The New York Times finally wrote this week about the wreckage left in the wake of zero tolerance school policy. If they’d been paying attention, someone on the editorial board might have benefited from reading the book below (published in 2001).
ZERO TOLERANCE: Resisting the Drive for Punishment (2001) edited by William Ayers, Rick Ayers and Bernardine Dohrn
A handbook for parents, students, educators, and citizens: a clear-eyed collection that takes aim at the replacement of teaching with punishment in America’s schools. “Zero tolerance” began as a prohibition against guns, but it has quickly expanded into a frenzy of punishment and tougher disciplinary measures in American schools. Ironically, as this timely collection makes clear, recent research indicates that as schools adopt more zero tolerance policies they in fact become less safe, in part because the first casualties of these measures are the central, critical relationships between teacher and student and between school and community. Zero Tolerance assembles prominent educators and intellectuals, including the Rev. Jesse L. Jackson, Sr., Michelle Fine, and Patricia Williams, along with teachers, students, and community activists, to show that the vast majority of students expelled from schools under new disciplinary measures are sent home for nonviolent violations; that the rush to judge and punish disproportionately affects black and Latino children; and that the new disciplinary ethos is eroding constitutional protections of privacy, free speech, and due process. Sure to become the focus of controversy, Zero Tolerance presents a passionate, multifaceted argument against the militarization of our schools.
• Media and anti-youth policies
• Race, civil rights, and school discipline
• Student writing on zero tolerance
• Community agencies dealing with rehabilitation
• Zero tolerance and mentally ill students
1). Break all the rules!
2). Go as fast as you can in the direction of your dreams until apprehended.
Join me! Make a New Year’s resolution!
And if you missed it, here are the legendary Woody Guthrie’s New Year’s resolutions, or “Rulin’s” as he called them from a journal entry dated Jan. 1, 1943 when he was 31. There’s some pretty decent advice on this list.
33. Wake Up And Fight
32. Make Up Your Mind
31. Love Everybody
30. Love Pete
29. Love Papa
28. Love Mama
27. Help Win War — Beat Fascism
26. Dance Better
25. Play And Sing Good
24. Send Mary And Kids Money
23. Have Company But Don’t Waste Time
22. Save Dough
21. Bank All Extra Money
20. Dream Good
19. Keep Hoping Machine Running
18. Stay Glad
17. Don’t Get Lonesome
16. Keep Rancho Clean
15. Learn People Better
14. Listen To Radio A Lot
13. Read Lots Good Books
12 Change Bed Clothes Often
11. Change Socks
10. Shine Shoes
9. Wear Clean Clothes
8. Write A Song A Day
7. Drink Very Scant If Any
6. Eat Good — Fruit — Vegetables — Milk
5. Take Bath
3. Wash Teeth If Any
2. Work By A Schedule
1. Work More And Better
The following interview comes to us from a research project by Isaac Graves that looks at community, education, and the relationship between community and education through the eyes of educators and community stakeholders. The words ‘community’ and ‘education’ are often invoked with the assumption of a shared definition, but even educators within the same community can have different definitions and views on what these words mean. This research projects seeks to understand the complexity of these words and the relationship between them by identifying both commonly held and divergent views on community and education through in-depth interviews. Most interviews follow an identical pattern of eleven questions, though some questions are occasionally omitted, modified, or added. The following interview is shared with you by both Bill Ayers and Isaac Graves. The content is copyrighted and republication is not allowed without written permission. To inquire about rights and permissions associated with this interview, as well as citation information, please contact Isaac Graves. To find out more about Bill Ayers and his work, click here.
Isaac Graves: What does community mean to you?
Bill Ayers: Well, I guess “community,” like most compelling and layered terms, has a contested meaning, both in the world and within myself. I think when we say “community” and when we feel ourselves to be within the positive embrace of a community, we tend to think of community as loving and accepting, representing our perspectives and values, something inclusive and nourishing. But it’s important to recognize that every community is also a wall. And that means that only some are in the community, and many others are not—they dwell outside the community. When we get carried away with the loveliness of community as we imagine it, we can miss the fact that communities by their nature are exclusive; this is true even when we talk about the universal community or the ecstatic community or the beloved community or the human community—those constructions also cut out a good deal. So I think we should always be aware when we long for community, and most of us do, when we reach for others who are needed if we are to thrive as human beings, we should be aware of what we’re cutting out and ask ourselves if it’s appropriate and if it’s exactlywhere we want to live.
IG: How does community play out in your life?
BA: I live life in multiple communities and always have, and I think if we examine our lives more carefully, most of us do. Again it’s something we’re not always aware of. In our natural narcissism we may think that where I go my community is with me, but the fact is that we live in overlapping, sometimes excluding, groupings. For me without my family I would find myself bereft and lost—so that’s a very close-in community. I also have other communities. I have communities of resistance, I have communities of struggle, I have political communities. Starting in the middle 1960s I was drawn to and have lived off and on ever since in intentional communities—utopian communities. I was part of the commune movement in the 60’s, and I’m still a member of a community that has land in common in California where we raised our kids and now our grandkids. We share a lot, but we only share a lot for a few months a year. That’s a kind of community, but it doesn’t overlap with my political community in Chicago particularly. That community gives us a place to develop, a place to rest, a place to think, a place to work out ideas. And I think in the world of political thinking and political struggle sometimes “just us black people” or “just us women” or “just us queers” have to go into a room where we can be a community of a very self-defined specific type. But as soon as we go into that room we begin to recognize that the particular identity that forms that particular community is a fraction of who we are and if we can see that and recognize that we still might tactically need to be with a specific intentional community—but aware that that intentional community is a limitation as well as a liberation. It’s both.
IG: What do you find most meaningful about community?
BA: Well none of us lives as an island, none of us is all by oneself. And the more we develop that kind of narcissistic sense that’s it’s me alone, entirely self-sufficient and completely self-reliant, the more we lose in terms of the value of community. Because community is what brings us alive and what allows us to be both more enlightened and more free. I think of Fred Rogers who used to say on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, his children’s television show, “Think about the people who loved you into being.” Well, I think communities do that, I think they love us into being. They can also be an illusion. They can also delude us. So one of the things that I guess I want to always be conscious of is the way in which a community not only has this dual aspect that I mentioned earlier, but also the ways in which any single community, any single identity is entangling. And if you inflame your identity, you know, “I’m queer,” “I’m white,” “I’m a male,” “I’m old,” whatever identity you’re representing – as soon as you inflame that you do damage to yourself. I think that for me the various communities that I’m a part of in various overlapping ways help me to negotiate and earn myidentity. It’s what allows me to strive to become more human. So that without my granddaughters on a weekly ba-sis, taking care of them, I would be missing a certain part of what is very central to my life. On the other hand I am now retired, I’m a grandfather, I do take care of my grandkids, but as soon as I say, “I’m a retired grandfather taking care of my grandkids,” automatically all of these socially-constructed assumptions descend upon me, those labels which are themselves so diminish-ing and limiting. So what I want to argue for is gaining from each community a piece of your humanity and a part of your personhood, and giving to each community as much as you can because it’s in giving to community that we realize the fullness of ourselves. And then, to return to the central contradiction, let’s not get stuck in kind of a totalizing community, an inflamed community or a dogmatic community.
IG: What’s missing in community?
BA: I could name some communities that I interacted with in the last few days and every one of them had and has its limitations. And every one also brought as-pects of what I live for. For example, yesterday I met with a community that’s in the process of creating an intentional space in Chicago where we can be much more productive and get on with the business of movement building. So does that community of place have love and ecstasy and joy and culture? Not exactly. But that’s something very important at the same time. The night before my partner for forty years and I hosted a birthday party for a very close friend; we brought food and flowers and homemade cards, and we formed a circle where we talked about our lives together. And there were maybe thirty or forty people there and we had a fire going. But that community brought a lot, but it didn’t bring the kind of intellectual stimulation that might be more apparent in another place. The day before that we had retreat of a political formation that I am a part of and we spent a lot of time on the question of access, not just for folks with disabilities but for folks with different languages and so on. That community brought a kind of challenge to me. So I could go on but you get the gist of what I’m saying. Living a life merges and creates intersections between communities and gives meaning to the fullness of your existence.
IG: What is an ideal community to you?
BA: The phrase undermines itself. When we talk about community there is no ideal. Rather there’s a quest, a journey, something that’s much more about process than point-of-arrival. And as soon as we say something like my ideal community meets every Thursday at 4 o’clock we’re already going off the deep end; we then begin to codify and create a dogmatic response to the desire for community. It’s the most human thing in the world to long for community, and I think the ideal community is in that longing. But too often we settle for institutions. It’s the desire for community that keeps us putting one foot in front of the other and keeps us moving down the path more than the idea that you could actually define the shape of it once and for all. I think that the draw of our workplaces and classrooms, the draw of our churches and synagogues and mosques – the draw of all these things is that desire for community. What we end up finding in those places is too often a fraction of what we were longing for and we end up getting a lot that’s not worthy of our deepest dreams for community.
IG: What does a democratic education mean to you?
BA: A democratic education is an education based firmly in the culture of democ-racy, which is a radical proposition. A fragile but precious ideal powering every authentic democracy is the belief that every human being is of incalculable value. That ideal too-often runs hard against the institution of schooling in which value is constantly being calculated, the value of this person and that person is constantly being parsed and sorted. A democratic education begins with the premise that everyone is of incalculable value. We are equal in rights, and we are each an unruly spark of meanin-making energy. And it moves from there to a belief that the fullest development of each of us is the condition for the full development of all of us. And the reverse is true as well: the fullest development of all of us is the condition for the full development of each of us. And those things have huge implications for policy for establishing equality and justice in schools and society. If you assume the incalculable value of every human being then you have to think that curriculum is much more about initiative, courage, imagination, entrepreneurship, and much less about obedience and conformity. It’s much more about opening windows and opening doors and learning from the world, not so much learning about the world—learning from nature not about nature, learning from democracy not about democracy. Democracy and education are the same; freedom and education are the same. This is beacause education at its best stands on two legs: one leg is enlightenment, and one leg is liberation. They work together: we want to know more, we want to explore more and experiment more and under-stand more because we want to do more. And it’s those interactions that make democratic education a reality. I resist the notion that education is strictly a K-12 or K-16 affair. I reject the idea that education is for the young and that therefore a preparation for real life. I think education is life itself, and education for democracy is the art of living and growing.
IG: How does education play out in your life?
BA: I have devoted most of my life to education in a formal sense. I’ve been a teacher or as I prefer to say I’ve been a person who’s been experimenting with and trying to become a teacher. I always tell my students that “teacher” is a word they can put on their tombstones, but until then we are all simply working away at it. For me a teacher in a democratic society—even an aspirationally democratic world—is of necessity a learner, and the fundamental challenge of teaching is to become a student of your students. And I think of education as something more than formal schooling—it goes on 24/7 inside and outside, in the community and in our daily interactions. So one of my most astute teachers these days is my three-year-old granddaughter and her six-year-old sister and they teach me all the time and some of it is silly and funny and memorable, and some of it is profound and life altering. Yesterday my three-year-old granddaughter came into the room with a book behind her back and she said, “Guess what I have.” And I said, “Is it A Birthday for Frances?” and she pulled it out very triumphantly and said, “It’s your favorite.” And what cracked me up because I think of it as her favorite, but she thinks of it as my favorite. And somehow we negotiate this space where we are in cahoots but I think it’s marvelous that her perspective is that she’s doing something for me by bringing me a book that I love that I can read to her… If you strive for a certain wide-awakeness, you’ll be awakened every day by something.
IG: What do you find most meaningful about education?
BA: I have spent a lot of my life in the last couple of decades fighting for the right of urban kids to have access and equity and increasingly to have recognition of their humanity in the schools, and it’s been a difficult battle characterized by the trumpeting of a narrow concept of education for the masses of the people while the wealthy and the powerful and the people promoting corporate school reform are demanding for their own kids all kinds of other experiences and opportunities. So it’s a difficult time right now, but we must remind ourselves that education and school reform and urban education are necessarily contested spaces and any time you feel like “Oh, we’ve lost and we must get in to the bunkers and barricade ourselves,” you’re making a huge mistake. We need to see this as a moment when the goals and values of education are very much contested, and we leave the field at our peril—we should stand up with great confidence and articulate a different frame on the question of education than the one being foisted on us by the powerful in politics and from influential foundations and the media. I can give you one very simple example which is familiar to all of us in the recent presidential campaign. Every time John McCain got to a microphone and said, “We need to get the lazy incompetent teachers out of the classroom,” I felt myself nodding dully as did millions of other people. Who’s going to stand up and say, “No no I want the lazy incompetent teacher for my granddaughter.” Nobody. He wins the argument by framing it. If I got to the microphone first and said, “Every kid in a public school deserves an intellectually grounded, morally committed, compassionate, caring and energetic, well-rested and well-paid teacher” I would win the argument. So part of our problem is how are we framing and re-framing the discussion about education today. How are we thinking about it? Then how are we not being bamboozled into accepting a frame that is unacceptable up to and including measuring our success by these silly and backwards test scores. So my encouragement for myself and the reward to myself is to keep fighting and the reason to keep fighting with confidence is because it is contested space, because we are living in a dynamic history and the more noisy and shrill and over-powering the folks seem who are defining the agenda on education the more we should recognize the weakness of their case. I don’t think they represent the majority in any sense at all, and I think that we should fight for a robust public space in a more vibrant and participatory democracy. I’m not optimistic because I can’t see the future, but neither am I pessimistic—again because I can’t see the future. Rather I want to promote a politics of hopefulness and confidence, and get people out there speaking up and speaking out so that we don’t barricade ourselves in either a defensive posture or a self-righteous posture.
IG: What is missing in education?
BA: I want from education based on the full recognition of the humanity of every-one who walks through the door. And that means that the questions, the problems, and the contradictions kids bring into the classroom would become the stuff of education. So every kid from the moment that they’re born is powered forth with questions and confusion and uncertainty. And education is a place – education is the place – formally and informally where we can search for answers. So if you think about the teacher. I was a young teacher during the Freedom Schools that swept the South in the mid and late 60’s and those schools were powered by questions. The curriculum of the Freedom Schools was a curriculum of questioning. And the questions were profound. “Why are you and I in the Freedom movement?” “What do we hope to accomplish?” “What do we want to maintain that we have?” “What do we want to have that the majority culture has?” On and on and on, a curriculum of questioning. And those were serious, profound, life-changing questions because they allowed people who were beaten down and stepped on and pushed to the bottom to ask the big questions of their lives. “How did I get here?” “Where am I going?” “Where do I want to go?” Those are the questions that ought to power all education and I can parse that out in tiny as well as in giant ways, but that’s what’s largely missing. Kids are denied, people are denied the right to think for ourselves about the circumstances of our lives and how they could be different. That’s what an education for freedom is all about.
IG: What is an ideal education to you?
BA: Well again I’m going to have to trouble the question because “ideal” is both worth striving for but wildly indistinct—I don’t want to diagram a set of iron clad orthodoxies. I want to think about education as always responding to the reality before us, and always a process and a quest and a journey, always dynamic and growing. But the contours of that dynamism have everything to do with being able to develop the capacity to ask questions of the universe and that means good teachers and good friends and good lovers are folks who help us formulate and develop and encourage the questions that will make our lives deeper, more meaningful, richer, and more open.
Editor’s Note: Bill Ayers is a different man depending whom you ask. To the left, he’s an anti-war hero and an education reformer. To the 2008 McCain-Palin ticket, he remains America’s “domestic terrorist,” whose connection to then-Senator Barack Obama proved useful fodder for a smear campaign. Here, and in his most recent memoir Public Enemy, Ayers reflects on the bizarre, out-of-body experience of having to reconcile his personal life with the warped public image latched onto by the media.
It was a mid-April evening, the last light reluctantly giving way outside the front window as seminar ended and a dozen of my graduate students pitched in to clean-up and a self-described “political junkie” clicked on the TV and flipped to the presidential primary debate, well underway by now, between Hillary Clinton and the young upstart from Chicago, Barack Obama. All the promise of new life was in the air.
At that moment the moderator, echoing a dramatic narrative spun by everyone running against Senator Obama, turned to him and said, “On this…general theme of patriotism in your relationships…” The story always involved Obama’s former pastor, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, whose impassioned statements about racism and the American government (“God damn America!”) had been widely disseminated and discussed, but soon the moderator switched direction: “A gentleman named William Ayers…He was part of the Weather Underground in the 1970s. They bombed the Pentagon… He’s never apologized for that…Your campaign has said you are ‘friendly.’ Can you explain that relationship for the voters…?”
I thought Obama looked slightly stricken, temporarily off-balance and uncharacteristically tongue-tied — I was probably projecting because I felt suddenly dizzy, off-balance and tongue-tied myself — and my students were thunderstruck. Their heads snapped in my direction as Obama replied: “This is a guy who lives in my neighborhood, who’s a professor of English in Chicago who I know… [T]he notion that somehow as a consequence of me knowing somebody who engaged in detestable acts forty years ago, when I was eight years old, somehow reflects on me and my values doesn’t make much sense, George.”
An explosion of laughter ricocheted around the room, everyone clamoring to make sense of the bombshell that had just dropped into our little seminar and by extension reverberating around the country and the world. One student turned to me and said, “Oh my God, that guy has the same name as yours,” and another explained to her excitedly that that’s because we were indeed the same guy – “Bill’s the guy, and we’re in the neighborhood George is talking about!”
I think for some of my students there was an abrupt awareness that while they’d known me quite well a few minutes before, they had suddenly ceased to know me at all, and that made sense to me too because for a moment I wondered who I was as well. Most were super-considerate, asking what I needed and attending to me as if I’d been hit by a truck, which was a bit how I felt myself. When they finally trickled out, some still shaking their heads in marvelous disbelief, others smiling in wonder, each offered a hug or a hand-shake.
The evening was entirely surreal, and I was struggling to regain my balance and come to terms with the sudden sense that this cartoon character – Bill Ayers – looked exactly like me and was about to become a punching bag in a presidential campaign, a character who might actually have an impact on the outcome of a national election. It felt altogether too big and all-in-all too strange.
I thought about pitiable Gregor Samsa who awoke one morning after disturbing dreams to find himself transformed in his bed into an enormous cockroach. The metamorphosis was of course incomplete because Gregor was still Gregor inside — same mind, same memories, same consciousness — and he remained painfully aware of the revulsion he induced in others. And I thought about the professor in Don DeLillo’s White Noise who experienced the shock of a major toxic event engulfing his small town, the panic spreading as a poisonous chemical cloud drifted overhead and the people were forced to evacuate, and the weird dislocation when he was proclaimed officially, statistically dead in spite of being very much alive. What could he say to explain himself? How could he adequately grasp his situation, split at the core of his being and stumbling through a familiar landscape unexpectedly made strange? I knew that I didn’t want to be that professor; I knew I didn’t want to become a Kafkaesque character flailing for a hundred years to set the record straight.
Massive school closings, epic teacher layoffs. Chicago Public Schools officials had plenty to answer for in 2013. So much that their decision in the spring to yank Marjane Satrapi’s graphic novel/memoir “Persepolis” out of schools and libraries because of a complaint (about a single image of torture) became something of a cultural blip. But what a blip: The banning led students at Lane Tech to rally against censorship in the rain outside their school. Which led to the news spreading internationally, the irony of the banned selection particularly poignant. (The 13-year-old book tells the story of Satrapi’s childhood in culturally repressive Iran.) Which gave 451 Degrees, an obscure student book club at Lane Tech that reads only banned books, a popularity it couldn’t have achieved on its own. Six months later — long after the outcry led to CPS telling its principals to reinstate “Persepolis” — 451 Degrees, founded by 16-year-old senior Levi Todd, was given the Illinois Library Association’s prestigious Intellectual Freedom Award.