On Teaching Race

Unless I get recruited to head-start a new Ethnic Studies program at the university for which I'll be working as a new assistant professor, this quarter may be my last teaching an Asian American Studies class. I am currently teaching two classes: one upper-division English course at a women's liberal arts college, and one upper-division Asian American Studies course at my home university. One is a seminar of 8 students, all women, mostly white, all English majors. The other is a class of 60 students, co-ed, vast majority of whom are API, and whose majors run the gamut of Asian American Studies, political science, and economics.

My English course at the women's college, being on the semester system, started in January. I was immediately struck by how refreshing and satisfying teaching English majors can be, especially since I had never had the opportunity to teach English majors at my home campus. The students are immediately engaged and invested, and are coming in at the same level of preparedness. On the first day, I brought in some pieces of poetry, and right away the students started explicating it together, breaking down the literary devices. The atmosphere is also striking when the class is all-female. Whenever I teach co-ed classes, even when there are only one or two men in the class (which has been the case in some of the writing classes I've taught), and even when these men aren't even close to being the smartest students in the class, they tend to dominate (and often derail) the class discussion. It's really nice not having to monitor that as a female instructor. It's also nice not having to justify why gender is a relevant topic of discussion when we're discussing literature, history, or whatever. I also tend to like smaller classes, because I like being able to give each student individual attention. So in many respects, this English class has been my ideal teaching experience.

But something happened these last couple of weeks that has made me appreciate my big Asian American Studies classes. My English class is on Vietnam War literature, which, given the war that it concerns, is always about race. But in these last couple of weeks, I've chosen to put race front and center as the topic for discussion. We talked about the musical Miss Saigon. We read Le Ly Hayslip's When Heaven and Earth Changed Places. We talked about Kim Phuc, the young girl running from a napalm bombing, who became a humanitarian and figure of reconciliation. I talked about how Asian women are figured as a sort of romantic fantasy, through which the white male American soldier can at once exert his colonial power (in other words, Orientalism) but can also "save" her and assuage his guilt. I asked the students to think about where the Orientalist fantasy comes from and how it's continually perpetuated.

As students in a women's college, these students have been more than ready to discuss how war is premised on notions of masculinity, how women are excluded from the notions of citizenship that serving in war is supposed to grant, etc. But to get them to talk about race has been like pulling teeth. Only the two women of color-- one Asian, one Latina-- have been at all willing to engage with me. What the white women tend to say in response to any question I pose is, "But isn't that the case for all women?" So when I asked, "Why does Kim have to kill herself at the end of Miss Saigon?" one white student said, "Like in Victorian literature, the woman always gets punished in the end." Well, yes. The self-annihilating woman is a common trope in many cultural traditions. But does the fact of her being Asian, especially given all the various incarnations of the Madame Butterfly character, mean anything? Silence. Until the Asian American student speaks up.

This road block became even more apparent this week, when we were discussing John A. Williams's novel, Captain Blackman, which is one of the very few texts by an African American written during the time of the Vietnam War. It's also clearly concerned about black historical authority, not only during Vietnam (a war in which a disproportionate number of black soldiers served, and a war that became known as a "race war"), but all of American history. The protagonist, Blackman, is a Vietnam War soldier who blacks out and then find himself transported to the Revolutionary War. So, I ask the students what Williams may be saying about the meaning of the presence of black soldiers in American wars. On the one hand, the novel seems to be calling for their recognition, reminding us that African Americans have served in every war in the nation's history. On the other, it's also critical of that history as one that the "community" should claim, given that all these wars were in the service of a nation that systematically oppressed, betrayed, and violated black people. So I ask the students to ponder whether the Vietnam War, or any war for that matter, could be read as a "race war." No response. I ask if citizenship can indeed be gained through submitting yourself to military service. "Yes, but isn't that the case for everybody?"

That's the go-to answer, it seems. Isn't that the case for everybody? We're all the same. I guess race doesn't matter anymore.

I know I'll have to expect many more exchanges like this in my teaching career. And that's not only fine, but a welcome challenge. The fact that these students can't see beyond their own privilege and have been trained to believe that "multiculturalism" erases racial difference means that my job is even more important than I had thought.

But still, I can't help but wish that I could just teach Ethnic Studies courses for the rest of my life. There's something amazing about gazing out into a class filled with 60 students of color. Or 200 students of color, as was the case with my Intro to Asian American History class last quarter. In the lower-div courses, I do have to make an effort in explaining to the students how structural racism still exists. Some of the Asian American students are conservative. Some can't see beyond their own class privilege to recognize how they're subject to racism. But even in those classes, the students are at least willing to talk about race. And, at the very least, I don't have to convince them of the fact that white privilege exists. They already know that it does, because they've experienced being denied opportunities because of the fact that they're not white. I've encountered some messed up comments in those classes (last quarter, one Chinese American student even tried to justify the interment of Japanese Americans during WWII), but I've never been shut down by a, "Well, doesn't everybody experience that?"

I suppose I could always apply for Ethnic Studies positions again after I've settled into my new job for a while. But the thing is, too, Ethnic Studies positions are few and far in between. And they're oftentimes the first to get cut when universities lose funding. I'm glad I'll be working as an English professor. Really, I am. And the university that hired me is letting me teach anything I want, and they're receptive to my idea of teaching a literature course that's based on critical race theory. They've also mentioned wanting me to develop Ethnic Studies curriculum with other faculty on campus. So I'm sure I'll find plenty of ways to direct my political energies and intellectual investments. Still, I am facing the fact that I may never get another teaching opportunity like the one I have now, where I don't even have to ask the question, "Does race matter?"