher
stands
 a
better
chance
of
being
a
quality
teacher.
 
 Quality
teaching,
among
many
considerations,
requires
attention
to
place.

It
helps
 students
make
sense
of
their
surroundings
and
act
for
the
betterment
of
them.

In
this
 sense,
it
helps
students
become
rooted.

This
form
of
teaching,
as
I
have
argued,
is
an
act
of
 citizenship
by
teachers.

But
in
order
for
teachers
to
root
their
students,
they
must
know
 who
and
where
their
students
are.

They
must
have
intimate
knowledge
of
their
students,
 and
a
detailed
knowledge
of
their
students’
surroundings.

They
must
have
a
strong
sense
 of
why
place
matters
in
any
learning
endeavor.

Teacher
education
must
take
up
this
goal
of
 addressing
the
importance
of
place
in
education.

It
must
help
pre‐service
teachers
 consider
how
the
particularities
of
pedagogical
settings,
including
their
students’
lived
 experiences,
shape
learning
in
their
classrooms.

While
teacher
education
can
help
teachers
 develop
a
knowledge
of
the
importance
of
place
and
the
skills
toward
learning
about
their
 students
and
the
communities
where
they
teach,
teachers
must
enact
this
learning
during
 their
teaching.

Therefore,
induction
and
professional
development
programs
need
to
assist
 
 220
 teachers
in
studying
their
teaching
contexts.

School
structures
need
to
support
this
study
 as
well.

 
 Emplacing
Learning
By
Teaching
An
Integrated
Curriculum
 
 Thomas
Friedman
(2007)
might
be
right
that
the
world
is
flat.

The
work
of
schools
 and
teachers,
though,
cannot
be
flat.

I
am
talking
about
a
different
conception
of
flat
than
 Friedman,
but
there
is
a
link.

If
we
think
about
a
student
sitting
in
a
classroom
anywhere,
 when
she
looks
out
the
window,
she
does
not
see
a
flat
world.

Whatever
she
chooses
to
 focus
on,
it
is
filled
with
life,
constructed
by
her
lived
experiences.

When
she
brings
her
 attention
back
inside
the
classroom,
that
place
is
certainly
not
flat
either.

The
people,
 objects,
and
ideas
that
surround
her
are
also
filled
with
life,
constructed
out
of
her
lived
 experiences.

She
is
undeniably
somewhere.


 
 Schools
and
teachers
cannot
lose
sight
of
what
surrounds
them.

Relationships
of
 place
are
too
often
pushed
to
the
background
so
that
issues
of
universality
can
abstractly
 cover
all
schools.

Instead
of
focusing
on
the
people
in
the
classroom,
the
emphasis
is
re‐ directed
toward
what
all
the
teachers
and
students
should
do
or
be
able
to
do.

Thus,
the
 content
and
skill
curricula
are
standardized,
as
is
assessment
and
evaluation.

All
eighth
 grade
social
studies
teachers,
for
example,
increasingly
need
to
be
teaching
in
the
same
 unit,
about
the
same
topic,
on
the
same
day,
regardless
of
where
the
teacher
is
teaching—as
 well
as
regardless
of
who
the
teacher
is
and
who
the
students
are.

Instruction
becomes
an
 issue
of
coverage,
not
authenticity.
 
 This
is
not
an
argument
against
standards
but
it
is
an
argument
against
 standardization.

Standards
need
not
displace
and
uproot
students.

While
they
may
be
 
 221
 written
in
the
abstract
and
made
to
stretch
across
students
in
different
locations,
it
is
 teaching
that
places
standards
within
students’
learning
contexts.

Standards
do
not
impose
 a
structure
on
students.

They
provide
considerations
for
shaping
student
learning.

 Standardization,
though,
does
impose
a
structure,
and
it
is
a
structure
set
on
displacing
 students
from
their
living
relationships.

Students
are
taught
to
know
and
do
the
same
 things,
regardless
of
context.

In
this
sense,
their
worlds
are
flattened.

They
leave
the
 dynamic
landscapes
on
which
they
live
their
lives
for
a
rootless
arena
of
competition.

 Therefore,
standardizing
accountability
systems
need
to
be
interrogated
for
their
 displacement
of
students
and
teachers.

Social
justice
in
education
cannot
be
framed
strictly
 based
on
all
students
having
equal
opportunities
to
score
well
on
content
and
skill
tests.

It
 must
also
include
students
learning
to
be
productive,
collaborative
members
of
 communities
and
working
for
the
betterment
and
sustainability
of
all
aspects
of
those
 communities.

Words
like
“accountability”
and
“measurement”
must
be
repositioned
by
the
 concepts
of
citizenship
and
community.
 
 The
people
who
generate
content
curricula
for
teachers
and
schools
can
do
much
to
 serve
this
change.

Such
curricula
need
to
focus
on
emplacing
learning,
which
validates
 students’
lived
experiences.

But
the
ultimate
curriculum
workers,
teachers
and
students
 themselves,
need
to
be
supported
in
emplacing
their
own
learning.

Students
must
be
seen
 as
active
participants
in
their
communities.

Their
present
must
be
in
view
as
well
as
their
 future.

And
to
do
this,
their
past
and
their
place
must
be
implicated.

At
the
same
time,
 teachers
must
be
seen
as
professionals
who
facilitate
student
learning.

Certainly,
they
must
 be
prepared
adequately
for
such
work,
and
they
need
support
as
they
teach
in
order
to
 develop
their
effectiveness,
but
their
roots
in
the
classroom
must
be
honored.

Outside
 
 222
 authorities
should
be
in
dialogue
with
teachers,
but
they
should
not
replace
them
as
the
 facilitators
of
student
learning.

In
this
sense,
as
opposed
to
flattening
student
learning,
it
 must
become
inflated—in/flat/ed—filled
with
the
breath
of
real
lives.

Such
learning
is
 emplaced.

We
must
remember
the
integrity
of
any
and
every
curriculum.


 
 What
might
it
mean
for
all
of
us
involved
in
schooling,
or
education—indeed
all
 people—to
hear
Jardine’s
point:
 It
is
precisely
the
localized
diversity
of
living
systems
that
gives
them
their
 sustainability
and
health
and
wholeness.

It
is
precisely
the
multiplicity
and
 diversity
of
an
integrated
approach
to
the
curriculum
that
makes
it
whole,
 healthy,
and
sustainable,
allowing
multiple
“ways
in,”
multiple
portals
or
 opportunities
for
exploration
and
understanding
to
arise.

Such
a
curriculum
 recognizes
the
rich
multiplicity
of
interconnectedness
inherent
in
any
thing
 and
the
rich
multiplicity
inherent
in
the
range
of
students’
interests
and
 experiences.
(2006,
p.
175)

 
 223
 APPENDIX
 Participant
Email
Questionnaire 
 224
 Where
you
live
 • Current
place
of
living:
 • Former
places
of
living
(if
applicable):
 • Why
do
you
live
where
you
currently
live?
 • What
might
a
tourist/realtor
brochure
say
about
the
place
where
you
live?


 • What
are
some
of
your
favorite
aspects
of
the
place
in
which
you
live,
and
why?


 
 Professional
Background
 • Years
teaching:
 • Current
place
of
teaching:
 • Years
at
current
place
of
teaching:
 • Current
subject(s)/grade(s)
taught:
 • Former
places
of
teaching
(if
applicable):
 • Former
subject(s)/grade(s)
taught
(if
applicable):
 • Institution(s)
of
higher
education
attended:
 • Field(s)
of
undergraduate
study:
 • Field(s)
of
graduate
study
(if
applicable):
 • Why
did
you
begin
teaching
at
your
current
school?


 • Why
did
you
decide
on
teaching
as
a
profession?
 • Have
your
reasons
for
why
you
are
a
teacher
changed
since
you
first
got
into
 teaching?

If
so,
what
are
your
current
reasons
for
working
as
a
teacher?
 
 Where
you
teach
 • Do
you
consider
the
school
in
which
you
teach
to
be
a
part
of
the
same
place
in
 which
you
live?

Why/not?
 • Would
any
of
your
students
likely
say
that
they
live
and
go
to
school
in
different
 places?


 • Would
the
majority
of
your
teaching
colleagues
at
school
likely
say
that
they
live
and
 work
in
the
same
place?

 • How
would
you
describe
your
school
to
someone
who
has
never
been
to
it?

[e.g.
 How
would
you
describe
its
different
groups
of
people
(i.e.
students,
teachers,
 administrators,
etc.)?

How
would
you
describe
its
surrounding
community
(or
 communities)?

How
would
you
describe
its
curriculum
(across
all
levels,
subjects;
 i.e.
the
entire
schooling
curriculum)?]


 • How
would
you
describe
the
curricula
of
the
courses
that
you
teach?
 
 Miscellaneous
 • From
what
source(s)
do
you
get
the
majority
of
your
“news?”
 • How
do
the
concepts
of
“place”
and
“community”
compare
for
you?

Are
they
 synonymous?

If
not,
what
makes
them
distinct
from
each
other?
 • To
what
extent
do
you
make
local
topics—i.e.
related
to
the
place(s)
where
you
live
 and/or
teach—part
of
your
lessons
and
units
that
you
teach?
 • Is
there
anything
that
you
would
like
to
add
about
where
you
live
and
teach
that
the
 questions
above
do
not
ask
about?
 
 
 225
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