#blackflix

Eva : White people wanting respect like they deserve it for free.

Ms. Gruwell : I'm a teacher, it doesn't matter what color I am.

Eva : It's all about color, it's about people deciding what you deserve, about people wanting what they don't deserve. About whites thinking they own this world no matter what, you see, I hate white people.

Ms. Gruwell : You hate me? You don't even know me.

Eva : I know what you can do. I saw white cops shoot my friend in the back for reaching into his pocket, his pocket! I saw white cops come into my house and take my father away for no REASON except they feel like it! Except because they can! And they can, because they're white. So I HATE white people on sight!

This scene makes me emotional knowing that I feel everything Eva is saying. I know the pain behind, “I HATE WHITE PEOPLE” I know deep down inside what Eva says resonates with me. Sometimes I hate white people.

As a black disabled woman I’m at the bottom, often times dealt harshly at the hands of white people. Just knowing what my ancestors went through. Seeing with my own eyes in the media today (2020) my brothers and sisters dying innocently not having a chance to live out their dream. Our community is mourning not knowing if we’ll just be another hashtag. Having white friends be so friendly until we call them out on their manipulative, racist, narcissistic shxt. No, Ms. Gruwell doesn’t need to be applauded. In fact, this story isn’t even about her!! It’s about the students having a voice. They’re the heroes in this. Just like Miep Gies says.

My blood boils when Eva says, I hate white people and Ms. Gruwell replies with, you hate me? You don’t even know me. Exactly Ms. Gruwell that’s how we feel. People hate us enough to kill us. People hate us just because of our skin color. When will this end ? How did this begin ? What are we doing to move forward? Will we always be a target?

Grace holds me in the midst of uncertainties. Love keeps me grounded when I find hate over taking me. Joy brings me to repentance and forgiveness knowing that Jesus provides me with strength. I long for reconciliation but I know sometimes reconciliation doesn’t always happen.

I’m grateful for this movie. For giving POC a voice for letting our narrative be shared. I hope when you watch this you don’t see a group just overcoming something because a white lady became their teacher, but you sit with the hard truths that come with this movie. You sit with the pain. You learn to walk beside the vulnerable and Listen!

There’s so much more I could share about the movie but this is what takes up the most space in my heart right now.

This movie was rife with paternalism, tokenism, white saviorism on the part of most of the White teachers. The department head’s insistence on “condensed” versions of classic books, and the school district’s tacit approval of this “literature” as a mode of instruction, confirms to the kids at the high school that the administration doesn’t think they amount to or will amount to anything. Administrators refer to them as “these kids.”  Ms. Gruwell’s teaching ability is even questioned because she “only” teaches students that are considered to be “those students” (e.g. brutish, savage, dumb, lazy, good-for-nothing gang members). Her (eventual ex) husband questions this ability, even after initially supporting her. The department head and the other admins and teachers push a dehumanizing, one-size-fits-all, culturally ignorant way to teach that continues to pit students against one another, repeatedly stigmatize them, and continually re-traumatize them. Most of the teachers at this school are wholly unsympathetic; they preferred honors students and perfect scores to integration and “these kids.” 

The administration does not see them as human beings. 

That’s heartbreaking. 

The administration was right about one thing: Ms. Gruwell had to climb a steep learning curve. She had to learn to approach teaching with cultural humility. She stated at the beginning of the film that she wanted to be there, to learn. But she didn’t learn until she completely changed her curriculum. Until she got rid of her White, middle class privilege and asked her students about their lived experiences. Until she invited them to share their lives with her. Until she stopped focusing on scores and homework and started focusing on stories and relationships. She united that classroom and taught them that they had a home--but the learning curve for her was steep. 

I ask myself often where the learning curve begins for me. What are the things I don’t know? How can I learn? 

I know some  new things now--that I didn’t know about the Rodney King riots. I didn’t know the first thing about the reality of gang violence. 

I didn’t know. In narrative therapy, clients write stories, narratives, about their lives. The idea is that narratives give people power. The ability to take a stack of words and shape one’s own story, write the future into existence. That’s power. Ms. Gruwell was giving these students power. The cool (and ethical) thing she did is that she didn’t require the students to share with her. She let them share on their own terms. She learned. I think about that a lot. I think about how entitled it must look when I, a White person, ask (subtext: require) Black people, or people of any minority, for that matter, to do the intense emotional labor of sharing their lives with me. I know it’s important to first build trust. Relationship first. If people want to share, then, they can. But the key is, it has to be optional, unpressured, uncoerced. To force a story out from under a person’s tongue is to commit yet another act of violence. I don’t ever want to hurt or retraumatize someone. That’s one of the reasons why I’m letting you take the reins to begin with, Miriam, when it comes to picking films. I want you to watch things you’re comfortable watching. I don’t know your trauma. What I don’t know, I should respect. 

It’s all well and good for me to sit here writing this--but then when it comes down to it, I think--who would I be in this story? Would I have the courage to be Ms. Gruwell? Would I have the resilience and tenacity to be the students in her class who continue to come back to room 203 even when they don’t want to? Would I be complacent, content to teach “the curriculum” and participate in the dehumanizing violence of check-a-box education? 

Would I be the Department Head? The 11th-grade Honors teacher? 

I can’t say I wouldn’t. All I can say is that I’m committed to learn. 

I learned something about my family a couple years back. My mom, she told me that my grandfather used to do pulpit swaps every so often with the local AME church (he was UMC). Their pastor would preach at his church, he’d preach at theirs. One day, he took my mom along to the AME church. She sat there watching him preach, and at some point, he admitted to and apologized for something: his grandfather had been a member of the KKK in Stewartstown, PA, or at least the surrounding area. “It was very emotional for him,” Mom said, “I remember that day.” I admire him still, for his commitment to righting the wrongs in his past. He did things to build interracial community then--like those pulpit swaps.

As I think about that story, it strikes me that this means my great-great grandfather was that same KKK member. I, too, recognize, admit, and repent for the acts of violence in my family’s past. I additionally recognize that acts of violent oppression have changed, but are still ongoing and I still have a role to play in working for justice. I have learned that like Ms. Gruwell, I need to shut up and listen. I can’t be that “white lady trying to teach us rap.” I have to be the White lady who listens to and elevates Black voices. I have to be the White lady who fosters narratives of empowerment and positive change. I still have a lot to learn, and I pledge to remain as committed as I can to the goal of learning and growing and doing. 

Thank you, Miriam, for sharing in this learning experience with me. I am grateful. 

Love,