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Factors Contributing to Microaggressions, Racial Battle Fatigue, Stereotype Threat, and

Imposter Phenomenon for Non-Hegemonic Students: Implications for Urban Education

Jennifer L. Martin

This chapter will review the phenomena of microaggressions, racial battle fatigue,

stereotype threat, and imposter phenomenon, all of which can be caused by a lack of knowledge,

sensitivity, empathy, and respect for identity characteristics/social identities deviating from the

dominant norm such as race, class, gender, sexuality, language, citizenship status, disability

status, religious affiliation, etc. These phenomena often play out in schools – often negatively

impacting academic success. Culturally responsive teachers value and respect the identities of all

of their students, and work to dismantle systems of oppression that cause them harm: situational

and institutional (Frattura & Caller, 2007). Some teachers, ill prepared to work with students

different from them, do real harm to many of their students by perpetrating microaggressions,

which can lead to the related phenomena of racial (and other forms of) battle fatigue, stereotype

threat, and imposter phenomenon—causing a reduction in academic success for non-hegemonic

students.

Introduction and Review of Key Terms

Microaggressions are subtle slights, intentional or not, including statements, actions,

minimizations, and invalidations, serving to trivialize one’s gendered, racialized, or other

identity-based experiences by those who do not share those same experiences, thus denying their

significance (Nadal, 2010; Sue, 2017; Sue, Capadilupo, Nadal, & Torino, 2008a; Sue,

Capadilupo, & Holder, 2008b). According to Smith, Allen, and Danley (2007): “The impact of

racial microaggressions on individual Black targets become communicable as the psychological

and emotional pain of the incidents is passed on to family, friends, and the larger social group

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and across generations” (p. 554). Racialized microaggressions can cause psychological stress,

physiological stress, and behavioral stress (Franklin, Smith, & Hung, 2014). Within educational

settings, microaggressions can include: “(a) non-verbal forms, (b) false assumptions based on

stereotypes, (c) overt racial remarks, and (d) low teacher expectations” (Franklin et al., 2014, p.

308). Ong, Burrow, Fuller-Rowell, Ja, and Sue (2013) found that the “hidden nature” of

microaggressions often make them “invisible” to perpetrators (p. 197).

Sue and colleagues (2007) classified microaggressions into three areas: microassaults,

microinsults, and microinvalidations. Microassaults are explicit identity-based derogations,

verbal or nonverbal, intended to harm the target, such as racial epithets. Microinsults convery

insensitivity toward one’s heritage or identity; for example, microinsults can include the “model

minority” myth experienced by many Asian Americans, indicating that they experience little

racism, despite evidence to the contrary (Ong, Burrow, Fuller-Rowell, Ja, & Sue, 2013).

Microinvalidations involve the denial of one’s experiences with racism (and other –isms), thus

effectively dismissing or invalidating them (Sue, Capadilupo, Nadal, & Torino, 2008a, May-

June). These denials are usually perpetrated by members of the dominant culture, or hegemonic

persons. According to Sue (2017), “People of color, for example, often have their lived racial

realities about bias and discrimination met with disbelief by our society. They are often told that

they are oversensitive, paranoid, and misreading the actions of others” (p. 171).

Sue, Capadilupo, and Holder (2008b) found that Black students in particular face

microaggressive behaviors by White teachers that “. . . negate their contributions, communicate

low expectations, and exclude their participation in school activities” (p. 330). These experiences

increase self-doubt, low self-esteem, and various psychological and physiological health issues.

Additionally, individuals experiencing microaggressive behavior also face the added stress of

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deciding how to deal the microaggressive conduct, and either directly or peripherally, with the

perpetrator. The way in which the target responds may confirm stereotypes that the perpetrator

holds about the target’s identity group, which places the target in a double bind (Sue,

Capadilupo, & Holder, 2008b). For example, if a Black woman challenges a microaggressive

comment, she may be deemed to be overreacting, labeled as aggressive, and stereotyped as an

“angry Black woman.” This causes additional stress for the target.

White and otherwise hegemonic people may feel guilty about issues of race, and/or their

associated level of privilege; to distance themselves from issues of racism and other -isms by

ignoring or denying the existence of microaggressions protects their self-image of being good

people, and dismisses the implication that they in fact benefit from the oppressions of others

(Sue, Capadilupo, Nadal, & Torino, 2008a, May-June). The term “gaslighting” is used to

describe the psychological phenomenon of manipulating someone to question their own sanity

(Sarkis, 2017). Gaslighting is commonly used against targets of microaggressions so that

perpetrators can gain power and control. Experiencing microaggressions, explicit racism, denials

of these experiences, and gaslighting can eventually lead to racial battle fatigue (RBF).

RBF (and other forms of battle fatigue) involve the cumulative impact of experiencing

daily microaggressions and other forms of societal racism (and other –isms), which cause a

negative impact on the health and well-being of non-hegemonic populations (Franklin, Smith, &

Hung, 2014; Smith, Mustaffa, Jones, Curry, & Allen, 2016; Smith, Hung, & Franklin, 2011;

Smith, Allen, & Danley, 2007). RBF is used to describe three major stress responses:

physiological, psychological, and behavioral and involves the energy expended on coping with

and fighting racism (and other –isms), which is exacted on racially marginalized and stigmatized

groups, such as dealing with daily microaggressions (Smith, 2008). It is important for teachers to

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address inequities in the school, classroom, and curriculum; otherwise, only “majoritarian”

discourses will be perpetuated, and students possessing counter-narratives may be marginalized.

As Chaisson (2004) states, “Subverting discourses on race functions to perpetuate the racial

system that advantages Whites for being white and oppresses racial minorities” (p. 346).

Initially, the dismantling and problematizing of White privilege can cause anger and

defensiveness in majority populations, which speaks to the necessity of such an undertaking,

especially in predominantly White schools (Chaisson, 2004). Counter-narratives are an important

aspect of this conversation. Counter-narratives problematize and/or cast doubt on the validity of

hegemonic discourse or “accepted wisdom” perpetuated by the majority that also can

communicate racial (and other) stereotypes, and represent the telling of lesser-known tales and

also critiquing commonly told ones (Solorzano & Yosso, 2001). Without them, only hegemonic,

Eurocentric, “majoritarian” discourses will prevail (DeCuir & Dixson, 2004).

Racial battle fatigue imposes a cumulative effect, where “. . . race, gender, and other

factors intersect to create specific, unique conditions of disadvantage (or privilege) for some

compared to others” (Smith, Allen, & Danley, 2007, p. 553). The disadvantages that RBF can

cause include headaches, high blood pressure, digestive problems, stress, fatigue, sleep

problems, loss of confidence, anger, fear, procrastination, neglecting responsibilities, resentment,

hopelessness, and helplessness, etc. (Franklin, Smith, & Hung, 2014; Smith, Allen, & Danley,

2007; Smith, Mustaffa, Jones, Curry, & Allen, 2016). These problems can lead to the related

problems of lower grades, dropping out, and drug abuse for college students. RBF is both

physically and emotionally debilitating (Franklin, Smith, & Hung, 2014).

Dealing with racism and racial battle fatigue can negatively impact Students of Color

attending college. Latina/o students and Students of Color in general experience more racial

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hostility on college campuses and racial stressors than their White peers, causing them to

question their academic self-concepts, hope for the future, and feelings of belonging (Franklin,

Smith, & Hung, 2014). According to Smith, Mustaffa, Jones, Curry, and Allen (2016), Black

males attending Predominantly White Institutions (PWIs) often experience “hypervisibility” and

“hypersurveillance,” stemming from anti-Black stereotyping, which can then lead to RBF.

African American college students, particularly males, have the added weight of defying

stereotypes about their intellect (Smith, Allen, & Danley, 2007). African American males are

pressured to excel in spite of racially biased course content and racially insensitive professors,

inducing stereotype threat (Steele & Aronson, 1995). All of these factors can influence retention

and graduation.

Stereotype threat is the fear of confirming a negative stereotype held about one’s group by

others not possessing the same identity (Steele & Aronson, 1995). Activating negative

stereotypes can hinder testing performance for children and adults (Aronson, 2014). Low teacher

expectations as well as perceived discrimination can lead to stereotype threat, and thus lower

performance on tests (Thames, Hinkin, Byrd, Bilder, Duff, Mindt, Arentoft, & Streiff, 2013).

This heightened fear to “represent” for one’s racial/ethnic/gender (or other) group, may result in

higher stress and lower academic performance. Steele (2010) pinpoints the identity categories

that are often rife for stereotype threat: age, sexual orientation, race, gender, ethnicity, political

affiliation, mental illness, disability, etc. Steele (2010) further illuminates the danger of

stereotype threat, “We know what ‘people think.’ We know that anything we do that fits the

stereotype could be taken as confirming it” (p. 5). Thus, the vicious circle is perpetuated. If

teachers are unaware of their implicit biases, and of the phenomenon of stereotype threat, they

are likely to perpetuate it. Aronson (2004) found that repeated exposure to stereotype threat can

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cause a “disidentification” in students, thereby causing students to no longer feel an affinity for a

field of study to which they once identified. When students feel that they are not viewed as part

of the group (“belonging uncertainty”), their sense of belonging and achievement can be

undermined (Walton, 2007).

Imposter phenomenon (or imposter syndrome) is a psychological phenomenon where

non-hegemonic individuals question their competence in their current role: student, teacher,

leader, etc., because they may be the only person representing their race, gender, or other

minoritized identity, and thus feel “phony” in comparison to those around them (Dancy, 2017).

Imposter phenomenon also involves one’s attribution of success to external factors, such as

chance or luck, feeling as though one does not deserve success, and downplaying one’s successes

(Dancy, 2017). According to Ewing, Richardson, James-Myers, and Russell (1996), academic

self-1concepts combined with racial identity perspectives can contribute to imposter feelings.

Students who find themselves within a supportive learning community can assuage the impact of

imposter phenomenon, which presupposes a counter-narrative of the oppressive ideas of one’s

minoritized group.

Clance and Imes (1978) first used the term “imposter syndrome” to identify feelings of

fraudulence in working women; however, since then, scholars have since expanded the concept

of imposter phenomena to various identity categories where individuals attribute their success to

external factors, despite evidence to the contrary (Caselman, Self, & Self, 2006). However,

phenomenon is still experienced more commonly by people of historically marginalized groups,

such as people of color, immigrants, people of lower socioeconomic statuses, and others (Dancy,

2017). Non-hegemonic people, particularly those working or studying within hegemonic

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environments, are often taught that they must “work twice as hard to be half as good” (Weir,

2017, p. 24).

According to Ahlfeld (2010), there are factors that can ameliorate imposter phenomenon,

including, resiliency and resourcefulness, facilitating supportive relationships, finding significant

work, and viewing one’s work as significant; these coping mechanisms can serve to dismantle

“feeling like a fraud.” Additional compensatory strategies include cultivating and maintaining

relationships with mentors, and focusing upon one’s strengths/areas of expertise (Weir, 2017).

Teachers are at risk of creating racial battle fatigue, stereotype threat, and imposter phenomenon

within their students if they do not actively cultivate cultural competence and culturally

responsive teaching practices, and continually reflect upon the impact they have on students.

Stereotyped ideas about good teaching are ubiquitous, and teachers can easily fall into the trap of

teaching in the ways in which they have been taught, which do not necessarily include cultural

competence or culturally responsive practices. It may be that teachers lacking in a critical

intersectional analysis come to resemble their own institutions, and thus perpetuate, rather than

challenge, the status quo; this can have disastrous implications for non-hegemonic students.

Students in the Classroom

In a variety of school settings (K-12 - post-secondary), many non-hegemonic students feel

“isolation and alienation”: that they have to leave certain aspects of their identities at the school

door in order to be successful (Carter Andrews, 2012, p. 1). According to Carter Andrews,

“These feelings often result from structural features within the school (e.g., tracking, lack of

culturally diverse curriculum, biased teacher attitudes and beliefs, negative stereotypical beliefs

held by White peers, and discriminatory policies) that represent forms of institutional racism” (p.

5). Warikoo, Sinclair, Fei, and Jacoby-Senghor (2016) found that teachers do in fact treat

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students differently based upon their race, yet many teacher educators continue to endorse the

notion of colorblindness, and the associated myth that if we just treat everyone the same, that

everything will work out fine.

The civil rights of Students of Color within all schools is a cause for concern for critical

pedagogues and social justice educators, but it should be for all teachers and teacher educators: a

disproportionate number of Students of Color are referred for special education services, and

disciplined more frequently and unfairly. White middle-class children are thus the “unmarked

norm” against which the developmental progress of other children is measured (O’Connor &

Fernandez, 2006). Further, both O’Connor and Fernandez (2006) and Blanchett (2006) argue that

the underachievement of Students of Color is exacerbated by their disproportionality in

underfunded schools with unqualified or uncertified teachers lacking experience. The desire to

“give back” without the requisite knowledge and mindset to view Students of Color from asset

perspectives has done its damage. The data clearly demonstrate this, yet we continue to educate

underprepared teachers to work in urban schools with historically marginalized student

populations.

There are many common words and phrases leveled against Students of Color (Morris,

2016). For example, loud, disrespectful, aggressive, urban, ghetto, thug; not college material,

does not care about school/future (this includes student and family), incapable of learning. These

words and phrases serve to perpetuate low expectations for marginalized student populations,

can be delivered directly to students as macro/microaggressions, and can lead to spirit murder,

stereotype threat, racial battle fatigue, and negative self-fulfilling prophecies. Spirit murder is

common in schools because of inadequate teacher training, cultural mismatch, and deficit

thinking. The notion of “spirit murdering” conceptualized by Williams (1991), and later

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explicated by Love (2017), is “. . . ‘the personal, psychological, and spiritual injuries to people of

color through the fixed, yet fluid and moldable, structures of racism, privilege, and power’” (p.

199). I argue that spirit murdering can occur with any individual who problematizes, troubles, or

questions the status quo, particularly if that individual possesses a non-hegemonic status, i.e.,

women, and members of the LGBTQ+ community, as well as People of Color and indigenous

populations; in short, those possessing little to no power may be subjected to spirit murder,

especially if they question institutional or systemic practices that do not serve to support them.

According to Warikoo, Sinclair, Fei and Jacoby-Senghor (2016), teachers treat students

differently based on race, and this differential treatment contributes to disparities in achievement

based on race, “Explicit attitudes are beliefs and evaluations about people and things that

individuals knowingly endorse and have complete discretion over whether they disclose” (p.

508). If left unaddressed, over time, implicit biases lead to deeply rooted and debilitating cycles

of inequities within schools (Jones, et al., 2012). Many teachers have lower expectations both

behaviorally and academically for students different from them, which leads to classroom macro

and microaggressions (Kohli, & Solórzano, 2012), stereotype threat, and racial battle fatigue.

Relatedly, when students learn these messages, they may internalize oppressive feelings

about themselves, which may then affect how they perform academically (Dancy, 2017). Further,

they may develop impostor phenomenon, which affects their self-confidence and productivity,

even when they have the intellect and skills to achieve (Dancy, 2017). Pipeline schools, many of

which are urban charter schools, play a key role in the school-to-prison-pipeline (Alexander,

2010), and focus primarily on compliance—about sitting down and staying quiet—preparing

students more for prison than for democratic possibilities (Morris, 2016). In many of these

spaces, silence is the expectation for many students, particularly if they are Black and Brown,

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read urban. Such schools are and should be considered Apartheid schools. The concept of the

“White savior” is rife within Apartheid schools where the students are perceived to be in need of

“saving” by the innocent and righteous White teacher (Matias, 2016). According to Matias and

DiAngelo (2013), “. . . while the system of White supremacy has shaped Western political

thought for hundreds of years, it is never named nor identified as a system at all. In this way,

White supremacy is rendered invisible while other political systems are identified and studied.

Much of its power is drawn from its invisibility” (p. 5). If White majority pre-service teacher

candidates are not asked to confront issues of race throughout their education, they will be hard

pressed to do so as professionals. Explicitly negative attitudes about race, now hidden within the

philosophy of colorblindness, do not negate their persistence. Warikoo and colleagues (2016)

argue that explicit racism has decreased in our current milieu, but implicit negative associations

exist, which result in more subtle forms of racism.

If specific conversations about race are not broached within teacher education programs,

racist practices of sorting of non-hegemonic students will continue, contributing to the mis-

education of students of color, and by extension, of White students who receive the implicit

message that they are superior. When students are “spirit murdered” they may experience what

Kohl (1994) describes as “not-learning,” or, “Deciding to actively not-learn something involves

closing off part of oneself and limiting one’s experience. It can require actively refusing to pay

attention, acting dumb, scrambling one’s thoughts, and overriding curiosity” (p. 4). Additionally,

as Erickson (1987) states, “Learning what is deliberately taught can be seen as a form of political

assent. Not learning can be seen as a form of political resistance” (p. 344).

In a ground-breaking study, Goff, Jackson, Di Leone, Culotta, and DiTomasso (2014)

argue that Black and Brown children are perceived as older and thus more responsible for their

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actions than their White counterparts. These misperceptions (based on implicit bias) have grave

consequences for non-hegemonic students, and contribute to their dehumanization and

criminalization. Goff and colleagues found that teachers do not perceive Black and Brown

students as possessing the “essence of innocence,” as do their White peers. Morris (2016) argues

that African American girls specifically are viewed negatively in much more insidious and

subversive ways, with the discipline of and control of appearance, often done in informal ways,

but with the end result being the punishment of Black girl aesthetics, such as natural hair,

dreadlocks, or braids, being deemed as “disruptive.” According to Morris, “The politicization

(and vilification) of thick, curly, and kinky hair is an old one. Characterizations of kinky hair as

unmanageable, wild, and ultimately ‘bad hair’ are all signals (spoken and unspoken) that Black

girls are inferior and unkempt when left in their natural state” (p. 92).

In addition to aesthetics, African American girls are also often disciplined for their

“attitudes”: as Morris indicates (2016), “‘Willful defiance’ is a widely used, subjective, and

arbitrary category for student misbehavior that can include everything from a student having a

verbal altercation with a teacher to refusing to remove a hat in school or complete an

assignment” (p. 70). In sum, the issue of the containment of the Black girl within schools is a

specific crime perpetrated on Black girls, which must be immediately rectified through our

teacher education programs.

According to Smith, Hung, and Franklin (2011), “Depending on the social environment,

the level of rigidity, and its obstinate racial control, Blacks will experience more or less intense

racial microaggressions” (p. 67). And, “. . . racism and racial microaggressions operate as

psycho-pollutants in the social environment and add to the overall race-related stress for Black

men, Black women, and other racially marginalized groups” (p. 67). I would argue that the

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White teachers in this space have little understanding of these phenomenon, but only view their

students from the perspective of cultural deprivation. Furthermore, this school operates from a

perpetual state of institutionalized racism, defined by Ture and Hamilton (1992) as relying on

“. . . the active and pervasive operation of anti-Black attitudes and practices. A sense of superior

group position prevails: Whites are ‘better’ than blacks; therefore, blacks should be subordinated

to Whites. This is a racist attitude and it permeates the society, on both the individual and

institutional level, covertly and overtly” (p. 5).

Students possessing intersectional identities, and/or LGBTQ+ status, living with a

disability, and students with mental health issues, may also feel excluded and subjected to

microaggressions in school because they deviate from the dominant norm: White, male

heterosexual, able-bodied, etc. (Nadal, Whitman, Davis, & Davidson, 2016). This sense of

intersectional exclusion can lead to feelings of impostorship (Dancy, 2017). LGBTQ+ students,

for example, may experience various microaggressions attacking their sexual and gender

identities including, but not limited to, heterosexist and homophobic language, disapproval of

LGBTQ+ identities, denials of homo/transphobia, perceptions that LGBTQ+ individuals are

pathological, stereotypes and/or fetishism of LGBTQ+ individuals, etc. (Nadal, Whitman, Davis,

& Davidson, 2016). In fact, 85% of LGBTQ+ students report experiencing verbal harassment,

making this population of students the most vulnerable to school-based harassment (Kosciw,

Greytak, Palmer, & Boesen, 2013).

Students possessing intersectional identities in schools can also be subjected to

microaggressive conduct devaluing their multiple minority statuses, thus exacerbating the

amount of minority stress they experience (Nadal, Whitman, Davis, & Davidson, 2016). Students

possessing intersectional identities may also be subjected to microaggressions by members of

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one of their own shared minority groups because their other intersectional identities deviate from

the expectations of their shared racial group, for example, and/or they may be subjected to

microaggressive comment for one identity that perpetrators perceive as in direct conflict with

their other intersecting identities—leaving the target in a no-win situation.

Haberman (1991) terms a “pedagogy of poverty”- likely in urban schools and

communities of color - based on rote memorization, drill and kill strategies, banking concept of

education, teacher-centered, highly rigid and structured, rife with low expectations. This

pedagogy is the direct inverse of what Ladson-Billings (1994) deems “culturally relevant

teaching,” or “. . . teaching about questioning (and preparing students to question) the structural

inequality, the racism, and the injustice that exist in society” (p. 18). According to Smith, Hung,

and Franklin (2011), People of Color “continue to be viewed as outsiders and treated in

stereotypic and racist ways” (p. 64). They speak of Black males in particular having to “spend

mental energy considering whether they are genuinely accepted or just being tolerated. . .

discerning the difference between individually supportive Whites and destructive actions by

Whites as a collective. . . [and] confront additional and unique race-based stress identifying

when, where, and how to resist oppression, versus when, where, and how to accommodate to it”

(pp. 65-66). According to Harris Combs (2016), “The master narrative of colorblindness does

not serve the interests of People of Color, and it serves to silence and reject their epistemologies”

(p. 160).

Teaching and Teacher Education

Just as our K-12 education system has been whitewashed (Sandoval, Ratcliff, Buenavista,

& Martin, 2016), so too have our teacher education programs. Nieto (2010) argues that teacher

education programs, “notorious for their homogeneity” screen out candidates of color, “Because

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of their cultural uniformity, and unless there are conscious strategies to the contrary, preservice

programs often serve as a mechanism for reproducing negative and racist attitudes and beliefs

that later get translated into teaching approaches that continue to create inequitable education”

(pp. 61-62). Thus, teacher candidates, untrained and unprepared to question the status quo, are

unprepared to teach their Students of Color in an emancipatory way, for full democratic

participation and possibility (Loewen, 2010). Instead, teacher education programs prepare

teacher candidates to teach Students of Color only for assimilation to the status quo, which

necessitates deculturalization (Spring, 2013), including the destruction of native and home

languages, and cultures.

The whitewashing of teacher education not only involves the chosen curriculum as

master narrative and the candidates who are recruited and admitted into teacher education

programs (read White), but also candidate expectations for Students of Color that are cultivated

within said programs; this act of whitewashing results in a perpetual non-questioning of these

ideological uncritical and harmful practices. According to Nieto (2010), “For. . . White students,

the teachers thought of success as academic excellence, whereas for their African American

students, especially those perceived to be discipline problems, success was defined as ‘feeling

good about school, adjusting to rules and expectations, having positive interactions with adults,

and attaining a sense of belonging’” (pp. 117-118). Likewise, Loewen (2010) found with

regularity that practicing teachers expected White students to succeed and Black students to fail

regardless of social class.

Despite the above noted issues within teacher education, there are critical pedagogues

working to dismantle institutional structures that are harmful to scholars possessing non-

hegemonic statuses as well as institutional structures within K-12 schools operating from deficit

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mindsets, and thereby harming, i.e., spirit murdering, the students who attend them. According to

Paris (2012), “Deficit approaches. . . [view]. . . the languages, literacies, and cultural ways of

being of many students and communities of color as deficiencies to be overcome in learning the

demanded and legitimized dominant language, literacy, and cultural ways of schooling” (p. 93).

In sum, there are uncritical and apolitical aspects of the field of education: teachers who attempt

to indoctrinate their students to assimilate into traditional American culture, understanding little

else, disciplining and punishing those students who do not abide, while not seeing any of their

actions as political, problematic, or controversial. Within the field of teacher education, scholars

must not only critique, but also dismantle the deficit approaches that serve to undermine non-

hegemonic students.

As Britzman (2003) argues, “The problem of conformity in teacher education stems in

part from its emphasis on training” (p. 46). As a field, we are not collectively focused on

knowledge creation per se, or on critical analysis of schools and institutions and the culturally

irresponsive individual and systemic practices that occur within, but rather on the practitioner

aspects of the field, e.g., writing proper lesson plans and objectives, following state and national

standards, and practicing classroom management. If we want our teachers to do better for our

non-hegemonic students, then we too must be better. The unexamined problem of Whiteness has

much to do with this lack of examination. According to Matias (2016):

Whiteness then sets the prevailing context for which US teacher education exists and

operates. The context of white-teacher-as-savior is aligned with the teachers’

psychosocial experiences with race and whiteness despite their lack of diverse racial and

socioeconomic upbringing. Many of my teacher candidates have explained that their

desire to become an urban-focused teacher hinges on their privilege of whiteness, and

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thus feel the “need to give back.” Yet nearly all cannot articulate why: what makes them

feel compelled or guilty enough to give back? What racialized processes have they

undergone that leads them to believe they are apt to teach urban students of color? And,

most importantly, how will this impact urban students of color? (p. 231)

There are many problems with this unexamined “White savior” complex. Why do these

students, still in the process of completing their teacher education programs, think they have

anything to “give back” yet? Do White teacher candidates in their early 20s, with little to no

knowledge of urban communities of color, view these urban Students of Color and their families

from such a deficit perspective that they believe they can contribute anything? Do they say such

things about suburban schools? Would they even begin to know how to critique the harmful

institutional practices that exist in many urban schools—where students have lower expectations

placed upon them because of racial prejudice, implicit bias, and zip code? Most teacher

education programs do not prepare White students to engage in such critical conversations.

The notion of caring is prominent within teacher education and K-12 teaching, but it is a

concept that is not critically examined or theorized, and often lacks the quality of authentic

caring for historically marginalized students because it lacks the component of action and an

underlying un-examination of racial bias. As teacher educators, we must become comfortable

with this discomfort, to challenge our pre-service teachers (most of whom are White) to examine

their racial and cultural biases. Matias and Zembylas (2014) delve into the concept of caring as a

mask to hide White racial animus, stating that “declarations of caring and empathy are often

empty or inauthentic, because they fail to be accompanied by action... such expressions of caring

fail to recognize how they are embedded in modalities of racism and social inequality that are

perpetuated by assuming that declarations of caring are enough to alleviate the other’s suffering”

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(p. 321 - 322). Racial pity and disgust on the part of White teacher candidates and White

teachers are directly connected to low academic expectations and deficit thinking about Students

of Color, their families, and their communities, which, in turn, can cause stereotype threat and

internalized racial stereotypes.

Case Study: An Invitation to Speak at an Urban Charter School

As a former K-12 teacher and now a teacher educator, I was recently invited to an urban

charter school to provide a guest lecture for a class of fifth-graders. I was informed that at this

charter school, all curriculum had been suspended so that teachers could focus on “character

education.” Abrasive, aggressive, disrespectful, loud were some of the words the teacher used to

describe his students prior to my visit.

I was invited to give a lesson on “character education” to these students, but I was not

going to do that. I was informed that these children “did not know how to behave,” and that the

teachers were attempting to inspire the students to be “good people.” My initial reaction was

shock and anger. I suspected that it was the teachers who needed education, and not the students.

I planned a lesson for what I thought would be appropriate for a fifth-grade classroom, including

viewing Dr. Bettina Love’s TED on Hip Hop, Grit and Academic Success, some discussion of

culturally responsive schools, a writing prompt, and ending with a creative expression exercise

on student culture. I suspected that I would not have any behavior problems. I was right.

After introducing myself to these students, all African American, and one international

student of Middle Eastern descent, I asked students what they thought I wanted them to do while

watching the movie. They answered, “Be quiet!” I responded, “Yes, but that was not what I was

thinking. What else?” They answered, “Stay in our seats!” I stated, “Okay, but also not what I

was thinking.” They responded a few more times with behavioral expectations, but finally they

18

stated, “Take notes!” I said, “Yes, exactly. Please write down anything important that you hear in

the film.” As I walked around during the film, I noticed a very small boy struggling to write with

a marker. I asked him, “Would you like a pencil to write with?” He responded, “Yes, I would

love a pencil.” I then asked the teacher for a pencil. He replied, “We don’t give them pencils. All

they do is break them and throw them on the floor.” I went to my purse and found a pen to give

the student. He did not attempt to break it, or throw it on the floor.

After the film, I asked the students what Dr. Love argued was the most important thing

about any school. They all answered, “Love!” They were correct, but, unfortunately, this was not

what they were experiencing within their own school. I then asked the students to write one

sentence discussing the most important aspect of the film in their estimation. The true highlight

of this exercise was when one boy discussed spirit murder, as does Love in her TED Talk. He

said something like, “Sometimes schools can spirit murder their students when they do not value

the students’ cultures.” It was that deep. I am sure the teacher heard this comment, but I am not

sure he was listening.

The students attending this urban charter school were being prepared for a future of

compliance. There was no art or music offered. Their school was situated in a deserted former

strip mall. The students’ playground was the concrete parking lot; their only equipment at recess

was a lone basketball hoop, a few jump ropes, and one broken hula hoop. On my way out of the

classroom, I noticed a list of rules written on the whiteboard, most of which I broke without even

realizing it:

1. Getting out of seat

2. Talking (noise)

3. Saying rude things to each other—shut up, gay, bald, etc.

4. Disrespect to adults—back talk, smack lips, roll eyes

5. Yelling!

6. Leaving room without permission

19

7. Dancing in or out of seat

8. Leaning/tipping chair or desk backwards, forwards, sideways

9. No sharing food

The first principle of the hidden curriculum of this school is that the students are not

worthy or capable of learning content because they needed to learn first “how to behave.” The

culture within the White teaching staff did not see any contradiction between their expectations

for these children, and what they would expect and demand for their own—but they saw

themselves as “nice” and “good” people, so the problems within the school could not have

anything to do with them. These students were experiencing racial microaggressions from their

teachers in the form of low expectations and stereotypes, which have serious impact not only on

learning, but also on the mental health of students (Nadal, Griffin, Wong, Hamit, & Rasmus,

2014). The suspension of a formal curriculum in place of behavior and character education, is an

extreme form of violence perpetrated upon these students. The second principle of the hidden

curriculum of this school was that these students did not act in ways that they were supposed to

act, according to White middle-class values.

At the end of my visit that day, I toured the school. I visited a K-first grade classroom,

and stood at the door. The door was open, and tiny children approached me, interested in who I

was. “I like your earrings,” was a comment that I remember. These children were curious and

alert, but I was taken aback by the White teacher in the room, the only White presence, yelling at

the children to “sit still,” and “stay in your chairs”; she shouted that she would call their parents

and that they were “on red.” I could not fathom how this White woman could yell at these

children. I again witnessed racialized microaggressions in the classroom. These teachers’ low

expectations for students will only lead to negative academic consequences for these students.

20

These students were not viewed as children and rather were viewed as “little criminals,”

who were in need of discipline as opposed to education. I witnessed dehumanization,

criminalization, and an attempt at control. I hypothesize that these students experience a silent

form of racial battle fatigue because of their treatment in the school including frustration,

hopeless, anger, which can result in real health challenges and behavioral responses. Upon taking

my leave of this urban charter school, I implored my host to not fight the battle of the pencil, but

to provide students what they need to learn. I attempted to make the connection between

culturally responsive curriculum and students success, but I am not sure if they were equipped to

hear me. I am not sure that my noted devastation at the realities of this Apartheid school was

taken into consideration.

Conclusions

Although public schools are the best hope we have to educate the most students of all

identities, teachers and teacher educators can and must do better. If my case study is any

indication of what can occur in schools when people are watching, microaggressions perpetrated

upon students, which can lead to the associated phenomenon of stereotype threat and racial battle

fatigue, what happens when no one is watching? We must do better. We must do better in

recruiting Teachers of Color. We must do better to create culturally responsive curriculums both

in higher education and in K-12 schools, i.e., curriculums that are not whitewashed: devoid of

the history of claims of racial superiority by Whites, and the dismantling of indigenous and

cultural languages and histories of various peoples living inside and outside of the contiguous

United States.

Previous research has suggested that not only are disciplinary techniques negatively

associated with educational outcomes, but also, they are inequitably levied toward Students of

21

Color (Casella, 2003; Lewis, Butler, Bonner, & Jubert, 2010; Monroe, 2005; Perry & Morris,

2014; Skiba, Michael, Nardo, & Peterson, 2002). Is the problem that most teachers are White,

and unaccustomed to working with populations different from them? Is it that they are operating

from stereotyped notions of their students and thus deficit thinking? Can White teachers be

prepared to work in culturally diverse settings? According to Milner (2006; 2008), for teachers to

be prepared to work in diverse settings, they must be well versed in the following areas: cultural

and racial awareness, critical reflection, and the merging of theory and practice. They must also

be committed to defying the notion that lack of student success, particularly in urban schools, is

the fault of students, their parents, their home cultures, and their communities. To this end, we

must advocate for teacher education programs that challenge and confront the dominant social

order (Bolotin Joseph, Luster Bravmann, Windschitl, Mikel, & Stewart Green, 2000). Although

this work is difficult and White students may tend to resist it (Martin, 2015; Milner, 2013), we

have no other choice.

Teacher educators must advocate for asset perspectives when viewing all students in their

respective communities: tapping into students’ prior cultural knowledge when teaching new

knowledge can help to establish dynamic mental models that network to the learners’ existing

schema, adding meaning to the new knowledge for the learner (Griner & Stewart, 2012; Moll,

Amanti, Neff, & González, 1992). As teacher educators, we must provide our future educators

with mindsets, dispositions, and practices aimed at closing opportunity gaps for all students, but

for Students of Color in particular.

22

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More than an English language learner: testimonios of immigrant high school students

Estrella Olivares-Orellana

To cite this article: Estrella Olivares-Orellana (2020) More than an English language learner: testimonios of immigrant high school students, Bilingual Research Journal, 43:1, 71-91, DOI: 10.1080/15235882.2019.1711463

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More than an English language learner: testimonios of immigrant high school students Estrella Olivares-Orellana

Columbia University

ABSTRACT This article examines immigrant students’ stories through the documentation of their testimonios. Given the high number of immigrant students in public schools, it is imperative for teachers and teacher educators to have an idea of their perspectives, experiences, and identities. In educational settings, testimo- nios have the ability to unsettle power dynamics and position students as knowers. This exploration answers questions Lin Goodwin posed seventeen years ago and felt the need to engage again in 2017. Some of those questions are “What, if anything, is different in terms of who is in the classroom now? Are teachers any more prepared to work with immigrant children? Immigration and immigrants are indelibly woven into the fabric of American history, so any discussion about the education of immigrant children is embedded in an ongoing socio-historical conversation. This article explores the stories of a small group of immigrant students attending high schools in Long Island, a New York suburb that receives large numbers of Central American immigrant youth. Adequately understanding and attending to the unique realities of students with diverse backgrounds is a significant duty, yet a necessary one in order to serve students properly.

Introduction

Essential to the effectiveness of education and the establishment of positive schooling practices for both students and teachers is an understanding of who today’s students are and what experiences they bring into our classrooms. With that in mind and considering the growing numbers of newcomer students and unaccompanied minors arriving as adolescents (Sugarman, 2015), this article explores the testimonios of a small group of immigrant high school youth. Testimonios are personal stories usually told by a person from a marginalized group in society to someone who can write them down and disseminate them (Prieto & Villenas, 2012). The purpose of this exploration is to call attention to the identities and understandings of some of the students in our classrooms today and to help educators better comprehend immigrant students’ experiences. In 2002, Lin Goodwin, wrote an article that examined teacher preparation in light of changing demographics as a result of increased immigration. Goodwin (2002) highlighted key issues to be considered when preparing teachers to work effectively with immigrant children. At the time, Census data indicated that America was becoming more and more diverse, which she stipulated would have a dramatic effect on schools (Goodwin, 2002). This effect, she stated, was juxtaposed against decreasing diversity on the teaching force. Teachers of color constituted 10% of the teaching force (Cochran-Smith, 2000). Additionally, Goodwin’s article reported that many teachers joining the profession demonstrated

CONTACT Estrella Olivares-Orellana [email protected] Bilingual/Bicultural Education Program, Teachers College, Columbia University, 525 West 120th Street, New York, NY 10027 Dr. Estrella Olivares-Orellana is an Adjunct Assistant Professor at Teachers College, Columbia University with extensive experience as a bilingual science educator. Her interests are in the areas of bilingual/bicultural education, science education in bilingual settings, classroom practices for the success of multilingual learners, and the academic experiences of immigrant youth. © 2020 the National Association for Bilingual Education

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parochial attitudes and articulated a preference for teaching children like themselves in environ- ments they felt familiar with. Furthermore, Goodwin found that while there was growing literature and research on preparing teachers for diverse settings, (such as multicultural teacher education, the development of culturally relevant teachers, educating teachers to work with English language learners, urban education, etc.), there were no such efforts for preparing teachers to work with immigrant children (2002). The focus, if any, was on teaching strategies for English language learners. However, the article stressed the many reasons why understanding the specific needs of immigrant children goes beyond English language support and the fallacy of lumping immigrant children with English language learners for education purposes, given that many in the latter group are actually native-born U.S. citizens. Furthermore, Goodwin stated that

most of the literature that focuses on teacher preparation for the success and achievement of children of color fails to explicitly frame immigrant children as a group that exhibits particular issues and needs. As a consequence, immigrant children are rendered invisible when they are subsumed under these broad and inclusive labels (p. 161).

Goodwin further elaborates stating that immigrants and their offspring bring exceptional experiences to schools whose close analysis and understandingmust become part of the teacher education curriculum and discourse if teachers are to be effectively prepared to teach students who are immigrants.

Fifteen years later, in 2017, Lin Goodwin revisits her 2002 article by asking who is in the classroom now and reexamining teacher preparation in light of continued demographic changes as a result of increased immigration. Goodwin’s rationale for engaging in the same examination more than a decade and a half later is that she finds herself asking similar questions to the ones that prompted her 2002 article and not having clear answers:

What, if anything, is different in terms of who is in the classroom now? Are teachers any more prepared to work with immigrant children? Have the issues facing immigrant children and their families changed? How is the world different and what does that difference mean for education? In what ways have educators been full participants in that conversation? Have we done the right thing? (p. 434)

Goodwin (2017) attempts to address teacher preparation for newcomers entering U.S. classrooms today. She discusses 2012 U.S. Census data which indicates that while most immigrants continue to gravitate to four states, California, Texas, New York, and New Jersey, a total of 14 states show immigrant population percentages that are higher than the national average, with immigrants accounting for almost a third of the overall population growth in the suburbs from 2000 to 2009. These numbers suggest that “many more communities are experiencing demographics shifts for which they are not prepared and integrating newcomers of whom they have little knowledge or understanding” (p. 435).

In this new article, Goodwin addresses what has and has not changed about who is in the classroom now.Among the factors that have changed is the increasing number of immigrant childrenwhose status is uncertain, including the large numbers of unaccompaniedminors entering the country. According to the American Immigration Council (2015b), from October 2013 to September 2014, over 67,000 unaccom- panied minors from Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador, and Mexico were detained entering the south- west U.S. border. This implies that school districts in various parts of the country “are facing large numbers of students who are entitled to schooling and who will require academic supports and curriculum responsive to their experiences and needs” (Goodwin, 2017, p. 436).

Furthermore, Goodwin (2017) reminds us that considering the turbulent political climate, this invisibility of immigrants in schools should be even more troubling to those in the field of education. She closes by proposing for teacher preparation curriculum to explicitly and deliberately address immigrant children, their families/communities, and their schooling and for teacher educators and teacher candidates to learn to look for the invisible, to notice who or what is missing, to develop a critical consciousness through reflection and action, what Paulo Freire (1968) refers to as conscientização. Finally, Goodwin suggests that “teachers – new or in preparation – become advocates for immigrant children who are instantly racialized and minoritized when they enter the United States, and its systems of institutionalized oppression and marginalization” (p. 445).

72 E. OLIVARES-ORELLANA

Other scholars who research the education of children for whom English is not a first language have too, revisited previous work in an effort to stress the ways in which our education system, specifically teachers of immigrants, could be doing better by our multilingual learners. Fillmore and Snow (2018) revisited their 2000 “What Teachers Need to Know about Language” contribu- tion emphasizing the importance of teachers as significant agents of socialization who must foster students’ developing academic identities. Additionally, they expand on their previous writing (2000) which explained that many of the challenges we face in education stem from the fact that teachers have not always known how to confront the differences and diverse outlooks, languages, cultural beliefs and behaviors they encounter in their classrooms. As they did in 2000, they end with calling for effective teacher training with approaches that deepen pre-teachers’ knowledge about students and learning.

Recent events occurring at the U.S. border, where allegedly large numbers of immigrants seeking refuge are being held captive in unacceptable living conditions for long periods of time and children are being separated from their families (Khullar & Chokshi, 2019), coupled with the knowledge that immigrant children have just as much right to a free public education as U.S. citizen children (Plyler v. Doe, 1982), we have a duty to do better and prepare teachers with the right tools to serve all students well. This article accepts Goodwin’s (2017) invitation to explicitly and deliberately address immigrant children, their families/communities, and their schooling and to look for the invisible. It renders students’ perspectives to help us challenge the impact of our assumptions. Teachers and teacher educators must be aware of the stories, experi- ences, and identities of many of the students in American classrooms today. Adequately under- standing and attending to the unique experiences of students with diverse backgrounds is a significant undertaking, yet a necessary one in order to improve the conditions under which our children are educated and prevent the early exit of so many immigrant high school students. There are many factors contributing to the reasons why high school students leave schools before attaining graduation requirements that are beyond educators’ control; however, teacher education programs must make an effort to prepare teachers so that the factors educators can control, such as understanding students, providing realistic pathways for academic success, and creating an envir- onment in which they feel welcomed and cared for, are present and cultivated.

Methodologically, testimonios give voice to the silenced, represent the other, reclaim authority to narrate, and disentangle questions concerning legitimate truth (Delgado Bernal, Burciaga, & Flores Carmona, 2012). With this article, I don’t intend to give students a voice, for they have one, rather I want to create opportunities to learn from their perspectives and make these accessible and audible to a wider audience. The testimonios offered here were documented as part of a larger investigation that sought to explore newcomer students’ perspectives on their school program placement and academic identity formation as a result. That investigation examined the testimonios of students from two public high schools located in Long Island, New York. The two schools attended by the participants of that investigation serve populations of similar socioeconomic status, as indicated by public school records, one from each of the eastern suburban counties: Nassau County and Suffolk County. According to the Office of the New York State Comptroller (2016), from 2010 to 2015, a net of 5.3 million people migrated to the United States from other countries and Puerto Rico. About 631,000 of those immigrants, settled in New York. Most of the net international migration to New York was to the State’s metropolitan areas, with almost 75 percent, or 452,000 occurring in New York City. During those years, the majority of immigrants who settled outside of New York City did so in these two Long Island Counties.

Many studies about urban youth have confirmed the importance of including the voices and perspectives of young people in research about them rather than relying on observations made by outsiders (Lukes, 2015). With that in mind, and in light of our immigration drifts to Long Island, this article offers immigrant students’ perspectives in an effort to better prepare many teachers for understanding some of the students in their classrooms.

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Challenging dominant notions of legitimate knowledge

The analysis of the testimonios presented here is framed with a Chicana/Latina feminist epistemology, which focuses on the ways Chicanas/Latinas teach, learn, live and balance systems of oppressions (Delgado Bernal, 2001). It challenges dominant conceptions and productions of theory, knowledge and pedagogy (Saavedra, 2011). In presenting students’ testimonios, I propose we accept their experiences as legitimate knowledge. The unsuitable education of many minorities, marginalized, and immigrant students is the result of an education system that fails to recognize and embrace students’ experiences and ways of understanding the world and their ideas of teaching and learning (Delgado Bernal, Elenes, Godinez, & Villenas, 2006; Saavedra, 2011). Students whose testimonios are presented in this article are immigrant students who bring varied educational experiences. Many of them have been classified as academically deficient students as a result of being compared to a standard proposed by an education system to which they have not belonged. In New York State, new arrival students are assessed by school officials following an ELL Screening, Identification, Placement, Review, and Exit Criteria chart that evaluates English language proficiency to label them as ELL or not ELL, and academic experience to determine the student’s literacy and math level (NYSED, 2015). Only knowledge of mathematics and English language proficiency is evaluated and considered. As Ford and Grantham (2003) articulate, this type of deficit perspective weakens expectations for students and hinders educators’ capacities to identify the various forms in which giftedness may appear. Furthermore, teachers who are unable to draw from the social and political knowledge newcomer students bring into the classroom may be losing valuable learning opportunities (Fránquiz & Salinas, 2011). In essence, this article calls for a shift from deficit to resource perspectives in the education of immigrant students. Resource-oriented perspectives have the ability to challenge deficit understandings of immigrant students and offer more fruitful and promising possibilities for the education of these newcomer students (Kibler, Bunch, & Endris, 2011). In framing the exploration of their testimonioswithin a Chicana/Latina epistemological framework, I intend tomake immigrant students part of the conversation so that the knowledge stemming from their testimoniosmay be utilized when designing pedagogical practices to serve them. In presenting students’ testimonios, I seek to shift power dynamics and make students the knowledge providers that inform educators about their experiences. With this article, I challenge the invisibility and irrelevancy of many immigrant students in American schools today.

In a state of double transition

Immigrant students who have experienced deeply wounding immigration experiences often draw strength from their border crossing experiences to deal with the challenges of acculturating to their new space. As Anzaldúa (1987) explains, “borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them” (p. 25). Thinking in terms of borders allows us to analytically examine how immigrant students make sense of their place in American schools and consider the beliefs at play when only the voices of those in power prevail in education.

The process of migration can be disruptive to the families of those involved. Families may migrate in a “stepwise” fashion, with one or two members at a time (Suárez-Orozco, Suárez-Orozco, & Todorova, 2008). One parent may migrate first, leaving their child or children in the care of the other parent, or both parents may migrate together first, leaving children with friends or relatives until they are ready to send for them. According to Suárez-Orozco et al. (2008), such migration separations “result in two sets of disruptions in emotional attachments for the children- first from the parent, and then from the caregiver to whom the child has become attached during their parent- child separation” (p. 57). These emotional disruptions may impact students’ relationship to new educational spaces as well as new educators. While these youth used to miss their parents when their parents had left them to look for a better future in the United States, they now miss the caregivers they have left behind to reunite with their parents. Immigrant youth are constantly missing someone, somewhere (Suárez-Orozco et al., 2008).

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It can be said that newcomer immigrant youth are suffering a double transition. One transition is that of any adolescent: the transitional stage of emotional, mental, and physical human development that takes place at that age. The second transition is that of moving and finding a place in a new country. They are in every sense of the word, in the midst of transformation. They live in what Gloria Anzaldúa calls nepantla, a Nahuatl word meaning “in-between space.” Anzaldúa implemented this term to represent points of potential transformation. In her Interviews/Entrevistas, she explains that the nepantla paradigm theorizes unexplored dimensions of the experiences of those living in between overlapping and layered spaces of different cultures as well as social and geographic locations and realities.Nepantla, as Prieto and Villenas (2012) explain, is a space of in-betweenness, transformation, frustration, discomfort, and spontaneous ways of adjusting and learning. It is a place where transformation can take place because it has magic and a potential for magic. As a consequence of this potential for magic, nepantla has agency, therefore anything can happen (Cortez, 2001). For newcomer immigrant youth in U.S. schools, nepantla signifies the navigation between different worlds, the discovery of place and identity, and the agency that flourishes through that discovery.

Unfortunately, Suárez-Orozco et al.’s (2008) study, which focused exclusively on the experiences of recently arrived foreign-born youth, revealed thatmost newcomer immigrant students attended less than optimal schools. In fact, most of the children in their five-year longitudinal study “attended schools that not only obstructed learning and engagement but also were, in many ways, toxic to healthy learning and development. Rather than providing fields of opportunity, all too many were fields of endangerment” (p. 89). A recent qualitative study that examined teacher assignment and access of immigrant youth to academic content courses in California, explains that the nature of contact between teachers and immigrant students is framed and limited by language classifications thereby reducing their educational opportunities (Dabach, 2015). This study also found that educators with less teaching experience and less proven positive outcomes are more likely assigned to content courses where English language learners are placed unless a more senior teacher requested the assignment. Therefore, the conditions under which many newcomer immigrant youths are schooled in the United States exacerbate their state of transition and transformation. Newcomer immigrant youth often suffer “triple segregation”, which is by color, socio-economic status, and linguistic ability. As Suárez-Orozco et al. (2008) elaborate, these types of segregation have proven to be unavoidably linked to negative educational consequences, such as low and academic performance, reduced school resources, lower achievement, greater school violence, and higher dropout rates.

Research by González, Plata, García, Torres, and Urrieta (2003) demonstrates that the intricacy of an immigrant identity as a child, especially that of an undocumented child is often overlooked. However, the experiences of immigrant students can significantly impact their relation to school once in the United States. Immigrant students entering U.S. schools in their adolescent years have often made the journey from their countries alone and have recently joined parents who left them as young children, or other relatives with whom a close bond has yet to be established. Immigrant youth undergo “profound shifts in their sense of self and often struggle to negotiate changing circumstances in their relationships with parents and peers” (Suárez-Orozco et al., 2008, p. 44). Moreover, for those students of undocumented status, the experience of crossing the border can be emotionally and physically upsetting, yet students are forced to leave those sentiments aside in order to deal with the more pressing issue of adjusting to a new schooling environment while also settling in with a new family, sometimes composed of estranged relatives. In presenting the testimonios of immigrant students, many of whom may be undocumented, this article seeks to bring attention to their experiences in order to inform our practice and provide more welcoming environments.

Testimonios as pedagogy

The use of student testimonios can prove to be a valuable tool for educators. González et al. (2003) urge that “testimonios be used as pedagogy, especially to educate future teachers and to raise the consciousness of people who do not have sympathy for immigrants, especially immigrant children,

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as they encounter an unfriendly and often hostile educational system” (p. 233). DeNicolo, González, Morales, and Romaní (2015) utilized testimonios to examine the ways in which students’ cultural and linguistic knowledge becomes visible when they reflect on their lives, in and outside of school, through personal narratives in the classroom. They found that testimonios can be a successful pedagogical tool to help students recognize their individual and collective community cultural wealth and use it in the elementary classroom. Taking inspiration from Paulo Freire’s (1968) concept of conscientização, “the deepening of the attitude of awareness” (p. 109), the testimonios presented here can prove to be useful to educators interested in better understanding students with diverse back- grounds and educational experiences. While these testimonios may be accounts made by a few participants, they may represent the voices of many whose lives have been affected by a particular social event (Blackmer Reyes & Curry Rodríguez, 2012).

Incipient from Latin America, testimonios consist of life stories usually told by a person from a marginalized group in society to someone who can write them down and disseminate them (Prieto & Villenas, 2012).Testimonios call for change, which in turn, calls for action. It is what Jara andVidal (1986) have called a “narración de urgencia” (urgent narratives) because in order to provide effective and equitable educational programs, educators must value the importance of understanding the experiences and knowledges students bring to schools. Testimonio is a form of expression born out of intense repression or struggle, where the testimoniante tells a lived story to someone who then transcribes, edits, translates, and publishes the text in an effort to recover subjugated knowledges to theorize oppres- sion, resistance, and subjectivity (Latina Feminist Group, 2001) and take this knowledge to a larger audience bringing awareness to conditions faced by oppressed peoples (Saavedra, 2011).

Positionality

Before researcher, teacher and teacher educator, I am an immigrant. I arrived to the U.S. at the age of 18, undocumented, and with knowledge of a handful of words in English. Navigating an unknown education systemwith an unknown language is not a foreign concept tome. It is an ever-present part ofmy identity. It is probably the principle reason behind my interest in the experiences of immigrant youth, and my desire to explore the ways in which immigrant youth are schooled and positioned in the United States. I cannot underestimate the impact of that reality on the explorations I undertake inmy research. Of equal significance, is the fact that, while I happen to share that background with the participants, the similarities end there. Being an immigrant does not make anyone an authority or a knower of all immigrants’ stories. Stories are unique and belong to their storyteller. As the researcher, my role in this study was to document and explore the testimonios of this particular group of immigrant students. Throughout the duration of this study, I remained particularly cautious and attentive to continue to seek out my subjectivities. In the words of Peshkin (1988), “[b]y monitoring myself, I can create an illuminating, empowering personal statement that attunes me to where self and subject are intertwined” (p. 20). Furthermore, I remained aware of my role as “advocate and partner” (Fontana & Frey, 2005) in addition to that of sole researcher, thereby focusing on those facets of the data that allowed me to better comprehend students’ message.

This is where the cultural intuition aspect of Chicana/Latina feminist epistemology played an important role. It was imperative that I acknowledged the power of my presence in the research process. While conducting this research, I was attentive to the intersections between my experiences, my pedagogy, and my academic life. As Saavedra (2011) urges us, we must acknowledge our own positionality, “excavate our privilege, our marginalization, our language and cultural borderlands, and how we can connect with our students in authentic ways” (p. 265).

One of the communal goals of testimonio is to name oppression and to arrest its actions of marginalization. Thus, testimonio is not to be kept secret but requires active participatory readers or listeners who act on behalf of the speaker in an effort to arrive at justice and redemption (Blackmer Reyes & Curry Rodríguez, 2012). However, some may argue that testimonio, is a socially constructed representation, without a universal standard of truth (Kohl & Farthing, 2013). It can be said that

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testimonio is an interpretation created by the researcher, and as such, it may lack some validity. I recognize my positionality and remain cognizant of the fact that the interlocutor’s interaction with the storyteller has an impact on the way the story is told (Sommer, 1995). These testimonios were co- constructed, and I cannot deny that my presence as a teacher, a teacher educator, and the researcher documenting these stories certainly impacted their direction. As explained by Hinterberger (2005), feminist researchers and theorists are concerned with both speaking for and representing others, therefore, the production of knowledge and power are directly connected to ethical and political issues of representation. Consequently, “transforming power relations and improving the material conditions of people’s lives is complicated by the contradictory and difficult problems of represent- ing the subjectivities and identities of ‘others’” (p. 74). In order to attend to critiques of appropria- tion, interpretation of voice, and misrepresentation, I invited students to collaborate in the process of analyzing their own testimonios to remain as true to their stories and perspectives as possible, never forgetting the power of my presence as someone from the outside seeking a story.

It was vital that I, as the researcher, reflected on the purpose and use of this research as it was taking place. It was equally important to pay close attention to how the participants’ stories were approached and interpreted (Delgado Bernal, 1998). When researchers write about the experiences of a group to which they do not belong, they must reflect on the ethics of their actions, and consider whether or not their work will be used to perpetuate domination (hooks, 1989). Consequently, I remained cognizant of my intentions to shift these students’ position away from that of subjects of research and toward the position of knowledge producers.

Testimoniantes

In this article, I present the testimonios of four newcomer high school students. Asmentioned previously, these testimonios were documented as part of a larger investigation that examined the perspectives of students in relation to their school placement. The participants of that larger study had been classified as students with interrupted formal education (SIFE) by two public high schools (referred to as sites A and B here) serving similar populations located in Long Island, New York. The New York State Education Department (NYSED) defines SIFE as students who come from a home in which a language other than English is spoken and: (1) enter a U.S. school after the second grade; (2) have had a two year educational gap; (3) function two years below grade level in reading andmath; and (4) may be preliterate in their first language (Advocates for Children of New York, 2010). Table 1 specifies participants’ ages and school attended. All the testimoniantes are originally from El Salvador; however, this was not intentional. Salvadoran students make up a large percentage of immigrant youth attending schools in Long Island. While students from other countries were invited to participate in the larger study for which these testimonioswere documented, those who ultimately agreed to take part in the investigation happen to be exclusively from El Salvador. Pseudonyms were used to protect their identity.

While no single country of origin dominates among immigrants to Long Island, El Salvador makes up the largest share (Kallick, 2010). In the 1980s, El Salvador suffered a bitter and violent civil war, sparked by gross inequality between a small wealthy elite, which dominated the government and the economy, and the majority of the population, which lived in poverty. In 1992, with the help of the United Nations’ ONUSAL (United Nations Observer Mission in El Salvador), and after pro- longed negotiations, the opposing sides signed a peace agreement, which put an end to the civil war

Table 1. Testimoniantes.

Participant Age School Attended

Karla 15 Site A Henry 18 Site A Raul 16 Site B María 17 Site B

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and allowed the former guerrillas to form a political party and participate in elections (US Department of State, 2010). As the country began to recover, it was hit by a devastating hurricane in 1998, a large-scale earthquake in 2001, and two concurrent natural disasters in 2005, the severe flooding and landslides caused by Tropical Storm Stan and the eruption of the Santa Ana volcano, which affected approximately half of the country, displacing more than 26,000 people (USAID, 2009). Additionally, a wave of violence under the hand of street gangs, known as “maras”, has plagued El Salvador in recent decades. This represents an added challenge for this small and highly populated country. Maras operate in the major cities and also in some rural communities (Alas, 2000). One of the most notorious gangs in the world is Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, which is said to have originated just decades ago among the Salvadorian immigrant community of Los Angeles, and later exported to El Salvador when U.S. authorities began deporting gang members. The exportation of L.A. gang culture to a country rife with weapons from civil war sparked a boom in vicious gang- related crime (Fabricius, 2010).

These challenges, in addition to the expected possibility of employment, have made international migration a very worthwhile alternative. International migration has modified the national economy of El Salvador, as well as the lifestyles of rural households (Kandel, 2002). According to Kandel, as it is with the students participating in this study and some of their parents, young and mid-age adults make up the majority of the migrants. Although family members left behind, including many children left under the care of relatives, are “considered to be better off as a result of remittances allowing them to improve access to social services including health and education” (D’Emilio et al., 2007, p. V), there is a high price being paid by family structures. According to Canetti et al. (2000), separation from parents can be more damaging to the mental health of children than the death of a parent. While the original decision driving the migration is a search for a better life, the prolonged separation of children from their parents, due to strict immigration laws, has serious impacts on the lives and childhoods of the children left behind (Horton, 2008). As expressed by the testimonios shared here, the disintegration of the family structure is considered a major consequence of this migration wave.

Data collection and methods

During the larger investigation, for which these testimonios were documented, I started the con- versations using a tentative list of questions that stemmed from the research questions framing that research. We discussed the inclusion of artifacts such as drawings, pictures, journals, audio- recordings, videos, etc. to facilitate their story-telling process. I gave students a notebook and suggested they continue telling me stories in writing, once the interview ended. Three of the participants wrote in these notebooks. Based on the conversations that took place during the first interview, we met one more time individually. Students who had chosen to write on their notebooks, shared them at this second meeting. From the information shared at this subsequent meeting, a focus group was created to share common threads.

Testimonios are important multifaceted approaches to educational research (Blackmer Reyes & Curry Rodríguez, 2012). I collected these students’ testimonios in different ways. I recorded inter- views or conversations twice individually and once collectively with the participants. The questions framing the individual interviews were aimed at eliciting testimonios that would help answer the research questions the larger study sought to answer. We discussed topics such as their academic experiences prior to arriving to the U.S.; their experiences upon arriving and being placed in the SIFE program; the meaning of their classification to them; their relationships with other students; the impact of this classification and placement in a particular SIFE program on their academic trajectory; and their future academic goals. Urgent narratives emerged from the students’ testimonios that did not answer research questions. These stories were treated with equal or higher significance as the narratives that addressed research questions. Since I framed this research with a Chicana/Latina feminist epistemology, I was guided by my cultural intuition, without losing site of the fact that I was a mere interlocutor through which the narrators were bringing their situations to the attention of

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academic audiences (Cervantes-Soon, 2012). When recording, transcribing, and translating students’ testimonios, I retained the students’ voice as much as possible; therefore, some transcriptions were left in Spanish in order to preserve their true meaning.

Testimonios

Narratives that relate to these four testimoniantes’ migration and school placement in the United States were documented as testimonios told in the first person by the students taking part in this study. These testimonios are presented here as what Jara and Vidal (1986) call “narraciones de urgencia”, narratives that must be told in order to illuminate the experiences of some of the immigrant youth in many Long Island High Schools. Essential to their validity is the acknowl- edgment that these testimonios have been pieced together from answers to interviews designed to elicit information about schooling experiences and supplemented with narratives written on journals by the testimoniantes. Participants were given complete freedom in terms of the direction and/or topic of their journal writing. The appendix shows an excerpt of original journal writing sample.

Also important is the fact that the testimonios that follow are presented in English although participants spoke and wrote in Spanish. I have translated their words with the exception of terms that have no direct translation, which are explained as they come up. The sections that follow present testimonios arranged by participant. I present the testimonios of four participants of the larger study, two from each site.

Karla: “My 12-year-old aunt raised me”

Karla, a 15-year-old student from site A, discusses being the child of very young parents and having been passed around from relative to relative from a young age until her aunt of only twelve years of age took responsibility for raising her. Ultimately, Karla’s paternal grandmother sent for both of them to move to the United States with her. They were brought by Coyotes (term used by Spanish speaking immigrants to describe undocumented immigrants’ smugglers).

Sadly, I did not grow up with my parents. They were about 14 years old when I was born. I was told my dad left my mom to seek a better future in the United States and be able to help with the cost of raising me. Since my mom was young and alone, she did not know what to do with me so she gave me away to family. They say I spent two years from one relative of my mom’s to another with no one wanting to keep me. My paternal grandmother, who lived in the United States, found out and asked her 12-year-old daughter, Karina, who lived in El Salvador with her father, to take me in until she could send for us. There was too much gang violence in El Salvador for us to stay there safely. So my 12-year-old aunt raised me in since I was about three years old in San Julian Cacaluta, El Salvador. They say I used to call her mom but she was just a girl and told me repeatedly that she was not my mom. I can say I had a happy childhood. My grandmother used to send money so I could attend school. I had what I needed and I was content. One early morning, when I was in 9th grade, I was woken up very early by my aunt. She told me to get up and get dressed; I was very confused. She rushed me to get some clothes because I was leaving with her and her daughter to a city located about three hours called San Miguel. Supposedly, we were going to visit family that had just arrived from the United States. Sometime during that road trip, I found out we were actually going to meet coyotes who would take us to the United States. I started crying inconsolably and thinking Oh my God, I don’t want to leave, I’m going to leave my entire other family, my classmates, my school, everything of my country. I was crying a lot. Well, that was the day my life changed. On one hand, it was fine for me to leave because I would study more and better and I would have a new future, to reach my dream, I was going to the land of opportunities. Well, thank God everything turned out well on the way and we were able to cross and arrived to the United States.

Karla’s journal writing was very detailed and supplemented the interviews with additional informa- tion about her journey. In analyzing journal entries and transcribing interviews with the participants, I noticed how unique each story seemed but also how urgent their situations were. Some of the participants gave only enough information to answer interview questions but others were eager to discuss their journeys in detail. After explaining the reasons for leaving their country, descriptive stories of their voyage followed and the term hieleras was a common denominator. Hieleras is the

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Spanish word for cooler. According to the American Immigration Council (2015a), hielera is “the term commonly used to describe border patrol’s holding cells because of the bone-chilling tempera- tures at which the cells are maintained” and while these cells are designed for short term detention lasting no longer than a few hours, border crossers tell stories of being held in hieleras for days and sometimes weeks. Karla was one of the students who shared her encounter with las hieleras.

Unfortunately, after several sleepless nights missing my family, we were detained by immigration and they asked for our information and everything, then they put us in a car and took us to las hieleras. I remember it was a sunny day. There were lots of people there and they asked us to make a line to take off our bracelets, all of our accessories, even our belts and hairbands and everything; I only kept a sweater I had, which was small and didn’t fit. Then we were told to sit on the floor … We sat there for five hours until they began calling people and taking them somewhere else. They called my aunt and her daughter and my aunt immediately questioned why they had not called me, they told her because I was not her real daughter. I felt horrible. They put them on a bus and took them to another hielera and left me there. I started crying and crying nonstop because I wanted to be with my aunt, and then they took me into these rooms that had more people with small infants, children, young people and elderly people and everything. That place, Oh my God, I regret having gone there. It was so cold that you could not stand it … We were all sleeping on the floors, it was the worst. I had to spend three days there. We were fed bad food … for the three days I was there I did not eat … After three days, they called my name. I thought I would be taken to my grandmother but nothing. They took me to another hielera, where I would spend four more days. I was extremely cold and hungry. On the last day I was there, they called me and told me to give them my grandmother’s number to let her know where I was.

For Karla, as well as for some other participants, these terrible ordeals in las hieleras, were followed by positive experiences that seemed to have caused tremendous happiness, hope, and relief. These happy moments took place when they were moved by immigration officers from las hieleras to shelters for unaccompanied minors. These shelters are referred to as El Hogar.

When I arrived at El Hogar, they gave me a room, food, clothing, shoes, and everything you would have in a normal house. I was finally able to shower and after getting some vaccines I met the other girls and received a welcoming party called La Bienvenida. I felt very happy there. They had a school right there at El Hogar. I was given a placement test and placed in level 3, which was their highest school level. Every day, we were woken up very early to eat and go to school for the whole day. I spent a month there. It was lonely at times. I wanted to be with my family. The day finally came and I was told it was time for me to go live with my grandmother. I was so happy and nervous because I would finally meet her.

As our conversations unfolded, it became evident that for Karla and the other participants, the reunification process was a key event in their migration to the United States.

They told me I would leave at 4:30 in the morning. I was taken to the airport and boarded an airplane, and then another airplane. I was very anxious and just wanted to get there. When I finally got there I saw my aunt Karina, the one who had left El Salvador with me, and then I saw my grandmother for the first time and felt “Oh! My God”, a divine happiness inside of me. I also met my aunt Barbara. It was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I thank God for making it and for allowing me to meet my new family. My first day with them was beautiful. My aunt Barbara showed me around the house and then showed me our room. She told me we would share the bedroom and walk to school together and do many things together. She said we would do everything together and that’s how it was for the first two months until things started to change. We started fighting all the time. We still fight but I still love her. In the end, even though I have had some good and bad experiences, and I know that not all children get to have their parents, and although it feels horrible not to have them, there is nothing I can do about it, I thank God for giving me a beautiful grandmother who loves me and gives me everything I need since I was a small child. I am very grateful to her for everything she has done, for bringing me here, for making me a good child and for helping me go to school and prepare for the future. I ask God to take care of my parents, even though I barely know them and I will keep luchando (fighting) for a better future with the help of my grandmother.

When it came to discussing schooling experiences, Karla’s placement stood out as very interesting. Karla had been classified as a SIFE student by her school. Research suggests that many immigrant teens have experienced interrupted schooling because of poverty, migration journey, or violence in their country of origin (García & Kleifgen, 2010). Karla; however, seemed not to have had any significant schooling interruption other than the time it took her to travel from El Salvador to the US

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I was always in school in El Salvador. I was completing the eighth grade before leaving. School here is very different. At first, I didn’t understand English so I didn’t know what anybody was saying. When I started school here all my classes were called SIFE. I don’t know what that means but I know it’s different. We are separated from the other Spanish speaking students. Some classes feel too easy, like science, but others feel hard like math. I like it here but I would like to be with the other bilingual students. We weren’t really explained why we have these separate classes but my Spanish teacher explained a little. I have friends in the program but most of my friends are in other classes. Sometimes I feel envious of them. They seem so happy. I want to be in regular classes for bilingual students, not separated. I don’t think I will be in this program next year. My goals have not changed. I always wanted to be a flight attendant and that’s what I still want.

For Karla, life has changed significantly. While she spoke about the violence at the hands of maras “nos vinimos nosotros porque vivíamos asustados porque había muchas Maras” (we came because we lived in fear because there were too many gangs) and lack of safety prevailing in El Salvador, contrastingly, she also spoke about feeling more freedom to go outside in her country.

I used to play more. I spent most of my time playing outside with my cousins. Even though we had problems and violence because of las maras, I felt freer. I used to be able to go outside to play whenever I wanted to. It’s different here. I cannot go anywhere. I can’t go out at night.

Henry: “I cried because I didn’t know my stepmom and needed my mom”

Henry is 18 years old. He’s a student at site A. Henry’s father, like Karla’s, also lived in the United States while Henry was growing up in El Salvador. Henry explains that he struggled with the decision of leaving his mother, relatives, and friends behind. He ultimately decided to leave because he envisioned being able to provide for his mother from the United States.

I remember the day everything changed. I was eating pupusas (traditional Salvadoran dish) when I got a phone call from my dad to give me the news that I had to travel. I was happy but also sad because I would leave my mom, my family, my friends, and my way of life. I started thinking about it, should I leave or not? My family members were telling me not to leave them. I thought about it and decided I would leave so I could help my mom. When I told them, it was like a bomb went off. Everyone started crying. I even cried. I promised them I would come back healthy and well. The day I left was a sunny day. My family members were very sad. Even I was sad because I didn’t want to leave my friends, the countryside, my school, my animals and all the agriculture there, my beloved siblings, my neighborhood, my aunts and uncles, my futbol team…Mymom handed me off to a man and started crying. It was very hard for me. As we left, I watched the scenery. I didn’t know where we were going. We passed through places I had never seen before. The next day, we got to the Guatemalan border. We had to cross a river there. I remember the man told me he was leaving me there with some other men. He said they would take me to a house to sleep and then we would continue the journey the day after.

Similar to Karla, Henry also spoke in detail about the contrast of the horrible time his spent detained by la migra (slang term used by Spanish speaking immigrants to refer to US immigration officers) and placed the in las hieleras, followed by the happiness he felt when he was finally moved to El Hogar.

The day I was detained was a very disastrous day. As soon as I crossed the river, there was la migra. They grabbed me and sat me on the floor. They asked us about our origin and family. There was a lady traveling with me. They put us in a van and took us to las hieleras. Las hieleras are a horrible place. I was scared because I could hear children crying and screaming. It was very cold and we had to sleep on the floor without blankets. I was cold and frustrated. We had to use aluminum foil to cover ourselves. We all shared it. There was an open toilet and everyone could see what you were doing. We had to drink water that came from a dark stream and the food was often rotten. I was interrogated. They called my father to let him know they had me and then I was moved to another hielera for a few hours and then to a third one. The third hielera was the last one. I was very happy when they finally moved me to a bus. When I got to El Hogar, I thought it was another hielera because it looked the same, but the bus driver told me that I was in Texas, and at El Hogar, they were going to give me food, clothes, a bathroom, and that they would be nice to me. I was so anxious I couldn’t wait. I went inside and started looking around. I felt as if I had landed on the moon. There were toys and pictures everywhere. I couldn’t believe I was getting food. I called my parents and told them not to worry because I was fine. My mom told me she missed me too much and I felt like going back but then I remembered how hard she worked making pupusas to sell and that gave me the strength I needed to keep going so I could help her. The next day,

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I was vaccinated and started school. I was able to go outside and play futbol with the other children. We had a routine. On my fifteenth day there, I was told I would be reunited with my family.

As Suárez-Orozco et al. (2008) explain, the dynamics of the migration process impose significant stress on families as a consequence of the long separations that are often endured. As they further elaborate, migration separations can result in two sets of disruptions in emotional attachments for the children “first from the parent, and then from the caregiver to whom the child has become attached during the parent-child separation” (Suárez-Orozco et al., 2008, p. 58). When children are left behind, they feel abandoned and respond with despair and detachment. As they are reunified, children begin missing those who took care of them in their parents’ absence and some have reported feeling like strangers with their parents (Suárez-Orozco et al., 2008). Henry shared the bitter sweetness of reuniting with his father but immediately longing for his mother.

When I was reunited with my dad, I was emotional. I cried because I was happy to see him but saddened to have left my mom. I felt blessed to be with family and I am grateful to both my parents for supporting me. My first day was overwhelming. My dad had to go to work right away and left me with my brother and stepmom. I cried because I didn’t know my stepmom and needed my mom. I miss her so much, she is a very special person, someone who gave me a good life. She knows I love her very much and I miss her. I also know she loves me and misses me. She tells me so when we talk on the phone. She cries and tells me she wants to see me and she needs me. I miss her caring nature and her meals, her pupusas. I also miss my friends and my futbol team. I miss playing with them and going to other cantones to play against other teams.

Like Karla, Henry had also been classified as a SIFE student although he seemed not have had any significant schooling gap other than not attending school during his border-crossing journey, which lasted less than two months. Henry also attended site A and when discussing his academic experiences since being placed in school in the US, he expressed discontent.

I only stopped going to school when I left. My experience at school here has been a disaster. There are people who view us as if we are garbage because we are outsiders and can’t speak English. Some teachers think that because I am an immigrant, I’m less worthy than others. Sometimes teachers make me feel like I should give up. I don’t like my SIFE classes.

Raul: “[My grandmother] is like my mom. She’s the one I love the most”

Raul is a 16-year-old student from site B. Like Karla, Raul did not remember his parents very well before coming to the United States. They left him as a baby with his grandparents in El Salvador while they looked for better opportunities in the United States. He was happy about leaving his country for a better future but sad about leaving his grandparents.

I always lived with my grandparents, almost since I was born. I did not know my parents. They have been here in the United States the whole time. I only knew them from pictures but we talked on the phone frequently. They had told me they were going to send for me once and it didn’t happen that time. But then later on, suddenly, they called me and I was about to ask them for a gift because I had made it to the next grade in school, I was going to ask for a computer and they told me they were sending for me. I was happy but also sad because now my grandmother would be by herself, since my older sister had already left. She’s like my mom. She’s the one I love the most. When I got here I was very emotional. The reunion with my parents was marvelous. It was grandiose. I had only seen them in pictures. I also had never seen such tall buildings. Life here is fine. I get along fine with my dad; he’s like a brother to me. But I miss my grandmother too much.

Raul did not discuss his immigration journey in detail, except for saying it took him only 25 days to get here and that he had to run from la migra a few times. When discussing his academic experiences, Raul shared that he spent about a year out of school waiting for his parent to send for him.

When I lived in El Salvador, I left school for a while because I thought my parents were going to send for me and then it didn’t happen. I was in 5th grade. They told me to stop going to school but then it turned out that they couldn’t send for me. I spent a year without going to school. I worked in the meantime. I had two jobs, one fixing cars and another one making bread. The money I made was to help my grandmother. She’s my mom to me. She raised my sister and I. We call her mom. I miss her too much. I call her about three times a week. She’s

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not doing well. We want to send for her but she doesn’t want to fly. She’s afraid. I work to send money to my grandmother, since she had a foot problem.

When this study was conducted, Raul had exited the SIFE program at his school and had been placed in mainstream and bilingual Regents level courses. Raul attended site B and spoke positively of his schooling experiences. He stressed the importance of learning English.

My first day of school here was complicated. I got lost. My sister’s friend helped me because my sister came here before me. I was first placed in the SIFE program. I had different teachers for different subjects. Most of my classes were in Spanish except for English class. I liked the classes and I liked my friends. I think they prepared me well for the regular classes. Most of my SIFE classes were in Spanish. I then asked for some classes in English, like science. I failed the science regents but at least I tried. English is the most important thing because if you speak two languages you are better. For me, the most important thing is English. I took math in a bilingual class and passed that regents. I took social studies and science in English and failed those regents but I tried. I will keep trying. In my English class, I always participate, even if I make mistakes, it’s ok. I can learn form my mistakes. I like learning English.

María: “I couldn’t even call them mom and dad because I had never done it”

María is a 17-year-old student from site B. María left El Salvador with her younger brother without notifying their parents who lived in the United States. She feared he would become involved withmara. Close to one hundred thousand unaccompanied minors from El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras, sought asylum in the United States between October 2013 and July 2015 (Renwick, 2016). These three Central American countries consistently rank among the most violent countries in the world, with gang- related violence making in El Salvador the world’s most violent country not at war (Renwick, 2016).

My brother and I decided to just leave our country and come meet our parents here without them knowing. We arranged things with el coyote on our own by asking people in our neighborhood and planned on calling our parents midway. My parents were here in the United States for about fourteen years. We lived with our grandmother and when she died, our mom arranged for us to go live with an aunt and uncle. I was about eleven. After about two years, they decided they didn’t want to have us anymore; they didn’t want to take care of us, so we left to go live with our paternal grandparents. It was very hard to have to move because we were not wanted. We got along well with our paternal grandparents. We were there until the day we left. They found out we were leaving the same day we left. They were very surprised and very sad. They told us not to do it but we already had our agreement made with los coyotes. My brother was fifteen and I was afraid he would become involved with las maras; many kids were involved. I was seventeen and four months pregnant. I also wanted to give my child a better life. So I told my baby’s father I wanted to leave and he left with my brother and I. Also a few cousins came with us. We didn’t have the money to pay los coyotes but we thought our parents would be able to pay, since they lived here. They paid. My baby was born here. We called our parents from Mexico and they arranged everything for us.

For María, as was the case for Raul, her mom had always been her grandmother. Similar to the other participants, María explained how much her life has changed since moving to the United States and also how much they miss those who took care of them in their countries. As Suárez-Orozco et al. (2008) explain, “immigrant youth are perpetually missing someone somewhere- making the immi- grant journey almost always bittersweet” (p. 70).

Life here is different. I used to spend time with my grandparents just talking. Here, we don’t spend time with our parents. They are always working and I am always working to help support my baby. We don’t see each other. I have a babysitter for my son. In the beginning, it was hard to reconnect. The love was not there, not because we didn’t want to, I just didn’t feel it. I was not used to living with my parents. I couldn’t even call them mom and dad because I had never done it before. I had to get used to it. We are doing better but it’s not easy. We have to get used to their love I guess. It feels different. My mom had always been my grandmother until she died.

Maria, like Raul, spoke positively of her schooling experiences in the United States. They both attended site B. When describing her classes, particularly referring to her relationship with her teachers, she used the term confianza, which, McLaughlin and Bryan (2003) describe as social trust based on a confidence in the other person to have one’s best interest in mind. Vasquez Heilig (2011)

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states that immigrant families place confianza in schools because they believe that the best interest of their children will be served. This term also came up several times during the pilot study that led to the larger study for which these testimonios were documented.

When I entered school here, they told me since I was an immigrant that had stopped going to school in my country and was coming with little knowledge, they told me they were going to enroll me in SIFE. They explained they couldn’t place me according to grade level because there were too many things I didn’t know and had to learn. I thought it was ok. I feel good in the SIFE program. I feel like I have many things to learn still. I like the SIFE program. Teachers are very nice. I trust them. There is a confianza y cariño between us. My aspirations were to come and go to school so that I can give my son a better future. Those are still my aspirations. I want to be a doctor and be able to give my son a good life and good future. I am saving money to be able to pay for school. Everyone in my family is surprised because even though I have a baby, I am able to save money. I don’t even buy clothes for myself, only for my baby.

In the testimonios just presented, participants discuss the various reasons for leaving their home country, including wanting to provide for their family, reuniting with their parents, or escaping gang violence. They also offer detailed descriptions of their journeys, including their torturous stay in what is now known to Latin American immigrants as las hieleras, and their feelings of hope and happiness when they were welcomed with big arms by shelters called El Hogar.

While educational experiences, both here and in their home countries, and future goals vary, all conversations brought up issues of separation, abandonment, and reunification. All participants have undergone a double separation; first from their parents, and later from their caretakers in order to reunite with their parents. These factors have made their, already difficult, journey an emotionally traumatic experience to have to live through at such a young age.

Examination of testimonios

As mentioned previously, this exploration was framed with a Latina feminist lens, which uses the ways Latinas teach, learn, live, and understand systems of oppression (Delgado Bernal, 2001). As such, it sought to confront dominant constructions of knowledge. When it comes to analyzing the testimonios documented, it is imperative to remain mindful of their living narrative status and of the notion of testimonios belonging to the narrator not to the interviewer (Urrieta, Kolano, & Jo, 2015). Additionally, “with testimonios, the researcher is displaced by the narrator; who uses the interviewer to get his/her message across to a wider, traditionally external and un(der)aware audience” (Urrieta et al., 2015, p. 51). To that end, the researcher is displaced by the testimonios documented, and becomes a recorder and reporter. Because testimonios are what Jara and Vidal (1986) call “narra- ciones de urgencia”, it is essential to discuss the themes that emerged as urgent from the testimonios documented. These categories surfaced as needing to be told:

(1) Family Disintegration as a Result of Migration (2) Detained While Crossing the Border (3) Reunification

Family disintegration as a result of migration

When asked about life back in their countries, although not asked specifically, students started by sharing stories about their family structures and relationships with their parents. Karla did not know her parents. She explained that her parents were too young when they had her. She had been told at a young age that her father had migrated to the United States and her mother abandoned her. She was ultimately taken in by aunt, who at the time was only 12 years of age, a child herself. Karla’s grandmother supported them financially from the United Sates by sending remittances. Raul and Maria, along with their siblings, were left as babies under the care of their grandparents, while their parents attempted to settle in the United States until they were able to send for them. They both

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mentioned not to really remember ever living with their parents or what they looked like, since they were so young when they had left. However, the relationship was kept alive via phone calls, letters, and gifts. It is common for migrants who have children to leave them behind due to the dangers implicated with traveling undocumented by land and for aspects that individuals cannot control, such as strict immigration laws abroad, to prolong the reunification of the family for many years (D’Emilio et al., 2007). Family dynamics maintained across international borders for long periods of time, are referred to by many scholars as transnationalism (Murphy & Mahalingam, 2004).

Henry grew up with his mother, while his father lived and worked in the United States. Henry’s father maintained a good relationship with him. He called him often and helped him financially. This house- hold dynamic is not unusual for transnational families. Suárez-Orozco, Todorova, and Louie (2001) maintain that immigrant children are most likely to have been separated from their fathers. In a study conducted in 2006, in a small city of La Union, El Salvador, called Piedras Blancas, a fourth grade teacher, reported that 17 of his 21 students had at least one parent abroad (Aizenman, 2006). Henry talked about how difficult it had been to leave his mother behind but felt he could help her financially if hemigrated to the US, as his father had done. The family structures of the testimoniantes have been deeply impacted by international migration, which, as discussed earlier, has a long history in the small country of El Salvador.

Detained while crossing the border

According to the International Organization for Migration (IOM) (2014), children who are unac- companied or separated from their families are especially at risk in places of immigration detention and are often dispossessed of their basic human rights. This may have been why some participants in this study were compelled to give testimonios about their experiences while detained at the border and also why some participants did not feel comfortable discussing their journey crossing the border. As detailed in their testimonios, two of the participants described at length, the upsetting experience of being detained in hieleras for long periods of time.

The United Nations Human Rights Council’s Working Group on Arbitrary Detention has decided that, as a general rule, unaccompanied migrant children should not be detained, since alternatives to detention exist. They state that

given the detrimental effects that detention and family separation have been shown to have on children, the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child has called on States parties to the Convention to expeditiously and completely cease the detention of children on the basis of their immigration status. (IOM, 2014).

However, from the stories shared by both Karla and Henry, it is clear that unaccompanied minors, at the time of their journey, were still detained for long periods of time in these coolers termed by immigrants as hieleras. These experiences certainly left an impression on them. Karla spent a total of seven days in two different hieleras and Henry spent a length of time he could not recall in three different hieleras.

Numerous experts have indicated that these detention centers can have long-term mental and physical health consequences for children, even when used only for very short periods of time (IOM, 2014). A chief operating officer for Save the Children, who visited a detention center in McAllen, Texas, describes witnessing rooms with concrete walls and floors packed with exhausted, lonely, dehydrated, and dazed children being held like criminals with toilets with little or no privacy, absence of showers and beds, and an “overpowering smell of sweat and urine” forcing guards to wear masks (Carranza, 2014). These occurrences clearly impact the already trying experience of children leaving family members, and what they had always known as home behind, and entering a new territory with long lost or new family members.

Reunification

As argued previously, when families migrate, they do it in steps. Traditionally, the pattern used to be that the father would migrate first to establish himself in another country. He would send remittances home

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to the mother and children left behind, until it was financially possible to send for them. This is no longer the norm. According to Suárez-Orozco, Todorova, and Louie (2002), today’s demand for service workers attracts mothers from many developing countries, in which cases they leave their children in the care of extended family members, usually grandparents or aunts. In other cases, both mother and father migrate leaving the children in the care of others while they work and send remittances from abroad. Some of these scenarios are represented by the testimoniantes in this study. Transnational families often expect that the separation time will not be long and that migrants will be able to establish themselves in the host country and send for those left behind soon after departure (Suárez-Orozco et al., 2001). However, reunification with family member separated by international migration can be prolonged and happen many years after the migrants’ departure took place. In some instances, this separation is significant; Hondagneu-Sotelo and Avila (1997) maintain that 10 years may elapse before parents are reunited with their children.

Henry grew up with his mother. As it is the case for many children of migration, the departure was a time ofmixed feelings, there is an excitement about the prospect of reuniting with loved ones and a new life, but migrating entails leaving behind loved ones (Suárez-Orozco et al., 2002). Henry spoke about how emotional he was when he was reunited with his father. He described crying because he was happy to finally see his father but sad to have left hismom behind. Suárez-Orozco et al. (2002) report that when the family has evolved to include new parental figures and siblings during the separation period, the reunification is further complicated. This was the case for Henry, he described his first day as over- whelming and stated “my dad had to go to work right away and left me with my brother and stepmom. I cried because I didn’t know my stepmom and needed my mom”. Understandably, adaptation to new family dynamics is an added stressor to the reunification process.

Raul and Maria were left by both parents in the care of their grandparents. They could not remember exactly how many years they were separated because they were toddlers when their parents left. In both cases, the parents stayed in contact with them via phone calls, gifts, and remittances. At the time of the reunification, Raul was 14 and Maria was 16 years old. Raul described the moment of reunification with his parents as marvelous, but he misses his grandmother, whom he calls mamá, terribly. He calls her about three times a week and works to send her money regularly. WhenMaria was reunited, she felt like she did not know her parents. She couldn’t even bring herself to call her mothermamá. She simply had never done it before. According to Suárez-Orozco et al. (2002), family separations due to international migration greatly impact children emotionally, as they initially feel abandoned and miss their parent or parents, and once reunified, they begin missing whoever took care of them in their parents’ absence. Furthermore, when the separation period is significantly long, children and parents report feeling like strangers upon reunification.

Extended periods of separation time between loved ones can cause profound family transformations. In an interdisciplinary study involving 385 adolescents affected by migration from a variety of regions, Suárez-Orozco et al. (2002) found that children who were separated from their parents were more likely to report depressive symptoms than children who had not been separated. A study, conducted to compare children’s development and family functionality between children left in the care of others as a consequence of their parents’ migration and children living with their parents in Ecuador, found that while the process of migration benefits families financially, it has unfavorable consequences for children of migrants due to the loss of family structure (Panzeri Piras, 2004). Children separated from their parents for long periods of time have shown attachment difficulties and withdrawal upon reunification (Wilkes, 1992).

Implications and conclusion

While the testimonios presented in this article were part of a larger investigation into students’ perspectives of their school placement and academic identity, they tell stories of resistance and survival that go beyond school labels and academic trajectories. As explained earlier, students’ narraciones de urgencia came to the surface not only to inform pedagogical practices concerning

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labeling, placing, and educating students but also to complete our insufficient knowledge of their experiences and lived realities. Stories of family disintegration, border crossing hardships, and family reunification surfaced as needing to be told.

Some time after these testimonios were documented, I learned that Henry had dropped out of school. I asked him why, and he stated he was not making any academic progress and was reaching 20 years of age. His words during our conversations and his journal writing quickly resurfaced in my mind, how he felt like giving up and thought people viewed him like garbage. Because Henry was indeed under-credited and would most likely age out of the school system before meeting graduation requirements, I saw him as being pushed out by our traditional education system. Education researchers refer to students in Henry’s situation as pushouts. Pallas (1987) explain that increasing federal and state accountability standards present an unrealistic challenge for students such as English language learners, teen parents, and student workers. Henry mentioned he was considering the possibility of enrolling in his school’s Night School or a General Equivalency Diploma (GED) program but his school did not offer such programs for students who lacked English proficiency. The implications of this exploration for education and policy felt urgent after that conversation.

The exploration of these testimonios contributes knowledge that can be used to design effective programs for students that may have not been well-served by our current system. A significant finding was the unawareness of some of the testimoniantes of their classification and placement. In 2014, the New York State Education Department’s (NYSED) Board of Regents approved amend- ments to part 154 of the Commissioner’s Regulations (CR) Part 154 establishing legal requirements for the education of English Language Learners/Multilingual Learners (ELLs/MLLs) in New York State and calling for schools and districts to utilize a variety of methods for SIFE identification and placement. Additionally, the NYSED established a SIFE workgroup composed of teachers of ELLs, administrators, researchers, and other stakeholders to design supplemental identification, placement and instructional services for SIFE students, stressing the importance of serving them appropriately,

[a]s one of the most vulnerable at-risk subgroups of ELLs, this population requires a commitment from all stakeholders to develop innovative approaches in order to appropriately serve them. Meeting the needs of SIFE is a considerable challenge, but it is one that must be met in order to provide real opportunities to the students. Briefly, the descriptions of the components of the aforementioned NYSED SIFE Resources are: The SIFE Oral Interview Questionnaire and Guidance Document; The Multilingual Literacy SIFE Screener (MLS); The Writing Screener; and The SIFE English as a New Language (ENL) and Foundational Low Literacy Curriculum (NYSED, 2016).

Furthermore, one of the changes implemented states that if the student is identified as an ELL, and the Home Language Questionnaire (HLQ) indicates that the student has attended school in the United States (the 50 States and the District of Columbia) for less than twelve months and is two or more years below grade level in literacy in their home language and/or math due to inconsistent or interrupted schooling prior to arrival in the United States, the student shall also be identified as a Student with Inconsistent/Interrupted Formal Education (CR Section 154–2.2). This change broadens the range of students eligible for SIFE services.

These amendments, provided by the NYSED, highlight how important it is that school districts identify, place, and provide a specialized curriculum to assist SIFE students with their academic success. However, two of the testimonios explored here revealed no such guidelines were followed. Both testimoniantes attended site A. According to their testimonios, they were just provided with the schedules they should follow but no explanationwas offered, nor participation expected from students or parents in the decision making process. This is significant because one of those students dropped out of school shortly after these testimonioswere documented. A connection became very clear between how these two students were viewed and treated by site A’s procedure and programming and how they felt in relation to their schooling experiences and even future goals. Would they have spoken differently about their academic experiences had they been explained their classification and placement? Would Henry have dropped out had he been offered a clearer path toward academic success? Consequently, one of the implications emerging from this exploration is the recommendation that education professionals adhere

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to state guidelines, which are founded upon the latest research findings and advocate for equal educa- tional opportunities and the integration of all students into the school community and larger society. It is crucial that schools serving large population of immigrant youth take some time to understand students’ experiences and consider the impact of their decisions. Those two testimonios cry out for the necessity to form partnerships with parents and students in the decisions that will affect not only the students’ academic success but also their positioning in schools. Students from site A shared feeling different, separated (Karla), and like giving up (Henry). Had they been included in the decisions that affected their academic trajectories or explained their placement, classification, educational plan, and its implications, perhaps their feelings would have been different.

In addition to implications for education, this exploration has research implications for the use of testimonios with immigrant youth. Testimonios are not just data. They are authentic stories that belong to people who open up to someone and trust this researcher or recorder to use this information in a way that would help others, and possibly even help them. Research with testimonios brings up the notion of integrity, legitimacy, and doing words justice. Therefore, one of the implications for research, stemming out of this study, is to honor participants’ narraciones de urgencia with the same significance that we give to the data surrounding research questions and theoretical frameworks. Testimonios as a methodology of qualitative research is intended to “articu- late an urgent voicing of something to which one bears witness” (Blackmer Reyes & Curry Rodríguez, 2012). It is also situated as liberationist pedagogy using writing as a means of liberation. Further, as explained by Blackmer Reyes and Curry Rodriguez, like Freire’s (1968) Pedagogy of the Oppressed, testimonio empowers the speaker or narrator to transform their stories as an acknowl- edgment of the revolutionary aspect of literacy with the goal of naming oppression and arresting its action. To that end, testimonios by nature are personal, sensitive, and render the testimoniante vulnerable. In giving their testimonio, they have opened a window exposing intimate lived realities, a window which now the researcher, in documenting these testimonios, will open even further to invite others to bear witness to these realities. González et al. (2003) urge that testimonios be used as pedagogy to educate future teachers and to raise the consciousness of those who may be unfamiliar with the experiences of immigrant students. Opening spaces for students such as Karla, Henry, Maria, and Raul to tell their stories can be a valuable tool for moving toward the better under- standing of the experiences of newcomer immigrant youth and allow pre- and in- service teachers and teacher educators to create spaces and pedagogical methods that provide equitable educational opportunities. It is imperative that educators placed in front of immigrant youth understand that the students in their classrooms are more than just English language learners.

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Aizenman, N. C. (2006, May 9). Left behind students and the elderly- and silence. Washington Post. Retrieved from http://www.chron.com/business/article/Emigration-empties-Salvadoran-village-1525917.php

Alas, J. (2000). Youth gangs in El Salvador & conflict management. Foundation for self sufficiency in central America. Retrieved from http://fssca.net/pastreportsgang00/index.html

American Immigration Council. (2015a). Border patrol “hieleras”: Background and legal action. Retrieved from http:// www.legalactioncenter.org/litigation/border-patrol-“hieleras”-background-and-legal-action

American Immigration Council. (2015b, June). A guide to children arriving at border crossings: Laws, policies and responses. Retrieved from http://immigrationpolicy.org/sites/default/files/docs/a_guide_to_children_arriving_at_ the_border_and_the_laws_and_policies_governing_our_response.pdf

Anzaldúa, G. (1987). Borderlands -La frontera: The new mestiza. San Francisco, CA: Aunt Lute Books. Blackmer Reyes, K., & Curry Rodríguez, J. E. (2012). Testimonio: Origin, terms, and resources. Equity & Excellence In

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http://www.advocatesforchildren.org/SIFE%20Paper%20final.pdf?pt=1

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Appendix

Sample Original Journal Writing- Karla

BILINGUAL RESEARCH JOURNAL 91

Abstract
Introduction
Challenging dominant notions of legitimate knowledge
In astate of double transition
Testimonios as pedagogy
Positionality
Testimoniantes
Data collection and methods
Testimonios

Karla: “My 12-year-old aunt raised me”
Henry: “I cried because Ididn’t know my stepmom and needed my mom”
Raul: “[My grandmother] is like my mom. She’s the one Ilove the most”
María: “I couldn’t even call them mom and dad because Ihad never done it”

Examination of testimonios

Family disintegration as aresult of migration
Detained while crossing the border
Reunification

Implications and conclusion
References
Appendix

704

Challenging Racist Nativist Framing: Acknowledging the Community Cultural Wealth of Undocumented Chicana College Students to Reframe the Immigration Debate

LINDSAY PÉREZ HUBER University of California, Los Angeles

Using the critical race testimonios of ten Chicana undergraduate students at a top- tier research university, Lindsay Pérez Huber interrogates and challenges the racist nativist framing of undocumented Latina/o immigrants as problematic, burden- some, and “illegal.” Specifically, a community cultural wealth framework (Yosso, 2005) is utilized and expanded to highlight the rich forms of capital existing within the families and communities of these young women that have allowed them to sur- vive, resist, and navigate higher education while simultaneously challenging racist nativist discourses. Reflecting on her data and analysis, Pérez Huber ends with a call for a human rights framework that demands the right of all students—and particu- larly Latinas/os—to live full and free lives.

I am a human pileup of illegality. I am an illegal driver and an illegal parker and even an illegal walker, having at various times stretched or broken various laws and regulations that govern those parts of life. The offenses were trivial, and I feel sure I could endure the punishments—penalties and fines—and get on with my life. Nobody would deny me the chance to rehabilitate myself. Look at Martha Stewart, illegal stock trader, and George Steinbrenner, illegal campaign donor, to name two illegals whose crimes exceeded mine. Good thing I am not an illegal immigrant. There is no way out of that trap. It’s the crime you can’t make amends for. Nothing short of deportation will free you from it, such is the mood of the country today. And that is a problem.

—Lawrence Downes, “What Part of ‘Illegal’ Don’t You Understand?”

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Within dominant immigration discourse, frames of illegality are used in ways that are illogical when applied to other “illegal” acts.1 In the epigraph above, Lawrence Downes, editorial writer for the New York Times, demonstrates this illogic. George Lakoff and Sam Ferguson (2006) argue that language has been strategically used to frame the immigration debate, constructing “ille- gal” immigrants as criminal and deviant, thus justifying efforts to exclude them from U.S. society. Importantly, as Eric Haas (2008) describes, framing immigrants as “illegal” hides our shared humanity and allows anti-immigrant sentiment, policies, and practices to become normalized ways of responding to undocumented immigration—an argument that informs the implications of this paper. Researchers have also acknowledged that the current framing of immigration targets Latina/o undocumented immigrants, powerfully link- ing race and immigration status (Galindo & Vigil, 2006; Pérez Huber, Bena- vides Lopez, Malagon, Velez, & Solórzano, 2008; Sánchez, 1997).2 Specifically, my coauthors and I (2008) further develop the concept of racist nativism in order to locate the discussion of undocumented immigration within a histor- ical legacy of racism that has been intricately tied to notions of the native and non-native—one in which whites have been perceived as native to the United States and all other groups non-native. In this historical moment, rac- ist nativism targets Latina/o undocumented immigrants, regardless of their many contributions to U.S. society as productive community members, as well as other Latinas/os, regardless of citizenship status. Thus, I argue that the cur- rent undocumented immigration discourse is a racist nativist framing.

The concept of racist nativism has evolved over several past research studies focused on undocumented Latina/o youth. One study examined how Latina/o youth activists were negatively portrayed by print media in the mass mobiliza- tions against House Resolution (HR) 4437 that took place in the spring of 2006 (Velez, Pérez Huber, Benavides Lopez, de la Luz, & Solórzano, 2008).3 A second study explored the experiences of undocumented community college and four-year university Latina/o students (Pérez Huber & Malagon, 2007) and found that these students were marginalized within and beyond their educational institutions due to negative perceptions resulting from dominant assumptions that linked being Latina/o (race) with being undocumented (immigration status).

In 2008, my coauthors and I further theorized racist nativism to understand how a legacy of racism rooted in notions of white supremacy has created neg- ative constructions of undocumented immigrants historically and Latina/o undocumented immigrants in the contemporary moment (Pérez Huber et al., 2008). The present study is an extension of this past work, using empirical data to illustrate the theory in the lived experiences of undocumented Chi- cana undergraduates. I begin by describing how dominant frames guide con- temporary immigration discourse. I then show how Latina/o critical theory (LatCrit) can help expose the subordination imbedded within these frames. Next I describe how a community cultural wealth framework (Villalpando &

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Solórzano, 2005; Yosso, 2006; Yosso & García, 2007) can challenge racist nativ- ist framing by revealing how undocumented Chicana college students draw on multiple forms of accumulated assets and resources in their families and com- munities to survive, resist, and navigate higher education.

This work contributes to the community cultural wealth literature by extend- ing it to include spiritual capital and by showing how the framework can be used to challenge racist nativist framing. A community cultural wealth lens allows us to reclaim the humanity of Latina/o undocumented immigrants that racist nativist frames erase. Ultimately, I argue for a more accurate framing of undocumented Latina/o immigrant communities—a human rights frame— which recognizes that all students have the right to educational opportunity.

Understanding, Exposing, and Challenging Dominant Framing of Undocumented Immigration in the United States

George Lakoff (2006) explains how human beings create “mental structures” that allow us to understand reality and our perceptions of reality. He calls these mental structures “frames,” which can be used to construct particular meanings:

Frames facilitate our most basic interactions with the world—they structure our ideas and concepts, they shape the way we reason, and they even impact how we perceive and how we act. For the most part, our use of frames is unconscious and automatic—we use them without realizing it. (p. 25)

Building on the work of sociologist Erving Goffman (1974), Lakoff describes how a range of frames can help shape our interactions and the larger social institutions that structure our society.4 He argues that the use of frames hap- pens unconsciously. We use frames even when we are unaware of it, and they become normalized through repetition. When frames are normalized, they define our common sense.

Throughout this article, I use the term “frame” and “framing” in the sense Lakoff describes—as mental structures that help us make sense of the world. I use the term “framework” within the context of the theoretical framework used to guide this study. The term “discourse” describes an institutionalized way of thinking about a particular topic, such as immigration. Lakoff describes the powerful function of frames that guide dominant immigration discourse.

Lakoff applies the concept of framing to understanding the ways conser- vative views have come to dominate politics in the United States. Specifically, Lakoff and Ferguson (2006) outline how framing has been used in dominant discourse to define the current debate regarding “immigration reform.” Lakoff (2006) explains that this is an “issue-defining frame” where the word “reform” suggests the need to solve a problem—which in this case is immigration. Fram- ing the problem in this way places blame on the backs of immigrants who have crossed the border “illegally” and on the governmental agencies that have

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failed to secure the U.S. border (Jonas, 2005; Lakoff & Ferguson, 2006). This framing of immigration provides a narrow range of solutions that only attempt to alleviate the problems this frame defines: solutions regarding immigrants themselves and governmental agencies. Thus, recent “immigration reform” targets immigrants, citizenship laws, and border security (Lakoff & Ferguson, 2006).

The immigration problem frame does not allow for discussion of the larger problems that cause the need for masses of people to flee their homelands. For example, this frame precludes discussions of U.S. foreign policies such as the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) that have imposed Mexican economic dependence on the United States. González and Fernan- dez (2002) describe NAFTA as “the most recent and devastating example of how U.S. domination over México continues to misdevelop and tear apart the socioeconomic integrity of that society” (p. 51). The impact of U.S. impe- rial expansionism through international trade agreements becomes nearly irrelevant within the immigration problem frame, although such policies are directly tied to the reasons why people must migrate.

Lakoff and Ferguson (2006) further demonstrate how the conceptual fram- ing of the immigration debate has focused on immigration as a problem caused by immigrants and the failure of governmental control. They explain how specific linguistic expressions are used as “surface” frames to reinforce and perpetuate this conceptual understanding of contemporary immigration. Perhaps the most common and widely used surface frame within the immigra- tion debate is the “illegal” frame. “Illegals,” “illegal immigrants,” and “illegal aliens” all convey a similar message: undocumented immigrants are criminals. The term “illegal alien” goes even further to frame immigrants as nonhuman. Leo Chávez (2001, 2008) and Otto Santa Ana (2002) describe how construc- tions of Latina/o immigrants as criminal, dangerous, and threatening to an “American” way of life are reiterated in the media, bombarding public dis- course with negative images of Latina/o immigrants, which in turn reinforce the “illegal” frame.

It is clear that the “illegal” frame targets a specific group of immigrants. As Chávez (2001, 2008) and Santa Ana (2002) show in their work on media images, negative portrayals of undocumented immigration overwhelmingly target Latinas/os. Demographic data that show the majority of undocumented immigration coming from Latin American countries (Passel, 2006) make it easier to justify connections between illegality and undocumented Latina/o immigrants. In fact, illegality is now how most scholars, policy makers, and media frame this population, regardless of their positions on the issue of undocumented immigration (Chávez, 2001; Huntington, 2004; Ngai, 2004; Ochoa & Ochoa, 2007; Santa Ana, 2002).

However, we must look beyond the frame of illegality to understand how and why this concept is so successful in framing undocumented Latina/o immi- grants. LatCrit in education helps us understand that race has much to do

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with the ways Latina/o undocumented immigrants have been framed. More- over, LatCrit illuminates the ways in which this framing relegates Latina/o undocumented immigrants generally, and students in particular, to a subordi- nate position in U.S. schools and society.

Exposing a Racist Nativist Frame: CRT and LatCrit Critical race theory (CRT) and, in particular, LatCrit (a branch of the broader CRT framework) are powerful theoretical frameworks that help expose racism, nativism, sexism, classism, and other forms of oppression. CRT was first devel- oped as a theoretical tool by critical legal scholars to recognize the marginal- ized experiences of People of Color in the law (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001). For more than a decade, educational researchers have been utilizing CRT as a theoretical framework to analyze the role of race, racism, and the intersec- tions of racism with other forms of oppression in the lives of People of Color. According to education scholars Daniel Solórzano and Tara Yosso (2001), a CRT framework in education can be used in the following five ways:

To center the research focus on race, racism, and the intersections of 1. multiple forms of oppression To challenge dominant ideologies imbedded in educational theory and 2. practice To recognize the significance of experiential knowledge and utilize this 3. knowledge in our research To utilize interdisciplinary perspectives4. To guide our work with a commitment to racial and social justice5.

Collectively, these strategies allow educational researchers to center the experiences of People of Color and reveal the ways racism and other forms of subordination mediate our educational trajectories. LatCrit is guided by the same five tenets but also acknowledges issues of immigration status, lan- guage, ethnicity, and culture that may be overlooked by the Black-white para- digm that often becomes the focus of race discourse. LatCrit enables research- ers to better articulate the specific experiences of Latinas/os through a more focused examination of the unique forms of oppression this group encoun- ters (Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001). In this study, LatCrit illuminates the intersectionality of race and immigration status that is at play in the dominant framing of Latina/o undocumented immigrant communities.

A further framework developed from LatCrit examines the “inextricable” link between race and immigration in our current historical moment (Sán- chez, 1997). A LatCrit racist nativism framework is a conceptual tool that helps researchers understand how the historical racialization of Immigrants of Color shapes the contemporary experiences of Latina/o undocumented immigrants (Pérez Huber et al., 2008). A LatCrit racist nativism framework explains how perceived racial differences construct false perceptions of People of Color as “non-native” to the United States (Acuña, 2000; De Genova, 2005; Pérez Huber

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et al., 2008; Sánchez, 1997). These perceptions justify racism, discrimination, and violence committed against various groups of people throughout history. In the current historical moment, Mexican undocumented immigrants are targeted as non-native. Because racist nativism is based solely on perceptions, other Latinas/os, regardless of citizenship status, are also racialized as non- natives. Following this theorizing, I argue that a racist nativism framework can be used to describe the frames used in dominant immigration discourse and thus can be called racist nativist frames.

Figure 1 provides a visual representation of the theoretical links between the frameworks of CRT, LatCrit, and LatCrit racist nativism, illustrating how these theories work collectively to expose the dominant framing of Latina/o undocumented immigrants. While undocumented immigrant communities are the focus of this study, the model can also be used to expose other negative framing that guides mainstream beliefs about and understandings of the expe- riences of Communities of Color, such as cultural and biological deficiency theories (Moreno & Valencia, 2004; Valencia & Solórzano, 1997). In the pro- gression of this article, I will continue to build on this model, showing how a community cultural wealth framework challenges racist nativist framing and creates the opportunity to position immigration debates within a human rights frame, advocating for the humanity of all communities to be recognized.

LatCrit racist nativism as a theoretical lens interrogates dominant racialized perceptions of Latinas/os as non-native to the United States and contends that racist nativism is a “symptom” of a deeper “disease”—that is, white supremacy (Pérez Huber et al., 2008). In positioning racist nativism this way, it becomes critical to understand how a historical legacy of racism has shaped the experi- ences of various immigrant groups and People of Color in the United States. Racial definitions are fluid, and constructions of whiteness have changed throughout U.S. history to include and exclude specific groups of people according to racial categories, defining who is and is not “native.” I argue here that the dominant “illegal” frame used in contemporary immigration dis- course is a racist nativist framing, and a symptom of white supremacy, used to construct racialized notions of who is and is not native to the United States.

Constructing Latina/o undocumented immigrants as non-native assigns them to a subordinated position in U.S. society and justifies the anti-immi- grant and inhumane policies and tactics used to curb undocumented immi- gration. Examples of such policies can be seen in recent proposed legislative initiatives such as HR 4437 in 2005 and the 2007 STRIVE (Security Through Regularized Immigration and a Vibrant Economy) Act—bills designed to fur- ther criminalize undocumented immigrants and their advocates and support- ers. The emergence of anti-immigrant groups such as the Minutemen is an example of the violent tactics used to target Latina/o undocumented immi- grant communities (see Argetsinger, 2005). A LatCrit racist nativism frame- work functions to expose the racism imbedded within immigration discourse generally and the “illegal” immigrant frame in particular.

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Challenging Dominant Frames: Community Cultural Wealth

Daniel Solórzano and Octavio Villalpando (1998) first used a CRT framework to focus the research lens on the forms of “resistant cultural capital” Students of Color use to succeed in higher education despite the many obstacles they encounter. In later work, they used CRT to develop the concept of “cultural wealth”—the unique forms of cultural capital, accumulated resources, and assets that Students of Color develop and utilize in spaces of marginality within educational institutions (Villalpando & Solórzano, 2005).

Yosso (2005) further developed the concept of cultural wealth by outlining six forms of capital that exist within Communities of Color, collectively termed “community cultural wealth”:

Aspirational capital: The ability to maintain hopes and dreams for the 1. future despite real and perceived barriers. Linguistic capital: Skills learned through language such as, “memoriza-2. tion, dramatic pauses, rhythm, and rhyme” (p. 78) and the ability to com- municate through visual art, music, and poetry. Familial capital: The forms of knowledge “nurtured among 3. familia (kin) that carry a sense of community history, memory, and cultural intuition” (p. 79). Social capital: The “networks of people and community resources” (p. 79) 4. that can help students navigate through social institutions. Navigational capital: A form of capital inclusive of social networks and the 5. resiliency students develop to persist through institutional barriers. Resistant capital: “Those knowledges and skills fostered through opposi-6. tional behavior that challenges inequality” (p. 80), grounded in a history of resistance to subordination by Communities of Color, guided by a moti- vation to transform oppressive institutions and structures.

FIGURE 1 A visual model: Exposing racist nativist framing through CRT, LatCrit, and a LatCrit Racist Nativist Framework.

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These six forms of community cultural wealth, illustrated in figure 2, chal- lenge dominant perspectives of Communities of Color and recognize the ways People of Color have historically built on generations of resources to survive, adapt, thrive, and resist within racist institutions and social structures (Solór- zano & Villalpando, 1998; Villalpando & Solórzano, 2005; Yosso, 2006; Yosso & García, 2007). Community cultural wealth not only acknowledges strengths, but can be used to reframe deficit perspectives of Communities of Color in educational research. Yosso and García (2007) explain:

As we decenter whiteness and recenter the research lens on People of Color, we can validate often-overlooked forms of cultural knowledge forged in a legacy of resilience and resistance to racism and other forms of subordination. Center- ing our analytical lens on the experiences of Communities of Color in a critical historical context allows us to “see” the accumulated assets and resources in the histories and the lives of marginalized communities. This act of reframing builds on an extensive body of critical social science research that has consistently iden- tified culture as a resource for Communities of Color, rather than a detriment. (p. 154)

Figure 3 illustrates how community cultural wealth can be used to chal- lenge racist nativist framing exposed collectively by CRT, LatCrit, and LatCrit racist nativism frameworks. Using community cultural wealth to challenge rac- ist nativist framing sets a precedent for reframing immigration discourse in a more humane way—a way that recognizes universal human rights. Approach- ing racist nativist framing in this way, researchers can use data to redefine “criminal” undocumented communities as instead struggling through, resist- ing, and transforming the institutions and structures that oppress them, their families, and larger communities.

FIGURE 2 A model of community cultural wealth. Adapted from Yosso, 2006.

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Yosso and García (2007) note that a community cultural wealth framework is not static; rather, similar to the view through a kaleidoscope lens, these forms of capital are interrelated and shift and overlap depending on the focus of analysis. Staying on this theoretical trajectory, this study uses and extends the cultural wealth model to acknowledge the many strengths of undocumented students, families, and communities that simultaneously facilitate their aca- demic success and challenge racist nativist framing. Later I will describe how several forms of capital emerged in the study as intricately tied to the lived experiences of the participants.

Methods

In this study, I employed a critical race grounded theory approach—an analy- sis strategy that allows themes to emerge from data while using a CRT lens to reveal often-unseen structures of oppression (Malagon, Pérez Huber, & Velez, in press). I used a network sampling method (Delgado Bernal, 1997; Gándara, 1995) to identify participants who (1) were undocumented, (2) were female, (3) identified Mexico as their country of origin, and (4) were from a low- income family (as defined by federal poverty guidelines). A Chicana student population attending a top-tier research university was selected for several rea- sons. First, this study focuses on students who come from Mexico because they are the largest undocumented immigrant group in the United States (Pas- sel, 2006). Second, an all-female sample was selected in order to more closely examine the gendered experiences of undocumented women, as research sug- gests that contemporary immigration policy in California has shifted to target women and children (Hondagneu-Sotelo, 1995). Third, Chicana/o students attending a research university, where they are a small proportion of the total student population, are more likely to experience racism and discrimination

FIGURE 3 A model for using community cultural wealth to challenge racist nativist framing.

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(González, 2002; Hurtado, Milem, Clayton-Pedersen, & Allen, 1998; Solór- zano, Allen, & Carroll, 2002) and as a result must develop “critical navigational skills” to survive the competitive university environment (Solórzano & Villa- lpando, 1998). Considering this setting, the experiences of undocumented Chicana college students reveal much about how racism (and its intersections with other forms of oppression) emerges in the undergraduate careers of this student population and how they respond. Ten students attending one Uni- versity of California (UC) campus were interviewed twice, for a total of twenty in-depth critical race testimonio interviews.

Critical race testimonio can be understood as “a verbal journey of a wit- ness who speaks to reveal the racist, nativist, classist, and sexist injustices they have suffered as a means of healing, empowerment, and advocacy for a more humane present and future” (Pérez Huber, in press).5 Originally developed in the field of Latin American studies, testimonio centers the participant who narrates her experiences to reveal exploitative and oppressive conditions while validating her own experiential knowledge (Beverley, 2004; Yúdice, 1991). Combining the basic elements of testimonio and LatCrit, critical race testi- monio interviews function to (1) validate and honor the knowledge and lived experiences of oppressed groups by becoming a part of the research process; (2) challenge dominant ideologies that shape traditional forms of epistemol- ogy and methodology; (3) operate within a collective memory that transcends a single experience to that of multiple communities; and (4) move toward racial justice by offering a space within the academy for the stories of People of Color to be heard. This method was designed to capture the complexities of the lived experiences of People of Color whose realities are mediated by mul- tiple forms of oppression (Pérez Huber, in press).

I position testimonio within a Chicana feminist epistemology that enables Chicana researchers to draw on multiple forms of knowledge gained from our personal, professional, and academic experiences through the process of cul- tural intuition (Burciaga, 2007; Delgado Bernal, 1998; Latina Feminist Group, 2001). Cultural intuition allows the women participants and me to utilize these forms of knowledge in data collection and analysis. I employed a three-phase data analysis process: (1) preliminary analysis, where initial themes were iden- tified; (2) collaborative analysis, in which analysis was co-constructed with the participants; and (3) final data analysis, which synthesized the previous analy- ses. In the first phase, I used a grounded, line-by-line approach to develop ini- tial codes and identify tentative thematic categories (Charmaz, 2006). Phase two, the co-construction of data analysis, took place in focus groups where par- ticipants provided feedback on the thematic categories and contributed their own interpretations of the data. In phase three, I synthesized data from the previous analysis phases to revise and edit the coding scheme and finalize the- matic categories. During this phase, I integrated theoretical memos into the analysis and employed grounded theory strategies (i.e., concept mapping, dia- gramming) to make larger theoretical connections between micro- and mac-

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rostructures. The data analysis process revealed that the women utilized vari- ous forms of personal, familial, and community resources to move through educational institutions and that these resources were particularly significant in navigating higher education. It was in describing these resources through- out their testimonios and in the focus groups that a community cultural wealth framework emerged as a powerful way to understand how the women were able to survive, resist, and often thrive within racist nativist institutions.

Findings: Community Cultural Wealth of Undocumented Chicana College Students

This section explains the various forms of community wealth the women uti- lized in their undergraduate careers to counter racist nativism. The analysis confirmed the fluidity of the community cultural wealth model as particular forms of capital emerged as overlapping in the experiences of the undocu- mented Chicana students. But first it is important to understand the educa- tional conditions these students resisted and navigated in their undergraduate experiences.

The educational opportunities and resources available to these women were severely limited due to their undocumented status. For example, not having access to state or federal financial aid programs was the most problematic barrier they identified in attaining their college degree. Although California Assembly Bill (AB) 540 allows the students to pay resident (in-state) tuition fees, the bill does not allow them access to financial aid programs. As a result, many students struggled each academic quarter to pay their school tuition and were often unsure if they would be able to continue the following term. Undocumented students are also excluded from federally funded programs such as the McNair program, which provides undergraduate research training and graduate school preparation to first-generation and low-income college students. Undocumented students may be able to participate in campus-based programs, such as tutoring or summer enrichment programs, but they cannot receive funding to participate. Thus, in addition to their school tuition, these students had to find the means to pay for such programs. Finally, the women expressed a profound concern about the career and professional opportuni- ties that would be available to them once they did graduate if they remained without recognized citizenship status. While these are only some of the con- straints for these women at the university, it provides a context, albeit brief, for how community cultural wealth emerged as a powerful resource in their undergraduate careers.

In the following sections, I describe how the women utilized each form of capital by presenting an emblematic example from the data. Each of these examples is representative of the forms of capital the women in the study used throughout their educational trajectories. The examples presented here were selected because they most clearly represent how community cultural wealth

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emerged in the lives of the women participants. They will show how commu- nity cultural wealth can help explain the multiple strengths undocumented Chicana students bring to their educational contexts.

Aspirational and Familial Capital Aspirational capital is the resilient ability to maintain hopes and dreams for the future in the face of adversity. Yosso (2005) describes aspirational capi- tal as developed and transmitted through cultural lessons—cuentos (stories), consejos (advice), and dichos (proverbs) shared within social spaces, particu- larly in families, about continuing to “dream of possibilities beyond their pres- ent circumstances” and nurturing a “culture of possibility” (p. 78). Yosso also explains that aspirational capital is tied to other forms of community cultural wealth. Indeed, this study found that familial, linguistic, social, resistant, navi- gational, and spiritual forms of capital were rooted in a profound belief that these forms of capital could be utilized to transcend the students’ current cir- cumstances. In fact, what emerged was that aspirational and familial capital were intricately tied to one another in the experiences of the undocumented women in this study.

Although the women were often unsure if they would be able to continue their college education, or if they would be able to utilize their degrees after graduation, they demonstrated an amazing resiliency in holding on to their dreams of being college graduates and career professionals. The women aspired to one day become medical doctors, lawyers, professors, and college counselors. All of the women aspired to attend graduate school and attain an advanced degree.

The women showed that this aspirational capital was often tied to their fam- ilies and, particularly, their family migration stories. Brenda, a fourth-year soci- ology major and the oldest of nine siblings, shared how she watched the physi- cal changes in her father, who works as a landscaper and food vendor.

I always see my dad working. When I was little, he would work seven days a week and it bothered me so much, because he [could] never spend time with us. Now I’m older . . . I see my dad’s hands, and they’re not soft. I remember when I was little, touching his hands, I don’t know why, but back then they were softer. He works in landscaping, so touching all the grass and stuff like that, his hands are really rough. And my dad, for many, many, years, he sold shrimp cocktails [out- side]. He’s really much darker, and you could see the manchas from the sun, like one big one he has right here [pointing to cheek]. And so when I saw his face and his hands, I was like, “Ugh! This is the reason why I’m going to school!” I just see how much he works, and how brave they [her parents] were to come here, it motivates me.

Brenda described the pain she felt in seeing the physical manifestations of the hard labor her father endured over the years. The changes in his hands and the manchas (sun spots) on his face are symbolic of his subjugated posi- tion as a low-wage Mexican immigrant worker. In recognizing these changes,

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Brenda was reminded of her family’s migration story of coming to the United States, which she vividly remembered and recounted in her testimonio. She remembered “how brave” her parents were to leave the only place they knew as home, enduring an unknown and treacherous journey across the U.S.- Mexico border and starting a new life in California. In remembering this fam- ily history, Brenda also drew from her familial capital. Her family’s migration experiences are forms of cultural knowledge that carry a sense of family and community memory. In her testimonio, Brenda connected this history and memory to her aspirations. Brenda utilized the aspirational capital rooted in her family migration story to maintain her dreams of graduating from college and one day becoming a high school counselor to guide other Latina/o stu- dents toward higher education. Brenda shared that she often found her family to be a source of motivation when she felt discouraged at the university. She, like the other women in this study, maintains her hope and dream that one day her and her family’s circumstances will change.

Linguistic Capital Yosso (2005) defines linguistic capital as “the intellectual and social skills attained through communication experiences in more than one language and/or style” (p. 78). While bilingual education policies, particularly those in California, frame learning and speaking the Spanish language as a detriment in the context of schools, a community cultural wealth lens allows us to see the strengths bilingual students bring to their educational experiences.6 Yosso (2005) argues that bilingual Students of Color learn a “repertoire of storytell- ing skills” (p. 79) including memorization, attention to detail, and comedic timing. Natalia, a fourth-year Chicana/o studies major, showed us how her lin- guistic capital enabled her to become a more outspoken person—a skill that she was able to later use to adapt to classroom culture at her university.

Natalia is originally from a small, rural pueblo in Oaxaca, Mexico. Her native language is Zapoteco, a language spoken by many indigenous communities in the state of Oaxaca. She attended a small school in her community where she was taught Spanish. Similar to the English-only instruction we have in U.S. schools, Natalia’s teachers enforced Spanish instruction and reprimanded stu- dents for speaking their native language in the classroom. Once she arrived in the United States, Natalia’s family settled in the Los Angeles area in a pre- dominately Spanish-speaking community. When Natalia entered elementary school, she encountered yet another linguistic environment—English. Though Natalia struggled to learn the English language as a young child, she is now a trilingual student fluent in Zapoteco, Spanish, and English.

Natalia explained that one of her major responsibilities in her household was to translate for her family members, and in fact she continues to have this responsibility as a college student. For her Zapoteco-speaking relatives, she often translates to Spanish, and for her Spanish-speaking relatives, she often translates to English. Natalia has no doubt acquired a wide array of skills

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and abilities as a trilingual “language broker” in her household (Buriel, Pérez, Dement, Chávez, & Moran, 1998; Faulstich Orellana, Reynolds, Dorner, & Meza, 2003). In her interview, she described the impact this language broker- ing has had on her.

I was scared of talking to people, but then with all those responsibilities [trans- lating], I had no choice, so I had to approach people. Sometimes I felt that my uncle or my aunt was being taken advantage of because they didn’t speak Span- ish. So I would call and demand, and say like, “You know what? They’re not alone.” Not insulting them, just being strong. Sometimes I felt like I wasn’t that strong, like I was passive, but with all those responsibilities I felt stronger because I felt my family [was] relying [on] me. I had to do something about it. I guess that’s the number one thing that made me stronger.

Here Natalia shows how her language brokering skills have made her a “stronger” person. With these responsibilities, she had to overcome her shy- ness and engage in conversations with others to help family members navigate through social structures. Natalia later explains that she has been able to uti- lize these skills as a college student: “So . . . with my professors, I shouldn’t be afraid or . . . intimidated, or with people that have higher positions than [me]. I think that helped me in that way . . . just approaching people . . . and not being shy anymore.” Natalia has used her linguistic capital as a trilingual student to advocate for her family members, whom she explained are mis- treated because they do not speak dominant languages. Her linguistic capital has strengthened her ability to communicate within academic spaces as well as to identify and confront subordination.

Social Capital Yosso (2005) defines social capital as the networks of social contacts and com- munity resources that help Communities of Color navigate social institutions. For the women in this study, social capital was absolutely critical in their abil- ity to navigate the university and the many barriers their undocumented status created. Drawing from social networks in their communities and cultivating networks at the university, students were able to garner significant financial and academic resources. Elena, a third-year sociology major whose family is from Jamay in the Mexican state of Jalisco, explained one of her strategies to fund-raise for her school tuition.

My uncle, he was involved with Club Jalisciense, and he just knows a lot of people . . . I participated in [their] pageant my first year and they gave me a scholar- ship. Another person that has helped me out is the vice president of AT&T and I met her through him [my uncle] too. I met a lot of people through him that have been able to help. I mean, even if they give me a hundred dollar scholar- ship, that’s a lot of help for me, so I’ve used him [my uncle] a lot. I met a coun- cilman from New York and he said he was going to help me put on an event; he was going to fund it and whatever [money] came out from it, it would be for me . . . like a dinner, I guess you could say.

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Elena explained that her uncle was a prominent member of Club Jali- sciense, a social network group whose members are from various areas of Jalisco. Members of these clubes garner resources to help and provide support to their native communities in Mexico, such as building hospitals and schools, making electricity and clean water available, and donating basic necessities like clothes, food, and blankets. The organizations host events such as annual conferences and pageants that honor prominent members and their families. The clubs are often regionally specific and governed by a larger federacíon (fed- eration) of collective organizations. As Elena described, members of Club Jali- sciense come from various social classes, from top executives of corporations to day laborers. As a result, this organization (and others like it) serves as a critical source of social capital for its members and their families. Elena has drawn from this group to make social contacts with those supportive of her educational pursuits and to fund-raise for her college tuition.

The majority of women utilized social networks and community resources to navigate higher education. Social capital was especially critical in fund-raising efforts. For example, many students sold tickets to dinners hosted by house- holds in the community. Other fund-raising efforts included raffles, where businesses and community members donated items for students to raffle off. Garage sales, car washes, and donation drives were other strategies used to draw from community resources to help fund-raising efforts.

Aside from the material resources present in the students’ communities, emotional support was just as critical. Beatrice, a fourth-year political science and Chicana/o studies double-major, described how she found comfort in knowing that her family and community would support her during her under- graduate career.

I know my dad will not let me [discontinue school], I know he’ll find any means for me to come here [the university], for my tuition, so, I know people will find any means for me to continue school. They’ll help me if I’m sick or anything like that.

Social capital was critical in both the material and emotional sources of sup- port that it provided to undocumented college students. This finding supports a wealth of research that has found social networks to be critical for Latina/o immigrants in navigating social institutions in the United States (Amado, 2006; Flores, Hernández-León, & Massey, 2004; Portes & Rumbaut, 2006; Ruiz, 1998; Sarmiento, 2002; Stanton-Salazar, 2001). The women in this study show that it is because of the social resources present in their families and communities that they are able to continue their undergraduate careers.

Navigational Capital as Resistant Capital Navigational capital can be understood as the “skills of maneuvering through social institutions” that have historically functioned without the needs of Com- munities of Color in mind (Yosso, 2005). Similar to social capital, social net-

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works are an important element of navigational capital. However, different from social capital, navigational capital is drawn from the resiliency of People of Color to continue to overcome barriers that are consistently encountered. Yosso (2005) borrows a definition from Stanton-Salazar and Spina (2000), who explain that resiliency can be understood as “a set of inner resources, social competencies and cultural strategies that permit individuals to not only sur- vive, recover or even thrive after stressful events, but also draw from the expe- rience to enhance subsequent functioning” (p. 229). This study found that strategies of resiliency were indeed “critical navigational skills” for the undoc- umented women in their undergraduate careers (Solórzano & Villalpando, 1998).

In her interview, Noeli, a fourth-year sociology major and community college transfer student, described how she had to learn to use her “inner resources” to navigate higher education as an undocumented student. Living as undocumented immigrants, the students developed particular skills that help in the context of higher education institutions. Revealing their status as undocumented immigrants was an issue of concern for many of the women. Sharing this information with others created a very real sense of vulnerabil- ity, particularly during a historical moment when anti-immigrant sentiment has again peaked, resulting in the increased efforts of deportation and bor- der enforcement. Despite the potential risks in revealing their status, students were able to skillfully develop an intuition about to whom, when, and where it would be appropriate to share this information. As Noeli explained,

When you are AB 540, you come to realize that you have to say something out of means, you have to do it, if you don’t say something nobody is gonna help you. I learned that in the community college [and] the UC system, because you never know who [is] sympathetic . . . you never know what could happen unless you say something and you have to learn how to do that.

Noeli suggests that undocumented college students must reach out to oth- ers to build social networks to access important information and resources that can help them in their higher education experience. Perhaps this is a navigational strategy learned from what Delgado Bernal (2001) terms “peda- gogies of the home”—a “cultural knowledge base” amassed from a lifetime of personal and familial experiences living as an undocumented Latina/o immi- grant in the United States.

The data in this study revealed that many of the navigational strategies uti- lized by these women were in fact informed by a consciousness of resistance. This is a point of overlap for navigational and resistant capital within a com- munity cultural wealth framework. Resistant capital is the knowledge and skills developed in opposition to oppression, grounded in a legacy of resistance to subordination. A powerful example of this intersection between navigational and resistant capital for the students in this study was their participation in DREAMS, a student-initiated, university-sponsored organization created to

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provide undocumented AB 540 students a “camaraderie of people working together, networking, sharing our day to day experiences, struggles, and suc- cess, to fulfill our personal and educational goals as undocumented individ- uals.” 7 Each of the students in this study had some connection to and/or involvement with the DREAMS student group. Andrea, a fourth-year political science and history double-major, called the skills she learned as a DREAMS member “survival mechanisms” for navigating the university.

Knowing people in [DREAMS] . . . I kinda know how everything works now . . . you just have to be like, I’m doing this [school] and I’m gonna do it well! I’m gonna need other people to get through, or else it’s not gonna work out. So even though you’re not living on campus, you’re not going to parties . . . you just have to learn . . . like survival mechanisms to get through school . . . It’s not just about the social experience, even though that helps . . . You’re here to do what you have to do.

Indeed, Andrea’s ability to “survive” was an act of resistance to the barriers that made her undergraduate education nearly impossible to complete, and enabled her to do what she came to the university to do—attain her college degree.

DREAMS was a place where undocumented students exchanged vital sources of information, strategies, and support to navigate higher education, despite and in spite of the institutional barriers they encountered. The DREAMS group utilized three specific strategies to achieve its goals: (1) disseminating information about state and federal legislation concerning the education of undocumented students; (2) recruiting and retaining incoming and current undocumented students; and (3) advocating for the rights of undocumented students at the university, state, and federal levels.

The women described participating in a range of activities and events that reflected these organizational strategies, including holding fund-raising events for their scholarship fund, lobbying in Sacramento, holding protests against the unfair treatment of undocumented students and communities, and travel- ing to local high schools to disseminate information about AB 540 and undoc- umented students’ rights. Graciela, a third-year psychobiology and neurosci- ence double-major, described the reasons she participated in the DREAMS high school outreach project, traveling to local urban Los Angeles high schools to provide undocumented students with information about college access.

I’m giving back to those who aren’t here, because there’s a lot of undocumented [people] in our community who aren’t able to come to college because of finan- cial situations . . . so it gives me a lot of responsibility in a way of representing them . . . so that’s why I’m involved in DREAMS. I feel like I have the responsibil- ity to help those students that weren’t able to make it here and inform them that there is something that they could do beyond just high school. It’s giving back . . . giving back to your community . . . I personally want to see the numbers of undocumented students grow in these universities because I feel like we’ve . . .

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been crippled. We haven’t been allowed [in]to college and I believe everyone should be allowed to go to college, especially the UC [system]. UCs are supposed to represent the community and they don’t . . . They are public institutions for a reason and no one is doing nothing about it so . . . students have a lot of power . . . and I think that we should use it.

For Graciela, being a member of DREAMS was about more than finding support for herself; it was about “giving back” to her community and reach- ing out to other undocumented students. Ultimately, she believed that these efforts would lead to greater college access for undocumented students, partic- ularly in the UC system. Her involvement in DREAMS was a means of resisting the subordination that has constrained educational opportunity for undocu- mented students.

The DREAMS organization was critical in the women’s ability to find their way within the university. However, this organization provided much more than navigational skills; it provided the opportunity to come together with a collec- tive agency to resist oppressive conditions in and beyond the university for themselves, their communities, and future undocumented students. This orga- nization was where the community cultural wealth of undocumented students converged to provide a set of navigational skills that could be utilized not only to get through the institution but to transform their current situations, exer- cising what Yosso (2005) describes as transformative resistant capital.

Spiritual Capital Aside from the multiple forms of capital the women in this study utilized in their undergraduate careers, an additional form of capital emerged from the data: spiritual capital.8 Spiritual capital can be understood as a set of resources and skills rooted in a spiritual connection to a reality greater than oneself. Spiritual capital can encompass religious, indigenous, and ancestral beliefs and practices learned from one’s family, community, and inner self. Thus, spirituality in its many forms can provide a sense of hope and faith. Ruth Trinidad Galván (2006) explains, “If we truly come to understand spiritual- ity as that essence that moves us, that makes us whole, that gives us strength, then essentially, spirituality gives us hope” (p. 173). Galván found spiritual- ity to be at the source of campesina (rural or peasant women) strength and a “catalyst” for resistance and resiliency. Gloria Anzaldúa (1999) emphasizes the indigenous influences of Chicana spirituality. She explains that for Chi- cana women, “our faith is rooted in indigenous attributes, images, symbols, magic and myth” (p. 52), such as the belief in La Virgen de Guadalupe. Godinez (2006) found a spirituality to be “woven” throughout the identities and world- views of Chicana students that was used to negotiate and navigate their daily experiences. Finally, Delgado Bernal (2001) found spirituality to be a “source of inspiration” among Chicana college students who practiced varying forms of spirituality, such as lighting a candle, displaying a picture of La Virgen, and talking to relatives who have passed on.

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Elena shared how her faith has enabled her to maintain her aspirations despite the many barriers she has encountered in her undergraduate career.

I know I have to have faith that things are going to turn out good, and maybe I have a hard time right now, but it’s going to get better eventually. And I’m sure all my hard work is going to pay off someday and then I’m going to say, “Ok, all of that was worth it.” So I think having faith is really important.

Brenda expressed similar feelings about her faith, which has become a source of motivation in the face of obstacles that still lie ahead.

I think I’m a woman with great faith. So I really trust God, he has great plans for me. But sometimes I feel like, “Where am I going to work after [graduation]?” Although there’s days I really, really want to give up . . . I can’t give up.

Brenda and Elena both described how their faith plays a central role in their resilient abilities to persist through institutional barriers. Their spiritual- ity was also a critical source of hope for the future. Daria, a second-year psy- chology major, reflected on her spirituality and the impact it has had on her undergraduate experience:

Religion has always been a very big part of my life since I was young . . . For me it’s always been a source of strength, a source of hope, a source of faith, a source of positivity in my life. You know, everybody goes through their struggles . . . and there [are] times when you’re down, and I’ve learned to think positively ahead . . . to think that I’m here for a reason, that all this that I’ve gone through is for a reason. God has always been there for me, to help me get through. There’s no problem in my life so big that I’ve never been able to overcome thus far. Thank God. Whether it was fear of going to college, fear of how I’m going to pay for college, fear of “how am I going to pass that class?” Fear of anything. I’ve learned to not stress out so much because of that confidence, that I know that God has always put me through it. So for me it’s a big part of who I am. It’s given me a lot of confidence, a lot of . . . what’s it called? Peace.

Although we can see how these experiences can be connected to forms of aspirational, navigational, and resistant capital, what these women describe is something different. Their faith and hope are nurtured by a spiritual connec- tion and prove to be powerful resources they draw on to overcome barriers and maintain their aspirations for the future. They have translated the spiri- tual capital learned from their families and communities to make sense of, negotiate, and navigate their undergraduate experiences.

Summary of Findings

The critical race testimonios reveal how the students utilize community cul- tural wealth in their undergraduate educations, which challenges dominant perceptions constructed by the racist nativist framing of undocumented com- munities. Consistent with past research that explains how community cultural

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wealth capital can shift and overlap (Yosso, 2005, 2006; Yosso & García, 2007), we see how particular forms of community cultural wealth intersected in the lived experiences of these women as they drew from various forms of capital simultaneously. Furthermore, an additional form of capital emerged from the data, spiritual capital, which can now be added to the community cultural wealth framework. Figure 4 builds on the models presented earlier, showing the addition of spiritual capital and the points of overlap that emerged from the analysis.

Figure 4 shows how CRT, LatCrit, and the LatCrit racist nativism framework collectively provide researchers the ability to focus on the intersectionality of race and immigration status in the lives of Latinas/os. The model shows how theory emerges from the data (testimonios) to understand, expose, and chal- lenge subordination (racist nativist framing). A LatCrit racist nativism frame- work exposes the oppression of a dominant discourse that frames undocu- mented immigrant communities as “criminal,” “dangerous,” and a “drain” on limited U.S. social resources.

The women describe the strengths in undocumented immigrant families and communities that allow them to navigate a top-tier research university. The array of knowledge, skills, and resources they draw from their families and communities is a challenge to racist nativist framing, allowing the oppor- tunity to consider how we can reframe undocumented Latina/o immigrant communities in a way that reflects the strengths these women describe.

Conclusion: A Human Rights Frame

Racist nativist framing of undocumented Latina/o immigrants as “criminals” strips undocumented communities of their humanity, making illogical argu- ments for exclusion plausible and widely accepted. These negative portray- als of undocumented Latina/o immigrants have become so prevalent within

FIGURE 4 A critical race model for exposing and challenging racist nativist framing of Latina/o undocumented immigrant communities.

Aspirational Familial

Community Cultural Wealth

Linguistic

SocialResistant

Aspirational Familial

Community Cultural Wealth

Linguistic

Social

Resistant

Navigational

CRT

LatCrit Racist

Nativist Framework

Racist Nativist Framing

LatCrit

Exposing

CRT

LatCrit Racist

Nativist Framework

Racist Nativist Framing

LatCrit

Exposing Challenging

Aspirational Familial

Community Cultural Wealth

Linguistic

Social

Resistant

Spiritual

Navigational

CRT

LatCrit Racist

Nativist Framework

Racist Nativist Framing

LatCrit

Exposing Challenging

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immigration discourse that they have become “common sense” in how we understand immigration issues (Haas, 2008; Lakoff & Ferguson, 2006). This framing limits the understanding of undocumented immigration to a “crime” and can potentially constrain the agency of undocumented immigrants, their allies, and advocates to counter these negative portrayals. Positioned within this frame, institutions can easily deny undocumented immigrants the same rights and treatment that U.S.-born and “legalized” communities have. For example, this framing allows undocumented college students, such as those in this study, to be denied access to state and federal financial aid programs, barred from having driver’s licenses, and denied the right to gain employment that reflects the training they earned at the university. These oppressive poli- cies are the result of racist nativist framing that constructs particular rights as benefits that undocumented communities should not be allowed to access. The testimonios of the women in this study are a challenge to these racist nativist frames.

In attempting to name this reframing, the work of the late African American activist Malcolm X becomes especially useful. Nearly fifty years ago, Malcolm X recognized the significance of framing in the civil rights movement for Afri- can Americans in the United States.9 He argued that framing African Ameri- can rights as civil rights limited the African American community in gaining racial equality because it continued to uphold the belief that whites possessed the power to give and take away rights. Malcolm X (1964) argued for a human rights frame to guide this movement: “You can never get civil rights until you have human rights. Human rights represent the right to be a human being. Whenever you are respected and recognized as a human being your civil rights are automatic.” He argued that racial equality could never be achieved with- out recognizing that African Americans were entitled to the same basic human rights as whites. Within a human rights frame, the historically racist laws, poli- cies, and violence committed against the African American community in the United States could not be justified. As an activist, Malcolm X argued that any move toward greater racial equality in the United States must be guided by the fundamental belief in and simple acknowledgment of human rights for all people.

More than four decades later, the Catholic Church published an official statement advocating for the human rights of undocumented immigrants (U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, 2003). Mexican and U.S. Catholic bishops felt compelled to denounce the injustices committed against Latina/o immi- grants and, guided by the principal of respecting the dignity of the migrant, offered policy recommendations to both countries. The bishops said:

Regardless of their legal status, migrants, like all persons, possess inherent human dignity that should be respected. Often they are subject to punitive laws and harsh treatment from enforcement officers from both receiving and tran- sit countries. Government policies that respect the basic human rights of the undocumented are necessary. (p.16)

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What the bishops suggested in their policy recommendations was a refram- ing of the ways we understand immigration. At a transnational level, the Church urged governmental agencies, officials, enforcers, and media to acknowledge the dignity of Latina/o immigrants and respect their human rights to work, live, and provide for their families wherever they find the opportunity and “safe haven” to lead their lives.

Positioning the immigration debate within a human rights frame reclaims the humanity of undocumented Latina/o immigrants. A human rights frame would provide the opportunity for researchers, policy makers, and immigrants themselves to work toward creating strategies and implementing policies that would benefit all who have a stake in the immigration debate. We must rec- ognize that the immigration debate is not about borders or national security but about human beings and their opportunity to live full and free lives. A community cultural wealth framework moves us toward a human rights frame by acknowledging the strengths that exist within immigrant Communities of Color. This framework affords us a lens to “see” Latina/o undocumented immigrant communities as places rich in resources, assets, skills, and abilities, where faith and hope guide pedagogies of the spirit (Galván, 2006)—even in the face of oppression and dehumanization.

The women in this study have shown the multiple forms of capital present in undocumented families and communities that enable them to be success- ful college students even in the face of tremendous barriers. A human rights frame reveals what the women in this study demonstrated: that we all have the right to create a reality better than the one in which we live, for ourselves, our communities, and the generations to come. A human rights frame should be used in educational discourse beyond the immigration debate to focus the efforts of researchers, practitioners, and policy makers toward equal educa- tional opportunity as a human right all students deserve.

Notes 1. I use quotation marks for the terms “illegal” and “legal” to denote that I do not sub-

scribe to the constructed meanings of these terms within the context of immigration discourse.

2. Linguistically, we are limited in the language used to describe people who have migrated to the United States without casting a dark image of criminality. As Lakoff and Fergu- son (2006) argue, we must move toward reframing language about the immigration issue to counter the negative portrayals of Latina/o immigrants. For example, Lakoff and Ferguson introduce the term “economic refugees” to describe those who flee their home country to escape economic insecurity. Altering the description to refugees por- trays people who deserve compassion, who are entitled to the same life opportunities as all human beings. Jonas (2005) also argues that we must work to reframe the immigra- tion debate from a national security issue to one that reflects the interests of migrants themselves.

3. HR 4437 (2006) was a bill that sought to charge all undocumented persons living in the United States with a felony for their presence in the country and bar them from ever gaining legal status. The bill also sought felony charges for anyone, regardless of

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legal status, who assists or conceals the status of undocumented persons from the U.S. government.

4. According to Lakoff (2006), conservative politicians have mainly used four types of frames (surface frames, deep frames, issue-defining frames, and messaging frames) to shape how we think about and define political issues, the values we associate with those issues, and the solutions we negotiate for matters identified as problematic.

5. See Pérez Huber (in press) for a more detailed description of this methodology designed for critical race research in education.

6. California Proposition 227, passed in 1998, prohibits bilingual instruction and edu- cation in all California classrooms. While this law affects all English-language learner (ELL) students, it targets Spanish-speaking students who, at the time Prop 227 passed, comprised 81 percent of all ELL students in California public schools (California Department of Education, 2006). Macedo (2000) argues that English-only initiatives like Prop 227 were born of the assumption that English is the “superior” language. Gutiérrez, Baquedano-López, and Asato (2000) also name the move toward English- only instruction as “English-only hegemony” (p. 17).

7. The name of this student organization has been changed to protect the identities of its members. The source of this statement is from the organization’s official statement of purpose. However, the direct source of this statement will not be provided so as to pro- tect the identity of the organization’s members.

8. The concept of spiritual capital is a form of community cultural wealth that has not yet been documented but is the subject of an ongoing discussion among critical race scholars in education. I acknowledge these discussions in the development of spiritual capital in this work, particularly among Daniel Solórzano, Tara Yosso, and Rebeca Bur- ciaga, who have discussed how we can expand the community cultural wealth model to include the role of spirituality as a resource used by communities of color.

9. I acknowledge Daniel Solórzano for sharing Malcolm X’s speech and the U.S. Confer- ence of Catholic Bishops (2003) publication, Strangers No More, to examine the ways we can begin to move toward a human rights frame of undocumented immigration in the United States.

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Community College Journal of Research and Practice

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TRANSFER CONDITIONS OF LATINA/O COMMUNITY COLLEGE STUDENTS: A SINGLE INSTITUTION CASE STUDY

Armida Ornelas & Daniel G. Solorzano

To cite this article: Armida Ornelas & Daniel G. Solorzano (2004) TRANSFER CONDITIONS OF LATINA/O COMMUNITY COLLEGE STUDENTS: A SINGLE INSTITUTION CASE STUDY, Community College Journal of Research and Practice, 28:3, 233-248, DOI: 10.1080/10668920490256417

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TRANSFER CONDITIONS OF LATINA=O COMMUNITY COLLEGE STUDENTS: A SINGLE INSTITUTION CASE STUDY

Armida Ornelas UC ACCORD Postdoctoral Fellow, UCLA—Education, Los Angeles, California, USA

Daniel G. Solorzano UCLA—Education, Los Angeles, California, USA

This study reported in this article examined the transfer process for Latina=o students at Esperanza Community College. Esperanza is one of the 108 community colleges in California with one of the largest concentrations of Latina=o students. In California, 42 out of every 100 Latina=o public high school graduates pursue some form of higher education. For most, the community college is the entry point, Of these, 32 out of every 100 students begin their pursuit of higher education at a California community college. An average of three Latina=o students transfers to a university. Recommendations considered essential to create a prevailing commu- nity college transfer culture are offered.

The 1960 California Master Plan for Higher Education has shaped the structure and organization of California postsecondary education. Under the Master Plan, the University of California (UC) admits the top one-eighth (12%) of California public high school graduates, the California State University (CSU) admits the top one-third (33.3%) of California public high school graduates, and the California Commu- nity Colleges (CCCs) implement an open admissions policy for all others (California Postsecondary Education Commission [CPEC], 1998a). Another way to consider the California Master Plan is that while it affirms the open admissions practices of community colleges, it also serves as a diversion for large numbers of high school graduates from four-year colleges and universities.

Address correspondence to Daniel G. Solorzano, UCLA—Education, Box 951521, 2320 MH, Los Angeles, CA 90095-1521. E-mail: [email protected]

Community College Journal of Research and Practice, 28: 233–248, 2004

Copyright # Taylor & Francis Inc.

ISSN: 1066-8926 print/1521-0413 online

DOI: 10.1080=10668920490256417

233

The study reported in this paper took a close look at the transfer function and process of the CCCs and how they affect the educa- tional outcomes of Latina=o1 students pursuing postsecondary educa- tion. More specifically, the research involved a case study of a single California community college that services a predominantly Latina=o student body. For the sake of anonymity, the actual name of the college and the individuals interviewed are not revealed and the pseudonym Esperanza Community College is used. This study examined the resources for academic motivation and potential barriers for Latina=o students at Esperanza as they made their way through the transfer process to the university. Such an examination provides a lens for identifying essential elements for developing a community college transfer culture.

LATINA=O STUDENTS AND THE CALIFORNIA COMMUNITY COLLEGES

In the fall of 1999, approximately one-third of first-time Latina=o freshmen entering college began their postsecondary education in California community colleges. It is estimated that out of every 100 Latina=o California public high school graduates, 32 will begin their postsecondary education in a community college and of these, only 3.4 are to likely transfer later to a California four-year public institution (CPEC, 2000, 2001).

The California community college system consists of 72 districts and 108 colleges throughout the state. In the fall of 2000, the com- munity colleges enrolled a total of 1,587,119 students; Latina=o stu- dents represented 24% of the total enrollment or one in every four students (Chancellor’s Office California Community College, 2000). Yet, in the previous year, 1999�2000, these colleges transferred only 1,432 Latinas=os to the University of California and 9,296 to the California State University (CPEC, 2001), reflecting a dis- proportionately low number of Latina=o transfer students relative to their overall Latina=o enrollment in the system.

1Throughout this study Latinas and Latinos are defined as female and male persons of Latin American origin living in the United States, irrespective of immigration or generation status.

234 A. Ornelas and D. G. Solorzano

LATINA=O STUDENTS AND OPPORTUNITY DISTRICT2

Esperanza Community College, an Hispanic-serving institution (HSI), is one of the multiple colleges in Opportunity District located in a large, highly diverse metropolitan area. This community college dis- trict is one of the largest in the United States and certainly the largest within the state. In Fall 2000, Opportunity District enrolled approxi- mately 150,000 students and nearly half (45%) were Latinos=as (http:==www.cccco.edu). Yet, in 1999�2000, the entire district trans- ferred only 128 Latinas=os to UC and 1203 Latinas=os to CSU for a total of 1331 students (CPEC, 2000). It might be said that the goals of the California Master Plan to divert students (Brint & Karabel, 1989) from the university have clearly unfolded at Opportunity District when one considers the surprisingly low number of Latino=a transfer students for an entire district.

ESPERANZA COMMUNITY COLLEGE: A CASE STUDY

This study examined the barriers that Latina=o students faced in the transfer process at Esperanza Community College and assessed the resources available to address student academic motivation. This study was guided by the following questions: (1) What are the resources for academic motivation and potential barriers that inform the transfer function and process for Latina=o community college students? and (2) What are the essential elements required for insti- tuting a community college transfer culture?

This research used a case-study design and was conducted at Esperanza Community College. In-depth interviews and focus groups were the primary methods used in data collection. Since several groups inform the transfer process, sources for the data included 191 Latina=o students, 17 counselors, 12 faculty, and 6 administrators.

Latina=o students served as the primary source of data since the research was an examination of their experiences in the transfer process. The first of a three-step process included 13 focus groups with 191 students at different stages in their academic careers at Esper- anza. The second step included an anonymous survey completed by all student participants in the focus groups. The survey included demo- graphic information that assisted in the selection of students for the individual interviews. The third step included in-depth interviews of 24 students selected from the surveys.

2For the sake of anonymity, this study gives this district the pseudonym of Oppor- tunity District. For many students, this district represents another opportunity to change the course of their lives for the better.

Transfer of Latina=o Community College Students 235

Esperanza, one of the largest colleges in the state, is located in a low-income community and serves a predominantly Latina=o popula- tion. Figure 1 illustrates the ethnic breakdown of students enrolled at Esperanza in the Fall of 2000.

As an HSI, Esperanza Community College has a Latina=o 70% of the student population, a not insignificant number especially when they represent two of every three students enrolled in the college. These figures are all the more significant when one considers several additional facts. In Fall 2000, Esperanza enrolled close to 20,000 students, but only transferred 667 students to four-year institutions. In the previous year, only 49 Latina=o students transferred to UC, and 398 transferred to CSU (CPEC, 2000). These data confirm that very few Latino=a students transfer from Esperanza to four-year institu- tions, and of those who do transfer the vast majority transfer to a CSU.

RESOURCES FOR ACADEMIC MOTIVATION AND POTENTIAL BARRIERS

The findings of this study were informed by the perceptions of Latina=o students and counselors, faculty, and administrators related to the transfer process. Each group offered its views and experiences on the transfer process at Esperanza Community College. The rele- vant findings to the transfer process from these multiple perspectives are presented next.

FIGURE 1 Esperanza Community College Fall 2000 students enrolled by ethnicity.

236 A. Ornelas and D. G. Solorzano

Student Perceptions

I have seen my mom’s hands. I have seen my mom’s body. I have seen my dad—he works every day from seven in the morning to eight o’clock at night as a barber. He used to work as a carpenter. His body has gone through a lot. And I know that my mom and my dad came here [the United States] for a reason, and that was to have a family and to see us have a better life. That’s my main concern of what I’m doing, of why I’m going to a university. That’s my main concern. My mom and dad are my main role models. I don’t care if they didn’t go to a university. I don’t care if they’re not scientists. They are my role models (female student).

As the above words convey, this student viewed her parents as her role models and her inspiration for going to college, and her words reveal the most evident theme that emerged in this study, namely, the passion and personal motivation that Latina=o students at Esperanza had to excel academically. This passion was often inculcated by the motivation the students received from their parents, their apprecia- tion for their parents, and by an understanding of their place in a society that marginalized them on the basis of their race, class, and gender.

Overwhelmingly, Latina=o students in this study indicated a desire to transfer. Of the students who participated in the focus groups, 173 out 191 indicated that their goal at the community college was to transfer. Ten students indicated a desire to attain only an Associate of Arts degree and another eight indicated that they were uncertain about their academic goal. Although the majority of students stated their motivation for going to college was to transfer, they faced many barriers in their journey to transfer to a four-year university. These barriers were not insignificant. For example, a lack of institutional commitment to implement and fulfill its transfer function and a lack of adequate transfer information existed. An uncertainty about career and academic goals, coupled with being the first in their families to attend college, was another barrier. Students also were dealing with myths about the financial aid process and the costs associated with four-year institutions. They were aware of the inadequate K-12 public education they had received and how this negatively impacted their experiences at the college. Additionally, many students had multiple responsibilities outside of the classroom that impacted on their studies.

As students worked their way through the transfer process, they used multiple sources of information. Rarely was the process uniform, unfortunately. Typically, the transfer process involved an information

Transfer of Latina=o Community College Students 237

session with a counselor, augmented by information from a catalog, friends, family, teachers, or in some cases, a university representative. Hence, students drew from a myriad of resources to inform them about the transfer process. For some students, the multiple sources helped them become informed, while other students received conflicting information that led to frustration and misinformation.

Despite such barriers, some Latina=o students used these institu- tional resources and other outside resources to help them stay moti- vated and academically committed. Some students stated that a drive for a different reality for themselves and their families motivated them. Also, significant for them were the continued support and encouragement they received from their families and friends. Stu- dents expressed their feelings as a strong sense to ‘‘prove them [society] wrong,’’ a sense of responsibility to become role models to their younger siblings or their children, and a commitment to their community to succeed. The concept of ‘‘prove them wrong’’ surfaced throughout interviews with students. Students had different inter- pretations of what this concept meant for them. These interpretations varied from student to student. For example, some students wanted to prove counselors, teachers, or employers wrong, while other students wanted to prove media, society, or family wrong.

Counselors’ Perceptions

Counselors were instrumental in informing Latino=a students regarding the transfer process. All 17 guidance counselors at Esper- anza Community College were interviewed for the study. Counselors agreed that most students they advised fell into two categories. The students either wanted to transfer or were uncertain about their academic and career goals. The counselors reported that the most perceptible barrier the transfer process for Latina=o students was that they had multiple external responsibilities in addition to their aca- demic responsibilities. It was these non-academic responsibilities that counselors perceived to have impacted the students’ academic pro- gress. Furthermore, counselors felt that students were often not pre- pared to perform at the college-level due to the substandard K-12 public education they had received. As a result, counselors perceived that many of the students were overwhelmed with self-doubt and often doubted their potential to excel academically. According to counselors, Latina=o students were often the first in their families to attend col- lege. They also were often faced with significant financial barriers despite the tuition and fees associated with attending college in California being the lowest in the nation. Students were academically

238 A. Ornelas and D. G. Solorzano

discouraged upon learning that they were required to take pre- requisite courses that would length their time at the college according to counselors.

The counselors’ perceptions overall were that the college lacked a strong commitment to the transfer function. According to counselors, the institution did not promote its transfer function, However, the interviews also suggested that they vary concerning their individual commitment to the transfer function. From what they shared, it appeared that some of them took it upon themselves to promote and encourage transfer while others did not. The uneven commitment among counselors suggested an inconsistent approach to the transfer process that impacted the students negatively. Linked with this unevenness was the fact that the transfer information counselors had also varied. Some counselors were more proactive and took it upon themselves to research the transfer process and stay current with the latest information. They also researched transfer requirements for specialized fields and transfer requirements for private or out-of-state universities. The counselors’ understanding and knowledge of the transfer process impacted the guidance they provided to students. Therefore, according to students, it was not uncommon for them to get conflicting information from different counselors.

A pattern that emerged repeatedly in the interviews was the dif- fering perceptions between the students and the counselors regarding their interactions with each other. Counselors spoke about sharing information and resources with students and expressed genuine con- cern about the limited time restrictions they had to spend with stu- dents. On the other hand, students reported that counselors shared minimal information with them overall and they often felt rushed out of counseling appointments even though it seemed that the sessions had just begun.

Faculty Perceptions

Twelve faculty members from different disciplines were asked to participate in individual interviews to discuss their perceptions of the transfer process for Latina=o students at Esperanza College. The focus groups were drawn from these faculty’s classes. Faculty play a critical role in the transfer process for Latina=o students . The faculty stated, overwhelmingly that while they understand that Esperanza College serves multiple roles they believe that the transfer function is fun- damental to the role of the community college. Nonetheless, although they all agreed that the transfer function is essential, they disagreed among themselves as to how effective Esperanza has been in

Transfer of Latina=o Community College Students 239

transferring students to the university. Some felt that the transfer numbers are fine, others believed it could be improved, and still others agreed that the transfer numbers are dismally low and that there is a severe transfer problem at Esperanza.

The faculty stated that many factors operate together to potentially work against students’ preparation for transfer to four-year institution. Overall, faculty felt that Esperanza lacks an institutional commitment to fulfilling its mandate to facilitate the transfer function. The role and the responsibility of the administration to provide the leadership necessary to institute a transfer culture at Esperanza were cited as critical.

Faculty members were critical of themselves as well. The faculty reported that they lack the necessary knowledge and information relevant to the transfer process, and this impedes their ability to help their potential transfer students more effectively. They also discuss the need for more innovative teaching strategies in the classroom to more effectively engage students and facilitate their learning. The faculty stated that many of their students were already academically disadvantaged. Some faculty noted that many of the Latina=o students are the first in their families to attend college. Therefore, they often lack the cultural and academic knowledge to function successfully within the college. Faculty also noted that many of their students enter college with limited academic skills due to substandard K-12 public schooling. For many students, their poor academic preparation has been acerbated because they have demanding out-of-class responsibilities that take time away from their school work.

Although the faculty expressed understanding that multiple bar- riers work against students and the transfer process, they also per- ceive their role as educators to be important in helping their students succeed. For some, their commitment is in the classroom, and for others, their commitment to the transfer function extends into pursing more creative teaching approaches. Nevertheless, the faculty stated they were committed to educating their students. They believe in the potential of their students, and consider their role as educators at Esperanza to be fulfilling and rewarding.

Administrator Perceptions

Six senior administrators in key positions (i.e., president, vice pre- sident, dean) were asked to participate in interviews to discuss the transfer process for students at Esperanza. The intent of the inter- views with senior administrators was to highlight the critical leader-

240 A. Ornelas and D. G. Solorzano

ship role administrators can provide in the transfer process for Latina=o students.

Overall, the administrators described Esperanza College as an institution committed to the multiple roles of the community college. Only one administrator expressed a concern about the low number of Latina=o transfer students and stated that the transfer function should become a priority. The administrators agreed that some bar- riers exist for those students who are interested in transferring to a university. They defined these barriers as limited resources, institu- tional politics, and limited academic skills. Nevertheless, the admin- istrators expressed confidence that the institutional resources available are sufficient to assist transfer students in their academic preparation and eventual transition to four-year institutions.

It was apparent in the interviews, with the exception of one, that the administrators did not believe the college transfers a disproportionately low numbers of Latina=o students. In fact, one administrator stressed that Esperanza is the one community college in California that trans- fers more Latina=o students than all others. Certainly, Eperanza College is among the largest community colleges in California and in sheer numbers is the leading campus in total number of Latino transfer students. On the other hand, Esperanza falls far below most community colleges in the state in the proportion of Latinas=os who transfer when one considers their total enrollment in the college.

Moreover, throughout the interviews, it became apparent that there is a severe knowledge gap as to what the senior administrators per- ceive to be the needs of their students. In fact, the senior adminis- trators were not familiar with many of the issues, concerns, or even characteristics of the students at Esperanza. One administrator, for example, voiced the belief that vocational education is better suited to the career needs of students at Esperanza. Throughout the interview, this particular administrator shared many misconceptions and wrong information about Latinas=os at Esperanza. This individual’s false perceptions were all the more disturbing considering that they appear to serve as the basis for institutional decision-making and policy recommendations.

Bowles and Gintis (1976) have suggested that schools inadvertently, or otherwise, promote class inequality by socializing students to accept ‘‘their place’’ in society. The following example illustrates how this concept is at work at Esperanza College. One administrator shared that it was decided to expand the automotive technology program given certain perceived needs of the community. Based on stereo- typical notions of Latina=o communities and their alleged penchant for ‘‘car cultures,’’ administrators assumed that the automotive

Transfer of Latina=o Community College Students 241

technology program would attract Latino=a car enthusiasts who would enroll in this program. Contrary to administrative expectations, the program was not successful in attracting a greater number of stu- dents. Research (Brint & Karabel, 1989) suggests that community colleges tend to invest in vocational programs and channel students into such programs. Yet they find that students often resist such vocational tracking and actually prefer to enroll in academic pro- grams. For some, unfortunately, the path of resistance taken involves dropping out of school altogether. The intentions of administrators regarding expanding the automotive technology program at Esper- anza College illustrates an institutional expectation that was erro- neous. Latino=a students resisted enrolling in this vocational program although the college utilized scarce resources that could have been better used to improve transfer services.

Also, administrators made references to the students’ character- istics and family background to explain why they believe Latina=o students were not transferring in greater numbers. For example, four out of the six administrators indicated that Latina=o families do not value or place enough emphasis on education. According to some, this lack of commitment is expressed in students’ values and behaviors in the college. Solorzano (1995; Valencia, & Solorzano, 1997) refers to this type of thinking as cultural deficit thinking. He suggests that in addition to cultural deficit frameworks purporting that Latinas=os do not value education, such frameworks also allow for shifting the responsibility of educational attainment from the school to the indi- vidual and the family. Cultural deficit thinking, for example, allows Esperanza senior administrators to shift the responsibility for the college’s low transfer numbers from the institution to Latina=o stu- dents and their families.

Furthermore, these insidious cultural deficit attitudes often serve as the basis for policy recommendations—recommendations that can eventually deter Latina=o students from transferring. Contrary to many of the misconceptions senior administrators had about Latina=o family educational values, Latina=o students report that support and encouragement from their families is their primary reason for pur- suing an education and remaining academically motivated.

COMMON THEMES

The perceptions of students, counselors, faculty, and administrators shared above demonstrate that despite the different perspectives regarding the transfer process at Esperanza College, some similar themes did emerge. Table 1 summarizes some of the major themes that

242 A. Ornelas and D. G. Solorzano

emerged in this study. For example, all the groups agreed that the most significant barrier to the transfer process for Latina=o students is that they are overwhelmed with balancing multiple roles and responsibilities outside of college while attending to their academic roles as students. These multiple demands appear to deter students from fully immersing themselves in the college experience at Esperanza. Additionally, all the groups agreed that many Latina=o students arrive academically underprepared. They also agreed that the K-12 system does not serve these students well in preparing them for college. Moreover, they all agreed that it is not unusual for students to express self-doubt and have low self-esteem, which may work against their academic aspirations. Furthermore, the college personnel all agreed that many students become discouraged from pursuing a transfer goal once they learn about the prerequisite courses they have to take in addition to the transfer courses. For these students, their transfer preparation is prolonged to a minimum of three years at the college; that is, assuming they were enrolled full-time and successfully com- pleting all the courses.

TABLE 1 Barriers to Transfer

Barriers to Transfer

Students � Institutional barriers � Non-traditional

student � Financial � Student self-doubt

Counselors � Non-traditional student

� Financial � Institutional barriers � Cultural deficit thinking

Faculty � Lack of institutional commitment on the transfer function

� Problems with the faculty

� Student educational disadvantages

Administrator � Insufficient institutional resources

� Institutional politics � Student educational

disadvantages � Cultural deficit thinking

Transfer of Latina=o Community College Students 243

Esperanza’s institutional failure to effectively fulfill its transfer function is another prevailing theme that emerged. Students, coun- selors, and faculty all agreed that Esperanza lacks an institutional commitment to effectively address the transfer function, particularly in light of the racial and ethnic populations the college serves. Fur- thermore, both students and faculty agreed that Esperanza College appears to place a higher emphasis on maintaining and marketing its vocational and technical programs to the detriment of the academic programs. Both students and faculty expressed the view that Esperanza should address the transfer function and give it priority over other programs in the college considering that most students are there with the intention of preparing for transfer to a university. On the other hand, both counselors and administrators stressed that the community college had multiple missions to which it has to attend; however, they agreed that Esperanza should address these multiple roles equally.

Finally, another theme that emerged among some counselors and administrators is the tendency to blame Latina=o students and their families for what they perceive to be a low commitment to their college education and the resulting low transfer numbers. In relying on a cultural deficit framework to explain the low transfer rates, these counselors and administrators suggested that Latina=o families did not value education highly; therefore, poor academic performance and low transfer rates among Latinas=os were the outcomes.

RECOMMENDATIONS FOR DEVELOPING A COLLEGE TRANSFER CULTURE

Allowing for multiple perspectives to inform the transfer process was one of the most significant contributions of this research. Students, counselors, faculty, and administrators spoke about barriers and the need for resources to improve the transfer process for Latina=o stu- dents at Esperanza College. Based upon the perceptions of students, counselors, faculty, and administrators, the following four sets of recommendations emerged from the study. These recommendations address ways to develop an effective institutional transfer culture at Esperanza College, an HSI that enrolls a predominant, and still increasing, number of Latinos=as each year.

Administration

College senior administration must be committed to and must prior- itize the transfer function of the college. The college leadership must

244 A. Ornelas and D. G. Solorzano

ensure that administrators, counselors, and faculty members are educated regarding the importance of transfer function and the pro- cess that facilitate student transfer. Everyone within the college needs to understand the priority of the transfer function. Furthermore, they must collaborate on transfer-related projects, programs, and events. Some more specific suggestions follow.

First, Create a computer-based information system tailored to individual students so that students, counselors, and faculty can stay up-to-date regarding course requirements that have been met, course requirements needed, and grade point averages. Models within the California community colleges already exist that can be adapted to the needs of the college. This system will allow students to (1) access the information available, (2) be continuously informed of program requirements and their status in meeting them, and, (3) transfer in a more timely fashion.

Second, provide funding for programs where learning communities are the model so that students can experience the transfer process in cohorts. An example of this is The Puente Project that takes Latino transfer students as a cohort for two semesters of English and uses culturally appropriate curricula to facilitate their learning (see Hagedorn & Cepeda, this issue).

Third, demystify the financial aid process, assist students with financial aid forms, and encourage students to apply for financial aid. Financial aid workshops that include the parents and are offered in Spanish can serve to inform students and parents alike regarding available financial resources from state and federal gov- ernments. Furthermore, students and parents need to realize that financial aid is funded in part by their tax dollars and that they are already investing in an educational fund they can access like other students.

Fourth, establish bridge and partnership summer programs with universities and require community college students to enroll in transferable courses at the university. Models of successful summer programs, such as Upward Bound, MESA, and others, exist that Esperanza College can become a part of or emulate.

Fifth, insure that sufficient class sections are available and that administrative offices and student services are available for evening students. Many community college students can only attend classes at night; however, course selections and services are often limited. For example, it behooves the college to consider having differentiated work schedules for administrators and student service personnel in order to provide necessary services for students who cannot be on campus during the day.

Transfer of Latina=o Community College Students 245

Counselors

Counselors represent the primary source of academic information for students. Thus, their role is fundamental to improving student academic success and transfer preparation.

First, counselors should provide all students with the necessary essential transfer information. The Intersegmental General Education Transfer Curriculum as articulated between the community colleges and the University of California and the California State University serves as a primary source of transfer information for students. Counselors should share this information with students upon entry to the college and discuss students’ progress toward meeting these requirements each time they meet for an appointment.

Second, require all students to visit a counselor and develop an educational plan. The educational plan can be put on-line for quick and easy access by students and counselors alike.

Third, establish a required course in which students are provided updated and accurate information and requirements pertaining to their eventual transfer to four-year colleges or universities. The course should also provide information on financial aid, study skills, and time management skills (see Bliss and Sandiford, this issue).

Fourth, establish creative strategies for disseminating essential transfer information to students. Strategies could include counselor outreach to students through classroom visits and collaboration with student organizations.

Fifth, preparation for the transfer process should begin in high school. Community colleges counselors should visit the local high schools to inform high school students about college requirements. They should also encourage students to consider taking transferable credit courses at the community college while still in high school.

And finally, reach out to communities and families and inform them about the transfer process and opportunities available at the com- munity college.

Faculty

Students have the most frequent contact with faculty. Therefore, it is important that the faculty have an understanding of their role in preparing students for transfer. Faculty members are often the ones to whom students turn for information.

Faculty must implement innovative teaching strategies (critical thinking skills, cooperative learning, learning communities, inter- active classroom, and so forth) to engage their students. Faculty

246 A. Ornelas and D. G. Solorzano

members are the first in line within the college to serve as role models and who can best motivate their students to excel and eventually transfer (see Cedja & Rhodes, this issue).

Faculty must be involved at all stages of instituting a transfer process including curricula, recommending policy, and establishing student focus groups to learn how students are doing and feeling about their academic progress and involvement in the college.

Students

Students must not be merely recipients of knowledge; they must also actively ask questions, seek information, and take an active role in their learning and academic success.

First, students must aggressively seek accurate information from the transfer process from all sources within the college.

Second, students must take it upon themselves to seek out on- campus resources even while they juggle multiple responsibilities outside of the college. In seeking the advice of others, students may find solutions that can help them alleviate or better manage their external responsibilities.

Additionally, at the campus level, an effective transfer function should focus on understanding the particular needs of the student body. In understanding the academic, cultural, social, and economic needs of students, college personnel can institute measures that address these student needs. Latina=o community college students are among those students who are typically low-income, are often the first in their families to attend college, have multiple responsibilities in addition to their academic commitment, and often attend classes in the evening. Therefore, when developing an effective transfer func- tion, it is imperative for college personnel to understand the char- acteristics and distinct needs of students. An effective transfer function should reflect the diverse backgrounds and needs of students it serves.

CONCLUSION

In summary, this study highlighted the multiple players involved in the transfer process at Esperanza, namely, students, counselors, faculty, and administrators. While many similar themes emerged, they varied in significance depending on the particular perspective. Each group in this study added an important component for under- standing how the transfer function is understood and enacted in the college. These multiple perspectives allowed for invaluable insights in

Transfer of Latina=o Community College Students 247

understanding the transfer experiences for Latina=o students at Esperanza. Additionally, this study offered institutional and indivi- dual recommendations to assist Latina=o students in preparing for transfer at Esperanza Community College, an important Hispanic- serving institution in California in light of the high number of Latinos=as enrolled in this institution.

REFERENCES

Bowles, S., & Gintis, H. (1976). Schooling in capitalistic America: Educational reform and the contradictions of economic life. New York: Basic Books.

Brint, S., & Karabel, J. (1989). The diverted dream: Community colleges and the promise of educational opportunity in America, 1900�1985. New York: Oxford University Press.

California Postsecondary Education Commission. (1998a). A master plan for higher education in California, 1960�1975 (Commission Report 98-1). Sacramento, CA.

California Postsecondary Education Commission. (2001). Performance indicators of California higher education, 2000 (Commission Report 01-3). Sacramento, CA.

California Postsecondary Education Commission. (2002). Student transfer in California postsecondary education, 2002 (Commission Report 02-3). Sacramento, CA.

Chancellor’s Office California Community Colleges. (2000). California community college statewide enrollments. Available: http:==www.cccco.edu=divisions=tris=mis= reports.htm

Solorzano, D. G. (1995). The Chicano educational experience: Empirical and theoretical perspectives. In S. W. Rothstein (Ed.), Class, culture, and race in American schools: A handbook. Westport, CT: Greenwood 35�54..

Valencia, R., & Solorzano, D. (1997). Contemporary deficit thinking. In R. Valencia (Ed.), The evolution of deficit thinking in educational thought and practice (pp. 160�210). New York: Falmer.

248 A. Ornelas and D. G. Solorzano

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“Wait, What Do You Mean by College?” A Critical Race Analysis of Latina/o Students and Their Pathways to Community College Tanya J. Gaxiola Serrano

Graduate School of Education & Information Studies, University of California, Los Angeles, Los Angeles, California, USA

ABSTRACT As a group, Latina/o students are more likely to experience a substandard K–12 education complete with underresourced schools, high teacher turn- over, and fewer college-preparatory courses. It is this same inferior educa- tion that denies many Latina/o high school students the opportunity to engage in college-choice—leading to their disproportionate enrollment in community colleges over 4-year colleges or universities. In California alone, approximately 75% of Latina/o students in higher education can be found in the community college sector—making this an important pathway for many Latina/o students. This qualitative study incorporated a Critical Race Theory (CRT) in Education framework to focus on the racialized K–12 experiences of four Latina/o graduate students who started their postse- condary career at a community college. This study was undertaken to better understand what led Latina/o students to enroll in community colleges after high school. Exploring the pathways of Latina/o students from high school to community college is imperative to community college practi- tioners (i.e., faculty, staff, and administrators) when considering best prac- tices for their large Latina/o student body, as is found in California. The initial findings suggest that racism in K–12 in the forms of tracking, limited college information, and low expectations from academic personnel had a direct impact on the postsecondary experiences and opportunities available to Latina/o students. Lastly, the findings challenge prevailing portrayals where Latina/o students passively accept their marginalized position in education by highlighting their voice, resiliency, and agency in the face of systematic racism, as evidenced by their successes in academia.

Latinas/os are one of the fastest growing groups in the United States, with 55 million people (U.S. Census Bureau, 2015). The increase in the Latina/o population continues to transform the student bodies found in academic institutions from preschool to graduate and professional schools (Fry & Lopez, 2012). Specifically, we have witnessed a rise in the enrollment of Latinas/os in community college over any other sector of higher education. While there has been a surge in the number of Latinas/os in postsecondary education, particularly community colleges, the educational attainment gap still persists with “only 12.7% of all Latino adults hav[ing] a baccalaureate degree compared to 30% of Whites” (Zarate & Burciaga, 2010, p. 25). In other words, a higher number of Latinas/os in higher education does not equate to an increase in the attainment of college degrees for this group. The educational inequality present for Latina/o students does not begin in higher education; rather, it is present all throughout the educational pipeline. Latina/o students experience institutionalized racism in their elementary, secondary, and postsecondary education with fewer students progressing from one step to the next (Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995; Yosso & Solórzano, 2006). Encountering substandard and underresourced schools in racially segregated neighborhoods and communities,

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high push-out rates, and low college enrollment and completion percentages lead to disproportion- ate schooling outcomes for Latina/o students, something that has become the norm rather than the exception (Valenzuela, 1999).

Community colleges enroll the majority of students of color in higher education in part due to their open access policies providing all interested the “opportunity” to enter and participate in higher education. Community colleges are also generally much less costly in tuition than 4-year colleges and universities. For reasons similar to these, community colleges are known to be the big equalizer in our society as they democratize higher education (Boggs, 2010). Although community colleges provide access to higher education to many marginalized communities from first generation college students, to immigrants, to students of color, it is important to maintain a critical lens. One method of doing this is by questioning the important differences between access to higher education via community college and equity in the academic outcomes in the form of degree attainment and/or transfer rates for diverse students. In 2014–2015, the California Community College (CCC) system matriculated close to one million Latina/o students, accounting for 42% of their student body (California Community Colleges Chancellor’s Office, 2015). Unfortunately, only 14% of the Latinas/os in the CCC system persist to transfer to a 4-year university making this one of the highest pushout points in the educational pipeline (Solórzano, Acevedo-Gil, & Santos, 2013). This educational disparity is alarming, and it calls for the improvement of retention and transfer pathways for Latina/o students in community colleges (Chapa & Schink, 2006; Moore & Shulock, 2010; Ornelas & Solórzano, 2004; Rivas, Perez, Alvarez, & Solórzano, 2007). I argue that these trends may be understood by examining the K– 12 experiences of Latina/o students, which are characterized by disproportionate placement in noncollege-track courses, limited college-going information, and systems of school governance and culture that fail to nurture a strong sense of academic identity.

As this study and other research demonstrate, these experiences reflect the presence of systematic racism for Latinas/os and other poor and working class students of color. With the assistance of the literature and participant data, I examined how K–12 schooling institutions are preparing (or not preparing) Latina/o students for their postsecondary options after high school. Given the skewed enrollment of Latina/o students in community colleges over any other sector of higher education and the low transfer rates of community colleges, it is important to further explore the formal educational experiences of students prior to their enrollment in community college. Understanding how and why the majority of Latinas/os in higher education find themselves attending community colleges provides us with the opportunity to focus on this sector of higher education as a means of improving the gap between the large number of Latina/o community college students and the dismal number of college- educated Latina/o people in this country.

This study examined the counterstories of four Latina/o graduate students that began their postsecondary career at a community college. In order to center the student experience, the following research questions guided the study: What are the experiences of Latina/o students in K–12 that led to their enrollment in community college? And, how did the students reflect on this experience?

By asking the student participants to make sense of the trajectory that led to their enrollment in community college after high school, I was able to highlight the pathway to community college. And in the process, I explored how to better meet the needs of this group by improving their educational experiences. Incorporating Critical Race Theory (CRT) in education framework allowed me to focus on the educational injustices and racist systemic practices Latina/o students face when navigating systems of schooling by centering their racialized identity as a historically oppressed community (Yosso & Solórzano, 2005). In the next section, a discussion of CRT as the study’s guiding theoretical framework is provided. This is followed by the study’s methods. I then turn my attention to the three key findings that emerged from this study, K–12 tracking, limited college information, and low expectations from academic personnel, that illuminate the mechanisms of systematic racism as they

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were manifested in the participants’ experiences. Lastly, I address the implications of these findings and provide suggestions for ways to better the educational opportunities for Latina/o students.

Critical Race Theory

Employing a CRT in an education theoretical framework allowed me to place race and its various intersectionalities at the forefront of my research (Ladson-Billings, 2009). CRT provides a valuable framework in understanding how schooling institutions, such as K–12 and community colleges, have the potential of significantly impacting the lives of students of color (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Lynn & Parker, 2006). CRT begins with the premise that racism is ordinary and endemic; found in “both the institutional and the individual levels” (Yosso & Solórzano, 2005, p. 117); constituting the everyday experiences of people of color in the United States; whether knowingly or unknowingly (Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995). More specifically for the field of education, five CRT tenets have been identified as the guiding pillars. These five tenets include the intercentricity of race and racism with other forms of subordination, the challenge to dominant ideology, the commitment to social justice, the centrality of experiential knowledge, and the transdisciplinary perspective (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002). Together, these five tenets provide an alternative frame- work from which to analyze and center the racialized experiences of Latina/o students including the impact of K–12 on the postsecondary options afforded to students of color.

Incorporating this theoretical framework is helpful in articulating and centering the needs of historically marginalized communities such as Latina/o students. In addition, understanding the past and current practices that inhibit educational equity has helped me to better communicate the needs of students, who like myself, come from historically underrepresented communities to larger audiences. CRT speaks to my experiences and places the discussion of race and racism at the forefront while challenging racial oppression and incorporating social justice. By integrating this theoretical lens, I was able to further highlight through counterstory how marginalized groups speak back to systems of power and racism in particular (Solórzano & Yosso, 2002).

Methodology

The qualitative study sought to better understand the K–12 trajectory of Latina/o students that began their postsecondary education at community colleges. Additionally, given my positionality as a first generation college student and immigrant from Mexico who is currently a graduate student, I am committed to exploring the educational injustices and barriers related to access faced by the Latina/o community. This is all done in an effort to continue to improve the Latina/o educational pipeline at every step of the way—from preschool to graduate school. The next section delineates the context, participants, and the methods implemented for data collection and analysis in this qualitative study.

Context All of the participants are Latina/o graduate students at one of the premier research-intensive universities in the west coast. The participants’ K–12, community college, and 4-year university education largely took place in one county of southern California. The university currently attended by the participants has a student body of over 40,000 students from which 11,898 are considered graduate students and only 995, or approximately 8% of the graduate student body, is Latina/o or Chicana/o (“Graduate programs annual report,” 2010–2011).

Participants Participants were purposefully selected based on a set of criteria designed to better answer the research questions. Criteria included having started their higher education trajectory at a community college, being enrolled in a graduate program, and self-identifying under any of the Latina/o pan- ethnic identities. Thus, the participant selection tools consisted of purposeful sampling and the

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snowballing technique. Purposeful sampling helped me identify participants that met the preestab- lished study criteria; snowballing allowed me to recruit a greater number of participants for the study via referrals from other participants (Seidman, 2013). A total of four student participants from the same graduate school were interviewed individually on one occasion in a semistructured format. Additionally, all participants completed their bachelor’s degree at the same institution they now attend for graduate school. The participants, three females and one male, all self-identified as Latina/ o, Chicana/o, Mexican, or Mexican American. The participants ranged in age from 22 to 31 years (see Table 1).

Data Collection and Analysis In-depth semistructured interviews were utilized as the main data-gathering technique because of the rich information they can yield when adequately implemented. The nature of this study focused on personal experiences in navigating K–12 and their impact on the participants’ enrollment at a community college. Thus, it was imperative to engage in in-depth interviews to further explore why so many Latina/o students begin their college education at a community college. Likewise, semi- structured interviews provided an ideal strategy because they allowed for a mix of “more and less structured interview questions,” (Merriam, 2009, p. 89); flexibility; and space to explore relevant issues during the interview, among other benefits. The interview protocol was developed using an adaptation of Seidman’s (2013) three-interview series by collapsing it into one three-part interview. The protocol explored three different areas; (a) a focused life history on participants’ K–12 experi- ence, (b) the details of their community college experience, and (c) a reflection on their academic trajectory thus far. Together, these three areas helped collect information directly related to the study. All interviews were conducted in English and lasted between 50 to 80 minutes.

The data obtained from the interview transcripts was hand-coded and initially open-coded using an in vivo coding technique to preserve and honor the voices of the participant while examining potential themes across interviews (Saldaña, 2013). Once the initial phase of coding was complete, I coded by themes otherwise known as analytical coding in order to further develop concepts that emerged from the interviews (Merriam, 2009). During this phase I incorporated descriptive coding to help me label different pieces of data (e.g., narrow the different educational spaces: K–12, community college, school activism). Because this study was informed by CRT, part of my coding process involved examining explicit and implicit themes related to racism and other forms of oppression. Hence, some of the thematic categories and labels from the data included K–12 margin- alization, community college tracked, immigration and language discrimination, etcetera.

In the case of the student participants, I was able to incorporate CRT to assist in the design of counterstories (Yosso, 2006). This was a method of sharing the lived experiences and perspectives of historically marginalized groups in the form of narratives and short vignettes. Solórzano and Yosso (2001) define counterstory as a method of telling the stories of those people whose experiences are not often told, in other words, those placed at the margins of society. In utilizing counterstory, I was able to expose and call into question the majoritarian discourse of White racial privilege and center the lived educational realities of Latinas/os. Integrating counterstories was essential in this study as it helped challenge dominant narratives by highlighting the racialized experiences of students of color— barriers and successes—in order to depict a more accurate understanding of Latina/o students (Solórzano & Yosso, 2002).

Table 1. Participant information.

Pseudonym Age Self-identity

Cristina 31 1st Generation Chicana and Mexican; 1st Generation College Student Julian 25 3rd Generation Chicano and Mexican American; 1st Generation College Student Laura 29 1st Generation Latina and Mexican American: 1st Generation College Student Melissa 22 1st Generation Latina from El Salvador; 1st Generation College Student

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Findings To better contextualize my analysis, I first provide a brief description of the participants. As stated earlier, the four participants, Cristina, Laura, Melissa, and Julian (all participants have been assigned pseudonyms for their protection), are all in graduate programs at a prominent research university in the western United States. And they all started their postsecondary education at different community colleges in southern California. While all participants identified as Latina/o or Chicana/o and were first generation college students, their immigration status varied; the majority identified as first generation immigrants. Julian is a 25-year-old Chicano graduating with his master’s and interested in working at a teaching university or a community college. Like Julian, Laura is also finishing up her graduate degree and hopes to work helping people and students at a community college. Melissa, the youngest participant, is graduating with her master’s degree and hoping to find her dream job doing program evaluation for schools and nonprofits in order to continue providing adequate services to disadvantaged communities. Lastly, Cristina is currently advancing through her doctoral program and interested in working at a teaching university and running a community center in a neglected community. As visible in these short participant introductions, all students have future goals and plans rooted in social justice.

Before delving into the analysis, I believe it is important to highlight the educational aspirations and accomplishments of these students in order to avoid reinforcing the negative stereotypes associated with Latinas/os and education. All four of the participants echoed an interest in attending college after high school albeit they began to think about this at different times in their K–12 career. For some, this was something that they had known since early in their childhood; for others, it did not happen until late in their high school years—mainly due to lack of exposure and information. Julian and Laura, two of the participants, better illustrate this as demonstrated in the following excerpts from their interviews:

It was always just, I knew, it was just in the back of my head, college was the place to go. I didn’t know what it was for, I didn’t know what I was going to do, I just knew college was the thing. (Julian)

My dream was to go to a 4-year university after high school so I tried to do good things and I did take the SAT [Scholastic Aptitude Test] and ACT [American College Test] and did horrible on them, you know. (Laura).

These small excerpts can be read as examples of how Latina/o students are interested in attending college as a means of bettering themselves even though they have very little informa- tion on what college is and how it works. For Julian, a first generation college student, he attributed his interest in college since an early age to his mother, father, and older brother. These family members started to plant a seed in him through conversations, encouragement, and placing school banners in his room—even though they had not been able to attend college themselves. This is not an isolated event as the literature on first generation college students of color has demonstrated familial support to be one of the main sources of encouragement for pursuing higher education (Yosso, 2006). In other instances, such as the case with Laura, students have better access to college admissions information but are not able to obtain competitive scores on the required standardized test to be considered for admission. A number of factors contribute to Laura’s experience—and that of other students like her—including a substandard education and discriminatory tests, such as the SAT and ACT, that continue to exclude non-White and low-income students from gaining admission to competitive, top-tier institutions (Young, 2004; Zwick, 2007). Furthermore, the educational successes of the partici- pants serve to debunk racial stereotypes dealing with Latinas/os and their so-called innate disinterest and rejection of education. This is evident by the fact that all participants are enrolled in top-tier graduate programs amidst the continued barriers they have faced throughout their academic careers.

For organizational purposes and a clearer presentation of my findings, the data analysis and interpretation are presented in segments by themes. This in and of itself was a difficult task to do as

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much of the data incorporates multiple experiences filled with instances of racism, discrimination, tracking, and support among others. Hence, it is important to highlight how intersectionality, described as the multiple forms of oppression based on race, gender, sexuality, etc., that shape the experiences of students of color based on the multiplicity of their identities, makes analysis even more challenging. Yet, I have tried my best to present the data in a coherent manner (Perez Huber, 2010). Additionally, in this section, I used interview excerpts from all participants to support my findings on how different forms of institutional racism shape the schooling experiences of Latina/o students and leads to their enrollment in community college. By emphasizing the voices of the participants and their counterstories in the subsections to come—together with my supplemental interpretation—this analysis aims to demonstrate the resiliency and agency expressed by Latina/o students and their families even in the face of systematic oppression and racism.

Institutional Racism. Instances of institutional racism were a common occurrence as expressed in the counterstories provided by the participants. Racism as experienced by the students consisted of events inside and outside of their schools, whether in K–12 or community college. More specifically, the students themselves mentioned how they experienced racism through (a) being placed in the noncollege track while in K–12, (b) receiving limited information on preparation for college and the application process, and (c) suffering from a lack of encouragement and support from school stakeholders—all leading to negative experiences and disengagement in high school and, ultimately, to their enrollment in community colleges. This section discusses in detail the three findings highlighted above as important to the literature on educational racism for Latina/o students. It is important to note that although not all students discussed issues related to race and racism in their lives equally. In other words, not everyone used the same explicit language or described the severity of it on the same scale. But it was still something that all students discussed as important in their schooling experiences.

Exclusionary Tracking for College Access. Literature on the K–12 schooling experiences of Latina/o students states how placing students in noncollege tracks is a common occurrence for this popula- tion (Yun & Moreno, 2006). Consequently, Latina/o students experience an inequitable education compared to their White counterparts early in their academic career, leaving them unprepared for college and with limited postsecondary options (Valenzuela, 1999). The participants in this study all discussed how high school—and in some cases preschool, elementary, and middle school—was filled with experiences in which they were excluded from the college preparatory track due to their race, immigration status, and English language skills, further highlighting intersectionality as experienced by the participants. The experiences varied from being placed in a classroom with students with “behavioral” issues to not being granted the opportunity to take college preparatory courses during high school.

In the case of Laura, who migrated from Mexico to the U.S. at the age of four, she explains how her experience as an immigrant student with limited English proficiency led her to being enrolled in bilingual classrooms up until 3rd grade, which she further described as “bilingual meaning Spanish.” During 4th grade, Laura was identified as a gifted student and transitioned into an all-English classroom at a pilot school. Although this experience should have marked her transition and placement in a regular English track, Laura still experienced a form of tracking early in her academic career during her elementary years:

In fifth and sixth grade, I know now reflecting on it I wasn’t put in the class with all the advanced English speakers, I was put in the class with English speakers but with the kids that had more behavioral issues. I didn’t have really good teachers fifth and sixth grade. I pretty much spend a lot of time being disciplined.

In this passage, Laura very vividly shares how, although she was made to believe she was placed in an advanced all-English classroom, she was instead placed in a classroom with students who had been identified with behavioral problems. Research on the schooling experiences of limited English

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proficiency students has demonstrated how these students get disproportionately and wrongfully placed in special education classrooms filled with students with behavioral problems (Callahan, 2005). This is problematic at many levels given that students who are placed in classrooms such as these get automatically labeled as special education students or students with behavior problems, even without the proper diagnosis (MacSwan & Rolstad, 2006). Interestingly, Laura does not discover that she suffers from anxiety until 11 years later when at the community college, something she was thankful for as she was then able to receive accommodations for tests and thus able to perform better in her classes. Moreover, Laura describes how much of her time in 5th and 6th grade was spent being disciplined by the teachers instead of learning subject matter content. Experiences like these can result in students being left behind academically in comparison to their peers, especially in comparison to peers tracked into honors classes. Being negatively labeled at such an early age has a long-term impact on the education of these students, as they will continue to be placed in a noncollege track as they transition to middle school and high school, largely reducing their chances of attending college (Callahan, 2005). Furthermore, exiting the special education track and transitioning into a regular, noncollege track is also a hard task to do for these students and their families. Their label has now become a part of their academic identity and a signifier to teachers, administrators, peers, and the school at large of their academic potential, or lack thereof. Such discourse on the limited academic potential of English language learners can be interpreted as a reflection of the national discourse on immigration, which continues to devalue immigrants from Latin American countries. Similarly, schooling institutions, such as the one attended by Laura, further reinforce the narrative placed on immigrant students with limited English skills by engaging in discriminatory practices based on immigration status and race.

Parallel to Laura’s experience, Latina/o students in schools across the country experience non- college tracking in large numbers (Yosso & Solórzano, 2006; Zwick, 2007). Cristina, a first generation college student and the oldest of three had a very negative and disempowering high school experience. When asked about her pathway to community college, she shared:

What led me [to enroll in a community college] was basically that I didn’t have a chance at getting into any college. And so my track was the community college track. I know the AP [advanced placement] and honors students were getting into UCLA [University of California at Los Angeles], into the top schools. That’s when I started to question my position, I was like wait, what do you mean by college?

Cristina, who studies educational injustices in the Latina/o community, came to the conclusion that she was community college tracked in high school. She shared these reflections as we sit in her office where she mentors underrepresented college students about their future options for graduate school programs. Realizing that she was left out of the college track was disheartening for Cristina once she began to question her disadvantaged position. This questioning became more apparent to her during her senior year in high school when she started to hear of peers being admitted to colleges such as UCLA. She questioned even more when she came to the conclusion that most of those students had been enrolled in advanced placement (AP) and honors courses, something she was not provided with due to her placement in the noncollege track. Without this opportunity, Cristina was not able to gain admission to any college, as she did not meet the minimum college admission requirements. Furthermore, Cristina shared how she believes she was first officially tracked during her middle school years, although she also remembers instances of racism in academic settings as far back as the Head Start program she was enrolled in. Hence, for Cristina, much like as for Laura, her noncollege tracking started early on in her academic career, before she was able to have the language and tools to speak back to this type of racial discrimination and systematic oppression. The experience of Cristina can be taken as a piece of evidence of the different forms of racism that Latina/o students and their families face when attempting to navigate educational institutions starting in K–12 and beyond (Yosso, Smith, Ceja, & Solórzano, 2009). Additionally, this excerpt speaks to how Latina/o first generation college and immigrant students suffer from noncollege preparatory academic tracking, thereby leaving them only with the option to attend community college.

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Other students, such as Melissa, became aware of their disempowered position early on in their high school years and decided to pursue information on their options. In the excerpt below, Melissa, a self-identified first generation immigrant from El Salvador and college student from an impover- ished majority Latina/o and Black community, comments on how she navigated high school in order to graduate:

The thing that really made me start going to a community college was because I wanted to at least graduate high school. It was like I’m going take this class just so I can get a passing grade, you know.

Much like the other women I spoke to, Melissa experienced a form of noncollege tracking during her high school years. This—in combination with having a few bad grades—led her to believe she might be at risk of not graduating high school, making college an even more distant goal. In order to prevent this, Melissa, much like many of the peers at her high school, enrolled in her local community college to make up a bad grade she had received. Soon after her enrollment in the community college class, she was offered information on a program that would help her not only graduate high school, but also earn college credit at the same time. Melissa saw this as the best option as she thought this would be a good way to keep herself busy with school and out of the streets, ensure her graduation from high school, and allow her to begin to earn some college credit in preparation for enrollment at a 4-year university. In brief, as a result of being placed in a noncollege track, Melissa enrolled in a community college to make up a class and, ultimately, was led to a support program that helped her graduate high school and earn college credit. This excerpt high- lights how noncollege-tracked students can practice agency as a means of bettering their education when provided with adequate information even in the face of continuous systematic barriers. Moreover, this example begins to describe not only the detrimental impacts of noncollege tracking in the Latina/o community, but also the importance of additional information and support on college and postsecondary options.

Limited College Information and the Prison Pipeline. Much of the literature has pointed to tracking as a main issue impacting the Latina/o community and their academic success in K–12 and beyond. Likewise, access to college information and preparation has also been found to be a key component in the experiences of disenfranchised students of color, as also found in this study. Research studies have found that Latina/o students largely attend schools that suffer from finite resources including limited AP and honors courses; impoverished facilities; unprepared teachers and few counselors in largely overcrowded schools; and limited college preparation, information, and workshops (Kozol, 1991, 2005; Valenzuela, 1999; Vaught, 2011). This combination disproportionately affects Latina/o students who, for the most part, live in low-income communities, creating a cycle of low educational attainment. The lack of access to college information and preparation further supports the maintenance of communities with low socioeconomic status. The students in this study all shared how very little information on college was received throughout their high school career from not once meeting with an academic counselor to first finding out about college only a few months before high school was over.

Julian, a third generation Chicano, did not face issues navigating school due to his immigration status or English language proficiency as he was a native English speaker; nevertheless, he still suffered from tracking in high school as he was not part of the college preparatory track. Additionally, Julian explained how he would always receive good grades, but was never chosen to enroll in AP classes or any other college-track courses during high school. He further explained:

There was like zero college prep, it was just taking those general classes. My high school didn’t have, at least for myself, didn’t have any college prep, it was only about meeting those graduation requirements. It was never like, what’s the steps after. I wouldn’t say I had any college prep, it was just like meeting those general requirements. I was never approached by anybody, like I didn’t see any counselors at all throughout my entire high school experience except for one time when I was forced because I got in trouble for something. But besides that I didn’t see any academic counselors.

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In Julian’s excerpt we are able to see how not only did he suffer from being noncollege tracked as he was only assigned the general coursework albeit his good grades, but also how he did not receive any college preparation at all. College preparation is vital to the success of students like Julian who are first generation college students and do not have readily available resources to prepare and guide them through the process. Furthermore, he shared how he was never approached by any school stakeholder about his plans for after high school, nor did he ever receive any information or preparation for college. Instead, he highlighted how the only time he met with an academic counselor was when he got in trouble and was required to attend a meeting. In this instance, Julian, like many Latino students, was not called in to see an academic counselor to discuss his future career plans or to receive information on college, but instead, to be reprimanded.

We can imagine how such experiences in high school support the well-documented school-to- prison pipeline for Latinos (Valles & Villalpando, 2013). This intractable pattern for schools to treat students like delinquents further reinforces the master narrative that Latinos are not meant to be in academic spaces as they threaten the school safety. These experiences directly affect the academic identity Latino males hold of themselves and how others come to view them as well as reinforce derogatory stereotypes based on race and gender. This excerpt can be interpreted as an example of how schools are not only not providing adequate information, resources, and preparation for college, but how they are also damaging the academic identities of Latinos by tracking them into the school- to-prison pipeline by reinforcing a criminal identity and not an academic one.

When discussing her experiences in K–12, Cristina, a self-identified first generation Chicana from Mexican immigrant parents, highlights the role marginalization and racism had in her understand- ing of college and plans after completing high school. More specifically, she mentions how she had limited information about her postsecondary education options:

When I found out about college it was when students were getting admitted, so it was way late. I didn’t have any counselor tell me, talk to me about college at all. That wasn’t even a conversation. Tracing back marginalization and discrimination for being an immigrant, a daughter of an immigrant family, really impacted my senior year [in high school] when I finally decided that maybe I wanted to go to college, but I didn’t know what college was until we had somebody from [a local university program for underrepresented students] come and talked to us about going to a JC, a Junior College. And so that’s when things really shifted for me. Being introduced to the university and language, and the possibilities of being educated really transformed my views of where I could see myself. And that’s why I’m here [in graduate school], this is why I’ve been striving for the PhD.

In this excerpt, Cristina begins to provide a glimpse of how her status as a Latina and first generation immigrant shaped the way she experienced schooling in the United States. Growing up in a predominantly Latina/o immigrant community, Cristina, like Julian, suffered from limited infor- mation and education that would have better prepared her for college; this is something commonly experienced in marginalized communities such as this one. As she mentioned, it was only until her senior year of high school that she learned about college through an outside program. However, because it was too late to begin her preparation for 4-year universities and the application deadlines had already passed, she was left with only one option; the community college. It is important to emphasize how as a high school student, her teachers, counselors, and schooling as a system decided that she was not worthy of college. She was not “college material,” and consequently she was not provided with the necessary information and tools to enter college after high school.

Cristina is an example of the many Latina/o students relegated to the margins and robbed of a quality education that prepares them for college and beyond (Valenzuela, 1999). This is an unfortu- nate reality that Latinas/os continue to experience as demonstrated by their low participation in higher education (Yosso & Solórzano, 2006). Once again, not because it was their choice not to participate in college, but because it was decided for them, at times, far before they even entered high school. Cristina exemplifies the millions of Latina/o high school students who experience limited college information and preparation in K–12, but when given the opportunity, education, and tools, will succeed in academic spaces all throughout the educational pipeline. It was with the assistance of a college outreach and support program that Cristina was able to reimagine her future and transform

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her educational trajectory: She is currently pursuing a doctoral degree, the highest educational degree obtainable.

Low Expectations and Lack of Encouragement and Support. The previous sections suggest how tracking and limited college information directly impact the academic experiences of Latina/o students in a detrimental manner. Similarly, the lack of encouragement and support from teachers, counselors, and other school stakeholders further inhibits the academic identities of Latinas/os as successful students with academic potential beyond high school. In this section, I explore how the participants suffered from low expectations, support, and encouragement, and how these forms of institutional racism ultimately led to having poor experiences in the classroom and disengagement. In the case of Laura, she explained how even though she was able to be in some honors classes she still experienced low teacher expectations:

My high school education was disappointing to me. I was really withdrawn from it at high school. A lot of it was the environment and also that I didn’t like the ways my teachers were, like I was not challenged at all and I think I did bad. And I never, I feel like till this day I feel like that’s how I function, more so when I was a younger person. If I felt like my teachers weren’t taking me serious, if I felt that they didn’t think that I was smart, I wouldn’t put the effort, I would just do okay, I would just get a C. It was a joke, like my junior year in high school our teacher never assigned us an essay, we never wrote an essay in that class. And senior year the same thing we never wrote an essay and I was in honor classes, you know. I felt that I was being cheated. I really think I saw through those [low expectations] and my way to deal with those was to also withdraw, I didn’t do much to do better.

As evident in Laura’s excerpt, she begins her discussion on her high school education by sharing how disappointing her education was to her, something that should not be taken lightly as this mirrors the experiences of millions of Latinas/os nationwide (Yosso, 2006). Laura further expanded on her disappointment by stating how her teachers did not challenge her enough. In fact, she further highlighted how she was upset by how she never got to write an essay in her classes, something she needed practice in for the college admission requirements. Laura interpreted the various actions or inactions by her teachers to mean that she was not smart enough for more rigorous academic work. In response to this, she would do “average” or just enough to get by, although she knew she was capable of doing better. This is a common sentiment expressed among students who realize they are being labeled as incompetent and unintelligent (Valenzuela, 1999). Hence, she was able to see through the low expectations her teachers had for her and responded by engaging in a form of what could be interpreted as self-defeating resistance (Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001). I must caution I am weary of interpreting this instance as solely an act of self-defeating resistance because of the complexities found in this situation. For example, the power dynamics practiced in schools largely limit the options and agency students like Laura have to respond to low expectations other than doing well in classes amidst the hostile environment. She closed this section of the interview by sharing how she felt, cheated, once again—a very strong term and possibly a depiction of her feelings about the low expectations and limited support and encouragement she received while in high school—all of which led to her further withdrawing from school, mentally, emotionally, and at times, physically.

It is instances like the one shared by Laura that slowly begin to chip away at the academic identities of Latina/o students. Hence, it is extremely important to nurture the identities of Latina/o students in schools as worthy students who are smart and capable of having an accomplished life. When this is not the case, it has detrimental effects on the lives of students and their academic visions beyond high school. Melissa further illustrated this:

When I was in high school, before I got involved in the program [that encouraged me to pursue higher education], I didn’t really see myself going to college. I kind of thought it would be nice if I went, but it wasn’t something I was like planning to do, you know. I wanted to be a psychologist and I didn’t know what that entailed. Because before the program, when you look at, when you think of the college student, I wouldn’t think it was people like me.

10 T. J. GAXIOLA SERRANO

The cumulative impact of low expectations and a lack of encouragement are visible in Melissa’s account. She highlighted how she wanted to be a psychologist, which could be interpreted as having an active interest in going to college; yet, she did not see herself going to college. Occurrences like such merit further inquiry; why would a student who has defined career goals not see herself/himself going to college? The answer to this is visible in Melissa’s excerpt when she shares how she did not believe people like her could be college students. Melissa, a first generation immigrant and college student from El Salvador, did not see herself as a college student. This could be attributed to a myriad of reasons, all addressed in the literature. But for the purposes of this article, and keeping in mind the CRT lens and approach centered here, I am making the interpretation that this is a result of the racist systemic practices found in schools and by extension in the classrooms led by teachers. Hence, low expectations, lack of encouragement, and an absence in supporting the development of an academic identity in Latina/o students are vehicles through which institutional racism is enacted. Although given the requirements for this study, none of the participants were completely pushed-out of schooling even in the face of multiple barriers (damaged academic identities and disappointing schooling experiences); yet thousands of students are not fortunate enough to enjoy this privilege year after year.

The limited nurturing of Latina/o students in the classroom has been linked to the high push- out rates of these group in the literature. For example, a study done by Aviles, Guerrero, Howarth, and Thomas (1999) demonstrated how Chicano students did not dropout as commonly as referred to in the mainstream education literature; instead, they were facilitated out or pushed out. The study further confirmed this by sharing how a “combination of lowered teacher expectations and encouragement on the part of school personnel to opt out of mainstream education facilitated a steady exodus of Chicano/Latino students out of the school system” (Aviles et al.,1999, p. 469). This statement begins to explore how not only are the low teacher expectations harmful to the academic success of students, but also how other school stakeholders, such as counselors and administrators, also provided very little support and encouragement to their success. Other studies have also found “discrimination and racial microaggressions, apa- thetic and bad teachers, a bad school or negative school environment, irrelevant and boring coursework” (Luna & Revilla, 2013, p. 28) to be the cause of student disengagement and, ultimately, factors leading to the push out of Latina/o students much like that discussed in the counterstories found in this study. Hence, students like Melissa, Julian, Laura, and Cristina, and the millions of other Latina/o and Chicana/o students throughout the educational pipeline, have to constantly battle educational injustices filled with racism and oppression to survive schooling institutions, a victory some accomplish while others do not.

Conclusions and Implications The goal of this article was to explore how Latina/o graduate students reflect on their K–12 experiences and pathways to community college. It is only by understanding the students’ trajectory from high school to community college that practitioners are able to better serve the growing Latina/ o student population and improve the students’ educational experiences. Highlighting the student perspective, as was done in this study, challenges the majoritarian narrative alongside ideologies of meritocracy when considering postsecondary options for Latina/o students. The continuous rise in the enrollment of Latina/o students in K–12 and community colleges together with the high instances of racism, as illuminated by these students’ counterstories, makes for an even more challenging educational pipeline for Latina/o students to navigate.

The findings of racism in K–12 in the forms of tracking, limited college information, and low expectations from academic personnel presented in this article speak to the structural inequalities found in our education systems. Endemic racism is responsible for the limited postsecondary options afforded to Latina/o students and students of color when compared to their White counterparts. While scholars, educators, and policy makers continue to work on having an educational reform that provides an equitable education to students of color, community colleges can begin responding to this inequity by supporting the educational success of their large Latina/o student body. More

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specifically, community college faculty, staff, and administrators can learn from the less than favorable K–12 educational experiences many of their Latina/o students endured prior to their arrival at community college. Being aware of the detrimental academic and personal impact of institutional racism on Latina/o students can aid community colleges in having a more complex understanding of their students. Knowing the students’ prior educational experiences is critical when working with a population that is often times stereotyped as not fit for academic spaces, especially a postsecondary education. While it is clear that improving the retention and transfer rates of Latina/o students at community colleges should remain a priority, there are other areas that community colleges can simultaneously work on when considering the K–12 experiences of students.

K–12 schools and community colleges can help improve the pathways of K–12 to community college for Latina/o students by (a) ending tracking practices that constantly exclude and further marginalize students, (b) providing students college preparation and information, and (c) nurturing the academic identities of students. Noncollege tracked students find themselves with limited postsecondary educations albeit their college-going aspirations. The lack of available college-level courses directly impacts the future academic experiences and college-choice for these students. Currently, community colleges are witnessing a growing number of majority women and students of color being placed in developmental education courses in English, math, and reading (Crisp & Delgado, 2014; Crisp & Nora, 2010). While developmental education courses were created with the goal of helping students prepare and advance to college-level coursework, research has demonstrated this to be detrimental to the retention and success of students given the dismal passing rates (Fike & Fike, 2008). Crisp and Delgado’s (2014) findings demonstrate how being placed in a developmental track can “serve to decrease students’ odds of successfully transferring to a 4-year institution” (p. 112). Parallel to the noncollege tracks Latina/o students experience in high school, community colleges need to consider the negative academic outcomes and implications of placing these same Latina/o students in developmental tracks. Providing Latina/o students with quality, college-level educational tracks during high school and community college can enhance the graduation and degree attainment of this community.

Providing high school students appropriate college information and support on their postsecond- ary options beyond high school is imperative to their academic careers. To achieve this, schools need to account for the different levels of familiarity that Latina/o families and students have with the college application process, including standardized tests, financial aid applications, and the different postsecondary options from private, public, 2-year and 4-year institutions. Similarly, community colleges need to afford students the same level of academic counseling and guidance to achieve their degrees and/or transfer goals. Although there are college-outreach and student support programs that target historically marginalized communities as experienced by the participants in this study, we cannot solely rely on these programs. Instead, community colleges need to employ an institutional commitment to the success of their Latina/o students by ensuring students receive adequate information and preparation.

Because the academic identities of students such as Julian, Melissa, Laura, and Cristina have been damaged by years of racism in the form of lower expectations and a lack of encouragement, it is critical that high school educators and counselors implement practices that can nurture Latina/o students’ academic identities. In doing so, Latina/o students will be able to establish a valuable academic image that can continue to develop over the years. The nurturing of academic identities should continue for students when they enter community colleges. Incorporating pedagogical practices that hold students accountable to high expectations while also understanding their experi- ences as a marginalized group can strengthen the academic careers and future pathway of these students. Together, the strategies on college-tracking, college preparation and support, and nurturing academic identities can provide students with more equitable postsecondary opportunities and a more successful community college experience.

Centering the counterstories of Latina/o graduate students provides scholars, educators, and practitioners the opportunity to learn from their trajectory and experiences while being critical of

12 T. J. GAXIOLA SERRANO

majoritarian discourses. Although students of color have access to higher education via the pathway of community college, we have seen in the literature that access does not equate to successful degree attainment. Yet, in order to begin to chip away at institutional racism, we first need to hear these experiences through the voices of those situated at the margins. It is only after our society can acknowledge the impact of racism in education that we will be able to deconstruct the practices that support educational inequalities for Latina/o student and students of color in general.

Acknowledgement

My deepest gratitude to Cristina, Julian, Laura and Melissa. Thank you for helping transform the educational experiences of future generations of Latinas/os.

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Why Latina/as Need More than Twenty--Five Years of Affirmative Action

Kevin R. Johnson

In a pair of much,watched cases, the US Supreme Court in 2003 allowed affirmative action to survive, while not quite declaring it alive and well. The decisions in Gratz v. Bollinger and Grutter v. Bollinger put to rest, at least for a short time, a controversy that raged in the 1990s. In 1978 the Court placed its reluctant, somewhat obtuse imprimatur on affirmative action in the famous case of Regents of the University of California v. Bakke (1978) . Since then, race, conscious affirmative action programs have risen and, at least in some jurisdictions, fallen ( most notably in the 1996 Hopwood v. Texas ruling) . In the latest duo of cases, both filed against the University of Michigan, the Court announced a truce of sorts in the affirmative action hostilities. In so doing, however, the Court has virtually guaranteed that the debate over affirmative action will likely return in the not,too,distant future .

The Court's decisions in the two University of Michigan cases-one invalidating its race,conscious undergraduate admission program, the other upholding the law school's race,conscious admissions-raise fascinating questions. This essay considers one issue, that of a set time limit on affirma, tive action. In Grutter, Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, writing for a majority of the Court, bluntly stated the Court's expectation that affirmative action programs like the one employed by the elite University of Michigan Law School should no longer be necessary in twenty,five years. The Court's stated sunset of affirmative action in all likelihood will encourage additional legal challenges to such programs 1·n 2028 ·f , 1 not sooner.

356 From the Fall 2004 issue of Aztlan: A Journal of Chicano Studir.1 ( vol. 29, nL>, 2 ).

Why Latina/os Need More than Twenty-Five Years of Affirmative Action

The twenty-five-year time limit announced by Justice O'Connor grabbed immediate public attention. At first blush, the announcement seemed overly optimistic, if not woefully out of place in a judicial opinion. However, several major Supreme Court decisions have embraced the idea that affirmative action programs to remedy past discrimination are "temporary" measures and should be eliminated when no longer necessary (Adarand Constructors , Inc . v. Pena 237 (1995]; City of Richmond v. ] . A . Croson Co . 510 (1989]) . Indeed, the Court has expressly required that affirmative action programs to remedy past discrimination have time limits.

A time limit ensures periodic review of a race-based program to make sure that it is maintained only if needed or, if necessary, modified to better achieve its goals. There is a need for constant evaluation and reevaluation of the effectiveness of efforts to reach out to all segments of a state's popula- tion, even in those states that lack the ability to engage in race-conscious affirmative action. By requiring periodic review, the twenty-five-year limit may bring much-needed pressure to bear on universities to fine-tune affirma- tive action programs and regularly evaluate their outcomes.

Nonetheless, the Court's announcement of the twenty-five-year limit, which came out of the blue in Grutter, is subject to criticism. An obvi- ous objection is that two and a half decades will not be long enough to eliminate the need for affirmative action at elite public universities, which today lack many minority students despite having had affirmative action programs in place for decades. Racism has existed for centuries in the United States. Although the most blatant forms of racial discrimination have been declared unlawful, their legacy has proven difficult to remedy, as shown by persistent housing, employment, and school segregation as well as substantial income and wealth disparities between racial groups. Nor does the nation appear on the road to educational equity. Public elementary and secondary schools remain racially segregated to a large extent, in practice if not in law. Put bluntly, the serious deficiencies in many of the schools serving African American and Latina/a children seem nearly impossible to remedy in time to benefit this generation of public school students.

But there is a more fundamental intellectual flaw in the Supreme Court's projected end of the need for affirmative action. The Court accepted the affirmative action plan of the University of Michigan Law School as serving the compelling state interest of ensuring a diverse student body. Race-conscious programs designed to achieve a "critical mass" of minor- ity students would not seem to demand any expiration date, because an academic institution could always desire to pursue a racially diverse student

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body; such a student body may not naturally result a~sen_t consideration of race. Affirmative action intended mainly t~ be_ re~ed,1al, m c~ntr~st, would not be necessary after the impacts of an mstttut10n s past discrimination had been remedied. Put differently, universities could still want to strive for a racially diverse student body even if an institution's discriminatory history had been fully addressed (or, indeed, if the institution had never discriminated on the basis of race) .

Moreover, even if one is sympathetic to the notion of time limits, an institutional objection to the Court's twenty-five-year pronouncement exists. The Court arguably should not be in the business of establishing firm limits on the duration of an affirmative action program. Political decision makers, not the courts, ordinarily establish time limits on claims for relief, known as statutes of limitations, and sunset provisions for laws, both of which by nature are somewhat arbitrary. Such periods reflect a wide variety of policy judgments best (and ordinarily) made by legislatures and policy makers.

Consequently, the University of Michigan Law School, not the US Supreme Court, arguably should have included a time for periodic review of its affirmative action program-whether remedial or diversity-driven- and its possible improvement or elimination. Without a time limit to ensure regular review of the program, the argument goes, the Michigan law school's affirmative action program was not "narrowly tailored" to further a compelling state interest, the test applicable to the use of racial classifications by the state.

Along these lines, the argument could be made that the Supreme Court lacked the institutional competence to arbitrarily set the time limit, a deci- sion that is the legitimate province of the political branches of government. Justice O 'Connor in Grutter offered little justification or reasoning for the twenty-five-year period, but simply declared it to be. Some might speculate that th is statement, which (as lawyers are wont to say) is technically dicta, was included in the opinion as part of a political compromise to build a majority on the Court that would leave intact the University of Michigan Law School's affirmative action program. That tends to undermine the legitimacy of the Court's pronouncement that twenty-five years should mark the end of affirmative action.

This paper analyzes the Supreme Court's statement in Grutter about the future of affirmative action. It first places into context the twenty- five-year limit announced by Justice O 'Connor. It then reviews whether Latina/os, the largest minority group in the United States and one projected

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Why Latina/as Need More than Twenty-Five Years of Affirmative Action

to grow significantly in the next twenty-five years, can be expected to be significantly represented in university student bodies with the Court's projected end of affirmative action in 2028.

The University of Michigan Cases

The Gratz and Grutter decisions marked the end of a series of legislative and judicial limits on affirmative action that began in the 1990s. In making these decisions, the Court has sent a powerful signal to the nation that race-conscious affirmative action is not per se unlawful and that carefully crafted programs can survive constitutional scrutiny. The cases promise to reinvigorate affirmative action at universities across the United States, at least for a time. As summarized by one prominent Supreme Court watcher, the decisions "adhered to the position articulated by Justice Lewis Powell in Bakke a quarter century ago: Diversity is a compelling state interest in education and universities may use race as a factor to ensure diversity, but quotas or numerical quantification of benefits is impermissible" (Chemer- insky 2003, 369) .

In Grutter, the Court upheld the University of Michigan Law School's program that ensured individual review of each applicant's file and allowed race to be considered as one of many factors in the admission decision. This was seen as supporting the law school's pursuit of a diverse student body with a "critical mass" of minority students (Grutter, 2338-45). The Court emphasized that deference must be afforded to the university in its exercise of academic judgment (2339). In contrast, the Court in Gratz invalidated the undergraduate admission scheme at the University of Michigan, which relied on a point system in which minority applicants received twenty points for simply being a minority. The Court found that this program was not narrowly tailored to further the desired end-a racially diverse student body (2430-31). According to the Court, the point allocation based on race almost conclusively determined whether or not an applicant would be admitted and did not in fact constitute individual review of each application (2428-30) .

Grutter and Gratz together make clear that the use of race in an affir- mative action program must be narrowly tailored to satisfy the compelling state interest of securing a diverse student body. The Court believed that the individual review of each applicant's file on its merits as done by the law school was the quintessence of narrow tailoring (Grutter, 2343 ). In contrast, the point system employed in the undergraduate admission scheme made

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individual review impossible and therefore the program was not narrowly tailored to advance a compelling state interest (Gratz, 2428-30) .

The results of the University of Michigan Law School's affirmative action program leave serious doubt about how effective it was in ensuring a diverse student body. In fall 2002, the school had an entering class with a total minority population of about 25 percent of the class, but with no Mexican Americans among its 6.8 percent Hispanics and only 6 percent African Americans. By comparison, the University of California at Berkeley School of Law, with no affirmative action in place due to the passage of a ballot measure (Proposition 209) in 1996, had almost 40 percent minority students in its first-year class, with African Americans making up more than 5 percent and Hispanics almost 12.5 percent, including 7 percent of Mexican ancestry (ABA-LSAC 2003, 150, 426) . Although demographic differences exist between Michigan and California, both law schools are elite institutions that pride themselves on drawing their student bodies from across the country.

The Court's decision in Grutter, which upheld the Michigan law school's affirmative action program, may help small numbers of minorities continue to gain admission. Equally important, the cases had emerged as the focal point of a national campaign to maintain affirmative action and to fight the perceived resegregation of the public universities. The Court's decision undoubtedly will allow for the possibility of affirmative action programs at many schools. Moreover, the message of encouragement to people of color was much needed after years of legal and political attacks on affirmative action.

The most curious part of the decision in Grutter, which was written by Justice O'Connor, came rather abruptly near the end of the opinion. In upholding the University of Michigan Law School's affirmative action program, the Court emphasized that

race-conscious admissions policies must be limited in time. This require- ment reflects that racial classifications, however compelling their goals, are potentially so dangerous that they may be employed no more broadly than the interest demands. Enshrining a permanent justification for racial preferences would offend this fundamental equal protection principle. (Grutter , 2346; emphasis added)

The Court added that "the durational requirement can be met by sunset provisions in race-conscious admissions policies and periodic reviews to determine whether racial preferences are still necessary to achieve student body diversity" (2346) .

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Why Latina/as Need More than Twenty,Five Years of Affirmative Action

But the Court did not conclude with the general admonition that there b an end in sight to race,conscious affirmative action and that such must e

progra ms are "temporary." Rather, the Court continued:

It has been 25 years since Justice Powell first approved the use of race to further an interest in student body diversity in the context of public higher education. Since that time, the number of minority applicants with high grades and test scores has indeed increased . . .. We expect that 25 years from now, the use of racial pref er enc es will no longer be necessary to further the interest approved today . (2346-47; emphasis added)

The stated expectation that affirmative action would no longer be necessary in twenty, five years provoked comment and disagreement among the justices. In a concurring opinion, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg challenged the limitation: "it was only 25 years before Bakke that this Court declared public school segregation unconstitutional, a declaration that, after prolonged resistance, yielded an end to a law,enforced racial caste system, itself the legacy of centuries of slavery" (2347) . Citing the continuing deficiencies in the public education of many minorities in the United States, she cautioned that "from today's vantage point, one may hope, but not firmly forecast , that over the next generation's span, progress toward nondiscrimination and genuinely equal opportunity will make it safe to sunset affirmative action" (2348; emphasis added). In sum, Justice Ginsburg was considerably less sanguine than Justice O'Connor that the need for affirmative action would evaporate within twenty,five years.

ChiefJustice William Rehnquist disagreed with the majority and con, tended in a dissenting opinion that "the Law School's program fails strict scrutiny because it is devoid of any reasonably precise time limit on the Law School's use of race in admissions" (2365, 2369; emphasis added) . Justice Rehnquist contended that the lack of a stated time limit in the law school affirmative action program rendered it constitutionally infirm (2370) . In a separate dissent, Justice Anthony Kennedy in a less opinionated fashion commented that he found it "difficult to assess the Court's pronouncement that . •11 b ry 25 years from race,consc1ous admissions programs w1 e unnecessa now" (2373 ).

C . J · Clarence Thomas oncurring in part and dissenting m part, UStlCe " Id h read h ·vely to ho t at t e majority's twenty,five ,year language expansi .

11 1 . 25

r . l . . ·n be I ega m acia discrimination in higher education admissions wi cl " " h . ity does not an Years (2350; emphasis added) . He argued that t e maJor . dentials

ca . 'd hat the gap m ere Ilnot rest lts time limitation on any evi ence t

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Kevin R. Johnson

between black and white students is shrinking or will be gone in that time frame" (2364; emphasis added) . At the same time, J~stice Thomas does

l · · ffict'ent to increase African Amencan representation not see t 1ts tune as su at the top law schools without affirmative action. If one r~ads be~we~n the lines, Justice Thomas's opinion reflects skepticism about, tf ~ot dtsdam ~or, efforts by university administrators to implement race,consctous affirmattve action while also seeking to maintain their schools' elite status.

Latina/as and Affirmative Action After Grutter and Gratz The Supreme Court decisions in Grutter and Gratz will have important impacts on higher education in the United States as universities seek to enroll diverse student bodies. The Court's projected end of the need for affirmative action in twenty,five years, however, seems misplaced in several respects.

To this point in US history, racism and racialization unfortunately have been a constant. The end of the need for affirmative action, whether based on a diversity or remedial rationale , rests to a certain extent on the end of racial inequality.

Latina/as, along with African Americans, Asian Americans, Native Americans, and other groups, have experienced racial discrimination in the United States for centuries. The intensity and manner of discrimina, tion toward each group have fluctuated over time, depending on national and local circumstances; for example, discrimination against Arabs and Muslims flared after September 11, 2001 . But so long as we see racism and racial inequality continuing in the United States, the need for affirmative action presumably will continue as well.

True, periodic review of affirmative action programs as approved by Grutter may help improve them and their ability to attain the stated goal of racial diversity in higher education. Racism and its manifestations change with the times; the remedies must change as well. The problem is that the Supreme Court's linear view of racism as a pr bl f h h ·11 . . . . - o em o t e past t at wt dtmtmsh m future-fails to account for th · , d · d . . e ractsm s ynamte nature an tts ~osstble p~rmanence in US society (Bell 1992; Omi and Winant 1994) . Thts dynamtsm and permanence militat . f f . . . f

. . e m avor o penod1c revtew o affirmattve actton programs as well as th . . eir mamtenance.

Importantly, an effective review of affi. . . . 1 k rmattve action programs reqmres a separate oo at the enrollment of d 'ff;

including Latina/as a d h . i erent underrepresented groups, n t etr treatment . US . h

m society. Latina/as, wit

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Why Latina/as Need More than Twenty-Five Years of Affirmative Action

their different experiences, may have different rationales than African Americans for affirmative action. This simple truth is often ignored in the debate over affirmative action.

Discussion of the need for affirmative action often centers on African Americans and whites, thus falling into the trap of seeing civil rights only in terms of the black-white paradigm. Race relations in the United States are considerably more complex, however, with many more than just two races. Although slavery of African Americans ended well over a century ago, its horrible legacy is often the first justification offered for affirmative action. Subordination of Latina/as did not occur through the formal institution of slavery. Nevertheless, Latina/as have suffered forced labor and peonage, segregation, discrimination, hate violence, and more in the United States. The wrongful deportation of approximately one million persons of Mexican ancestry in the 1930s, mass deportations under Operation Wetback in 1954, housing and school segregation, and aggressive immigration enforcement directed at Latina/as are but a few examples of the discrimination against Latina/as in the twentieth century (Acuna 2003 ; Almaguer 1994 ). This history of discrimination against Latina/as, which many observers contend continues to this day, may serve as a rationale for affirmative action.

The Supreme Court's endorsement of a twenty-five-year time limit on affirmative action in Grutter is especially flawed with respect to Latina/as, who as a group are socioeconomically disadvantaged compared to Anglos and who continue to experience hostile attitudes directed at Latina/a immigrants ( even though the majority of Latina/as in this country are native-born US citizens). Already the largest minority group in the United States, Latina/as are projected to grow substantially in numbers over the next fifty years (Johnson 2002, 1492-96, 1499-1500) . The impact that this growth will have on the need for affirmative action is far from clear. If history is any indicator, however, discrimination and segregation targeted against Latina/as will continue, with negative impacts on the representation of Latina/os in higher education. In this vein, the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund (2003) submitted an amici curiae brief in the Michigan cases contending that the history of discrimination against Latina/as-and its continuation-supports affirmative action in higher education for Latina/as.

Consider the status of Latina/as in elementary and secondary educa- tion in the Golden State. In California Latina/as make up over 40 percent of students in public elementary and secondary schools but contribute far smaller percentages of state college and university student bodies (Johnson

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and Martfnez 2000, 1239-46). Like African Americans, Latina/os are disproportionately represented among s~ud~nts in poore~ school districts. The lack of equal educational opportunity m the formative years makes it difficult for many Latina/o students to compete for scarce higher educational opportunities. Yet, as the Latina/o population has increased in California, the funding per pupil has dropped precipitously ( 1239-4 3).

Latina/os are likely to face continuing problems gaining access to a quality education. School finance issues, which have proven extremely difficult to remedy (Johnson and Martfnez 2000, 1235-37; Ryan 1999), create educational disparities that make it difficult for Latina/os to compete for admission to selective universities. Combined with the lack of affirma- tive action in California, which has stalled any effort to increase Latina/o representation in the public universities, the continuing poor quality of many public schools serving Latina/as may well doom any hopes that this population will increase their representation in higher education by 2028.

Some of the educational inequities facing Latina/os have worsened, not improved, in the last decade. For much of the 1990s, no affirmative action existed in states with some of the highest Latina/o populations, namely California, Texas, and Florida. Nor will there be any change in California after Grutter and Gratz, as the state's voters in 1996 passed Proposition 209, an initiative that bans race-conscious programs of any type, including those designed to remedy general societal discrimination and to secure a racially diverse student body. Thus, the state with the largest Latina/o population will lack affirmative action during a period when it will be available in other states. This likely will have negative consequences for the socioeconomic status of Latina/os in California for generations.

Even when affirmative action existed in California, Latina/as, as well as African Americans, were seriously underrepresented in the University of California system (Kidder 2003, 32, 34, tables 4-7). This underrepre- sentation is not limited to public universities in California but is a problem in Florida, Texas, and many other states. Recall that only a handful of ~tina/o~~d no persons of Mexican ancestry-enrolled at the Univer- sity of M1ch1gan Law School in the fall of 2002, on the eve of the Court's momentous affirmative action decisions.

For Latina/as acces t h· h d . . . -. . ' s O tg er e ucat1on also implicates 1mmigra tlon and immigrant Th S d . . s. e upreme Court has held that undocumente 1mm1grant child e . bl ' I

r n cannot constitutionally be barred from the pu ic e ementary and s d h econ ary sc ools (Plyler v. Doe [19821). However, undocumented stude t h •

n s, even t ose brought to the United States by their

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Why Latina/as Need More than Twenty-Five Years of Affirmative Action

parents at a young age, are effectively denied access to public universities in many states because they are charged prohibitively high nonresident fees, even if they are long-time residents of the state. Controversy has swirled around undocumented immigrant access to public universities (Olivas 1995; Romero 2002) , and a political movement to allow undocumented immigrants to pay in-state resident fees at public colleges and universities has garnered congressional attention.

Because Latina/os experience continuing inequality in education, the hope for a level playing field among college applicants in twenty-five years is little more than a pipedream. The persistence of political, social, and economic disparities between Latina/os and Anglos make it apparent that twenty-five years is much too short a period to expect the need for affirmative action for Latina/as to end. Consequently, if the nation remains truly committed to racial equality in 2028, affirmative action, or aggres- sive programs directed at improving the public elementary and secondary educational systems, almost certainly will be necessary.

In his opinions in the University of Michigan cases, Justice Thomas raises issues about affirmative action that might concern Latina/os, as well as other minorities. He emphasized in both Grutter and Gratz that the cases before the Court did not involve a claim that the University of Michigan had discriminated among similarly situated Latina/os and African Americans (Grutter, 2350, 2363; Gratz, 2433) . This suggests that he would have viewed the case differently if the claim had been that certain racial minorities were being discriminated against in favor of other minorities to ensure a "critical mass" of each minority group in the student body. Besides raising the specter of pitting minority groups against each other, Justice Thomas has suggested a strategy to be employed by future opponents of affirmative action, perhaps using minority plaintiffs to claim discrimination against them in favor of other applicants of another minority group.

Over time, black-brown friction has arisen occasionally in the affirma- tive action debates. Some advocating the rights of African Americans have claimed that Latina/os should not be eligible for affirmative action and that they are taking seats from African Americans (Johnson 2002, 1501 and n.107). Latina/os and African Americans have their own distinct histories in the United States, with both similarities and differences. Some observers claim that immigrants as a general rule should not be eligible for affirmative action, a deeply contentious position to many Latina/os. Although the groups' interests often converge, tensions between Latina/as and African Americans no doubt exist on affirmative action and other issues. Both groups musr

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Kevin R. Johnson

. constructive dialogue about affirmative action and attempt to engage m a . . k h . unities· it would be a serious m1sta e to presume a its impact on t e1r comm ' . . . n

· h oups on this potentially volatile issue (Vaca 2004) alliance between t e gr ·

Conclusion

TI U . •t f Mi'chigan affirmative action cases no doubt will be of ,e nivers1 y o monumental importance to public universities that have, or are contem- plating, affirmative action programs. The curious twenty-five -year sunset provision announced by the Supreme Court raises many questions, ranging from the unlikelihood that the last vestiges of centuries of discrimination and segregation will disappear in the next twenty-five years to the competence of the Court to establish a time limit. Because there is no quick fix to the legacy of racial discrimination in the United States, the proposed elimination of affirmative action in one generation appears to be wishful thinking.

However, the Court correctly understood the need for regular moni- toring of affirmative action programs. New ideas and programs must be explored and tested whenever possible as the nation seeks to address the serious underrepresentation of racial minorities in higher education. Affir- mative action programs must be monitored to prevent them from becoming a crutch used by universities to claim that they are addressing the problem of educational inequity between racial groups.

Specifically, the idea that Latina/os will not need affirmative action to ensure representation in public colleges and universities is misguided. It ignores the ongoing discrimination against Latina/os in US society and the rampant housing, school, and employment segregation facing this group. In particular, the problem of poorly funded minority public elementary and secondary schools almost certainly cannot be remedied in the short term. That alone is enough to virtually guarantee that Latina/os as a group will not be able to compete on that mythical "level playing field" with white students for admission to el· t . . . . 1 e un1vers1t1es m twenty-five years.

Notes Parts of this article are adapted f " . Action?," Constitutional C rom The Last Twenty Five Years of Affirmative

ommentary 21 1 ( Ad l de la Torre for organizin bl ' . ' no. 2004 ). Thanks to Professor ea 200 . g pu 1cat1on of th · · C t's 3 affirmative actio d . . is senes of papers on the Supreme our n ec1s1ons.

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Why Latina/as Need More than Twenty-Five Years of Affirmative Action

Works Cited ABA-LSAC (American Bar Association-Law School Admissions Council) . 2003.

Official Guide to ABA-Approved Law Schools . Newton, PA. Acuna, Rodolfo. 2003. Occupied America: A History of Chicanos . 5th ed. New York:

Longman. Almaguer, Tomas. 1994. Racial Fault Lines: The Historical Origins of White Supremacy

in California . Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Bell, Derrick A., Jr. 1992. Faces at the Bottom of the Well: The Permanence of Racism.

New York: Basic Books. Chemerinsky, Erwin. 2003. "October Term 2002: Value Choices by the Justices,

Not Theory, Determine Constitutional Law." Green Bag 6, no. 2: 367-77. Johnson, Kevin R. 2002. "The End of 'Civil Rights' as We Know It? Immigration

and Civil Rights in the New Millennium." UCLA Law Review 49: 1481-1511 . Johnson, Kevin R. , and George A. Martfnez. 2000. "Discrimination by Proxy: The

Case of Proposition 22 7 and the Ban on Bilingual Education." UC Davis Law Review 33: 1227-76.

Kidder, William A. 2003. "The Struggle for Access from Sweatt to Grutter: A History of African American, Latino, and American Indian Law School Admissions, 1950-2000." Harvard BlackLetter Law Journal 19: 1--42.

Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund. 2003 . "Amicus Briefs in Grutter v. Bollinger and Gratz v. Bollinger, in Support of the University of Michigan: Brief of Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund et al. as Amici Curiae." Berkeley La Raza Law Journal 14: 1-23 .

Olivas, Michael. 1995. "Storytelling Out of School: Undocumented College Resi- dency, Race, and Reaction." Hastings Constitutional Law Quarterly 22: 1019-86.

Omi, Michael, and Howard Winant. 1994. Racial Formation in the United States . New York: Routledge.

Romero, Victor. 2002. "Postsecondary School Education Benefits for Undocumented Immigrants: Promises and Pitfalls." North Carolina Journal of International Law and Commercial Regulation 2 7: 3 9 3--418.

Ryan, James E. 1999. "The Influence of Race in School Finance Reform." Michigan Law Review 98: 432-81.

Vaca, Nicolas C. 2004. The Presumed Alliance: The Unspoken Conflict Between Latinos and Blacks and What It Means for America. New York: Rayo.

Cases Cited Adarand Constructors, Inc. v. Pena, 515 U.S. 200 (1995). City of Richmond v. J. A. Croson Co., 488 U.S. 469 (1989). Gratz v. Bollinger, 123 S. Ct. 2411 (2003 ). Grutter v. Bollinger, 123 S. Ct. 2325 (2003) . Hopwood v. Texas, 78 E3d 932 (5th Cir.), cert . deniedsubnom., 518 U.S. 1033 (1996)- Plyler v. Doe, 457 U.S. 202 (1982) . Regents of the University of California v. Bakke, 438 U.S. 265 (1978)-

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Chapter 1

From Jim Crow to Affirmative Action and Back Again: A Critical Race Discussion of Racialized Rationales

and Access to Higher Education

TARA J. YOSSO

University of California, Santa Barbara

LAURENCE PARKER

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign

DANIEL G. SOLÓRZANO

University of California, Los Angeles

MARVIN LYNN

University of Maryland at College Park

In order to get beyond racism, we must first take account of race. (Blackmun, 1978, cited in Bakke v. Regents of the University of California, 438 U.S. 265, 407)

Without Affirmative Action it’s segregation all over again. What’s next, a Jim Crow Law? (African American female high school student, in letter to Judge Friedman, February 9, 2001)1

As part of his 1978 opinion in the Bakke v. Regents of the University of California case, Justice Blackmun’s quotation speaks to the persistence of “problem of the

color line” that W. E. B. DuBois identified in 1903. In a letter to Judge Friedman of the U.S. 6th District Court in Detroit, Michigan, the African American high school student’s remarks express her worry that the courts will eliminate the single policy in education that aims to account for race. Her comments refer to the University of Michigan’s race-conscious admission policy, challenged at the under- graduate and law school levels by White female candidates denied admission to the selective campus (see Gratz v. Bollinger, 2003; Grutter v. Bollinger, 2003). Taken together, these quotations reveal the “color-line problem” that undergirds affirma- tive action debates in higher education.

Indeed, U.S. schools continue to limit equal educational access and opportunity based on race (Kozol, 1991; Lewis, 2003). Students of color remain severely under- represented in historically White colleges and universities, and the few granted access to these institutions often suffer racial discrimination on and around campus (Lawrence & Matsuda, 1997; Smith, Altbach, & Lomotey, 2002; Solórzano, Ceja, & Yosso, 2000). Insidiously usurping civil rights language and ignoring the histori- cal and contemporary realities of communities of color, opponents of affirmative

1

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2 Review of Research in Education, 28

action claim that accounting for race in higher education discriminates against Whites. This ahistorical reversal of civil rights progress injures students of color under the guise of a color-blind, race-neutral meritocracy. Fifty-one years have passed since the Supreme Court declared that educational opportunity “is a right which must be made available to all on equal terms” (Brown v. Board of Education, 1954, p. 493), yet, as noted by Derrick Bell (1987), “we are not saved.”

In this chapter, we outline critical race theory (CRT) as an analytical framework that originated in schools of law to examine and challenge the continuing significance of race and racism in U.S. society. We then describe the CRT framework within the field of education. CRT scholarship offers an explanatory structure that accounts for the role of race and racism in education and works toward identifying and challeng- ing racism as part of a larger goal of identifying and challenging other forms of sub- ordination. Next, with the historical backdrop of Brown v. Board of Education (1954), we address the debates over affirmative action in higher education evidenced in Bakke v. Regents of the University of California (1978) and Grutter v. Bollinger (2003).

BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO CRITICAL RACE THEORY

CRT draws from and extends a broad literature base of critical theory in law, soci- ology, history, ethnic studies, and women’s studies. In the late 1980s, various legal scholars felt limited by work that separated critical theory from conversations about race and racism. These scholars sought “both a critical space in which race was fore- grounded and a race space where critical themes were central” (Crenshaw, 2002, p. 19). Mari Matsuda (1991) defined that CRT space as “the work of progressive legal scholars of color who are attempting to develop a jurisprudence that accounts for the role of racism in American law and that [works] toward the elimination of racism as part of a larger goal of eliminating all forms of subordination” (p. 1331).

CRT emerged from criticisms of the critical legal studies (CLS) movement. CLS scholars questioned the role of the traditional legal system in legitimizing oppressive social structures. With this insightful analysis, CLS scholarship emphasized critique of the liberal legal tradition as opposed to offering strategies for change. Some schol- ars asserted that the CLS approach failed because it did not account for race and racism, and this failure restricted strategies for social transformation (Delgado, 1995a; Ladson-Billings, 1998). They argued that CLS scholarship did not take into account the lived experiences and histories of those oppressed by institutionalized racism. Crit- ical race theorists began to pull away from CLS because the critical legal framework restricted their ability to analyze racial injustice (Crenshaw, 2002; Crenshaw, Gotanda, Peller, & Thomas, 1995; Delgado, 1989; Delgado & Stefancic, 2000a).

Initially, CRT scholars focused their critique on the slow pace and unrealized promise of civil rights legislation and articulated their critiques of ongoing societal racism in Black and White terms. Women and people of color asserted that many of their gendered, classed, sexual, immigrant, and language experiences and histories could not be fully understood by the Black/White binary (Williams, 1991). They

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noted that a two-dimensional discourse limits understandings of the multiple ways African Americans, Native Americans, Asian/Pacific Islanders, Chicana/os, and Latina/os continue to experience, respond to, and resist racism and other forms of oppression (see Delgado & Stefancic, 1993, 1995; Harris, 1993).

For example, women of color challenged CRT to address feminist critiques of racism and classism through FemCrit theory (see Caldwell, 1995; Wing, 1997, 2000). Latina/o critical race (LatCrit) scholars highlighted layers of racialized subor- dination based on immigration status, sexuality, culture, language, phenotype, accent, and surname (see Arriola, 1997, 1998; Johnson, 1999; Montoya, 1994; Ste- fancic, 1998; Valdes, 1997, 1998). Over the years, the CRT family tree expanded to incorporate the racialized experiences of women, Latina/os, Native Americans, and Asian Americans. Branches of CRT such as LatCrit, TribalCrit, and AsianCrit evi- dence an ongoing search in Chicana/o, Latina/o, Native American, and Asian Amer- ican communities for a framework that addresses racism and its accompanying oppressions (see Brayboy, 2001, 2002; Chang, 1993, 1998; Chon, 1995; Delgado, 1998; Espinoza, 1998; Espinoza & Harris, 1998; Gee, 1997, 1999; Ikemoto, 1992; Perea, 1998; R. Williams, 1997). In addition, White scholars expanded CRT with WhiteCrit, by “looking behind the mirror” to expose White privilege and challenge racism (see Delgado & Stefancic, 1997).

Rooted in the scholar-activist traditions found in ethnic and women’s studies and informed by theoretical models such as Marxism, internal colonialism, feminisms, and cultural nationalism, today’s CRT offers a dynamic and evolving analytical framework. Scholarship originating from CRT’s roots and branches recognizes the limits of social justice struggles that omit or silence the multiple experiences of people of color.

OUTLINING CRITICAL RACE THEORY IN EDUCATION

In 1995, Gloria Ladson-Billings and William Tate (1995) introduced CRT to the field of education. Since then other scholars in education, social sciences, and humanities have informed the critical race movement in this area (see Aguirre, 2000; Dixson & Rousseau, 2005; Lopez & Parker, 2003; Lynn & Adams, 2002; Lynn, Yosso, Solórzano, & Parker, 2002; Parker, Deyhle, Villenas, & Crossland, 1998; Solórzano, 1997, 1998; Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001; Solórzano & Villal- pando, 1998; Tate, 1994, 1997).2 For at least the past decade, CRT scholars in edu- cation have theorized, examined, and challenged the ways in which race and racism shape schooling structures, practices, and discourses.3 These scholars and practition- ers place special emphasis on understanding how communities of color experience and respond to racism as it intersects with other forms of subordination in the U.S. educational system. Daniel Solórzano (1997, 1998) identified five tenets of CRT in education, as follows

1. Intercentricity of race and racism with other forms of subordination: CRT starts from the premise that race and racism are central, endemic, permanent, and a

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fundamental part of defining and explaining how U.S. society functions (Bell, 1992; Russell, 1992). CRT acknowledges the inextricable layers of racialized subordination based on gender, class, immigration status, surname, phenotype, accent, and sexuality (Collins, 1986; Crenshaw, 1991, 1993; Valdes, McCristal- Culp, & Harris, 2002).

2. Challenge to dominant ideology: CRT challenges White privilege and refutes the claims that educational institutions make toward objectivity, meritocracy, color- blindness, race neutrality, and equal opportunity. CRT argues that traditional claims of “objectivity” and “neutrality” camouflage the self-interest, power, and privilege of dominant groups in U.S. society (Bell, 1987; Calmore, 1992; Delgado, 2003a; Solórzano, 1997).

3. Commitment to social justice: CRT’s social and racial justice research agenda exposes the “interest convergence” of civil rights gains in education (Bell, 1987; Taylor, 2000) and works toward the elimination of racism, sexism, and poverty, as well as the empowerment of people of color and other subordi- nated groups (Freire, 1970, 1973; Lawson, 1995; Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001).

4. Centrality of experiential knowledge: CRT recognizes the experiential knowledge of people of color as legitimate, appropriate, and critical to understanding, ana- lyzing, and teaching about racial subordination (Delgado Bernal, 2002). CRT draws explicitly on the lived experiences of people of color by including such methods as storytelling, family histories, biographies, scenarios, parables, cuentos, testimonios, chronicles, and narratives (Bell, 1987, 1992, 1996; Carrasco, 1996; Delgado, 1989, 1993, 1995a, 1995b, 1996; Delgado Bernal & Villalpando, 2002; Espinoza, 1990; Love, 2004; Montoya, 1994; Olivas, 1990; Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001; Solórzano & Yosso, 2000, 2001a, 2002b; Villalpando, 2003; Yosso, 2005).

5. Transdisciplinary perspective: CRT extends beyond disciplinary boundaries to analyze race and racism within both historical and contemporary contexts (Calmore, 1997; Delgado & Stefancic, 2000b; Gotanda, 1991; Gutiérrez-Jones, 2001; A. Harris, 1994; Olivas, 1990).

We conceive of CRT as a social justice project that works toward realizing the lib- eratory potential of schooling (Freire, 1970, 1973; hooks, 1994; Lawrence, 1992). Many in the academy and in community organizing, activism, and service who look to challenge social inequality will most likely recognize the tenets of CRT as part of what, why, and how they do the work they do. Indeed, these five themes are not new, but collectively they challenge the existing modes of scholarship in education. Guided by these tenets, we define CRT in education as an analytical framework that examines and challenges the effects of race and racism on educational structures, practices, and discourses.

Each of the scholarly and activist traditions included in Figure 1—ethnic stud- ies, women’s studies, multicultural education, and critical pedagogy—inform our

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CRT framework in education. CRT draws on the strengths these traditions bring to the study of race and racism both in and out of schools. CRT also learns from the blind spots of some of these academic traditions (e.g., the tendency to decen- ter race and racism in multicultural education and critical pedagogy; see Sleeter & Delgado Bernal, 2002). As Figure 1 indicates (see Yosso, 2005), we acknowledge the scholarly and activist traditions in education and in ethnic and women’s stud- ies found in the roots and branches of CRT in the legal field. With the power of historical hindsight and the strength of multiple intellectual and community tra- ditions, we engage CRT as a framework that shapes our praxis (our theoretically informed practice).

Figure 1 also shows epistemology, policy, research, pedagogy, and curriculum as five branches of education informed by CRT. For example, scholars such as Dolores Delgado Bernal (1998, 2002) and Gloria Ladson-Billings (2000, 2003) look to the work of Black and Chicana feminist theorists to examine how race and gender shape knowledge and to conceptualize a critical race epistemology. Similarly, criti- cal race scholars interrogate racism within “race-neutral” schooling policies to examine how educational administrators might engage critical race policy and lead- ership in secondary and postsecondary education (e.g., Lopez, 2003; Villalpando & Parker, in press).

Over the past decade, most CRT discussions in education publications have focused on critical race research. In particular, scholars have engaged the tenets of CRT to conduct qualitative research designed to identify and challenge the subtle as well as overt forms of racism experienced by students of color (DeCuir & Dixson,

5

FIGURE 1 Genealogy of Critical Race Theory in Education

Critical Race Theory

Women's Studies

Multicultural Education

Critical Pedagogy

Critical Race Pedagogy

Critical Race Policy

Critical Race Curriculum

Critical Race Epistemology

Critical Race Research

Ethnic Studies

Critical Race Praxis

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2004; Duncan, 2002a, 2002b, 2005; Fernandez, 2002; Solórzano, Ceja, & Yosso, 2000). They have also questioned the racialized stereotypes embedded in teaching practices (Solórzano, 1997; Solórzano & Yosso, 2001b). Drawing on Paulo Freire’s critical pedagogy, they have asserted that a critical race pedagogy can empower mar- ginalized students and teachers of color and help prepare future teachers to engage in education as a liberatory project (e.g., Iseke-Barnes, 2000; Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995; Lynn, 1999, 2002; Solórzano & Yosso, 2001c). Moreover, extending on ethnic and women’s studies traditions, critical race scholars have exposed the ways in which curriculum structures, practices, and discourses tend to omit and distort the histories of people of color and restrict students of color from accessing higher education. They suggest the need to transform schools with a critical race curricu- lum (e.g., Jay, 2003; Yosso, 2002).

Alongside a growing number of scholars across the country, critical race scholars are asking at least four questions about race and education:

• How do racism, sexism, classism, and other forms of subordination shape institu- tions of education?

• How do educational structures, practices, and discourses maintain race-, gender-, and class-based discrimination?

• How do students and faculty of color respond to and resist racism, sexism, classism, and other forms of subordination in education?

• How can education become a tool to help end racism, sexism, classism, and other forms of subordination (Montoya, 2002)?

In the remainder of this chapter, we discuss the first two questions in relation to debates over affirmative action in higher education.

CHALLENGING RACISM IN TRADITIONAL ACADEMIC STORYTELLING

At least three legal rationales—color-blind, diversity, and remedial—attempt to explain the need to eliminate or maintain affirmative action. Conservatives challenge affirmative action based on a color-blind rationale, insisting that race-neutral admis- sion policies ensure meritocratic, fair access to higher education. Liberals defend affirmative action policies based on a diversity rationale, arguing that bringing underrepresented minority students into historically White institutions enriches the learning environment for White students. The third or remedial rationale asserts that universities must take affirmative action and grant members of historically under- represented racial minority groups access to institutions of higher learning as a partial remedy for past and current discrimination against communities of color in general and students of color in particular.

Race, racism, and White privilege shape each of these rationales. Ian Haney Lopez (1996) and other critical race scholars (Harris, 1993; Higginbotham, 1992) define

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race as a socially constructed category created to differentiate groups primarily on the basis of skin color, phenotype, ethnicity, and culture for the purpose of showing the superiority or dominance of one group over another. The social meanings applied to race are based on and justified by an ideology of racism. We define racism as (a) a false belief in White supremacy that handicaps society, (b) a system that upholds Whites as superior to all other groups, and (c) the structural subordination of mul- tiple racial and ethnic groups (see Lorde, 1992; Marable, 1992; Pierce, 1995). With its macro and micro, interpersonal and institutional, and overt and subtle forms, racism is about institutional power, and communities of color in the United States have never possessed this form of power.

The systemic oppression of communities of color privileges Whites. We define White privilege as a system of advantage resulting from a legacy of racism and ben- efiting individuals and groups on the basis of notions of whiteness (Leonardo, 2004; McIntosh, 1989; Tatum, 1997). Legal White privilege can also be viewed from a CRT perspective as a form of property right that supersedes the rights of persons of color in terms of the federal courts’ failure to consistently provide remedy for past government-sanctioned discrimination in the form of slavery (with African Ameri- cans) and violation of treaty rights in regard to land acquisition (with Tribal Nation Indians; see Harris, 1993). Whiteness intersects with forms of privilege based on gender, class, phenotype, accent, language, sexuality, immigrant status, and surname (Carbado, 2002).

Color-Blind Rationale

As a system of advantage, White privilege supports the construction of “color- blind” stories about race in higher education. CRT scholars refer to stories that uphold White privilege as “majoritarian stories” (Delgado, 1993). Majoritarian sto- ries claim to be race neutral and objective, yet they implicitly make race-based assumptions and form race-based conclusions. For example, majoritarian stories of affirmative action claim that “unqualified” students of color receive “racial prefer- ences” at the expense of “qualified” White students. In this story, all students in the United States compete for university admission on a level playing field, and as a result of raced-based preferences White students are denied admission to universities because underqualified Black or Latina/o students “take” their rightful spot.

The majoritarian storyteller recalls history selectively, minimizing past and current racism against communities of color, disregarding obviously unequal K–12 schooling conditions that lead to minimal college access, and dismissing the hostile campus racial climates that many students of color endure at the college level. Majoritarian storytellers advocate for “color-blind” or “race-neutral” admission policies.

Diversity Rationale

Well-intentioned affirmative action diversity advocates inadvertently support majoritarian stories because they do not acknowledge the historical and ongoing

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racism that shapes the experiences of students of color. Advocates of the diversity rationale urge universities to engage in affirmative action to ensure a diverse learning environment at historically White institutions. In this scenario, admitting qualified students of color and White female students adds to the diversity of the college learn- ing environment. Admissions officers then consider race and gender as “plus” factors in deciding between multiple highly qualified candidates.

Advocates argue that the diversity rationale involves at least three benefits: (a) cross-racial understanding that challenges and erodes racial stereotypes, (b) more dynamic classroom discussions, and (c) better preparation for participating in a diverse workforce (see Grutter v. Bollinger, 2003). Because of the resistance to enrolling students of color in historically White institutions, the diversity rationale articulates these benefits in relation to White students. The unquestioned majori- tarian story within this rationale is that students of color are admitted so that they can help White students become more racially tolerant, liven up class dialogue, and prepare White students for getting a job in a multicultural, global economy. How this scenario enriches the education of students of color remains unclear. Seemingly, students of color benefit from merely being present at a predominantly White institution and attending college with White students. The university “adds” their presence so that students of color in turn will “add” diversity to the campus.

Remedial and Community Service Rationale

In the remedial rationale, race-based affirmative action is used as a remedy to compensate for past and current racial discrimination against students of color. Extending this argument, the community service rationale asserts that universities include race in their admissions policies to (a) improve the delivery of social services to underserved minority communities in the areas of health care, legal services, edu- cation, business, government, and political representation; (b) develop a leadership pool in the minority community; and (c) provide role models for minorities in these communities. Many civil rights activists of the 1960s and 1970s unapologetically asserted these remedial and service rationales as the grounds for race-based affirma- tive action. Where did these two diverging rationales (i.e., diversity and remedial) come from? Do they link to an earlier time in civil rights history? In attempting to find the connection to the past, we look to the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court case.

Brown v. Board of Education

In the 1954 Brown case, the Supreme Court unanimously ruled that separate educational facilities were inherently unequal and ruled this arrangement uncon- stitutional but did not offer a timetable for school districts to desegregate their schools. In 1955, in Brown II, the Supreme Court provided its answer and directed schools to desegregate “with all deliberate speed.” These four words gave

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school districts in both the North and the South the mandate to focus their desegregation efforts on the word “deliberate,” thus slowing desegregation to a crawl.

Grounded in an integration rationale, this ruling emphasized that Black students should be allowed to attend school with White students. In Brown, integrated or desegregated education took precedence over equal education. In other words, the integration rationale prioritized Black students attending school with White students and seemingly presumed that this desegregation would translate into equal education for Black students. With this historical backdrop, we move forward 24 years to the 1978 Bakke v. Regents of the University of California case to ascertain whether and how rationales for equal educational opportunity have changed.

Bakke v. Regents of the University of California

With Title VI of the 1968 Civil Rights Act, the federal government granted col- leges and universities the authority to take affirmative action in setting goals and timetables to remedy the racial discrimination found in U.S. society. Less than 10 years later, as the numbers of students of color and women admitted to universities began to increase, the University of California at Davis Medical School denied admission to a White male applicant, Allen Bakke.

In line with affirmative action guidelines, and in an effort to begin to desegre- gate its medical school, UC Davis had set aside 16 of its 100 slots for underrepre- sented minority students. Bakke believed his denial to medical school occurred because of this racially conscious admission policy. Lawyers for Bakke argued that setting aside those 16 slots violated their client’s 14th Amendment right to equal protection. Subsequently, Bakke filed a class action lawsuit arguing that UC Davis’ use of race in its admissions racially discriminated against Whites. In the Bakke (1978) case, the Supreme Court issued two rulings. In the first, 5–4 decision, the court ruled that preferential racial quotas in the form of 16 admission slots set aside for Blacks, Latinos, and Native Americans violated the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which prohibited discrimination based on race, color, or national origin. In a second de facto majority decision referred to as the Powell Compromise, five jus- tices ruled that race could be used as one factor in setting up affirmative action admission programs.

However, in a series of dissents, four Supreme Court justices (Brennan, White, Marshall, and Blackmun) challenged the first majority opinion (i.e., eliminating quotas) and asserted a remedial rationale: “Where there is a need to overcome the effects of past racially discriminatory or exclusionary practices engaged in by a fed- erally funded institution, race-conscious action is not only permitted but required to accomplish the remedial objectives of Title VI” (Bakke v. Regents of the University of California, 1978, italics added). Although challenged in both federal and state courts, the Bakke majority and Justice Powell’s compromise have remained the affir- mative action law of the land since 1978. In 2003, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld

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the Bakke diversity opinion with the Grutter v. Bollinger University of Michigan Law School affirmative action case.

Grutter v. Bollinger

Three parties were involved in the Grutter litigation: (a) the plaintiff, Barbara Grutter, a White female applicant placed on the wait list and ultimately denied admission to the University of Michigan Law School; (b) the defendant, Lee Bollinger, the past president of the University of Michigan and former dean of the university’s law school; and (c) the “student intervenors,” a group that included 41 Black, Chicano/a, Latino/a, Asian American, and other students (high school, college, and University of Michigan law students). The plaintiffs claimed that the University of Michigan’s race-conscious admission policy dis- criminated against “more qualified” White applicants such as Grutter. The uni- versity defended its use of race in admissions, arguing that the policy of considering race furthered its goal of realizing the benefits of a diverse student body. The student intervenors—representing a third party rarely included in affirmative action cases—defended the use of race in admissions as a policy nec- essary to maintain the limited presence of students of color in higher education and to remedy past and current racial and gender discrimination at the Univer- sity of Michigan. In the end, the Supreme Court, in a 5–4 decision, ruled that the University of Michigan Law School’s race-based admissions program was constitutional on the basis of the diversity rationale.

Critical Race Counterstories in Higher Education

Critical race counterstories recount the experiences of socially and racially mar- ginalized people. Counterstories challenge discourse that omits and distorts the experiences of communities of color. While legal remedies avoid taking them into consideration, we assert that critical race counterstories centered on the voices and knowledge of communities of color should be taken into account in higher education policy and practice. Indeed, counterstories can expose, analyze, and challenge the traditional stories of racial privilege often repeated in the halls of academia. Counterstories relating the histories and lived experiences of students of color can help strengthen traditions of social, political, and cultural survival and resistance.

Community histories documented by scholars such as Monica White (2002) and Jerome Morris (2004) function as critical race counterstories outlining the failings of Brown. This research shows how the integration rationale led to the closing of mul- tiple all-Black schools in the South and to the displacement of many Black students, teachers, and principals. Instead of desegregation heralding in opportunities for equal education, these scholars explained that many Black communities experienced desegregation as a disruptive and often violent process. White and Morris concluded that desegregation became a long-term detriment to many Black communities.

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Indeed, W. E. B. DuBois forewarned, 19 years before the Brown decision, the importance of equal schooling versus unequal, integrated schooling:

There is no magic, either in mixed schools or in segregated schools. A mixed school with poor and unsym- pathetic teachers with hostile public opinion, and no teaching of truth concerning black folk, is bad. A segregated school with ignorant placeholders, inadequate equipment, poor salaries, and wretched hous- ing, is equally bad. (1935, p. 335)

Many activists, while supporting the Brown case, supported the notion outlined by DuBois, and many argued for equal educational opportunity for Black students as a remedy as opposed to integration with White students (Bell, 2004; Carter, 1980). Specifically, they believed that the Supreme Court should ensure students of color equal educational opportunities by mandating quality schools, quality teach- ers, and equal funding in communities of color. The Brown case did not mandate these remedies (Bell, 2004; Carter, 1980).

Robert Carter, one of the lead architects of the NAACP legal strategy in the Brown case, also believed that the focus on integration as the primary remedy repre- sented a lost opportunity for an equal education remedy: “In the short run, we have to concentrate on finding ways of improving the quality of education in these schools [Black schools], even if it means or results in less effort being expended on school integration” (1980, p. 26). Carter went on to state:

If I had to prepare for Brown today, instead of looking principally to the social scientists to demonstrate the adverse consequences of segregation, I would seek to recruit educators to formulate a concrete defin- ition of the meaning of equality in education, and I would seek to persuade the Court that equal educa- tion in its constitutional dimensions must, at the very least, conform to the contours of equal education as defined by the educators. (p. 27)

In Silent Covenants: Brown v. Board of Education and the Unfulfilled Hopes for Racial Reform, Derrick Bell (2004) indicated his agreement with Carter and laid out a plan. He argued that the Brown decision achieved neither equal educational opportunity nor integrated education. In fact, Bell (1987, 2004) noted that, were he a Supreme Court justice, he would have not ruled in the majority in the Brown case. Instead of sup- porting the integration argument, he would have called for an equal education oppor- tunity remedy. Bell explained that, as a Supreme Court justice, he would have ordered relief for the Black plaintiffs in three phases: equalization (all schools within the district must be equalized in terms of physical facilities, teacher training, experience, and salary with the goal of each district, as a whole, measuring up to national norms within 3 years), representation (school boards and other policy-making bodies must be imme- diately restructured to ensure that those formally excluded from representation have individuals selected by them in accordance with the percentage of their children in the school system), and access (any child seeking courses or instruction not provided in the school in which he or she is assigned may transfer without regard to race to a school where the course or instruction is provided).

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Unfortunately, the Brown decision did not emphasize the educational equity envi- sioned by DuBois, Carter, or Bell. Brown intended to “integrate,” not necessarily “equally educate,” students of color. Bell’s arguments draw on the lived histories of Black communities that, 50 years after Brown, are still struggling for access to an equal education. Without listening to these lived histories, the Supreme Court could not foresee that the onus of eliminating racism in schools would subsequently be placed on those who experienced its subordination (see Love, 2004). Even in volun- tary desegregation programs today, students of color bear the burden of busing and integration.

A few consistent patterns surface in analyses of the Supreme Court’s rationales addressing the ongoing “problem” of race in education. For example, the integration rationale in Brown, while well intended and a victory devastating to Jim Crow segregation, focused on integrating White schools with students of color. Indeed, it was one-way desegregation, with students of color being bused into previously all- White schools. This connects with the diversity rationale laid out by both the University of Michigan defense in the Grutter case and the UC Davis defense in the Bakke case. Both of these universities focus on diversifying White universities with students of color. Similarly, the color-blind rationale links the complaints of the White plaintiffs and the split court opinions in both the Bakke and Grutter cases. However, Grutter v. Bollinger differs significantly from Bakke and other affirmative action cases because student intervenors were allowed as a third party to the case. A major part of the student intervenors’ argument echoed the four dissenting jus- tices’ remedial rationale in the Bakke case. Both the Bakke and the Grutter cases raise issues about traditional notions of access and equity in higher education.

The community histories of Morris (2004) and White (2002) document some of the counterstories never considered by the Supreme Court in Brown (see Love, 2004). The student intervenors in the Grutter case likewise presented numerous counterstories of ongoing racial discrimination both on and off university campuses, stories that the court chose to ignore (see Allen & Solórzano, 2001; Solórzano, Allen, & Carroll, 2002; Solórzano et al., 2000). Yet, the majoritarian story about race and the legacy of racism in education remains without legal remedy.

Because the courts in these cases rarely listen to the experiences of communities of color or address the effects of racial discrimination, their legal rationale and, thus, their remedy to educational inequality rely on the majoritarian story. In cases of affirmative action, the majoritarian story informs a diversity rationale generated from Justice Pow- ell’s “compromise” opinion in the Bakke (1978) case. Powell argued: “The diversity that furthers a compelling state interest encompasses a far broader array of qualifica- tions and characteristics of which racial or ethnic origin is but a single though impor- tant element” (cited in Bakke v. Regents of the University of California, 1978).

Advocates of affirmative action since the Bakke case tend to begin with Powell’s broad definition of diversity in developing policies intended to build and maintain a diverse student population. For example, in the following passage of Grutter v. Bollinger (2003), the Supreme Court invoked a diversity rationale to affirm the use

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of race in university admissions: “More important, for reasons set out below, today we endorse Justice Powell’s view that a student body diversity is a compelling state interest that can justify the use of race in university admissions” (italics added).

In reflecting on the “color-blind” rationale against affirmative action, CRT schol- ars ask (a) Whose experiences inform this rationale? and (b) Whose experiences are silenced? Lisa Ikemoto (1992) asserted that “the standard legal story does not expressly speak to race and class” (p. 487). However, majoritarian stories imbue racism and White privilege in a “race-neutral,” “color-blind” discourse. Opponents of affirmative action are not against special treatment based on race, as long as the beneficiaries of such policies are White. Indeed, Thurgood Marshall’s dissenting opinion in the 1978 Bakke case reminds us that the U.S. Supreme Court was con- sistently unwilling to forbid differential racial treatment. He noted that in the 1896 Plessy v. Ferguson case, when the Supreme Court required railroad companies to offer “separate but equal” accommodations for Black and White passengers: “The major- ity of the Court rejected the principle of color blindness, and for the next 60 years, from Plessy to Brown v. Board of Education, ours was a Nation where, by law, an indi- vidual could be given ‘special’ treatment based on the color of his skin.”

Justice Marshall’s note about “special” treatment based on skin color referred to the daily institutionalized privileges afforded to Whites according to Jim Crow statutes that maintained racial segregation. He went on to explain that the race-con- scious approach to university admissions and employment had gone into effect only 10 years before the 1978 anti–affirmative action Bakke case. In examining the color- blind rationale through a CRT lens, we listen carefully to Justice Marshall’s com- ments outlining the elusive quest for racial equality in the United States. The majoritarian story outlined in Bakke fails to account for the historical realities of racism. Twenty-three years later, the African American female student whose letter opens this chapter seemed to echo Justice Marshall’s concluding remarks in the Bakke case. She wondered whether the end of affirmative action would lead back to racial segregation and Jim Crow laws. Similarly, in 1978, Justice Marshall wrote in his Bakke dissent:

I fear that today we have come full circle. After the Civil War our Government started several “affirma- tive action” programs. This Court in the Civil Rights Cases and Plessy v. Ferguson destroyed the movement toward complete equality. For almost a century no action was taken, and this nonaction was with the tacit approval of the courts. Then we had Brown v. Board of Education and the Civil Rights Acts of Congress, followed by numerous affirmative-action programs. Now, we have this Court again stepping in, this time to stop affirmative-action programs of the type used by the University of California. (438 U.S. 265, 402)

In 2005, we share Justice Marshall’s fear. Indeed, the color-blind rationale advocated by the forces primed against affirmative action silences the history of racism in the United States and dismisses the contemporary experiences of people of color.

In reflecting on the diversity rationale supporting affirmative action, CRT schol- ars again ask whose experiences inform this rationale and whose experiences are

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silenced. According to Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic (1993), majoritarian stories stem from the “bundle of presuppositions, perceived wisdoms, and shared cultural understandings persons in the dominant race bring to the discussion of race” (p. 462). We assert that majoritarian stories also recount gender, class, language, and other forms of privilege. In other words, a majoritarian story privileges the experi- ences of upper/middle-class Whites, men, and heterosexuals by naming them as nat- ural or normative points of reference.

The unquestioned “standard” or “normative” point of reference reveals the basis for the diversity rationale. By their presence, students of color diversify otherwise White, homogeneous university campuses. This rationale centers White students as the standard or normative students. By default, students of color fulfill the role of enriching the learning environment for White students. The goal is not necessarily to provide access and equal opportunities for students of color but to provide access to diverse groups so that White students can learn in a diverse context.

CRT further challenges us to ask why the Grutter case did not address either the remedial or community service rationale. The Federal District Court in Detroit, Michigan; the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals; and the Supreme Court ignored the student intervenors’ case. In silencing these students, the courts failed to acknowl- edge the value of the critical race counterstory. Specifically, Justice Rehnquist, writ- ing for the majority in the companion undergraduate case (Gratz v. Bollinger, 2003), reaffirmed the district court’s decision to dismiss the intervenors’ claims, and the University of Michigan’s silence about its own institutionalized racism bolstered the Supreme Court’s dismissal. In the words of Justice Rehnquist (Gratz v. Bollinger, 2003):

The [District] court explained that respondent-intervenors “failed to present any evidence that the dis- crimination alleged by them, or the continuing effects of such discrimination, was the real justification for the [law school’s] race-conscious admissions programs” (Id., at 795). We agree, and to the extent respon- dent-intervenors reassert this justification, a justification the University has never asserted throughout the course of this litigation, we affirm the District Court’s disposition of the issue. (539 U.S. 244, 257)

Because the University of Michigan did not listen to the student intervenors, the university’s case in Grutter did not address racism and White privilege. Instead, the university maintained the diversity rationale, and the majoritarian story remained unchallenged. Ironically, the court’s ruling upholding affirmative action confirmed that such diverse experiences are a compelling state interest to include in higher edu- cation but chose not to address these experiences through the student intervenors’ case.

In Grutter, the White female plaintiff failed to mention that White women have benefited from affirmative action more than any other group. Instead, the argument of the plaintiff’s lawyers was based on an assumption that society provides a level educational playing field for all students to compete for law school admission. This position also assumes that racism no longer matters and cannot explain contempo- rary social inequality.

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The student intervenors asserted that racism continues to exist in both its overt and covert forms and that, as long as it remains, policies and practices need to be in place to compensate for the barriers that racism erects in higher education settings. For example, expert witness reports filed on behalf of the student intervenors showed that many undergraduate and law school students confronted a hostile campus racial climate marked by daily incidents of discrimination (see Allen & Solórzano, 2001; Solórzano et al., 2002). Students at three major U.S. universities reported experi- encing episodes of racial aggression in academic and social campus spaces. These subtle verbal and nonverbal insults target people of color often automatically or unconsciously (Pierce, 1970, 1974, 1995; Solórzano, 1998; Solórzano et al., 2000). Such layered racial put-downs assume inferiority based on race, gender, class, sexu- ality, language, immigration status, phenotype, accent, or surname. Accumulation of these incessant episodes of racial aggression causes unnecessary stress to students of color while privileging Whites (see Carroll, 1998; Davis, 1989; Smith, Yosso, & Solórzano, in press).

Students also indicated feeling that their university gives lip service to issues of diversity while maintaining an unwelcoming, exclusionary atmosphere in which stu- dents of color are viewed as unintelligent and as taking the place of “more academi- cally qualified” Whites. They described a campus climate wherein Whites enjoy a sense of entitlement and members of racial minority groups are viewed as unqualified, unworthy, and unwelcome (Bonilla-Silva & Forman, 2000). As a result of this nega- tive campus racial climate, students of color internalized feelings of self-doubt, alien- ation, and discouragement, which led to their dropping classes, changing majors, and even changing schools. The majority of the court in Grutter dismissed this position.

The four dissenting justices in the Supreme Court’s Bakke (1978) decision did make the remedial argument. Yet, without Justice Powell, they were one vote short of that position being the law of the land. In her dissent in the undergraduate Gratz v. Bollinger (2003) case, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg raised aspects of the remedial argument but failed to garner the five votes needed to carry this argu- ment for race-based affirmative action. A CRT framework insists that we listen and respond creatively to the words, stories, and silences of the courts, social science, and academia by acknowledging and validating students of color as “holders and creators of knowledge” (Delgado Bernal, 2002, p. 106).

DISCUSSION: BATTLING THE PUSH BACK TOWARD JIM CROW IN HIGHER EDUCATION

To fully understand the ways in which race and racism shape educational institu- tions and maintain various forms of discrimination, we must look to the lived expe- riences of students of color both in and out of schools as valid, appropriate, and necessary forms of data. Taking DuBois’s insight from 1935, along with Bell and Carter’s assessments in Brown, much work remains to finally achieve equal educa- tional opportunities for students of color. Revisiting the Grutter v. Bollinger case

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from the perspective of these insights, clearly the goal of affirmative action in higher education cannot merely be diversifying the university and classroom. Heeding these insights, activists such as the student intervenors—while guardedly pleased with the diversity victory—continue to fight for the remedial and community service argu- ments as the underlying purpose of affirmative action programs. Such programs were initially developed to ameliorate the harmful effects of past and current discrimina- tion and to train professionals of color to work and serve as role models in under- served communities of color.

We assert the need to extend the legacy of Grutter to provide equal educational opportunity in higher education admissions as well as in retention, financial aid, and faculty hiring programs. Specifically, we refer to the lack of equal educational oppor- tunity in higher education resulting from past and current discriminatory policies and practices. We are reminded that the remedial and community service justifica- tions for race-based affirmative action dominated the civil rights community discus- sion before the 1978 Bakke case. We believe that these arguments still hold true today, and our research and discourse should reflect that fact.

Although the Supreme Court upheld the need to consider race as one of the fac- tors in university admissions, Delgado (2003b) warned that “a law reform strategy must not rest content with a seeming victory, but remain ever-vigilant for the inevitable backlash” (p. 150). Indeed, an analysis of the Brown aftermath shows that certain states and local communities immediately and continuously fought against integrated schools. In fact, some districts closed their public schools for many years in lieu of allowing Black students to enroll under a Brown mandate (Bell, 2004). Rather than allow universities to continue with race-conscious admis- sions policies, as per the Grutter case decision, the backlash against affirmative action of any kind has already begun. For instance, the former chair of the Uni- versity of California Board of Regents, John Moores, made the following state- ment (and was subsequently criticized for using race as a pretext for his own political agenda by former University of California at Berkeley admissions official Bob Laird):

How did the university get away with discriminating so blatantly against Asians? Through an admis- sions policy with the vague term “comprehensive review.” The policy includes factors like disabilities, low family income, first generation to attend college, need to work, disadvantaged social and educa- tional environment, [and] difficult personal and family situations. This means that a student from a poor background whose parents didn’t go to college is given preference over a kid raised by middle- class, educated parents—all other things being equal. (Laird, 2005, pp. 221–224)

The Supreme Court’s rulings in Grutter and Gratz, Moores’s comments, and Justice Scalia’s anti–affirmative action dissent in Grutter all indicate impending strategies of the anti–affirmative action forces. To detract attention from policies that unfairly advantage White students (e.g., legacy admissions, advanced place- ment and honors credits, residential preferences), opponents of affirmative action

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will probably use the language of the color-blind rationale to engage in the following strategies:

• Contest the concept of “critical mass”: The critical mass concept asserts that because students of color add to the diversity of a campus and enrich the education of White students, universities should commit to enriching the education of students of color by ensuring that they are not isolated and marginalized, that is, by admit- ting, retaining, and graduating a “critical mass” of underrepresented students. Affirmative action opponents claim that such efforts to enhance the education of students of color are too similar to the idea of “quotas,” which a narrow minority deemed unconstitutional in the 1978 Bakke decision.

• Oppose comprehensive admissions: Comprehensive admissions aim to diminish the current overreliance on grade point average (GPA) and SAT/Law School Admis- sion Test/Graduate Record Examination scores by considering an applicant’s potential in more holistic terms. These efforts acknowledge some of the inequali- ties built into standardized exams and GPAs weighted according to advanced placement and honors courses completed (Solórzano & Ornelas, 2002, 2004). Applicants are asked to develop a more robust profile that might include an essay about their community service activities, a letter of reference about their ability to overcome personal and economic hardships, or other background information. Opponents of affirmative action charge that comprehensive admission policies disguise racial preferences for students of color. They ignore the racial preferences for Whites hidden in weighted GPAs and standardized tests.

• Challenge outreach programs: Outreach programs seek to increase the numbers of underrepresented students at colleges and universities by offering tutoring, sum- mer courses, information seminars, mentoring, and skill-building workshops. Many of the most successful outreach programs, such as Upward Bound and Migrant Education, originated with President Johnson’s “War on Poverty” and the civil rights legislation of the mid-1960s. These programs serve historically underrepresented racial minority groups as well as low-income Whites and first- generation students. Opponents of affirmative action again charge that supporting access to college for communities of color discriminates against Whites.

• Focus on racial disparities in SAT scores and GPAs of admitted students: Research shows that the SAT is not a useful indicator of a student’s college or career poten- tial (Oseguera, 2004). Rather than acknowledging this research or eliminating the additional grade points awarded to students in advanced placement and honors high school courses, proponents of the color-blind rationale are likely to spotlight the supposed superiority of White students and some Asian groups over Black and Chicana/o students.

• Challenge campus retention programs: Retention programs work to ensure that stu- dents make the transition from high school and community college to 4-year insti- tutions successfully. Such programs often offer tutoring, academic counseling, peer counseling, and other types of support to facilitate retention and graduation

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of underrepresented students, first-generation students, and low-income students. While many university-funded athletic programs and university-sponsored Greek fraternity organizations offer similar support networks privileging athletes and White middle/upper-class students, only retention programs that target underrep- resented students are questioned as discriminatory.

• Pit Asian Americans against Black, Latina/o, and Native American students: While arguing that White students are racially discriminated against by policies that are race conscious, the color-blind rationale also creates a false sense of resentment and animosity between groups of color. Moores’s earlier comments demonstrate this strategy of diverting attention away from the actual ways universities discriminate against students of color.

CRT offers a proactive framework that can be used in the ongoing battle to pro- vide equal educational access and opportunity to historically underrepresented students. We need to build on the work outlined in Jean Stefancic and Richard Delgado’s (1996) No Mercy: How Conservative Think Tanks and Foundations Changed America’s Social Agenda and Lee Cokorinos’s (2003) The Assault on Diver- sity: An Organized Challenge to Racial and Gender Justice to examine the economic and intellectual roots of anti–affirmative action forces. Subsequently, as outlined briefly earlier, we need to anticipate upcoming attacks on affirmative action. Finally, we need to engage in proactive research efforts to extend arguments for affirmative action. This would mean restating and expanding the Grutter decision to read as follows: Student body diversity, compensation for past and current racial discrimination, and improving the delivery of social services to underserved minor- ity communities are compelling state interests that can justify the use of race in uni- versity admissions, outreach, retention programs, financial aid, and faculty recruitment, hiring, and retention.

If the Supreme Court acknowledges the importance of the diversity rationale, then we must recognize that outreach, retention, financial aid, and faculty recruit- ment, hiring, and retention programs are the pillars for implementing diversity in higher education. Our research must focus on the goal of racial justice, including addressing the racist barriers that exist before a student applies to college (e.g., access to gifted and talented education programs and advanced placement courses), during the admission process itself (e.g., weighted GPAs and standardized tests), during col- lege (e.g., campus racial and gender climate), and as students apply to graduate and professional school (e.g., graduate examinations).

We must continue to go on the offensive and challenge those admissions criteria that privilege wealth or position and encumber those without it. Indeed, Laurence Parker and David Stovall (2004) asserted that CRT is a “call to work.” As critical race educators, we commit ourselves to the remedial and community service ratio- nales by (a) documenting the past and continuing significance of race and racism in the educational lives of students of color and (b) emphasizing the importance of pro- viding professionals of color to serve communities of color.

18 Review of Research in Education, 28

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We must challenge the presence of racism in policies intended to remedy racism. We need to remember that, originally, affirmative action sought to ameliorate the harmful effects of past and current discrimination and provide service and role mod- els to underserved communities. Delgado (2003b) encouraged critical race scholars to “consider that race is not merely a matter for abstract analysis, but for struggle. It should expressly address the personal dimensions of that struggle and what they mean for intellectuals” (p. 151). These struggles should be at the forefront of a crit- ical race analysis of postsecondary education.

NOTES

Thanks to Heidi Oliver-O’Gilvie and Tommy Totten for editorial assistance on early versions of this chapter.

1 Although this student signed her letter to the judge, we keep her name confidential. 2 For discussions of WhiteCrit in education, see the special issue of the International Journal

of Qualitative Studies in Education edited by Marx (2003). 3 For instance, William Tate’s 1994 autobiographical article in the journal Urban Education,

“From Inner City to Ivory Tower: Does My Voice Matter in the Academy?” represents the first use of CRT principles in education. A year later, Gloria Ladson-Billings and Tate wrote an arti- cle titled “Toward a Critical Race Theory of Education” in Teachers College Record. Two years later, Daniel Solórzano’s 1997 Teacher Education Quarterly essay, “Images and Words That Wound: Critical Race Theory, Racial Stereotyping, and Teacher Education,” applied CRT to a specific subfield of teacher education. Also in 1997, William Tate’s “Critical Race Theory and Education: History, Theory, and Implications,” published in Review of Research in Education, furthered our understanding of the history of CRT in education. The 1998 special issue on crit- ical race theory in education in the International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education sig- nificantly expanded the field (and became the edited book Race Is . . . Race Isn’t: Critical Race Theory and Qualitative Studies in Education; see Parker, Deyhle, & Villenas, 1999). Individual scholars also presented papers on CRT at professional conferences across the country and sub- sequently published their work in various academic journals such as Urban Education, the Jour- nal of Negro Education, Educational Researcher, and the Journal of Latinos in Education. In 2002, the journals Qualitative Inquiry and Equity and Excellence in Education each dedicated a special issue to CRT in education. In 2004, the American Educational Research Association confer- ence symposium “And We Are Still Not Saved: Critical Race Theory in Education Ten Years Later” acknowledged the 10-year anniversary of Tate’s 1994 article officially introducing CRT to education. This symposium led to Race, Ethnicity, and Education dedicating a 2005 special issue to CRT. Educational Administration Quarterly will soon publish a special issue on CRT and educational leadership (see Villalpando & Parker, in press). Finally, Tara Yosso’s (in press) Critical Race Counterstories Along the Chicana/Chicano Educational Pipeline marks the first sole- authored book on CRT in education.

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Learning and living pedagogies of the home: The mestiza consciousness of Chicana students

Dolores Delgado Bernal

To cite this article: Dolores Delgado Bernal (2001) Learning and living pedagogies of the home: The mestiza consciousness of Chicana students, International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 14:5, 623-639, DOI: 10.1080/09518390110059838

To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/09518390110059838

Published online: 25 Nov 2010.

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Learning and living pedagogies of the home: the mestiza consciousness of Chicana students

DOLORES DELGADO BERNAL Univeristy of Utah [email protected]

This article focuses on how Chicana college students draw from what they learn in their homes and how living a mestiza consciousness may be one way by which they have navigated their way around educational obstacles and into college. More speci® cally, Delgado Bernal draws on the work of AnzalduÂ a (1987) to de® ne the concept of a mestiza consciousness as the way a student balances, negotiates, and draws from her biculturalism, bilingualism, commitment to commu- nities, and spiritualities in relationship to her education. Using this concept, Delgado Bernal oå er a unique way to understand and analyze Chicana’ s educational experiences. Her analysis of life history and focus-group interviews indicates that the communication, practices, and learning that occur in the home and community ± pedagogies of the home ± often serve as a cultural knowledge base that helps students survive and succeed within an educational system that often excludes and silences them.

Introduction

Many of the challenges confronted by Chicana college students and how they respond to these challenges during their educational journey have been largely ignored in traditional social science and Chicana/Chicano studies literature.1 Chicana and Chicano college students represent the second largest ethnic/racial group enrolled in postsecondary institutions in California, and the third largest in the country (Carnevale, 1999; US Department of Education, 1997a, 1997b). And, while approxi- mately 65% of all Chicana and Chicana college students are women, very little is known about the educational journeys of Chicanas. Until recently, the educational paths of Chicanas were not even considered an important topic of research. Today, there are studies that have investigated the barriers to education experienced by Chicanas (GaÂ ndara, 1982; Seguar, 1993; VaÂ squez, 1982), the identity formation of young Chicanas/Mexicanas in high school (GonzaÂ lez, 1998), the marginality of Chicanas in higher education (CuaÂ draz, 1996; RendoÂ n, 1992), and the college choice of Chicanas (Talavera-Bustillos, 1998).

This article focuses on the strategies that Chicanas learn in the home and suc- cesfully employ when confronted with challenges and obstacles that impede their academic achievement and college participation. My analysis of interview and focus-group data with over 30 Chicana college students points to the various ways in which Chicanas negotiate their own resistance, identities, and culture. During my interviews, Chicana students speak candidly about how their identities as Mexican women have in¯ uenced their schooling both positively and negatively, and how they have overcome patriarchal structures and cultural constraints. At other times, their silence and emotion point to the sexist, racist, and classist microaggression s (Pierce,

QUALITATIVE STUDIES IN EDUCATION, 2001, VOL. 14, NO. 5, 623 ± 639

Internationa l Journal of Qualitativ e Studies in Education ISSN 0951± 8398 print/ISSN 1366± 5898 online # 2001 Taylor & Francis Ltd http://www.tandf.co.uk/journals

DOI: 10.1080/09518390110059838

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1974, 1978; Solorzano, 1998) they have experienced on their educational journey. My analysis indicates that Chicana college students develop tools and strategies for daily survival within an educational system that often excludes and silences them. The communication, practices and learning that occur in the home and community, what I call pedagogies of the home, often serve as a cultural knowledge base that helps Chicana college students negotiate the daily experiences of sexist, racist, and classist microaggressions . Pedagogies of the home provide strategies of resistance that challenge the educational norms of higher education and the dominant perceptions held about Chicana students. Indeed, a better understanding of these strategies will allow us to develop educational policy and practice that values and builds on house- hold knowledge in order to enhance Chicana academic success and college participation.

Theoretical perspectives

Pedagogies of the home

Chicana feminist pedagogies refers to culturally speci® c ways of organizing teaching and learning in informal sites such as the home ± ways that embrace Chicana and Mexicana ways of knowing and extend beyond formal schooling (Elenes, Delgado Bernal, GonzaÂ lez, Trinidad, & Villenas, 2000). The pedagogies of the home extend the existing discourse on critical pedagogies by putting cultural knowledge and lan- guage at the forefront to better understand lessons from the home space and local communities. For example, because power and politics are at the center of all teaching and learning, the application of household knowledge to situations outside of the home becomes a creative process that interrupts the transmission of ` ` oæ cial knowledge’ ’ and dominant ideologies.

This perspective resonates with the ethnographic research that documents Mexicano/Latino teaching and learning as cultural strengths and demonstrates how children draw on their diverse linguistic and cultural resources to function in schools and society (Delgado-Gaitan , 1990, 1992, 1994; SuaÂ rez-Orozco & SuaÂ rez-Orozco 1995; Trueba 1988, 1991). Pedagogies of the home also connect to the anthropology of education research that de® nes ` ` funds of knowledge’ ’ as those historically devel- oped and accumulated strategies or bodies of knowledge that are vital to Mexicano/ Latino family survival (GonzaÂ lez et al., 1995; VeÂ lez-IbaÂ nez & Greenberg, 1992). Yet, similar to Andrade and GonzaÂ lez Le Denmat (1999), who direct their focus on the funds of knowledge of Chicanas/Latinas, Chicana feminist pedagogies focus on the ways Chicanas teach, learn, and live the foundations for balancing and resisting systems of oppression. In other words, the teaching and learning of the home allows Chicanas to draw upon their own cultures and sense of self to resist domination along the axes of race, class, gender, and sexual orientation.

Chicana feminist pedagogies are partially shaped by collective experiences and community memory. Community and family knowledge is taught to youth through such ways as legends, corridos, storytelling, and behavior. It is through culturally speci® c ways of teaching and learning that ancestors and elders share the knowledge of conquest, segregation, labor market strati ® cation, patriarchy, homophobia, assim- ilation, and resistance. This knowledge that is passed from one generation to the next ± often by mothers and other female family members ± can help us survive in everyday life by providing an understanding of certain situations and explanations about why

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things happen under certain conditions. Sara Lawrence-Lightfoot (1994) writes of the ` ` ancestral wisdom’ ’ that is taught from one generation to the next generation, and calls it ` ` a powerful piece of our legacy’ ’ that is ` ` healthy’ ’ and ` ` necessary for survival ’ ’ . Likewise, Leslie Marmon Silko (1996) writes of how the Pueblo people have depended on the collective memory of many generations ` ` to maintain and transmit an entire culture, a worldview complete with proven strategies for survival ’ ’ (p. 30). And Patricia Hill Collins (1991) articulates how Black mothers socialize their daughters to overcome systems of oppression, ` ` Despite the dangers, mothers routinely encourage Black daughters to develop the skills to confront oppressive conditions . . . these skills are essential to their own survival ’ ’ (pp. 123± 124). The teaching and learning of everyday life is also key for the emotional and physical survival of Chicana students, yet it is seldom acknowledged in educational research and practice. In my study, Chicana college students demonstrate that they learn from the home how to engage in subtle acts of resistance by negotiating, struggling, or embracing their bilingualism, biculturalism, commitment to communities, and spiritualities.

Within the sociology of education literature, resistance theories demonstrate how individuals negotiate and struggle with structures and create meanings of their own from these interactions. However, traditional and progressive education scholars often ignore the positive acts of resistance, like those found in my study, to focus on a more ` ` self-defeating’ ’ resistance in which students ’ behavior implicates them even further in their own domination (e.g., Fine, 1991; Foley, 1990; MacLeod, 1987; McLaren, 1993; Willis, 1977). An example of self-defeating resistance is the high school dropout who may have a compelling critique of the schooling system, but then engages in a beha- vior (dropping out of school) that can often be self-defeating and ultimately does not help transform her/his oppressive status (see Fine, 1991). In addition, there is very little literature on female school resistance, and most of it examines only behaviors that can be destructive to one’ s self or others, such as the aggressive sexuality of young female students (McRobbie, 1978; Ohron, 1993; Thomas 1980).

In previous research, I have de® ned transformationa l resistance as a framework to understand some of the positive strategies used by Chicana and Chicano students to successfully navigate through the educational system (Delgado Bernal, 1997). It is a resistance for liberation in which students are aware of social inequities and are motivated by emancipatory interests. The manifestations of transformationa l resist- ance can take on many forms ± individual and subtle to collective and visible. Yet, when Chicana students engage in transformationa l resistance they are opposing those ideas and ways of being that are disempowering to self. In this study, I am most interested in an internal transformationa l resistance in which an individual’ s behavior is subtle or even silent and might go unnamed as resistance (Delgado Bernal, 1997; Solorzano & Delgano Bernal, 2001). These subtle resistance strategies that are learned in the home and community can serve as a cultural knowledge base that help Chicana students overcome the challenges and obstacles they confront on their educational journey.

Chicana feminisms & a mestiza consciousness

In a white supremacist society where emphasis is placed on assimilating to Anglo norms, practices and values, claiming an identity, maintaining one’ s language, and aæ rming one’ s culture are all individual acts of resistance . . . [A]n

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understanding of the everyday forms of resistance and cooperation . . . reveals the ways that women cross boundaries and make connections with other community members. (Gilda Laura Ochoa, 1999, pp. 4± 5)

My conception of resistance and pedagogies of the home clearly draw from the work of Chicana feminist scholars who have studied and learned from those everyday resist- ance strategies of Chicanas/Mexicanas that are often less visible, less organized, and less recognizable. By pivoting the analysis onto Chicanas, it becomes clear how the inter- section of sexism, racism, and classism forms systems of subordination that create a diå erent range of educational options for Chicanas. To fully understand Chicanas’ resistance it is necessary to view their multiple strategies within the context of these intersecting realities (Hurtado, 1996). There is a signi® cant body of Chicana feminist literature that addresses the resistance, culture, and identities of Chicana activists, laborers, and cultural workers (e.g., de la Torre & Pesquera, 1993; Delgado Bernal, 1998a; Mora & Del Castillo, 1980; Pardo, 1998; Ruiz, 1998; Trujillo, 1998; Zavella, 1993). This scholarship challenges the historical and ideological representation of Chicanas, relocates them to a central position in the research, and asks distinctively Chicana feminist research questions, thereby creating a space for Chicana voices to speak: ` ` Chicana feminism . . . is the move away from silence, giving voice to our experience’ ’ (CoÂ rdova, 1998, p. 38). Chicana feminisms provide me with an epis- temological and theoretical lens from which to analyze the unique experiences of Chicana college students.

More speci® cally, Chicana scholars have developed theoretical concepts ± such as mestizaje, rasquachismo, Xicanisma, and borderlands ± to name dynamic identities and speci® c cultural/historical experiences (AnzalduÂ a, 1987; Castillo, 1995; Elenes, 1997; PeÂ rez, 1993; Saldõ Â var-Hull, 1991; Sandoval, 1998). These concepts within a Chicana feminist epistemology can be helpful to educational research and policy as we recog- nize how the experiences of Chicana students are intertwined with such things as immigration, generational status, language, gender, class, and even the contradictions of religion (Delgado Bernal, 1998b). My analysis draws from AnzalduÂ a’ s (1987) groundbreaking theoretical work on Chicana identities and a mestiza consciousness. Her theoretical work oå ers a way to acknowledge and name the strategies of resistance that Chicana students learn in their homes and live out during their educational journeys.

Much has been written about the concept of a mestiza consciousness as de® ned by Gloria AnzalduÂ a (1987) in Borderlands/la frontera: The new mestiza. It has been recog- nized, investigated, exchanged, and extended by scholars across disciplines and from various theoretical locations. A mestiza is literally a woman of mixed ancestry, espe- cially of Native American, European, and African backgrounds. However, the term mestiza has come to mean a new Chicana consciousness that straddles cultures, races, languages, nations, sexualities, and spiritualities ± that is, living with ambivalence while balancing opposing powers. AnzalduÂ a (1987) states that ` ` the new mestiza copes by developing a tolerance for contradictions, a tolerance for ambiguity. She learns to be an Indian in Mexican culture, to be Mexican from an Anglo point of view. She learns to juggle cultures’ ’ (p. 79). The mestiza identity is a dual identity that is located at the cross roads of racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, and patriarachy found in the dominant society and in Chicana/o communities. AnzalduÂ a chronicles these multiple forms of oppression that Chicanas suå er and proposes that a mestiza consciousness is both born out of oppression and is a conscious struggle against it. ` ` It is

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a developed subjectivity capable of transformation and relocation, movement guided by the learned capacity to read, renovate, and make signs on behalf of the dispossessed . . .’ (Sandoval, 1998, p. 359).

The concept of a mestiza consciousness has allowed me to better understand the lives of the students I interviewed and to organize and analyze my data in ways that are uncommon in the ® eld of education. At this stage of data analysis, I have oper- ationalized a mestiza consciousness to include how a student balances, negotiates, and draws from her bilingualism, biculturalism, commitment to communities, and spir- itualities in relationship to her education.2 In operationalizing the concept of a mes- tiza consciousness, I do not mean to simplify its complexity nor do I mean to impose a rigid or static de® nition that leads to dichotomous thinking. Rather, I hope to take the complex and ¯ uid concept that AnzalduÂ a oå ers us and remain true to its ¯ exible and inclusive core, while oå ering a unique way to understand and analyze educational research that focuses on the lives of Chicana students.

Methodological and participant description

I collected my data as part of a larger investigation that examines the educational trajectory of Chicana and Chicano college students at a unique state university in California (Delgado Bernal, 1999). The university’ s total student body is 27% Chicana and Chicano, and it is surrounded by three counties in which almost one- half of the residents are Mexican/Mexican American. The university is currently in its sixth year of operation and was created with a distinctive mission to serve ` ` the working class and historically under-educated and low-income populations ’ ’ in the surrounding areas (University Vision Statement).

The students were selected from a list of university students who self-identi® ed as Mexican, Mexican American, and/or Chicano, and all students were between 18 and 29 years of age. I collected surveys and semistructured life history interviews with over 50 undergraduate Chicana and Chicano students. In the interviews, students dis- cussed their educational journey from early elementary school to college. Through various queries I explored students ’ educational experiences in terms of personal, familial, and structural supports and constraints. My research was guided by the following research questions:

1. What are the supports and obstacles to higher education that Chicana and Chicano students experience?

2. How do Chicana and Chicano college students re¯ ect on their identities and culture in relation to their educational engagement?

3. How do Chicanas’ and Chicanos’ educational experiences and choices interact with family backgrounds, bilingualism, school practices, sexuality, gender expectations, religion/spirituality, and political views?

4. What are the strategies employed by Chicana and Chicano students in order to obtain a higher education?

The data from my study were collected using a Chicana feminist epistemology and methodology that includes research participants ’ analytical insights in interpreting the data (Delgado Bernal, 1998b). Therefore, after completing the individual interviews, I also conducted three focus-group interviews with 12 diå erent students whom I had already interviewed. In each of the focus groups, I presented some of my preliminary

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® ndings to the students. A primary objective in using focus groups is to include research participants in the data-analysi s process to avoid claiming sole authority in the analysis of their lives. I wanted them to oå er their insights on my interpretations thereby allowing them to be creators of knowledge, rather than just subjects of the research. This process allows me to go beyond a simple feedback loop, and bring meaning to the data based on an interactive process.

This article is based on the 32 interviews with female students, most of who come from working-class families. Over half of their mothers (53%) and half of their fathers (56%) had less than a ninth grade education. The majority (75%) of mothers worked as farm laborers or stay-at-home-moms . And the majority (52%) of fathers were in farm labor or other types of unskilled manual labor. A total of 27 (84%) of the young women were born in the United States, with 19 being ® rst generation and 8 being second generation. Only 5 were born in Mexico. All the students had attended California public high schools. Tweleve (38%) students attended community college as their ® rst institution of higher education and 24 (75%) students are ® rst-generation college students.

The mestiza consciousness of Chicana college students

As stated earlier, I have operationalized a mestiza consciousness to include how a student balances, negotiates , and draws from her bilingualism, biculturalism, commit- ment to communities, and spiritualities. With this lens, what are often perceived as de® cits for Chicana students ± limited English pro® ciency, inferior cultural/religious practices, or too many non-university-related responsibilities ± can be understood as cultural assets or resources that Chicana students bring to higher education. What I am most interested in is how students draw from what they learn in their homes and how living a mestiza consciousness may be one way by which these students have navigated their way around educational obstacles and into college.

Bilingualism

Ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity ± I am my language. Until I can take pride in my language, I cannot take pride in myself. (Gloria AnzalduÂ a, 1987, p. 59)

. . . [L]anguage can add to the trauma of the Chicana’ s schizophrenic-like exist- ence. She was educated in English and learned it is the only acceptable language in society, but Spanish was the language of her childhood, family, and com- munity . . . By the same token, women may also become anxious and self con- scious in later years if they have no or little facility in Spanish. (Ana Castillo, 1995, p. 39)

All of the students experienced their language in various ways throughout their edu- cational journey. Of the women I interviewed, 29 are bilingual (3 of these individuals are actually trilingual) and four are monolingual English speakers. Many of the bilingual speakers felt that their limited English skills early in their educational jour- ney were a real challenge or even something of which they were ashamed. One student remembers, ` ` I know that I would be embarrassed once in a while if I spoke Spanish. ’ ’

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However, most of them also felt that their bilingualism has had a positive impact on them academically and socially, and they seem to draw strength from using both Spanish and English in academic and social settings. As one student put it, ` ` It’ s a great resource to my community, the people that I work with, the university itself.’ ’ This is particularly true since many of the students either worked on campus and interacted with bilingual students and Spanish-speaking parents, or did their service learning requirement in surrounding Mexican communities. The words of these next three students represent what was said over and over again in the interviews, that is, knowledge in Spanish helped them acquire English and their bilingualism has been an asset to their education.3

I went through a bilingual education program so I was able to understand and I think communicate a lot better than some of the students. And it’ s hard to say, I guess academically it’ s given me a lot of privilege, in the sense that I’ ve been able to learn and use it in all the requirements throughout my education. (Angela ± Senior)

I guess, it really expanded my knowledge in English, knowing a lot in Spanish, because I knew basic things in Spanish . . . I always read the Bible in Spanish, and we had a lot of literature in Spanish at home. My mom read to us and made us read. So that really helped me I guess, knowing my basics in Spanish to really learn English. (Claudia ± Junior)

As I was growing up, when I would go to school, I . . . would memorize certain things in English because they connected to Spanish words. So that helped me remember. (Liseth ± Junior)

Many of the students also spoke matter-of-factly about the additional professional opportunities they will have in the future because of their bilingualism. And a few students spoke passionately about their bilingualism in terms of identity and the importance of maintaining their native language.

We were told not to speak English at home because of the fear that we might lose part of our culture. And my mother really emphasized that . . . Spanish is part of us. It’ s what we are de® ned by somewhat, you know, our language. . . . And she fears that one day we’ re not going to speak Spanish at all and she won’ t be able to understand her granddaughters . . . . In order to be even more successful you have to keep your language, acquire another one, and many more if you want, but that’ s part of you, part of your identity. (Josie ± Sophomore)

In contrast, the four monolingual English students I interviewed felt that they were often judged by other Chicanas/os as not being authentic because they did not speak Spanish. These women struggled in diå erent ways with their language and were sometimes emotionally hurt by the way their lack of bilingualism was perceived by others, especially by other Chicanas and Chicanos. AnzalduÂ a (1987) speaks to this struggle by saying, ` because we internalize how our language has been used against us by the dominant culture, we use our language diå erences against each other’ ’ (p. 58).

There’ s one particular incidence that I haven’ t been able to forget because it kind of made me really mad . . . I was here on campus and I had gone to one of the oæ ces and . . . I handed them my ID card . . . they asked if I spoke Spanish

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and I said no and they said that with my name I should be able to speak Spanish. That was kind of upsetting me. (Mary ± Senior)

Well lately as I’ m older of course, I see problems with not speaking Spanish. I think it wasn’ t until I got into like colleges and stuå when I realized that there were people who would judge me for having brown skin. Or maybe not judge me, maybe it’ s a harsh word, but who would think it was funny that I had dark skin, brown skin and didn’ t speak Spanish. What was wrong with me? (Lucy ± Senior)

AnzalduÂ a (1987) points out that, ` ` A monolingual Chicana whose ® rst language is English . . . is just as much a Chicana as one who speaks several variants of Spanish. . . . And because we are a complex, heterogeneous people, we speak many languages ’ ’ (pp. 55, 59). Indeed, all the women attempted to balance between Spanish and English, whether it was a result of their ¯ uency or lack of ¯ uency in each language. For example, as a result of their bilingualism a number of the students were able to test-out of the language requirement at the university thereby enhancing their own academic achievement. Yet at the same time, nearly all of the bilingual women noted that English writing was one of the areas in which they felt the least academically prepared. Certainly, for the bilingual women in this study they asserted a form of cultural and self-aæ rmation by embracing their Spanish language even as they strove to improve their English writing pro® ciency. Their use of Spanish in both academic and social settings can be seen as forms of resistance because that behavior challenges the historical and current anti-immigrant and English-only sentiments in California and throughout the Southwest.4

Biculturalism

. . . [T]he mestiza stands at the crossroads where she can choose to balance the multiple and diverse cultures which inform her daily experiences and psyche. The eå ort to work out a synthesis requires the ability to live in more than one culture . . . and to create a way of life which transcends opposing dualities. (Lara Medina, 1998, p. 195)

The women I interviewed balanced their biculturalism in various ways, some being less aware of it and others embracing it in a way that appears to be very empowering for themselves and others. Whether they were conscious of it or not, all the women articulated ways in which they lived and moved in and out of more than one culture. Students most commonly identi® ed a home or ` ` Mexicano ’ ’ culture and a school or dominant ` ` American’ ’ culture. And when I asked what their ethnic identity was the young women self-identi® ed in diå erent ways: 38% as Mexican American, 34% as Mexican/Mexicana, 25% as Chicana, and 3% as Biracial.

Students discuss how their biculturalism allowed them to see things in ways that students from the dominant culture might not, and how their biculturalism can help others understand things from a diå erent perspective. For example, these two students speak of how their biculturalism has been a resource and has had a positive impact on their academic experience in college:

You know I think the way that it [my biculturalism] aå ected me positively is, I think you’ re able to articulate the way that you’ re feeling in a way that people

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who might not understand, suddenly understand. . . . Like I’ ve been able to write for the paper and things like that, and to be able to see really both sides. (Lucy ± Senior)

I think it puts me in a kind of special place because I’ m able to relate with two diå erent ethnicities and so I’ m able to take in each one. And I think it’ s made me a stronger person because I’ m able to see one side of something and also see another side and I can relate to both. So I think it’ s made me . . . think a little bit more about whenever . . . in class we’ re talking about racism and diå erent issues like whiteness in America and it’ s just made me, I’ m able to understand things better I think. (Mary ± Senior)

Many students spoke of how their ` ` family preserves a really strong Mexican culture’ ’ and how this is part of their identity and something they are proud of. They con- sciously reject assimilation and attempt to hold onto diå erent aspects of their culture while they learn from other cultures. As one student says:

I think I’ m acculturated and I don’ t think I’ ve assimilated by the simple fact that I have decided to learn about all these other cultures . . . I am not giving up my own and I think when you assimilate you give something up to gain some- thing. (Josie ± Sophomore)

Similarly this student describes her biculturalism in relationship to her discomfort with being seen as just ` ` American’ ’ ± a term she seems to believe does not embrace her experience of growing up bicultural in the United States:

I don’ t look at myself as American even though I was born here. . . . If I’ m going to be calling myself something with American, it has to be with the Mexican in front of it. For some reason no me siento agusto, you know. . . . Being bicultural . . . I think that’ s totally diå erent than if I would’ ve been raised here with, like if I didn’ t have the Mexican background, I think that would’ ve been really diå er- ent. Makes it probably easier to understand otra cultura. (Maria ± Freshman)

And although students seem to gain strength from their biculturalism just as they do from their bilingualism, students also spoke of the struggles and isolation of standing at the crossroads and trying to balance their diverse cultures. A student from South Central Los Angeles who had once been in a gang with her brother speaks to this dissonance.

. . . Now whenever I go home I can’ t . . . like I don’ t really know what’ s going on at home. Like they don’ t really tell me everything because they don’ t want to worry me. . . . So they don’ t tell me anything you know like in regards to like you know pleitos or arguments or whatever. So I do feel out of place sometimes and I have realized that even though Jose and Lalo are my brothers we are so diå erent and I think it’ s because I’ m getting an education and I’ m learning so many things and I wish we could sit down and talk. But somehow like I don’ t know I guess either I don’ t ® t in their world or they don’ t ® t in my world. I feel that we cannot connect ’ cause we no longer share the same ideas. (Josie ± Sophomore)

As a mestiza, standing at the crossroads and trying to balance diå erent cultures can be challenging, exhausting, and sometimes isolating. However, the women I interviewed acknowledged how they and others bene® ted from their bicultural insights. As Martõ Â nez points out, ` ` The paradox of life on the Borderlands for the mestiza is that

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this place, this free space of consciousness, is the site of her worst battles with racism, sexism, classism and heterosexism, but paradoxically, it is also the place of her greatest strength’ ’ (1999, p. 47). In spite of the history of cultural repression in the United States, these students resist by embracing Mexicano culture and the Spanish language. Though not directly re¯ ected in the previous quotes, these students also aæ rm Mexican culture in other ways such as enjoying Mexican music and dances, religious events, and watching novelas on Spanish-language television. Certainly, in a society that emphasizes assimilation these individual and subtle acts can be viewed as a form of resistance.

Commitment to communities

The distinctions between home, school, community, and mainstream institutions are . . . not clear cut and delineated, but are rather part of a web of multiple interacting communities . . . [F]amilies [however] are the starting point for sur- viving and eå ecting resistance to cultural assault, to valorizing and (re)creating a family education which stresses dignity and pride in language and culture. (So® a Villenas & Donna Deyhle, 1999, pp. 425, 441)

Borderlands refers to the geographical, emotional, and/or psychological space occu- pied by mestizas, and it serves as a metaphor for the condition of living, between spaces, cultures, and languages (Elenes, 1997). A Chicana feminist epistemology acknowledges that Chicanas and other marginalized peoples often have a strength that comes from their borderland experiences (Delgado Bernal, 1998b). So another part of a mestiza consciousness is balancing between and within the diå erent com- munities to which one belongs. The women I interviewed were involved at various levels in the campus community and other communities to which they belonged. All of them, however, voiced a very strong commitment to their families or the Mexican communities from which they came, a commitment that translated into a desire to give back and help others. Many of the women spoke of their role in being examples for their younger siblings and promoting education or ideas of social justice. One woman comments that ` ` I’ m teaching Jose and Junior [my younger brothers] to be responsive to women, to believe in them, to not be like the other machistas at home.’ ’ Moreover, students spoke of their commitment to their families and communities as a source of inspiration and motivation to overcome educational obstacles. Like many other students, these two women talk about how their education will bene® t others in their community.

Well one of the things is that for me, if I get an education then that means that some other Mexican Americans are going to be able to get an education too . . . I’ m going to go back and help out my community and . . . try to help out those people that can go to college and push them up. (Paula ± Senior)

I am basically mujer Mexicana, a feminist, a struggler. . . . Que alguÂ n dõ Â a se va a graduar de aquõ Â y va a regresar a South Central. And I’ m going to teach at my high school . . . I would love to become a teacher and that is what I’ m going to become. I’ m going to study to teach others, be the best that I could be in my community. Be a community leader, basically support my community, where I come from. (Josie ± Sophomore)

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Over and over, the words of the women I interviewed parallel Villalpando’ s (1996) quantitative research which ® nds that, in comparison with white students, Chicana and Chicano students enter college with higher levels of altruism, stronger interests in service careers, and stronger interests in ` ` helping their communities ’ ’ . In SuaÂ rez- Orozco’ s (1989) ethnographic research on Latina/o cultural and linguistic resources, he too found that ` ` dedication, loyalty, and commitment to family . . . served as a stimulus for school success rather than a hindrance. . .’ ’ (Villenas & Deyhle, 1999, p. 428). However, students in the focus group reminded me that this commitment to families and communities can be a heavy emotional burden that they carry on their shoulders. Because they are the ® rst to go to college, they are the role models for their families and communities and are the example for younger siblings. This is con® rmed by a parent who oå ers the following advice to younger children at home: ` ` You have to follow your sister’ s steps. You guys got to go to school.’ ’ These young women also appear to have more family responsibilities than traditional middle-class students, responsibilities that stem from their emotional and ® nancial commitment to their families.

I mean a lot of what happens in my mother’ s house ends up kind of jumping onto my plate. I mean while I’ m in college, while I’ m over here doing a million things, writing a paper, she’ ll call me just so disturbed about something that my brother did or my sister did. . . . And it’ s emotional, it’ s really emotional, it’ s very, very draining. (Angela ± Senior)

It’ s like there’ s been times especially during . . . the end of the semester, it always happens to me that I have so much homework, yet I have to clean, I have to take the kids a bath, or I have to cook, or whatever. (Susana ± Senior)

Sometimes it’ s hard to go home and see your parents, not having enough money to go to the market, not having enough money to buy medicine. And knowing that . . . I’ m only working part time and I have to pay my rent and I have to pay whatever ® nancial aid doesn’ t pay, knowing that I can’ t help them. Even though I’ ve always shared some part of my ® nancial aid check with them. . . . Doesn’ t matter how hard the crisis is in the family, they’ re always telling me, ` ` Don’ t worry about it. Stay in school.’ ’ (Claudia ± Junior)

The fact that these Chicanas are in college, have maintained an emotional and ® nancial commitment to their families and communities, resisted damaging stereo- types, and embraced Mexicano culture and the Spanish language points to the signi® - cance of understanding a mestiza consciousness. They seem to draw from their sense of self that is based on family, community, culture, and language as a source of strength that enables them to continue on their educational journey and succeed in college. To further explore the signi® cance of a mestiza consciousness in relationship to the edu- cation of Chicanas, the next section addresses spirituality.

Spiritualities

The spiritual practices of many Chicanas emerge from a purposeful integration of their creative inner resources and the diverse cultural in¯ uences that feed their souls and their psyches . . . Chicanas de® ne and decide for themselves what

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images, rituals, myths, and deities nourish and give expression to their deepest values. (Lara Medina, 1998, p. 189)

During the interviews, the students talked with me about the topic of spirituality and addressed issues such as how much they think religion or spirituality in¯ uences their life in college, how they describe their spirituality, and what spiritual practices they engage in. Some of the women had no diæ culty at all de® ning their spirituality, while many of the women found the term to be somewhat mysterious and diæ cult to explain. One student even asked, ` ` Writing, is that considered spiritual? It’ s therapy. It calms me down. I talk to paper. I can meet myself through paper.’ ’ For all the women it was something personal and, as Medina (1998) states, ` ` Spirituality then becomes our own individual way of connecting with the spirit within us as well as with those around us’ ’ (p. 192). These next two students talk about how religion and spirituality are separate, and how each considers herself a spiritual person who not only has a relationship with God, but with a deceased family member.

I do have a close relationship with God . . . and an even closer relationship with my sister who passed away. And I think for me that’ s my spirituality . . . in a personal way. I don’ t get it from you know, living and breathing a religion. (Angela ± Senior)

Oh I’ m spiritual. I’ m a spiritual person. Since I am not religious that’ s my only source. I talk to my plants. You’ ll think I’ m crazy, but I talk to a star, the brightest star that I have now learned is Jupiter. I think of that as my dad even though I don’ t know him. I’ ve never met him. . . . (Josie ± Senior)

AnzalduÂ a stresses that a mestiza consciousness means balancing between diå erent conceptions of spirituality. For the students, this often meant incorporating very personal sources of spirituality with more formal conceptions of religion. In other words, the women’ s spiritual practices were often a tapestry that wove together ele- ments of Catholicism or another organized religion with other important rituals. And as they talked about this tapestry, students sometimes acknowledged that their diå er- ent beliefs and practices were disconnected: ` ` I mean that [belief] doesn’ t ® t into my religion.’ ’ Most women said they no longer went to church regularly, but a number of them talked about using candles or prayer as part of their spiritual rituals. Still others kept a picture of the Virgen de Guadalupe or an altar in their dorm room. Maria, a freshman, speaks about her spiritual practice of keeping a picture of the Virgen and a candle in her dorm room even though she does not light the candle because it is a ® re hazard.

Well actually en mi room tengo un picture de La Virgen y tambieÂ n tengo una veladora. Pero no la prendo porque, I heard el otro dõ Â a in one of the dorms they had to evacuate everybody out because it was catching on ® re because of a candle. (Maria ± Freshman)

GonzaÂ lez (2000) points to how young Mexicana students re¯ ect on their spirituality. She found ` ` a thread of spirituality woven throughout their identities and their world- views. It emerged as a way of learning and knowing from their homespace, as energy, from mothers’ and elders’ cultural knowledge . . . into practices for negotiating and navigating from day to day.’ ’ Indeed, I found a similar thread in which some of the women directly connect their spirituality to their educational journey, their learning, or their desire to help others.

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Spirituality plays a role in that I want to get through school so that I can do diå erent things, diå erent positive things. With my dad, sometimes he thinks I have curandera qualities. I thought that was a great compliment. And so I think that in everything I do there’ s something behind it. (Lucy ± Senior)

I involve myself, I give back as much as I can, and I help others, and I don’ t live a sel® sh life. You know that’ s my sense of spirituality. . . . (Angela ± Senior)

I’ ve been telling people that you know God puts you on earth for a reason . . . whether your purpose is putting a smile on somebody else’ s face to being the creator of world peace, or ending world hunger. It could be anything as small like that or as big as that. . . . And I guess that’ s the way I kind of see it with me being here at school. . . . (Liseth ± Junior)

For these women, their spirituality was connected to their commitment to their families and communities. They saw their educational journey as a collaborative journey not an individualistic one in which they were only interested in ` ` making money’ ’ when they graduated. Their spiritual practices, although often in con¯ ict with their home religion, were a source of inspiration and oå ered them ways to take care of themselves. Medina (1998) proposes that, ` ` Chicanas develop [spiritual] ceremonies as tools for daily survival within a society that seeks to silence us. As tools or strategies of resistance for personal and communal healing, they challenge the norms of the dominant culture’ ’ (p. 203). Similarly, I believe that the young women drew from a mestiza consciousness in which their spiritual practices also served as tools or strategies of resistance that helped them persist towards their educational goals.

Discussion

The concept of mestiza consciousness ± an identity that is ¯ uid, resilient, and opposi- tional ± allows educators to reconceptualize what are often thought of as cultural de® cits into cultural resources and allows them to understand the lives of Chicana/ Mexicana students in ways that are often overlooked in the ® eld of education. My analysis reveals the way in which Chicanas negotiate a mestiza identity in relationship to their language, culture, communities, and spiritualities. When confronted with the challenges and obstacles of higher education, these women, sometimes knowingly and sometimes unknowingly, draw from their mestiza consciousness in ways that help them survive and succeed on their educational journeys. They also demonstrate that the application of household knowledge allows them to interrupt the transmission of dominant perceptions about their language and culture.

Indeed, pedagogies of the home provide strategies of resistance that challenge the educational norms of higher education and the dominant perceptions held about Chicana students. With a better understanding of these strategies, we can develop innovative curricular and pedagogical ways to include bilingualism, biculturalism, and community commitment in the curriculum. For example, Hurtado, Carter, & Spuler (1996) have found that for Latino students attending college full time, main- taining family relationships is among the most important aspects that facilitate their adjustment to college. Other studies demonstrate that when college students maintain a supportive relationship with their parents they are better adjusted and may persist to

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graduation (Cabrera, Castaneda, Nora, & Hengstler, 1992). These studies support my ® ndings and point to the need for universities to think about creative ways to help Chicana students nurture and draw from the commitment they have to their families and communities. Incorporating service learning into the curriculum might be one way in which students can give back to their communities and earn university credit at the same time.

In respect to bilingualism and biculturalism, universities that have language or diversity requirements might develop creative ways to include the bilingualism and biculturalism of Chicana students in the curriculum, in other words, acknowledge and give credit for these resources while, most importantly, helping students develop these resources even further. Rather than view students with limited English skills as a liability to the university (since the university has to provide language development classes for these students), the university should see these students as an asset. These are students who might be able to work as Spanish language tutors in the university language department and who should be able to leave the university pro® cient in two languages and more prepared for our growing global environment.

In educational policy and practice it is important to remember that Chicana students experience school from multiple dimensions including their skin color, gen- der, class, sexuality, language, and culture. Rather than focus on the failures of Chicana and Chicano students, we can ask how their cultural knowledge contributes to the educational success of some students. We then need to develop policy and practice that values and builds on pedagogies of the home in order to enhance Chicana academic success and college participation. In the future, we might also ask how a mestiza consciousness can be acknowledged and nurtured at an early age in order to promote greater academic success during students ’ K± 12 educational journey.

Notes

A special gracias to all the students who so openly shared their educational struggles and successes with me. Each of you is an inspiration. Gracias also to Mary Caballero Martõ Â nez, Jose Martõ Â nez Saldan~a, and Octavio Villalpando who oå ered support and assistance to my research and who care so deeply about each of the students in my study. Finally, I would like to thank the following organizations who provided me with ® nancial support at diå erent stages of this research project: the Chicana/Latina Research Center at University of California, Davis, the Ford Foundation, and the Center for Latino Policy Research at University of California, Berkeley.

An earlier version of this paper was presented at the national conference of the American Educational Research Association, April, 2000 in New Orleans, Louisiana.

1. ` ` Chicana’ ’ and ` ` Chicano’ ’ are cultural and political identities that were popularized during the Chicano Movement of the 1960s. They are composed of multiple layers and are identities of resistance that are often consciously adopted later in life. The term Chicana is used speci® cally to discuss women of Mexican origin and/or other Latinas who share a similar political consciousness. Because terms of identi® ca- tion vary according to context and not all Mexican origin women embrace the cultural and political identity of Chicana, Chicana is sometimes used interchangeably with ` ` Mexican’ ’ and ` ` Mexicana’ ’ . ` ` Latina’ ’ is sometimes used when referring to research that does not focus solely on Chicanas/Mexicanas.

2. To work more closely with AnzalduÂ a’ s conception of a mestiza consciousness, in future work I am also addressing how students balance and negotiate their sexuality.

3. In order to protect the privacy of students, they are identi® ed with a pseudonym and their actual class status at the time of the interview.

4. There is much current evidence that demonstrates the strong anti-immigrant and English-only socio- political environment of California. For example, during the same year that I started interviewing students California passed the anti-bilingual education measure, Proposition 227, that sought to eliminate all bilin- gual education in the state. Only a few years prior to my study, California voters passed the anti-immigrant

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measure, Proposition 187, that attempted to exclude all those who were ` ` reasonably suspected’ ’ of being an ` ` illegal alien’ ’ from public education, health care, and social services.

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https://doi.org/10.1177/1538192719892878

Journal of Hispanic Higher Education 1 –16

sagepub.com/journals-permissions DOI: 10.1177/1538192719892878

journals.sagepub.com/home/jhh

Original Article

Remapping the Latina/o and Chicana/o Pipeline: A Critical Race Analysis of Educational Inequity in Texas

Sonya M. Alemán1 , Sofia Bahena1, and Enrique Alemán Jr.1

Abstract This project creates the first educational pipeline for the state of Texas. It incorporates middle school as a key transition point, differentiates between advanced degree achievement among Latinas/os and Chicanas/os, and fashions a secondary pipeline with a narrower age range. Findings indicate that the move from eighth grade to ninth is a critical juncture; that more adult Latinas/os and Chicanas/os lack any academic credentials among all ethnic groups; and that current generations experience similar inequitable achievement rates as older generations.

Resumen Este proyecto crea el primer conducto educacional para el estado de Texas. Este incorpora la escuela media como punto de transición clave, diferencía entre logro de grado avanzado de latina/os y chicana/os, y forma un conducto secundario con un rango de edad más corto. Resultados indican que la promoción de octavo a noveno grado es un entronque crítico; que más adultos latina/os y chicana/os carecen de credenciales académicas comparados con todos los grupos étnicos; y que las generaciones actuales experimentan logros no equitativos de tasa de logros tal como las generaciones anteriores.

Keywords critical race theory, educational pipeline, educational attainment, Latina/o and Chicana/o students, educational inequality

1The University of Texas at San Antonio, USA

Corresponding Author: Sonya M. Alemán, Associate Professor, Race, Ethnicity, Gender and Sexuality Studies Department and Mexican American Studies, The University of Texas at San Antonio, Main Building 3.112, One UTSA Circle, San Antonio, TX 78249, USA. Email: [email protected]

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It has been nearly 15 years since Solórzano et al. (2005) first constructed a Latina/o education pipeline using U.S. Census data. This article replicates the methods used by these and other subsequent scholars (Chao Romero, 2012; Pérez Huber et al., 2006, 2015; Rivas et al., 2007; Solórzano et al., 2005; Yosso & Solórzano, 2006), applying it for the first time to the Texas educational landscape. It is an apt project, as today, the majority of public school students in Texas schools are students of color and over half of this population is Latina/o or Chicana/o.1 Historically, Texas has funded its schools inequitably, impacting predominantly Latina/o and Chicana/o districts and schools generationally (Alemán, 2007). Inconsistencies with experienced, high-quality teach- ers (Peske & Haycock, 2006) have relegated Latinas/os, Chicanas/os, and other stu- dents of color in Texas to chronically disproportionate educational outcomes (Valenzuela, 2016). Moreover, deficit notions of immigration or migration (Pérez et al., 2010) and language (Foley, 1997; García & Guerra, 2004) exacerbate problems for Latina/o and Chicana/o students in Texas’ public schools.

As scholars educated in Texas K-12 schools who now research and teach at a Hispanic-serving institution in our home state, we are attuned to the unchanging inequalities that result in lower graduation rates for Latinas/os and Chicanas/os at all stages of the educational pipeline, across the nation. We sought to build an educational pipeline for the state of Texas in the hopes of calling attention to these lasting discrep- ancies for a state whose future leaders, educators, and decision-makers will be drawn from a majority-Latina/o and Chicana/o population. Drawing on critical race scholar- ship that uses U.S. Census data to construct a visual representation of educational attainment levels for Latina/o and Chicana/o students in comparison with other ethnic groups across the nation (Pérez Huber et al., 2006; Solórzano et al., 2005; Yosso & Solórzano, 2006), this essay advances a visual snapshot of the educational attainment for the Latina/o and Chicana/o population in Texas.

Building on educational pipeline models that have evolved over the past decade, we incorporate middle school as a key transition point for the first time, differentiate between advanced degree achievement among Latinas/os and Chicanas/os in Texas, and fashion a secondary pipeline with a narrower age range than previous samples. As a result, our educational pipeline reveals that (a) the move from eighth grade to ninth may function as a substantial leakage point in the trajectory of Latina/o and Chicana/o students in Texas; (b) Latinas/os and Chicanas/os have the largest proportion of adults without any academic credentials and the smallest proportion with bachelor’s degrees and beyond among all ethnic groups in Texas; and (c) that the current generations of Texas’ Latinas/os and Chicanas/os experience similar inequitable achievement rates as older generations of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os in Texas.

We organize our work in five sections. The first section contextualizes the history of education for Latina/o and Chicana/o students in the state, providing the social, politi- cal, and historical background that informs the figures represented in the educational pipelines. We then trace the evolution of the scholarship that has produced educational pipelines for Latina/o and Chicana/o students. Next, we present the methodology we used to craft the Texas Latina/o and Chicana/o educational pipelines. We then detail the

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findings revealed by the newly constructed educational pipelines for Texas. Finally, we conclude with the next steps for this project.

A Brief History of Unequal Education in Texas

In the 170 years since the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo—the treaty which ended official hostilities in the Mexican American War—Chicanas/os and Latinas/os in Texas have been socially, politically, and legally relegated to a second- class citizenship (Center for Public Policy Priorities, 2016; Johnson, 2003; San Miguel & Valencia, 1998) and inadequate and inequitable education education. Whether via overt segregation in public schools (Donato, 1997), underfunded schools (Alemán, 2007), or racialized admissions procedures at universities (Horn Catherine & Flores Stella, 2003), the decades after the Treaty’s signing included sustained struggle, advo- cacy, resistance, and incremental change in the lives of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os in Texas. As San Miguel and Valencia (1998) point out, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo brought about the fraudulent transfer of millions of acres of private property, the sub- jugation of millions of citizens marked as “Mexican” (Acuña, 1988), as well as a lack of property ownership, minimal access to high quality and rigorous academic pro- grams (Alemán, 2013), and the denial of Chicana/o and Latina/o youth access to the state’s flagship institution (San Miguel, 1983).

From the onset of both the republic’s “founding” and the state’s incorporation into the Union, Mexican American students were legally forced to attend inferior schools. Valencia (2008) outlines how federal and state policies enabled the separation of youth based on race and language; how students of color attended schools in dilapidated buildings and had less qualified teachers; how teachers and administrators with deficit views of and low expectations for Mexican American children hindered their success; and how discipline was meted out more harshly to Mexican American students than their White counterparts, even for “infractions” like speaking Spanish (Acuña, 1988; Menchaca, 1995; San Miguel & Valencia, 1998; Spring, 2016; Wilson, 2003).

Despite these institutionalized disadvantages, Mexican American families, leaders, and youth resisted and challenged unequal schools, segregation practices, and dis- criminatory school policies. Valencia and Black (2002) describe the ways in which Mexican American communities, despite having little access to legislative or institu- tional power, continued to organize against and advocate for students’ educational rights. Groups such as the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), the American G.I. Forum, and the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund (MALDEF) were all created from these efforts. De León (1974) describes how Mexican American parents and leaders in San Angelo, Texas, sustained an almost 5-year boycott of the city’s public schools when town officials refused to allow Mexican American children equal access to schools. Resisting this oppression, Mexican Americans formed community-based schools. Salinas (2001) discusses how in small, rural communities in South Texas, the escuelita movement held the most promise and wielded the best results for Mexican American school children who were categorically denied opportunities. Fashioned to inculcate young students with a love

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of learning via a culturally and linguistically relevant curriculum taught by teachers with high expectations and a caring ethic, escuelitas are a model for what public schools, especially for students of color, should be like today. Just as inequity in fund- ing, segregation, and low expectations have been the norm for Mexican American students in Texas education, so has the legacy of activism and organized resistance by Mexican American communities been constant. Whether in the form of boycotts, legal challenges, or student walkouts, the struggle for equal educational opportunity has been a mainstay.

Literature Review

When introduced in the early 2000s (Pérez Huber et al., 2006; Solórzano et al., 2005; Yosso & Solórzano, 2006), the diagrams mapping the Latina/o and Chicana/o educa- tional pipeline provided a compelling visual representation of educational inequities long documented by researchers and government data and chronically experienced by Latina/o and Chicana/o communities. Using 2000 decennial Census data, the percent- ages for high school degree completion, college enrollment, associate’s degree com- pletion, bachelor’s degree completion, graduate school enrollment, master’s degree completion and doctoral degree completion for those who self-identified as non-White Latinas/os were used as waypoints to lay out a trajectory beginning in elementary and ending with a PhD.

The graphics in the initial set of publications included a comparison of the educa- tional attainment of Latina/o and Chicana/o, African American, Native American, Asian American, and White students across the nation using those aforementioned markers of educational attainment (Chao Romero, 2012; Pérez Huber et al., 2006, 2015; Solórzano et al., 2005; Yosso & Solórzano, 2006); a breakdown of educational attainment among Chicanas/os, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Dominicans, and Salvadorans across the nation (Pérez Huber et al., 2006, 2015; Solórzano et al., 2005; Yosso & Solórzano, 2006); a pipeline of the educational trajectory that added community col- lege enrollment, transfer, and completion rates of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os (Rivas et al., 2007; Solórzano et al., 2005); and a diagram of the postsecondary educational pipeline for Latina/o and Chicana/o high school graduates in the California higher educational system (Rivas et al., 2007; Solórzano et al., 2005). What these pipelines revealed was that nationally, Latinas/os and Chicanas/os have the lowest high school and college graduation degree attainment compared with Whites, Blacks, Native Americans, and Asians. It also illustrated that Chicanas/os have lower levels of educa- tional attainment across all markers compared with Cubans, Puerto Ricans, and Dominicans. In California, about twice as many Chicanas/os enroll in community col- lege than in a 4-year institution, but only 33% of all Chicanas/os who enroll in college end up earning a degree. Together, the configuration of the figures helped to concretize the salience of race in educational access and opportunity, underscoring “the racialized structures, policies, and practices that guide higher education” (Solórzano et al., 2005, p. 289) that are often masked by meritocratic and colorblind ideologies. Its particular focus on the transition points thwarting educational attainment for Latina/o and

Alemán et al. 5

Chicana/o students generated policy and practice recommendations to repair the “seri- ous and persistent leaks in the Chicana/o educational pipeline” (Yosso & Solórzano, 2006, p. 1).

These pivotal images were sharpened, with the work of Covarrubias (2011), Pérez Huber et al. (2014), and Covarrubias and Lara (2014). These scholars disaggregated the national and statewide snapshot on Latina/o and Chicana/o educational attainment to account for the generational status, citizenship, income level, and gender of Latinas/os. This research revealed “disparate within-group educational outcomes” (Covarrubias, 2011, p. 104) along gendered lines for both noncitizens and for working class Latinas/os and Chicanas/os (Covarrubias, 2011; Covarrubias & Lara 2014; Pérez Huber et al., 2014). In particular, women of any citizenship status and class outperform their male counterparts in educational attainment; noncitizen Mexican origin students are less likely graduate from high school, college, or graduate school than U.S.-born Chicanas/ os (Covarrubias, 2011; Covarrubias & Lara 2014); and higher socioeconomic status increases educational attainment for Mexican origin Americans, but these gains based on class status still result in lower attainment rates than Whites across all income levels (Covarrubias, 2011). Unlike the original educational pipeline which used data from the 2000 decennial Census, these later studies relied on 2012 data, either from the American Community Survey (ACS) or from the March Supplement of the Census Bureau’s Current Population Survey (CPS) for the multiple disaggregated educational pipelines.

While early educational pipelines were accompanied by policy recommendations, Covarrubias (2011) and others (Covarrubias & Lara, 2014; Covarrubias & Veléz, 2013) began to theorize how to integrate an intersectional analysis. Conceptualized as Critical Race Quantitative Intersectionality (CRQI), this framework disaggregates Census data to counter the homogenization of “historically diverse populations with unique histo- ries and particular educational experiences” (p. 275). The authors argue that CRQI aims to reveal how academic pathways are contingent on the unique intermingling of race, gender, class, and citizenship for people of Mexican origin. Other scholars have simi- larly pursued this approach to reveal the overlapping layers of disenfranchisement that complicate the educational journey for students of color based on their various social positions (Covarrubias & Liou, 2014; Jang, 2018; López et al., 2018).

Covarrubias et al (2018) extended CRQI by marrying it to testimonio. Referred to as CRQI + T, the goal of pairing educational attainment data with individual and col- lective testimonial accounts of schooling is to minimize deficit interpretations of the causes of inequitable educational outcomes by offering sociohistorical context through the educational narratives of people of color. These testimonios exemplify the groundtruthing approach Vélez and Solórzano (2017) advocate. Inspired by Geographic Information System (GIS) mapping practices that align digital surveys of a landscape with on-the-ground observations and evidence, educational attainment statistics are corroborated through individual and collective accounts.

These methodological developments have not necessarily resulted in innovative educational pipelines about Latina/o and Chicana/o students. Rather, pipelines have been updated with 2012 data (Pérez Huber et al., 2015). Scholars have continued to restate the policy recommendations previously outlined as little improvement has

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occurred in educational attainment for Latina/o students since the pipelines were first introduced. Moreover, the transition points mapped along the educational trajectory have remained unchanged.

School transitions, particularly between middle school and high school, have shown to be challenging for young adolescents (e.g., Barber & Olsen, 2004). Changes in school structure, class sizes, perceived teacher support, and academic expectations of students contribute to the already stressful developmental phase teenagers experience generally (Barber & Olsen, 2004; Eccles et al., 1993). For minoritized students, this transition may be further exacerbated by stereotyped expectations of their academic abilities (or perceived lack thereof) and their receiving schools’ level of cultural com- petence (Holcomb-McCoy, 2007). In their longitudinal study, Reyes et al. (2000) found that their sample, comprised mostly of Latino (76%) eighth-grade students in the base year, experienced a decline in grades after each transition. Though some of the students were able to recover, others dropped out of school entirely. The authors discuss the role culture may play in the transitional experience for urban minority youth as they balance their school culture with their home culture. The eighth to ninth transition, then, is an important juncture to examine in seeking to understand the Latina/o and Chicana/o educational pipeline.

This project is the first to build an educational pipeline for Texas across various ethnic groups, the first to fix middle school as a key transition point (in addition to high school degree, college degree, and graduate/professional degree attainment of the previous pipelines), and the first to compare attainment across age groups.

Who We Are, Where We Work, and Our Purpose

Although at different stages of our academic careers (professor, associate professor, and assistant professor) with different disciplinary training, we (the three coauthors) are all relatively new faculty members at a Hispanic Serving Institution (HSI) in South Texas. We are also all first-generation faculty, with a vested interest in the educational experiences of the Latina/o and Chicana/o communities to which we belong. In addi- tion, the history and mission of our home institution—the University of Texas at San Antonio (UTSA)—led to our current collaboration.

After years of contentious efforts, UTSA was founded in 1969 to redress the fact that working class Latina/o and Chicana/o communities living in one of Texas’ largest cities had been “underserved by higher education” (De Oliver, 1998, p. 274) for years, as the majority of these families “could not afford to send their children to an out-of- town university” (p. 274). The original promise of the legislative bill that authorized the monies to build UTSA was to determine a site that was accessible to the “socioeco- nomically underprivileged populations of the inner city” (p. 277) that were majority Latina/o and Chicana/o. Ultimately, the campus was built in the city’s outer suburban fringe, closer to the city’s relatively affluent White populations. It took a lawsuit filed by MALDEF in 1987 to demonstrate that this particular suburban campus had yet to meet the needs of the city’s and region’s Latina/o and Chicana/o population. As a

Alemán et al. 7

result, a satellite campus was finally built in the city’s urban core in 1997, amid a pre- dominately Latina/o and Chicana/o neighborhood.

Currently, our respective departments are all housed on this downtown urban cam- pus. Yet, as we began meeting students enrolled in our courses, we noticed how few of them came from the adjacent K-12 schools or the school districts in our city’s inner core. This observation prompted us to examine the efforts our institution made to build pathways from the student population in our own backyard and drew us toward the Latina/o and Chicana/o educational pipeline scholarship. Given our combined areas of expertise and academic and personal interest, we collaborated to build Texas’ first Latina/o and Chicana/o educational pipelines as a first step toward advocating for policy recommendations in addressing the enduring inequities.

Method

Like our predecessors, we use descriptive statistics collected by the U.S. Census American Community Survey (2011-2015 5-year estimates) to construct a snapshot of Latina/o and Chicana/o educational attainment in the Texas. The American Community Survey interviews a random sample of the U.S. population on a monthly basis to gather demographic, social, economic, and housing information. We used the U.S. Census online tool, Data Ferret, to download ACS data on respondents’ racial back- ground, Hispanic2 background, and self-reported levels of education attained.

Our sample consisted of 826,478 Texans who were between 25 and 85 years old at the time of data collection. There were slightly more females (52%) than males in our sample. More than half (56%) identified as non-Hispanic and White, 10% identified as Black only, 4% identified as Asian only, and less than one percent (0.16%) identified as members of a Native American tribe. Hispanics who reported having Latin American ancestry (coded as “Latina/o”) represented 29% of our sample. Because the Census asks about Hispanic ancestry and racial background separately, a substantial overlap exists between those that identify as “White only” and as “Hispanic.” To allow for comparisons between Latinos/os and racial groups, we recoded the variables as fol- lows: “Latinas/os” in our sample were identified as those who indicated they had a Hispanic origin, and also listed a Latin American country as a place of origin (e.g., México, Perú, Venezuela, Costa Rica, Cuba); those who indicated they were Spaniard were not included in the Latina/o category. “White” adults in our analyses refer to individuals who indicated they did not have Hispanic origin and that they were White.

We constructed the pipelines in two phases. In the first phase, we replicated the previous pipelines (including all adults 25 and older), but with the added transition between eighth and ninth grade. Our eight educational attainment categories were thus less than ninth grade, some high school, high school diploma or equivalent, some col- lege, associate’s degree, bachelor’s degree, master’s or professional degree, and doc- torate degree. High school completion was calculated by summing all respondents who indicated they had completed high school (or its equivalent) as their highest level of education or above.

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Acknowledging that the broad age range would capture a diversity of generational and policy influences, we narrowed the age range in the second phase. We used the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board’s3 criteria of 25- to 34-year-olds to iden- tify young adults in the state. This narrowed our sample to 157,254 Texans. This smaller sample was evenly split between males and females. Unsurprisingly, Latinas/ os and Chicanas/os comprised a larger proportion (38%) of young adults than of all adults in the sample (vs. 29%). Meanwhile, non-Hispanic, White respondents made up a smaller proportion of young adults (45%) compared with the entire adult sample (vs. 56%). This is consistent with Pew Research Center estimates that report the median age for Latinas/os has been lower than that of other racial and ethnic groups for several years now (Patten, 2016). Other racial groups remained relatively the same: 11% were Black, 5% were Asian, and less than one percent (0.40%) were Native American.

It is important to note that within the Texas context, when we refer to Latinas/os, we are primarily also referring to those of Mexican descent. In both our samples, the vast majority (87%) of those who were identified as Latina/o also indicated that their Hispanic origin was Mexican. The next largest subgroup comprised those who indi- cated they had a Salvadorian background (3%) and everyone else indicated heritage from one of 20 Latin American countries or categories.

Findings

Similar to the snapshot offered by earlier pipelines for educational attainment across the nation and in California, the Texas Latina/o and Chicana/o pipelines (Figure 1) revealed that Latinas/os and Chicanas/os in Texas have the lowest levels of educa- tional attainment at every educational benchmark for all ethnic groups. Notably, our analysis also suggested the significance of the move from eighth grade to ninth for Latina/o and Chicana/o students, a markedly different transition point than for other racial groups. It also demonstrated that Latinas/os and Chicanas/os have the smallest proportion of adults with academic credentials. In addition, we found that the current generations of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os experience similar inequitable achievement rates as older generations of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os. The key findings are detailed below.

Latina/o and Chicana/o Educational Snapshot in Texas

The transition to ninth grade reveals itself to be a crucial leakage point along the edu- cational pipeline for Latina/o and Chicana/o students in Texas (Figure 1). Nearly a quarter (23%) of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os reported having attained less than a ninth-grade education. For comparison, 8% of all Texans statewide indicated the same. There is a 15-percentage point difference between those that reported attending some high school years and those that reported earning at least a high school diploma or equivalent. This suggests that little more than 60% of Latinas/os graduated from high school. Following the pipeline analogy, about half of these high school graduates will have enrolled in college, but less than 10 will have earned a bachelor’s degree. Four

Alemán et al. 9

will have enrolled in graduate school, three of which would be master’s degrees. Consequently, out of a hypothetical group of 100 Latinas/os and Chicanas/os who enrolled in elementary school, only about 17 will have earned any kind of academic credential. Moreover, it means only one out of every 300 Latina/o or Chicana/o stu- dents will have earned a doctoral degree.

Latina/o and Chicana/o Racial Comparisons in Texas

When compared with other racial groups, Latinas/os and Chicanas/os have the largest proportion of adults without any academic credentials and the smallest proportion with bachelor’s degrees and beyond (Figure 2). As indicated in the previous section, 23% percent of Latina/o and Chicana/o Texans indicated they had only attended school until eighth grade or less. This is substantially higher than the proportion of Native Americans (9%), Asians (7%), Blacks (4%), and Whites (2%) who said they had less than a ninth-grade education. Moreover, these figures indicate a middle school push out rate two and half times worse than Native Americans face, the group with next highest level of eighth-grade minimum educational achievement. In addition, Latina/o and Chicana/o students have the highest push out rate for high school (15%) among all ethnic groups, compared with 11% of Black students, 10% of Native American stu- dents who attended high school, but did not graduate with a diploma or equivalent. Only a handful—5% of Asian and 6% of White students—get pushed out of high school in Texas. Consequently, nearly 82% of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os in Texas

Figure 1. Educational attainment by ethnic group (+ 8th grade), Texas, 2011-2015 ACS Census data.

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lack a college degree, compared with 73% of Blacks, 71% of Native Americans, 57% of Whites, and 37% of Asians.

On the other end of the educational spectrum, Latinas/os and Chicanas/os have the smallest proportion of adults indicating they had earned a postsecondary degree. Only 13% of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os had earned a bachelor’s degree (9%), master’s degree (4%), or doctoral degree (0.34%). This is much lower than Native Americans (21%) who had earned a bachelor’s degree or higher, Blacks (20%), Whites (35%), and Asians (57%). In addition, it appears that only half of Latina/o and Chicana/o students and Black students in Texas who enroll in college earn a degree of any kind, considerably lower than the 63% of White students and 85% of Asian students who enroll in college and graduate with a postsecondary degree.

Latina/o and Chicana/o Educational Snapshot for Young Adults in Texas

When recreating the Latina/o and Chicana/o educational snapshot for young adults, we found very similar patterns of educational attainment as we did for the adult population as a whole. For young Latina/o and Chicana/o adults, 15% indicated having attained at least a bachelor’s degree (11% attained a bachelor’s degree, 3% had earned a master’s or professional degree, and 0.21% had earned a doctorate degree). This was only two percentage points higher than for the full Latina/o and Chicana/o adult population. However, the percentage of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os indicating they had less than a middle school education among young adults was 11% (vs. the 23% for all Latina/o and Chicana/o adults). This offers a more optimistic outlook for young Latinas/os, but this

Figure 2. Educational attainment by ethnic Group (25–34), Texas, 2011–2015 ACS Census data.

Alemán et al. 11

rate is still higher than for other racial/ethnic groups. Six percent of Native Americans, 2% of Asian, 2% of Black, and 1% of White young adults (25 through 34) in Texas indicated having only an elementary school education. Moreover, the rates of degree attainment for younger Latinas/os and Chicanas/os enrolling in college remain rela- tively the same, with less than half of them earning a degree by the time they are 34.

Discussion: Texas Latina/o and Chicana/o Educational Pipelines

This essay is the first stage of a project to construct pipelines of the educational attain- ment for Latina/o and Chicana/o students in the state of Texas. For this stage, we extended the established methodology for educational pipelines by adding a focus on the transition from middle school to high school, differentiating the levels of advanced degree achievement among Latinas/os and Chicanas/os, and developed a secondary pipeline with a narrower age range than the original sample (25–34 years old). These adjustments revealed stark disproportions in attainment levels for Latina/o and Chicana/o students compared with other racial groups at both the early and late stages of the educational trajectory, as well as underscored the need for college-going initia- tives for Latina/o and Chicana/o students prior to eighth grade, as well as for interven- tions that ensure Latina/o and Chicana/o students enrolling in college attain a degree.

We acknowledge that educational attainment using Census data is widely and read- ily available (Schak & Nichols, 2018). What is unique about this endeavor is the cogent way these configurations allow for comparison across ethnic groups. As a visual representation of K-20 educational inequity, limited higher education access, and the history of academic inequality for Latina/o and Chicana/o students, educa- tional pipelines impact the ways critical race scholars of color teach, partner with community members and organizations, conduct research, and advocate for underrep- resented and first-generation college students.

Next Steps

That advocacy is the next phase of our project. We have begun to investigate the inter- sections of various social categories by delving into the existing data, as modeled by previous scholars (Covarrubias, 2011; Covarrubias & Lara, 2014; Pérez Huber et al., 2014). For instance, we seek to map out the relation of gender, class, and citizenship status with the educational attainment of Latinas/os and Chicanas/os in Texas. Fashioning such pipelines can reveal the distinctions in educational attainment between working class Latina/o and Chicana/o students and more affluent Latina/o and Chicana/o students in the state. We also intend to build pipelines that are region- specific (i.e., across the southwestern United States, as well as south, north, east, west Texas) and neighborhood-specific (i.e., by zip code and by school district), narrowing in on particular areas of the state to anchor educational attainment to the educational institutions of specific geographic areas. Indeed, we encourage critical race scholars to

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build educational pipelines that reflect their own state or region as a way to direct local stakeholders to develop policies that directly impact existing disparities Latina/o youth face in their school systems. Third, we have collected qualitative data from various stakeholders including parents, administrators, students, and teachers who viewed the pipeline we developed here as a pedagogical tool to engage conversations regarding the educational attainment for the Latina/o and Chicana/o populations in Texas. To date, we have asked nearly 100 participants to make sense of these disparities, reveal- ing the utility of this visual device to concisely depict structural inequities predicated on racial hierarchies. We intend to share these findings in future manuscripts. Finally, an important outcome of this research project is a policy brief that draws from both the pipeline and qualitative data to recommend ways of ameliorating the educational attainments gaps Latina/o and Chicana/o students who are tailored to key decision- makers, especially addressing the crucial eighth to ninth grade transition. Ultimately, our goal is to employ these educational pipelines to increase awareness and spur con- versations that generate opportunities for targeted interventions by change agents at those pivotal crossroads in Texas’ educational system where interventions are needed most.

Acknowledgments

We acknowledge Dr. Alejandro Covarrubias for training us in constructing the educational pipeline. We are grateful for his expertise, guidance, and collaborative spirit.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

ORCID iD

Sonya M. Alemán https://orcid.org/0000-0001-8626-5592

Notes

1. Although we are drawing from Census data that uses the term “Hispanic,” to identify the population in our study, we use Latina/o and Chicana/o together throughout this essay to identify this population. When fashioned by the U.S. government for Census purposes in 1970s, Hispanic was the first pan-ethnic term used to aggregate Mexican American, Puerto Rican, Cuban, Central American, South American, and Spanish peoples based on the fact that they had shared ties to the Spanish language. Because it is not a self-determined term of identity, it has been problematized for commemorating the conquest and coloniza- tion that imposed the Spanish language and customs on native indigenous populations. We acknowledge the troubled history of this term and opt to utilize terms that reflect our

https://orcid.org/0000-0001-8626-5592

Alemán et al. 13

activist and decolonial frameworks. We use this term in the essay only when citing directly from the federal classifications and census data that uses it. Moreover, we are using the terms that have been established in educational pipeline scholarship, as both Latina/o and Chicana/o have been used interchangeably to identify the non-White Hispanic population coded as Chicana/o and/or Latina/o in the educational pipeline scholarship. Because 87% of the population in Texas who identifies themselves as “Hispanic” in the U.S. Census data indicate they are of Mexican origin, Chicana/o, it is a useful way to identify the large Mexican origin population in Texas because of the term’s roots in a Mexican ethnic iden- tity. When combined with the larger umbrella term of Latina/o, these two labels account for “Hispanics” whose ethnic or national origin are not México. While the use of Latinx and Chicanx continues to gain traction in academic and activist circles as a way to deconstruct gender binaries, we do not employ it here as we are not engaging in an analysis addressing a gender binary.

2. The United States Census uses the Office of Management and Budget (OMB) definition of “Hispanic or Latino,” which includes anyone of Cuban, Mexican, Puerto Rican, South American, Central American, or Spanish descent (2018). This category is exclusive of race and means there is overlap between the racial and Hispanic categories. The American Community Survey (ACS) item on Hispanic origin included “non-Hispanic” and the option of choosing from 23 other options of Spanish-speaking countries.

3. The Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board (THECB) is a state agency created to lead the state’s higher education policy efforts and to provide oversight over the state’s public higher education. institutions. Policies, programs, and initiatives related to college access, affordability, and success are developed by the THECB and members of its gover- nor-appointed board.

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Author Biographies

Sonya M. Alemán is an associate professor in the Race, Ethnicity, Gender, and Sexuality Studies Department and Mexican American studies program at the University of Texas at San Antonio. She draws on critical race theory and Chicana feminism to inform her scholarship and pedagogy.

Sofia Bahena, EdD, is an assistant professor in education at the University of Texas at San Antonio. Her research broadly focuses on examining the systemic factors that shape students’ trajectory through the P20 educational pipeline, education policy, and community engagement. She earned her EdD in cultures, community, and education from the Harvard Graduate School of Education.

Enrique Alemán Jr., PhD, is professor and Chair in the Department of Educational Leadership and Policy Studies at the University of Texas at San Antonio. He co-founded and codirected a university-community partnership for ten years, and has served as assistant vice president for student equity and diversity. A first-generation college student, Alemán’s research agenda includes studying how race and racism impacts educational policy and shapes the experiences of Latina/o/x and Chicana/o/x students and families.

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MEMORIES OF SCHOOLING IN THE FIELD: From Barrio Scholarship Girl to Chicana Activist Scholar

Lilliana Patricia Saldaña

Through memory as methodology, this autohistoria examines the author’s memories of schooling and the ways in which this self-reflexive process serves as a site for theorizing the historical, institutional, and everyday practices of schooling in San Antonio, Texas. Through the analysis of various school artifacts—yearbooks, photos, and school records—the author unearths her memories of schooling to examine the class-, race-, and gender-based injuries of schooling and the ways in which she navigated, negotiated, and resisted a culture of schooling that has historically miseducated Mexican Americans. Drawing from Chicana feminist theories in education, this autohistoria also examines the ways in which family and community served as sites of resistance, empowerment, and Chicana/mexicana consciousness in the face of assimilationist discourses in school. This autohistoria also examines how memories of schooling became a site for analyzing testimonios of Mexican American teachers in a barrio school.

Key Words: autohistoria, testimonio, conocimiento

As part of my dissertation field research, between 2006–

2008, I interviewed Mexican American teachers at a dual-language school in

San Antonio’s Westside, observing their everyday practices and discussing with

them their memories of schooling as racialized, working-class, Spanish-speaking

children. As I listened to teachers’ stories of their experiences of cultural loss,

internalized oppression, and miseducation, as well as their stories of academic

survival and cultural self-determination in barrio schools, I could not help but

see myself in them.1 Their stories of miseducation, the process in which they were

systematically denied academic success through various forms of educational

oppression like tracking (being placed in vocational, rather than college-bound,

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courses), differential curricula, low teacher expectations, linguistic oppression,

and cultural exclusion, opened up my memories of schooling experiences in

a public school system where I navigated the culture as a “scholarship girl.”

While I did not experience language oppression in the same ways that they

did in the highly segregated 1950s and 1960s, their testimonios evoked

pain, shame, resentment, anger, and disappointment—emotions that I, too,

learned to negotiate, if not completely ignore, throughout my education as I

spring-boarded from one academic benchmark to another with what seemed

(on the outside) to have been seamless facility. Despite my familiarity with

critical ethnography and feminist methodologies that interrogated the myth

of objectivity in masculinist and Western research epistemologies, their

conversations presented a challenge to defuse the range of emotions that surged

within as I listened to the teachers voice their injuries (Torres 2003; Anzaldúa

& Keating 2002; The Latina Feminist Group 2001; Wolf 1996; Anzaldúa 1995;

Rosaldo 1993). As I interviewed teachers, transcribed hours of recorded data,

and analyzed individual and group pláticas, I did my best to exclusively focus

on their stories and put in context how my own experiences served as a site for

theorizing the practices of barrio teachers en el Westside.

Like many of the teachers in this study, I had not voiced the many injuries I

sustained in school from my days as a barrio scholarship girl en el Southside

to my days as a Chicana student activist at an East Coast university. To family

and friends, I was a success story. While their accolades gave me the spiritual

and emotional nourishment to continue jumping hurdles y abriendo brecha

or carving a path for others, they had no clue as to the hurdles I jumped to

survive the culture of academia—a culture that was diametrically different to

my personal and social history as a working-class mexicana. While I resisted

the arduous and painful process of unearthing my own memories of what it

was to be miseducated, silenced, and treated as less than worthy of a first-class

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education, I could no longer dismiss those recollections. I placed the injuries

teachers voiced—injuries they embodied not only in their flesh but also in their

everyday professional practices—in context. This embodiment clearly informs

how they understand their identity and conduct their work as teachers.

In order to be clear about how my experiences formed the lens through which I

saw my data, I critically unearthed my memories and traced the ways in which

the culture of schooling in mexicana/o working-class schools shaped my identity

as a scholarship girl. Moreover, I called upon the ways in which family and

community served as sites for cultural resistance, empowerment, and Chicana/

mexicana consciousness.2 However, the most difficult memories to excavate and

process were the ones I attempted to bury as a high school and undergraduate

student at a prestigious East Coast institution in a wealthy, conservative, and

predominantly white cultural environment; it was much different than the one

in which I was raised and educated—working class, Spanish-speaking, and

predominantly Mexican. Even as I analyzed teachers’ narratives, I struggled

with what Chicana feminist scholar Gloria E. Anzaldúa (2007) calls—the

“Coatlicue State”—the process of reopening the most excruciatingly painful

wounds inflicted at the interpersonal and institutional level in order to come out

more whole and conscious. Notably, it was by engaging in the iterative process

of listening, analyzing, and interpreting teachers’ stories that I generated a much

deeper understanding of the ways in which the culture of schooling shapes

Mexican American teacher identity and consciousness, a process that required

emotional, as well as intellectual, engagement.

As a feminist and critical ethnographer, I relied on various school artifacts

kept since the first grade—academic achievement awards, yearbooks, photos,

school newspapers, report cards and transcripts, classroom notebooks, exams,

and letters by school officials—to critically examine the multiple ways in

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which I complied with, negotiated, and resisted a culture of schooling that

ultimately miseducated me through a differential curricula and an ideology

of meritocracy that concealed institutional race, class, and gender inequality.

Through this archaeological process, I have been able to begin to work

through the insidious injuries of internalized oppression I have carried.

Further, I have gained a deeper understanding of the unvoiced injuries of

my educational experiences and identified the ways in which I have engaged

in acts of resistance and negotiation to survive and thrive in an institutional

structure that has historically miseducated, and at worse, denied education to

people of Mexican descent. I also map out my post-baccalaureate educational

experiences to understand the ways in which the process of conocimiento and

liberatory praxis, the ability to create personal and social change from a place

of political struggle, informs my personal and social identity as a Chicana

activist scholar, thus framing my analysis of first generation college graduate

Mexican-descent teachers.

Bordercrossing Home and School Cultures

I grew up in San Antonio’s Southside, where mexicanos constituted the

overwhelming majority of the population. The Southside was pura raza

and reflected the linguistic, religious, cultural, regional, generational, and

class diversity of Mexicans in the Southwest—from working-class Mexican

immigrants like my family who came from el otro lado and made the

Southside their home, to others who had lived in San Antonio for generations

and created a unique cultura from living in between two worlds.

My mother, tíos, and grandmother made the Southside their home in 1972,

entering a new sociocultural landscape marked by a history of racial, cultural,

and class oppression (Ruíz 1999) against Mexicans. Within the specificity of this

cultural environment, they witnessed the consequences of language oppression

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and cultural loss among Mexican Americans; in response, they immersed me en

todo lo mexicano and instilled a strong sense of ethnic pride, with the Spanish

language being the main vehicle for forging my cultural identity as a mexicana

de este lado. This context informs my family’s sense of fear that their children

could one day become acculturated pochas or pochos, Mexican descendants

with a fragmented sense of self, or worse, ashamed of their origins.

I am not sure when or how I learned English, but I must have learned the

language before entering public school. At the age of three, my mother

enrolled me in a small preschool downtown, not far from her work, run by

Carmelite nuns. It was then that I was first excluded and marginalized for

being different—for speaking Spanish and looking “Chinese” (i.e. indigenous).

I have vivid memories of my classmates deriding me for not speaking their

language. While I did not understand their exact words, I understood their

tone and caras—facial expressions that communicated hostility toward me.

Feeling like an outsider, I became frustrated and angry. I fought back, hitting

those who taunted me, even sticking a pencil in a boy’s ear. Those who picked

on me the most came back to school with bruises. I must have been pushed

to my limits. I remember the monjas telling my mom, in a sanctimonious

tone: “She has to stop hitting students or she is gonna have to go somewhere

else. Parents are becoming very upset.” I was immediately tagged as the

problem. For years, I tried to understand why I reacted so violently to their

taunting. Reflecting on this experience, I realize that I wanted to be accepted

in school just as I had been accepted by my family who loved and cared for

me. My fighting was an act of resistance against the exclusionary tactics of my

peers and even the administration. At the age of five, I had an opportunity

to begin a new academic journey when my mother enrolled me at Antonio

Olivares Elementary, only two blocks from my house. I started first grade

in 1980, during the emergence of what the media termed the “decade of the

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Hispanic” and at the height of Reagan’s call for more standardized testing and

assimilationist models of bilingual education (San Miguel 1988).

Since I had already learned some conversational English, I was not placed in any

kind of bilingual education program, although one of my closest childhood friends

claims we were in a bilingual classroom in second grade—it may have been an

early-exit program that transitioned me into an English immersion classroom by

the time I was in second grade. While I do not have any memories of learning or

speaking Spanish in school, I have many memories of working toward academic

excellence in a new language and culture. My elementary school, Antonio Olivares

Elementary—named after a Spanish friar who helped establish the presidio and

villa of San Antonio in 1718 with the intention of converting Coahuiltecan Indians

to Christianity—was ethnically Mexican and working-class. In his description

of the inhabitants of San Antonio, Olivares describes them disparagingly “as

nothing more than ‘mulattoes, lobos, coyotes, and mestizos, people of the

lowest order, whose customs [were] worse than those of the Indians’” (De la Teja

2000, 18). While I do not remember the school mistreating me or my peers for

being Mexican, we, like the Indians Olivares sought to civilize and save, were

deculturalized in school in many ways, stripped of our ethnic culture, language,

or history in our everyday school learning. School was the place where we spoke

English, learned “official knowledge,” and complied with a culture of schooling

that made us into passive and obedient learners, memorizing and regurgitating

sanctioned information (Apple 2000). Unlike the generation of Spanish-speaking

mexicanas/os who attended schools during the era of segregation, we were not

physically or emotionally punished for speaking Spanish. Nevertheless, our school

miseducated us mexicanas/os, in a subtle yet violent ways.

In elementary school, I learned that if I wanted to succeed, I needed to know

the culture. So, I learned what the school system deemed important for

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me to know (including English). With the help of my padrinos, who were

second generation English-speaking Mexican Americans, I learned English,

maintained an excellent academic record, and was a “good” student. Looking

back, I did not feel confused or ashamed of my ethnic/racial identity. I

learned to border-cross between home, school, and community spaces like

my church, and to negotiate and synthesize multiple subjective identities of

granddaughter, mexicana, and student. At a very early age, I became aware

of the differentiating aspects of these cultural spaces and succeeded in school

precisely because of my ability to be a naguala and shift or synthesize my

identities from one context to another in order to survive in every world I

entered (Anzaldúa 2007).

Elementary school introduced me to the culture of schooling very similar

to the one I found at my field site, marked by high-stakes assessments,

memorization and regurgitation, and a market approach to education.

I remember second grade as the time in which I invested much of my

time perfecting my writing, an exercise that would become a disciplinary

technology of the self as a scholar. I spent hours on end writing on pieces

of thin, beige paper with dotted lines to guide the height and width of

each letter. With each stroke of my pencil, I meticulously replicated the

beautifully written alphabet above the green boards. I was so proud to have

the best handwriting in my class. My grandmother, who had only a third

grade education, was central to my success. Before beginning elementary

school, she had shown me how to draw lines and circles; exercises she

believed would sharpen and strengthen my handwriting skills in school. As a

working-class mujer who raised four children in one of the poorest barrios of

Monterrey, Mexico, she learned to use available resources, and she lovingly

crafted small notebooks out of brown paper bags from the grocery store so I

could practice my writing.

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While first and second grade were about copying and mimicking expected

behaviors, third grade was about becoming a competitive and efficient worker,

a market philosophy central to Reagan’s educational policy. My third grade

teacher, Mrs. Olvera, taught us our multiplication tables by timing us, a

practice privileged by American capitalist business rationale. Those who

finished their tables first without any mistakes earned the highest grade.

Through this subtle math lesson, I learned the culture of competitiveness and

efficiency, rules of the game that would benefit me as I maintained my status

as a scholarship girl. My mom also learned and perpetuated the culture of

schooling as she quizzed me with homemade flashcards after working long

hours at the panaderia. It was with her help that I strengthened my ability to

recall multiplication tables.

In Mrs. Lopez’s fourth grade class I was taught to be a consumer, one of the

components of neoliberal educational curricula. In her class, I read voraciously,

turning in book reports at the end of each one. Students would earn fake

money for each report, which we used to buy school-related goodies. After

school Mrs. Lopez would set up shop in the back of the classroom where we

would exchange our imitation bills for colorful pencils, snazzy sharpeners,

and funky erasers. This is a practice I witnessed with some of the teachers at

Emma Tenayuca Elementary where I conducted my fieldwork. At the end of

the six weeks, those students with the highest number of book reports earned

a corporate reward—a free personal pizza from Pizza Hut. The implicit lesson

others and I learned: We would be able to reap the rewards of our academic

labor as consumers in a capitalist market economy.

While I benefited from these rewards, I knew that my formal education meant

more than a corporate reward. It meant being in a position of first-world

privilege, not forced to quit school to earn wages at an early age to survive. My

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grandmother and mother (who completed high school before immigrating to

the United States) instilled the importance of an education for personal and

social growth. I did well in school to make my family proud. Throughout my

elementary school years, I succeeded academically because the mujeres in my

family instilled the value of education without ever having to explicitly tell me,

“Échale ganas a los estudios, mija.” As a child of immigrants, I cultivated a

dual-frame of reference for understanding that I was in a position of privilege

(Suárez-Orozco and Suárez-Orozco 2001). I would not have to work on my

feet all day long in the blistering heat of the panaderia.

Looking back at my early childhood experiences, I have become aware that

I learned to maintain discrete boundaries between school and home. Even

though the schools I attended were predominantly Mexican American and

working-class, the majority of instruction was in English. Moreover, curricula

excluded Mexican American history and cultural knowledge. While I do

not share the same memories of language oppression as the teachers in my

study, I nevertheless experienced institutional racism, cultural exclusion, and

assimilationist strategies through White-stream and differential curricula.

Looking back, I do not remember ever learning about the cultural knowledge

valued in my home and community.

At home, my mother and grandmother constantly emphasized the importance

of speaking “proper” Spanish, not for market reasons, an idea that was

constantly “sold” to students at Emma Tenayuca, but because it was connected

to my ethnic identity. For them, language was an extension of mexicanidad.

I remember my grandmother telling me, “En esta casa se habla español. En la

escuela puedes hablar todo el inglés que quieras—as if I had a choice—pero

aquí solamente español y no me vengas con tu mocho pocho.” It was evident

that my family did not want me to become what they perceived to be “una

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agringada,” Americanized, or worse yet, a lower class Mexican who spoke

mixed codes. So, I spoke “proper” Spanish. My grandmother, who had limited

formal schooling, also taught me how to read and write in Spanish, and both

my mother and grandmother passed on Mexican history to me. I learned

about la conquista, las guerras de independencia, la invasión norteamericana,

y la revolución mexicana. They taught me countercultural narratives that

decentered U.S.-dominant narratives that vilified or made Mexicans invisible,

such as the recurrent historical narrative of Anglo men from Kentucky,

Tennessee, and Missouri, which glaringly overlooked Mexicans of whatever

side. They also instilled the value of various Mexican cultural expressions and

as such, I came to appreciate folklorico, el cine mexicano, las comidas típicas,

and the various musical traditions like rancheras, boleros, mariachi, and sones.

As racialized ethnic, working-class women, my mother and grandmother also

passed down their stories of struggle and survival in Mexico and the United

States that created their ways of knowing and understanding the world.

I unearth these memories because, while I did not experience the hostility and

oppression that teachers in my study articulated, these experiences led me to

create a third culture—the liminal space between two oppositional cultures—

out of necessity in order to survive and thrive in the culture of schooling. I did

not simply maintain separate spheres between home and school, although these

cultures were diametrically opposed. The expressive elements of my mexicana

working-class culture, such as cuentos (stories), canciones (songs), dichos

(sayings), food, and dance—and an immigrant worldview and mujer-centered

epistemology—all informed my identity and consciousness as a scholarship girl

in San Antonio’s Southside. My mother and grandmother’s stories of struggle and

survival, and their experiences as working-class mexicanas, gave me the ganas

(motivation) to valerme por mi misma (to be self-reliant) and survive and thrive in

a culture of schooling that denied my identity and miseducated me in the process.

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As a border-crosser I learned to navigate home and school cultures with

fluidity. Despite the rigid linguistic and cultural borders of both spaces, they

were porous and fluid enough for me to take the best of both worlds for my

intellectual, spiritual, and emotional security. For example, I often relied (and

continue to do so) on my mother and grandmother’s ways of knowing—

their consejos (advice) and words of sabiduría or wisdom—to jump through

the various academic hurdles along my educational path. The mujeres in

my family also encouraged me to further develop my intellectual curiosity

and love for learning at home and emphasized the importance of a formal

education and an educación—the comportment of a proper Mexican girl. It

was by bridging both cultures that I was able to maintain the sociocultural

identity my mother and grandmother carved and continued to shape in my

trajectory as a mexicana, barrio scholarship girl. Unlike Richard Rodriguez’s

scholarship boy, I did not want to lose my mexicanidad. On the contrary, I

sought opportunities through home and community spaces to maintain my

sense of mexicanidad; for instance, strengthening my Spanish oral and literacy

skills and learning about indigenous and mestizo cultures as a matachín at

my church. Still, as a scholarship girl, I learned to be a compliant student,

accepting a system I knew to be unjust in terms of funding, curriculum, and

overall treatment of working-class Mexican origin students who were, for the

most part, pushed out of the educational system. My survival as a scholarship

girl depended on my ability to navigate, blend, and work my way through the

institutional inequality and racism.

By the time I attended middle school, I had already learned the “hidden

curriculum” of compliance where working-class, Mexican-origin students like

myself deferred to teachers’ authority when it came to challenging rhetorics

of domination. As a “good” student, I learned to memorize and regurgitate

(Freire 2000) colonial/master narratives, even when these contradicted the

counternarratives I learned at home.

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Negotiating Cultural Imperialism and School Success

By middle school, the “system”—teachers, counselors, and those educational

practitioners linked to the state—officially tracked me into honors courses,

where I continued to excel in all content areas, including history—my favorite

subject. From all of my classes, I remember my Texas history class the most,

probably because I worked so hard to navigate the competing discourses of

home and school cultures. While my mother and grandmother taught me that

“los Estados Unidos se había robado la mitad de México,” our teacher, Mr.

Potter, reminded us mexicanas/os that the Anglo “settlers” liberated us from

the savage hands of the Mexican government. I, of course, did not question

Mr. Potter’s historiographic authority on the matter. As an “A” student, I

knew that if I wanted to continue being an academically successful student, I

needed to comply with the colonial/master narrative—at least in school.

My mother and grandmother taught me to respect my elders, especially my

teachers, so I deferred to Mr. Potter’s authority. Within the context of U.S.

schooling, this meant that I did not challenge or contest “official” narratives

of U.S. superiority. I had become well aware that my academic success rested

on my compliance to memorize and regurgitate a dominant cultural memory

that glorified colonizers and vilified Mexicans. I did so well on a term paper

about Sam Houston, a slave owner responsible for the “liberation” of Texas

and subsequent colonization of the region (not to mention the genocide of

Cherokees), that it earned first place in a district-wide competition. For that

state competition, I created a giant poster board presentation to go along with

my award-winning research paper. My mother even helped me with my poster

board, helping me draw a large cutout in the shape of Texas. She wanted me

to do well and supported me as much as she could in my school projects, even

when challenging their content. When my mother and I arrived at the venue,

Mr. Potter embellished my poster board with some additional artifacts—a

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machete, an ax, a Southern hat of the time period (like the one Sam Houston

wore), and some flags from his personal collection—signifiers of colonialism

and white supremacy. As I studied the photo that Mr. Potter took of me, I

realize why I had always felt awkward pulling the photo out of my mother’s

photo box. In the picture, I am half smiling, happy and proud of my academic

accolades, but at the same time I look tense, if not troubled, at participating in

a project that reproduced, if not reified, the culture of white supremacy in my

schooling. I negotiated cultural imperialism in the best way that I could given

the inequitable social position I occupied as a Mexican female student and

went ahead with the project to avert school failure. Given the counternarratives

that I learned at home, I refused to internalize the gringo narratives that

branded Mexicans as criminals and as subhuman.

I share this story because I have come to the realization that I learned to move

in and out of shifting worldviews and identities at a very young age, from

seemingly compliant student at school to mexicana daughter of working-class

Mexican immigrants with strong cultural roots in the home and my community

of upbringing on the Southside. I learned to live and thrive in nepantla, the

in-between space of home and school, in order to succeed in school without

compromising the mexicana identity and consciousness my mother and

grandmother had so carefully nurtured at home. It was in the in-between space of

home and school that I learned to adapt and negotiate colliding worldviews. It was

also in that in-between space that I learned to resist discursive practices that I had

perceived to be detrimental to my sense of self as a mexicana. The home-school

borderlands introduced tremendous ambiguity, tension, and contradictions, yet it

was where I developed my identity as a barrio scholarship girl who was not going to

compromise my ethnic identity to be a successful student.

Despite the neocolonial relations of power where white, middle-class, and

ideologically conservative teachers banked narratives into the minds of

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Mexican working-class students (Freire 2000), I resisted cultural domination

and worked within the constraints and limitations I faced as a student

so as not to compromise my academic success or sense of self. I did not

unconsciously comply with a colonial discourse. I consciously navigated spaces

of power and regurgitated dominant discourses while privileging the personal

collective histories of struggle and resistance that my mother and grandmother

taught me, from oral histories of the Mexican Revolution to their testimonios

of everyday survival as working-poor mujeres in Mexico and the United

States. Their narratives served as pedagogies of possibility that gave me hope

to succeed in a culture where an overwhelming majority of “Hispanics” would

be pushed out of the educational pipeline (Yosso 2006). I was very proud of

being Mexican, unlike some of the teachers I interviewed, who internalized

shame for being Mexican from their similar experiences in the school system.

The women in my family, like others in the community who played an integral

role in my identity formation, emphasized the importance of never losing

sight of who I was and nurtured me through what Dolores Delgado Bernal

et al. (2006) call the epistemologies of everyday life—the cultural knowledge

and sabiduría that informs my Chicana, working-class, and mujer-centered

consciousness today. I became a nepantlera, a border dweller and transgressor,

and learned to rely on my facultad (Anzaldúa 2007), a sixth sense that

provided me with the ability to read reality and enact my agency.

Becoming Aware of my Miseducation

By middle school, I had already started to see myself as a scholarship girl in

the making. As a “good” student, I listened attentively and took copious notes

in class as teachers deposited knowledge in a top-down, banking method

(Freire 2000). I continued to maintain stellar grades, making the honor roll

every grading period and earning membership in the national junior honors

society. With the encouragement of teachers, I also began to participate in

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academic competitions and received invitations to participate in pre-college

summer enrichment programs like the Pre-Freshman Engineering Program

(PREP), a math and science curriculum that prepares high achieving students,

including underrepresented groups like women and students of color, to

pursue careers in science and technology.3

I was fourteen years old and had just finished eighth grade when I started these

college prep summer courses. I felt confident and excited about being part of

such a prestigious program. But unlike the As and Bs I was accustomed to

earning in school, I only managed to earn a few Bs during my three years in

PREP. Despite my ganas—ambition and willingness to work—and laborious

empeño or effort, words of empowerment that had sustained me throughout

my miseducation, I found it nearly impossible to earn anything above a C,

bringing home a couple of Ds. These extracurricular experiences became

significant in my understanding of the culture of schooling because through

them I learned that no matter how hard I worked, I would never be able to

excel like the students who came from private or more affluent public schools.

It was during this time that I became more and more disappointed with my

academic preparation and began to wonder whether I was not able to succeed

in the program like my peers because I was Mexican, working-class, a girl,

or a combination of these identities. For the very first time, I questioned my

teachers’ assessment of me as an outstanding student. How could it be that I

was barely passing PREP, yet earning excellent grades at my school? I began

to be plagued by questions and self-doubt. Was I really as smart as I thought?

Was I college material? Did I have what it took to go to college? I soon

came to the conclusion that there was a gap between what the school system

wanted me to believe—that we all had en equal opportunity to succeed in

the educational system regardless of race, class, and gender—and the harsh,

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uncensored reality of my miseducation in segregated, under-funded, Mexican

working-class public schools. As part of the top ten percent of my graduating

class, and an Advanced Placement student at my high school, I internalized the

myth of meritocracy inside all its classist permutations and practiced the values

of a system that prepared me to succeed academically, when, in fact, it had

miseducated me, albeit to a lesser degree than other students.

Before PREP, I had never felt so academically unprepared. For years, I thought

I was qualified, competent, and smart, only to find out that I was not exactly a

stellar student in the eyes of others. I internalized the notion that I had been lied

to by those I trusted the most—my teachers, and the system as a whole. I began to

doubt my intellectual abilities and felt embarrassed as instructors returned exams

or homework assignments riddled with red marks and less-than-impressive grades

that were not worthy of a scholarship girl. I remember the many times instructors

returned my work. I would take a quick glance at my grades, distraught, ashamed,

and wounded by my academic failure. I would immediately turn my work face

down and stuff the papers in my notebook so my peers would not think I was an

intellectual fraud, someone who had ostensibly and erroneously been accepted into

the program. In PREP, every day became an academic and emotional struggle

as I battled with self-doubt. While my family expressed an enormous sense of

pride and joy with my accomplishments, I could not help but internalize the idea

that I was an undeserving candidate in the program—most seem to come from

privileged classes and I did not measure to their standards. Despite my growing

insecurities, I continued to enroll in the program for the next two years with the

understanding that my academic failure was a reflection of the lack of educational

preparation I received and not a result of my race, gender, or ethnicity.

Like many of my peers tracked into the honors curriculum, I entered various

interscholastic competitions in middle school and high school. To further

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elaborate on this part of my academic history, I rely on an issue of my middle

school newspaper, Panther Pride, which records the various competitions I

entered. I remember preparing myself academically and emotionally for my

first academic meet and even though I felt a bit nervous, I was confident in my

ability to excel and earn commendable marks. Being a scholarship girl, I entered

just about every area of competition for our district, including spelling, Spanish

poetry, history, writing, modern oratory, and even the most absurd areas like

dictionary skills and calculator, areas that were clearly not academic, but rather

technical. It turns out I earned eight trophies that day—five first-place awards,

one second-place award, and one for fourth place. By January, my peers and

I were up for the next challenge: to compete with students from the sixteen

districts in San Antonio. We were seventy of the 600 students from all over San

Antonio to show off our academic talents at the Texas Military Institute. While

I had taken a second-place trophy at the district meet, I ended up eighteenth in

this competition, a considerable drop from my previous record. The newspaper

also shows that I entered another UIL (University Interscholastic League)

competition in February at Roosevelt High School with over 1100 students from

twenty-eight schools. This time, I knew what my academic competition looked

like and prepared myself for what seemed to be an insurmountable challenge,

earning ninth place in spelling. At the end of my middle school year, I was one

of sixteen students at our school to receive a presidential academic fitness award.

The letter in my personal archives reads:

By taking advantage of your educational opportunities, you have

shown the judgment, character, and determination necessary to

succeed in all your endeavors. Whatever you do tomorrow, you

will do better for having taken your education seriously today. As

you will no doubt discover, the rewards of diligent study and hard

work are virtually unlimited. I commend you all for setting an

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outstanding example of scholarship, and I encourage you to share

your talent and enthusiasm with others.

Apparently, my “educational opportunities” had more to do with personal

characteristics such as “judgment, character, and determination” rather than

educational inequality. By the time I completed middle school, I had learned

one of the most important lessons in my academic career—that race, class,

and gender were utilized in systems of domination and privilege that shaped

the lives of Mexican, working-class students like me in material ways. While

I did not have the language to articulate my miseducation, I recognized I had

participated in an inequitable education through a watered-down curriculum

by the time I started high school in the fall of 1990.

I became aware of the pervasive pattern of miseducation my peers and I

experienced, as I apprehended the educational inequality and social injustice

that affected every student who lacked the privilege of race and class. As an

insider-outsider of this inequality, I realized that the ninety percent of my

peers in high school, who were also Mexican and working-class, had been

severely neglected—more so than me—and faced far worse consequences. I, at

least, had been tracked into an honors curriculum that, when compared to that

of affluent public schools, was water-downed in rigor and content. As water-

downed as the curricula was, I had access to intellectual and cultural resources

that would support me along the educational pipeline. I learned that school

would not provide me with the intellectual and cultural skills and knowledge

that I presumed a scholarship girl needed in order to succeed in higher

education. So, I sought out the necessary resources myself.

In high school, I made the conscious decision to forego interscholastic

competitions. Rather than focus my energies on this, I continued to participate

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in pre-college summer programs, completing my third year of PREP in 1992

and enrolling in the Texas Governor’s School at Lamar University in 1993. In

1992, I was one of a couple hundred students to participate in this program

and the only Mexican in a cohort of about ten young women from all over

the state who came from diverse race, ethnic, and social class backgrounds.

By my junior year, I came to the awareness that schools privileged a dominant

canon that I needed to grasp to succeed in college. Working at my mom’s

panaderia, I remember meticulously jotting the names of renowned writers in

a small notebook—Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, William Faulkner, Ernest

Hemingway, and Sinclair Lewis, along with Sor Juana Inez de la Cruz, Miguel

Angel Asturias, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez—the latter were authors to which

my teachers had not exposed me, but that I knew were important to my quest

to become a well-versed scholar. So, my senior year, I checked out as many

of those books as possible and consumed them on a regular basis, crossing

names of authors off my list. I wanted to become a well-read barrio scholarship

girl without compromising my sociocultural identity, mi mexicanidad. I had

already come to the awareness that dominant educational institutions were

inequitable and assimilationist. While I wanted to be a successful student, I

also wanted to remain connected to my family and community. I made it a

point to read the Western canon without dismissing the important literary

contributions of Mexican and other Latin American writers. It was not until I

was in graduate school that I read anything by a Chicana/o.

I began to play “catch up”—a process that Raza teachers in my study would

place in context for me. Many of the teachers had been schooled in San Antonio

public schools in the working-class Westside and expressed the injuries of their

miseducation, learning how to read and write as adults, being inundated with

remedial courses, and preparing themselves to play “catch up” in community

colleges and four-year institutions after having been placed in vocational tracks

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in high school. As a result of their racialized schooling experiences—from

language oppression, cultural loss, and a differential curriculum intended to

reproduce the existing relations of power in San Antonio where Mexicans

would continue to be a source of cheap, low educated labor—these teachers

enacted a barrio pedagogy, implementing a rigorous academic curriculum,

a philosophy of caring, and instilling a deep belief of self in the students so

they could have a more empowering schooling experience. In observing their

practices, I developed a fierce determination to do the same as a Chicana

professor, to create a radically different college experience than the one I

endured in a predominantly white, conservative institution.

Forging an Interdisciplinary Mestiza Scholar Identity

During my senior year, having applied to various colleges and universities

across the country, I decided on attending Boston University (BU) because

of its reputation as a world-class research and teaching university. Little did I

know that this would be the place where I would experience the most covert

racism, not the kind of “in your face” racism, but the “read-between-the-lines”

type that was more difficult to decode (Bonilla-Silva 2009). In the fall of

1994, I began my studies as an engineering major, a white-collar profession

that seemed to offer the financial security and status associated with being

middle-class. Needless to say, I stood out in this white, male, and cutthroat

culture. Even though I had taken calculus in high school, honed my science

skills through pre-college courses, and sought my professors’ assistance, I

barely passed my calculus class, and ended up dropping my chemistry class

after weeks of being completely lost and confused. To make things worse,

my peers, distrustful of my aptitude, relegated me to the simplest tasks while

they took creative and organizational control over major projects. With

each week, I began to question my academic “fitness.” After a semester of

unsatisfactory grades, the school placed me on academic probation. I felt angry

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and embarrassed with the idea of having to return home a failure. Whatever

happened to the scholarship girl? I also did not want my peers (especially those

who were white) to think that I was indeed a token who could not “hack it.”

Rather than returning home, I stayed at BU and pursued what I enjoyed the

most that semester—the world of letters. I took countless literature courses, in

both the English and Spanish departments, and eventually declared a second

major in International Relations, my way of gaining a deeper understanding of

my sociopolitical relationship with el pueblo in Latin America.

As a newly declared English major, I read the works of Shakespeare, Keats,

Austen, Hemingway, and other authors who are considered definitive to

the mainstream canon. I read a couple of short stories by Amy Tan, a novel

by Zora Neale Hurston, and a couple by Richard Wright—all three writers

of color. I remember reading Hunger of Memory: The Education of Richard

Rodriguez (2004), and feeling an immense sense of sadness for Rodriguez

because I, unlike him, wanted to succeed in academia without compromising

what my family had carefully instilled in me—a love for my language and

culture and the desire to create change in the world—beliefs that were at the

core of my identity and consciousness.

Throughout my educational trajectory at BU, I struggled academically and

internalized the scathing comments my professors wrote about my writing.

Little did I know that the English department would be the place where I

would experience the most exclusionary and racist treatment or movidas. My

English professors often told me I lacked the necessary preparation to succeed in

literature classes, and that perhaps I was better off in remedial writing courses

with the foreign students—this was despite my having gained experience

and prominence as a poetry reader in competitions. Others humiliated me in

class, telling me I did not know how to analyze poetry. Still, others, like my

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journalism instructor, told me I should consider switching to another major

without giving me any comprehensible reason. I remember the harsh sound of

their words, which came as an unexpected car crash. And I stood in shock, not

knowing what to do. Should I hide, run away, or cry? It often took me a few

minutes to figure out what had just happened. But their words did not deter

me; I would slowly pick myself up and give it the old college try I had long

heard would help me overcome their misperceptions of my abilities. Still, I

internalized messages of oppression, thinking I was nothing but an undeserving

and incompetent “scholarship girl” who made it through the academic pipeline

as an affirmative action token. I worked two, three times harder than my peers

to prove that I was worthy and qualified to be at BU.

I constantly felt like I was “catching up.” The only places where I felt worthy

were in the Spanish Department, where I focused my studies on leftist-inspired

literature, and the Department of International Relations, where I declared a

track in Latin America and studied radical social movements. I survived the

hostility by immersing myself in my education. I was not only trying to heal

from my miseducation, both emotionally and academically, but I was also

forging a mestiza scholar identity, where I took ownership of my education by

busting disciplinary boundaries and synthesizing the knowledge I learned in

my home and community with what I was learning in the ivory tower.

As I constructed this new identity, I also worked with other Mexican

American students to create La Fuerza, a student organization that focused on

the retention of Chicana/o and Latina/o students on campus. As a child, I had

never embraced the term “Chicana/o,” a word that my Mexican immigrant

family considered derogatory. However, my experiences being marginalized,

silenced, and considered less-than-worthy of a BU education, politicized me

as a Chicana. I was not only the (grand)daughter of Mexican immigrant

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mujeres, but also a member of a social group that has been historically and

systematically oppressed in the United States. Thus, I identified as a Chicana

who as a graduate student began to carve my identity as an activist scholar

committed to participatory community-based research that would make a

difference in school and community contexts.

The injuries of schooling that shaped my higher education career would

come to haunt me with the insecurities that come from not having a cultural

cartography for navigating the expectations of becoming a PhD. For example,

from the University of Texas at San Antonio, where I clearly excelled in my

scholarly pursuits as evidenced by my original masters thesis research and

the publication of several articles, I once again had to navigate a culture of

schooling from a first-tier institution that raised the bar and the expectations

of my scholarship. As an academic, I continue incorporating the culture of the

academy as part of my professional preparation so as to keep at bay notions

of being an impostor, while carving out new ways of theorizing and creating

knowledge in a Mexican American Studies program.

Summary

Like the teachers in this study, I am using the everyday knowledge I gained in

my own schooling experience to avoid perpetrating the injuries done to me.

This often calls for me to act as a critical and feminist pedagogue in an effort

to create spaces for personal and social transformation, as students become

critical thinkers and agents of change in their communities of practice. This

has not been nor will it become an easy process, for as Anzaldúa posits, it is

through the pain that one sheds desconocimiento—or the not knowing—to

create individual and collective conocimiento (Anzaldúa & Keating 2002).

For me, researching the lived experiences and classroom practices of barrio

teachers gave me a mirror in which to see how schooling—as a system of

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reproduction—shaped my identity and consciousness as a Chicana scholar.

Like the teachers in my study, I draw from the conocimiento of my schooling

experiences. This embodied knowledge serves as a site for possibility,

empowerment, and collective growth in my work as a teacher, researcher, and

community activist.

Immersed in the field site, going about my observations, the more I spoke with

teachers and visited with those students who approached me to ask what I

was doing, the more I realized that our schooling had a point of convergence.

As I listened to teachers’ stories of cultural violence, internalized oppression,

and academic struggles, I tried to retrieve my own memories of schooling to

make sense of the ways in which the culture of schooling had shaped my own

identity as a Chicana activist scholar. How did I go from being a compliant

scholarship girl to a Chicana scholar?

Having listened to each of these teachers’ stories as I sifted through and analyzed

their narratives of schooling, the arduous, reflexive, and at times, painful, process

of placing my own memories to context about the meaning of being schooled

within San Antonio public schools in the Southside, I relived the trauma and

tensions of the school, home, and community contradictions I had long buried.

Upon reflecting on my schooling experiences and the ways in which I negotiated

a culture of meritocracy, individual achievement and free-market ideology, I have

gained a greater understanding of institutional cultures. Despite having been

miseducated, I maintained a cohesive cultural identity in my home where my

family valued educación and holistic wellbeing, which equipped me to enact the

solidarity necessary to engage the participants in my study.

Through the process of unearthing my own memories of schooling, I have

come to conocimiento about the ways in which my experiences have shaped

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my identity as a mexicana working class scholarship girl, who learned

the culture of schooling anchored in meritocracy and individualism, as I

countered and contested its disciplinary boundaries. I have complied with

the culture to succeed academically, although it was not until my graduate

studies that I carved my identity as a Chicana activist scholar through my

studies and community-based work, where I became an interdisciplinary

mestiza-in-the making, drawing from feminist and critical race theory, and

other social justice paradigms. My memories of schooling became a point of

entry for understanding the lived experiences of Mexican American teachers,

as I came to conocimiento through the act of remembering, having found

a point of connection with the teachers, as we negotiate often ambiguous

and contradictory actions while resisting, and transforming the culture of

schooling as Chicana educators.

Notes 1 For a more thorough discussion on the pervasive history of educational inequlity and miseducation, refer to Richard R. Valencia’s (2011).

2 The term “scholarship girl” signals Richard Rodriguez’s “Scholarship Boy,” a pivotal essay in his autobiography, Hunger of Memory. As a child of immigrants, he became the first in his family to advance through the educational pipeline. Rodriguez becomes absorbed in the world of academia as a “scholarship boy” who desires to become like his teachers. In the process, he rejects his culture and isolates himself from his family.

3 Founded by Dr. Manuel Berriozabal in 1979, the PREP program is a national academic program that identifies high-achieving students and prepares students to enter science, math, engineering, and technology careers through a rigorous curriculum for three years. See http://www.prep-usa.org/ portal/main/default.asp for more information.

Works Cited

Anzaldúa, Gloria E. 2007. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, 3rd ed. San Francisco: aunt lute.

——— . 1995. Making Face, Making Soul/Hacienda Caras: Creative and Critical Perspectives by Feminists of Color. San Francisco: aunt lute.

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Anzaldúa, Gloria E., and AnaLouise Keating, eds. 2002. This Bridge We Call Home: Radical Visions for Transformation. New York: Routledge.

Apple, Michael W. 2000. Official Knowledge: Democratic Education in a Conservative Age, 2nd ed. New York: Routledge.

Bonilla-Silva, Eduardo. 2009. Racism Without Racists: Color-Blind Racism and the Persistence of Racial Inequality in America, 3rd ed. New York: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers.

Delgado Bernal, Dolores, C. Alejandra Elenes, Francisca E. Godinez, and Sofia Villenas, eds. 2006. Chicana/Latina Education in Everyday Life: Feminista Perspectives on Pedagogy and Epistemology. Albany: State University of New York Press.

De la Teja, Jesús F. 1996. San Antonio de Béxar: A Community of New Spain’s Northern Frontier, 2nd ed. New Mexico: University of New Mexico Press.

Freire, Paolo. 2000. Pedagogy of the Oppressed, 30th anniversary edition. New York: The Continuum International Publishing Group Inc.

The Latina Feminist Group. 2001. Telling to Live: Latina Feminist Testimonios. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press.

Rodriguez, Richard. 2004. Hunger of Memory: The Education of Richard Rodriguez. New York: The Dial Press.

Rosaldo, Renato. 1993. Culture & Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis. Boston, Mass.: Beacon Press.

Ruíz, Vicki L. 1999. From Out of the Shadows: Mexican Women in Twentieth-Century America. New York: Oxford University Press.

San Miguel, Guadalupe, Jr. 1988. “Bilingual Education Policy Development: The Reagan Years, 1980–1987.” NABE: The Journal of the National Association for Bilingual Education 12, no. 2: 97–112.

Suárez-Orozco, Carola, and Marcelo M. Suárez-Orozco. 2001. Children of Immigration. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.

Torres, Eden E. 2003. Chicana Without Apology: The New Chicana Cultural Studies. New York: Routledge.

Valencia, Richard R., ed. 2011. Chicano School Failure and Success: Past, Present, and Future, 3rd ed. New York: Routledge.

Wolf, Diane L., ed. 1996. Feminist Dilemmas in Fieldwork. Boulder, CO.: Westview Press.

Yosso, Tara J. 2006. Critical Race Counterstories Along the Chicana/Chicano Educational Pipeline. New York: Routledge.

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ARTICLE TITLE: The power of ethnic studies: portraits of first-generation Latina/o students carving out un sitio and claiming una lengua

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The power of ethnic studies: portraits of first- generation Latina/o students carving out un sitio and claiming una lengua

Norma A. Marrun

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InternatIonal Journal of QualItatIve StudIeS In educatIon, 2018 vol. 31, no. 4, 272–292 https://doi.org/10.1080/09518398.2017.1422288

The power of ethnic studies: portraits of first-generation Latina/o students carving out un sitio and claiming una lengua

Norma A. Marrun

department of teaching and learning, university of nevada, las vegas, nv, uSa

ABSTRACT For more than 50 years, college and high school students, families, and community activists have fought for the preservation of ethnic studies. Qualitative research studies consistently have shown positive outcomes, including increased academic engagement and affirmation, for students who take ethnic studies in K-16. In this article, I argue that Latina/o students who enrolled in ethnic studies courses benefited academically and personally from culturally responsive pedagogies. The portraits presented in this article are part of a larger ethnographic study of the schooling experiences of Latina/o students. Data were collected from in-depth, semi- structured interviews, and field notes at two universities. Findings show that the students’ experiences in the courses served as sitio y lengua [a space and a language/discourse] in which they experienced:(1) intersecting sitios of home and school pedagogies; (2) (re)claimed an academic space and identity; and (3) (re)defined and (re)connected the boundaries of community space. Ultimately, this article advocates for the expansion of ethnic studies.

Currently, Latinas/os make up 17.6% of the total U.S. population (U.S. Census Bureau, 2015). They are also the youngest ethnic/racial group in the U.S.; about 6 in 10 Latinas/os are Millennials (ages 18–33) or younger (Patten, 2016). The Latina/o population is vast, young, and represents a fast-growing seg- ment of the student population at the PK-16 level. Particularly from 1996 to 2012, college enrollment at two- and four-year colleges tripled among Latinas/os ages 18–24 (Krogstad & Fry, 2014). Many of these students were also among the first in their families to attend college. As a result, they were more likely to experience isolation from the dominant college culture, confront overt and covert forms of discrim- ination (i.e. racism, sexism), perceive some professors as unapproachable, and experience feelings of self-doubt about their ability to succeed in college (Villalpando, 2003; Yosso, 2006). To ensure Latina/o students’ college persistence, it is important to support both formal and informal spaces that facilitate their transition and integration into college life by ensuring that they feel academically validated in the classroom, valued and respected, and culturally affirmed (Solórzano & Villalpando, 1998). These core elements enable students to feel a sense of belonging, one of the strongest predictors of college persistence (Hurtado & Carter, 1997).

Although literature on the experiences of Latina/o college students has expanded greatly, few studies have explicitly explored the connection between Latina/o students who enroll in ethnic studies courses and its impact on their academic development, student persistence, and sense of connectedness to the campus community (Delgado Bernal, Alemán, & Garavito, 2009; Nuñez, 2011). In this article, I present 10

ARTICLE HISTORY received 17 September 2015 accepted 22 december 2017

KEYWORDS latina/o students; higher education; culturally responsive; ethnic studies

CONTACT norma a. Marrun [email protected]

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INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF QUALITATIVE STUDIES IN EDUCATION 273

portraits of first-generation Latina/o students who enrolled in Latina Latino Studies (LLS) and Mexican American Studies (MAS) courses and I examine the impact that these courses had on their academic confidence and ability to succeed in college. The process of crafting portraits is political. As Smyth and McInerney (2013) wrote, ‘for there is never a single story to be told or a simple answer to the research question’ (p. 10). This article draws on Pérez’s (1991, 1998) sitio y lengua [a space and a language/ discourse] in education to understand how these courses opened up an academic space for Latina/o students to dialogically (re)claim their identities, counter Eurocentric and male-centered paradigms, and develop an academic identity that bridges students’ home and community knowledge.

The following questions guided the research: (1) What were their experiences in LLS and MAS courses?; (2) How did LLS and MAS courses serve as academic counterspaces?; and (3) In what ways did these courses open up un sitio y una lengua for the resituatedness of knowledge and the development of critical consciousness? LLS and MAS courses serve as a culturally responsive, academic counterspace by allowing students to bridge their experiences within the university, family/home, and community.

The fight for social justice and educational equity has been at the forefront of civil rights struggles in the U.S. and remains so today. I begin by desituating/resituating my research against the (de)segre- gation of knowledge that emerged from the civil rights movement and creation of ethnic studies on college campuses. A major goal of the civil rights movement of the 1960s was to improve the quality of education for students of color including Chicana/o youth by demanding an education that was culturally relevant, meaningful, and affirming of their identities, histories, and lived experiences. I then explain how Arizona’s House Bill 2281 (HB 2281), ban on Mexican American Studies courses led to the revitalization of ethnic studies as college students across the country galvanized against the apart- heid of knowledge. The ban created a nationwide movement where students, educators, families, and communities demanded a culturally responsive education across the PK-16 education continuum. Although my work is focused on ethnic studies courses at the college level, Arizona’s ethnic studies ban was critical to show how their enrollment in the courses strengthens the educational pipeline and increases opportunities for Latina/o students to not only enter higher education, but to persist and graduate from college. I then explain how the ban on ethnic studies was justified by political leaders as ‘bad diversity.’ As college campuses become more diverse, there is a lower priority to support or expand ethnic studies in institutions of higher education. At the same time, many colleges and universities are transforming their curriculum by requiring their students to take at least one course with a diversity focus; this comes at the expense of devaluing and marginalizing ethnic studies departments and pro- grams. Next, I detail the theoretical lens, sitio y lengua to understand and analyze culturally responsive curriculum and pedagogies across ethnic studies courses. I expand sitio y lengua and counterspaces as operational and relevant concepts that challenge deficit perspectives about Latina/o students and ethnic studies classrooms. These are characterized by solidarity and resistance that inspires students to use their education in the service of social change. To examine these insights more deeply, the blending of ethnography with Chicana/Latina feminisms and portraiture allowed me to intimately understand the lived experiences of 10 first-generation Latina/o students (Lawrence-Lightfoot, 2005; Villenas, 1996). Findings reveal how students felt affirmed and cared for within and outside of the class by LLS and MAS professors, teaching assistants, and staff. Ultimately, students developed a self-awareness about who they were and the ability to take action against oppressive forces within their families, community, and university spaces. Most importantly, students gained confidence about belonging and their ability to complete their college degrees.

Specifically, this article describes how first-generation Latina/o college students recounted their experiences in LLS and MAS courses. I deploy the framework sitio y lengua [a space and a language/ discourse] to examine how LLS and MAS courses provide Latina/o students an academic counterspace where intersecting pedagogies of home and school emerge, where students (re)claim an academic identity and space, and where community boundaries are (re)defined (Pérez, 1991, 1998; Solórzano & Villalpando, 1998). Sitio operates as a space for students to engage in critical self-reflection, to engage in dialog about the social conditions that shape their lived experiences, and to assert their connections to community. The courses offered a sitio where they worked through the tensions and contradictions

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between students’ home knowledge and the values of higher education (i.e. collectivism vs. individu- alism). Lengua provides a discourse for students to critically analyze and challenge deficit discourses about their race, ethnicity, class, gender, language, culture, immigration status, and intelligence within and outside academic spaces. I conclude by indicating that ethnic studies courses have the power to improve the retention and college completion of Latina/o students. Lastly, as college campuses become more diverse, racist incidents have been on the rise across the U.S. and lingering tensions have turned into student protests. More than ever before, universities and colleges need to expand ethnic studies courses to provide all students with the tools to understand, reflect on, and act against systemic racism and to build a more socially just and equitable society.

Desituating/Resituating My Research Against the (De)segregation of Knowledge. During the Civil Rights Movement, people of color fought to desegregate schools, which also led to

the desegregation of knowledge by the establishment of ethnic studies programs, including Chicana/o and Mexican American studies. Marcos Pizarro (2004) described the role and visions that Chicana/o youth had in the creation of Chicana/o studies. He explained:

They were protesting the inadequate education Chicana/o youth received in their schools. The students criticized an irrelevant curriculum, inadequate resources, and racist teachers and counselors. Chicanas/os in the 1960s sought an education (knowledge) that reflected their experiences and was relevant to their efforts to succeed and improve the conditions of their communities. In so doing, they created new knowledge and understandings about who they were that were strongly influenced by the cultural aspects of community that shaped their unique knowledge systems, as well as their obvious resistance to their sociopolitical position. (p. 158)

The Chicana/o movement was instrumental in the implementation of a culturally and linguistically responsive approach to schooling, including the establishment of bilingual education policies and the revision of textbooks to make them reflect the history of Latinos/as in the U.S. (San Miguel Jr., 2013). Through the establishment of Chicana/o and Mexican American studies, Chicana/o students attained epistemological and pedagogical representation at the PK-12 and university levels.

Over the last four decades, high school and college students have led numerous protests, walkouts, hunger strikes, sit-ins, and teach-ins to fight for the establishment and revitalization of ethnic studies programs. In 1998, Tucson High Magnet School created the Raza Studies program, in part to provide students with a culturally relevant curriculum and retention strategy to increase high school completion and college attendance rates (Cabrera, Milem, & Marx, 2012; Ladson-Billings, 1995). After 12 successful years, the program was dismantled in 2010, when legislators in Arizona passed HB 2281, which led to the elimination of the Mexican American/Raza Studies Program. What appeared as an isolated incident quickly gained national attention, as students, teachers, and faculty across schools and college campuses began to stand in solidarity with Arizona. While the attacks against ethnic studies have been focused on the high school level, ethnic studies at the university level are either constantly facing budget cuts or are being restructured. The trend toward eliminating ethnic studies has troubling consequences in our education system by ignoring or avoiding conversations about racism, sexism, homophobia, and other forms of discrimination and injustices.

Ethnic studies in Arizona: ‘bad’ diversity

One of the goals of the Mexican American/Raza Studies program was to promote and increase students’ awareness of the various dimensions of diversity. The program design was based on three areas: cur- riculum, pedagogy, and student–teacher–parent interaction to help students develop a ‘strong social cultural, and historical identity,’ which has allowed students to ‘develop for the first time an academic identity’ (Romero, 2015, p. 17). The founders developed a program that was culturally, socially, and historically relevant to Latina/o students. However, soon after a 2006 assembly at Tucson High Magnet School, State Attorney General Tom Horne took major offense by the program’s approaches to diversify the curriculum and began an aggressive campaign to eliminate the program.

On the last day of the Cesar E. Chávez week celebration at Tucson High Magnet School, Dolores Huerta, co-founder of the United Farm Workers and civil rights activist, was invited to speak about

INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF QUALITATIVE STUDIES IN EDUCATION 275

the importance of civic participation.1 Huerta gave a powerful speech supporting student efforts to organize against anti-immigrant state legislation. However, what was highlighted from her speech was her infamous statement ‘Republicans hate Latinos.’ Horne,2 the state superintendent at the time of the incident, responded by sending Deputy Superintendent Margaret Garcia-Dugan, a Latina Republican, to counter Huerta’s statement. Approximately 10 minutes into her speech, students walked out of the auditorium with their mouths taped, symbolizing their voices being silenced by legislation targeted exclusively at the Latino community (Saraga, 2006).

One of Horne’s strategies to eliminate the program involved labeling the MAS as promoting ‘bad’ diversity by threatening to withhold 15 million dollars of the district’s funding (O’Leary, Romero, Cabrera, & Rascón, 2012). He believed that the program was not being taught in an objective way, promoted ethnic chauvinism, racial separatism, and a curriculum that was anti-American. 3 Horne privileged his own interests in the discourse of diversity by citing his participation in the 1963 March on Washington and reiterating sections from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech. As a member of the dominant group, Horne decided what was ‘good’ and ‘bad’ diversity and what counted as knowledge.

Resistance to the apartheid of knowledge

In 2012, a group of 10 teachers and 2 students filed a lawsuit challenging HB 2281 and lost the case. However, they did not give up, and soon after appealed the ruling, and prevailed. On 7 July 2015, the Ninth Circuit U.S. Court of Appeals issued its opinion in the Arce v. Douglas (formerly Arce v. Huppenthal) case and agreed that the law violated students’ First Amendment rights to freedom of speech.4 The court also ruled that HB 2281 was discriminatory, vague, and overly broad. The case was sent back to the U.S. district court to determine whether that state of Arizona violated the First Amendment. This highly public battle over teaching ethnic studies has become yet another example of the apartheid of knowledge that exists within our public school system by further delegitimizing the history, knowledge, lived experiences, and contributions of marginalized communities. More than ever, higher education has to provide what is still being challenged in court – Latina/o students’ access to courses in MAS. As Latina/o students advance to higher education, there is a growing need for Latina/o students to have access to academic counterspaces to help them transition into higher education and improve their college completion.

Diversity courses and interest convergence: content knowledge matters

Although ethnic studies programs have proven to increase students’ thinking critically about diver- sity and cross-cultural understanding, their work has not always been valued. Diversity in education is often treated as a commodity – neatly packaged, marketed, and made palatable through mission statements, brochures, and university websites filled with images of happy and attractive students of color. Scholars concerned with educational policies promoting equity, including the curricular integrity of ethnic studies courses, have applied Derrick Bell’s (1980) interest convergence theory to explain how racial equality and diversity can be integrated only when it converges with the interests of the dom- inant group (Aguirre, 2010; Alemán & Alemán, 2010). Institutions of higher education value diversity in curriculum and now many of them require all undergraduate students to take at least one course related to diversity. Ethnic studies courses served this need but have since been outsourced by other departments that claim to incorporate diversity in their curriculum. Aguirre Jr. (2010) argued that more departments are responding to diversity by offering courses that satisfy the graduation requirement, not because they value diversity, but because it allows them to increase their access to more resources (e.g. course development grants, teaching assistants). He explained, ‘Academia is a marketplace for resource accumulation, and diversity is simply a commodity tied to resource allocation’ (p. 767). Aguirre Jr. (2010) applied interest convergence to show how institutions of higher education have expanded diversity courses in order to privilege the dominant group and to marginalize Chicano Studies Programs. However, the issues are not that other departments cannot teach diversity courses, but, rather, that

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instructors should have the content knowledge from ethnic studies in order to teach diverse students and to create a culturally responsive curriculum.

Chicana/o, Mexican American, and Latina/o studies have made significant contributions to critical and transformative curriculum and pedagogy. Thus, one of the main objectives of ethnic studies courses remains to decolonize knowledge and power by incorporating non-Western epistemologies and ped- agogies into the classroom (Córdova, 2005; Pizarro, 1998). Research on Chicana/o, Mexican American, and Latina/o studies courses has shown that they positively influence the ethnic and racial identi- ties and academic confidence of Latino/a students, help them navigate the campus climate, increase their involvement on and off campus, and help develop a supportive network of peers (Holling, 2006; Hurtado, 2005; Pizarro, 2004). More importantly, the curriculum and pedagogies enable students to make meaning of their learning and raises students’ critical consciousness by helping students acquire the knowledge and tools to understand and confront discrimination in their everyday lives (Delgado Bernal et al., 2009; Hidalgo & Duncan-Andrade, 2010; de los Ríos, 2013). Hurtado’s (2005) work high- lighted how Chicano Studies courses have a positive impact on Chicana students’ ethnic and academic identities, and political consciousness. Participants in Hurtado’s study shared how Chicano studies gave their education a purpose by ‘allowing them to see how they could “give back” to their communities’ (p. 191). For students in these studies, enrolling in these courses served as a motivational tool to graduate from college, obtain advanced degrees, and pursue careers where they could make a difference in the lives of their families and communities.

Theoretical framework

Chicana feminism: sitio y lengua

Utilizing a Chicana/Latina feminist framework, I employ Pérez’s (1991, 1998) sitio y lengua [a space and a language/discourse] to describe the experiences of first-generation Latina/o students enrolled in MAS and LLS courses. As a marginalized group of students whose histories, lived experiences, family stories, cultural knowledge, ancestral wisdom, and language are often perceived as inferior in schools, the quest for a sitio y lengua is necessary. A Chicana/Latina feminist approach challenges Eurocentric, male-centered research and educational practices that blame Latina/o students’ underperformance on their culture and their families.

The Chicana feminist movement emerged in the 1960s in reaction to the sexism and gender oppres- sion within the Chicano movement, home, and community spaces (Moraga & Anzaldúa, 1981). These advocates also felt excluded from the white feminist movement because they failed to acknowledge Chicanas’ intersectional identities (García, 1997). In response to the exclusion they experienced in both movements, they created a space for women of color and a Chicana feminist discourse. Anzaldúa (1999) and many Chicana/Latina feminist scholars also used a blend of lenguas [languages] in their scholarship as a method to decolonize linguistic hegemony by incorporating Spanish, Spanglish, and Indigenous languages, among others, and as a space to (re)claim multiple identities. Furthermore, centering the lenguas of multilingual communities has been imperative to resisting further colonization through assimilationist school policies (i.e. English-only movement). In the following sections, I highlight educa- tional studies that draw on sitio y lengua as a culturally responsive pedagogical tool that works toward decolonizing education.

The creation of separate spaces for Chicanas has been critical for the articulation of theory and practice within contentious and ambiguous spaces. More importantly, the development of a Chicana/ Latina feminist framework in educational research has been critical in contesting cultural deficit para- digms, which blames Latina/o students’ culture and families for their low educational attainment (Baca Zinn, 1979; Delgado Bernal, Elenes, Godinez, & Villenas, 2006; González, 1998). Chicana/Latina feminist scholars have worked toward shifting this paradigm by centering and validating the epistemologies and pedagogies rooted in Latino families and community.

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Within the field of education, Pérez’s (1991, 1998) theory of sitio y lengua has been a useful framework for rethinking culturally responsive curriculum and pedagogy, as well as being a predictor of academic confidence and degree completion (Delgado Bernal & Elenes, 2011; Delgado Bernal et al., 2009; de los Ríos, 2013; Romero, DeNicolo, & Fradkin, 2016). While Pérez (1998) focused on the creation of a third space for Third World women and lesbians, she also recognized the need for all marginalized groups to have separate spaces to ‘inaugurate their own discourses, nuestra lengua en nuestro sitio’ (p. 92). Sitio y lengua provides a framework for understanding the importance of ethnic studies courses on the academic and social outcomes of Latina/o students. Pérez’s (1991) sitio y lengua offered a paradigm to desituate and resituate colonial ideologies and Eurocentric values within curriculum, pedagogy, and educational policies. Peréz reflected on the reproduction of sociocultural, political, and historical injustices, as she recalled how her mother was disrespected by white teachers for not speaking English and how she and her brother were punished in school for speaking Spanish on the playground and classroom. For Pérez (1998), claiming a language meant claiming ‘la lengua de mi gente’ [the language of my people] (p. 74). Lengua also entails having access to multiple discourses; Peréz (1991) explained, ‘Language, after all is power. Third World people know that to learn the colonizer’s language gives one access to power and privilege, albeit controlled, qualified power’ (p. 165).

Romero et al. (2016) drew on sitio y lengua to examine how one bilingual teacher’s pedagogy builds on students’ home languages and ways of knowing. They found that sitios y lengua are created in the classroom when teachers ‘recognize the fluid and dynamic ways bilinguals access languages for com- munication’ (p. 458) using dialog to learn about students’ ways of knowing. At the high school level, de los Ríos (2013) qualitative study of a Chicana/o–Latina/o studies high school course drew upon sitio y lengua and demonstrated how the curricula and teaching practices helped Latina/o students ‘recenter themselves as strong and intelligent students of color and as leaders on campus’ (p. 70). Latina/o youth discussed how sitio y lengua provided them with a space to establish decolonizing discourses to chal- lenge dominant ways of thinking about their identities, family, community, and schooling experiences. de los Ríos (2013) scholarship reaffirmed the need to value safe sitios like ethnic studies courses to provide Latina/o high school students with a curriculum and pedagogy that affirms their historical and cultural backgrounds, as well as fosters their sense of commitment to create social change within their community.

At the university level, Delgado Bernal et al. (2009) utilized sitio y lengua to examine undergraduate Latina/o students’ experiences in a year-long ethnic studies course and service learning experience men- toring elementary students. In their study, Delgado Bernal et al. (2009) described sitio as the social and discursive spaces of the ethnic studies course and the service-learning site, whereas lengua is defined as the counter discourses that students learned in the ethnic studies course and how they applied that knowledge within and outside (i.e. service-learning site and with family) the university space to challenge dominant discourses about race, ethnicity, gender, class, language, and immigration. They also found that the ethnic studies course and the service-learning component contributed to students’ ability to reclaim their identity as Latina/o college students. Reclaiming a college identity is critical in helping Latina/o students who are more likely to struggle with feelings of self-doubt, academic inse- curities, and invisibility. Ultimately, students’ participation in the course and community involvement helped build the necessary bridges to sustain students’ multipositionality of becoming academically successful, while maintaining strong ties with their families and communities.

Sitio y lengua significance to scholarship in educational research is that it offers a theoretical frame- work for the analysis of culturally responsive curriculum, pedagogy, and retention strategies. A sitio y lengua analysis emphasizes the need for students to acquire the tools and critical discourses to name and interrogate hegemonic constructions of knowledge. The curriculum and pedagogy in these studies provide students with a critical space to engage in often painful and challenging conversations and to grapple with new ways of seeing and making sense of the world. The studies mentioned also point to how sitio y lengua enabled students to feel connected to the school/university space and created a supportive and caring network of peers, faculty, and staff. In turn, sitio y lengua reveals how Latina/o students move from feeling devalued, isolated, and passive consumers of knowledge to a state of critical

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consciousness and in doing so, they (re)claim themselves as academically confident, empowered, and agents of social change.

Counterspaces

Many first-generation Latina/o students struggle to fit into college and often feel academically over- whelmed and socially disconnected from campus life. However, researchers have found that social and academic counterspaces can help students of color build a sense of community or familia on campus (Nuñez, 2011; Solórzano & Villalpando, 1998). Solórzano and Villalpando (1998) defined counterspaces as both formal/informal and academic/social sites that are critical for student’s academic and social integration into college. Nuñez’s (2011) research speaks to the importance of Chicano Studies courses on the retention of first-generation Latina/o students by suggesting that these courses serve as coun- terspaces, where Latina/o students find a space to interact with other Latina/o students and acquire intellectual tools for ‘handling cultural isolation, dealing with negative stereotypes about Latina/o stu- dents, and developing their personal identity in relation to their families and communities’ (p. 652). This literature points out that it is imperative for Latina/o students to have access to academic and social counterspaces on campus including Chicano studies courses.

Chicana/o, Mexican American, Latina/o Studies, and Raza studies courses represent one counterspace that can positively influence Latina/o students’ academic confidence and graduation rates. MAS and LLS courses provide a transformational and nurturing space for students to (re)claim their lived experiences, histories, cultural, ancestral, familial, and community knowledge. After substantive and careful analysis of Chicana/o, Mexican American, Latina/o Studies, and Raza studies, I resituate knowledge practices to create new spaces for learning and new counterstories for improving communities. Although higher education was founded on Eurocentric epistemological perspectives, both students and professors in this study used their respective positions to practice their consciousness through their teaching/ learning, researching/writing, spirituality, and working in communities. I identified the following char- acteristics as the most pertinent and applicable to the epistemological and pedagogical foundations of ethnic studies (e.g. LLS, MAS): (1) works against comfortable situatedness in disciplines (Anzaldúa, 1999); uses personal and community narratives to resituate students into political and social responsibilities of their education (Berta-Ávila, Tijerina Revilla, & López Figueroa, 2011), and, in so doing, (3) challenges dominant epistemological frameworks (Delgado Bernal, 2002), (4) that move toward arts and activism (Burciaga, 1993), and (5) reclaim indigenous wisdom and healing practices (Delgadillo, 2011).

Methods

The research presented in this article is part of a larger ethnographic study on the schooling experi- ences of Latina/o students and how they contested and navigated the spaces of home, community, and the university. In choosing Chicana/Latina feminist ethnography for this study, I followed Chicana/ Latina feminist educational ethnographer Villenas’s (1996) methods of ethnographic research that rec- ognized ‘[a] process where Latinas/os become the subjects and creators of knowledge’ (p. 730). Her ethnographic methods rely on the following tenets: (1) questioning the ethnographer’s identities and privileged positions; (2) paying attention to how the ethnographer manipulates his/her own identi- ties and how one’s identities are manipulated by others; (3) disclosing the ways the ethnographer is situated in oppressive structures; (4) problematizing the relationship between the native researcher and the majority culture; and (5) producing knowledge that challenges structures of inequality and creates social change within the native’s community. Thus, the method of a Chicana/Latina feminist ethnography served as an appropriate approach to examine Latina/o students’ experiences in LLS and MAS courses and a practice to develop collective understandings about the ethnographer and the research participants’ mutual experiences in these courses.

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Research sites

This study took place at two sites. The first site was an urban teaching institution in California with an ethnically diverse and commuter student population. The student population was 30, 236 students and, demographically, 20% were Latina/o, 27% were white, 30% were Asian, and 4% were African American. The MAS department had been in existence for close to 50 years and offered an undergraduate minor and a master’s degree. The department was comprised of four full-time faculty and six adjunct pro- fessors. The goal of the MAS department was to prepare students to critically examine issues of race, ethnicity, class, and gender intersections in marginalized communities that were based on principals of social justice.

The second site was a predominantly white research institution located in a micro-urban5 community in Illinois with a student population of 44,087. Student demographics included 8% Latina/o, 45% white, 14% Asian, and 5% African American. The LLS department had been established for close to 20 years and offered an undergraduate major and minor in addition to a graduate minor and a postdoctoral training program. The department was comprised of 11 full-time faculty and 12 affiliated faculty. The department was dedicated to increasing students understanding of how history, cultural practices, class, gender, sexuality, and race/ethnicity have shaped the formation of Latinas/os in the U.S.

Data collection

The data collected at the two sites included: transcripts from interviews, participant observations, field notes at various sites (i.e. classroom observations, campus events, public lectures sponsored by LLS and MAS), documents and other printed materials (i.e. department newsletters, course and event flyers). Additionally, I used informal conversations with students, faculty, and staff and reflective journaling to record my emerging thoughts and reactions after each interview. Ten in-depth, semi-structured inter- views were conducted and transcribed verbatim, and lasted an average of 90–120 min. Before each interview, the participants gave their informed consent and chose their pseudonym. The interviews were conducted in spaces familiar to the participants, including conference rooms in LLS and MAS buildings and campus libraries.

A Chicana/Latina feminist method allowed me to approach each interview as a plática or open dialog, where the participant and I served as co-researchers and co-creators of knowledge (Delgado Bernal & Elenes, 2011). Pláticas allowed for intimate conversations to occur, where stories were exchanged, and multiple realities and truths were acknowledged (Fierros & Delgado Bernal, 2016). While conducting the interviews, I shared my own experiences enrolling in MAS and LLS courses, my cultural values, and my educational aspirations as they shared theirs. We used words in Spanish and engaged in Spanish– English code-switching and shared our life experiences through cultural and familial knowledge, which enabled us to establish reciprocal relationships of confianza (mutual trust).

To ensure accuracy on the interview transcripts, participants checked and analyzed data collected from them. This practice enhanced the trustworthiness of the data and gave participants a more full sense of the relationality of our work together. Participants found it refreshing and interesting to look over their responses from six months earlier and, overall, the students were satisfied with their responses and made minor corrections to their interview transcripts. Some of them also gave me an update on what they were doing with their lives since graduating from college, including attaining jobs working with Latina/o students, starting graduate school, and attending conferences. In short, by focusing on how we had developed relationships through the research, the process itself helped create a sense of connectedness, respeto [respect], and urgency for such stories to be told, heard, and re-circulated.

Protocol themes focused on students’ experience in LLS and MAS courses, including their experi- ences navigating the campus culture and climate, how the courses valued their lived experiences and cultural knowledge, class discussions that stood out, texts and assignments that had an impact on their learning, how they defined community, examples of new acquired knowledge they shared at home, and how the courses impacted their personal lives and career paths. While attending some MAS and

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LLS classes, I engaged in informal conversation with faculty about their experiences teaching Latina/o students and I also spent time at each departmental space where faculty, staff, and students gathered for department meetings and events.

Participants

A purposeful sampling procedure was used to select participants who met the following criteria: self-identified using umbrella terms such as Latina/o or Hispanic, were enrolled at the time of the study or had previously taken courses in MAS and LLS courses, and were the first in their family to pursue a four-year degree (Patton, 2002). I first reached out to each department chair and minor aca- demic advisors to ask for permission to send out a mass recruitment email and to speak to classes to recruit students. Participants were recruited by an email invitation distributed through the LLS and MAS studies department listservs. The email included a brief description of the study, participant criteria, and sample interview questions. In addition, I sat in on several classes offered by both departments to recruit students. I was usually given the first five or last five minutes of class to talk about my research; I started with a story about the impact that ethnic studies had on my academic journey and stayed until the end of the class to answer questions and to get students’ contact information.

Tables 1 and 2 provide participants’ demographic characteristics and education background. The number of courses taken in MAS or LLS ranged from 1 to 14 courses. Many of the participants

grew up speaking only Spanish at home, but use English and Spanish interchangeably with siblings and peers. All 10 students received some form of financial aid assistance from federal student aid, scholarships, and/or student loans. Seven of the participants worked part-time and one of the partic- ipants worked full-time.

Positionality

During my first semester in college, I took my first ethnic studies course in Mexican American Studies (MAS) and the following semester I enrolled in Asian American Studies (AAS). The course was based on the principals of rhetoric through the lens of the Mexican American experience. For the first time in my education, I was taught by a male Latino, who integrated Spanish and cultural knowledge like chistes [jokes] as part of his pedagogy. The following semester, I enrolled in AAS, a course on Asian Americans in U.S. history that was co-taught by two Asian American male professors. I remember one of the books that had the greatest impact on my learning was Takaki’s (2008) book. I remem- ber flipping through the pages and coming across a photograph of a Sikh farmer in California. I was intrigued to learn that Mexicans had not been the only source of agricultural labor in California, and was fascinated to learn about interracial marriages between Sikh men and Mexican women. Both AAS and MAS courses became critical sitios where I excavated the buried and forgotten stories about the struggles, survival, and contributions of people of color. My exposure to ethnic studies courses inspired me to pursue a career in academia. As a graduate student, I minored in Latina/o Studies, in addition to teaching undergraduate courses in Latina/o studies with a focus on education. My experiences as student, researcher, and instructor in ethnic studies courses allowed me to establish confianza and rapport with the students. We shared similar educational backgrounds and learning experiences and

Table 1. california participants.

Name Age Ethnicity Generation Major(s) Minor(s) cassandra 21 Mexican 2nd Social Work MaS antonio 21 Mexican 2nd Business MaS cihuapilli 36 Mexican 3rd Sociology none daniel 21 Mexican 2nd Sociology MaS Sara 19 Mexican 2nd Psychology & Spanish none

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exchanged stories about our experiences in MAS and LLS courses and the impact they had on both our academic and personal growth.

Data analysis

Data analysis occurred after each interview and was transcribed to prevent premature themes from emerging. I used a constant comparative method to compare the experiences of each participant within each of the sites and to contrast the emergent themes from one transcript to the other (Corbin & Strauss, 2008). Coding guided me through the process of re-listening to the audio and re-reading the interview transcripts, field notes, participant observations, and journal reflections. The categories were not static; instead, I constantly reworked the codes to critically ensure all possible insights and interpretations. I was attentive to the ways that participants described their experiences in LLS and MAS courses and how they integrated the knowledge acquired into their everyday lives. In accordance with Chicana/Latina feminism and portraiture, both frameworks work against essentializing and dualism, and work to give voice to marginalized groups and individuals (Anzaldúa, 1999; Lawrence-Lightfoot, 2005). According to Lawrence-Lightfoot (2005), portraiture involves ‘a purposeful and serious attempt to push the boundaries of interpretive inquiry, navigating borders that typically separate disciplines, purpose, and audiences in the social science’ (p. 7). Pushing academic boundaries and building bridges across disciplines, theories, methodologies, and communities is deeply rooted in the field of ethnic studies.

The blending of ethnography with Chicana/Latina feminism and portraiture allowed me to capture the nuances of my participants’ lived experiences, including the multidimensionality and constant flux of their identities. I paid close attention to the contradictions that my participants faced as they navi- gated multiple words and relationships. I also looked for key descriptions in the data that alerted me to examine how students described their experiences in LLS and MAS courses. After several rounds of coding, students’ experiences in these courses were continually compared to identify common themes. The data revealed that LLS and MAS courses opened up un sito [a space] that valued home knowledge, legitimized students’ lives and histories, and affirmed their intersecting identities. I then sought to make meaning of how the instructor’s curriculum and pedagogies offered a lengua [a language/discourse] that strengthened and enriched students’ academic identity, critical consciousness, and asserted their community connections. I then reread the data to create life drawings or portraits about the students’ experiences in LLS and MAS courses. In piecing together and shaping the portraits, I searched for a common story line. Lawrence-Lightfoot (2005) pointed out, however, that ‘there is never a single story’ (p. 10) because many can be told. Rather, she explained how the portraitist is active in selecting the themes, strategic in deciding the focus and emphasis, and in capturing the ‘raw hurt and the pleasure of her or his protagonists and works to embroider paradoxical themes into inquiry and narrative (p. 10). As I transformed the data into narrative portraits, I focused on the stories that peeled back the layers and delved deeply into their consciousness, thoughts, perspectives, and feelings.

Findings

Three interrelated themes emerged from the data: (1) intersecting sitios of home and school pedagogies; (2) (re)claiming an academic space and identity; and (3) (re)defining and (re)connecting the boundaries

Table 2. Illinois participants.

Name Age Ethnicity Generation Major(s) Minor(s) ana 20 Mexican 2nd Biology & llS Ger andrea 22 Mexican & Guatemalan 1.5 Sociology & llS aaS araceli 22 Mexican 2nd Sociology llS & GWS Johnny 22 Mexican 2nd communications & llS BuS rigo 19 Mexican 2nd Secondary education none

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of community space. Within each theme, students described how the curriculum and pedagogy in these courses opened up a space separate and apart from home, community, and school to reflect on the contradictions, and to develop together their own viewpoints and counterstories, for improving their communities. More importantly, sitio y lengua allowed students to challenge subtractive practices that alienated them from their education.

Intersecting sitios of home and school pedagogies

Both LLS and MAS courses provided an academic sitio that bridged Latina/o students home and school pedagogies. Students described the courses as a space where their family’s knowledge, community issues, and cultural backgrounds were valued. In this section, I draw from Delgado Bernal’s (2001) concept of pedagogies of the home to show how LLS and MAS courses embraced and incorporated students’ cultural knowledge and ways of knowing from their homespace into the classroom space. In the process of remembering and retelling family stories in the classroom, there was a shift in sitio y lengua that highlighted the complexity of opposing and contradictory ideologies between home and academic spaces. Sitio created a space where intersecting pedagogies of home and school emerged; lengua gave students the analytical tools and language to subvert, critique, and rethink traditional and dominant discourses while also working through the tensions that emerged among them.

Culturally relevant texts On a pedagogical level, students described their MAS and LLS courses as based on problem-posing dialog and learning that extended beyond the classroom. Professors made teaching culturally relevant to students’ lives by integrating diverse historical perspectives, validating students lived experiences and interests, incorporating Spanish language and concepts (i.e. respeto), and connecting current events and issues facing the Latino community. Using culturally relevant texts allowed students to feel engaged and able to relate to the course material. Cassandra reflected on how she related to the course content:

I could relate to books we read (in LLS) as opposed to all the books I read in high school and even some in college … I could relate to them through my race or even my family experiences. Like when we learned how Mexican women are viewed as ‘hot tamales.’ It’s just really extreme views either really exotic or the opposite like very reserved.

These readings helped Cassandra recognize and unpack stereotypes about Latina sexuality. Through class readings, writing assignments, and class discussions, students acquired una lengua and the tools to critically analyze the intersectionality of history, race, class, gender, sexuality, language, culture, and immigration in the Latino community. Sara also pointed out how the course content allowed her to develop a deeper understanding of the history of Mexican immigration to the U.S:

It’s my second semester taking MAS and it opened up my mind to a lot of things that I didn’t know. I used to think, ‘You know what? Maybe it’s recent Mexicanos coming over here,’ but they’ve been here for a while and it changes the way you see history. Because I’m used to the American version you know the one you learn in history books. So in my Mexican American studies classes you see both worlds coming together. And it has really opened my mind to a lot of things that I didn’t know before.

Understanding this history helped Sara feel connected to the past and understand the present. The courses provide her a framework and tools to situate her family’s history within a broader context of U.S. history. Moreover, the course allowed Sara to demystify her own understanding and ideologies of how Latinas/os fit into U.S. history. Daniel shared a similar sentiment when he said, ‘History is usually written by the “winners.”’ But when we read these textbooks (referring to MAS) it’s from an Anglo and Mexican perspective.’ All of the students thought that for the first time in their education they had learned about their history and other topics that had been erased throughout their PK-12 education.

Disrupting gender role discourses Many of the students expressed how the courses helped them embrace a new outlook on the roles and expectations of women in their families and in their home communities. Araceli described how she

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shared a story in class about challenging gender roles at home and how the class helped her understand gender inequalities and its impact on women. She explained:

We were talking about the double shift, of how women are always expected to hustle home from work and take on another shift. I remember sharing a story in class. I had just started going out with my boyfriend and I was in the car with my mom and for some reason she felt the need to tell me that I needed to learn how to cook. And she said ‘You’re never gonna be able to keep a man if you don’t know how to cook.’ I was so angry ‘cause I had also taken a gender and women studies course and I just kind of blew up. And I was like, ‘So you think I’m going to college so that I can continue to feed into these gender stereotypes? What if I don’t have enough time to cook? What if I make more money than him? What if I’m busier than he is? Why is it still my responsibility to cook? I don’t think that’s fair. These gender stereotypes are what is keeping us down!’ And she just kinda got quiet.

Many of the Latinas struggled to reconcile the contradicting messages they received from their mothers. However, knowledge acquired from reading Chicana/Latina feminist literature in MAS and LLS courses helped Latina/o students reflect and understand how they had been socialized about gender roles. Both Latina and Latino students reflected on the contradictions of gender roles within their families and in their communities. However, Latinas were more conscious of gender ideologies and divisions from a younger age, whereas Latino males became more conscious of these contradictions when they moved away to go to college. Many Latinas expressed feeling freed from many of the home expectations and obligations when they moved away from home.

The combination of a culturally responsive curriculum and student-centered sitio helped to create an academic familia, where students felt a sense of connectedness to themselves, to each other, and to their instructor. For Johnny, it was a place where he could relate with his peers, where he felt comfortable sharing his struggles without feeling judged or misunderstood. He explained:

Latinas have it worse. A lot of my friends here on campus, we talk. This one time I was studying with my friend and I asked her, ‘Hey how’s your family? How’s everything going?’ and she started telling me ‘Hey, so I was at this quinceñera and my tia told me, ‘Mija, why aren’t you married? Where’s your man? Where’s your kids?’ and I’m like, ‘Wow! That’s messed up, you know?’ My friend wants to get a Ph.D., and she’s like ‘I am going to be in school forever, and I’m not gonna get married till I’m 30 something.’ I’ve had the same conversation with my other friend; she’s trying to go to med school. It hurts us students ‘cause we’re hearing these stories and it scares us like, Uh no! No one’s gonna marry us, uh, no one’s gonna love us cause’ we’re gonna be old. I think our friends and family are a huge influence and I guess once you go away from that norm it’s like ‘Oh, this is not normal or why are you still in school?’ I mean like I said, pursuing a higher education for Latinos is something new and it’s shocking to them. So I mean it’s very important for people to talk.

All of the students stated that their parents were supportive of them being in college, yet they expected them to come home on the weekends and/or to call home at least once a week. Because students were the first in their families to go to college, their parents did not always understand the time demands of college work. Parents were also concerned about how college was distancing them from the family because they spent less time at home. Having a safe sitio in MAS and LLS courses allowed students to reflect and share these contradictions within an academic space.

Bridging home and school knowledge Students described how the knowledge acquired in MAS and LLS courses strengthened their connect- edness between home and campus because they were issues/topics that their families could also relate. Creating a space for parents to get a better understanding of what their child was learning and to feel involved in their college education positively impacted their relationship with their parents/family members. Although conversations between students and their parents were not always reciprocal, they gave them the opportunity to share what they were learning with their families back home. Ana recalled the following conversation she had with her mother about racial/ethnic identity:

Like the issues of mestizaje even before I went to college it was a contradiction that I always found. ‘Ok we’re mestizos, we’re Indigenous most likely European, most likely Spanish, we’re mixed.’ Why do we treat the Indigenous people in Mexico like crap? Why do we have the expression, ‘te ves muy indio’6? and that’s an insult. I don’t understand that. So I’ve always had the discussion with my mom. And she’s like ‘Ana, I’m not gonna hear about this’ and she closes off. It’s hard to have a conversation with my mom ‘cause I know she’s really tired and she’s really busy.

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Although Ana did not fully engage in dialog with her mother, the terms ‘mestizaje’ and ‘te ves muy indio’ were disrupted and potentially raised in her mother’s consciousness. Ana made it a point to share and engage in conversations with her family on the books or articles she’s read for her LLS courses. Her passion and excitement to engage with her mother and siblings led to being labeled as the outspo- ken one in the family. She explained, ‘My family calls me grillera because grillos [crickets] make a lot of noise.’ These connections were important because her mother and siblings understood what learning looked like in a college setting, while she also served as a role model by exposing her younger siblings to higher education.

(Re)claiming an academic space and identity

As a group, first generation Latina/o students tend to be less familiar with and less prepared for what it means to be a college student and often do not feel connected to the physical space of higher education. Before enrolling in LLS and MAS courses, students expressed that they felt ambivalent and anxious about whether or not they could succeed academically and graduate from college. However, after enrolling in the courses, students demonstrated that having access to spaces on campus that were culturally responsive to their needs, along with professors and teaching assistants who demonstrated caring attitudes and high expectations, were critical in helping them develop a strong academic iden- tity. For most of the students, walking into their LLS or MAS class gave them a sense of comfort and belonging. Cihuapalli explained, ‘I remember the first time I walked into class (MAS) and just seeing all these brown people everywhere. I was taken aback. Like, wow, I belong here. I felt like I found my place.’ Their connectedness to campus was strengthened when walking into LLS and MAS department offices where students’ culture, history, and language were represented. Similarly, in a study of Chicano students in a predominantly white university, Kenneth González (2002) found that courses in Chicana/o studies were some of the most vital sources of cultural nourishment that supported Chicana/o student persistence in college. González (2002) noted that when there’s a lack of Chicano presence within the social, physical, and epistemological spaces of historically white campuses, it sends out a message to Chicana/o students that they are not valued or that they do not belong.

When I asked Rigo to provide examples of how LLS courses strengthened his connectedness to the campus community, he described how familiar sounds, sights, and cultural symbols of the LLS building and Latino cultural house were the only places where he felt comfortable and welcomed. At the same time, he thought that these spaces made him feel isolated from the rest of the campus. He explained how ‘the campus is not like back home’ where familiar sounds and cultural practices reflect where he comes from. He shared fond memories of growing up in South Side Chicago and missing the esthetics and visual qualities of his neighborhood that were not present on campus. For instance, Rigo recalled accompanying his mother to el mandado [grocery shopping] and walking along one of the main streets, and how his mother stopped several times to greet old friends from her hometown in Mexico. In college, Rigo followed his mother’s example by greeting classmates and professors when he encountered them outside the classroom, but his greeting was not always reciprocated; however, students described how LLS faculty and staff were more approachable within and outside the classroom than were their professors from other departments. Simple actions such as feeling enough comfort to greet their professor(s) outside the classroom helped them feel less socially isolated.

When asked how the university can do a better job of incorporating aspects of his home community and culture into the college environment, Rigo shared:

I am proud of where I grew up. In my community there are murals on the walls and everyone can admire them and that made me proud. But here the murals are inside these walls (referring to the murals located inside the LLS department building). I wish I could walk on campus and feel proud to see these murals outside so that everyone that walks around campus can also admire our culture and that way we can also get to know each other better.

Rigo pointed to how relocating the murals throughout the university would increase the visibility of Latina/o culture, history, and activism on campus. Turner (1994) found in her research on the experi- ences of students of color in a predominantly white institution that students of color felt like ‘guests in

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someone else’s house’ (p. 356). She explained, ‘guests have no history in the house they occupy. There are no photographs on the wall that reflect their image. Their paraphernalia, paintings, scents, and sounds do not appear in the house’ (Turner, 1994, p. 356). Such integration and visibility can transmit an affect of positive emotions on students, families, faculty, and staff. These exhibits have the power to serve as a public archive – one that increases Latina/o students’ sense of belonging, connectedness, cultural pride – where their ancestral wisdom, memories, and history are validated. Many of the build- ings where MAS and LLS were housed provided a strong source of cultural nourishment that many historically white campuses lack within physical, social, and epistemological spaces.

Overcoming feelings of self-doubt The courses also helped students overcome negative stereotypes about their academic abilities and imposter feelings or feeling like an ‘intellectual fraud’ (Clance & Imes, 1978). These sentiments can lead to heightened feelings of not belonging on campus or internalized academic inferiority to whites (Aronson, 2004; Cokley, McClain, Enciso, & Martinez, 2013). Developing positive relationships with professors, teaching assistants, and staff in LLS and MAS courses helped participants feel less anxious about their academics and develop their confidence, as they knew that they had supportive relationships that would help them succeed. Johnny described his relationship with one of his LLS professors as, ‘Having someone that actually cares about you, someone that actually reaches out and wants to help you … Having someone telling me “You’re doing good,” it’s amazing!’ These relationships were significant in providing culturally relevant support, guidance, and encouragement.

Instructors also invested time in getting to know the students on a personal level, held high academic expectations, consistently offered support, and valued students culture and identities as assets upon which to build. The value of meaningful faculty–student interactions, in turn, helped students strengthen their academic confidence. Cassandra described her relationship with one of her MAS professors: ‘She just saw that I liked to write and kept telling me that I was really good. She’s been very encouraging of my writing. She also forwards me scholarships and I’ve been applying to them.’ Holding high expectations, offering constructive feedback, helping identify strengths, and connecting students to resources allow them to develop academic confidence and ultimately persistence toward degree completion. Ongoing feedback from professors and teaching assistants in the form of written comments and verbal exchanges allowed students to feel validated and respected, and reaffirmed their identities as college students.

Andrea describes how enrolling in LLS courses and joining a Latina/o organization helped eased her anxiety and uncertainty about belonging on campus. She explained:

I felt kind of lonely at times and weird. I felt like I didn’t belong here at times. But once I finally became involved in an organization, I started feeling more, like I was part of this community, I was part of this school and I, you know I started feeling a little bit more, less anxious and more like I really did belong here … The more and more I learned I stopped seeing myself as like a helpless victim as opposed to somebody that could actually change the course of my own future and my family, so it was definitely very empowering and yeah, that’s the word, very empowering!

Andrea shared how she felt more connected to campus and empowered. Enrolling in LLS courses increased Andrea’s and many of the other students’ academic confidence, resulting in feeling more academically engaged and socially integrated into the campus (Núñez, 2009; Villalpando, 2003). LLS and MAS courses also provided different opportunities for students to participate in student organi- zations and events, such as workshops, performances, art exhibits, film screenings, and public lectures on campus. All of the students shared how joining a Latina/o organization or attending culturally and socially relevant events on campus increased their sense of belonging on campus.

(Re)defining and (Re)connecting the boundaries of community space

Long before service-learning became part of the curriculum in higher education, ethnic studies courses including Chicana/o studies became rooted in a community responsive pedagogy in which students acquired the knowledge and tools to serve the needs of their community. For the Latina/o students in this study, MAS and LLS courses became sitios where they connected the course content with their

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community involvement within and outside the university space. MAS and LLS courses helped students (re)define the boundaries of what constitutes community spaces and what they value as community. Two students described community as:

Community is being able to find resources within walking distance like churches and recreation centers for kids. Community is building each other up and not putting each other down. (Cihuapalli)

Community means a sense of belonging, a sense of unity and acceptance. When I think of community, I think of people I can rely on and relate to and that will inspire me and motivate me to work hard. (Daniel)

The courses deepened students’ understanding of community and heightened their desire to give back to their families and communities. For example, Antonio explained how taking MAS courses motivated him to ‘give back’ to his community in La Mission by serving as a role model and as a resource to help youth in his community navigate the college admissions process. Cihuapalli also gave back to her community by starting a mentoring program for community college transfer students. As a transfer student, she felt a lack of support and started a program to give back and to help transfer students transition into a four-year campus. She explained, ‘Me and a couple of students got together and we created a program to help them access different resources on campus.’

Activating political engagement and activism By (re)defining community spaces, students (re)claimed un sitio y una lengua to sustain and create social change within and outside academic space. Both MAS and LLS courses provided different opportunities for students to engage in collaborative work with community organizations. Throughout her under- graduate years, Andrea was actively involved in the undocumented student movement on campus and in her home community in Chicago. Her involvement on campus and in her home community led her to take on more radical forms of activism. Andrea explained:

I felt like I had an increasing sense of responsibility not only to myself, and to my family but also to so many undoc- umented students that were just running into roadblocks … It was mounting pressure and anxiety. There was just a lot of pent up anger and a lot of, just all these different emotions and frustrations because politicians would make all these promises, but nothing would change.

Andrea took part in a major act of civil disobedience in Atlanta, Georgia, where she and six other students were arrested for peacefully protesting against the Georgia Board of Regents for banning undocumented students from enrolling at the top five public universities in the state. She shared how before heading out to Atlanta, she consulted one of her LLS professors who read over her plan of action and provided support. Like Andrea’s professor, many of the students also thought that LLS and MAS professors not only showed a personal interest in their academics, but also in their well-being inside and outside the classroom.

Enrolling in LLS and MAS courses inspired many of the participants to activism by joining student organizations centered on issues of education, immigration, and the criminal justice system. Eight of the students I interviewed were actively involved on campus and in their home communities. Other students who were not directly involved with a student organization sought out different opportunities to become involved within their home communities, such as Daniel who tutored for the Reading for Life Program teaching basic literacy skills to jail inmates. Participants’ activism ranged from organizing national and local protests, starting their own student organizations on campus, tutoring elementary children and jail inmates, presenting workshops on financial aid at their high schools and community colleges, and organizing events to bring prominent Latinos to campus.

Many of the students also discussed their engagement with community research projects that provided them face-to-face experiences with many of the social disparities and systemic inequalities they were learning about in their courses. Students engaged in more than just discussing problems of inequality and were afforded opportunities to explore and address these issues through research. The curriculum equipped students with the tools to conduct research and organize around issues affecting the larger Latino community. For example, Cihuapalli chose to work with women who were recovering

INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF QUALITATIVE STUDIES IN EDUCATION 287

from drug addictions. She discussed how the class gave her the opportunity to work closely with her community and helped her rethink the research process. She explained:

I learned about the importance of creating relationships and really working with the community. Not just for a project, but like an ongoing thing. Coming from a background where I’ve abused drugs and almost every female in my family has abused drugs I decided to interview women who were on probation to learn about how they came to use drugs and how they came to stop. I still call them and talk to them just to see how they’re doing. That class was awesome! I felt like that class changed me a lot and I’m applying my teachings that I’ve learned in that class within my life.

Through the course Cihuapalli gained critical research skills and tools to make an impact in her com- munity. The course had tremendous personal benefits for all of the participants, as knowledge was actively transformed by applying it within their own lives. The courses also strengthened students’ political engagement and activism by providing different opportunities for students to work directly with local schools and community organizations.

Spirituality in the classroom These courses also allowed students to (re)define community using spirituality and centering ancestral wisdom as a way to draw strength to cope with both educational and personal challenges. Antonio explained:

Every day, somebody had to share a personal story and that was my favorite part of class ‘cause that class, we became really close. Even today we are still sending emails and we try to get together at least once a month. So that part of that class, just by hearing a personal story from someone, you felt a connection with them so that’s one thing I really still remember and probably always will. Sometimes we would get really emotional cause’ some people would share deep stories. That was one thing that will stick with me for a long time.

The classroom provided un sitio where students shared and reflected on their sense of connectedness through shared experiences. By doing so, these experiences provided sources of inner strength and communal support to help them overcome obstacles on their pathway to college completion.

Community spaces were (re)defined in the classroom by creating a spiritual space of empathy, con- nectedness, and healing. Most of the students shared how the courses provided a sitio that fostered their spirituality, and in turn reaffirmed their commitment to their peers by supporting each other. This also heightened their responsibility to effect social change within their families and community. Cihuapalli and Antonio recalled how the layout of the classroom allowed them to (re)create a community of spirituality and connectedness to their ancestral wisdom. Cihuapilli explained:

So we had a circulo. It was part of the class…So we brought in a lot of Indigenous culture into the class. Where we did our offerings just like the Aztecs would do. It was spiritual where we all gave a piece of ourselves; our own personal experiences and we were all exposed within the circle of classmates. It was just different. It wasn’t like your typical class. It’s almost like this class bonded us and we still continue to work together. It’s a relationship that we’ve built with each other. That class has really, really changed me.

In the symbolic system of Aztec beliefs, the circulo embodies a spiritual energy representing inclusivity and an ethics of recognizing multiple ways of knowing (Anzaldua, 2009).7 Miguel A. Guajardo, Guajardo, Janson, & Militello (2016) also observed that circle dialog as a pedagogical tool has the power to:

[h]old the tensions and emotions that contribute to healing and can support people to use collective energy to take action…Circle taps into ancient practices and modern processes to create trust, goodwill, belonging, and reciprocity. It offers a way of being together that transforms relationships (pp. 82, 83).

Using a circulo dialog, the professor affirmed students’ cultural perspectives and ancestral wisdom. Drawing from Chicana scholars, Theresa Delgadillo (2011) defined spirituality as, ‘[a] connection to the sacred, a recognition of worlds or realities beyond those immediately visible and respect for the sacred knowledge that these bring and, on the other hand, a way of being in the world …’ (p. 4). The circulo opened up a sitio for students’ lived experiences, expressive emotions, and ways of knowing to emerge and co-exist within an academic space. As a result of organizing the classroom into a circulo, they felt more connected with their professor, peers, and the university.

288 N. A. MARRUN

Conclusions

My work provides evidence that repudiates recent legislation prohibiting so-called ‘bad diversity’ cur- riculum. Elected officials who support this legislation fail to recognize that departments and programs developed out of the Civil Rights Movement, including Mexican American and Latina/o Studies, have been critical in fostering the retention and success of Latina/o students, and in so doing have increased diversity in schools and universities. This study found that both LLS and MAS courses have a positive impact on students’ understanding, appreciation, and respect for U.S. diversity. In discussing critical issues in the classroom that are meaningful to their lives and culturally responsive, the students in this study developed a political, social, cultural, and critical consciousness. These courses also helped rebuild Latina/o students’ academic confidence, connectedness to their college campus, and developed a supportive network that helped them navigate the often challenging path to college graduation.

Although these students shared an overwhelming positive experience in these courses, students who had taken more than one course had a deeper analysis of race and other modalities of power structures. For example, students who enrolled in LLS courses that were cross-listed with gender and women’s studies developed a deeper understanding of the meaning and consequences of intersec- tionality, such as ‘talking back’ to homophobic jokes and patriarchal practices with their families and peers. Hurtado (2005) reminded us of the struggles and contributions of Chicana/Latina scholars who produced scholarship and curriculum that directly address issues of sexism, gender and sexuality, and homophobia in the academy; she explained, ‘The struggle to include a diversity of issues is one that that has yet to be resolved as many Chicana/o programs still struggle with integrating gender and sexuality issues (among others) into all aspects of the field’ (p. 188). Although sexuality and gender diversity are already present on campuses, it is generally superficial and commodified by images of rainbow flags. However, the reality for many non-heteronormative college students is that they are constantly subjected to everyday discrimination and violence.

Students who took MAS or LLS courses in their freshman or sophomore year were also more likely to continue taking courses in these departments and were more likely to declare a major or minor in these disciplines. Overall, students in California and Illinois shared similar experiences taking MAS and LLS courses; however, students in California tended to have more positive experiences in their courses because they shared similar experiences with their peers and the campus was in close proximity to their home communities. Students in Illinois were often isolated from their home communities and attended classes with more white students who had fewer experiences interacting with Latina/o students and a diverse curriculum. Classroom discussions were more contentious and emotionally charged in Illinois. Faculty, however, intervened and helped students work through challenging discussions.

Racist, sexist, and homophobic incidents continue to occur on college campuses across the nation, including racist-themed parties and a noose hung on a campus tree (Parke, 2015; Rocha, 2015). Universities usually respond to these incidents by apologizing and creating special task committees to address the incidents. After several months of collecting data, they usually conclude with the same recommendations – that racial and ethnic diversity should be more strongly reflected in the curriculum and among the campus community. Although many college and universities have attempted to improve the campus climate by requiring all students to complete at least one designated diversity course, the question remains, ‘Why do these incidents persist?’ We need to look more closely at how diversity courses offered by departments outside ethnic studies are being taught, and we need to assure that ethnic studies faculty participate in approving and evaluating diversity courses taught in other departments.

The persistence of hate incidents in schools and universities points to an education system that fails to engage students in critical dialog about the history of oppression, the discrimination, and violence against people of color and other marginalized groups that is deeply embedded in the fabric of our nation. Ethnic studies foster meaningful interactions, mutual respect, and empathy across dissimilarities in backgrounds and experiences (Sleeter, 2011). Rather than cutting back these programs, institutions can reaffirm their commitment to diversity by supporting and expanding ethnic studies courses.

INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF QUALITATIVE STUDIES IN EDUCATION 289

Many Latina/o students experience 12 years of a culturally irrelevant education and a curriculum that is subtractive of their lived experiences and cultural knowledge, leaving many of them disengaged and vulnerable to academic failure (Valenzuela, 1999). Ethnic studies courses serve as a vibrant aca- demic counterspace that offers an empowering approach to Latina/o students’ education, but more importantly un sitio to unlearn 12 years of hegemonic narratives. Students in this study benefited from having access to un sito where they (re)claimed their Latinad and U.S. identities and also their academic identities. LLS and MAS faculty enacted a problem-posing pedagogy to help students think critically about their conditions and to utilize home and community knowledge as assets in their learning (Freire, 1970). Student-centered dialog, listening, and critical self-reflection enabled students to talk about their experiences of exclusion and misrepresentation. These courses provided them with una lengua to talk back to deficit discourses about their race, ethnicity, culture, ancestors, language, immigration status, and ways of living. Students improved their abilities and confidence to make knowledge claims and to contribute to class discussions. More importantly, these courses improved students’ connectedness to an academic space through the positive relationships they formed with professors, teaching assistants, staff, and peers. LLS and MAS courses provide opportunities for Latina/o students to (re)define the boundaries of community by engaging research and service that is meaningful to their lives. It is my hope that these portraits attest to the power of ethnic studies.

Notes 1. Tucson High Magnet School offers specialized courses focused on the visual and performing arts, math, science,

and technology, information retrieved from http://edweb.tusd.k12.az.us/thms/ 2. Tom Horne served as the elected Arizona State Superintendent of Public Instruction from 2003 to 2011. In 2011,

he was elected Arizona Attorney General. John Huppenthal was the Arizona Superintended of Public Instruction from 2011 to 2015.

3. Must-See AC 360: AZ Ethnic Studies discussion. Retrieved from CNN at http://ac360.blogs.cnn.com/2010/05/13/ must-see-ac360-az-ethnic-studies-discussion/?iref=allsearch

4. The Cabrera and Cambium Report’s findings were used as evidence in court to prove that MAS courses were successful in closing the achievement gap for Latina/o students. Findings from the Cabrera study found that MAS students were 108% more likely to graduate from high school than non-MAS students and 118% more likely to pass standardized tests (i.e. reading, writing, and math).

5. Micro-urban has been used by urban planners to describe small urban areas with patterns of high-energy usage and attributes associated with larger metropolitan areas.

6. Mexico has historically avoided addressing issues of racial and social class discrimination. Thus, many Mexicans continue to suffer from feelings of inferiority. Although Mexico is a country that has tried to break away from.

colonial mentality, discrimination is still widespread and pervasive. Phrases like ‘te ves muy indio’ translates to ‘you are very indigenous looking,’ maintaining stratification associated with skin color.

7. Symbols were an important aspect of Aztec culture, for example the Aztec calendar, a large circular calendar stone, is one of the most recognized symbols of ancient American civilizations.

Disclosure statement No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

Notes on contributor Norma A. Marrun, PhD, is an assistant professor in the Department of Teaching and Learning’s Cultural Studies, International Education, and Multicultural Education (CSIEME) program at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas (UNLV). Her research interests include culturally responsive/multicultural education, Chicana/Latina feminist epistemologies, social justice, and equity education.

ORCID Norma A. Marrun http://orcid.org/0000-0002-3268-1475

http://edweb.tusd.k12.az.us/thms/

http://ac360.blogs.cnn.com/2010/05/13/must-see-ac360-az-ethnic-studies-discussion/?iref=allsearch

http://orcid.org

http://orcid.org/0000-0002-3268-1475

290 N. A. MARRUN

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Abstract

Ethnic studies in Arizona: ‘bad’ diversity
Resistance to the apartheid of knowledge
Diversity courses and interest convergence: content knowledge matters

Theoretical framework

Chicana feminism: sitio y lengua
Counterspaces

Methods

Research sites
Data collection
Participants
Positionality
Data analysis

Findings

Intersecting sitios of home and school pedagogies

Culturally relevant texts
Disrupting gender role discourses
Bridging home and school knowledge

(Re)claiming an academic space and identity

Overcoming feelings of self-doubt

(Re)defining and (Re)connecting the boundaries of community space

Activating political engagement and activism
Spirituality in the classroom

Conclusions
Notes
Disclosure statement
Notes on contributor
References

‘‘If There is No Struggle, There is No Progress’’: Transformative Youth Activism and the School of Ethnic Studies

Nolan L. Cabrera • Elisa L. Meza •

Andrea J. Romero • Roberto Cintli Rodrı́guez

Published online: 9 January 2013

� Springer Science+Business Media New York 2013

Abstract In the wake of the Tucson Unified School District dismantling its highly

successful Mexican American Studies (MAS) program, students staged walkouts

across the district to demonstrate their opposition. Student-led walkouts were por-

trayed as merely ‘‘ditching,’’ and students were described as not really under-

standing why they were protesting. After these events, a group of student activists

called UNIDOS organized and led the School of Ethnic Studies. This was a com-

munity school dedicated to teaching the forbidden MAS curriculum. In this article

we present counternarratives from organizers, presenters, and participants in the

School of Ethnic Studies. These narratives demonstrate the transformative resis-

tance of students who created their own form of liberatory education. Our analysis

highlights how student organizers led the creation of an autonomous, community-

based educational space to allowed young people to engage in political analysis,

self-reflection, and strategic organizing. We conclude with the implications for

Ethnic Studies, urban education, and counternarrative.

Keywords Mexican American Studies � Ethnic Studies � Youth activism � Transformative resistance � Counternarrative � Tucson Unified School District

N. L. Cabrera (&)

Center for the Study of Higher Education, The University of Arizona College of Education, Room

327B, PO Box 210069, Tucson, AZ 85721-0069, USA

e-mail: [email protected]

E. L. Meza

Social Welfare, University of California, Berkeley, CA, USA

A. J. Romero

Family Studies and Human Development, University of Arizona, Tucson, AZ, USA

R. Cintli Rodrı́guez

Mexican American Studies, University of Arizona, Tucson, AZ, USA

123

Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22

DOI 10.1007/s11256-012-0220-7

Introduction

Frederick Douglass famously said, ‘‘Power concedes nothing without a demand. It

never has and it never will. If there is no struggle, there is no progress.’’ Since the

1960s, one component of the Tucson struggle has been implementation of Ethnic

Studies within public schools, and particularly Mexican American Studies (MAS)

classes. The youth movement has taken a central role in fighting for MAS classes,

particular the youth coalition UNIDOS (United Non-Discriminatory Individuals in

Demanding Our Studies). This group is comprised of local Tucson students and has

played a central role in responding to Arizona’s HB2281 (currently A.R.S. §

115-12), which was designed to ban Ethnic Studies courses in public institutions.

On April 26, 2011, UNIDOS demonstrated their commitment to the struggle for

MAS through their dramatic takeover of the TUSD School Board meeting as an act

of civil disobedience (Cabrera et al. 2011).

Despite the UNIDOS takeover and numerous other community protests, the classes

were formally eliminated in January of 2012 by the TUSD school board. Almost

immediately, hundreds of students walked out of school for 2 weeks throughout

TUSD in protest of the ending of MAS classes (Huicochea 2012, January 24). Student

walkouts were quickly discounted by school officials and media as simply cutting

class. This dominant narrative portrayed student activism as reactionary and not

connected to a critically conscious social movement. It is within this context that we

present a series of counternarratives (Delgado 1989) that provide an alternative to the

dominant narrative which highlight student transformative resistance. As Solorzano

and Delgado Bernal (2001) argue, there are multiple forms of resistance, and not all are

equally effective at promoting equity. For example, if a student is not motivated by

social justice and has no critique of oppression, Solorzano and Delgado Bernal (2001)

argue that s/he is engaging in reactionary behavior that is ineffective at creating social

change. They additionally argue that a student acting from a critique of oppression and

motivated by social justice, is engaging in transformative resistance and this is when

social change is likely to occur.

Amidst the walkouts, UNIDOS created the day-long School of Ethnic Studies

where students could learn from the forbidden curriculum of MAS. Within this article,

we present several counternarratives from organizers, presenters, and participants, to

demonstrate how the School of Ethnic Studies was a manifestation of youth-led

transformative resistance. We begin the article by defining narrative and its

relationship to power/legitimacy, offering the Tucson context which led to the

elimination of MAS, highlight the dominant narrative which infantilizes the student

protesters, and offer our counternarrative regarding the School of Ethnic Studies.

Dominant Narrative, Counternarrative, and Tucson Context

In Delgado’s (1989) seminal piece, ‘‘A Plea for Narrative,’’ he argues that the power

of the dominant narrative derives from the means by which it masks the reality of

coercive influence and oppressive structures while, ‘‘tempting us to believe that the

way things are is inevitable’’ (pp. 2416–2417). Delgado argues that the narratives of

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the oppressed have the potential to subvert, destabilize, and challenge the ‘‘official

narrative.’’ A counternarrative is one that functions to disrupt the normality of the

dominant paradigm—demonstrating alternative interpretations and realities are

possible while adjusting the future direction of the overall narrative. Many Critical

Race Theory1 scholars have utilized this methodological approach, highlighting

racism and sexism in graduate school (Solorzano and Yosso 2001), the unintended

consequences of sloppily implemented affirmative action programs (Aguirre 2000),

or reframing campus segregation as cultural preservation (Villalpando 2003). These

counternarratives not only disrupt the common sense of hegemonic educational

practices, but also, highlight that alternative realities are possible.

HB2281, TUSD, and the Dominant Narrative

In the case of TUSD, a dominant narrative emerged as a means of justifying the

District’s responses to HB2281. HB2281 allows the Arizona Superintendent of

Public Instruction to withhold 10 % of a district’s funding if s/he determines that a

district offers classes that include any of the following:

• Promote the overthrow of the United States Government

• Promote resentment toward a race or class of people

• Are designed primarily for pupils of a particular ethnic group

• Advocate ethnic solidarity instead of the treatment of pupils as individuals2

Even though the constitutionality of this law is being challenged,3 the TUSD

governing board on multiple occasions attempted to eliminate the highly effective

MAS program (Cabrera et al. 2012) after being found out of compliance with

HB2281 (Cabrera et al. 2011; O’Leary et al. 2012).

For example, on April 26, 2011, TUSD Board President Dr. Mark Stegeman

introduced a resolution that would make the MAS courses electives as a step

towards complete elimination of the program. Although there had been massive

student opposition vocalized since 2006, UNIDOS made an interesting, strategic

calculation. They would physically disrupt the meeting because if there was no

meeting, there could be no vote. If there was no vote, the classes would be

preserved. Utilizing grassroots direct action training, UNIDOS students chained

themselves to board members’ chairs just before the meeting was going to begin.

TUSD Superintendent John Pedicone negotiated with adults in a back room to

postpone the board meeting and voting to a later date without arresting any youth

protestors.4

1 Critical Race Theory (CRT) is a line of academic inquiry which seeks to uncover how superficially

race-neutral social policies can and do recreate systemic racial oppression. CRT challenges the objectivity

of social science research while concurrently highlighting the value of experiential knowledge from

communities of color. It was originally developed within the legal field, and has been applied in education

(Ladson-Billings and Tate 1995). 2 For full text of HB2281, please refer to: http://www.azleg.gov/legtext/49leg/2r/bills/hb2281s.pdf. 3 For more in-depth coverage of this legal challenge, please refer to: www.saveethnicstudies.org. 4 Description of this event is inadequate. For video from the inside of the protest, please see: http://

www.youtube.com/watch?v=tPZxCDMbZec&feature=player_profilepage.

Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22 9

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http://www.azleg.gov/legtext/49leg/2r/bills/hb2281s.pdf

http://www.saveethnicstudies.org

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tPZxCDMbZec&feature=player_profilepage

The students clearly understood there were going to be consequences for these

actions, but they thought this act of civil disobedience was worth it if the actions

preserved their classes (Cabrera et al. 2011). Some of these costs included a

YouTubeTM video saying the way to deal with the protesters was to ‘‘shoot them in

the head’’ (McHugh 2011, May 5). In school board meetings after the April 26th

action, UNIDOS students were warned by local community supporters that there

was a police investigation being done and photos of them were seen on the

clipboards of plainclothes police officers at subsequent TUSD board meetings.

Following the protest, a dominant narrative was created that infantilized the

students and portrayed them as reactionary. For example, Superintendent Pedicone

wrote an (2011, May 1) Op-Ed in the Arizona Daily Star where he argued ‘‘Adults

used students as pawns in TUSD ethnic studies protest.’’ He believed the board

takeover was orchestrated by adults in the community. The other statewide paper,

the Arizona Republic (2011, April 28) also ran an editorial arguing that in TUSD,

‘‘Adults need to reassert themselves.’’ These narratives were completely devoid of

the possibility that students acted intentionally, thoughtfully, and in a critical,

strategic manner in the fight for education. Instead, the students were portrayed as

incapable and in need of increased adult supervision and discipline.

MAS Elimination, Student Walkouts, and the Dominant Narrative

On January 10, 2012, TUSD capitulated to the pressure stemming from HB2281 and

eliminated all MAS courses. The resolution the TUSD board adopted was almost

Orwellian in its framing as it read, ‘‘[MAS] is and shall remain an organizational

contributor to TUSD’s commitment to greater academic social equity for Hispanic

Students’’ (TUSD 2012, p. 1). The next sentence stated that all MAS activities were

immediately suspended, but programmatic elimination was insufficient. The next

day, school administrators entered classes during school hours with boxes labeled

‘‘banned books,’’ proceeded to remove the texts from the classrooms in front of

MAS students, and sent them to a repository.5 TUSD officially said that the texts

were not banned,6 and to a certain degree they were correct. Non-MAS teachers and

students had access to forbidden curricula in their libraries and at other schools/

classrooms that did not teach MAS courses. Thus, these texts were only banned for

MAS teachers and students, making the prohibition more insidious than a district-

wide banning.

Subsequently, MAS teachers were instructed to remove all MAS materials from

their classrooms which included additional books, artwork, and posters. In response,

hundreds of students walked out of schools throughout the district (Huicochea 2012,

January 24). TUSD Board President Dr. Stegeman was dismissive of their grievance

when he stated, ‘‘I don’t think that the courses you choose to offer is a civil rights

5 For student first-hand descriptions of this event, please see: http://www.youtube.com/

watch?v=MJW4q2QMZos&feature=player_embedded#! For the list of banned books, please refer to:

http://drcintli.blogspot.com/2012/01/tusd-banned-books-lists.html. 6 http://www.tusd1.org/contents/news/press1112/01-17-12.html.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJW4q2QMZos&feature=player_embedded

http://drcintli.blogspot.com/2012/01/tusd-banned-books-lists.html

http://www.tusd1.org/contents/news/press1112/01-17-12.html

issue.’’7 Additionally, TUSD Superintendent Pedicone sent a letter to the Dean of

University of Arizona’s MAS Department stating, ‘‘On Tuesday, Professors from

the Mexican American Studies Department, together with a student organization,

encouraged students not to attend school.’’8 The dominant narrative was simple,

consistent, and straightforward. Students had no legitimate complaints, needed to be

led by adults (although not pro-MAS adults), were incapable of doing anything on

their own, and potentially dangerous. It is within this context that we offer our

counternarratives regarding the School of Ethnic Studies.

Counternarrative: UNIDOS and the School of Ethnic Studies

Within days of the MAS elimination and the book banning, students throughout the

district walked out of school in acts of civil disobedience reminiscent of the 1960s

LA blowouts and 1969 Tucson walkouts (Biggers 2012, January 23). The student

voice was noticeably absent in any of the decisions made about the future of MAS,

and therefore, UNIDOS declared, ‘‘While the institution continues to fail us, the

community continues to rise.’’ UNIDOS believed that if TUSD and the state of

Arizona would not provide critical, relevant education, they would create it and

offer it themselves. Therefore, UNIDOS members created the School of Ethnic

Studies under the idea that ‘‘AUTONOMOUS EDUCATION IS POSSIBLE. Let’s

create a school where education is meant to empower our community!’’9 The School

was opened for students who chose to walk out during a regular scheduled school

day and instead learn the ‘‘forbidden curriculum’’ of MAS. We share the

experiences of an UNIDOS student organizer, three University professors who

presented at the School of Ethnic Studies, student poetry written at the event, and

student participant reflection comments. The UNIDOS and University Professor

counternarratives are first-person accounts of the School of Ethnic Studies while the

student poetry and reflections are included as documents given to the authors during

the event.

Counternarrative: Elisa Meza, UNIDOS Organizer, University of Arizona

Graduate, 2012

While I was attending the University of Arizona in 2010, Arizona’s racist law

SB1070 drew my attention and I began to notice how the entire nation was watching

Arizona. While SB1070 garnered most of the headlines, there were several other

anti-Latina/o bills passed that summer including the anti-Ethnic Studies HB2281. I

felt as if my brown skin was under siege. When one of my local Tucson friends from

elementary school asked me to come to a protest against the ban on MAS, I

7 http://therealnews.com/t2/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=767&Itemid=74&jumival=

8189 (11:05). 8 For Dr. Pedicone’s full letter, please see: http://content.clearchannel.com/cc-common/mlib/667/01/

667_1327931624.pdf. 9 https://www.facebook.com/events/352274674784354/.

Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22 11

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http://therealnews.com/t2/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=767&Itemid=74&jumival=8189

http://content.clearchannel.com/cc-common/mlib/667/01/667_1327931624.pdf

https://www.facebook.com/events/352274674784354/

discovered that youth had been immersed in the fight to preserve their studies for years.

I was inspired and quickly became part of the struggle as a member of UNIDOS,

devoting the next 2 years fighting for the rights to education and to youth organizing

for sustainable change. After the elimination of MAS, UNIDOS channeled our

collective energies into creating our school, the School of Ethnic Studies.

The Strategy Behind the School of Ethnic Studies

The voice of youth in Tucson is consistently disregarded by local media and

administrators within TUSD. There has been an element of adult entitlement that

came with being in charge of youth education needs. The elimination of MAS was a

visible demonstration of that entitlement. Latina/o youth have subjected themselves

to potential harm protesting the elimination of the only program in TUSD that

successfully closed the brown/white achievement gap. Yet the privilege to drown

out the voices of youth has since prevailed. Administrators opposing MAS have

spent more time destabilizing youth agency than supporting youth development.

In the beginning of the 2012, UNIDOS set out to create the School of Ethnic

Studies. It was paradoxically spontaneous, yet driven by over a year’s worth of

organizing to make it happen. We identified the date TUSD utilized to report daily

attendance to receive state funding, Tuesday, January 24, 2012, and targeted this

day to open the School of Ethnic Studies’ first session. That day was already

rumored to be a walkout day, and it seemed like the perfect time to provide

autonomous, critical, youth-led education. It would be a day to celebrate the

education TUSD refused to provide its community. The previous week was packed

with sadness and anger as MAS entered its final moments of existence within

TUSD. It was obvious that if there was any time to resist, it was then.

UNIDOS always imagined the possibility of creating autonomous community-

based education. Education should prioritize the growth and vibrancy of its

constituents. Education should celebrate the cultures, languages, and talent of its

students. What happens, if these priorities have been oppressed and threatened? We

also had to ask ourselves additional questions that were more pragmatic in nature:

How can we create a space and make it available for the entire community? How

can we do so in so little time, few people, and limited resources? How can everyone

be a part of the organizing? What are the community resources we can draw upon to

create our community school?

Every question had an immediate answer. It wasn’t difficult to think of names to

help us or to think of organizations that would mobilize, donate, and attend.

UNIDOS members shouted out names, people, and venues. As quick as we could

list every supportive group in Tucson, the skeleton of something beautiful emerged.

We also listed potential presenters who would serve as educators and facilitators at

the school. We had professors, community activists who have been fighting since

the 1960s, media makers, artists, musicians, and cooks. I remember feeling

empowered creating the lineup of folks who would be presenting as nationally-

renowned scholars were clamoring for the opportunity to work in our school!

There were so many people who quickly replied to our requests to participate that

the structure of the event shifted. It would not just be a day for presentations. It

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would be a day for engagement, dialogue, and art creation. The concept of ‘‘school’’

transformed. Our agency as individuals was made possible from the support the

entire community had for MAS. We were not the spokespeople for a cause. We

were the instruments and foot soldiers who had a vision to reinstate the

community’s voice, energy, and history, as our strongest source of education.

In less than a week, everything was secured. The historic El Casino Ballroom

donated its space for the event. The room would be opened Monday evening for a

community art event, hosted by UNIDOS and a local artist named Mel Dominguez.

Mel donated her time and energy to getting paintbrushes or spray paint cans into

everyone’s hands. We made original stencils for the School of Ethnic Studies while

local DJ Alias had his speakers and turntables filling the Ballroom with mixes and

beats. The creative energy of that evening set the tone for the following day. The

walls and stage were decorated with community-created art to greet everyone bright

and early the next morning.10

The urgency in Tucson’s situation always pushed us forward, and the community

did not need convincing when UNIDOS sent out requests for attendance,

participation, and resources, even on a school and work day. We simply filled a

gap that formed when MAS faced its final days within TUSD. We wanted to show

the possibilities of preserving our education by any means, even without the

district’s permission.

The School of Ethnic Studies

With a full day’s agenda, we had an empowering lineup of professors, MAS alumni,

poets, musicians and a home-cooked Mexican lunch to offer students. We mixed up

the amount of critical lectures with slam poetry. For a couple hours in the day, there

were breakout sessions. These sessions gave the community the opportunity to visit

speakers and organizations individually while engaging in intimate dialogue.

Community organizations such as Derechos Humanos, No More Deaths, MEChA

from Tucson and Phoenix, Tierra y Libertad, and Tucson Youth Poetry Slam led

these sessions. Professors had their own tables filled with participants. A local

bookstore owner, Joy Soler from Revolutionary Grounds, facilitated a discussion at

her table that was covered in banned books.

Just as important it was to engage the community in the making of our School, it was

important to protect our own voices from being misinterpreted. UNIDOS always

prepared to protect our narrative through strategic media tools. Jason Aragón from Pan

Left Productions live streamed the event, which allowed supporters across the nation

to take part. We had the local movement photographer Chris Summitt actively capture

moments of learning and dialogue.11 It was always crucial for us to continue telling our

story on our terms. By having the support and encouragement of local media mentors

like Jason and Chris, that storytelling became possible. However, to maintain agency

within our own framework of our School, it was important to build distinct boundaries

for local media who were not supportive in the past.

10 For images of the art event, please see: http://chrissummitt.com/blog/protestaz/unidosart/. 11 http://chrissummitt.com/blog/protestaz/unidosart/.

Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22 13

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http://chrissummitt.com/blog/protestaz/unidosart/

Before the event began, UNIDOS sent out a press release to local news stations

requesting that if reporters wanted comments from youth, they would have to wait until

school was out of session at 2:30 p.m. Unfortunately, a local Tucson news reporter

disregarded the large signs posted on the entrance doors stating ‘‘NO MEDIA

ALLOWED.’’ When I noticed her taking notes in the back of the room, I reminded her

that she needed to respect the education of youth and asked her to return at 2:30 for

interviews. During her reluctant departure, she stated that the School of Ethnic Studies

was not education and we were possibly endangering the safety of students who were

supposed to be at school. All too often MAS (and UNIDOS) youth were portrayed as

endangering the general public and not being serious about education. For once, the

youth had the agency to set the narrative on our terms.

Education was brought to the masses in a way we envisioned it by breaking down

institutionalized classroom structures. Youth resisted the boundaries the district had

created by eliminating MAS. For one day, students chose to participate in youth-led

education, demonstrating to TUSD and the community that MAS was going to exist

in one form or another. While the community continues to attend TUSD board

meetings pushing for the reinstatement of MAS, many still brainstorm what

autonomous education will look like for Tucson. With national and local support,

visions will continue to push forward our educational possibilities.

Introducing Counternarratives of Adult Presenters

Professors in the University of Arizona’s Mexican American Studies Department were

singled out as orchestrating the School of Ethnic Studies without any clear description

of their involvement. This was similar to the charges that adults were behind the April

26th school board takeover. The narrative that professors are manipulating students

has tangible effects on the lives of those demonized. Dr. Nolan Cabrera had the

nameplate on his office door defaced after giving a public lecture on MAS. Dr. Roberto

Cintli Rodriguez has received multiple death threats for his involvement in the MAS

controversy. One directly to his office phone line said, ‘‘You’re going to find a [357]

magnum up your f****** a**’’ (Herreras 2011, July 7). A White supremacist pled

guilty to making one of these threats, for which he only received probation (Huicochea

2012c, August 8). Despite the threats, the three professors in this counternarrative

(Cintli, Cabrera, and Romero) all believe that supporting the students and the School of

Ethnic Studies far outweighed these risks.

Counternarrative: Dr. Roberto Cintli Rodriguez, PhD, Mexican American

Studies, University of Arizona12

I have been involved with MAS/TUSD virtually since its inception. I have

contributed books, videos and nationally syndicated columns, to its maiz-based or

Indigenous-based curriculum. In the past few years, I have also been actively

12 Dr. Cintli does not consider his work a counternarrative, but a narrative unto itself, primarily

because maiz-based stories have a presence on this continent, long before the arrival of Columbus

and company.

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involved in its defense. Despite the involvement of scholars such as myself one of

the most amazing stories regarding the defense of Raza Studies is that, contrary to

what the media and MAS critics have suggested, since 2006 it has been primarily

student-led. In this sense the media and opponents of MAS have it upside down.

They assumed the older activists and organizers were working with students leading

them. It was quite the reverse. My involvement with different youth groups in this

movement, from Social Justice Education Project to UNIDOS and MEChA

(Movimiento Estudiantı́l Chicano de Aztlán), has mostly been in a support role,

advisor and as that of educator.13

When UNIDOS invited me to present at their School of Ethnic Studies, I was

asked to address them at two separate times. I first addressed the students in the

large opening circle that began that day’s lessons, contextualizing the state’s effort

to dismantle MAS as part of a ‘‘civilization war.’’ Of course, those were Tom

Horne’s words and his prism. Nonetheless, as a community, we had to respond to

those charges. Indeed, I told the students that MAS derives its roots from maiz culture, as opposed to Greco-Roman and reminded them that we did not declare war

against Western Civilization. Quite the contrary, it was Mr. Horne who declared war

against MAS, repeatedly claiming its knowledge base is racist (Horne 2010, 2012,

June 22). The knowledge-base is Indigenous, but the teachings are rooted in a

combination of culture (e.g., the Aztec Calendar14) and respect for all humanity

(e.g., In Lak Ech).

When I taught during the breakout session, I introduced participants to the

Nahuatl (Aztec) Legend of the Suns creation story (Codex Chimapopolca), the story

of how the universe, the earth, and humans were created. As part of this story,

humans received maiz reluctantly from the ants in Tamuanchan. I wanted to offer a

Creation story to the students in my session for a number of reasons. Most are

Mexican/Chicano but with very little sense of their Indigenous heritage. Creation

stories have the potential to connect them to these roots. In addition, the racial

politics of Arizona continue to marginalize these students, and Indigenous Creation

stories can help students feel attached to the continent as opposed to alien.

This specific Creation story is unique in that it does not provide answers. Instead,

the objective of teaching this story is for students to figure out why the ants were

initially reluctant to share their corn with Quetzalcoatl and the newly created

humans. Any two people, or any two groups of people, can spontaneously perform

this as a play. At the UNIDOS School of Ethnic Studies, the students did this and

told me the ants had good reason to be reluctant. The ants feared humans would be

greedy, hoard the seeds, sell the corn, and (modern adaptation) genetically modify

the maiz. This ancient creation story resonated with them as they interpreted it and

added to it, while highlighting the important task of preserving the original and

organic seeds of this continent.

13 I began my student activism indirectly in junior high school (1968 Walkouts), but more directly in

high school in 1970–1971, when I joined my campus MEChA. 14 After the January 2012 dismantling of MAS, my colleague Norma Gonzalez at MAS-TUSD was

forced to take down the image of the Aztec Calendar as she was teaching it. The principal said that it was

now was illegal to teach Mexican history and culture.

Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22 15

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This was my contribution to the School of Ethnic Studies. The students, on the

other hand, contributed to that Creation narrative, making them active participants

of a culture and not simply recipients of long-ago stories. Through their

participation, they also demonstrated the concept of Creation-Resistance. They

did not simply resist, but created education independent of the state or TUSD. We

can see the larger MAS struggle within the same context; it is transformational. We

create as our opponents react. That is how one wins, not simply resisting but

creating while resisting.

Counternarrative: Nolan L. Cabrera, PhD, College of Education, University

of Arizona

Despite my activist background, I actually began my involvement in the MAS

controversy running statistics regarding programmatic participation and student

academic success (e.g., Cabrera et al. 2012). I thought that as a postdoc (now

professor) at the University of Arizona, this was the way I could best utilize my

skills at the service of something larger than peer-review. I was going to present my

statistics to the TUSD school board during the night of the April 26th takeover. I

fully expected the classes to be eliminated on that evening, but the idealism and

dedication of the UNIDOS organizers snapped me out of my nihilism and helped

rekindle hope.

When UNIDOS approached me to present at the School of Ethnic Studies, I was

honored but actually wondered, why me? There are literally dozens of nationally-

renowned academics who were willing and able to participate. I still do not know,

but was honored by the invitation. I was also nervous having been previously

targeted for my involvement in the MAS controversy. I felt, however, that the

students were risking far more than me and it would be morally irresponsible to

decline. UNIDOS members asked me to talk about the relevance of Paulo Freire’s

life work in the context of banning MAS. As Pedagogy of the Oppressed was one of

the banned books, this created an opportunity to truly engage the meaning of this

work in the context of using education to fight for knowledge legitimacy and against

oppression (Cabrera 2012).

When I entered the School of Ethnic Studies, I noticed a distinct stamp of youth

ownership over the physical infrastructure. There were several six-foot tall murals

hung throughout the building that were a combination of culture (e.g., Quetzal-

coatl) and resistance (e.g., ‘‘Defend Walkout 2012’’). I found it fitting that in a

space dedicated to transformative education, UNIDOS first transformed the

physical space. Not only were there constant visual reminders that this was an

autonomous, youth-led space, but there were periodic interludes where the DJ

would lead an impromptu dance party. I kept asking myself how much more I

would have tolerated lectures on The Scarlet Letter if they were punctuated with

dance parties.

I was the last presenter of the day and I had a lot of time for reflection. I was a

student at both Stanford and UCLA where professors in each college of education

taught Freire, and my peers frequently complained about these readings. In contrast,

I held the stage in front of a hundred 14–19 year-olds who previously participated

16 Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22

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in 7 hours of presentations/activities only to end with my lecture about Frierian

pedagogy. I marveled the moment I took the stage. These were students wanted to

learn about Paulo Freire, taking personal risks to attend as some of their peers were

previously suspended for participating in walkouts (Huicochea 2012b, January 27).

This did not matter, as they were willing to sacrifice for the possibility of

meaningful, critical education. While my peers at Stanford and UCLA too often

relied on Cliff’s Notes� to get through difficult texts, these students were fighting

for the right to learn from them.

This was, in large part, because they experienced oppressive practices in their

everyday lives whether they are related to economics, race, gender, or sexual

orientation. Thus, the text resonated with them. I spoke for 20 min at the end of the

day, and the students were invested, engaged, and wanted to learn more even though

they had been in school for all day. There was a certain irony being immersed in a

district that continually espoused the virtue of civic engagement, and concurrently

demeaned the actions of these students who were willing to fight for their education.

The students’ dedication and investment in their education offered potential and

possibility. They showed that critical, relevant education was possible despite the

efforts of the state and the district. They demonstrated how dedicated youth do not

have to wait for adults to provide them with educational opportunities. Finally,

through the students’ transformative resistance, they challenged and transformed me

in the process. Frequently, I find myself isolated from the community in the ivory

tower running statistics. Given the racial politics of Arizona, it is extremely difficult

to remain hopeful. The lasting images of that day keep me going with the reminder

that progress is always possible. If I cannot see how, it is because I lack sufficient

creative imagination.

Counternarrative: Andrea Romero, PhD, Mexican American Studies, University

of Arizona

For 12 years as a University professor, I have taught Mexican American Studies at

the University and in afterschool sessions with teenagers in the community. So, the

night after the vote to end MAS, faculty from the University of Arizona gathered

and wrote a brief message to share with other faculty nationally. We were all in

shock. Yet, the students were prepared and did not stop their actions. It was as if the

end of traditional Ethnic Studies was a new beginning for them, an open road to a

new path for education. They continued to mobilize, organize, and inspire. They

walked out of schools, they chanted, and they withstood suspensions and racist

discipline, such as staying at school on Saturdays to clean bathrooms. When TUSD

pulled MAS books out of classrooms, and literally out of the hands of students, I

think we all directly experienced how precious this knowledge15 really was and how

easily it could be taken from our community. It was clear that we (teachers/

students), as knowledge holders, desperately needed to share the books and

15 Precious Knowledge is a dual reference. First, is the concept of Quetzalcoatl (Quetzal = Precious/

Beautiful and Coatl = Serpent (symbolic of knowledge)) which was a foundational component of the

MAS curriculum. Second, is the documentary about TUSD’s MAS program of the same name (http://

www.preciousknowledgefilm.com/).

Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22 17

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http://www.preciousknowledgefilm.com/

information. When the female UNIDOS students floated this idea of the School of

Ethnic Studies, I thought it was brilliant. Of course, I would support them in any

way that I could. They asked if I could teach a roundtable session on a banned book

or the content from my Chicano/a Psychology class. I was very cognizant that it was

risky for my job as a UA professor to attend this event. It was likely that there would

a lot of media, and we had already received messages from within the university that

we should not be involved in TUSD MAS activities.

The morning of the School of Ethnic Studies I packed my traveling file folder

with all the banned books I had on my shelf, and a few additional ones from my

Chicano/a Studies class. I arrived mid-day to a packed parking lot, while the front

door and sidewalk were crowded with reporters. I slipped by them and into the

building. Beautiful aromas were drifting from the front kitchen. I walked in and saw

mothers of the students stirring enormous pots of pozole. I was handed a cup of

pozole and a spoon by an activist immigrant lawyer. I walked out and stood near the

back of the packed room in El Casino Ballroom. Students and community members

sat, engaged, listening, and reacting to a talk about Paulo Freire. I ran into one of the

student leaders I work with at a local youth center, and he introduced me to other

School of Ethnic Studies participants.

Soon after, Elisa found me and led me to a table and quickly filled the table with

youth for a breakout session. We went around the circle and said our names and why

we were at the School of Ethnic Studies that day. There was an indescribable

connection at the table as we all were equal in our dedication to Ethnic Studies in

that moment. I gave a brief intro about my Chicana/o Psychology class, and the

concepts of ethnic identity and their importance in the study of psychology. Then

we took turns reading stanzas from a poem, ‘‘Borderlands’’ by Gloria Anzaldúa.

Students talked about what the meaning of the poem was to each of them. Then I

gave them blank paper and we all wrote our own poems about that day. In turn, we

each read our poems aloud and discussed them quickly before we had to move to the

next breakout session. One of the youth with a leather jacket and a pink mohawk

handed me his poem saying I could keep it and use it. It read:

‘‘KIDTOXXIC’’

young man, I see free,

I’m me, not thee.

So I give it my all.

No need to start up a brawl,

But I do stand up &

Fight; back, push them

back for what should

be free. Our education,

The Marathon shouldn’t

be this way, for my

ancestors passed on,

but I’m here

to stay

G.T. 1-24-12

18 Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22

123

In a few short lines, the student lodged a critique, affirmed a commitment to non-

violence, valued education, highlighted the need to resist, acknowledged the past,

and looked the future. Powerful narratives like this were common throughout the

day. It was the beauty of the action of the students, who moved with grace and

purpose, as the school of their own imagination had become reality. The splendor of

community education transformation was real, sustainable and truly the end goal of

the movement and the protests. The objective was not only to push back, but also to

create and envision something different from that which was not working. The

School of Ethnic Studies set into motion something new that aligned our hearts,

souls, and identities in a way that we had not felt in education before.

Counternarrative: Student Voices from the School of Ethnic Studies

Many of the student participants in the School of Ethnic Studies completed

evaluations of their experiences during the day. While most responses were brief,

they tended to point to one key issue: The event was empowering and filled a critical

gap left by the elimination of the MAS program. When asked if they would continue

participating in future Schools of Ethnic Studies, students almost uniformly

responded with ‘‘yes’’ and then elaborated:

I finally get to learn about things that relate to me (15-year-old)

I want to know my history. (17 year-old)

I would like to learn more about my culture (15-year-old)

It is very eye opening, and helps me understand about other people in my

community. (15-year-old)

The education is better than required history. I love it. (14-year-old)

It will educate me in the way TUSD doesn’t want me to. (18-year-old)

I like education, and I want to fight for it (15-year-old)

It’s exciting and just an overall great community. (15-year-old)

These are only a fraction of the responses received, but they highlight a number

of critical issues. First, the students connected with the information provided and

tended to see it reflected in their everyday lives. They consistently said that the

forbidden curriculum presented at the School of Ethnic Studies directly related to

their lived experiences and issues facing their home communities. Second, the

lessons were self-affirming as they helped students learn more about themselves and

their culture. They frequently referred to the School of Ethnic Studies as the

‘‘education TUSD does not want me to have.’’ There was an obvious void left by the

elimination of MAS, and the School of Ethnic Studies was in part able to fill it.

Third, the students were so engaged that they too were prepared to fight for their

education. This stands in stark contrast to the official narratives where students are

apathetic, potentially dangerous, and in need of stricter adult supervision. In

contrast, these students were engaged, loving this form of education, seeing its

relevance to their everyday lives, and willing to be part of the struggle to learn from

this forbidden curriculum.

With the students as leaders, the School of Ethnic Studies became a collective,

community effort to transform the meaning of education. Instead of being bound by

Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22 19

123

the walls of school buildings, it extended into the community usurping the

draconian law HB 2281. It showed a different possibility for what education can

look like, both in terms of curricular offerings (MAS) and physical infrastructure

(youth art). The next question is: To what extent can efforts like these be long-term

and sustained?

Conclusion

The School of Ethnic Studies was a direct critique of the racial oppression created

by Arizona’s racist anti-Ethnic Studies legislation (O’Leary et al. 2012; Otero and

Cammarota 2011) as well as the capitulation of the TUSD governing board. The

community led by students resisted and created their own school because the

existing structured denied them the basic rights of Culture, History, Identity,

Language, and Education (CHILE).16 Thus, the event was the epitome of

transformative resistance as it was concurrently a critique of social oppression

coupled with resistance meant to promote social justice (Solorzano et al. 2001).

More importantly, the students creatively envisioned a possibility that did not exist

and were guided by strategic demands on systems of power to get their classes. If

TUSD would not offer them, students would find alternative means to be educated.

This harkens to Pearl S. Buck’s famous quotation, ‘‘The young do not know enough

to be prudent, and therefore they attempt the impossible—and achieve it, generation

after generation.’’ The students involved in creating the School of Ethnic Studies did

precisely that: leveraging every community resource available to attempt an almost

impossible feat while succeeding at executing it.

This significance of this event stretches well beyond Tucson and even the state of

Arizona. The American Educational Research Association, the largest education

organization in the world, had an invited Presidential session dedicated to the TUSD

MAS issue in their 2012 annual meeting. This issue has made national headlines in

the New York Times, CNN, Fox News, and even garnered a spot on the Daily Show

with Jon Stewart. This is, in part, because the questions posed in this controversy are

relevant well beyond the type of curriculum in TUSD. For example, to what extent

can a non-Eurocentric curriculum and pedagogy be sanctioned as ‘legitimate

education’? Additionally, can critical approaches to oppression be part of public

secondary education? Finally, to what degree can and should youth be treated as

co-collaborators in their own education?

This final question is generally absent from media coverage of this controversy as

youth voices tend to be ignored. This counternarrative demonstrated that critically

empowered youth in Tucson are not only engaged in their education, but they have

the imagination and dedication to lead a community effort to create alternative

education when the school system fails them. This is specifically how counternar-

rative should function, to bring the voices of the marginalized to the forefront. The

organizers of the School of Ethnic Studies were not only racially and socially

16 This concept is outlined in Dr. Cintli’s presentation, ‘‘Outlaw Arizona,’’ which cites 9 international

treaties that protect these rights.

20 Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22

123

economically oppressed, but they were also marginalized due to their age. Their

voices as the leaders of this community effort provided a strong, counter-hegemonic

narrative that destabilized the official story where youth were infantilized,

incapable, and concurrently dangerous. From the perspective of urban education,

this means that youth should be represented when educational decisions are being

made that affect their lives. We do not want to idealize the youth perspective, but

rather to highlight that they should have a seat at the table. After all, it is their education we are all discussing.

References

Aguirre, A. (2000). Academic storytelling: A critical race theory story of affirmative action. Sociological Perspectives, 43(2), 319–339.

Arizona Republic. (2011, April 28). Who’s in charge at Tucson Unified? Arizona Republic. Arizona

Republic: Phoenix, AZ. Online at: http://www.azcentral.com/arizonarepublic/opinions/articles/

2011/04/28/20110428thur1-28.html.

Biggers, J. (2012, January 23). Tucson school walk out grow: Protest school district’s folly and Mexican

American Studies. Huffington Post. Online at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jeff-biggers/tucson-

ethnic-studies_b_1224256.html.

Cabrera, N. L. (2012). A state-mandated epistemology of ignorance: Arizona’s HB2281 and Mexican

American/Raza Studies. Journal of Curriculum and Pedagogy, 9(2), 132–135.

Cabrera, N. L., Mesa, E. L., & Rodriguez, R. (2011). The fight for ethnic studies in Tucson. North American Congress on Latin America’s Report on the Americas, 44(6), 20–24.

Cabrera, N. L., Milem, J. F., & Marx, R. W. (2012). An empirical analysis of the effects of Mexican American Studies participation on student achievement within Tucson Unified School District. Tucson, AZ: Report to Special Master Dr. Willis D. Hawley on the Tucson Unified School District

Desegregation Case.

Delgado, R. (1989). Storytelling for oppositionists and others: A plea for narrative. Michigan Law Review, 87, 2411–2441.

Herreras, M. (2011, July 7). Violent message: A professor at the UA is threatened after people opposed to

TUSD’s ethnic studies name him in a video. Tucson Weekly. Online at: http://www.tucsonweekly.

com/tucson/violent-messages/Content?oid=3081080.

Horne, T. (2010). Findings by the state superintendent of public instruction of violation by Tucson

Unified School District pursuant to A.R.S.§15-112(B). Retrieved June 1, 2012 from http://

www.azag.gov/issues/TUSD%20%20Ethnic%20Studies%20Findings.pdf.

Horne, T. (2012, June 22). Race-based studies can’t be justified. The Arizona Republic. Retrieved June

25, 2012 from http://www.azcentral.com/arizonarepublic/opinions/articles/2012/06/07/20120607

race-based-studies-horne.html.

Huicochea, A. (2012, January 24). Students walk out in ethnic-studies protest. Arizona Daily Star. Online at:

http://azstarnet.com/news/local/education/precollegiate/students-walk-out-in-ethnic-studies-protest/

article_a462c23c-0eb7-57b8-9ad1-486d634371ef.html.

Huicochea, A. (2012, January 27). Students in walkout suspended. Arizona Daily Star. Online at: http://

azstarnet.com/news/local/education/precollegiate/students-in-walkout-suspended/article_e63dcb6f-

9954-5cd9-936a-0577e8ba7044.html.

Huicochea, A. (2012, August 8). Mohave man given probation for death threats against University of

Arizona prof. Arizona Daily Star. Online at: http://azstarnet.com/news/local/education/precolle

giate/mohave-man-given-probation-for-death-threats-vs-ua-prof/article_67df77d2-2d4a-571f-af40-

b415eea1ad0c.html.

Ladson-Billings, G., & Tate, W. F. (1995). Toward a critical race theory of education. Teachers College Record, 97(1), 47–68.

McHugh, K. (2011, May 5). YouTube video forces TUSD superintendent to call for delay vote. Social Times. Online at: http://socialtimes.com/youtube-video-forces-tusd-superintendent-to-call-for-delay-vote_

b60917.

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http://www.azcentral.com/arizonarepublic/opinions/articles/2011/04/28/20110428thur1-28.html

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jeff-biggers/tucson-ethnic-studies_b_1224256.html

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/tucson/violent-messages/Content?oid=3081080

http://www.azag.gov/issues/TUSD%20%20Ethnic%20Studies%20Findings.pdf

http://www.azcentral.com/arizonarepublic/opinions/articles/2012/06/07/20120607race-based-studies-horne.html

http://azstarnet.com/news/local/education/precollegiate/students-walk-out-in-ethnic-studies-protest/article_a462c23c-0eb7-57b8-9ad1-486d634371ef.html

http://azstarnet.com/news/local/education/precollegiate/students-in-walkout-suspended/article_e63dcb6f-9954-5cd9-936a-0577e8ba7044.html

http://azstarnet.com/news/local/education/precollegiate/mohave-man-given-probation-for-death-threats-vs-ua-prof/article_67df77d2-2d4a-571f-af40-b415eea1ad0c.html

http://socialtimes.com/youtube-video-forces-tusd-superintendent-to-call-for-delay-vote_b60917

O’Leary, A. O., Romero, A. J., Cabrera, N. L., & Rascon, M. (2012). Assault on ethnic studies. In

O. Santa Anna & C. González de Bustamante (Eds.), Arizona firestorm: Global realities, national media and provincial politics (pp. 97–120). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield.

Otero, L. R., & Cammarota, J. (2011). Notes from the Ethnic Studies home front: Student protests,

texting, and subtexts of oppression. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 24(5),

639–648.

Pedicone, J. (2011, May 1). Adults used students as pawns in TUSD ethnic studies protest. Arizona Daily Star. Online at: http://azstarnet.com/news/opinion/article_26542dfa-7d79-5682-85d5-7aaed9947

ac8.html.

Solorzano, D., & Delgado Bernal, D. (2001). Examining transformational resistance through a Critical

Race and LatCrit Theory framework: Chicana and Chicano students in an urban context. Urban Education, 36, 308–342.

Solorzano, D., & Yosso, T. (2001). Critical race and LatCrit theory and method: Counter storytelling

Chicana and Chicano graduate school experiences. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 14, 471–495.

Tucson Unified School District. (2012). Mexican American Studies resolution. Tucson, AZ: Author.

Online at: http://www.tusd1.org/contents/govboard/Documents/ResolutionMAS011012.pdf.

Villalpando, O. (2003). Self-segregation or self-preservation? A critical race theory and Latina/o critical

theory analysis of a study of Chicana/o college students. Qualitative Studies in Education, 16(5),

619–646.

22 Urban Rev (2013) 45:7–22

123

http://azstarnet.com/news/opinion/article_26542dfa-7d79-5682-85d5-7aaed9947ac8.html

http://www.tusd1.org/contents/govboard/Documents/ResolutionMAS011012.pdf

‘‘If There is No Struggle, There is No Progress’’: Transformative Youth Activism and the School of Ethnic Studies

Abstract
Introduction
Dominant Narrative, Counternarrative, and Tucson Context

HB2281, TUSD, and the Dominant Narrative
MAS Elimination, Student Walkouts, and the Dominant Narrative

Counternarrative: UNIDOS and the School of Ethnic Studies

Counternarrative: Elisa Meza, UNIDOS Organizer, University of Arizona Graduate, 2012

The Strategy Behind the School of Ethnic Studies
The School of Ethnic Studies

Introducing Counternarratives of Adult Presenters

Counternarrative: Dr. Roberto Cintli Rodriguez, PhD, Mexican American Studies, University of Arizona
Counternarrative: Nolan L. Cabrera, PhD, College of Education, University of Arizona
Counternarrative: Andrea Romero, PhD, Mexican American Studies, University of Arizona
Counternarrative: Student Voices from the School of Ethnic Studies

Conclusion
References

UCLA Regeneración Tlacuilolli: UCLA Raza Studies Journal

Title Chicana/o Movement Pedagogical Legacies: Indigenous Consciousness, Critical Pedagogy, and Constructing Paths to Decolonization

Permalink https://escholarship.org/uc/item/7pn7m7jn

Journal Regeneración Tlacuilolli: UCLA Raza Studies Journal, 1(1)

ISSN 2371-9575

Author Serrano Nájera, José Luis

Publication Date 2014 Peer reviewed

eScholarship.org Powered by the California Digital Library University of California

https://escholarship.org/uc/item/7pn7m7jn

https://escholarship.org

http://www.cdlib.org/

27

Chicana/o Movement Pedagogical Legacies: Indigenous Consciousness, Critical Pedagogy, and Constructing Paths to Decolonization

José Luis Serrano Nájera

AbstrAct: The purpose of this essay is to draw from the pedagogical legacy of the CCM, and its now four-decade project in ethnic revitalization of Indigene- ity, a means to better understand how cultural identity and cultural diversity are connected to human struggles to attain democracy, social equality, and build com- munity. I focus on Chicana/o activist organizations that established educational components aimed at helping youth and adults develop a critical consciousness of Chicana/o Indigenous cultural heritage and history. I highlight two phases of Chicana/o Indigenous consciousness in education, the first one during and shortly after the influence of CCM cultural ideas, and the second one within the context of transnational Indigenous Peoples human rights movements after 1980. Although adoption of Chicana/o Indigenismo varied among these youth organizations, they all sought respect for cultural diversity understanding that dif- ferent ethnic groups in a true democracy should not be forced to assimilate into the cultural values and worldviews of western civilization.

. . .[the] Tonantzin youth challenge was formed, and I’ll tell you man, it brought new life into Tonantzin.1

—David Luján—

Introduction

There have been various influences of Chicana/o Indigenous con- sciousness on Chicana/o cultural self-representation and Chicana/o

activism since the Chicana/o Movement (CCM).2 This is the process by which individuals relate aspects to Indigenous knowledge as a means to

© 2014 José Luis Serrano Nájera. All Rights Reserved. Research funding for this article was provided in part by the UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center and the UCLA American Indian Studies Center with grants from the Institute of American Cultures.

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find alternatives to western hegemonic thought. For Chicanas and Chi- canos, Indigeneity reflects a growing historic consciousness that: 1) on the one hand, inspired nuanced critiques of the unjust legacies of colo- nialism, imperialism, and a critique of current global capitalism3; and 2) on the other hand attempted to “delink”4 Chicanas and Chicanos from the epistemic hegemony of western civilization through a revival of Indigenous culture. Chicanas and Chicanos of the late twentieth-century thus partake in a global trend of anti-colonial movements and decolonial projects that have begun to erode the universalism of western thought, and subsequently the rationale of western political hegemony.

Chicana/o Indigeneity within the context of anti-colonial thought was not possible without conscious CCM leaders who understood the importance of employing a method of teaching to inspire critical dia- logue. This dialogue helped students’ questioning of self and the world and helped educators develop a varied curriculum. Educators helped peers and future generations to critically reflect on the significance of history. By reflecting on history, educators inspired continued CCM values for human and civil rights advocacy that rectified historic injustice. One of the CCM’s legacies has manifested itself in various pedagogical efforts to help youth and young adults develop critical consciousness of important CCM values. These include respect for cultural diversity and heritage, as well as a strict adherence to the democratic principles of social equality. These efforts were part of broader civil right struggles to undue generations of horrid unequal mis-education of Chicana/o children in the U.S.5 CCM social movement values demonstrate the long-term effect of the CCM on Chicana/o social movements and peda- gogical ethos. For instance, for more than forty years, Chicana/o Studies programs in universities across the United States provide students with a social science and humanities education with curriculum on historic Mexican American civil rights struggles.6 The CCM has also influenced various pedagogical efforts outside of universities that have inspired youth by empowering them to take pride in the value of their cultural heritages. Paired with a historic consciousness of the unjust legacies of colonialism and capitalism, CCM activists inspired youth and young adults to utilize CCM values as a means to counter historic injustice and imagine a more egalitarian future.7

Although the CCM has many cultural and political ideologi- cal legacies,8 in this essay, I focus on Chicana/o activist organizations that established educational components aimed at helping youth and adults develop a critical consciousness of Chicana/o Indigenous cultural heritage and history. I highlight two phases of Chicana/o Indigenous

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Chicana/o Movement Pedagogical Legacies

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consciousness, the first one during and shortly after the influence of CCM cultural ideas, and the second one within the context of trans- national Indigenous Peoples human rights movements after 1980. The development of Chicana/o consciousness of Indigeneity through critical pedagogy inspired nuanced critiques of the unjust legacies of colonialism and imperialism, a critique of current global capitalism, and a critique of public education because it re-enforced the power of colonialism, impe- rialism, and capitalism. Through out this essay, I employ the terms critical and pedagogy that refer to a teaching method and form that sought to inspire in youth and young adults continuous questioning of the self and the world.9 I demonstrate how the pedagogical legacy of the CCM has produced examples of teaching and learning about democratic principles of equality while at the same time emphasizing a respect for cultural diversity. The purpose of this essay is to draw from the pedagogical legacy of the CCM, and its now four-decade project in ethnic revitalization of Indigeneity, a means to better understand how cultural identity and cultural diversity are connected to human struggles to attain democ- racy, social equality, and build community. Chicana and Chicano activists that utilized education to develop critical consciousness of Indigeneity and social justice formed part of broader twentieth-century trends that sparked and revitalized social movements. Attempts to establish alterna- tive forms of education that inspired critical consciousness were integral components of twentieth-century social struggles for equality, freedom, and democracy in the Americas.10

This essay thus provides examples of activist organizations that instituted and evolved CCM values for social equality and cultural diver- sity in formal and informal curriculums and pedagogies. The institution and evolution of these curriculums and pedagogies changed over time as Chicanismo and Indigenismo changed in relation to developments in transnational Indigenous Peoples movements in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. As adoption of Indigenismo grew during and after the CCM, some Chicana/o activists’ desires to rectify inequality grew into efforts to rectify global historic injustice through involvement in transnational human rights activism. As part of this activism, activists incorporated youth through educational programs that helped young people develop ways to question domination, power, culture, and oppression in social institutions. In turn, these youth developed agency and a public voice that they utilized to demand social equality among diverse peoples of the world as a requisite for true democracy.11 Although adoption of Chicana/o Indigenismo varied among these youth organizations, they all sought the respect for cultural diversity understanding that ethnic groups

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into a true democracy should not be forced to assimilate into the cul- tural values and worldviews of western civilization. These organizations looked towards a future where Indigenous Peoples, and other ethnic groups, had autonomous control of who formed part of their cultural communities, their cultural trajectories. From that platform, Chicana/o activits sought participation in geopolitics as equals to cultural “others” as part of a global citizenry.

Critiques of Critical Pedagogy: Indigenous Sovereignty vs. Individual Rights Critical pedagogies within the context of social movements make essen- tial strides in questioning the undemocratic and unjust practices of nation-states towards it citizens. However, critical pedagogy’s reliance on definitions of democracy and justice that are philosophically and culturally defined by western notions of individual rights are problem- atic to Indigenous Peoples concerned with upholding their rights to sovereignty.12 Education scholar Sandy Mari Anglás Grande notes that as a result of the post-modern turn, critical pedagogy scholars have increas- ingly criticized essentialized notions of identity and have advocated for hybrid understandings of identity.13 Grande contends that although hybrid scholars are correct in noting the dangers of “authenticity” as essentialism, the emancipatory potential of fluid identities is based on rights within western principles of individual rights and do not recog- nize that American Indians are primarily concerned with sovereignty. Grande highlights the problem in critical theory, the ideological base of critical pedagogy, is that “. . .critical theorists retain “democracy” as the central struggle concept of liberation, they fail to recognize Indig- enous peoples’ historical battles to resist absorption into the “democratic imaginary”—and their contemporary struggles to retain tribal sover- eignty”14 Although the western philosophical undertones of critical pedagogy contradict Indigenous Peoples’ right to cultural autonomy, Grande does conclude that American Indian scholars share concerns with critical scholars. Both regard the need to use education to develop critical agency and that this work should be done through multicultural coalition building.15 Grande calls for scholars to partake in critical dia- logue to develop a critical pedagogy that supports Indigenous theories of liberation and demands Indigenous communities’ right to sovereignty, self-determination, and cultural survival.

Although not all Chicana/o activists have been concerned with sovereignty (although some strongly do concern themselves with this),

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the discussion of cultural survival is important in describing activists’ efforts to uphold and maintain an Indigenous identity. These efforts are reflected in pedagogy and curriculum since the CCM that valued the survival of Chicana/o Indigenous culture. Chicana/o activist conceptual- ized an alignment with an Indigenous “way of life” and an understanding of Indigenous based historicity. This formed the foundation for imagin- ing Chicanas and Chicanos’ place in the historical and cultural context of Indigenous Peoples in the Americas. As a result, Chicana/o activists used an Indigenous based pedagogy to develop younger advocates that continued working for the respect of human rights. The ways Chicana/o activists’ pedagogy informed advocacy for human rights might point towards potential uses of education to nurture the cultural survival of Indigenous Peoples. This pedagogy may also establish the training neces- sary to participate politically in democratic transnational advocacy in a way that does not purport citizenship defined by western cultural values as a prerequisite for political and human rights.

Phase One: Cultural Revitalization and Educational Civil Rights The need to teach a critical consciousness of culture, history, and politics among youth and young adults inspired many CCM activists to create alternatives to public education systems. In the context of Civil Rights era educational reform, CCM activists centralized cultural relevancy in Chicana/o youth and young adult education along with access to neces- sary resources for an equitable education. Led by the courageous activism of young people that began in 1968 with the Chicana/o school “blow- outs,” CCM activists demanded well funded educational institutions that supported their right to cultural autonomy and agency. CCM activists contended that instituting a culturally relevant education was an integral Civil Rights era reform to rectify historic socioeconomic inequality and injustice suffered by Chicanas and Chicanos in the United States.16 By the 1970s, CCM era activists began to establish alternative K-12 schools and colleges to accomplish the goal of providing youth with an educa- tion that upheld their cultural autonomy. These schools were founded in locations across the southwest and all had a desire to instill its students with the ideology and values of the CCM.

The reasons CCM activists founded these schools varied from a desire to operate autonomously from restrictive and culturally biased local school district boards to a desire to implement experimental edu- cational pedagogies and curriculums that fostered critical consciousness.

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These schools attempted to create an educational environment where children and young adults combined a value for cultural heritage and history that countered historic trends of instilled racist ideology in public schools that viewed Chicana/o culture as an educational deficit. Educa- tors trained students to develop a critical consciousness of human rights that inspired young people to grow up with the ideological inspiration to continue to struggle for social justice.

Chicana/o Movement Alternative Schools

Many CCM activist organizations demonstrated their value for edu- cation by founding alternative schools. This supported efforts to build community, as well as train young people to continue struggling for human rights. For instance, in September 1969, the United Farm Workers (UFW) union began running its California Farm Workers Community School in Delano, CA. Although not an alternative to public educa- tion, the Community School offered its students supplemental education twice a week for three hours. The Community school sought to help students in reading, math, science, singing, crafts, painting, and Spanish. The school also trained students in social justice by having them par- ticipate in UFW picket lines as a way to teach students the importance of union organizing and the respect of workers’ fundamental human rights. Spanish language instruction also demonstrated the Community School’s attempt to provide Chicana/o children with a culturally rel- evant education. By improving their Spanish language schools, teachers helped students have a better appreciation for Chicana/o culture and better relations with their many times monolingual Spanish-speaking parents. The school relied on Union staff and community volunteers to provide students with educational services and its purpose was aligned with the broader goal of the UFW to build a movement to help the poor.17 Although the UFW exemplified the importance of education in training young people to fight for human rights, its status as an after school program limited the effects this type of education had on young people. Instead, other CCM activist organizations sought alternatives to public institutions as a means to provide complete another option besides westernized educational modes.

Along with the UFW’s Community School, the Escuela Tlatelolco, founded in 1970 by the Crusade for Justice in Denver, CO, also aligned the education of young people with the broader cause of a CCM activist organization. However, unlike the Community School, Escuela Tlate- lolco was an alternative and completely private school rather than an

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after school program. During the late 1960s, the Crusade for Justice was active in the improvement of public education in the Denver area. The organization supported and advised high school students protesting the racist actions of a social studies high school teacher at West High School in 1969. After helping students and parents meet with school officials that ignored their demands, the students of West High led the largest school walk-outs, up to that point, in Denver’s history.18 The protests influenced the Crusade for Justice to organize and host the National Chicano Youth Liberation conferences At these conferences, the organization spurred the ideology that guided Chicana/o youth activism and educational goals through out the country. The Crusade for Justice’s influence on youth activism and cultural education is most notably exhibited in the resulting El Plan Espiritual de Aztlan that called for Chicanas and Chicanos to rally behind the cultural needs of the Chicana/o community.19 Along with supporting high school protests and nationally organizing Chicana/o youth, the Crusade for Justice supported Chicana/o and African Ameri- can student organizations at the local Denver college and university, as well as helped diminish racial tensions among Chicana/o and African American youth.20

The Crusade for Justice’s social activism in support of youth inspired the teaching philosophy behind the Escuela Tlatelolco. The Escuela Tlatelolco began functioning as a year-round private school in 1970. The school relied on volunteers as instructors, teaching assistants, administrators, cooks, and janitors who made it possible to provide edu- cation to Chicana/o youth without charging them. Escuela Tlatelolco provided education to youth of kindergarten age to undergraduate edu- cation of young adults. Students learned to speak Spanish and Indigenous languages as a way for them to take pride in their cultural heritage. As one student, Melissa Montoya, put it, “You learn what you are. . .and not to be all hidden up inside yourself like a cocoon.”21 Escuela Tlatelolco students also participated in Crusade for Justice activities like writing articles for the prominent CCM newspaper El Gallo, participating in picket lines, and campaigning for La Raza Unida Party.22 These activities stemmed from the Crusade for Justice instilling the cultural and political values of the CCM into the curriculum of Escuela Tlatelolco. They also accommodated the needs of Escuela Tlatelolco students who sought a curriculum and teaching that valued their cultural heritage, which was not supported in public schools. As a result, many of the first Escuela Tlatelolco students in 1970 were organizers of student protests in 1969 that left public schools to seek a better education.23

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The Escuela Tlatelolco also offered college level instruction up to a B.A. In partnership with the Goddard College in Plainsfield, VT, the Escuela Tlatelolco offered undergraduates the opportunities to earn credits in traditional classroom settings as well as through service learn- ing as teaching assistants for the K-12 students.24 The Escuela Tlatelolco’s bridging of K-12 and undergraduate education demonstrates overall CCM desires to utilize education as a way to help Chicana/o communi- ties maintain cultural autonomy while engaging the U.S. political system as equals to whites. The Escuela Tlatelolco ultimately provided students with alternative forms of education that fostered community building, cultural pride, and political activism in ways that supported the goals of the CCM to gain equality and respect of human rights for Chicanas and Chicanos during the Civil Rights era. Consequently, efforts to find alter- natives to K-12 public education grew to include providing alternatives to undergraduate and graduate education.

Along with the Escuela Tlatelolco, the Colegio Jacinto Treviño in Mercedes, TX provided a means to train educators for Chicana/o communities. The school was founded in 1969 by teachers who spent weekends working in the fields of the Rio Grande Valley and oper- ated in an abandoned monastery. The Colegio focused on helping high school “push-outs” pass equivalency exams for high school diplomas. In 1970, the Colegio began offering graduate courses in education and in 1971 its first M.A. graduates stayed on to help teach undergraduates at the college.25 Graduate students at Colegio Jacinto Treviño took courses in history of Chicana/o cultural ideology, or Chicanismo, and history courses critical of colonialism and capitalism in the Americas. Along with these history courses, these future teachers took courses in critical pedagogy guided by the writings of Paulo Freire and Frantz Fanon.26 The coalescence of critical historical studies and critical pedagogy in the Colegio’s curriculum demonstrates that administrators and teach- ers at this school knew the importance of education in training young people to be conscious of global and transnational aspects of oppressive power structures. Whether these structures were historic colonialism or global capitalism, Colegio teachers emphasized the importance of being culturally grounded in an effort to resist these global oppressive power structures. On top of fostering this critical consciousness, the importance of having graduates return to the Colegio as teachers demonstrates the mission of this school to put their ideologies into practice by ensuring students continue to pass on their lessons to future generations.

In the same context of Texas CCM activism, Juárez Lincoln Uni- versity was another CCM alternative to traditional institutions of higher

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learning in Austin. Juárez Lincoln held extension campuses in Denver, CO, San Antonio, TX, and Mission, TX. In 1971, Juárez Lincoln began a partnership with Antioch College of Yellow Springs, OH and offered bachelors degrees in Liberal Studies and masters degrees in Education.27 The formation of Juárez Lincoln was a product of the Mexican American Youth Organization’s (MAYO) political activism to improve education for Chicanas and Chicanos.28 The goal of the university was to create a “un colegio Chicano” where Chicana and Chicano students would ben- efit from the cultural relevancy of an education based on bilingual and bicultural instruction, as well as curriculum based in Chicana/o history and culture. The philosophy behind Juárez Lincoln’s pedagogy also drew its influences from Paulo Freire and CCM Chicanismo by emphasizing that students learn through involvement in community programs.

Juárez-Lincoln employed its pedagogy within a bachelors program with an interdisciplinary structure that was organized around five themes of communication, environment, social process, humanities, and profes- sions. These themes were meant to “prepare the student to serve as a social change agent for the Chicano community. . .”29 Juárez Lincoln educators emphasized practice in the curriculum through accreditation of course credit accomplished by student service learning.30 This dem- onstrated that faculty sought to provide students with the knowledge and experience, an essential combination of critical pedagogy, so that these students became agents of social change. The masters program in Education at Juárez Lincoln employed a degree design model that was created by each student under the auspices of an advisor.31 In this way, the student had more power in determining the parameters of her/his education based on the interests and goals of the student. In the context of the CCM, the faculty’s emphasis on training agents of social change demonstrates the Juarez Lincoln’s commitment to find practical ways of attaining the broader goals of social equality and respect for cultural dif- ference in the era of Civil Rights and the CCM.

Concurrently with Juárez Lincoln, La Universidad Aztlan in Fresno, CA also provided Chicana and Chicano students with alternative paths to earning higher education degrees through an education informed by CCM ideology and critical pedagogy. Founded in 1970 by professors at Fresno State College, students from several San Joaquin Valley colleges, and staff from the Mobil Educational Guidance Project, La Universidad Aztlan was meant to provide Chicanas and Chicanos with an educational option that incorporated an examination of Chicana/o experience in its curriculum. Although La Universidad Aztlan sought to eventually pro- vide a K-12, undergraduate, and graduate education, it only succeeded

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in establishing a two-year junior college El Colegio de la Tierra, which was named by its first class of students. Like other CCM era alternative education projects, these Chicana/o educators accomplished much with little resources, but were nonetheless restrained by the lack of funds to accomplish much more ambitious goals.

Even so, La Universidad de Aztlan educators utilized critical peda- gogy by emphasizing service learning as the primary method for students to attain knowledge through experience. El Colegio de la Tierra empha- sized service learning by defining the whole San Joaquin Valley as the university campus.32 The curriculum and pedagogy of the Colegio de la Tierra was formatted as a “team learning” environment where students pushed the direction of the course. The teachers only guiding the courses by ensuring students developed critical questions. El Colegio de la Tierra, like other aforementioned examples, also provided interdisciplinary gen- eral studies courses organized around emphases on: 1) Alternatives to Education; 2) Social Organization; 3) Communication; 4) Government; 5) Community Health; 6) Humanities; 7) History; and 8) Physical Sci- ence. Students also developed independent projects that emphasized activism in Chicana/o communities.33 The interdisciplinary organization of courses and the emphasis on in the field service learning demonstrates El Colegio de la Tierra’s commitment to utilizing education to enhance the activism of the CCM. Utilizing college education, the founders of La Universidad hoped to ensure that the efforts of the CCM to struggle for the respect Chicanas’ and Chicanos’ civil and human rights would continue among a future generation.

Although Juárez Lincoln and La Universidad Aztlan demonstrated attempts to provide alternative options to traditional educational insti- tutions, their education models were limited to traditional milestone standards of associates, bachelors, and masters degrees. Other CCM schools sought to fill the void of adult education for students seeking skills, personal growth and other goals not limited to earning traditional degrees. La Academia de la Nueva Raza in Dixon, NM was founded in 1969 by social workers Facundo B. Valdez and Tomas C. Atencio, among others. During the 1970s, La Academia de la Nueva Raza focused on its mission to emphasize human learning based on historical and life expe- riences. The school founders sought to create a learning society rather than an education that served externally imposed curricular milestones. Before its dissolution in 1978, La Academia de la Nueva Raza expanded to offices in Brawley, CA, El Paso, TX, Las Cruces, NM, and Phoenix, AZ to support the adult educational needs of Chicana/o communi- ties.34 Valdez specialized in building community organizations and had

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experience in educational activism through school boycotts and other forms of community organizing like helping form a cattle feedlot coop- erative among Chicanos in northern New Mexico. Atencio specialized in mental health, adult education, and developed the concept of “Com- munity Life Education.”35 Perhaps Valdez and Atencio’s background in social work contributed to La Academia’s emphasis on personal develop- ment, community activism, and critical consciousness of history in New Mexico without trying to fit these goals into the traditional requirements of associates, bachelors, or masters degrees.

La Academia de la Nueva Raza’s non-institutionalized educational goals are exemplified by the efforts of staff and students to document the oral tradition of Chicanas and Chicanos of northern New Mexico. La Academia established and oral history project center in Dixon, which out-reached to the small towns of Penasco, Truchas, Chimayo, Meda- nales, Mora, Anton Chico, Rachitos, Las Vegas, and Cordova for oral history interviews as well as photographic documentation.36 Along with programs in “personal history” and participation in performing arts, stu- dents at La Academia were able to reflect on the importance of cultural traditions, history, and personal experience as a way to gain a critical con- sciousness of historic injustice and methods of rectifying that injustice. La Academia provided this form of education to community members as a way to “creat[e] an awareness, conscientiousness, a thirst for justice, and a commitment to work towards a free society.”37

The educators at alternative Chicana/o schools during the CCM cemented the pedagogical legacy of the CCM as a movement that sought to instill in young people a value for critical understandings of democracy and history. Through education, CCM activists and teachers also hoped to provide a space for Chicanas and Chicanos to critically reflect on their own histories, cultural heritage, and value for community. Infused with a positive value for Indigenous heritage within Chicanismo, critical reflections on heritage, culture, and history led to understandings of Chicana/o historicity based in Indigeneity. CCM alternative schools, along with the CCM as a whole, provided the discursive space that helped many Chicanas and Chicanos isolate their Indigenous heritage as the viable trajectory for Chicana/o community building. This realization would form the ideological basis for many forms of Chicana/o resistance to global oppressive forces through collaboration with other Indigenous Peoples of the Americas in transnational social movements.

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Indigenous Consciousness Leads to Critical Indigenous Pedagogies

CCM alternative schools demonstrated the importance of striving for alternative education rooted in the CCM ideology of Chicanismo by providing students with nuanced views on cultural diversity and democ- racy. These views inspired young people to envision new possibilities in understanding their past while working towards a more just and egalitar- ian future. A significant outcome of these alternative schools has been their contribution to providing the educational space to discuss the importance of Chicana/o Indigenous heritage and the political signifi- cance of Indigeneity. This contribution helped spur alternative schools rooted in a philosophy that prioritized the development of Chicana/o Indigenismo and supported de-colonizing efforts of Indigenous Peoples across the Americas. Since the CCM, these Indigenous based K-12 schools and colleges have helped continue and develop Chicana/o Indi- genismo ideas, as well as served as a base of support for Indigenous Peoples transnational activism and advocacy.

The Escuela de la Raza Unida in Blythe, CA exemplifies the role alternative schools had in advancing Chicana/o Indigenismo. Founded on May 1, 1972, the school began as out door classes in temperatures of 110 to 115 degrees Fahrenheit at Blythe City Park. Students, parents, and vol- unteer teachers held these classes in defiance of the local school board as a way to provide Chicana/o youth with a Chicana/o Studies curriculum. The school also depended on support from the local UFW offices for administrative space and the community center The Teen Post for library and folkloric dancing space.38 The school maintained permanence into the 1990s and upheld a pedagogical philosophy that allowed for “Chi- cano and other students the opportunity for substantive participation in the creation, initiation and actual implementation of educational goals and objectives” as well as the fostering of critical consciousness of politi- cal, social, and economic injustice.39

Much like the schools of the CCM era, the Escuela de la Raza Unida promoted culturally relevant education among Chicanas and Chi- canos in an effort to develop cultural ideas utilizing critical pedagogies. In this context, Alfredo A. Figueroa, founder of the Escuela de la Raza Unida, helped make the Escuela a local base for transnational Indigenous activism and connectivity. In 1986, La Escuela was a stopping point for a pilgrimage from Ixateopan, Guerrero, México to Los Angeles, CA that honored the last Mexica Tlatoani Kuahtemok. This pilgrimage was a rit- ually symbolic effort by Mexican Indigenistas to promote the importance of Mexicans, Chicanas, and Chicanos’ Indigenous past and revitalize

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Mexican and Chicana/o Indigeneity in the present. The 1986 pilgrim- age inspired Figueroa and others to make the same pilgrimage in reverse to Ixateopan, Guerrero, México in 1987. This was done to maintain the Indigenous connectivity these Mexican Indigenistas and U.S. Chi- canas and Chicanos established in 1986. The Escuela de La Raza Unida would further serve as a local center for broader transnational Indigenous Peoples efforts to build collectivity by supporting the Peace and Dignity Journeys of 1992 and 1996.40

The role the Escuela de La Raza Unida had in supporting Chicana/o Indigenous ideas and activities demonstrates the importance of creat- ing spaces where critical pedagogy can go hand in hand with culturally autonomous ideas that empower and motivate students. As broader developments in Chicana/o Indigeneity unfolded due to transnational communications and advocacy in the 1980s and 1990s, this CCM era alternative school demonstrates how Chicana/o connections with México helped develop local historic consciousness of Indigeneity. In turn, this historic consciousness helped keep the Escuela de la Raza Unida operational as a discursive space for discussion and development of critical political, social, and economic concerns through out the late twentieth century. This school remained a space for discussion regard- ing advocacy for civil rights during the CCM, and continued to do so during advocacy of human rights in the 1980s and 1990s in the con- text of transnational struggles for the respect of Indigenous Peoples’ human rights.

Along with connections to México, Chicana/o Indigenismo also devel oped in relation to collaborative educational efforts among American Indians, Chicanas, and Chicanos since the late 1960s. These collaborative educational efforts are best exemplified in California by the opening of DQ41 University (DQU) in July 1971. DQU demonstrated the most ambitious curricular and pedagogical mission to utilize Indi- geneity as the philosphical base for an educational mission to develop decolonial thought during this era. The efforts to establish an American Indian and Chicana/o university in California began in the mid 1960s when American Indian educators committed themselves to study the educational needs of American Indian and Chicana/o children in Cen- tral California. In 1967, educators, among them David Risling and Jack Forbes, founded the California Indian Education Association (CIEA). The CIEA focused its efforts on acquiring land for a school site, and in 1969, they applied for ownership of an abandoned 643 acre surplus U.S. Army communication outside of Davis, CA.42 Citing treaties that guar- anteed return of surplus U.S. government land to American Indians, the

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founders of DQU had to contend with a competing bid from the Uni- versity of California, Davis (UCD). Although the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare (DHEW) assured the founders of DQU that their treaty rights would be respected, the land was awarded to UCD. As a result, on November 2, 1970, American Indian and Chicana/o youth took over the site to draw media attention to what they saw as a back door deal that slighted the DQU’s rightful bid to the land. The media attention forced UCD to rescind their claim and on January 14, 1971, the DHEW awarded the land to DQU board members.43

The activism that led to the formation of DQU would later dem- onstrate its pedagogical commitment to an education that critically engaged Indigenous Peoples’ right to cultural autonomy. This helped educators develop a critical consciousness of culture and politics among its students. Educators demonstrated this, like many other CCM era schools, by proiritizing seminars, workshops, fieldwork, and work-study as methods for students to learn through experience, instead of uti- lizing the “banking” method of the lecture format. As a result, DQU students earned college credit from experience rooted in hands on learn- ing through community experience. DQU also offered opportunities to students that had been “pushed-out” of high school by letting them work towards their high school equivalency certificates while also work- ing towards their A.A. or B.A. degrees.44 Faculty and staff at DQU thus helped ensure that students negatively afflicted by the public K-12 school system received an opportunity to return to school and work towards earning their diplomas and degrees that would have otherwise been denied to them.

The curriculum at DQU offered students the opportunities to fulfill requirements in topics like English, Government, Social Sciences, History, Fine Arts, Psychology, Health, Music, Science, and Philosophy like all other public and private colleges. However, these topics were taught from a perspective that supported American Indian and Chicana/o cultural autonomy. For instance, Government courses were taught on the government and political structures of traditional tribal governments and Chicana/o political thought. Other government courses analyzed the implication of the U.S. Constitution in relation to American Indian treaty rights. DQU faculty utilized a curriculum that provided students with a political education that sought to encourage them to compare, analyze and evaluate western and Indigenous forms of governing as a way to consider political alternatives to western hegemony. Other gov- ernment courses focused on the role of Chicanas in social institutions, which encouraged students to analyze and evaluate how patriarchy

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influenced political thought and action towards and within Chicana/o communities. Literature, art, and music courses focused on art by Ameri- can Indians, Chicanas, and Chicanos. By focusing on this art, educators encouraged students to appreciate the autonomous production of culture by Chicana/o and American Indian writers, musicians, and artists. These courses were also intended to inspire students create their own artistic and/or literary productions.45

The curriculum at DQU also emphasized a negotiation between the student and university faculty so that the student ensured her/his education was relevant to her/his needs. As former executive director of DQU José de la Isla explained:

DQU offers a negotiable education. A mutually agreed program of study will be worked out by the student and the University. From that point it is the responsibility of the University and the student to live up to the terms of the agreement. This means hard work on both sides, but more importantly that that it means a relevant edu- cation, a people’s education, and not one determined by arbitrary requirements.46

The negotiable format of the curriculum at DQU exemplifies its com- mitment to provide a relevant education to Chicanas, Chicanos, and American Indians. By empowering students to create a coursework plan that related to their goals, DQU faculty and staff promoted students’ abil- ity to self-determine their educational paths based on their needs. This exercise in self-determination in combination with lessons on Chicana/o politics and American Indian sovereignty claims demonstrates the useful- ness of employing a critical pedagogy. DQU staff and faculty established a space to discuss and develop broader understandings of the signifi- cance of Indigeneity in the Americas. These critical pedagogical efforts would further ideological developments that helped Chicanas and Chi- canos coalesce their elaborations of Indigeneity with Indigenous Peoples’ struggles to attain sovereignty in the Americas, and with de-colonial efforts across the globe.

By the 1980s, DQU became a space that fostered the development of ideas and actions to support transnational struggles to respect the sov- ereignty and human rights of Indigenous Peoples in the Americas and to support the sovereignty and de-colonial efforts from people across the globe. These efforts are demonstrated by DQU’s hosting of the Ameri- can Indian International Tribunal on September 20th to 25th 1982. The Tribunal featured statements from Rigoberta Menchu, Philip Deede of the Creek from Oklahoma, Bob Brown of the All African People’s

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Revolutionary Party, David Nbada and Norma Kitson of the African National Congress, and Iranian scholar Heydar Reghaby. The conference focused on the effects of U.S. domestic policies on American Indians, U.S. foreign policies on the peoples of Africa and the Middle East, and the relation between the two. Conference participants agreed on the need for international solidarity that supported American Indian sover- eignty and a recognition that U.S. denial of American Indian sovereignty is intrinsically linked to U.S. imperial efforts abroad. Heydar Reghaby summed up this concern in mentioning a need for an “international consciousness” that linked sovereignty claims across the globe as part of a broadly linked effort at decolonization.47

By hosting the American Indian International Tribunal and uti- lizing a critical pedagogy and culturally relevant curriculum, DQU demonstrated its critical role in the development of Chicana/o Indige- neity. By collaborating with American Indians at DQU, Chicanas and Chicanos had the opportunity to develop the critical consciousness of American Indian political claims to sovereignty, understand the impor- tance of developing a critical consciousness of their own Indigenous heritage, and coming into contact with global trends in de-colonial politics and ideologies. As a result, Chicanas and Chicanos reevaluated their concerns for civil rights reforms through the lens of Indigenous autonomy. By partaking in transnational Indigenous Peoples’ movements, Chicanas and Chicanos also evaluated their Indigenous cultural heritage as they critically challenged and sought redress of historic human rights abuses in the United States and Mexico.48 These contributed to the development of Chicana/o Indigeneity in ways that helped Chicanas and Chicanos conceptualize and create paths to self-determination. These paths were in conjunction with American Indian struggles for respect of their sovereignty, and in many ways, the collaboration with American Indians helped Chicanas and Chicanos gain a critical awareness of their Indigenous historicity.

Although many educators sought to build alternative educational institutions, efforts like those at the Escuela de la Raza Unida and DQU were restrained by requirements they needed to meet determined by state and federal officials that govern educational attainment. Although finding ways to navigate these requirements guarantees more exposure of critical ideas to young students, supplemental educational programs have the advantage of less restrictions and thus more room for curricular creativity and exposure to social relations. In this vein, Chicana/o cul- tural centers, also products of the CCM, would partake in education as a means to promote, a critical consciousness of Chicana/o Indigeneity

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through culturally relevant education and critical pedagogy. These centers became a space where a reflection on Chicana/o Indigenous historicity was linked to the development of a philosophy supporting the human rights of Indigenous People across borders. This philosophy would also contribute to ideologies and solidarity in support of decolonial efforts to challenge injustice across the globe.

Indigenous Curriculum and Pedagogy at Los Centros Culturales

CCM era educational efforts to utilize cultural consciousness of Chi- canismo and Indigenismo as a means to provide Chicana/o youth with critical teaching methods many times also took place at Chicana/o activist cultural centers. These centers attempted to provide youth with a useful education relevant to their cultural, social, economic, and political experi- ences. Many times, cultural centers continued after the movimiento into the late twentieth-century and beyond. Thus, in the 1980s, as Chicana/o activists aligned with changing transnational Indigenous Peoples’ social movements, their efforts in cultural centers began to reflect an advo- cacy for Chicana/o self-determination that aligned with the transnational respect of Indigenous Peoples’ human rights and sovereignty.

Many times, cultural centers partook in their own pedagogical efforts to expose young people to critical historic consciousness of Indigeneity in the Americas. During the 1980s, cultural centers like El Centro Chicano in Austin, TX began the Programa Educativo del Barrio (or “la escuelita”) that implemented an Indigenous critical pedagogy to instill in youth the importance of Chicana/o Indigeneity. For these activists, Indigeneity was a vehicle to cultivate critical consciousness of decolonial ideologies and Chicana/o historicity. La escuelita did this uti- lizing a culturally relevant curriculum with a focus on history, mural art, and performing arts that targeted at risk youth in the Austin area. El Centro Chicano also sponsored youth travel to Pine Ridge Reserva- tion in Ogala, SD where youth interacted with Sioux youth. During these interactions, Chicana/o and Sioux youth related to each other culturally through ceremonies and politically through recognition of similar experiences with poor education, poverty, and violence suffered by youth in American Indian and Chicana/o communities.49 Thus El Centro Chicano in Austin, like DQU, helped foster critical consciousness of Chicana/o Indigeneity.

Although El Centro focused on younger children, age 3-13, their objective also to help Chicanas and Chicanos align their goals with those of American Indian children. They worked towards a future where

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both communities would enjoy respect of their human rights and the opportunity for self-determination. In some ways, El Centro Chicano accomplished these goals because it did not have to rationalize its educa- tional activities as part of fulfilling educational requirements established by westernized school boards. Nevertheless, like alternative schools, these centers are bound by the rules governing non-profit organizations as well as with the task of securing the necessary funds to ensure these programs keep going.

During the 1980s, El Centro Cultural de La Raza in San Diego, CA demonstrated how considerable success in securing funding also brought with it struggles to balance decolonial goals with the rules and regulations of non-profit organizations. Founded in 1970 by the artist collective Toltecas de Aztlan, El Centro Cultural de La Raza was a prod- uct of CCM era activism in the San Diego area. Since the mid 1960s, the artists collective Toltecas de Aztlan recognized a need for an artistic space for Chicanas and Chicanos. After a take over of Balboa Park, they founded El Centro Cultural de la Raza with the mission to encour- age art of “those indigenous to the border region.”50 The origins of El Centro Cultural de la Raza in CCM era activism would influence future advocacy for the use of arts as curriculum and pedagogy for Chicana/o youth. Through the arts, El Centro Cultural de la Raza staff sought to teach the importance of cultural autonomy, human rights, as well as help students develop a broader international consciousness. By the 1980s, the success of El Centro Cultural de la Raza allowed for it to promote and utilize its curriculum and pedagogy through various educational pro- grams with students as young as 4 years old to teachers in training at San Diego State University.

Early in its history, El Centro Cultural de la Raza demonstrated a commitment to youth education that used art to help Chicana/o youth develop an Indigenous based sense of identity and historicity. For instance, El Centro Cultural de la Raza ran year round arts education programs during the 1970s that taught youth, ages 3-19, art and perfor- mance. El Centro Cultural de la Raza staff used an arts curriculum to help channel youth’s activities towards creative expression as a way to draw them away from drugs and violence. El Centro Cultural de la Raza also sought to use art and performance to “awaken inner potential” and promote “cultural awareness.”51 Youth accomplished their potential and awareness of cultural heritage by participating in Danza Azteca, Folkloric dance, teatro, and painting. Youth were encouraged to perform and/or exhibit their art publicly as a way to develop self-confidence and a com- munity perspective on the value of their artistic efforts.52 Efforts like this

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youth art program demonstrate El Centro Cultural de la Raza’s com- mitment to an education that emphasized the role of Chicana/o cultural awareness as a base for reversing the racist public education that only valued western cultural norms.

El Centro Cultural de la Raza efforts to reverse the effects of racism in public education became rooted in Indigenous “world views.” This supported the staff ’s objectives to help youth develop a self-determined sense of identity. As they stated in an early 1970s workshop for educators, “Here at the Centro Cultural de la Raza we are dedicated to breaking from the traditional concept of ourselves by developing awareness of our Chicano Heritage. This workshop emphasizes the need for Chicanos to be free to express themselves as Chicanos.”53 El Centro Cultural de la Raza curriculum builders go on further in seeing their role as nurtur- ing Indigenous cultural and philosophical continuity among Chicana/o youth:

[Children] see themselves as part of their environment, which is an important concept in the indigenous way of living; being at one with the world. This concept should not be destroyed by the educa- tional system, but rather cultivated and encouraged.54

This particular workshop helped teachers nurture youth’s connection to the environment by promoting Indigenous philosophical concepts through the interpretive and creative mimes. El Centro Cultural de la Raza staff helped teachers with ways of using miming to help youth self-express cultural symbolism that formed part of their heritage. Through miming that utilized Aztec, Mayan, and Toltec philosophical symbols, El Centro Cultural de la Raza staff hoped to train teachers to use Indigenous thought about the world among young children. El Centro Cultural de la Raza staff helped teachers and youth utilize Chicana/o heritage as a valuable avenue towards an Indigenous defined self-determined Chicana/o identity. El Centro Cultural de la Raza’s early curriculum and its philosophical rooting in Aztec, Mayan, and Toltec cultural symbolism demonstrate a nascent Indigeneity among Chica- nas and Chicanos. Although its reliance on Aztec and Toltec symbolism reflects influences of Mexican nationalist discourse of the twentieth- century, El Centro Cultural de la Raza’s focus on using these symbols to empower disenfranchised youth points towards decolonial intentions more so than an attempt to build hegemonic consensus towards the goal of political domination. These decolonial intentions would later help El Centro Cultural de la Raza develop a multicultural curriculum

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that emphasized the cultural rights of diverse peoples and promoted the equality of these people in ways broader than national boundaries and nationalist discourse.

By the 1980s, El Centro Cultural de la Raza used a philosophical foundation rooted in Chicana/o Indigenismo to promote a plural-cul- tural and multicultural curriculum and pedagogy and sought to utilize arts education as a decolonial tool. In their statement on philosophy of education, El Centro Cultural de la Raza emphasized the need for a multicultural curriculum that:

. . .gives learning opportunities to acquire knowledge about cul- tural differences, to develop interpersonal and thinking skills and attitudes that will foster the individual to get along with, feel com- fortable with, and appreciate people of diverse cultural/ethnic backgrounds.55

The staff at El Centro Cultural de la Raza goes on to state the impor- tance of education in nurturing self-realization among youth that helps them develop a “positive self-image and concept.”56 For Chicana/o youth, the use of Chicana/o cultural elements was necessary to accomplish posi- tive self-image and respect for cultural diversity. El Centro Cultural de la Raza staff sought to have Chicana/o youth identify values and cultural customs of their communities to utilize them in social, educational, and cultural activities and programs at the center.57 El Centro Cultural de la Raza’s educational staff thus rooted their multicultural education in a philosophy of Chicana/o Indigenismo so that Chicana/o youth possessed a positive view of their Indigenous heritage. This curriculum served as the conceptual foundation upon which to engage cultural others in a discussion on equality that valued cultural difference in a diverse world.

To establish a strong foundation upon which Chicana/o youth could engage in critical discussions on cultural diversity, El Centro Cul- tural de la Raza’s curriculum utilized Chicana/o culture to help students develop critical thinking skills, ethical principles, values, and awareness of hereditary culture. To accomplish these objectives, El Centro Cul- tural de la Raza’s staff identified a lack of arts education in local schools and proposed an arts education program for K-12 students to the Wolf Trap Foundation.58 After successfully acquiring funds from the Wolf Trap Foundation, El Centro Cultural de la Raza Cultural created its Perform- ing Arts Training and Child Development program that served 1000 Head Start program children, teachers, and parents in 1983-1984 through out San Diego County. Through this program, professional dancers, actors, and musicians visited 25 Head Start programs. The goal of the

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program was to train parents and teachers to use performing arts to help children improve self-awareness, build self-confidence, foster group awareness and social competencies, as well as foster individual artistic creativity.59 The culmination of this program was the “Children’s Per- forming Arts Festival” on April, 27, 1984. During the festival, Head Start program children performed dances and plays that ranged from instruc- tion on nutrition to appreciation of Chicana/o Indigeneity through Danza Azteca.60 The program helped Chicana/o children develop positive self-image of their culture to the point where they could publicly per- form Chicana/o cultural dances, as well as utilize the art form as a base for other skills, such as good nutritional habits.

El Centro Cultural de la Raza Staff ’s efforts at utilizing Chicana/o cultural values based in Indigeneity were not limited to Chicana/o children. El Centro Cultural de la Raza created The Chicano Mural In-service Program utilized mural painting to promote cultural under- standing among various ethnic groups. The goals of the program were to offer youth “direct, visual evidence of beliefs, attitudes and values at the heart of the barrio pictorialized in mural symbolism and its interpreta- tion.”61 El Centro Cultural de la Raza staff described the implication of utilizing mural art to help students of all ethnicities understand the cul- tural and historical context of Chicana/o communities as follows:

The inservice program is an articulation of Chicano mural slides that presents a theory for understanding the nature and purpose of symbolism, defines a methodology for group interpretation of the mural, involves participants in group mural interpretation and shares with them the barrio interpretation of the mural vision.62

El Centro Cultural de la Raza Cultural staff created this program to help non-Chicana/o students develop the skills for intercultural commu- nication that was free from the racist definitions of cultural differences embedded in Western society. For instance, in partnership with teach- ers and students from Spanish language programs at Bird Rock and Lowell elementary schools, El Centro Cultural de la Raza staff helped non-Chicana/o children. To help them learn to speak Spanish, the staff used Chicana/o art forms to solidify these students’ Spanish language instruction with Chicana/o cultural values. These students participated in designing and painting a mural at Chicano Park in San Diego. These non-Chicana/o students would therefore be better situated to under- stand communication with Chicana/o communities in a way that taught students the cultural and historical context behind the Spanish language communication among and with San Diego area Chicana/o communities.

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El Centro Cultural de la Raza also worked to establish ways to provide arts education and training to teenage and college age youth in the San Diego area. Between 1981 and 1983, El Centro Cultural de la Raza worked with San Diego area colleges to have college students complete their service hours at the center. These students participated in helping out with administrative tasks as well as participation and creation of art workshops.63 El Centro Cultural de la Raza education staff worked with the City of San Diego’s Regional Youth Employment Program that provided funds for summer jobs in 1983 to provide teenage youth with employment and cultural training. Although these teenagers primarily were responsible for clerical duties, they did have the opportunity to participate in research projects to help develop future El Centro Cultural de la Raza art projects.64 In 1985, El Centro Cultural de la Raza educa- tion staff established the Drug Education/Prevention Theatre project to help teens stay away from drugs. Utilizing the CCM era tradition of Chicana/o Teatro,65 El Centro Cultural de la Raza Cultural staff used a critical pedagogy to provide young Chicana/o students with ways of par- ticipating in a Drug Prevention education. These efforts provided teens with arts education rooted in Chicana/o artistic traditions demonstrate El Centro Cultural de la Raza’s commitment to use a critical pedagogy and culturally relevant topics.66 They helped youth overcome social obstacles like drug use and provide them with a means of developing self-confi- dence by allowing them to have input on community art projects.

El Centro Cultural de la Raza arts education was a product of a commitment to a legacy of Chicana/o activism in education, as well as the result of strong partnerships with private and government institu- tions. As the funding from the Wolf Trap foundation and the City of San Diego’s Regional Youth Employment program demonstrate, El Centro Cultural de la Raza Cultural was extremely successful in gaining funding for their programs, while at the same time maintaining certain degrees of autonomy.67 Their interpretation of multicultural education was inclu- sive of diverse people’s struggles to obtain human and civil rights This demonstrates El Centro Cultural de la Raza’s contribution to decolonial thought in education that emphasized cultural autonomy and human rights. Moreover, El Centro Cultural de la Raza’s educational efforts demonstrate the importance of rooting decolonial efforts in self-deter- mined and critical interpretations of Indigeneity. These objectives were accomplished utilizing critical pedagogy rooted in and Indigenous phi- losophy so that the tensions of western individualistic values and mores were replaced by collective community efforts at self-determination.

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Phase Two: Transnational Chicana/o Indigenismos and Pedagogies The late 1980s and early 1990s marked a shift in Chicana/o Indigenismo that developed in connection with developing transnational Indigenous Peoples’ Rights movements. Chicana/o participation in UN advocacy and International gatherings of Indigenous Peoples helped Chicanas and Chicanos further develop an Indigenismo that contributed to a con- ceptualization of of many Chicanas and Chicanos’ Nahuatl heritage.68 These trends in activism and advocacy helped Chicanas and Chicanos understand the implications of their role in transnational Indigenous Peoples’ social movements at the local level. Consequently, these ideo- logical, political, and social developments also influenced the philosophy behind pedagogical efforts to instill youth with the values of Chicana/o Indigenismo. The role of education, thus, became one that utilized criti- cal pedagogical methods, creative and performance arts, as well as ritual to further develop Chicana/o Indigenismo.

Laying the Seeds: The Xinachtli Project’s Nahuatl Education

The Xinachtli project in Phoenix, AZ exemplifies pedagogical imple- mentation of Chicana/o Indigenous philosophical thought. Founded in 1991, this project resulted from Chicana/o activists’ efforts to utilize Chicana/o Indigenismo to counter the racial inequality in public schools that fostered self-doubt and destructive behavior among Chicana/o youth. Even though this was a part-time program and not a full-time alterna- tive school, the Xinachtli project efforts demonstrated the importance of incorporating the education of youth utilizing the values of transnational Indigenous Peoples social movements. These educational efforts formed an integral part of attaining and working towards the decolonization of Chicana/o and other ethnic groups in the Americas.

The Xinachtli program began with the sole focus of elementary school students and later expanded to include junior and high school students. The program also included a parent component to ensure that Chicana/o communities had a say in their children’s education, as well as provide parents with knowledge of the public education system. Xinachtli served the Valley, Murphy, Phoenix Elementary and High School, Roosevelt, Avondale, and Tolleson school districts. Through col- laboration with the Phoenix Unified High School District (PUHSD), Xinachtli Director Tupac Enrique and PUHSD Title VII Specialist Deb- orah Ortiz obtained funding for Xinachtli sites at Camelback, North, and Carl Hayden High Schools for Limited English Proficient students.69

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Xinachtli educators were also members of the Tonatierra Chapter of the National Chicano Human Rights Council (NCHRC) and the Maricopa County Organizing Project, both of which were involved with transna- tional advocacy of Indigenous Peoples’ Rights at the U.N. The Tonatierra chapter of the NCHRC made strong arguements in world forums that posited Chicanas and Chicanos as a distinct Indigenous population of the Americas.70 This international activism influenced Xinachtli program objectives of the Xinachtli program. The Xinachtli program curriculum underscored historical ties to the role of education in Chicana/o activ- ism as well as the relationship to Chicana/o Indigenismo to international Indigenous Peoples social movements. As the goal of the Xinachtli pro- gram states:

The goal of the current Xinachtli Project. . .is to plant the seed of tradition within the context of the public education format. It is a beginning. . . The outcome of the project on the individual student is an enhanced knowledge and appreciation of the indigenous heritage and history of the Chicano-Mexicano people, and increased sense of self-worth, and an opportunity to pursue further studies in the Nahuatl culture.71

The Xinachtli Program’s emphasis on helping youth develop a self- worth demonstrates the pedagogical legacy of the CCM was alive and well among Chicanas and Chicanos in Phoenix during the 1990s, albeit under new ideological influences of transnational Indigenous Peoples social movements.

Although the Xinachtli Project respected “all other native tra- ditions that are present in the Chicano-Mexicano reality besides Nahuatl. . . ,” project founders operated under Nahuatl philosophical influences “. . .due to the importance of Nahuatl mythology and philol- ogy in the development of [Chicana/o-Mexicano] communities.”72 They utilized three aspects of Nahuatl philosophy to guide their curriculum and pedagogy: “1) Tezcatlipoca—the aspect of memory and history; 2) Quetzalcoatl—the aspect of intelligence, consciousness; 3) Huitzilo- pochtli—the aspect of will.”73 The curriculum consisted of homework, maps, and presentations by Xinachtli program staff. These historic and contemporary materials made connections between Chicana/o commu- nities and the Indigenous Peoples of the Americas. For example, students were exposed to a presentation of the Tonalpohalli, or Aztec Calendar, and learned the significance of Nahuatl cosmology. Students were able to interpret these cosmological meanings in ways that related to their own lives.74 The solidification of this knowledge was instituted through

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pedagogy inclusive of performance art, Nahuatl writing exercises, and the participation of youth in Danza Azteca at the high school level.75 The high school curriculum formed part of curriculum Xinachtli staff members named Mexicayotl Studies. They argued that Mexicayotl Stud- ies provided educational services to students that reflected an Indigenous Mexican perspective. Utilizing this perspective, the Xinachtli program helped meet the culturally relevant educational needs of Chicana/o youth in ways that were supported by teachers and parents.76

The effectiveness of the Xinachtli program was demonstrated by student and teacher surveys regarding the program. After asking 240 students what they liked best about the Xinachtli program presentations and curriculum, they responded with 263 positive comments. These comments highlighted the importance of learning about Chicana/o Indi- geneity with responses that demonstrated the students liked learning about “Mexican history and culture,” “Learning about our ancestors and symbols,” and “Learning about Indian culture and history.” When asked what they found most important and interesting, 93 students responded that they found Aztec symbolism and philosophy most important and 73 students regarded “information about our ancestors, [and] Mexican history and culture” most important. Teachers also found the Xinachtli program curriculum valuable when 100% of them evaluated the Xinachtli activities as either above average or superior. Moreover, when answering the question regarding whether or not the Xinachtli presenter facilitated students’ positive self-esteem and promotion of their culture, 91% of them responded the presenter always did this and the other 9% responded that the presenter did this most of the time. When evaluat- ing the relevance of Xinachtli presentations to students’ lives, 100% of teachers stated that the presenter maintained this sort of interest among students either most of the time or always.77

As Xinachtli staff members recognized in the analysis of their surveys, the Chicana/o youth found this program appealing because it related to their culture, history, and fostered the development of their self- confidence and identity.78 Teachers’ responses to the Xinachtli program survey demonstrated that this curriculum provided students with a way to develop a positive understanding of their cultural heritage, which helped develop among youth a pride in their cultural identity. This outcome is integral in helping youth develop the self-confidence necessary to suc- ceed as adults and demonstrates that this must be done in a way relevant to the history and culture of students. The students’ positive responses regarding Aztec symbolism in particular also demonstrates the importance of understanding Mexica history and culture for Chicana/o and Mexican

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youth. The particular historic importance of the Aztecs in regards to resistance to European colonialism becomes an important avenue for Chicana/o youth to understand their right to explore and proclaim their Indigeneity. Students explore the implications of an Indigenous position- ality in broader struggles for the rights of Indigenous Peoples to rectify the injustices of colonialism and empire. Even if these students later find that they are more closely related to other Indigenous or non-Indigenous Peoples of México or the United States, their introduction to Indigene- ity, vis-à-vis Aztec thought and culture as it relates to Indigenous Peoples rights in the present remains an integral political introduction to the implications of Indigenous claims to sovereignty and human rights.

Chicana/o youth in the Xinachtli program also understood claims of Chicana/o Indigeneity as they related to the challenges of injustice, violence, and inequality in a globalized capitalist world built on the foundation of colonialism. These political, historic, and cultural under- standings are integral to train Chicana/o youth to become self-confident and self-determined young adults that can carry on the values, ethics, and morals of Indigenous Peoples’ social movements. These lessons are valu- able whether they inspire youth to continue activism as adults or through the promotion of self-confidence and determination through cultural activities among their families and communities.

The Xinachtli program staff demonstrated the ways in which the Chicana/o participation in transnational Indigenous Peoples movements is accompanied with educational efforts to help instill the values of these social movements among youth. The decolonial and self-determined perspectives of these movements where nurtured by an education that utilized critical pedagogy and a curriculum based in Indigenous phi- losophy. This helped youth critically understand how their history and culture affected the circumstances of their political, social, and economic positions in Western society. The effects on students were multiple and interrelated. First, students understood and developed a pride in their heritage, which helped counter racist depiction of Indigenous peoples that relegated their importance to pre-historical times. Another effect of cultural pride on Chicana/o youth was its effect on their ability to challenge racism in public education. Finally, Xinachtli curriculum and pedagogy created the dialogical space that would teach students the need to respect and fight for the human rights of Indigenous Peoples. This space also provided youth with the opportunity to push the ideas and values of transnational Indigenous Peoples movements in ways that helped all participants of these movements envision and then fight for avenues towards a decolonized future.

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Towards Peace and Dignity: Tonantzin Indigenous Youth Group

Like the Xinachtli program in Phoenix, the Tonantzin Indigenous Youth Group (TIY) in Albuquerque, NM was an outgrowth of a Chicana/o activist organization. Beginning in 1982 the Tonantzin Land Institute advocated and focused their activism on fighting for Pueblo Indian and Chicana/o land, sovereignty, and water rights. During the late 1980s and 1990s, the Tonantzin Land Institute also served as a chapter of the National Chicano Human Rights council and supported Indigenous Peoples’ testimonials to the UN. In 1991, the Tonantzin Land Institute founded TIY after receiving a grant to train youth and young adults in community organizing with an emphasis on advocacy on environmen- tal issues.79 Much like other CCM legacy organizations, the Tonantzin Land Institute navigated public funds in an effort to establish critical training of young people. Through out the 1990s, TIY trained youth to develop a critical consciousness of Indigenismo, Indigenous Peoples rights, and broader transnational efforts that challenged racism towards and exploitation of Indigenous Peoples. Although the Tonantzin Land Institute activists trained youth to advocate local issues, they did so in a way that helped students gain an understanding of how their local issues related to broader concerns of anti-colonization. The youth participated in local activism that connected local issues to global efforts emphasizing self worth and self-determination. Although Tonantzin activists did not necessarily conceive of this training as pedagogy, their incorporation of youth into Tonantzin Land Institute demonstrates the lasting legacy of the CCM to instill social movement values into younger generations. Whether explicitly or implicitly pedagogical, future generations learned to keep pushing for a more just and egalitarian future.

After its foundation in 1991, TIY operated out of the Tonantzin Land Institute and focused on training a core group of 15 young people to serve as youth leadership. This small youth board served as way to link hundreds of high school and college students in the Albuquerque area. The board consisted of Pueblo, Diné, and Chicana/o youth that attended West Mesa High School, UNM, and the New Mexico School of Natural Therapeutics. Many of the young adults on the board also worked as youth, drug, and alcohol counselors at non-profit organiza- tions and in Pueblo Communities. The board sought to outreach to young people to participate in Tonantzin Land Institute activism through out the 1990s. TIY contributed heavily to the Tonantzin Land Insti- tute’s gathering of international testimonies regarding the violation of Indigenous Peoples rights in 1993. These formed part of broader global

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efforts to commemorate the international year of the Worlds Indigenous Peoples.80 TIY youth also organized protests to challenge the destruction of petroglyphs in west Albuquerque with the extension of Unser Blvd. and Paseo del Norte throughout the 1990s.81

The intent of outreaching to youth to participate in these events was to “Utilize these events as hands on community mobilization train- ing and empowerment activities.”82 As the staff from the Tonantzin Land Institute explained, “It is our hope that the youth will have a clear under- standing of power and its elements at any political level. It is our hope that these young people will become more active, in the issues that con- cern them, in their community, and as Native American Young People.”83 The staff of Tonantzin demonstrated an activist tradition of using activ- ism as pedagogy to teach youth to be critical of power and train them to develop political agency to advocate for their communities’ needs. Although Tonantzin Land Institute staff preferred the language of politi- cal organizing instead of one based on pedagogy and education, their focus on training youth exemplifies the need to teach youth empow- erment strategies through experience in activism rather than through traditional classroom means. This ensured that the youth enacted and practiced ways to collaborate with others as they challenged injustice.

In addition to helping youth challenge injustice, TIY also helped Chicana/o and American Indian youth relate to one another and develop a pride for their Indigenous culture, heritage, and identity. An example of this is the primary role TIY had in coordinating the New Mexico leg of the Peace and Dignity Journeys in 1992 and 1996.84 TIY planned the logistics of the journey, which included consulting with Pueblo elders to gain support and permission for the runners to run through the res- ervations. TIY youth also participated in the journey as the primary runners for the event, which affected and influenced their understanding of Indigeneity. One TIY member reflected on the run and explained that he learned the importance of land, his Indigenous heritage, the impor- tance of sovereignty rights, the connections between Chicana/o and Pueblo communities in New Mexico, and the need for unification of Indigenous Peoples of North America with those in Central and South America. He especially underscored the importance of Chicana/o and Pueblo unity when he explained historic trends of unity between these communities dating back to the 1680 Pueblo Revolt. This TIY member thus made connections between 1990s struggles for environmental and social justice in New Mexico communities to historic relations between Native Americans, Chicanas, and Chicanos.85

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The participation of youth as leaders during the Peace and Dig- nity Runs exemplifies that when youth are taught to have pride in their culture and heritage they become empowered to challenge racism. TIY members were brought into broader transnational networks of Indigenous People in the context of social movements that sought to decolonize the Americas. TIY youth learned valuable lessons from trans- national activism about the ways Indigenous Peoples could exists as culturally autonomous peoples and retain their rights to sovereignty. In this context, TIY members partook in an activist pedagogy that nurtured their agency and taught them to challenge unjust power while exploring the significance of their Indigeneity. TIY thus demonstrates the evolu- tion of a CCM practice of teaching youth through activism. By the 1990s, the Tonantzin Land Institute utilized this practice in the context of transnational Indigenous Peoples social movements that helped youth envision decolonial possibilities for the future. As a result, TIY members were influenced to challenge abuses of cultural, human, and sovereignty rights through their activism.

Although the Tonantzin Land Institute demonstrated the legacy of the CCM in utilizing activism as pedagogy for youth, Tonantzin leader- ship had doubts as to whether working with youth was related to their overall efforts at fighting for Pueblo and Chicana/o land, sovereignty, and water rights. As former director David Luján explained, the found- ing of the Tonantzin Land Institute was based on working with Pueblo and Chicana/o community elders. The elders of these communities pos- sessed the respect of the rest of the community, which made them the most important component of political organizing. Consequently, some of the leadership felt adding a youth component drew focus away from working with elders.86 Nevertheless, Tonantzin Land Institute leader- ship agreed with younger members of the organization and decided to give the youth group a chance. Quickly after its foundation, TIY youth changed the minds of Tonantzin Land Institute leadership that opposed the youth group. As Luján explains:

And sure enough [the]. . .Tonantzin youth challenge was formed and I’ll tell you man it brought new life into Tonantzin. It was new life that brought it back alive and gave it more strength, gave it, you know, a brighter outlook y todo eso (and all of that) and they did a lot of good work. . .And the important thing tambien (also) for the [youth]. . .was that we could. . .impress upon them was this is not a youth club. . .the things they were going to be touched by were going be. . .part of them for the rest of their life. Like water

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rights and sovereignty rights. They picked them up de volada (right away).87

TIY youth’s vigor and strength demonstrated to the Tonantzin Land Institute’s more hardened veteran activists the value of the relationship between adults and youth in activist settings. The aforementioned con- tributions TIY made to the Tonantzin Land Institute activism impressed adult activists. The youth injected vigor into a many times daunting social struggle, and in doing so, changed the mind of adults were at first skeptical of incorporating youth into the land and water rights orga- nization. Moreover, the creation of a space for dialogue among youth and adults better established the ideological environment where activists determined goals for the future. Although the Tonantzin Land Insti- tute staff referred to TIY as training for youth, the way in which they provided youth with activists training through experience exemplifies the creation of a critical pedagogy space where veteran activists and youth learned from each other and inspired each other in struggles for social justice.

The incorporation of youth in Tonantzin Land Institute activism provided hardened activists with the vigor to continue their work. Train- ing a future generation also inspired veteran activists to continue the work of fighting for their communities’ right to self-determination and sovereignty knowing a future generation would carry on their work. The outcome of the TIY program was the development of a new generation of New Mexico leaders that were influenced by the ethics and values of transnational Indigenous Peoples social movements. The former direc- tor of the Tonantzin Land Institute David Luján explains that many TIY members are now community leaders:

. . .well you know this was about 10 years ago so. . .I see a lot of them in leadership positions. They may not all be in organizing or all be in, you know, activist groups but. . . if they’re in their in com- munities. . .they’re spokespeople you can go to.88

The TIY program thus created a group of young adults that became empowered community leaders. They helped these youth develop their agency in ways that continue the important aspect of social movements, which pass on a commitment to social justice to future generations.

The TIY program also exemplifies the extremely urgent need to provide Chicana/o and American Indian youth positive options that help them self-determine their future trajectories. As Luján explains, TIY helped youth avoid problems with substance abuse and alcoholism:

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And one of the important parts of that too is that the persons, the young people that initiated that whole youth component. . .they have all been as we say in,. . . uh, in all this talk, they had been to the bottom. They had been, you know, affected by drugs, affected by drinking, and they had gotten out of that. That’s why they knew the importance of bringing other young people. So their sobriety and their, you know, their respect. . .for being clean and staying away from drugs carried over to these other young people. And it was a fabulous part.89

The role the TIY had in helping youth develop the agency to self-deter- mine their futures best exemplifies why Chicana/o activists, since the CCM, have worked so hard to establish ways to incorporate youth into social movements. The activist training that TIY members received did much more to empower students and develop their agency than any traditional classroom curriculum. The Tonantzin Land Institute’s effect on these youth was one where the youth developed the confidence, self-determination, and courage to stand up for their community’s rights. With these strengths, TIY members were better able to reject the prede- termined exploited, rejected, criminalized, and victimized socioeconomic roles planned for them in U.S. society that public schools reinforced through mis-education.

Conclusion Since the CCM, Chicana/o activists have utilized an activist pedagogy to help develop young people’s critical consciousness. Even within the context of regulations, lack of funding, or lack of access to students, these activists and educators utilized a critical pedagogy and a creative curriculum that valued diverse cultural heritage. They pushed students and youth towards critical understandings of equality and democracy while helping students develop and mature their agency. As a result, these young people began to voice their concerns regarding their role in society, and demanded respect for cultural autonomy for individuals and communities. During the CCM, this resulted in a sense of pride in cultural heritage and the ability to exist in a culturally diverse society without having to renounce cultural heritage in exchange for social and economic success. Since the CCM, many Chicanas and Chicanos’ adop- tion and evolution of Indigenismo and participation with transnational Indigenous Peoples movements resulted in the evolution of this activ- ist pedagogy to be inclusive of a critical understanding of Indigenous Peoples’ rights to sovereignty. These rights have also been articulated in a moral call to participate in global struggles for decolonization. The

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continued trend of activist education that instills the values of social movements in young people is indicative of a long-standing tradition among Chicana/o activist. Chicanas and Chicanos in these organizations were committed to utilize education to help younger generations con- tinue a commitment to social justice. They were also committed to help youth develop the intellectual means to remain creative individuals that pushed all aspects of ideological and material life towards a future that is better then the present.

The educational efforts utilized by activist organizations in this essay demonstrate the potential within social movement pedagogies to develop educational models that produce self-determined, creative, and critically conscious young people. Chicana/o activists used visual and performance arts in organizations and alternative schools to develop young peoples’ creativity as a means to help them develop self-confi- dence and self-esteem. This was a central concern among Chicana/o activists because they recognized a need to adapt curriculum and peda- gogy to contest the mis-education of young people. This was an essential effort to undo the damage of a public educational system that only replicates the exploitative and discriminatory trends of Western soci- ety. These Chicana/o organizations challenged these trends by training young people to value their heritage as a means to both develop the self- esteem of youth, as well as develop their value for cultural diversity. After developing young peoples self-esteem and respect for cultural others, youth began to understand the need to commit themselves to social justice struggles. They sought the respect of their rights to politically and socially participation as equals in the institutions that governed their communities. By teaching young people through activism, these orga- nizations helped them develop the political agency to demand respect of the human and civil rights in their communities. These Chicana/o organization also ensured a continued commitment to social justice by training young people to value the role mentorship and leadership have in ensuring community survival.

Although youth empowerment in the aforementioned Chicana/o activist organizations can be described as typical of any activist organiza- tion, their particular emphasis on Indigeneity and Indigenous sovereignty demonstrate trajectories towards decolonial thought, practice, and more egalitarian futures. The CCM established a trajectory of demanding the right to maintain self-determined cultural community identities while at the same time demanding respect of civil rights that guaranteed social, economic, and political equality. These CCM struggles promoted criti- cal understandings of human rights that are inclusive of a community’s

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right to determine for itself how it can move towards a more prosper- ous and just future. Coupled with continued critical examination of Chicana/o Indigeneity, Chicana/o activist developed an understanding of their Indigenous heritage that became the basis for which they advocated for the rectification of historic injustice.

In cohort and communication with transnational Indigenous Peoples’ social movements, Chicanas and Chicanos related their own struggles for community self-determination with those of Indigenous Peoples’ sovereignty rights. The educational spaces created by these activist organizations became integral to the ideological and political understanding of human and civil rights. In these spaces, activists linked civil rights struggles to broader historic and contemporary struggles for the rectification of injustices towards Indigenous Peoples. As a result, Chicanas and Chicanos in these organizations embraced the cultural and political heritage of Indigenous Peoples of the Americas as their own. In this way, they sought an understanding of human rights that were inclusive of Indigenous Peoples right to sovereignty and advo- cated for those rights in transnational arenas. Their pedagogical practices thus demonstrate a mode of establishing methods of training young people to be creative, self-determined, and most importantly courageous enough to continue to challenge global injustice historically built on the exploitation and genocide of Indigenous Peoples. The youth trained by these Chicana/o activists demonstrate a way to understand the legacy of these Chicana/o social movements. Although transnational Indigenous Peoples’ social movements continue to struggle for protection of their human rights, and many battles in this struggle have been lost, the value of these social movements is in the way they ensure youth empower themselves and continue a resilient resistance that in many ways has per- sisted since 1492.

Notes 1 David Luján, interview by José Luis Serrano Nájera, March 30, 2012. 2 For a broader analysis of Indigenous consciousness inspired Chicana/o activism, refer to José Luis Serrano Nájera, “Making Human Rights Civil Rights: Chicana/o Indigenous Consciousness and Transnational Human Rights Advocacy since the Chicana/o Movement” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 2015). 3 These critiques of power fall in line with more globalized critiques of the “coloniality of power” that is practiced by modern nation-states and transnational corporations. For more on the “coloniality of power,” refer to Aníbal Quijano, “Colo- niality and Modernity/Rationality,” in Globalization and the Decolonial Option, ed. by Walter D. Mignolo and Arturo Escobar (New York: Routledge, 2010).

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4 Here I refer to the concept of “delinking” described in Walter Mignolo, “Delinking: The Rhetoric of Modernity, The Logic of Coloniality, and the Grammar of De-Coloniality,” in Globalization and the Decolonial Option, ed. by Walter D. Mignolo and Arturo Escobar (Routledge, 2010) 303-354. 5 For the discrimination of Chicanas and Chicanos in public schools in the United States, refer to Guadalupe San Miguel, “Let All of Them Take Heed”: Mexican Americans and the Campaign for Educational Equality in Texas, 1910-1981, 1st ed, Mexican Amer- ican Monograph 11 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987); Gilbert G. Gonzalez, Chicano Education in the Era of Segregation, Al Filo: Mexican American Studies Series no. 7 (Denton, Texas: UNT Press, 2013); Guadalupe San Miguel, Brown, Not White: School Integration and the Chicano Movement in Houston, 1st ed, University of Houston Series in Mexican American Studies no. 3 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2001); and Chicano School Failure and Success: Past, Present, and Future, ed. by Richard Valencia, 3rd ed. (New York: Routledge, 2011). 6 For a history of Chicana/o Studies, refer to Rodolfo F. Acuna, The Making of Chicana/o Studies: In the Trenches of Academe (Rutgers University Press, 2011). For its effects on students consciousness, refer to Elizabeth González Cárdenas, “Chicana/o Studies and Its Impact on Chicana and Chicano Undergraduate Students: The Role of a Culturally Relevant Education” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 2015). 7 For an examination of cultural ethos during the CCM, refer to Ignacio M. García, Chicanismo: The Forging of a Militant Ethos among Mexican Americans (Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, 1997). 8 For various goals, intentions, consequences, and legacies of the CCM, refer to George Mariscal, Brown-eyed Children of the Sun: Lessons from the Chicano Movement, 1965-1975 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2005); and Juan Gómez- Quiñones and Irene Vásquez, Making Aztlán: Ideology and Culture of the Chicana and Chicano Movement, 1966-1977 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2014). 9 Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed, New rev. 30th-Anniversary ed. (New York: Continuum, 2005) 83. 10 For other examples of the uses of critical pedagogy in other civil and human rights movements of the Americas, refer to Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed; and William Westerman, “Folk Schools, Popular Education, and a Pedagogy of Community Action,” in The Critical Pedagogy Reader,ed. by Antonia Darder, Marta P. Baltonado, and Rodolfo D. Torres, 2nd ed. (New York: Routledge, 2008) 548-549. 11 For a discussion on the role of cultural revitalization in a pluriversal and democratic society, refer to Guillermo Bonfil Batalla, Pensar nuestra cultura: Ensayos, 1st ed. (México, D.F.: Alianza Editorial, 1991). 12 For transnational efforts by Native Americans for recognition of their sovereignty, refer to Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States (Boston: Beacon Press, 2014); and Ken S. Coates, A Global History of Indigenous Peoples: Struggle and Survival (Palgrave Macmillan, 2004).

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13 Sandy Mari Anglás Grande. “American Indian Geographies of Identity and Power: At the Crossroads of Indígena and Mestizaje,” in The Critical Pedagogy Reader, 185-188. For critiques of essentialism in education, refer to Peter McLaren, Revolu- tionary Multiculturalism: Pedagogies of Dissent for the New Millennium, The Edge, Critical Studies in Educational Theory (Boulder: Westview Press, 1997). 14 Grande, 183. 15 Ibid, 203. 16 For the efforts towards educational reform by CCM era youth activists, refer to Juan Gómez-Quiñones, Mexican Students Por La Raza: The Chicano Student Movement in Southern California 1967-1977 (Santa Barbara, Calif: Editorial La Causa, 1978); and Carlos Muñoz, Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement, Haymarket Series on North American Politics and Culture (London; New York: Verso, 1989). For an example of attempts to reform pedagogy and curriculum during the CCM, refer to Southwest Network et al., The Recruitment, channeling, and placement of Chicano teachers: a training document distributed by Southwest Network and Study Commission on Undergraduate Education and the Education of Teachers (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Printing and Duplicating Service, 1974). 17 Joan Kalvelage, “Cinco Ejemplos,” in Edcentric Oct./Nov. Issue (n.d.): 31-34, Academía de la Nueva Raza and the Rio Grande Institute Records, University of New Mexico Center for Southwest Research. 18 Ernesto B. Vigil, The Crusade for Justice: Chicano Militancy and the Government’s War on Dissent (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1999) 81-87. 19 Ibid, 95-100. 20 Ernesto Vigil, interview by José Luis Serrano Nájera, February 23, 2012. 21 Kalvelage, 6. 22 Ibid. 23 Vigil, The Crusade for Justice, 161. 24 Kalvelage, 29. 25 Ibid, 38. 26 “Colegio Jacinto Treviño Course Catalog,” Raul Salinas Papers, M0774, Dept. of Special Collections, Stanford University Libraries, Stanford, Calif. 27 “Juárez Lincoln University 1975-1976 Catalog,” Raul Salinas Papers, M0774, Dept. of Special Collections, Stanford University Libraries, Stanford, Calif. For the progressive views of Antioch College on racial equality in the U.S., especially after WWII, refer to Burton R. Clark, The Distinctive College: Antioch, Reed & Swarthmore (Chicago: Aldine Pub. Co, 1970) and Kerrie Naylor, “Antioch: vision and revision,” in Utah Education Policy Center, Maverick Colleges: Ten Notable Experiments in American Undergraduate Education (Salt Lake City, Utah: Utah Education Policy Center, Graduate School of Education, the University of Utah, 1993). 28 For a history of MAYO and their activism, refer to Armando Navarro, Mexican American Youth Organization: Avant-garde of the Chicano Movement in Texas, 1st ed. (Austin, Tex: University of Texas Press, 1995). 29 “Juárez Lincoln University 1975-1976 Catalog,” Raul Salinas Papers, 22.

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30 “The B.A. Program,” Juárez-Lincoln Records, Benson Latin American Collection, University of Texas Libraries, the University of Texas at Austin. 31 “Self Study,” Juárez-Lincoln Records, Benson Latin American Collection, Univer- sity of Texas Libraries, the University of Texas at Austin. 32 “La Universidad de Aztlan: El Colegio de la Tierra Catalog,” Academia de la Nueva Raza and the Rio Grande Institute Records, University of New Mexico Center for Southwest Research. 33 Ibid. 34 La Academia was succeeded by the Rio Grande Institute in 1982, which focused on Praxis Learning and Action Research. The Rio Grande Institute was created and maintained largely due to the efforts of Consuelo Pacheco, Thomas Atencio, and others. For more on the Rio Grande Institute, refer to Academia de la Nueva Raza and the Rio Grande Institute Records, University of New Mexico Center for Southwest Research. 35 “La Academia Comprehensive Plan and Report,” Academia de la Nueva Raza and the Rio Grande Institute Records, University of New Mexico Center for Southwest Research. 36 Ibid. 37 Ibid. 38 “The Birth of a New Educational System: A School Without Walls La Escuela de la Raza Unida!” in Escuela de la Raza Unida: Celebrando el 20avo. Aniversario (1992) Gustavo Gutiérrez Papers, [Accession #1995-01504] Arizona State University Libraries: Chicano Research Collection. 39 Board and Staff, “Philosophy,” in Escuela de la Raza Unida: Celebrando el 20avo. Aniversario (1992) Gustavo Gutiérrez Papers, [Accession #1995-01504] Arizona State University Libraries: Chicano Research Collection. 40 Alfredo A. Figueroa, “Forward,” in Escuela de la Raza Unida: Celebrando el 20avo. Aniversario (1992) Gustavo Gutiérrez Papers, [Accession #1995-01504] Arizona State University Libraries: Chicano Research Collection; and Alfredo Acosta Figueroa, “Ancient Footprints of the Colorado River: La Cuna de Aztlan,” revised edition (Manuscript, 2013) 71-82. 41 DQU is named after the founder of the Iroquois Confederation and Quetzalcoatl, the pre-columbian Toltec political and spiritual leader. Since the founding of DQU, board members of the university learned that the use of the Iroquois founders name should only be used in ceremonial circumstances. Thus, I will respect that decision and only use the DQU abbreviation in this text. 42 “A Negotiable Education,” DQU Report 1 no. 21 (1971): 1. 43 Kalvelage, 35-36. 44 Ibid, 37. 45 “Central Program Courses,” DQU Report 1 no. 21 (1971): 4-5. 46 José de la Isla, “Letter,” DQU Report 1 no. 21 (1971): 2. 47 “American Indian International Tribunal Sept. 20-25, 1982 Davis, CA.” Raul Salinas Papers, M0774, Dept. of Special Collections, Stanford University Libraries, Stanford, Calif.

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48 For more on Chicana/o participation in transnational Indigenous Peoples activism, refer to Serrano Nájera, “Making Human Rights Civil Rights.” 49 “Centro Escuelita Builds Self-Esteem,” and “Youth Attend a South Dakota Gath- ering,” Raul Salinas Papers, M0774, Dept. of Special Collections, Stanford University Libraries, Stanford, Calif. 50 “Statement of Purpose” Tenth Anniversary Celebration July 11, 1981: Centro Cultural de la Raza: Celebrating a Decade of Producing Indian, Mexican, and Chicano Arts and Crafts, Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 51 “Human Resources Proposal Review for “Summer Creative Workshops for Youth 1974,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 52 Ibid. 53 “Escuelita Tolteca,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 54 Ibid. 55 “Chicano Culture Interdisciplinary Program,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 56 Ibid. 57 “Youth Projects: Preliminary Narrative,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 58 “Education Committee 1983-1984,” and “Centro Education Committee 1983- 1986,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 59 Ibid. 60 “Children’s Performing Arts Festival,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 61 “The Chicano Mural Inservice Program: Its Analysis and Use for Increasing Cultural Awareness Among Educators,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 62 Ibid. 63 “Student Affirmative Action Transition Program 1981-1983,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 64 “Regional Youth Employment Program 1982-1983,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 65 For descriptions of Chicana/o Movement theater, refer to Jorge A Huerta, Chicano Theater: Themes and Forms, Studies in the Language and Literature of United States Hispanos (Ypsilanti, Mich: Bilingual Press, 1982). For analysis of teatro’s political

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uses, refer to Harry Justin Elam, Taking It to the Streets: The Social Protest Theater of Luis Valdez and Amiri Baraka (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997). For an examination of the most influenctial theater troupe, El Teatro Campesino, refer to Yolanda Broyles-González, El Teatro Campesino: Theater in the Chicano Movement, 1st ed (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1994). 66 “Drug Education/Prevention Theatre Project 1985,” Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives, CEMA 12, Department of Special Collections, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. 67 During the 1980s, El Centro Cultural de la Raza obtained the funding sources to exist as a self-sustaining institution. This was rare for Chicana/o Schools or Arts Centers, which demonstrates the abilities of its executive board to acquire funding. 68 For more on Chicana/o transnational Indigenous activism during the 1980s and 1990s, refer to José Luis Serrano Nájera, “Making Civil Rights Human Rights.” For more on Nahuatl philosophy, refer to Miguel León Portilla, Aztec Thought and Culture; a Study of the Ancient Nahuatl Mind., trans. Jay I. Kislak, The Civilization of the American Indian Series; 67; (Norman, University of Oklahoma Press, 1963). 69 “Phoenix Union High School Title VII Collaborates with the Xinachtli Project,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 70 “Xinachtli Seed of Culture: Pilot Project for the Reintroduction of Nahuatl Culture in the Public Schools of the Chicano-Mexicano Community,” Gustavo Gutiérrez Papers, [Accession #1995-01504] Arizona State University Libraries: Chicano Research Collection. For more on the MCOP and Tonatierra transnational activism, refer to José Luis Serrano Nájera, “Making Civil Rights Human Rights.” 71 “Xinachtli Seed of Culture.”. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid. 74 “Xinachtli Project Handouts,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 75 “Xinachtli Seed of Culture,” Gustavo Gutiérrez Papers, [Accession #1995-01504] Arizona State University Libraries: Chicano Research Collection. 76 “Project Prime Proposal,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 77 “Phoenix Union High School Title VII Collaborates with the Xinachtli Project,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 78 Ibid. 79 “Tonantzin Youth Track Proposal,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 80 For a more detailed discussion of the Indigenous Sovereignty interviews event, refer to Serrano Nájera, “Making Human Rights Civil Rights.” 81 “La Raza Dreams,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. For TIY activism in the

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1990s, refer to “Tonantzin Youth Track Proposal,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 82 “Tonantzin Youth Track Proposal,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 83 Ibid. 84 For the role of TIY in the Peace and Dignity Runs, refer to “Peace and Dignity Journeys,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 85 “Peace and Dignity Journeys,” Tonantzin Land Institute Records, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. 86 Luján, interview. 87 Ibid. 88 Ibid. 89 Ibid.

Bibliography Primary Sources “A Negotiable Education.” DQU Report 1 no. 21 (1971): 1. Academia de La Nueva Raza and the Rio Grande Institute Records. Center

for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico. “Central Program Courses.” DQU Report 1 no. 21 (1971): 4-5. Centro Cultural de la Raza Archives. CEMA 12. Department of Special Collec-

tions, University Libraries, University of California, Santa Barbara. Gustavo Gutiérrez Papers. [Accession #1995-01504]. Arizona State University

Libraries: Chicano Research Collection. Isla, José de la. “Letter.” DQU Report 1 no. 21 (1971): 2. Juárez-Lincoln University Records. Benson Latin American Collection, Univer-

sity of Texas Libraries, the University of Texas. Kalvelage, Joan. “Cinco Ejemplos.” Edcentric Oct./Nov. Issue (n.d.): 31-34. Raul Salinas Papers. M0774. Department of Special Collections, Stanford Uni-

versity Libraries, Stanford, CA. Tonantzin Land Institute Records. Center for Southwest Research, University

Libraries, University of New Mexico.

Secondary Sources Acuna, Professor Rodolfo F. The Making of Chicana/o Studies: In the Trenches of

Academe. Rutgers University Press, 2011. Bonfil Batalla, Guillermo. Pensar nuestra cultura: Ensayos. Primera edición. México:

Alianza Editorial, 1991. Broyles-González, Yolanda. El Teatro Campesino: Theater in the Chicano Movement.

1st ed. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1994. Chicano School Failure and Success: Past, Present, and Future. 3rd ed. New York:

Routledge, 2011.

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Clark, Burton R. The Distinctive College: Antioch, Reed & Swarthmore. Chicago: Aldine Pub. Co, 1970.

Coates, Ken S. A Global History of Indigenous Peoples: Struggle and Survival. Pal- grave Macmillan, 2004.

Darder, Antonia, Marta P. Baltodano, and Rodolfo D. Torres, eds. The Critical Pedagogy Reader. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge, 2009.

Dunbar-Ortiz, Roxanne. An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States. Boston: Beacon Press, 2014.

Elam, Harry Justin. Taking It to the Streets: The Social Protest Theater of Luis Valdez and Amiri Baraka. Theater--theory/text/performance. Ann Arbor: Univer- sity of Michigan Press, 1997.

Figueroa, Alfredo A. “Ancient Footprints of the Colorado River: La Cuna de Aztlan.” Revised Edition. Manuscript, 2013.

Freire, Paulo. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New rev. 20th-Anniversary ed. New York: Continuum, 1993.

García, Ignacio M. Chicanismo: The Forging of a Militant Ethos among Mexican Americans. Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, 1997.

Globalization and the Decolonial Option. Edited by Walter Mignolo and Arturo Escobar. New York: Routledge, 2010.

Gómez-Quiñones, Juan. Mexican Students Por La Raza: The Chicano Student Movement in Southern California 1967-1977. Santa Barbara, Calif: Editorial La Causa, 1978.

Gómez-Quiñones, Juan and Irene Vásquez Morris. Making Aztlán: Ideology and Culture of the Chicana and Chicano Movement, 1966-1977. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2014.

Gonzalez Cárdenas, Elizabeth. “Chicana/o Studies and Its Impact on Chicana and Chicano Undergraduate Students: The Role of a Culturally Relevant Education.” PhD. diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 2015.

Gonzalez, Gilbert G. Chicano Education in the Era of Segregation. Al Filo: Mexican American Studies Series no. 7. Denton, Texas: UNT Press, 2013.

Huerta, Jorge A. Chicano Theater: Themes and Forms. Studies in the Language and Literature of United States Hispanos. Ypsilanti, Mich: Bilingual Press, 1982.

León Portilla, Miguel. Aztec Thought and Culture; a Study of the Ancient Nahuatl Mind. Translated by Jay I. Kislack. The Civilization of the American Indian Series 67; Norman, University of Oklahoma Press, 1963.

Mariscal, George. Brown-eyed Children of the Sun: Lessons from the Chicano Move- ment, 1965-1975. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2005).

McLaren, Peter. Revolutionary Multiculturalism: Pedagogies of Dissent for the New Millennium. The Edge, Critical Studies in Educational Theory. Boulder, Colo: Westview Press, 1997.

Mignolo, Walter D., and Arturo Escobar, eds. Globalization and the Decolonial Option. Routledge, 2010.

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Muñoz, Carlos. Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement. Haymarket Series on North American Politics and Culture. New York: Verso, 1989.

Navarro, Armando. Mexican American Youth Organization: Avant-garde of the Chi- cano Movement in Texas. 1st ed. Austin, Tex: University of Texas Press, 1995.

San Miguel, Guadalupe. Brown, Not White: School Integration and the Chicano Movement in Houston. 1st ed. University of Houston Series in Mexican American Studies no. 3. College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2001.

———. “Let All of Them Take Heed”: Mexican Americans and the Campaign for Educa- tional Equality in Texas, 1910-1981. 1st ed. Mexican American Monograph 11. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987.

Serrano Nájera, José Luis. “Making Human Rights Civil Rights: Chicana/o Indigenous Consciousness and Transnational Human Rights Advocacy since the Chicano Movement.” PhD. diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 2015.

Southwest Network, Gloria Chacon, James Bowman, and Study Commission on Undergraduate Education and the Education of Teachers. The Recruitment, channeling, and placement of Chicano teachers: a training document distributed by Southwest Network and Study Commission on Undergraduate Education and the Education of Teachers. [Lincoln]: University of Nebraska Printing and Duplicating Service, 1974.

Utah Education Policy Center. Maverick Colleges: Ten Notable Experiments in American Undergraduate Education. Salt Lake City, Utah: Utah Education Policy Center, Graduate School of Education, the University of Utah, 1993.

Vigil, Ernesto B. The Crusade for Justice: Chicano Militancy and the Govern- ment’s War on Dissent. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1999.

Introduction
Critiques of Critical Pedagogy: Indigenous Sovereignty vs. Individual Rights
Phase One: Cultural Revitalization and Educational Civil Rights

Chicana/o Movement Alternative Schools
Indigenous Consciousness Leads to Critical Indigenous Pedagogies
Indigenous Curriculum and Pedagogy at Los Centros Culturales

Phase Two: Transnational Chicana/o Indigenismos and Pedagogies

Laying the Seeds: The Xinachtli Project’s Nahuatl Education
Towards Peace and Dignity: Tonantzin Indigenous Youth Group

Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography

The Mexican American Struggle for Equal

Educational Opportunity in Mendez v.

Westminster: Helping to Pave the Way for

Brown v. Board of Education

RICHARD R. VALENCIA

The University of Texas at Austin

Few people in the United States are aware of the central role that Mexican Americans have played in some of the most important legal struggles regarding school desegre- gation. The most significant such case is Mendez v. Westminster (1946), a class- action lawsuit filed on behalf of more than 5,000 Mexican American students in Orange County, California. The Mendez case became the first successful constitu- tional challenge to segregation. In fact, in Mendez the U.S. District Court judge ruled that the Mexican American students’ rights were being violated under the equal pro- tection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. The decision was affirmed by the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. Although the Mendez case was never appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court, a number of legal scholars at that time hailed it as a case that could have accomplished what Brown eventually did eight years later: a reversal of the High Court’s 1896 ruling in Plessy v. Ferguson, which had sanctioned legal segregation for nearly 60 years. Even though Mendez did not bring about the reversal of Plessy, it did lay some of the important groundwork for the landmark case that would. In this article, I use the lens of critical race theory to examine how Mendez and Brown were strongly connected and how Mendez served as a harbinger for Brown. This linkage can be captured in at least two ways. First, Mendez was a federal, Fourteenth Amendment case grounded in a theoretical argumentFknown as integration theo- ryFthat stresses the harmful effects of segregation on Mexican American students. Secondly, in order to make this Fourteenth Amendment argument, the attorneys in Mendez used social science expert testimony. Such testimony, grounded in similar theoretical arguments, proved very useful in Brown. For these reasons it is important to remember the role of Mexican Americans and the Mendez case, in particular, in the broader struggle for equal educational opportunity in the United States and appreciate how they helped pave the way for Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka.

Teachers College Record Volume 107, Number 3, March 2005, pp. 389–423 Copyright r by Teachers College, Columbia University 0161-4681

Clearly, the African American civil rights struggle was long-standing and long-suffering (see, e.g., Duram, 1981; Kluger, 1976; Sitkoff, 1993). The 1954 Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka decision that struck down the ‘‘separate but equal’’ doctrine established by the Supreme Court in its 1896 Plessy v. Ferguson ruling was a monumental turning point in that struggleF for African Americans and for society as a whole.

During 2004, there was a considerable number of scholarly activities commemorating the 50th anniversary of the landmark Brown deci- sion, including this special issue. In this time of reflection on what Brown symbolizes, it is important to be inclusive in our endeavors. The intent of this article is to help fill a lacuna in the discourse surrounding Brown. Unbeknownst even to many scholars of race relations, including some legal specialists, Mexican Americans also have been long-standing players in key legal struggles involving school desegregation (see, for example, Álvarez, 1986; Arriola, 1995; González, 1990; Rangel & Alcala, 1972; Salinas, 1971; San Miguel, 1987; Valencia, Menchaca, & Donato, 2002; Wollenberg, 1974).

Contributing, in part, to this lack of awareness is Mexican Americans’ exclusion from much of the scholarship on civil rights history. Law pro- fessor Juan Perea (1997) asserts that American racial thought is structured on the ‘‘Black/White binary paradigm of race,’’ and thus omits Mexican Americans. As such, this dominant paradigm ‘‘distorts history and contrib- utes to the marginalization of non-Black peoples of color’’ (p. 1213). This Black/White binary Perea (1997) writes about has evolved to become a central point of discussion and critique in civil rights discourse and in the field of critical race theory, which I draw upon in this article (see, for ex- ample, Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Gee, 1999; Martı́nez, 1993; Phillips, 1999; Ramı́rez, 1995).

More specifically, in terms of the history of school desegregation, Perea (1997) notes that even major books on constitutional case law have trun- cated history in such a way that the Mexican American struggle for deseg- regation has been entirely excluded (see Stone, Seidman, Sunstein, & Tushnet, 1991). By contrast, in my own research on Mexican American desegregation lawsuits, I have identified 28 cases dating from 1925 to 1985 (Valencia, forthcoming).

I argue that the most significant legal case involving Mexican Americans and desegregation is Mendez v. Westminster (1946), a class action filed on behalf of 5,000 Mexican-origin students in Orange County, California. In this case, which was the first federal court case involving school segregation of Mexican Americans, the plaintiffs prevailed. As historian Gilbert González, 1990 states: ‘‘Clearly, the struggle to desegregate the United States has many points of origin, but one that we must not ignore is the Mendez case’’ (p. 73).

390 Teachers College Record

In this article, my objective is to build upon the literature that has sought to draw connections between the Mendez and Brown cases (see, e.g., Arriola, 1995; González, 1990; Perea, 1997; Phillips, 1949). I do so by analyzing and synthesizing several major primary sources (e.g., the Mendez trial tran- scripts; other Mendez legal documents; articles written in law review jour- nals) that other scholars have, for the most part, just touched upon. Furthermore, in this edification of the Mendez/Brown linkage, I provide an important and helpful theoretical frameworkFcritical race theoryFwhich explains the sustained educational oppression faced by both Mexican Americans and African Americans via forced school segregation.

In addition, I present several of the legal legacies of Mendez. For instance, Mendez, like Brown, was a federal court case challenging segregation on the basis of the Fourteenth Amendment’s equal protection clause. Further- more, in making this equal protection argument, the lawyers for the Mex- ican American Mendez plaintiffs, like those for the African American Brown plaintiffs, presented social science research as evidence that segregation is harmful to students who are excluded from certain schools because of their race. The social scientists, who put forth what has been called an ‘‘integra- tionist educational theory,’’ argued that segregated Mexican American chil- dren suffered stigmatization and unhealthy psychological development, similar to the argument made by Kenneth Clark in the Brown case.

And, finally, I argue that the attorneys for the Mendez plaintiffs under- scored the shifting nature of civil and human rights of the 1940s. Indeed, it was this changing zeitgeist of the 1940s that spilled into the 1950s, along with plaintiffs’ victories in Mendez and several desegregation cases in higher ed- ucation brought by the National Association for the Advancement of Colo- red People (NAACP), that helped develop the legal and moral climate for Brown to reverse the ‘‘separate but equal’’ doctrine in education (see Klar- man, 2004).

Revisiting Mendez and its significance for Brown is important because the binary, Black/White view of race relations in the United States not only deemphasizes the contributions of other racial and ethnic groups in the struggle for equality, but it also minimizes the potential for Latino-Black coalitions around issues of social justice and White supremacy. When Af- rican Americans and Latinos better understand the linkages across their often separate efforts for equal educational opportunities, they may seek new ways of working together for common goals.

According to the U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census (2000a), Latino and African American students combined constitute 33.6% of the public K–12 school population. Regarding the general population, Latinos and African Americans comprised 24.7% of the total population in 2000 (U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census, 2000b). It is projected that by 2050, Latinos and African Americans will constitute 37.5%

The Mexican American Struggle for Equal Educational Opportunity 391

of the total U.S. population (U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census, 2000b). A political coalition of parents, students, lawyers, and ac- tivists from these two communities, working together, can perhaps achieve the 21st century equivalent of Brown.

For this analysis, I have organized this article into five sections: the value and utility of critical race theory; the roots of Mexican American school segregation and the legal struggles for desegregation before Mendez; the timing, venue, and scope of the Mendez caseFthe first federal court case on Mexican American school desegregation; the appeal of Mendez to the fed- eral Circuit Court in which the Mexican American plaintiffs prevail; and an assessment of the legacy of Mendez today.

THE VALUE AND UTILITY OF CRITICAL RACE THEORY

Critical race theory (CRT) has its roots in the 1970s when a cadre of legal scholars, lawyers, and activists across the nation realized that the momen- tum of civil rights litigation had stalled (Taylor, 1998; Delgado & Stefancic, 2001). CRT, a form of oppositional scholarship, ‘‘challenges the experiences of whites as the normative standard and grounds its conceptual framework in the distinctive experiences of people of color’’ (Taylor, 1998; p. 122).1

Some of the issues addressed by CRT are campus speech codes, dispro- portionate sentencing of people of color in the criminal justice system, and affirmative action (Taylor, 1998).

Now a growing field of scholarship with a corpus of literature, CRT has gained widespread popularity in the field of education, especially among scholars of race and ethnicity. Issues studied in CRT and education are diverse and include, for example, the experiences of scholars of color in the academy, affirmative action, educational history, families of color, curricu- lum differentiation, and testing (see Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995; López, 2003; López & Parker, 2003; Parker, Deyhle, & Villenas, 1999; Solórzano, 1998; Solórzano & Yosso, 2000, 2002; Villenas & Deyhle, 1999).

Solórzano (1998), a prominent CRT scholar, has asserted that five themes, or tenets, form the underlying perspectives, research methods, and pedagogy of CRT in education: First, there is the centrality and intersec- tionality of race and racism. In CRT, there is a premise that race and racism are entrenched and enduring in society and play a major role in capturing and explaining individual experiences of the law.

Second, CRT in education challenges the orthodoxy, particularly re- garding claims of the education system and its views towards meritocracy, objectivity, color and gender blindness, and equal opportunity. Third, in CRT there is a firm commitment to social justice and the elimination of racism. In education, CRT’s struggle for social justice includes the broader

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agenda of ending various forms of subordination, such as class, gender, and sexual orientation discrimination.

Fourth, CRT recognizes the centrality of experiential knowledge of peo- ple of color and that such knowledge is valid, appropriate, and essential to understanding, analyzing, and teaching about racism in education. And, finally, CRT in education challenges the ahistorical and unidisciplinary preoccupation of most analyses and argues that race and racism in edu- cation can best be fully understood by incorporating interdisciplinary per- spectives.

In recent years, there have been some spin-off movements within CRT. These new subgroups include, for example, Asian critical race theory or AsianCrit (see Chang, 1993) and Latina/Latino critical race theory known as LatCrit (see Garcı́a, 1995; Martı́nez, 1994; Revilla, 2001; Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001; Solórzano & Yosso, 2001; Stefancic, 1998; Valdes, 1996). According to Solórzano and Delgado Bernal (2001), similar to CRT, ‘‘LatCrit is concerned with a progressive sense of a coalitional Latina/Latino pan-ethnicity and addresses issues often ignored by critical race theorists such as language, immigration, ethnicity, culture, identity, phenotype, and sexuality’’ (p. 311).

In my view, CRT provides a compelling theoretical framework in which to couch my historical analysis of the Mendez case and its role in helping to pave the way for the Brown decision. In the following sections, I incorporate the five tenets of CRT discussed by Solórzano (1998) into my analysis of Mendez and its value as a precursor of Brown. I argue that Mendez, as a case that pre-dated CRT literature, embodied the central themes of CRT, mak- ing it not only legally significant, but also theoretically and conceptually important to the history of civil rights struggles. Many of these tenets also guided the desegregation cases brought on behalf of African American stu- dents before and after Mendez, which speaks to the common ground be- tween the Black and Latino legal communities at that time. Thus, it is important to acknowledge the pre-Brown and even pre-Mendez cases brought by the NAACP (e.g., cases from the 1930s, such as Pearson v. Mur- ray, 1936; Missouri ex rel. Gaines v. Canada et al., 1938) that also embodied many of these CRT tenets.

As I will demonstrate further in this article, the five tenets of CRT and education apply directly to Mendez. First, the Mendez case and the earlier Mexican American-initiated desegregation lawsuits were clearly based on the centrality and intersection of race and racism. Second, Mendez chal- lenged the dominant ideology that segregation of Mexican American chil- dren was in their best pedagogical interests, thereby exposing this traditional claim as a cloak of White self-interest and privilege. Third, Mendez represented a tireless commitment to social justice beyond the boundaries of Orange County, California. In this way, the ruling in Mendez

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helped to end the de jure segregation of Asian Americans and American Indians in California’s public schools. As well, Mendez had some favorable impact on the desegregation of Mexican American children in other states, including Texas and Arizona. Fourth, Mendez wisely used the centrality of experiential knowledge of victimized Mexican American children and adults as seen in the trial testimony. And, finally, Mendez used interdisci- plinary perspectives and considerable collaboration. Mexican American plaintiffs, White expert witnesses, an African American lead attorney (at the district court level), support from diverse organizations, including the NAACP, the American Jewish Congress, and the American Civil Liberties Union at the appellate level, all worked together to help Mendez prevail. In the following section, I provide more of this background through a histor- ical analysis of the roots of Mexican American school segregation and the early legal struggle to desegregate Mexican American schools.

THE ROOTS OF MEXICAN AMERICAN SCHOOL SEGREGATION AND THE LEGAL STRUGGLES FOR DESEGREGATION PRIOR TO MENDEZ2

The forced separation of Mexican American children and youths from their White peers in public schools has its roots in the decades following the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which brought an end to the Mexican American War of 1846–1848. Scholars of CRT help to explain how endemic White racism laid the foundation for the segregation of Mexican American children in schools. According to San Miguel and Valencia (1998), ‘‘The signing of the Treaty and the U.S. annexation, by conquest, of the current Southwest signaled the beginning of decades of persistent, pervasive prej- udice and discrimination against people of Mexican origin who reside in the United States’’ (p. 353).

In the decades that followed, racial/ethnic isolation of schoolchildren became a normative practice in the Southwest, despite the fact that these states had no statutes by which they could legally segregate Mexican Amer- ican from White students (San Miguel & Valencia, 1998).

THE ROOTS OF MEXICAN AMERICAN SCHOOL SEGREGATION

Across the southwest United States, local officials such as city council and school board members established separate schools for Mexican-origin children in the post-1848 period. Because these officials were more inter- ested in providing White children with school facilities first, the Mexican schools were few in number. Political leaders’ lack of commitment to public schooling for Mexican-origin students and racial prejudice among Whites

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accounted for this practice (Atkins, 1978; Friedman, 1978; Hendrick, 1977; Weinberg, 1977).

After the 1870s, the number of schools for Mexican-origin children in- creased dramatically because of popular demand, legal mandates, and a greater acceptance of the ideal of common schooling by local and state political leaders (Atkins, 1978; Eby, 1925; Ferris, 1962). This growth in educational access occurred, however, in the context of increasing societal discrimination and a general subordination of Mexican Americans, which meant the schools for Mexican-origin children continued to be segregated and unequal. In New Mexico, for instance, officials began to establish seg- regated schools in 1872. By the 1880s, more than 50% of the territory’s school-age population, most of whom were Mexican children, were en- rolled in segregated schools (Chaves, 1892).

Despite the influx of Mexican immigrant students during the later part of the 19th century, California officials did not build any additional schools for Mexican children until the early 1900s. Those schools that ex- isted continued to be segregated, and in some cases were inferior to the White schools (California Superintendent of Public Instruction, 1869).3 In Texas, officials established segregated schools for Mexican working-class children in the rural areas during the 1880s and in the urban areas in the 1890s. The need to maintain a cheap labor source for the ranches probably accounted for the presence of Mexican schools in the rural areas earlier than the urban sectors (Friedman, 1978; Weinberg, 1977). In the early 1900s, segregated schools were established by large-scale growers as a means of preventing the Mexican students from attending White schools (Rangel & Alcala, 1972).

The segregation of Mexican American students in the Southwest con- tinued to increase into the 1890s and spilled over to the 20th century. By the beginning of the 1930s, the educational template for Mexican American studentsFone of forced, widespread segregation, and inferior school- ingFwas formed. In one study of 13 California school districts in the early 1930s, Leis (1931) found that these districts had nearly 88,000 students enrolledF25% of whom were Mexican AmericanFand that school officials segregated Mexican American students for the first several grades. And while official segregation ended after third grade, Leis (1931) writes that ‘‘[e]xcessive dropping out [on the part of Mexican American students] at these levels is a large factor in discontinuing segregation’’ (1931, p. 66).

Segregated schools in the Southwest were also an outgrowth of residen- tial segregation, increasing Mexican immigration, and in particular, racial discrimination. In the areas where the newcomers were concentrated, such as the lower Rio Grande Valley, the school segregation of Mexican students radically increased by the late 1920s. By 1930, 90% of the schools in Texas were racially segregated (Rangel & Alcala, 1972).

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In sum, there is considerable historical evidence that Mexican American students experienced widespread segregation in the Southwest. As I have noted elsewhere:

School segregation of Chicanos throughout the Southwest became the crucible in which Chicano school failure originated and festered. Giv- en the strong connections between segregation, inferior schooling, and poor academic outcomes for many Chicano students (e.g., sub- standard performance on achievement tests), it is not surprising that segregation has been a significant topic of study in the field of Mexican American education. (Valencia, 2002, pp. 6–7)

It is also not surprising that the Mexican American community mounted a legal campaign to desegregate its schools. We can see how a commitment to social justice, as explained by CRT, applies here.

THE LEGAL STRUGGLE FOR DESEGREGATION PRIOR TO MENDEZ

Contrary to popular perception, the Mexican American community in the Southwest did not idly stand by while its children were being segregated in inferior facilities. The legal struggle for school desegregation was initiated in a series of state court cases in Arizona in 1925 and Texas and California in the early 1930s (see Valencia, forthcoming). Independent School District v. Salvatierra (1930), a state court case brought by Mexican American parents in Del Rio, Texas, was significant for several reasons (San Miguel, 1987). First, the Constitution of the State of Texas, ratified in 1876, allowed for the segregation of White and ‘‘colored’’ childrenFcolored meaning only ‘‘Ne- gro.’’ Thus, Salvatierra was a landmark case in determining the constitu- tionality of separating Mexican American children on racial grounds. Second, the findings of the court would serve as the basis for future legal challenges to the segregation of Mexican American students. Third, the lawyers for the plaintiffs in Salvatierra were members of the newly estab- lished League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), an advocacy organization that first flexed its legal muscles in this important case.

The Texas District Court of Val Verde County ruled in Salvatierra that the school district illegally segregated Mexican American students on the basis of race because, according to Texas law, they were legally considered to be members of the White raceFa strong point argued by plaintiffs’ lawyers.4

The court granted an injunction restraining the district from segregating Mexican American children, but the school board appealed. The Texas District Court’s judgment, however, was overturned by the Texas Court of Civil Appeals on the basis that the school district did not intentionally seg- regate the Mexican American children by race.

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Also, the Court of Civil Appeals ruled that because the Mexican Amer- ican children had special language needs, the school district had the au- thority to segregate them on educational grounds. This latter ruling would serve as a major obstacle to desegregation efforts on behalf of Mexican American children for years to come. The Texas Court of Civil Appeals decision in Salvatierra was appealed by LULAC to the U.S. Supreme Court, but the case was dismissed for lack of jurisdiction (Salvatierra v. Independent School District, 284 U.S. 580 [1931]). It is not clear from the available legal records what transpired after the Texas Court of Civil Appeals’ decision. One could speculate, however, that the Texas Supreme Court did not find error, leaving the Court of Civil Appeals’ decision standing, and subject to the Supreme Court’s decision.

Notwithstanding the disappointing outcome in Salvatierra, the Mexican American community’s resolve in its struggle for desegregated schools held steadfastly. Using CRT as an explanatory base here, the segregation of Mexican American schoolchildren continued to be driven by racism, and Mexican Americans’ challenge to the dominant ideology of separate but equal schools was fueled by a fierce commitment to social justiceFas seen in the next case.

In Alvarez v. Lemon Grove School District (1931), the school board of the Lemon Grove School District near San Diego, California, sought to build a separate grammar school for the Mexican American children, claiming overcrowding at the existing school where both White and Mexican Amer- ican students attended (Álvarez, 1986). Mexican American parents organ- ized a protest, forming the Comité de Vecinos de Lemon Grove (Lemon Grove Neighborhood Committee) and instructed their children not to attend the so-called new school, which the children called La Caballeriza (the stable).

Judge Claude Chambers, Superior Court of California in San Diego, ruled in favor of the plaintiffs on the basis that separate facilities for Mex- ican American students were not conducive to their Americanization and retarded their English language development. Judge Chambers also found that the school board had no legal right to segregate Mexican American children, as California law had no such provisions. Interestingly enough, although there were no de jure provisions for segregating Mexican Amer- ican or African American children under the California School Code of this era, the state did have the power to establish separate schools for ‘‘Indian,’’ ‘‘Chinese,’’ ‘‘Japanese,’’ and ‘‘Mongolian’’ children (see Peters, 1948).

Although the Alvarez case was deemed the nation’s first successful deseg- regation court case (Álvarez, 1986; González, 1990), ‘‘ . . . it was isolated as a local event and had no precedent-setting ruling affecting either the State of California or other situations of school segregation in the Southwest’’ (Álvarez, p. 131). There are several noted reasons for this lack of legal precedent, even in the state of California: First, the plaintiffs’ lawyer did not

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argue any violation of Constitutional law. Second, Judge Chambers did not publish his Opinion. Third, defendants did not appeal the decision.

THE TIMING, VENUE, AND SCOPE OF THE MENDEZ CASE: THE FIRST FEDERAL COURT CASE ON MEXICAN AMERICAN SCHOOL

DESEGREGATION

Notwithstanding the incipient legal struggles for desegregation in state courts in Arizona, Texas, and California in the 1920s and early 1930s, the segregation of Mexican American students in schools throughout the Southwest was entrenched by the early 1930s, but was also coming under increasing attack (San Miguel & Valencia, 1998; Valencia et al., 2002). Yet, as many scholars have noted, by the 1930s and 1940s, views of racial and ethnic segregation in the United States were changing because of many domestic and global events that forced White Americans to face the hypoc- risy of their views. For instance, Wollenberg (1974) argued that:

By the mid-1930s, segregation of Mexican students was coming under attack. The Depression spawned attempts at social and economic re- form, and these in turn created a belief that poverty and social dis- advantages were caused by environmental factors subject to human remedy. (p. 322)

This change in beliefs about the causes of Mexican Americans’ economic and social disadvantages had its basis in the social science research that supported the emerging environmental, as opposed to the hereditarian, views regarding the causes of these disadvantages (Valencia, 1997). During the 1920s, the prevailing view had been that Mexican American chil- drenFas well as African Americans and American IndiansFwere intellec- tually inferior to their White peers because of heredity (see Valencia, 1997; Valencia & Suzuki, 2001). Within the framework of CRT, we can see how this dominant ideology of deficit thinking helped to legitimize the segre- gation of Mexican Americans and the resultant stratification of learning opportunities via curriculum differentiation for these students (Valencia, 1997).

Mexican American scholar George I. Sánchez (1932) assaulted and at- tempted to discredit mental testing and the conclusions drawn by White researchers about the performance of Mexican American students on measures of intelligence (also see Valencia, 1997). Sánchez (1934) asserted that the lower intellectual performance of Mexican American students could not be explained by inferior heredity, but rather by the ‘‘dual system of education presented in ‘Mexican’ and ‘white’ schools [italics added], the family sys-

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tem of contract labor, social and economic discrimination, education neg- ligence on the part of local and state authorities, [and] ‘homogenous grouping’ to mask professional inefficiency’’ (p. 770).

Indeed, as many scholars have noted (see Foley, 1997; Klarman, 2004; Kluger, 1976), by the early 1940s, the changing political and social climate had shifted the focus away from the genetic explanations of Mexican Amer- ican and African American inequality and disadvantagement to more social and environmental causes. At this point, the likelihood of Mexican Americans succeeding in a renewed legal struggle for school desegregation appeared auspicious. According to Wollenberg (1974), ‘‘The doubts expressed about segregation in the thirties evolved into new convictions during the forties’’ (p. 323). He noted that during WW II ‘‘racism was identified with Hitler and the Axis powers, while equality and justice were said to be the principles of the Allied cause’’ (p. 323). Another factor that helped to reignite both the Mex- ican American and African American desegregation campaigns was the re- turn of servicemen of color from WW II. The bravery and accomplishments of these men during the war were often unparalleled (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001). Indeed, scholars have documented that Mexican Americans, for ex- ample, were disproportionately represented among the casualties in WWII and they were the most decorated ethnic group of the war (Morı́n, 1963; Ramos, 1998). Still, these servicemenFlike their African American counter- partsFreturned home to experience the same discrimination and second- class citizenship that existed when they left to fight a war in the name of democracy (Klarman, 2004). Although these ‘‘valiant guardsmen of the American dream were forgotten . . . these veterans stood prepared to strug- gle as never before for their rightful place as citizens of the United States of America’’ (Ramos, 1998, p. xvii). One such battleground became education, especially the desegregation of schools.

THE FIRST PHASE OF MENDEZ

Gonzalo and Felicitas Méndez were long-standing residents of Westminster, California in Orange County. Soledad Vidaurri, aunt of the three Méndez childrenFSylvia, Gerónimo, and Gonzalo, Jr.Ftook them to the nearest schoolFWestminster Elementary SchoolFto enroll on the first day of the 1944–1945 school year (González, 1990). At that time, the school officially only admitted White students, and the Méndez children were denied ad- mission on the grounds that they were deficient in English. This was sur- prising to Soledad, as her own children, Alice and Edward, attended Westminster Elementary. She later discovered they were admitted because ‘‘of their light complexions and their last name, Vidaurri, which was French’’ (González, 1990, p. 150). This discrimination by phenotype and surname would be a key issue in the Mendez case.

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Immediately after her two nephews and niece were denied admission to Westminster Elementary, Soledad withdrew her own children from the school. Through communication between members of the Mexican Amer- ican community and the school board, several attempts were made to end school segregation. The board, however, was recalcitrant.

On March 2, 1945, five Mexican American fathersFGonzalo Méndez, William Guzmán, Frank Palomino, Thomas Estrada, and Lorenzo Ramı́rezFfiled suit on behalf of their 15 collective children and 5,000 oth- er minor children of ‘‘Mexican and Latin descent.’’ Defendants in Mendez v. Westminster were four school districts: Westminster, Garden Grove, and El Modeno (located in relatively small rural towns in the citrus belt of southern California), and Santa Ana, a district in Santa Ana (city of more than 40,000 residents and the county seat of Orange County) (Phillips, 1949).

Unlike the Texas and California state court cases described above, Mendez was filed in federal courtFthe U.S. District Court (Southern District of California, Central Division). Thus, it was the first school desegregation case in which plaintiffs argued that separate was not equal in K–12 public schools because such segregation violated their rights under the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution. This argu- ment is what makes Mendez so distinct.

It is important to acknowledge that in the 1930s the NAACP had already adopted this federal court strategy for a series of higher education deseg- regation cases they were filing. This was part of the NAACP’s legal strategy in order to win several of these higher education cases before testing the Fourteenth Amendment argument in K–12 cases (see Kluger, 1976). In sum, we need to be aware of the broader history into which Mendez fits. On the one hand, Mendez was not the first federal desegregation case, but it did push the agenda for using the Fourteenth Amendment argument in K–12 education. As such, the Mendez lawyer may have both been inspired by the NAACP legal strategy, and may have contributed to it. In other words, Mendez is an example of one way in which the Mexican American and African American struggles were intertwined and reinforcing. This con- nection has not been fully acknowledged.

It is also important to note that at the time of the Mendez case, the NAACP lawyers, including Charles Houston, Thurgood Marshall, and Robert Cart- er, were pursuing a different, but somewhat parallel strategy to eventually overturn the 1896 Plessy v. Ferguson legal precedent. Based on a report issued by the NAACP in 1931, called the Margold Report, and the vision of Charles Houston, these lawyers were in the midst of a two-decade legal assault on segregation in schools that began with cases focused on the in- equality of racially segregated schools and not segregation itself until the 1950s. In fact, during the 1930s and into the early 1950s, the key NAACP integration cases involved Black students trying to gain access to graduate

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schools at prestigious state universities in Southern states where there were no separate law schools or other graduate schools created for students of color (see Klarman, 2004; Kluger, 1976).

In this way, the Mendez case fits into the center of the NAACP’s metic- ulous road to Brown by directly questioning, in federal court, the validity of segregation itself within the K–12 public educational system just before the NAACP lawyers brought a series of cases that would eventually do the same thing and culminate in the Brown decision. Yet, because the Mendez case was not appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court, and because the final appellate court ruling tied the issue of segregation to California state law, this case could not set the same sort of legal precedent that Brown eventually did. Still, there remain many important similarities between the Mendez and Brown cases that suggest the experience of the first case informedFdirectly or indirectlyFthe strategies of the second.

First of all, the attorney for the Mendez plaintiffs was David C. Marcus, an African American civil rights lawyer from Los Angeles (Arriola, 1995). Marcus brought to this case his prior experience in desegregation litigation in federal court, as he had represented Mexican American and Puerto Ri- can plaintiffs in a successful class action, known as Lopez v. Seccombe (1944), challenging segregation in a park and swimming facilities in San Bernar- dino. In this case, the plaintiffs argued that their rights to full use of the public park and its facilities were being violated under the Fifth and Four- teenth Amendments, especially the equal protection clause. Lopez was a significant case because it was the first time the equal protection clause had been used to uphold Mexican Americans’ rights (Arriola, 1995).

Thus, the Mendez lawsuit was important because it forced federal courts to consider the issue of ‘‘equal protection’’ as it applied to the segregation of Mexican American students in public schools. The plaintiffs’ complaint al- leged that the defendant school districts had practiced class discrimination against elementary school-age ‘‘persons of Mexican or Latin descent or extraction’’ in the conduct and operation of public schools. This discrim- ination, the plaintiffs argued, resulted in the denial of the equal protection of the laws to the petitioning school children. Yet, because Mexican Amer- ican children were considered ‘‘White,’’ alleged discrimination was not based on race, but on national origin (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. 544, 545–546 [S.D. Cal. 1946]).

Another factor that makes this case so interesting is that the defendant school districts intentionally segregated children of Mexican and Latin de- scent via ‘‘rules, regulations, custom, and usages’’ despite the fact that Mexican American children were not mentioned in the segregative mandate of the California state law, which, as I noted above, stipulated that districts could create separate schools for students of Indian, Japanese, Chinese, or ‘‘Mongolian’’ parentage (cited in Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 548).

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Joel Ogle, the lawyer for the defendant districts, argued strenuously that the federal courts had no jurisdiction in Mendez because education was a matter governed by state law. Moreover, Ogle and his clients’ main defense was that the districts were not segregating Mexican American children on the basis of race or nationality, but for the purpose of ‘‘providing special instruction to students not fluent in English and not familiar with American values and customs’’ (Wollenberg, 1974, p. 362). Finally, Ogle pointed out that in the 1896 ruling in Plessy v. Ferguson the Supreme Court had allowed states to segregate races, providing that the separate facilities were equal (Wollenberg, 1974).

Meanwhile, Marcus, the attorney for the plaintiffs, employed a varied strategy in his effort to disprove the state and federal legal bases of seg- regation. He did this by focusing intently on the harms of segregation on Mexican American children and thereby foreshadowing the central argu- ment made by the NAACP lawyers in the Brown case. For instance, Marcus called as witnesses members of the Mexican American community who had attended the segregated schools and who spoke of the extreme aspects of segregation and its impact on them. He also had Mexican American chil- dren testify as to how attending segregated schools made them feel (Arriola, 1995). Marcus underscored this vital testimony with powerful evidence re- garding Mexican American students’ efforts to transfer to predominantly White schools, and how those requests were routinely denied by the school district. And last but not least, Marcus broke new ground with his use of social science research to further his claim regarding the harmful effects of segregation. In fact, this article is most likely the first to highlight the role of the social scientists as expert witnesses in this case by reporting on their testimony.5

Marcus called upon two experts to testify in the Mendez trialFDr. Ralph L. Beals, professor and chairman of the Department of Anthropology and Sociology at UC Berkeley, and Ms. Marie H. Hughes, a former principal and curricular director in New Mexico who was, at that time, working for Los Angeles County Public Schools and completing her Ph.D. at Stanford University.

The testimony of these two experts furthered the central argument Marcus was trying to drive home with his other witnesses, namely that segregation retards the development of Mexican American children. There were two central themes that ran through the experts’ arguments that supported such an assertion:

1. Segregation engenders feelings of inferiority among Mexican-descent students and fosters antagonisms in these children and hostility ‘‘to the whole culture of the surrounding majority group’’ (Reporter’s Transcript Proceeding, p. 676, Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. 544 [S.D. Cal. 1946]).

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2. The second central theme was that the segregation of the Mexican- descent students was at cross-purposes with efforts to Americanize them because it retards ‘‘the assimilation of the child to American customs and ways’’ (Reporter’s Transcript Proceeding, p. 670, Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. 544 [S.D. Cal. 1946]). Furthermore, both experts argued that segregation of Spanish-speaking, Mexican-decent students lessened their English language learning.

Hughes’ testimony was particularly valuable given her considerable ex- perience working with, observing, and researching students of Mexican origin. Thus, she was able to provide the court with deep psychological and linguistic insights. For example, with respect to her argument about seg- regation engendering feelings of inferiority in Mexican-descent students, Hughes’ testimony paralleled the arguments that were to be made shortly thereafter by Kenneth Clark in the Brown case. She testified that ‘‘segre- gation, by its very nature, is a reminder constantly of inferiority, of not being wanted, of not being a part of the community. Such an experience cannot possibly build the best personality or the sort of person who is at most home in the world, and able to contribute and live well’’ (Reporter’s Transcript Proceeding, p. 691, Mendez v. Westminster , 64 F. Supp. 544 [S.D. Cal. 1946]).

Regarding the educational value of having Spanish-speaking, Mexican- origin children attend the same schools and classes as their White peers, Hughes argued:

The best ways to teach English is to give many opportunities to speak English, to hear it spoken correctly, and have reasons for speaking it, and to enlarge the experiences which demand English. That is, with any language you tend to learn the words of a given experience, and if your experiences are limited, your vocabulary will be limited. (Re- porter’s Transcript Proceedings, pp. 695–696, Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. 544 [S.D. Cal. 1946])

In sum, plaintiffs’ counsel Marcus skillfully employed a highly valuable strategyFthe use of social science expert testimonyFto bolster plaintiffs’ integrationist argument. This argument had persuasive impact on presiding Judge Paul J. McCormick’s ruling.

A VERDICT IN FAVOR OF THE PLAINTIFFS

On February 18, 1946Fnearly a year after the case was filedFJudge McCormick ruled in Mendez v. Westminster that discrimination against the Mexican-origin students existed and that their rights under the Fourteenth

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Amendment were being denied. He stated: ‘‘We think the pattern of public education promulgated in the Constitution of California and effectuated by provisions of the Education Code of the State prohibits segregation of the pupils of Mexican ancestry in the elementary schools from the rest of the school children’’ (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 547, 548).

In fact, this decision was so monumental and far-reaching that it would lead to the end of de jure segregation of California’s schools 16 months later. Furthermore, there are several aspects of this decision that had implications for Brown. First of all, Judge McCormick dismissed the defendant school districts’ challenge to the federal jurisdiction of the case and explained why the issue at stake in this case was central to federal constitutional guarantees as spelled out in the Fourteenth Amendment:

. . . the school boards and administrative authorities have by their segregation policies and practices transgressed applicable law and Constitutional safeguards and limitations and thus have invaded the personal right which every public school pupil has to the equal pro- tection provision of the Fourteenth Amendment to obtain the means of education. (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 547, 548)

Second, although the defendants’ attorney had argued that the Supreme Court’s 1896 ruling in the Plessy case provided justification for the ‘‘separate but equal’’ education of Mexican American students in California, Judge McCormick avoided direct reference to the constitutional issue of Plessy at this juncture. Rather, he based his decision on the California statute that disallowed the segregation of students of Mexican ancestry and the Four- teenth Amendment’s equal protection clause. Yet, Judge McCormick took an indirect swipe at Plessy in such a manner that, this part of his decision is, in my view, the singularly most important aspect emanating from Mendez. Judge McCormick wrote:

The equal protection of the laws pertaining to the public school system in California is not provided by furnishing in separate schools the same technical facilities, text books [sic] and courses of instruction to children of Mexican ancestry that are available to the other public school children [sic] regardless of their ancestry. A paramount requisite in the American system of public education is social equality. It must be open to all children by unified school association regardless of lineage [italics added] (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549).

Regarding the above quoted portion of the ruling, legal scholar Perea (1997) argues that the federal judge rejected the entire underpinning of Plessy v. Ferguson and foreshadowed the reasoning of the Supreme Court in

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Brown v. Board of Education. ‘‘Where Plessy had reified segregation by dis- claiming the Court’s power to act to remedy social inequality, the Mendez opinion conveys a powerfully different understanding of equality that ul- timately prevails in Brown’’ (p. 1244).

The former NAACP lawyer and Federal District Court Judge Constance Baker Motley also commented on the District Court ruling in Mendez: ‘‘The district court’s unequivocally strong language was radically new at the time the decision was issued’’ (Motley, 1991, p. 26).

Third, as Arriola (1995) notes, Judge McCormick did respond to the so- called ‘‘new integrationist educational theory’’ proffered by psychological and social science experts who testified in Mendez regarding the harms of segregation. The judge wrote: ‘‘It is also established by the record that the methods of segregation prevalent in the defendant school districts foster antagonisms in the children and suggest inferiority among them where none exists’’ (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549).

In reference to this part of Judge McCormick’s opinion, Perea (1997) remarked: ‘‘The Mendez court also anticipated Brown, and rejected Plessy, in its understanding of the role of public education and the stigmatizing meaning and purpose of segregation’’ (p. 1244).

Fourth, as noted above, the defendant districts justified the segregation of Mexican-origin students by asserting that such separation was based on lan- guage needs and not race. The plaintiffs, on the other hand, alleged that the language segregation policy was a pretense for blanket discrimination against the students of Mexican ancestry, and thus the requirement was illegal.

Judge McCormick was clearly persuaded by the plaintiffs’ argument and highly critical of the districts’ language assessment used in assigning Mex- ican American students to segregated schools. He noted that:

No credible language test is given to the children of Mexican ancestry upon entering the first grade in Lincoln School . . . . The tests applied to the beginners are shown to have been generally hasty, superficial and not reliable. In some instances separate classification was deter- mined largely by the Latinized or Mexican name of the child. Such methods of evaluating language knowledge are illusory and are not conducive to the inculcation and enjoyment of civil rights which are of primary importance in the public school system of education in the United States. (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549, 550)

Judge McCormick went one step further on the issues of language segre- gation, citing the integrationist educational theory. He wrote:

The evidence clearly shows that Spanish-speaking children are re- tarded in learning English by lack of exposure to its use because of

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segregation, and that commingling of the entire student body instills and develops a common cultural attitude among the school children [italics added] which is imperative for the perpetuation of American institutions and ideals. (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549)

The judge ordered that the allegations of the complaint had been estab- lished sufficiently to justify an injunction that would restrain the school districts from further discriminatory practices against students of Mexican decent. The defendant school boards and their lawyer vowed to appeal Judge McCormick’s ruling to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals and, if necessary, to the U.S. Supreme Court (Wollenberg, 1974).

Reactions to this initial Mendez decision reverberated across the country. David Marcus, the plaintiffs’ attorney, was quoted in the March 22, 1946, issue of La Opinión, a Spanish-language newspaper in Los Angeles, as calling the Mendez ruling: ‘‘una de las más grandes decisiones judiciales en favor de las prácticas democráticas otorgadas desde la emancipación de los esclavos [‘‘one of the greatest judicial decisions in favor of democratic practices since the eman- cipation of the slaves’’] (La Opinión, 1946; English translation cited in Wo- llenberg, 1974).

Judge McCormick’s decision was also noted in prominent law journals, including the Columbia Law Review (1947); Harvard Law Review (1946– 1947); Illinois Law Review (1947); Minnesota Law Review (1946); and Yale Law Journal (1947). For example, a commentator in the Columbia Law Review (1947) acknowledged that Mendez was the first case to successfully assault segregation based on the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amend- ment. The article noted that while the courts had ruled in prior cases that if the physical facilities provided to each group were essentially equal, stu- dents’ humiliation as a result of being segregated to an inferior social status did not constitute discrimination. The Mendez decision, the article argued, ‘‘breaks sharply with this approach and finds that the 14th Amendment requires ‘social equality’ rather than just equal facilities’’ (pp. 326–327).

What was referred to as ‘‘social equality’’ in Mendez is strongly related to what were later called ‘‘intangible’’ factors in Brown. These same arguments were being made in the late 1940s in the higher education segregation cases brought by the NAACP as Mendez was winding its way through the courts (see Kluger, 1976). As such, Mendez portended the legal and integrationist theories put forth by the lawyers in Brown.

THE APPEAL OF MENDEZ: APPELLEE SCHOOLCHILDREN PREVAIL

By the end of 1946, the defendant school districts had appealed the District Court ruling in Mendez to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals in San Fran-

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cisco. By this time, the case had garnered national attention. Given that the separate but equal doctrine was at stake, Davies (1946) wrote in the New York Times, the appeal was ‘‘closely watched as a guinea-pig case’’ (p. 6e). In Westminster v. Mendez (1947), the appellant school districts (defendants in Mendez) filed a brief reasserting their arguments that the federal courts had no jurisdiction and that ‘‘separate but equal’’ is legal. Their brief stated:

Education is purely a matter of state concern and that when the State has furnished all pupils within its jurisdiction equal facilities and equal instruction, it has not denied to any the equal protection of the law imposed by the Constitution of the United States. (Appellant’s Open- ing Brief, p. 7, Westminster v. Mendez, 161 F.2d 774 [9th Cir. 1947], cited in Arriola, 1995, p. 192)

Meanwhile, five important and influential organizations submitted four amicus curiae, or ‘‘friend of the court,’’ briefs in support of the appellee Mexican American schoolchildren in Westminster v. Mendez (plaintiffs in Mendez). Such amicus briefs are usually filed by a person or organization who is not a party to a lawsuit but ‘‘who petitions the court or is requested by the court to file a brief in the action’’ because he or she has a strong interest in the subject matter (Black, 1999, p. 83).

In the Westminster v. Mendez case, the groups that filed these amicus briefs supporting the students were the NAACP, the American Jewish Congress, the Attorney General of the State of California, and the American Civil Liberties Union together with the National Lawyers Guild. Yet, as Arriola (1995) points out, each of these briefs was ‘‘planned as a piece of a puzzle, which would eventually give the court a clear picture of the wrongs of segregation, both in precedent and policy’’ (p. 166).

The NAACP brief was written by Thurgood Marshall, Robert L. Carter, and Loren Miller. Marshall and Carter later served as counsel for African American plaintiffs in Brown v. Board of Education (1954). The NAACP’s amicus brief argued that the Ninth Circuit should invalidate segregation in public schools as a violation of the Constitution (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, 1947). The NAACP lawyers based their argument on three major points:

First, in Plessy, the Supreme Court accepted the ‘‘equal but separate’’ doctrine, but limited its consideration to carrier accommodations (i.e., transportation of people). The brief noted that although in ‘‘subsequent cases it has been assumed [italics added] that decisions have applied this theory to validate segregation in public schools’’ (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, 1947, p. 30). The Supreme Court, the NAACP brief continued, has never stated such a validation because it had never addressed the constitutionality of public school segregation.

The Mexican American Struggle for Equal Educational Opportunity 407

Second, the NAACP showed, using empirical data, that in the 17 states and the District of Columbia that had school segregation as universal policy, separate schools were not equal in terms of several critical measures, in- cluding per pupil expenditures, and pupil/teacher ratios.

Finally, the NAACP argued that that equal protection of the laws cannot be realized in legally segregated schools because such segregation leads to inequality and fosters feelings of inferiority among minority groups. On this point, the NAACP brief echoed the views of the Mendez case expert wit- nesses and foreshadowed the social science evidence that would be brought to bear in the Brown case. Kluger (1976), in his seminal book, Simple Justice, stated that the NAACP’s amicus brief in the Mendez appeal ‘‘was a useful dry run’’ because it ‘‘tested the temper of the courts without putting the NAACP itself in the field’’ and drew added attention to the case, especially in several leading law reviews (pp. 399–400).

In the amicus brief submitted by the American Jewish Congress (AJC), the authors sought to avoid duplication of the NAACP brief. Thus, while the AJC strongly rebuked the Plessy decision, this brief focused overwhelmingly on ethnic relations and summoned up images of the recently defeated Nazi regime in Europe. Thus, the AJC argued that the inferior status imposed upon a minority group by the socially dominant group ‘‘is a humiliating and discriminatory denial of equality to the group considered ‘inferior’,’’ and thus is a violation of the Constitution and U.S. treaties (American Jewish Congress, 1947, pp. 3–4).

The AJC also argued that any classifications according to color, race, national origin, ancestry, or creed that are based on ‘‘discriminatory social or legal notions of ‘inferiority’ or ‘superiority’’’ are unreasonable and in- admissible (American Jewish Congress, 1947, p. 4). The AJC brief con- cluded with very powerful language, especially in light of what Jews had all-too-recently suffered in Europe (also see Arriola, 1995). The AJC brief concluded as follows:

All discrimination is bad and humiliation of any human being because of his creed or language is unworthy of a free country. But none is so vicious as the humiliation of innocent, trusting children, American children full of faith in life. Their humiliation strikes at the very roots of the American Commonwealth. Their humiliation threatens the more perfect union which the Constitution seeks to achieve. It is the awareness of that danger and the desire to counteract it that has prompted the submission of this brief. (American Jewish Congress, 1947, p. 35)

The amicus brief jointly submitted by the American Civil Liberties Union and the National Lawyers Guild (1947) overwhelmingly focused its argu-

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ment on the jurisdictional issue, supporting the original plaintiffs’ claim that this case belonged in federal court. Meanwhile, the Attorney General’s brief (Attorney General of the State of California, 1947) was short and narrowly focused, arguing that the segregation of Mexican and Latin ancestry chil- dren is contrary to State policy, improper, and thus violated the children’s rights as guaranteed by the laws of the Fourteenth Amendment.

On April 14, 1947, in a unanimous 7–0 decision, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals upheld the District Court judge’s decision and thereby paved the way for a remedy that would call for an end to segregation in the defendant school districts. While the appellate ruling was a clear victory for the Mex- ican American students in Orange County, CaliforniaFand it ended up having a broader impact across the state and the regionFit did not over- turn the blatantly racist Plessy doctrine. Therefore, although the opportu- nity to rule on the separate but equal doctrine was clearly given to the Ninth Circuit by the District Court and supported by the amicus briefs, the former Court adamantly refused to rule on this highly significant issue (see Arriola, 1995; González, 1990; Perea, 1997; Wollenberg, 1974). According to Arriola (1995), the Ninth Circuit took the route of judicial conservatism by ignoring many of the legal arguments presented by the NAACP in its brief.

Rather than taking on Plessy, the Ninth Circuit ruling addressed two of the questions that were under consideration: First, were the alleged acts done ‘‘under color of state law’’? Color of law is defined as: ‘‘The appear- ance or semblance, without the substance, of a legal right’’ and ‘‘implies a misuse of power made possible because the wrongdoer is clothed with the authority of the state’’ (Black, 1999, p. 260). Second, do these acts deprive petitioners of any constitutional right? (Westminster v. Mendez, 161 F.2d at 774, 778 [9th Cir. 1947]). In terms of the question regarding the color of law, the Ninth Circuit ruled that in segregating pupils of Mexican ancestry, ‘‘the respondents ‘did not hew to the line of their authority’; they over- stepped it.’’ And thus, the Court ruled: ‘‘We hold that the respondents acting to segregate the school children [sic] as alleged in the petition were performing under color of California State Law’’ (Westminster v. Mendez, 161 F.2d at 779).

As for the issue of constitutional violation, the Ninth Circuit noted that via the defendant districts’ action of forcing the segregation of schoolchil- dren of Mexican ancestry against their will, and contrary to the California law, the appellants violated the pupils’ rights as provided under the Four- teenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. This violation occurred by ‘‘depriving them of liberty and property without due process of law and by denying the equal protection of the laws’’ (Westminster v. Mendez, 161 F.2d at 781).

Despite this good news for the Mexican American schoolchildren on whose behalf this case was originally filed, the Ninth Circuit chose to bypass

The Mexican American Struggle for Equal Educational Opportunity 409

the central legal and social issues of the day. In their decision, these federal Appellate Court judges were acutely aware of how close they were to taking on the constitutionality of Plessy and the laws of 17 Jim Crow states. They were also apparently aware of how rapidly the world and American society were changing in this post-WW II era. Thus, they wrote: ‘‘There is argu- ment in two of the amicus curiae briefs that we should strike out inde- pendently on the whole question of segregation, on the ground that recent world stirring events have set men to the reexamination of concepts con- sidered fixed’’ (Westminster v. Mendez, 161 F.2d at 780).

Yet, the Ninth Circuit jurists continue to make the point that, while judges must keep abreast of the times, they must be on their guard lest they ‘‘rationalize outright legislation under the too free use of the power to interpret’’ (Westminster v. Mendez, 161 F.2d at 780). Furthermore, they note that in the Mendez case, because there was no authority justifying any seg- regation by way of an administrative or executive decree, the segregation is ‘‘without legislative support and comes into fatal collision with the legisla- tion of the state’’ (Westminster v. Mendez, 161 F.2d at 780).

The refusal of the Ninth Circuit to address Plessy was particularly dis- appointing to the NAACP (Arriola, 1995). Yet, hope remained alive for an opportunity to challenge Plessy before the U.S. Supreme Court, as the civil rights groups that supported Mendez at the Ninth Circuit level anticipated an appeal by the appellant school districts. The appeal never materialized for at least two reasons: First, the affirmation by the Ninth Circuit was resounding and unanimous. Secondly, more than 2 months before the Ninth Circuit handed down its decision in Westminster v. Mendez, the Cal- ifornia Legislature began considering a bill to end de jure segregation in the state (discussed in the next section). There would be, however, a propitious time not too far down the line when the separate but equal doctrine would be challenged. On December 9, 1952F5 years and 8 months after the Ninth Circuit handed down its opinion in MendezFthe U.S. Supreme Court heard the first oral arguments in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka.

ASSESSING THE LEGACY OF MENDEZ

Here, I briefly discuss the broader impact of the Mendez caseFon Califor- nia, the Southwest, and Brown. In doing so, CRT in education once again becomes a valuable explanatory model to understand and analyze these impacts. Particularly salient are the CRT tenets that deal with (a) the ex- posure of racism at the state, regional, and national levels, (b) Mexican Americans’ and African Americans’ challenge to the dominant ideology of color blindness and equal educational opportunity, (c) the commitment to social justice by people of color as seen in the litigation struggles, and (d) the

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utility of people of color and Whites working together in improving ed- ucation for all children.

IMPACT ON CALIFORNIA

On January 27, 1947Fabout 10 weeks before the Ninth Circuit affirmed the District Court’s ruling on MendezFCalifornia Assemblymen Anderson, Hawkins, Rosenthal, and Bennett introduced Assembly Bill (AB) 1375 (California Legislature, 1947; cited in Peters, 1948). The intent of this bill was to repeal the sections of the Education Code that allowed school boards to establish separate schools for certain Indian pupils and pupils of Chinese, Japanese, and ‘‘Mongolian’’ ancestry (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 548). The bill to repeal segregation easily passed the Assembly and Senate, and on June 14, 1947Ftwo months after the Ninth Circuit affirmed Judge McCormick’s ruling in MendezFGovernor Earl Warren signed the bill into law (Wollenberg, 1974). This is the same Earl Warren who, 6 years later, was appointed by President Dwight D. Eisenhower to become the 14th chief justice of the Supreme Court in 1953, the same man who authored the landmark Supreme Court opinion in Brown.

Arriola (1995) has argued that ‘‘The [Mendez] case brought public pres- sure on the State government of California to repeal all segregation laws on the books regarding Asians and Native Americans’’ (p. 199). Although it is not known whether the repeal of the segregation statutes of the California Education Code was directly influenced by the amicus brief written by the Attorney General and Deputy Attorney General of California for the ap- pellees of Westminster v. Mendez, one could surmise that the filing of the brief was, in part, brought forth by the public pressure discussed by Arriola (1995).

Yet, ironically enough, as I have noted elsewhere, although the Mendez case helped to end de jure segregation in California, Mexican American students remained highly segregated and, in fact, became more segregated over the decades following the ruling (see Hendrick, 1977; Valencia, 2002).

IMPACT ON THE SOUTHWEST6

In 1948, the centennial of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, Delgado v. Bastrop Independent School District was litigated in the U.S. District Court for the Western District of Texas, and was backed by a cadre of powerful Mex- ican American individuals and organizations, including the League of Unit- ed Latin American Citizens, and the American G.I. Forum, a newly founded Mexican American veterans-advocacy group. Minerva Delgado and 20 other plaintiffs sued several school districts in Central Texas, using Mendez as precedent. The plaintiffs’ complaint noted: ‘‘There is no provision in the

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Constitution of the State of Texas or in any Statute of said State authorizing or permitting the separation, into segregated schools and classes . . . of school children of Mexican descent’’ (cited in Sánchez, 1951, p. 69).

The plaintiffs in that case believed that Delgado would do for Texas what Mendez had done for CaliforniaFbring an end to school segregation. The District Court judge ruled that segregation of the Mexican American stu- dents was discriminatory and illegal, and violated the students’ constitu- tional rights as guaranteed by the Fourteenth Amendment (cited in Sánchez 1951, pp. 72–73). A major setback for the Delgado plaintiffs, however, was that the District Court ruling allowed the school district to segregate first- grade Mexican American students who had English-language deficiencies in separate classrooms, but not in separate schools (Sánchez, 1951, pp. 72– 73).

Thus, although the Delgado plaintiffs initially viewed this ruling as one that would bring an end to segregation in Texas, these hopes were never realized (San Miguel, 1987). In what Allsup (1979) described as a clash of White obstinacy and Mexican American determination, school districts throughout Texas failed to comply with the Delgado decision. This was made easy, in part, by the State Board of Education, which created a complex bureaucratic system of grievances and redress. Furthermore, local school districts designed evasive schemes to assure noncompliance with the Delgado ruling (San Miguel, 1987). In light of the massive subterfuge by Texas officials to circumvent Delgado, Mexican Americans became disheartened in their quest for desegregated schools.

Three years following Delgado, in 1951, Gonzales v. Sheely, an Arizona desegregation case, was filed in U.S. District Court in which ‘‘[t]he principle established in Westminster School District of Orange County v. Mendez . . . ap- pears to be controlling’’ (Gonzales v. Sheely, 96 F. Supp. 1004, [D. Ariz. 1951]).

In Gonzales, plaintiffs were Porfirio Gonzales and Faustino Curiel, their four collective children, and 300 children of Mexican or Latin ancestry. Defendants were the Board of Trustees and the principal of the Tolleson Elementary School District Number 17, County of Maricopa. The com- plaint brought forth followed the same reasoning of Mendez: Segregation of the Mexican-descent students was executed ‘‘under color of state law.’’ Be- cause Arizona’s Education Code did not mandate the segregation of Mex- ican-descent pupils, the equal protection rightsFas guaranteed by the Fourteenth AmendmentFof the Mexican American students were being violated (Gonzales v. Sheely, 96 F. Supp. at 1005, 1007 [D. Ariz. 1951]).

The U.S. District Court judge ruled in favor of the Gonzales plaintiffs, concluding that segregating Mexican-descent children in separate schools constitutes a violation of the equal protection laws. Several times in his opinion, Judge Dave W. Ling drewFword for wordFfrom the ruling of Judge McCormick in Mendez. For example, he wrote, ‘‘A paramount req-

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uisite in the American system of public education is social equality. It must be open to all children by unified school associations, regardless of lineage’’ (cf. Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549). Furthermore, in Gonzales, as in Mendez, the tests to assess language knowledge were deemed by the judge to be ‘‘generally hasty, superficial and not reliable’’ (cf. Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 550).

Judge Ling in the Gonzales case also incorporated the value of the in- tegrationist educational theory. He wrote that the segregative methods of the defendant school district ‘‘foster antagonisms in the children and sug- gest inferiority among them where none exists’’ (cf. Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549). He added the ‘‘commingling of the entire student body instills and develops a common cultural attitude among the school children [sic] which is imperative for the perpetuation of American institutions and ideals’’ (cf. Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549). Ruling that defendants violated Arizona law as well as the U.S. Constitution, the federal judge ordered a preliminary injunction in which defendants were enjoined from segregating students of Mexican or Latin descent. Yet, in his ruling Judge Ling wroteFreminiscent of the Delgado rulingFthat ‘‘English language deficiencies of some of the children of Mexican ancestry as such children enter elementary public school . . . may justify [curriculum] differentiation by public school authorities’’ (Gonzales v. Sheely, 96 F. Supp. at 1008).

Overall, Mendez had some favorable impact on the desegregation strug- gle in schools in the Southwest. In all three instancesFMendez, Delgado, and GonzalesFplaintiffs prevailed in federal courts. Yet, little progress was made in school desegregation. Positive court decisions failed to translate to ethnic mixing in schools. CRT is useful in uncovering the insidious ways in which racismFvia segregation and failure to comply with court decisionsFop- erates in schools and the larger society. CRT also informs us that the or- thodoxy and dominant ideology of racial separation prevails to advance the self-interest, power, and privilege of White groups. In Delgado, for instance, the legal separation of Mexican American children on educational (i.e., language) grounds was a smoke screen for racial separation.

IMPACT ON BROWN

It is clear that Mendez influenced school desegregation jurisprudence in California and the Southwest, but how did Mendez help in shaping deseg- regation efforts at the national level, that is, in regards to Brown? I believe that this can best be addressed by framing the discussion within two con- texts: (a) the shifting nature of civil and human rights in the 1940s; (b) integrationist educational theory.

Arriola (1995) commented that the equal protection clause of the Four- teenth Amendment was in a state of flux in the 1940s. Tussman and tenB-

The Mexican American Struggle for Equal Educational Opportunity 413

rock (1949) summed up in their highly influential article that the equal protection clause had been strangled during the clause’s seminal period by ‘‘post-civil-war judicial reactionism [and was] long frustrated by judicial ne- glect’’ (p. 381). The authors went on to say that the equal protection clause ‘‘appears to be entering the most fruitful and significant period of its ca- reer’’ and that the theory framing equal protection ‘‘may yet take its rightful place in the unfinished Constitutional struggle for democracy’’ (p. 381).

The emerging optimism in the 1940s that civil rights would be advanced in the nation was contextualized, by some legal scholars, within the larger realm of human rights (see Klarman, 2004). Tussman and tenBrock (1949) commented that the equal protection clause was amended to the Consti- tution ‘‘as a culmination of the greatest humanitarian movement in our history. It is rooted deep in our religious and ethical traditions. Is any other clause in the Constitution so eminently suited to be the ultimate haven of human rights?’’ (p. 384).

Thus, regarding Mendez, it is not surprising that human rights violations of the most heinous magnitudeFthe Nazi atrocities of WW IIFbecame part of the record via the American Jewish Congress’ amicus brief discussed above. Arriola (1995) has succinctly brought together the intersection of civil/human rights and Mendez:

Contemporaries of the Mendez Court saw equal protection in a state of flux with the potential to head in a number of different directions. There existed a diverse body of case law that could allow the court to make a tremendous impact on American jurisprudence, that is if the courts were bold enough to look away from prejudiced precedent . . . . Equal Protection was in a state of metamorphosis during the 1940s and could have gone in any direction. The question was, which cases would lead the courts and which arguments would be persuasive. The NAACP and others hoped Mendez would be one of those cases, if not the case in the efforts to overturn segregation as embodied in the existing corpus of segregation precedent. (pp. 191–192)

A less benevolent and more strategic view of the shifting optimism toward civil and human rights during this period is discussed by Dudziak (1995), a critical race theorist, who argues that it was in the United States’ self-in- terest, politically and economically, to end racial apartheid in this country. Dudziak (1995) writes that after WW II, racial discrimination in the United States received increasing attention from other countries and that newspa- pers throughout the world wrote about discrimination against non-White visiting foreign dignitaries and American Blacks. It was a time when ‘‘the U.S. hoped to reshape the postwar world in its own image, the international attention given to racial segregation was troublesome and embarrassing.

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The focus of American foreign policy at this point was to promote democ- racy and to ‘contain’ communism’’ (Dudziak, 1995, p. 110).

More specifically, regarding school segregation, this CRT perspective asserts that the United States could not tolerate a hypocritical image by fighting communism abroad and simultaneously supporting segregation stateside. Bell (1980) has coined this thesis, ‘‘interest convergence,’’ and applied it to Brown. This notion refers to when ‘‘the majority group tolerates advances for racial justice only when it suits its interests to do so’’ (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001, p. 149). It should be noted, however, that while the interest convergence notion originated in the CRT literature, the idea has now entered the writings of mainstream scholars (e.g., Klarman, 2004).

Within this broader context of changing political times, legal interpre- tations written by scholars subsequent to the favorable ruling in Mendez by the District Court and the affirmation by the Ninth Circuit were ripe with discussions that this case could have been the impetus for the Supreme Court to tackle, head-on, the reasonableness of the separate but equal doc- trine. A commentator in the Columbia Law Review (1947) noted:

The unwillingness of courts to challenge the reasonableness of a state classification [of segregation based on race] is now yielding where civil liberties are at stake. Since educational segregation on racial lines serves no desirable ends, a reappraisal of the validity of the practice is in order. A classification which might have been reasonable in the light of post-Civil War conditions may no longer be reasonable today. (p. 327)

A commentator in the Yale Law Journal (1947), in writing about the Ninth Circuit’s ruling in the Mendez case, stated this case ‘‘has questioned the basic assumption of the Plessy case and may portend a complete reversal of the [separate but equal] doctrine’’ (p. 1060). Furthermore, in the Illinois Law Review (1947), a commentator observed that given (a) the rising frequency of segregation cases challenging the validity of the separate but equal doc- trine, (b) the economic fallacy of the separate but equal facilities notion, and (c) the faulty position that segregation is not harmful, the Supreme Court ‘‘could be forced to grant certiorari and face this issue [of separate but equal] squarely’’ (p. 549). A commentator in the Illinois Law Review con- cluded: ‘‘In any event, the Mendez case and its companion cases raise this precise problem which the Supreme Court must consider and determine in any re-examination of the ‘equal but separate doctrine’’’ (p. 549).

In sum, Mendez was litigated during a time when views towards civil rights were in a state of flux, and such civil rights were being inextricably linked to human rights. The Mendez victoryFwhich extended ‘‘the scope of the equal protection clause further than any previous decision from the

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federal courts involving educational discrimination’’ (Minnesota Law Review 1946, p. 646)Fhelped set a climate of optimism for a concerted Supreme Court challenge to Plessy. The Honorable Constance Baker Motley, a mem- ber of the NAACP legal staff who helped prepare the briefs for the Brown case, wrote that on the cusp of Brown it was not clear what the impact of the prior NAACP cases involving Black students’ access to predominantly White graduate schools (McLaurin v. Oklahoma State Regents, 1950; Sweatt v. Painter, 1950) would have on cases directly dealing with elementary and secondary schools. She further noted: ‘‘[W]e all sensed from those [higher education] decisions and from a Ninth Circuit decision [Mendez] repudiating the seg- regation of Mexican children in California that integrated education was an idea whose time had come’’ [italics added] (Motley, 1991, p. 26).

In addition to this climate of optimism, the second way in which Mendez had an impact on Brown was the integrationist educational theory expressed by Judge McCormick’s ruling. As I discussed earlier in this article, David C. MarcusFattorney for the Mendez plaintiffsFwisely used social scientists to testify that segregation led to negative effects on the educational and social development of the Mexican children. And, as I also previously noted, Judge McCormick found that the segregation methods of the defendant districts ‘‘foster antagonisms in the [Mexican] children and suggest inferi- ority among them where none exists’’ (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549). This reasoning led Judge McCormick to his historic opinion that equal protection of the laws is not provided by merely furnishing Mexican- descent childrenFin separate schoolsFequal textbooks, facilities, and instruction. ‘‘A paramount requisite in the American system of public ed- ucation is social equality’’ [italics added] and ‘‘unified school association’’ (Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. at 549).

Commenting on Judge McCormick’s argument about ‘‘social equality,’’ a commentator in the Yale Law Journal (1947) wrote:

Modern sociological and psychological studies lend much support to the District Court’s views. A dual school system even if ‘‘equal facil- ities’’ were ever in fact provided, does imply social inferiority. There is no question under such circumstances as to which school has the greater social prestige. Every authority on psychology and sociology is agreed that the students subjected to discrimination and segregation are profoundly affected by this experience. (pp. 1060–1061)

Arriola (1995), a preeminent authority on Mendez, concludes: ‘‘In Brown and other cases, the courts would finally accept social science and policy as persuasive legal arguments, due in large part to the voluminous exper- imentation undertaken in the lower courts, similar to the appeal in Mendez’’ (p. 207).

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Although it is not clear just how much of a direct effect the Mendez case and the social science research evidence employed by the plaintiffs had on the NAACP lawyers’ decision to use similar evidence in the Brown case, it is clear that by the early 1950s, Thurgood Marshall and Robert L. Carter saw this evidence and the integrationist theory it promoted as crucial to their cause to end state-sanctioned segregation. According to Whitman (1993), ‘‘Thurgood Marshall and his chief assistants felt that psychological and so- ciological testimony would materially aid their cause’’ (p. 48). More spe- cifically, Kluger (1976) stated: ‘‘[T]he NAACP’s case would rest on the theory that school segregation itself contributed heavily to the psychic damage of black children’’ (p. 316).

This integrationist strategy, which proved so useful in Mendez, would also serve as the linchpin in Brown. On May 17, 1954, Chief Justice Earl Warren delivered the historic opinion of the Court. In the opinion, there were 24 words, in particular, he penned that would become immortalized in our collective mind and would lead to the transformation of race relations as never seen before in the nation: ‘‘We conclude that in the field of public education the doctrine of ‘separate but equal’ has no place. Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal’’ [italics added] (Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, 347 U.S. 483, 495 [1954]). And, as we know, the Warren Court ruled that be- cause segregated schools cannot be made equal, plaintiffs were being ‘‘de- prived of the equal protection of the laws as guaranteed by the Fourteenth Amendment’’ (Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, 347 U.S. at 495).

CONCLUSION: THE LEGAL AND HISTORICAL BOND OF MENDEZ AND BROWN

In the final analysis, Mendez and Brown are unmistakably connected. Name- ly, the Mendez rulings at the federal District Court and Ninth Circuit levels contributed to the ‘‘climate of optimism’’ that permeated this era. And sec- ondly, the Mendez case showed the power of social science research in strengthening counsel Marcus’ claim about the detrimental effect of seg- regation. This strategy helped to bolster plaintiffs’ integrationist argument. Such testimony proved very useful in Brown.

Notwithstanding the thesis that Mendez was an important precursor to Brown, why has Mendez seemingly slipped from the national consciousness? There are several germane reasons that help to explain this state of affairs. First, the litigation struggle against school segregation by African Americans has been considerably longer than the litigation campaign undertaken by Mexican Americans. As noted by Bell (1995), the genesis of African Amer- ican desegregation litigation can be traced back to the mid-19th century (Roberts v. City of Boston, 1849), followed by numerous cases. Mexican

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Americans, however, did not begin their long and arduous legal struggle against school segregation until about 75 years later (Romo v. Laird, 1925).

Second, Mexican Americans were legally considered White in the United States. As I discussed previously, Mexican Americans took advantage of the ‘‘other White’’ designation for about 45 years in order to serve their in- terests in the early desegregation cases. Given these shifting social con- structions of race experienced by Mexican Americans, coupled with the popular perception that Black-White racial tensions were more intense and oppressive compared to Mexican American-White relationships, it is likely that Mendez has developed less import and visibility than Brown.

And finally, and most obvious, it was, after all, Brown, and not Mendez, that overruled Plessy. Indeed, Brown was a monumental triumph in the history of civil rights jurisprudence. Had Mendez been appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court by the appellants following the Ninth Circuit upholding of the District CourtFand had Mendez prevailed in the High CourtFthen Mendez would be acknowledged as the landmark case that brought an end to the separate but equal doctrine in American schools.

I have sought in this article to bring attention to this most significant school desegregation case, Mendez. I have done so by refuting the Black/ White binary paradigm of race and couching my analyses within the con- ceptual framework of CRT in education. I trust that these efforts have succeeded in broadening the scholarly discourse on civil rights history. In our commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the monumental Supreme Court decision that overturned Plessy, let us all remember Mendez v. West- minster and appreciate how it helped to make this anniversary possible.

On a final note, the preceding analysis helps us to understand the value of multiple groups working together in the U.S. to push forward with civil rights issues in the 21st century, a century projected to have a remarkable and unprecedented growth among people of color. One of the greatest strengths of CRT lay in the observation that diverse groups who join to- gether to fight segregation and other forms of oppression often see that fighting to protect one group’s basic rights is inextricably linked to every- one’s rights.

Notes

1 For overviews of CRT, see Araujo (1997); Crenshaw, Gotanda, Peller, and Thomas (1995); Delgado (1995); Delgado and Stefancic (1993, 2001); Litowitz (1997); Taylor (1998); Valdes, Culp, and Harris (2002).

2 The text in this section is excerpted, with minor modifications from Valencia et al. (2002, pp. 70–72 and 87–88).

3 For a brief history (1848 to 1890s) of the origin and establishment of Catholic, Prot- estant, and public schools in the Southwest regarding the schooling of Mexican-origin students, see San Miguel and Valencia (1998, pp. 355–363).

418 Teachers College Record

4 Rangel and Alcala (1972) have commented that the ‘‘other White’’ strategy argued in Salvatierra rested on the prevailing doctrine of the Plessy v. Ferguson (1896) case. As Weinberg (1977) has noted: ‘‘In the absence of a state law requiring segregation of Mexican-Americans, they claimed equal treatment with all other ‘whites.’ The crucial point was to leave little leeway to be treated as blacks under both state law and U.S. Supreme Court ruling’’ (p. 166). The ‘‘other White’’ strategy would be used in Mexican American desegregation cases for more than four decades, but was finally abandoned in Cisneros (1970). At that time, Mexican American studentsFgiven that they were legally considered WhiteFwere paired with Blacks in deseg- regation plans so districts could attain unitary status. This ploy, which did not desegregate schools, was challenged in Cisneros. Attorneys argued that Mexican Americans were an eth- nically identifiable minority group, thus were entitled to the same equal protection that Blacks gained in Brown (Valencia et al., 2002).

5 The Reporter’s Transcript Proceeding for Mendez v. Westminster, 64 F. Supp. 544 (S.D. Cal. 1946) is available at Mendez v. Westminster: Research Materials, 1879–1955 (Collection number: M0938), Department of Special Collections and University Archives, Stanford Uni- versity Libraries, Stanford California. I wish to thank Christopher Arriola (who donated these Mendez papers to Stanford) for informing me about the collection. I also wish to thank Polly Armstrong, public service specialist, Department of Special Collections, who provided me with the Mendez trial transcripts, amicus briefs filed at the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, and other germane materials. Guide to the Mendez papers can be viewed at: http://www-sul.stanford.edu/ depts/spc.

6 The following discussion on the Delgado case is excerpted, with some modifications, from Valencia et al. (2002, p. 89).

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RICHARD R. VALENCIA is professor in the Department of Educational Psychology at the College of Education of the University of Texas at Austin. His major research interests include racial/ethnic minority education, with a particular focus on Mexican Americans. Among his recent publications are an edited volume entitled Chicano School Failure and Success: Past, Present, and Future (2nd ed., RoutledgeFalmer, 2002), and ‘‘‘Mexican Americans Don’t Value Education!’: On the Basis of the Myth, Mythmaking, and Debunk- ing,’’ in the Journal of Latinos and Education, 1, (2002) (with M. S. Black).

The Mexican American Struggle for Equal Educational Opportunity 423

URBAN EDUCATION / MAY 2001Solorzano, Delgado Bernal / TRANSFORMATIONAL RESISTANCE

EXAMINING TRANSFORMATIONAL

RESISTANCE THROUGH A CRITICAL RACE AND LATCRIT

THEORY FRAMEWORK Chicana and Chicano

Students in an Urban Context

DANIEL G. SOLORZANO University of California, Los Angeles

DOLORES DELGADO BERNAL University of Utah

Using critical race theory and Latina/Latino critical race theory as a framework, this article utilizes the methods of qualitative inquiry and counterstorytelling to examine the construct of student resistance. The authors use two events in Chicana/Chicano student history—the 1968 East Los Angeles school walkouts and the 1993 UCLA student strike for Chicana and Chicano studies. Using these two methods and events, the authors extend the concept of resistance to focus on its transformative potential and its internal and external dimensions. The authors describe and analyze a series of individual and focus group interviews with women who participated in the 1968 East Los Angeles high school walkouts. The article then introduces a counterstory that briefly listens in on a dialogue between two data-driven composite characters, the Professor and an undergraduate stu- dent named Gloria. These characters’ experiences further illuminate the concepts of internal and external transformational resistance.

East Los Angeles School walkouts: In 1968, people witnessed a worldwide rise in student movements in countries such as France, Italy, Mexico, and the United States. In March of that year, more than 10,000 students walked out of the predominately Chicana and

308

Chicano1 high schools in East Los Angeles to protest the inferior quality of their education. For many years prior to the walkouts, East Los Angeles community members made unsuccessful at- tempts to create change and to improve the educational system through mainstream accepted channels. These formal requests went unanswered. As a result of the poor educational conditions and the fact that numerous attempts to voice community concerns were ig- nored, students boycotted classes and presented an official list of grievances to the Los Angeles School District’s Board of Educa- tion. The list consisted of 36 demands, including smaller class sizes, bilingual education, and more emphasis on Chicano history. The students received national attention and earned support from nu- merous people and organizations both inside and outside of the East Los Angeles communities.

UCLA Chicana and Chicano studies protests: Twenty-five years later, in 1993, a multiethnic group of students occupied the Univer- sity of California, Los Angeles (UCLA) Faculty Center to protest the chancellor’s decision to not support the expansion of the Chi- cano Studies Program to departmental status. Indeed, his lack of support was viewed by many students, faculty members, and com- munity organizations as a precursor to dismantling the Chicano Studies Program. The occupation of the Faculty Center ended when more than 100 students were arrested and taken to jail. In the after- math of the arrests, a second protest was planned. Students orga- nized a hunger strike at the center of the UCLA campus. For about 2 weeks, there were numerous daily demonstrations and marches both on and off the UCLA campus. Other colleges, universities, and high schools also held demonstrations in support of the eight stu- dents and one professor who participated in a hunger strike for the expansion of the Chicano Studies Program into a Chicana and Chi- cano Studies Department.

We open this article with these two historical examples to emphasize the varied yet consistent forms of Chicana and Chicano student resistance that have been overlooked and understudied in sociology of education research. Chicana and Chicano students have engaged and indeed do engage in resistance that is motivated by a desire to create more just and equitable learning environments. However, this resistance is almost entirely ignored by social scien- tists. Specifically, the small but growing body of work on the

Solorzano, Delgado Bernal / TRANSFORMATIONAL RESISTANCE 309

AUTHORS’ NOTE: The writing of this article was a collaborative effort in which both au- thors contributed equally.

phenomenon of school resistance tends to focus primarily on work- ing-class males and their self-defeating resistance. In contrast to the forms of resistance we offer as examples in the opening of this article, self-defeating resistance helps to recreate the oppressive conditions from which it originated (Foley, 1990; MacLeod, 1987; McLaren, 1993, 1994; Willis, 1977). We assert that for too long, researchers have focused on the self-defeating resistance of work- ing-class students without acknowledging and studying other forms of resistance that may lead to social transformation.2 Thus far, the goal of analysis for most resistance studies has been to better understand the role individuals play in the process of social reproduction rather than investigate the possibilities for social transformation. In other words, the majority of resistance studies provide information about how youth participate in oppositional behavior that reinforces social inequality instead of offering exam- ples of how oppositional behavior may be an impetus toward social justice.

We argue that the current resistance literature is marred by its own theoretical and conceptual limitations. Furthermore, current resistance models have yet to provide a framework to accurately explain the school resistance of Chicana and Chicano students. Using critical race theory (CRT) and Latina/Latino critical race the- ory (LatCrit), we build on the school resistance literature to further develop a race- and gender-conscious framework that examines and explains Chicana and Chicano student resistance in an urban context. This is particularly important in the current anti-Latino and anti-affirmative-action climate that threatens the education of Chicana and Chicano students.3 Chicana and Chicano students have a rich historical legacy that includes active struggles to gain equal access to quality education, and today, students remain active in the pursuit of quality education through different forms of resis- tance (see Acuna, 1996). It is crucial that educators, policy makers, and community workers better understand how students engage in resistance strategies that attempt to counteract the conditions and results of ineffective educational practices (Solorzano & Solorzano, 1995).

310 URBAN EDUCATION / MAY 2001

To advance our knowledge of the concept of resistance, we begin by presenting the CRT and LatCrit literature and providing five themes that form their basic assumptions, perspectives, research methods, and pedagogy in education. Second, we explore school resistance within a critical race and LatCrit framework and define the theoretical construct of transformational resistance. Third, to better understand the awareness and motivation of students who engage in urban school resistance, we draw historical and contem- porary examples from 1968 and 1993. Specifically, we present these examples through oral history data and a CRT and LatCrit counterstory. Finally, we reflect on how a CRT and LatCrit frame- work challenges us to identify, acknowledge, and give empirical examples of both internal and external forms of transformative resistance, which distinguishes our work from most social scien- tists who study and write about school resistance.

CRITICAL RACE THEORY AND LATINA/ LATINO CRITICAL RACE THEORY

CRT and LatCrit theory draw from and extend a broad literature base that is often termed critical theory. In paraphrasing Brian Fay (1987), William Tierney (1993) defined critical theory as “an attempt to understand the oppressive aspects of society in order to generate societal and individual transformation” (p. 4). Similarly, Mari Matsuda (1991) viewed critical race theory as

the work of progressive legal scholars of color who are attempting to develop a jurisprudence that accounts for the role of racism in American law and that work toward the elimination of racism as part of a larger goal of eliminating all forms of subordination. (p. 1331)

LatCrit theory is similar to CRT. However, LatCrit is concerned with a progressive sense of a coalitional Latina/Latino pan-ethnicity and addresses issues often ignored by critical race theorists such as language, immigration, ethnicity, culture, identity, phenotype, and sexuality (Espinoza, 1990; Garcia, 1995; Hernandez-Truyol, 1997;

Solorzano, Delgado Bernal / TRANSFORMATIONAL RESISTANCE 311

Johnson, 1997; Martinez, 1994; Montoya, 1994; Valdes, 1996). LatCrit is a theory that elucidates Latinas/Latinos’ multidimen- sional identities and can address the intersectionality of racism, sexism, classism, and other forms of oppression. It is a theory that has already developed a tradition of offering a strong gender analy- sis so that it “can address the concerns of Latinas in light of both our internal and external relationships in and with the worlds that have marginalized us” (Hernandez-Truyol, 1997, p. 885). Indeed, this tradition and its necessary intersectionality offer an important lens from which to talk about transformational resistance, especially for Chicanas. LatCrit theory is conceived as an antisubordination and antiessentialist project that attempts to link theory with practice, scholarship with teaching, and the academy with the community (“Fact Sheet: LatCrit,” 2000). However, LatCrit is not incompati- ble or competitive with CRT. For instance, Francisco Valdes (1996) stated, “Instead, LatCrit theory is supplementary, complementary, to critical race theory. LatCrit theory at its best should operate as a close cousin—related to critical race theory in real and lasting ways, but not necessarily living under the same roof” (pp. 26-27).

Borrowing from the law, we argue that CRT and LatCrit theory challenge the dominant discourse on race and racism as they relate to education by examining how educational theory and practice are used to subordinate and marginalize Chicana and Chicano students (R. Barnes, 1990; Bell, 1992, 1995; Calmore, 1992; Crenshaw, Gotanda, Peller, & Thomas, 1995; “Critical Race Theory in Educa- tion,” 1998; Delgado, 1989, 1995a, 1995b, 1996; Espinoza, 1990; Harris, 1994; Lawson, 1995; Matsuda, 1989; Matsuda, Lawrence, Delgado, & Crenshaw, 1993; Montoya, 1994; Olivas, 1990; P. Williams, 1991). As follows, we posit at least five themes that form the basic perspectives, research methods, and pedagogy of a CRT and LatCrit framework in education.4

1. The centrality of race and racism and intersectionality with other forms of subordination. Race and racism are endemic, perma- nent, and in the words of Margaret Russell (1992), “a central rather than marginal factor in defining and explaining individual experi- ences of the law” (pp. 762-763). Although race and racism are at the

312 URBAN EDUCATION / MAY 2001

center of a critical race and LatCrit analysis, we also view them at their intersection with other forms of subordination such as gender and class discrimination (Crenshaw, 1989, 1993). As Robin Barnes (1990) stated, “Critical race scholars have refused to ignore the dif- ferences between class and race as basis for oppression. . . . Critical race scholars know that class oppression alone cannot account for racial oppression” (p. 1868). Similar to LatCrit scholars, we argue further that class and racial oppression cannot account for oppres- sion based on gender, language, or immigration status. It is at this intersection of race, class, gender, language, and immigration sta- tus that some answers to theoretical, conceptual, and methodologi- cal questions related to Chicana and Chicano student resistance might be found.

2. The challenge to dominant ideology. A CRT and LatCrit framework in education challenges the traditional claims of the educational system to objectivity, meritocracy, color-blindness, race neutrality, and equal opportunity. Critical race and LatCrit the- orists also challenge the predominant deficit frameworks used to explain Chicana and Chicano educational inequality. Critical race and LatCrit theorists argue that these traditional paradigms act as a camouflage for the self-interest, power, and privilege of dominant groups in U.S. society (Calmore, 1992). In this article, we demon- strate that student transformational resistance questions this cam- ouflage and pushes the educational system to seriously address the education of Chicanas and Chicanos.

3. The commitment to social justice. A critical race and LatCrit framework is committed to social justice and offers a liberatory or transformative response to racial, gender, and class oppression (Matsuda, 1991). We envision a social justice research agenda that leads toward (a) the elimination of racism, sexism, and poverty and (b) the empowering of underrepresented minority groups. Critical race researchers acknowledge that educational institutions operate in contradictory ways with their potential to oppress and marginalize coexisting with their potential to emancipate and empower. Likewise, a critical race methodology in education rec-

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ognizes that multiple layers of oppression and discrimination are met with multiple forms of resistance. Furthermore, we argue that one of the defining characteristics of transformational resistance is a strong commitment to social justice.

4. The centrality of experiential knowledge. A CRT and LatCrit framework recognizes that the experiential knowledge of Students of Color5 are legitimate, appropriate, and critical to understanding, analyzing, and teaching about racial subordination in the field of education. In fact, CRT and LatCrit educational studies view this knowledge as a strength and draw explicitly on the lived experi- ences of the students of color by including such methods as story- telling, family history, biographies, scenarios, parables, testimmonios, cuentos, consejos, chronicles, and narratives (Bell, 1987; Carrasco, 1996; Olivas, 1990; Solorzano & Villalpando, 1998; Solorzano & Yosso, 2000; Villalpando & Delgado Bernal, in press; Villenas & Deyhle, 1999). In our analysis of Chicana and Chicano school resistance, we incorporate the experiential knowl- edge of students by drawing from oral history data and counterstorytelling (Delgado, 1989, 1995a, 1995b, 1996).

5. The interdisciplinary perspective. A CRT and LatCrit frame- work in education challenges ahistoricism and the unidisciplinary focus of most analyses and insists on analyzing race and racism in education by placing them in both an historical and contemporary context using interdisciplinary methods (Delgado, 1984, 1992; Garcia, 1995; Harris, 1994; Olivas, 1990). To empirically ground our discussion of school resistance within a CRT and LatCrit framework, we draw on data from an historical and a contemporary example of Chicana and Chicano school resistance in Los Angeles: the 1968 East Los Angeles school walkouts and the 1993 struggle for a Chicana and Chicano Studies Department at UCLA.

In this article, we take each of these five themes and where appli- cable apply them to the school resistance of Chicana and Chicano students. Each of these themes is not new in and of itself, but collec- tively, they represent a challenge to the existing modes of scholar- ship. In fact, borrowing and adapting the work of critical race and LatCrits scholars, we define a critical race theory of education as a

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framework that can be used in theorizing about the ways in which educational structures, processes, and discourses support and pro- mote racial subordination. CRT and LatCrit theorists acknowledge that educational structures, processes, and discourses operate in contradictory ways with their potential to oppress and marginalize coexisting with their potential to emancipate and empower. A CRT and LatCrit framework is transdisciplinary and draws on many other schools of progressive scholarship.

Indeed, a CRT and LatCrit theory of resistance is critical and dif- ferent from other resistance frameworks because it (a) challenges the traditional paradigms, texts, and separate discourse on race, class, gender, language, and immigration status by showing how at least these five elements intersect to affect our understanding of Chicana and Chicano school resistance; (b) helps us focus on the racialized and gendered experiences of Chicana and Chicano high school and college students; (c) offers a liberatory or transformative response to racial, gender, and class oppression; and (d) utilizes the interdisciplinary knowledge base of ethnic studies, women’s studies, sociology, history, and the law to better under- stand the various forms of oppression. It should be noted that a CRT and LatCrit framework is anything but uniform and static, and we use as many of the five themes as possible to examine the resistance of Chicana and Chicano students.

TRANSFORMATIONAL RESISTANCE AS A THEORETICAL CONSTRUCT

Theories of resistance draw on an understanding of the complex- ities of culture to explain the relationship between schools and the dominant society (McLaren, 1994). Resistance theories are differ- ent than social and cultural reproduction theories because the con- cept of resistance emphasizes that individuals are not simply acted on by structures. In contrast, resistance theories demonstrate how individuals negotiate and struggle with structures and create mean- ings of their own from these interactions. These theories represent a significant advance over more deterministic reproduction models of schooling by acknowledging human agency—the confidence

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and skills to act on one’s behalf (Solorzano & Solorzano, 1995). Nevertheless, although resistance theories help explain Student of Color responses to social and cultural reproduction, they share a failure of these reproduction theories by not emphasizing the importance of working toward social justice.

Most resistance research focuses on a self-defeating resistance in which students’ behavior implicates them even further in their own domination (Fine, 1991; Foley, 1990; MacLeod, 1987; McLaren, 1993, 1994; Willis, 1977). A very small number of stud- ies address female school resistance, and most of those examine aggressive sexuality as the only manifestation of resistance (McRobbie, 1978; Ohron, 1993; Thomas, 1980). The few studies that examine more positive forms of female school resistance in which students are motivated by social justice concerns focus on overt forms of resistance and do not explicitly examine more subtle forms of resistance (Delgado Bernal, 1997; Fuller, 1980, 1983; Robinson & Ward, 1991; Ward, 1996).

Within this body of literature, student resistance has been con- ceptualized in many different ways. Most often, it has been defined and used to include a narrow range of students who at one end are simply acting out in class without any critique of the social condi- tions that may contribute to their disruptive behavior. At the other end of the spectrum are students who have a strong critique of their oppressive social conditions but who ultimately help re-create these conditions through their own self-defeating resistant behav- ior. To expand on this narrow range of so-called resistant behavior, we draw from a study of Chicana school resistance that provides a framework to better understand different types of Chicana and Chi- cano school resistance (Delgado Bernal, 1997). The study provides a distinction between the following four different types of student oppositional behavior: (a) reactionary behavior, (b) self-defeating resistance, (c) conformist resistance, and (d) transformational resistance. These different types of oppositional behavior are depicted in Figure 1 and are based on an adaptation of Henry Giroux’s (1983a, 1983b) notion that resistance has the following two intersecting dimensions: (a) Students must have a critique of social oppression, and (b) students must be motivated by an interest

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in social justice. The distinction between the four behaviors is not static or rigid, and neither are these behaviors inclusive of all types of oppositional behavior. In addition, the quadrants should not be seen as discrete and static entities, but rather, within each quadrant is a range of a student’s critique of social oppression and motivation for social justice. We also acknowledge that the manifestations of these four categories may be different among females and males. Following, we provide a brief description of the four oppositional forms of behavior and then discuss a more detailed understanding of transformational resistance.

Reactionary behavior. The first type of oppositional behavior is not a form of resistance because the student lacks both a critique of her or his oppressive conditions and is not motivated by social jus- tice. An example of reactionary behavior is the student who acts out or behaves poorly in class, the schoolyard, or the community and has no critique of the social conditions that may contribute to her or his disruptive behavior. In addition, the student is not motivated by an interest in social justice and may challenge the teacher or other authority figures “just for kicks” or “to see the teacher sweat.”

Self-defeating resistance. This is the traditional notion of school resistance. Self-defeating resistance refers to students who may have some critique of their oppressive social conditions but are not motivated by an interest in social justice. These students engage in behavior that is not transformational and in fact helps to re-create the oppressive conditions from which it originated. An example of self-defeating resistance is the high school dropout who may have a compelling critique of the schooling system but then engages in behavior (dropping out of school) that is self-defeating and does not help transform her or his oppressive status (at least not in the long run) (see Fine, 1991). Although the construct of self-defeating resistance acknowledges human agency, one might argue that it does so in a limited way by only considering a partial understand- ing of the systems of oppression and demonstrating behaviors that can be destructive to oneself or others.

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Conformist resistance. The third type of resistance refers to the oppositional behavior of students who are motivated by a need for social justice yet hold no critique of the systems of oppression. These students are motivated by a desire to struggle for social jus- tice yet engage in activities and behavior within a more liberal tra- dition. They want life chances to get better for themselves and oth- ers but are likely to blame themselves, their families, or their culture for the negative personal and social conditions. They offer “Band-Aids” to take care of symptoms of the problem rather than deal with the structural causes of the problem. In other words, these students choose to strive toward social justice within the existing social systems and social conventions. However, based on this clas- sification scheme, this behavior is resistant because the student

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FIGURE 1 Defining the Concept of Resistance

exhibits one of Giroux’s (1983a, 1983b) criteria—being motivated by the goal of social justice. An example is the student who thinks the best way to change the high drop-out rate at her or his school would be to offer tutoring and counseling so that the dropouts can adapt to the ways of the school. The student would probably not challenge institutional practices, question the relevancy of the ped- agogy and curriculum, or examine the effect of socioeconomic fac- tors. Although some social change is possible through conformist resistance, without a critique of the social, cultural, or economic forms of oppression, it does not offer the greatest possibility for social justice.

Transformational resistance. The fourth form of resistance refers to student behavior that illustrates both a critique of oppres- sion and a desire for social justice. In other words, the student holds some level of awareness and critique of her or his oppressive condi- tions and structures of domination and must be at least somewhat motivated by a sense of social justice. With a deeper level of under- standing and a social justice orientation, transformational resis- tance offers the greatest possibility for social change. This type of resistance differs from the self-defeating resistance of Michelle Fine’s (1991) dropouts because it does not serve to strengthen the oppression and domination of the person. The manifestations of transformational resistance can take on many forms but will look very different than the “street-corner” behavior that often impli- cates students even further in their own oppression (McLaren, 1993).

In her work on critical media literacy, Tara Yosso (2000) built on this model of resistance and examined some of the many manifesta- tions of Chicana and Chicano students’ transformational resis- tance, including their attempt to “prove others wrong.” Proving them wrong seems to be a process in which students “(a) confront the negative portrayals and ideas about Chicanas/os, (b) are moti- vated by these negative images and ideas, and (c) are driven to navi- gate through the educational system for themselves and other Chicanas/os” (p. 109). She elaborated on the arsenal of subtle strat- egies that students engage in during the process of resistance and

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extended transformational resistance to include resilient resis- tance. She defined resilient resistance as “surviving and/or suc- ceeding through the educational pipeline as a strategic response to visual microaggressions” (p. 180). Resilient resistance is at the intersection between conformist and transformational resistance where the strategies students use “leave the structures of domina- tion intact, yet help the students survive and/or succeed” (p. 181).

In related work, Tracy Robinson and Janie Ward (1991) identi- fied and examined the following two kinds of resistance when speaking of African American adolescent females: (a) resistance for survival and (b) resistance for liberation (also see Ward, 1996). They defined resistance for liberation as “resistance in which Black girls and women are encouraged to acknowledge the problems of, and to demand change in, an environment that oppresses them” (p. 89). Indeed, our construct of transformational resistance is simi- lar to Robinson and Ward’s (1991) resistance for liberation, and similar to Yosso’s (2000) resilient resistance. These theoretical constructs counter what seem to be the common assumptions among those who have studied and written about the self-defeating school resistance of working-class students. Peter McLaren (1993) stated, “Resistance among working-class students rarely occurs through legitimate channels of checks and balances that exist in educational organizations. Rather, resistance among the disaf- fected and disenfranchised are often tacit, informal, unwitting and unconscious” (p. 147).

We argue that transformational resistance framed within the ten- ets of a CRT and LatCrit framework allows one to look at resistance among Students of Color that is political, collective, conscious, and motivated by a sense that individual and social change is possible. Because researchers tend to focus on the self-defeating resistance of working-class students without acknowledging and studying the more positive forms of school resistance, we provide examples of Chicana and Chicano student resistance that are based on an aware- ness and critique of social oppression and are motivated by an inter- est in social justice.

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UNDERSTANDING TRANSFORMATIONAL RESISTANCE: AWARENESS AND MOTIVATION

IN THE 1968 EAST LOS ANGELES STUDENT WALKOUTS

We acknowledge that transformational resistance is not self-explanatory and that the awareness and motivation of the stu- dent is crucial to its identification and analysis. Therefore, it is nearly impossible for a researcher or educator to accurately assess a behavior as resistance without communicating with and learning from the student’s perspective and delving deeply into the histori- cal and sociopolitical context that formed the behavior. To demon- strate that the students we write about were aware of and had a cri- tique of social oppression and were motivated by a need to struggle for social justice, we provide their voices that speak to how and why they became involved in school resistance.

In the case of Chicanas who participated in the 1968 school walkouts, the oral history data show that personal and family back- ground and mentors and role models greatly contributed to their awareness and motivation toward social justice (Delgado Bernal, 1997). It was often through their parents’ community involvement, political action, or compassion for others that these women first began to develop a critical consciousness that explored the inequi- ties of society. One woman describes how her mother’s community involvement was early training for her participation in the school blowouts.

God, my mother was always active in the community, and in the schools. She formed the mother’s club and she was in the PTA. And as I got older, she used to drag me along, that was her way of keeping me busy and out of trouble, given the neighborhood that we lived in cause we lived in the housing projects, federal housing projects. She used to drive me along to meetings and I would help her . . . so I had that early training. (Crisostomo, 1995, p. 5)

Another woman remembers how various factors came together with her father’s influence to help her develop a greater awareness of the resource discrepancies in her working-class neighborhood.

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Well my father is a long-term labor leader in the community, from the 40s and even through the zoot stuff. So he comes from a life, a lifelong struggle. So it was through him and working-class values, working-class neighborhood, and then going to these meetings, these were instrumental in formulating, crystallizing for me the dis- crepancies in our communities. (Cuaron, 1996, p. 5)

Still another woman explains that she did not grow up in a politi- cally active family, and neither did anyone spell out issues of social or economic oppression to her. However, her mother, a devoted Catholic, was influential in instilling a strong sense of compassion for others and an identification with the poor and oppressed. She said,

You know, we were poor in Texas, but compared to the people in Mexico that were poor, we were well off, okay? And, I remember that every time we’d go across the border, my mother always, always had money to give to the poor. So I remember learning from my mother compassion for people who were suffering and for peo- ple who were poor. (Mendez Gonzalez, 1995, p. 13)

What becomes clear from the oral history data is that the social justice values that motivated these students and their awareness and critique of oppression, both of which are fundamental to their transformational resistance in school, stems from their roots and their own family and personal histories.

An additional factor that inspired these women to be concerned with social justice issues and be involved in school-related issues were mentors and role models (Delgado Bernal, 1997). In the con- text of this study, transformational role models are visible members of one’s own racial/ethnic and/or gender group who actively dem- onstrate a commitment to social justice, whereas transformational mentors use the aforementioned traits and their own experiences and expertise to help guide the development of others (Blackwell, 1988; Solorzano, 1998b). Thus, a mentor is involved in a more com- plex relation- ship than a role model in that she or he is someone who participates in one’s socialization and development (Solorzano, 1998b). Most of the women identify and discuss

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individuals other than their parents who inspired them and gave them the support to enact their human agency—confidence and skills to act on their own behalf. These mentors were female and male adults and peers who helped them to transcend prescribed gender roles. One woman recalls how she was able to interact with a teacher who was a motivator and supporter and how he raised her awareness of poor school conditions and encouraged her to realize her potential as an individual and as part of a community.

I would listen to him and the class. And in that guidance class was where he would talk to his students about . . . [the] lack of quality education and so on and so forth. . . . A guidance class was basically where you started to plan your future. And they would give you these little tests to see what you seem to be, what your preference was. Was it clerical, was it business, was it going into science, or whatever. And, then after the test he’d say, “See, this is a bunch of bullshit. They’re trying to track you into these different things.” So you know, I was listening to him also. And he’s a very dynamic per- son. As a teacher he was fantastic. (Baca, 1995, p. 11)

An illustration of another type of transformational mentorship is the leadership style, personality, and behavior of individuals who were involved in the students’ extracurricular activities. Specific extracurricular experiences prior to the walkouts exposed students to a number of supportive and influential adults who began to raise their social, cultural, and/or class consciousness. One woman recalls a type of mentorship she found in the leadership style, per- sonality, and behavior of the African American woman who was the director of the Upward Bound program.

I remember how she opened our minds too. I mean she was so out- spoken. And she wasn’t afraid of anybody, White administrators, anybody. She wouldn’t tuck and hush. . . . I mean she would just say openly what she thought and she fought for it. She was such a mar- velous, marvelous, courageous, outspoken woman and so intelli- gent, and so capable, and ready to stand up and fight for what she believed in and express it openly. So she was a marvelous role model. And when I went to Occidental [College] later on, I turned to her for a lot of mentoring. (Mendez Gonzalez, 1995, pp. 52-53)

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Similar to these women, Chicana and Chicano students today often identify transformational role models and mentors as influen- tial people who inspire and socialize them to be concerned with and struggle for social justice issues in their school and community. It is clear from the data that as young students, these women gained a social consciousness and to differing degrees embraced a critique of the educational system. They not only held an acute level of awareness and critique of oppression, but the data indicate they were also motivated by an interest in social justice and transform- ing the inequitable and unjust schooling system that was failing to educate them. Thus, based on their level of awareness and their motivation, their participation in the school walkouts was indeed an act of transformational resistance. Having identified students’ awareness and motivation, we now turn to two ways in which stu- dents might engage in transformational resistance.

TWO CATEGORIES OF TRANSFORMATIONAL RESISTANCE

Transformational resistance can be divided into two different types, internal and external (Delgado Bernal, 1997). External transformational resistance is often easier to identify and analyze than internal transformational resistance, yet both have been widely ignored in school resistance studies. Although we outline these as two separate concepts, there is an overlap between the two. In fact, they are fluid, and individuals can engage in both simulta- neously or at different points in time.

Internal resistance. The behavior of internal transformational resistance appears to conform to institutional or cultural norms and expectations, however individuals are consciously engaged in a critique of oppression. Students maintain both criteria of transformational resistance, yet their behavior is subtle or even silent and might go unnamed as transformational resistance. One example is the Student of Color who holds a critique of cultural and economic oppression and is motivated to go to graduate school by a desire to engage in a social justice struggle against this oppression.

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This student might hope to give back to her or his community through a service profession in the teaching, medical, social work, or legal fields. The student maintains both criteria of transformational resistance, but on the surface, her or his behavior appears to conform to societal and maybe parental expectations. That is, they are doing well in school, pursuing a higher education, and their outward behavior may not overtly indicate any semblance of social justice. This is not conformist resistance because on fur- ther and deeper analysis, the student does in fact have a social jus- tice agenda to “give back” to her community in the form of educa- tion and social service.

Another, somewhat different example of internal transforma- tional resistance can be seen through the experiences of a Chicana who participated in the 1968 walkouts by using her “goody-two- shoes” image and light-colored skin to gain access to the principal of Lincoln High School. At the high school, her key role was to set up a meeting with the principal and detain him while other college students came on campus to encourage high school students to par- ticipate in the walkouts. This student recalls the strategy at Lincoln High School and how her somewhat “passive” role allowed other students to engage in a more overt or active form of resistance.

I remember we had a whole strategy planned for Lincoln, how we were going to do it. And who was going to be in the halls to yell “Walkouts” at the various buildings. And my role was to make an appointment with the principal to meet him, to talk to him about either employment or something. I’m in his office and my job is try- ing to delay him. He kept saying, “I’ll be right with you, I’ll be right with you.” So I was to just keep him distracted a little bit. (Castro, 1995, p. 5)

External resistance. Individuals who engage in external transformational resistance also hold both criteria of transfor- mational resistance. In addition, external transformational resis- tance involves a more conspicuous and overt type of behavior, and the behavior does not conform to institutional or cultural norms and expectations. A good example is the civil rights worker who partici- pated in boycotts and demonstrations in the hopes of securing the integration of public facilities. This type of resistance differs from

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internal transformational resistance because it is openly visible and overtly operates outside the traditional system. Another example is the writings of many Chicana scholar activists such as Mary Pardo (1990, 1991, 1998), Gloria Anzaldua (1987), and Adaljiza Sosa- Riddell (1974, 1993) or Chicana law professors Leslie Espinoza (1990) and Margaret Montoya (1994). Through their scholarship, these women challenge the institutionalized notions of knowledge from within the academy. Although the act of political writing can be a form of internal transformational resistance, once it is pub- lished or made public, it can be a very powerful form of external transformational resistance.

Students can participate in multiple forms of transformational resistance. For instance, the student who participated in a form of internal resistance by using her “goody-two-shoes” image to dis- tract the principal at Lincoln High School also had other roles and responsibilities during the walkouts that exhibited a form of an external resistance. For example, it was her responsibility to use her Mazda automobile to pull down the chain link fence that had been locked to prevent high school students from leaving the campus grounds. “I remember having to back my car, put on the chains, and pull the gates off” (Castro, 1995, p. 5).

Finally, it is important to note that we employ the constructs of internal and external resistance because they allow us to look at dif- ferent types of resistance among Chicana and Chicano students. This resistance may be political, collective, conscious, and moti- vated by a sense that social justice is possible through resistant behavior. It is also important to distinguish between these two types of resistance because too often, external resistance is romanticized by liberal and progressive scholars while internal resistance is not identified, misidentified, or even ignored. Because the traditional school resistance literature does not fully explain the experiences and needs of Chicana and Chicano students, it is important to employ the theoretical constructs that more accurately interpret the realities of Chicana and Chicano students. As we have presented this framework to Chicana and Chicano undergraduate and gradu- ate students, scholars, and activists, the feedback has overwhelm- ingly been related to the importance of identifying and examining

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the various forms of internal and external transformative resis- tance. Indeed, we have found that many successful Chicana and Chicano students engage in many forms of internal resistance that are more subtle and inconspicuous than external resistance. Yet these students and others see them as equally important to identify, analyze, and affirm. Defined by the aforementioned terms, internal and external transformational resistance can provide helpful ana- lytical concepts for looking at the lives of Chicana and Chicano stu- dents. Another method borrowed from CRT and LatCrit theory to illustrate these forms of transformative resistance is counterstory- telling (Delgado, 1989).

COUNTERSTORYTELLING:6 THE UCLA CHICANA AND CHICANO STUDIES PROTESTS

“The funny thing about stories is that everyone has one. My grandfa- ther had them, with plenty to spare. When I was very young, he would regale me with stories, usually about politics, baseball, and honor. These were his themes, the subject matter he carved out for himself and his grandchildren.” (Olivas, 1990, p. 425)

“Oppressed groups have known instinctively that stories are an es- sential tool to their own survival and liberation.” (Delgado, 1989, p. 2436)

To integrate critical race theory with internal and external resis- tance, we also use a procedure that has a tradition in the social sci- ences, humanities, and the law—storytelling. Richard Delgado (1989) used a methodology called counterstorytelling and argued that it is both a technique of telling the story of those experiences that are not often told (i.e., those on the margins of society) and a tool for analyzing and challenging the stories of those in power and whose story is a natural part of the dominant discourse—the majoritarian story.7 These counterstories can serve several theoreti- cal, methodological, and pedagogical functions, including the fol- lowing: (a) They can build community among those at the margins of society by putting a human and familiar face to educational the- ory and practice; (b) they can challenge the perceived wisdom of those at society’s center; (c) they can open new windows into the

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reality of those at the margins of society by showing the possibili- ties beyond the ones they live and to show that they are not alone in their position; (d) they can teach others that by combining elements from both the story and the current reality, one can construct another world that is richer than either the story or the reality alone; and (e) they can provide a context to understand and transform established belief systems (Delgado, 1989; Lawson, 1995). Story- telling has a rich and continuing tradition in African American (Bell, 1987, 1992, 1996, 1998; Berkeley Art Center, 1982; Law- rence, 1992), Chicana/Chicano (Delgado, 1989, 1995b, 1996; Olivas, 1990; Paredes, 1977), and American Indian (Deloria, 1969; Marmon, 1996; R. Williams, 1997) communities.

We want to add to this tradition by illuminating internal and external forms of resistance that many Chicana and Chicano stu- dents engage in as part of their educational experience. As another vehicle for identifying and examining transformational resistance, we draw on the 1993 UCLA Chicana and Chicano studies protests. We offer the following counterstory, which briefly allows us to lis- ten in on a dialogue between two composite characters8 who are engaged in a dialogue. The Professor is a senior faculty member at UCLA, and Gloria Martinez is a third-year undergraduate student at the same university. Using the five elements of critical race the- ory and our definitions of internal and external transformational resistance, we ask you to suspend judgment, listen for the story’s points, test them against your own version of reality (however con- ceived), and use the counterstory as a theoretical, conceptual, and pedagogical case study of student resistance (see L. Barnes, Christensen, & Hansen, 1994). The Professor and Gloria meet in the Professor’s office. Their story begins here.

AT THE PROFESSOR’S OFFICE

It was about 5:30 in the afternoon and Gloria peeked her head through the door of my office. As she looked inside, I could see that she was visibly upset and it was a look that I haven’t seen before. She asked, “Professor, can I please talk to you in private?” I was just finishing up a meeting with a doctoral research group. “Let’s set up our next meeting date and time to continue this discussion and in the mean-

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time continue with your library and fieldwork,” I said. The students left and Gloria apologized to each of them as she made her way into my office.

Gloria started right away, “Professor, you may have heard that yester- day, a group of students were staging a sit-in at the faculty center and the situation got a bit ugly.” I replied, “Yes, I was out of town yester- day, but I saw some of the clips on the news and I made a few phone calls last night to try to keep updated as to what was happening and to make sure the arrested students were okay.” Still very upset she replied, “Well, my roommate, Libertad, was arrested, so I was up all night trying to update her parents and then I picked her up from the police station a few hours ago.” Realizing she was not going to sit down in the chair I had offered, I interjected, “Gloria, let’s get a cup of coffee and continue talking about this.” As we began to walk to- ward the coffee shop, she seemed to begin to calm down a bit. Yet, as she began to speak I still noted a little panic in her voice. “As you may be aware Professor, this whole thing really got rolling in the last couple of weeks, when rumors started spreading around campus that the chancellor, with support of some faculty, were going to dis- mantle both the Chicano Studies Program [an interdisciplinary aca- demic program that examines the experiences of Chicanas and Chi- canos in the United States] and Academic Advancement Program [AAP; a minority student recruitment and retention program]. I nodded my head in agreement. Gloria went on: “When the chancel- lor finally made a statement that he would not support a Chicana and Chicano Studies Department, the students went into the faculty club and started a demonstration that ended in a sit-in.” Gloria continued, “I support them and their cause, but I didn’t feel right about sitting in. I stood out front and talked and argued with other students and faculty who were in opposition to the sit-in. I was trying to explain why we need Chicano Studies and AAP. I was there all afternoon. But I didn’t go in. I watched the police take Libertad and the other students away in handcuffs and then I rushed home to make sure the first way her parents heard about this wouldn’t be from the evening news. I then spent hours trying to explain to Libertad’s family the importance of this struggle. Yet, I had a hard time justifying the way in which she went about getting her point across. I mean, as ‘in- volved’ students, we’ve known that this was coming and many of us were trying to pick a time, method, and place to make our points. I think it was the time, but I’m not so sure about the method and place.”

As I held open the door to the coffee shop, I replied, “Gloria, you have to feel and believe strongly about these issues, especially about the tactics. If you don’t feel strongly, then you should probably think

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twice. Are there other ways you can participate?” Gloria paused as we ordered and waited for our drinks. When we sat down, she took a quick sip of her steaming coffee and then began to speak even more rapidly than before, “Professor, I know this sounds like a copout, but I feel really uncomfortable about this tactic. Since I’ve been at UCLA and taken Chicano studies classes, I believe in the program even more. In fact, I often challenge other people’s misgivings about the program by sharing with non-Chicano studies faculty and students some of the research and publications of my Chicana and Chicano studies professors. I also discuss with them the importance of Chicano studies here at UCLA as well as in elementary and high schools throughout the country. I’ve tried to show my professors the importance of Chicana and Chicano studies by my own work in their classes.” Gloria stopped and made a motion with her hands as if to say, “time-out.” She stood up and went to grab a few more creamers for her coffee. She returned and continued, “By the way Professor, all my hard work is beginning to pay off. Did I tell you I made the Dean’s list and I’m doing pretty well academically?” Gloria took my class 2 years ago and I learned firsthand just how strong a student she is. As I watched her pour creamer after creamer into her cup, I commented, “It doesn’t surprise me and I’m waiting to hear about the National Association for Chicana and Chicano Studies Student Premio Award you are going to receive at the next national meeting.” Gloria got red as a beet and said, “I figured I’d get to that after I told you about the faculty center incident.”

She was right, we were getting off the track so I asked, “Gloria, how else have you advocated for Chicana and Chicano studies?” She re- sponded, “Well, in my sociology and psychology classes, I’ve tried to focus my term papers on Chicana and Chicano topics. Some TAs and professors have been resistant to my work, but I’ve taken the time to go to their office hours to talk to them about what I’m doing and argue for Chicana and Chicano studies topics. I don’t know if I changed their attitudes, it probably didn’t, but I laid out my argu- ments for doing work on the lived experiences of service workers at L.A. airport hotels, the Justice for Janitors Movement in the high-rise buildings not far from UCLA, day laborers throughout Los Angeles, or our elders in senior citizen centers [see Valenzuela, 1999]. I tried to convince them with the quality of my arguments and work.” I added, “Are you saying that you’re struggling for Chicana and Chicano studies in the background and it’s the outward mani- festation, the foreground, the overt resistance, that you won’t or can’t do?” Again, she paused for a moment and continued, “No, Professor, I guess I could do it, but I feel more comfortable behind the scenes. Taking a less conspicuous role.”

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I knew this was hard for her and she was uncomfortable so I com- mented, “Gloria, you have to play the role that fits you best. It’s something many of us have had to struggle with. People say that if you don’t do things ‘this way,’ then you’re not ‘Chicana or Chicano enough.’ There have always been some arbitrary standards that so-called ‘leaders’ have set for others. At times it can become a bit ridiculous. You know Benito Juarez, the former president of Mexico once said, and I know I’ll butcher this quote, ‘Among nations, as among individuals, respect for the rights of others is peace.’ I think we have to learn to truly respect the different ways in which people struggle for social justice.”

After we finished our coffee, we started walking back to the office. Gloria continued speaking but at a more calm pace than before, “Professor, some day I may feel more comfortable in a more visible role, but for now, I feel this is how I can best help Chicana and Chi- cano studies. I have a friend who feels the same way but for a differ- ent reason.” I was caught off guard for a second and replied, “What do you mean?” Gloria replied, “I have this friend, Lupe, who wants to get involved but can’t. She is a permanent resident from Mexico but thinks that if she gets involved in any political activity at school or in her community the Immigration and Naturalization Service will revoke her green card and send her back to Mexico. She has such a brilliant and analytical mind, and she’s dying to show others how she feels, thinks, and can act. In class, she just sits there and has a lot to say but remains silent. Maybe it’s a form of strategic silence but it’s like she just simmers. Then after class, we sit and talk, and it all comes out.”

When we arrived at the office, there was a line of students waiting. I made a sort of general announcement, “Can you all hold on for a couple of minutes? I have a few things to talk about with this stu- dent.” The students apologized for the intrusion and waited pa- tiently in the outer office. I returned to the conversation. “Gloria, did you know that many working people feel the same way as you and Lupe. At their job, they remain silent when their bosses say or do things to them that are wrong. In some cases, they remain silent be- cause they’re afraid. They’re afraid because they’re not sure if their bosses will fire them if they speak out. Or many won’t speak out be- cause speaking and acting out are new behaviors for them and things that are new take time to get used to. After a while, they may feel more comfortable. And many times, it’s when they talk to others who are going through the same thing that they begin to speak out and take action, sometimes individually and sometimes with others. You probably know that from your study of the Justice for Janitors Movement.” I thought for a moment and then continued, “I have an-

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other quote that might be helpful to you, especially in these next few weeks, and it comes from the scientist Sir Isaac Newton. He said, ‘If I have seen farther, it is because I’ve stood on the shoulders of gi- ants.’ Gloria, those students who were arrested and you and me, who are involved in the struggle in less conspicuous ways, we all owe a lot to and must acknowledge the people who have worked and struggled before us. Those who have actively demonstrated and those who worked in near solitude by themselves and never asked for or received credit. We need to acknowledge and respect those different roles that people play in the struggle for social justice.” Gloria just stared at me and replied, “Professor, I hear what you’re saying, and I need to think this out some more. There are parts of me that want to be in both places and I’m really confused.”

Trying to help her understand the confusion, I rolled my chair toward the computer and pulled up a bibliography called “Critical Race Theory and LatCrit Theory Readings.” I scrolled through the bibli- ography and continued, “Gloria, here are a couple of articles I’d like you to read by Lani Guinier [1990-1991] and Regina Austin [1986] where they talk about feeling silenced in the classroom. I think they might help you and Lupe in your own struggles with these issues both inside and outside the classroom. So that you can also know that others may have been in similar situations and dealt with these issues in similar and different ways.” I walked a few steps to the file cabinet and pulled the Guinier article I was referring to. I continued, “Guinier had a similar experience when she was a law student at the Yale Law School. She wrote: ‘I had no personal anecdotes for the profound senses of alienation and isolation caught in my throat ev- ery time I opened my mouth. [ . . . ] In law school I resisted through silence. Only later did I learn to question out loud’ [p. 94].”

Retrieving the Austin [1986] article, I proceeded, “Professor Austin’s comments on resistance are telling and speak to the varieties of re- sistance one can participate in. She found that ‘ranting and raving, while useful, has its limits and varying one’s tactics keeps the en- emy off guard. Thus, the best form of resistance is often covert, un- suspected and guerrilla-like. What I have in mind is the token’s equivalent of poisoning the master’s coffee’ [p. 53].”

In my attempt to piece together Professors Guinier and Austin with Gloria’s experiences I suggested, “Although you haven’t been si- lenced in the same way that Lupe has, Professor Guinier’s sense of alienation and isolation and her initial resistance through silence are important insights. Also, Professor Austin’s acknowledgment of covert resistance and the less open and obvious tactics sound like parts of your and Lupe’s experience.” I went back to the computer

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and typed in a “Find Command” for Audre Lorde. One of her poems came up and I asked, “Have you read Audre Lorde’s [1978] ‘Litany of Survival’? She is actually responding to those of us who struggle with silence and has something to say about resistance through po- etry.” I read her poem aloud:

and when we speak we are afraid/ our words will not be heard/ nor welcomed/ but when we are silent/ we are still afraid/ So it is better to speak/ remembering/ we were never meant to survive. [pp. 31-32]

I watched a smile come over Gloria’s face and I said, “As you know, you are not alone in struggling with these issues. It is an important part of our own growth and political development.” I proceeded, “If you feel comfortable, tell your friend Lupe to come and see me and we can talk about these issues and maybe we can send her to talk to others about her rights as an immigrant student.” I remembered the students in the hallway and tried to bring closure to the conversation by stating, “I hope I was able to help?” Gloria, struggling with her backpack, replied, “Thanks Professor, you’ve given me a lot to think about.” As she got up and reached across the desk to shake my hand she responded, “I’ve got to go to work. You know I took your advice and got a work-study job in the library. I think I’ll track down some of the articles in your ‘Critical Race Theory and LatCrit The- ory Bibliography.’ Thanks for the consejos and for listening to me. I’ll come and see you after my midterms next week.” “Anytime Glo- ria. Give my best to Libertad and please let me know how things are going.”

When Gloria left, I sat there for a minute and remembered when I was a college student in the 1960s and 1970s. I too had struggled with many of the same issues. Who was a Chicano? Who decides who is a Chicano? How do we prove we are Chicanos? How do we give back to our communities and engage in social justice? These were and continue to be personal and collective questions. It is the struggle to answer these questions that in part keeps this entity called the Chicana and Chicano Movement moving forward. Gloria’s struggle for social justice brings to light issues of internal and external forms of resistance. How do we define covert or less visible forms of resis- tance? And how do we begin to identify and acknowledge the less visible forms of resistance? I continued to look out the window and

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again remembered the students waiting in the hallway. I went to the door and greeted the next group of students from MEChA [a Chicana and Chicano student organization] who were there to talk about inviting the community to participate in the candlelight vigil supporting Chicano studies that was planned for later in the week and the possibility of my sponsoring a class on Chicana and Chi- cano student retention at the university next quarter. Over the years, I keep being reminded that each of us defines and struggles for so- cial justice in our own way.

SUMMARY/CONCLUSION

“To fully understand Chicanas’[os’] resistance, it is necessary to view their strategies within the context of their oppression—resistance under this frame gains its full significance and non-resistance also becomes much more understandable.” (Hurtado, 1996, p. 48)

“Resistance can take the form of momentous acts of organized, planned, and disciplined protests, or it may consist of small, everyday ac- tions, seeming insignificant that can nevertheless validate the ac- tor’s sense of dignity and worth.” (Caldwell, 1995, p. 276)

These epigraphs are a challenge for researchers who hope to better understand resistance. That is, Aida Hurtado and Paulette Caldwell push us to go beyond the traditional conceptions of resis- tance and study multiple strategies of student resistance, some of which are subtle and silent and others that are conspicuous and overt. To meet that challenge, we turn to critical race theory and Latina/Latino critical theory as the basis of a conceptual frame- work that allows us to offer insight into the internal and external transformational resistance of Chicana and Chicano students in an urban context. We extend the resistance literature by moving away from an examination of resistance that implicates students even fur- ther in their own domination or focusing solely on overt forms of resistance. Instead, we distinguish between different types of resis- tance, all of which are fluid and multifaceted. In doing so, we have grounded our work in empirical data that emerge from students’ voices and have tried not to romanticize any form of resistance. Our work also takes another step toward filling a void in the resistance

334 URBAN EDUCATION / MAY 2001

literature by demonstrating that the resistance of female students in particular does not always center on their sexuality.

One of the five themes of critical race theory and LatCrit theory is the centrality of race and racism and the intersectionality with other forms of subordination. Our critical race and LatCrit frame- work has allowed us to move beyond the intersection of race, class, and gender to a more complex intersection. That is, Chicana and Chicano students live between and within layers of subordination based on race, class, gender, language, immigration status, accent, and phenotype (Johnson, 1998) so that “these students do not ‘fit’ neatly into a single category of consciousness and/or forms of resis- tance” (Yosso, 2000, p. 162). This means that their resistance must be examined at an intersection that includes language rights, cul- tural rights, and the influence of immigration status. For example, the students who demonstrated multiple forms of resistance during the 1968 East Los Angeles walkouts did so as they struggled to obtain bilingual education and a curriculum that included Chicano history and culture. Certainly Gloria’s friend Lupe and her status as a permanent resident from Mexico can help us to better understand the kind of resistance undocumented students may engage in.9

Another theme of critical race theory and LatCrit theory is the centrality of experiential knowledge. A CRT and LatCrit frame- work recognizes that oral histories and counterstorytelling are legitimate and appropriate methodologies to analyze the educa- tional experiences of Students of Color. These methodologies can provide an essential tool for the survival and struggles for social justice in Communities of Color (Delgado, 1989). These methodol- ogies that we draw from are also recognized as critical pedagogical techniques because they place the lived experiences of Students of Color at the center of the teaching and research enterprise. Using oral histories and counterstorytelling, we place Chicanas and Chi- canos at the center of analysis and demonstrate how they engage in internal and external forms of transformational resistance. Draw- ing from the experiential knowledge of Students of Color allows educators and community workers to identify, acknowledge, and view as strengths the transformational resistance strategies that stu- dents use to navigate through the university and the community

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(Solorzano & Villalpando, 1998). Indeed, we need to listen more closely and more often to the voices and experiences of resistance as we also develop critical educational studies and related stories from a strength- or asset-based perspective (Delgado Bernal, 2000; Kretzman & McKnight, 1993).

A third theme of critical race theory and LatCrit theory is the challenge to dominant ideology. Our CRT and LatCrit framework challenges the ideology of a “race- and gender-neutral curricu- lum,” “objective standardized testing,” “meritocratic tracking sys- tems,” and other “color- and gender-blind educational policies” that Students of Color regularly encounter and often combat through internal and external transformational strategies. Similar to the way the Professor nurtured the transformational resistance of Gloria, urban educators and community workers must also culti- vate their students’ transformational resistance strategies to chal- lenge anti- affirmative-action, anti-bilingual-education, anti-immigrant, and heterosexist legislation and policies. Indeed, this is crucial to counteracting the results of ineffective, inappropri- ate, and often racist and sexist educational practices and polices that continue to fail many Students of Color in an urban context.

Finally, bell hooks (1990) argued that People of Color are often in the margin and that we know more about the margin as a site of deprivation or domination and less as a site of resistance and empowerment. She stated that “I am located in the margin. I make a definite distinction between the marginality which is imposed by oppressive structures and that marginality one chooses as site of resistance—as location of radical openness and possibility” (p. 153). Stephan Haymes (1995) argued further that Black public spaces are counterspaces with their role as a place of comfort and nurturance and as a place of building communities of resistance. Through a CRT and LatCrit framework, we have demonstrated that the students represented in the 1968 walkouts and the 1993 stu- dent sit-in and hunger strike have shown by their examples of transformational resistance that they chose the margin as a site of resistance and empowerment. We feel that through the stories of these students and other Students of Color, researchers and educa-

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tors can add to the understanding of resistance as a site of possibil- ity and of human agency.

NOTES

1. Chicanas and Chicanos are defined as female and male persons of Mexican ancestry living in the United States irrespective of immigration or generation status. It should be noted that each of these terms has a political dimension that this article does not discuss.

2. Social transformation, for our purpose here, can be defined as the process of eliminat- ing various forms of subordination such as racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia and thereby creating the conditions for social justice.

3. In 1994, the voters of the state of California passed an anti-immigrant proposition (Proposition 187). In 1996, voters in California also passed an anti-affirmative-action propo- sition (Proposition 209). In 1998, they passed an anti-bilingual-education proposition (Prop- osition 227).

4. For two comprehensive annotated bibliographies on critical race theory, see Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic (1993, 1994). Also, for a theoretical introduction to a critical race theory in education, see Gloria Ladson-Billings and William Tate (1995), William Tate (1997), Daniel Solorzano, (1997, 1998a), Daniel Solorzano and Octavio Villalpando (1998), Daniel Solorzano and Tara Yosso (2000), Octavio Villalpando and Dolores Delgado Bernal (in press), and the special issue on “Critical Race Theory in Education” (1998) in the Interna- tional Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education. This special issue was turned into an edited book on critical race theory (CRT) and education (Parker, Deyhle, & Villenas, 1999).

5. In this article, the term Students of Color is defined as persons of African American, Latina/Latino, Asian American, and American Indian ancestry.

6. Given our definition of counterstorytelling as putting a human and familiar face to educational theory and practice, we want to emphasize that Gloria and the other characters in this counterstory represent very real experiences based on numerous interviews, focus groups, biographical narratives in the humanities and social science literature, and our own personal experiences. We express our deep gratitude to those who shared their stories with us. We dedicate this to those Chicanas and Chicanos who continue to resist in the midst of inequities and struggle toward social justice.

7. Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic (1993) defined the majoritarian mindset as “the bundle of presuppositions, perceived wisdoms, and shared cultural understandings persons in the dominant race bring to the discussion of race” (p. 462).

8. Gloria and the Professor are composite characters that emerged from the experiences and research of the authors (see Footnote 6). The development of these characters is influ- enced by Geneva Crenshaw and Rodrigo Crenshaw, the primary characters in the works of Derrick Bell (1987, 1992, 1996, 1998) and Richard Delgado (1995b, 1996).

9. Throughout the country, there are many high school students who have overcome tre- mendous odds to succeed in school but whose immigration status does not allow them to qualify for in-state tuition at a local university or for federal financial aid (Johnston, 2000). Their immigration status may not only influence their resistance, but it also “may bar them from the final stepping stone to the American Dream: a college education” (Johnston, 2000, p. 1).

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342 URBAN EDUCATION / MAY 2001

The "Mexican Problem" Empire, Public Policy, and the Education of Mexican Immigrants, 1880-1930

Gilbert G. Gonzalez

"That Mexican" whom we have so long contemplated from north of the Rio Grande, has therefore come to live with us. With his inheriteJ ignorance, his superstition, his habits of poor housing, his weakness to some diseases, and his resistance to others, with his abiding love of beauty he has come co r our his blood into the veins of our national life. "That Mexican" nu longer lives in Mexico; he lives in the United States. The "Mexican Problem" therefore . .. reaches from Gopher Prairie

to Guatemala. - Robert N . McLean, That Mexican! As He Really

Is, Nurth and South of the Rio Grande

When Robert N . Mclean sat down to write That Mexican! in 1928, the expression "the Mexican Problem" had become a common refrain among American authors writing on Mexico and on Mexican immigrants. The term carries great significance for explaining the educational experience of the Chicano community, particularly during the 1920s and 1930s. Despite

the prevalence of an oft,recited "Mexican Problem" in the literature of the period, the matter has not attracted the attention of Chicano historians. Nonetheless, Chicano historiography has grown significantly over the

past thirty years and in the process has garnered a seat a t the national

research table. Indeed, no reliable histories of women, immigration, labor,

and community, among others, can ignore the critical presence of the Chicano community.

Despite the advances, an overriding tendency tu remain within a

regional and/or n,H1onal context courses through virtually all C hicano

16

The "Mexican Problem"

historical texts and limits the possibilities for a comprehensive analysis. As a result, worthwhile topics like the transnational "Mexican Problem" remain on the research margins. While historians of the Chicano experi, ence correctly seized on the need to place Chicano history at the center of the national discourse, they ignored the transnational and imperial

dimensions to that history. An imperial mindset took root with the economic expansionism of US corporations into Mexico soon after 1880, and this nationalistic mindset broadly impacted public policy toward Mexican immigrants.

This account summarizes initial explorations into the transnational factors affecting one specific aspect of Chicano history, the educational experience during that community's formative years, 1900-30. The inves,

tigation argues for a need to expand the limited perspective dominating the field by examining patterns of nationalistic ideas elaborated by American authors (such as McLean) writing about Mexico from roughly 1880 to 1930; the significance of those writings for explicating the Chicano educational experience rounds out the review. No research on this important trans, national interaction has been undertaken, despite evidence that strongly suggests that such interaction has occurred. This study intends to move

the research forward by elaborating an innovative and useful approach for comprehending Chicano history.

This project not only continues my vital interest in Chicano edu,

cational history but also adds the transnational perspective absent from

earlier studies. In my 1990 study, Chicano Education in the Era of Segregation, I focused exclusive attention on the development of national educational theory and practice. Although the findings in that work are relevant to national educational theory and practice-IQ testing, vocational educa,

tion, and Americanization have withstood the test of time-the study

suffers from the same national limitations generally affecting Chicano

historiography. In the present study, the transnational factor will be shown

to have played as vital and important a role in the Chicano experience (and

public policy in general) as the national factor. In balancing the research

methodology, a more comprehensive and effective representation of the

Chicano educational experience will obtain.

Constructing a "Mexican Problem"

Initial research has clearly indicated that somewhere between 1880 and

1900 a defined literature devoted to Mexico assumed a substantial niche

17

Gilbert G. Gonzalez

among the reading interests of a~ Am~rican public u~informed about Mexico. Book tides such as Travels m M~x,.co ( 1886); M~xico: Tours Through the Egypt of the New World ( 1890); Mexico of the Twentieth Century ( l 907),

Mexico and Her People of To,day ( 1907); In lnaian Mexico ( 1908); Is Mexic~ Worth Saving ( 1920); and The Mexican Mirul: A Study of National Psychof-Ogy ( 1922) accompanied countless articles appearing in newspapers and in

popular, professional, and academic journals. From these and other works

written by a broad representation of Americans--from professional travelers to Protestant missionaries, mining engineers, and academics-emerged an

imperial image of Mexico and of Mexicans that eventually proved crucial to the defense of, and justification for, an educational program applied to

the Chicano community.

Initial review of the literature reveals a compelling pattern of cultural images constructed by the authors. This coherent set of views about con temporary Mexico is critical to our understanding of popular American views on Mexican migrants from the tum of the century to at least the Second World War. The narrative compiled by writers went something like this: Over the centuries, Mexico formed a cultural and biological hybrid, a cross between Indian and European that exemplified the worst of both worlds. In the words of one author, "It must be confessed that [mestizos] often exhibit the well-known tendency to follow the vices and weaknesses of both sides of their ancestry rather than their virtues" (Winton 1905, 25). To be sure, some dissonance appeared now and then in the assess ment of Mexico's population. "In the opinion of most observers," added a more optimistic foreign service hand, "[the mestizo] is an improved stock as compared to the aborigines, quick to learn but inconstant in the application of the lessons taught" (Jones 1921, 18). Indians and mestizos, 80 to 90 percent of Mexico's population, formed Mexico's historical and contemporary dilemma.

Nothing seemed more important to understanding Mexico than its racial lines, usually described as 12 percent white, 33 percent mestizo, and the rest Indian. Only the top 12 percent were worthy of leadership. But there was much more to the analysis than that of breaking Mexico down into its essential genetic elements. Narratives examined the behavior pat terns correlated with each component and eventually distilled the base qualities that made Mexico unique among nations of the world.

In scrutinizing Mexico's historical record, and after traveling to its hinterlands and cities, authors quickly found the term Oriental ideal for cutting to the essence of the Mexican national character. Oriental allegedly

18

The "Mexican Problem"

defined the non-elite Mexicans and their cultural practices, and appeared in enough accounts to suggest that it had become a standard measure for com

paring the majority of Mexicans to other cultures, particularly that of the United States. For certain, readers' attention responded to the expression. Oriental conveyed an image of an exotic, poor, strange, appealing, possibly

loathsome, and definitely subordinate people practicing an impenetrable culture. George B. Winton's 1913 guide for American Protestant missionar ies training for Mexico set the tone right up front on page 2:

Now with regard to the character of the people. They are as Oriental in type, in thought, and in habits as the Orientals themselves ... we find that they are genuine Asiatics. They have some of the fatalism, the same tendency for speculation on the unpractical side of life and religion, the same opposition to the building up of industries, the same traditionalism and respect for the usages of antiquity.

A review of these writings reveals an imperial vision of the Other that closely resembled British colonial culture of the same period. British rulers marveled at their colonized subjects' archeological achievements, yet the colonizers felt compelled to brand the modem descendants of former great societies as children, unwashed and uncivilized. Rudyard Kipling's (1986) frustration with Indian wit defined the meaning of Oriental (and peon) for Americans as well:

the outcomes of human genius which we have been taught are to be found for the seeking, are few and very far between. It is necessary first to peruse an infinity of trivialities before we arrive at anything which may fairly be held to represent oriental thought. The rest is dream piled on dream and phantasm on phantasm-unprofitable, and to [the] Western mind, at least, foolish.

The absence of a consensus as to the exact qualities that gave Mexicans an Oriental presence seemed not to deter authors. Seemingly, the Oriental discourse engendered in Europe and applied by Americans appeared a distraction rather than a central and defining point for explaining Mexico. When it became obvious that a variety of general qualities went beyond Oriental and required a terminology that delved deeper (and more "accu rately") into the cultural uniqueness of Mexico, the term Oriental receded

into the background but certainly did not disappear. Authors did not need to search long for a more appropriate descriptive term: they found it in the Spanish word pe6n, meaning common laborer. Percy F. Martin, author of several works on Mexico, assured the reader of Mexico of the Twentieth

19

Gilbert G . Gonzalez

C tu that the "great deterrent to the more complete regeneration f en ry "(19 o

Mexico has been the character of the native peons 07, x) . A frustrated observer writing for the Independent asked, "Who are these peons? What is

their physical and mental condition? Are they any better, or worse, than

the Orientals or many races" (Simpich 1926, 238). The English word peon more easily connected to the realities of

Mexico. Even the newly found Oriental was eclipsed, but not eliminated, in

the growing discourse on Mexico. Peon eventually encompassed everything

that exemplified Mexican and was not remotely American, the preferred measure for comparing the Mexican to the American. Writers ultimately placed the words peon, Mexican, mestizo, and Oriental on an equal par.

However, that cultural expression constructed upon a debasement of Mexico and Mexicans and an exaltation of all things American reflected a progressive national political and cultural identity shared by broad numbers of people in the United States. That imperial identity eventually led to a continual reference to something known as the "Mexican Problem." Indeed, one writer, C. W. Barron, saw fit to title his work The Mexican Problem (1917). Addressing a conference on Mexico at Clark University in 1920,

Professor George Blakeslee reaffirmed a common belief: "The outstanding fact is that there is a genuine Mexican Problem" (viii) . The term "Mexi, can Problem" allegedly summarized the political, economic, and cultural backwardness that prevented Mexico from peerage with the developed nations of the world. The solution to the "Mexican Problem," argued many a writer, was the Americanization of Mexico. Mexico could not manage its own affairs without foreign tutelage, whether financial or cultural.

Thus, the cultural makeup of the Mexican population prevented Mexico from moving into a phase of modernist development. This inability constituted the "Mexican Problem," which waited upon Americanization to resolve. The move within the literature from describing Mexico's racial construction to a discourse upon the "Mexican Problem" and thence to the solution, Americanization (in the economic and cultural sense), eventu, ally generated a public policy discourse affecting the Mexican immigrant community during its formative years, 1900 to 1930.

The Transnational "Mexican Problem"

Ca~ey McWilliams's North from Mexico: The Spanish,Speaking People of the United States (1949), the first historical account of the Mexican American people, served as a model for future historians of the Ch' . 1cano experience.

20

The "Mexican Problem"

McWilliams argued that a major factor in establishing the syndrome of oppressive public policies exemplified in segregated schools, disproportional arrests for juvenile delinquency, and the general prejudice that infected the

dominant society was the continual recourse to the "Mexican Problem." So

pervasive was this comprehensive conceptualization of the Mexican Ameri, can community that McWilliams selected it as the tide for the eleventh chapter of North from Mexico. He observed, "In the vast library of books and documents about ethnic and minority problems in the United States, one of the largest sections is devoted to 'the Mexican Problem"' (206-7).

Mc Williams noted that a surge of publications on the "Mexican Problem" appeared at the time of the settlement of Mexican immigrants throughout the Southwest. Armed with volumes of "data/' social workers, educators, the courts, and the police concluded "that Mexicans lacked leadership, discipline, and organization; that they segregated themselves; chat they were lacking in thrift and enterprise" (206-7). Mc Williams made a pointed criticism of a "mountainous collection of master's theses" and dissertations that reported on alleged (and oft repeated) inferior intellectual, culturaC or biological qualities of Mexican adults and children. Unfortunately none of those learned their first lessons in Chicano history from Mc Williams, thought to investigate the intellectual origins of the "Mexican Problem."

Evidence strongly suggests that as the Mexican community formed in the early 1900s, policy makers and academics lacking information, exper, tise, and direction that would inform public policy in relation to Mexican immigrants tapped into the materials written about Mexico. A trove of information was readily available, and investigators absorbed the literature with neither hesitation nor a critical reading. In fact, in the "mountainous collection of master's theses" censured by Mc Williams appears a heavy reliance on the materials written about Mexico referred to earlier in this discussion. Initial explorations reveal that at least twenty,five master's theses and doctoral dissertations written on the Mexican immigrant com, munity between 1912 and 1957 cited books exclusively focused on Mexico as authoritative sources. A major reason for this reliance was the training curriculum in colleges and universities that relied on these sources.

The well,known sociologist and expert on Mexican migrants, Emory Bogardus, of the University of Southern California, mentored a generation of school principals and school superintendents in the Southern California region. One of his first publications, Essentials of Americanization (1919), opened the chapter on Mexican immigrants with a phrase that highlighted a concern widely discussed across the Southwestern United States: "'the

21

Gilbert G . Gonzalez

Mexican problem' has developed rapidly since 1900" (179) . However, Bogardus realized that his short three-page examination of the "Mexican

problem" left much unsaid. He therefore listed a short bibliography on the

Mexican immigrant; all citations were of works on Mexico and its culture, which underscored the importance of studies of Mexico for "understand, ing" the Mexican immigrant. Bogardus followed Americanization with The Mexican Immigrant: An Annotated Bibliography ( 1929). Here we find the full

expression of the general reliance, by then, upon the literature on Mexico. In the section titled "Culture," Bogardus listed thirty-seven books and fifty articles all written about Mexico and Mexicans in Mexico. Five years later, Bogardus published The Mexican Immigrant in the United States ( 1934 ), which included a bibliography citing much the same literature.

By the mid-1930s the "Mexican Problem" had become a standard for explaining the culture and innate nature of Mexican immigrants. There is reason to believe that the widespread segregated schooling for Mexican children was rationalized to a significant extent based on notions found in this literature. In addition, within those segregated schools, Americaniza tion, or de-Mexicanization, was stressed above academic work.

Based on the perception of a complex of cultural impediments to

"success," or the "Mexican Problem," Americanization was considered the panacea for "adjusting" the Mexican immigrant and his/her children to a limited, but altogether inevitable and "natural" level of success in the United States. Thus, we see compelling evidence of a transnational set of ideas that claimed to explain the Mexican immigrants' essential characteristics, which in turn inspired particular approaches to integrating Mexicans into American society. The chosen approaches seriously impeded opportunities for the Mexican community to alter its social and economic class position, and thus tended to maintain the existing economic functions performed by the Mexican community. In the case of American writers on Mexico, the "Mexican Problem" justified continued US economic domina tion over Mexico. The "Mexican Problem" relative to Mexican immigrants justified a state-engineered perpetuation of the Mexican immigrant com munity's class position.

Summary

Upon completion, this study will, I hope, initiate a discourse on the inti mate links among Chicano history, educational theory and practice, and patterns of imperial ideas emanating from the works of American writers

22

The "Mexican Problem"

delving into Mexico. This author contends that these writings cannot be

separated from the economic domination exerted by the United States over Mexico during this same period. Given the centrality of foreign capital,

primarily US capital, in Mexico's economy over the course of the last

century, it follows that Chicano history throughout the twentieth century cannot be explained without acknowledging that factor. Consider that in

the Mexico of the period under study, much of agriculture, the railroad

system, oil production, and the mining industry were under US control. Indeed, American writers uniformly lauded the US presence and advocated increased US investments in the Mexican economy, or, as it was termed, "Americanization," as a solution to the "Mexican Problem."

Historians have yet to systematically analyze that pattern of impe, rialistic ideas elaborated by American authors between 1880 and 1930,

despite evidence that these writings have played an important role in national public policy. This study moves against the grain of historiographic convention that places the Chicano experience within an overly restric,

tive regional or national perspective. A transnational imperial cultural formation contoured to the specifications of US economic domination of Mexico contributed significantly to the shaping of public policy toward Mexican immigrants. Further research may well demonstrate that this

same transnational cultural configuration impacted other areas of the Chicano experience, for example, the justice system. Although this study will focus on the 1880-1930 period, a case can be made that this imperial transnational factor has been functioning throughout the twentieth century.

Works Cited Barron, C. W. 1917. The Mexican Problem. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Blakeslee, George E. 1920. Introduction to Mexico and the Caribbean, edited by

George E. Blakeslee, viii. New York: Stechert. Bogardus, Emory. 1919. Essentials of Americanization. Los Angeles: University of

Southern California Press. ---. 1929. The Mexican Immigrant: An Annotated Bibliography. Los Angeles:

Council on International Relations. ---. 1934. The Mexican Immigrant in the United States. Los Angeles: University

of Southern California Press. Gonzalez, Gilbert G . 1990. Chicano Education in the Era of Segregation. Philadelphia:

Balch Institute Press.

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Gilbert G . Gonzalez

Jones, Chester Lloyd. 1921. Mexico and Its Reconstruetion. New York: D. Appleton. Kipling, Rudyard. 1986. "The Epics of India." In Kipling's India: Uncollected Sketches

1848-88, edited by Thomas Pinney, 175-78. London: Macmillan. First pub lished in Civil and Military Gazette, August 24, 1886.

Martin, Percy F. 1907. Mexico of the Twentieth Century. London: Edward Arnold. McLean, Robert N. 1928. That Mexican! As He Really Is, North and South of the Rio

Grande. New York: Fleming H. Revell. Mc Williams, Carey. 1949. North from Mexico: The Spanish-Speaking People of the

United States. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott. Simpich, Frederick. 1926. "The Little Brown Brother Treks North." Independent

116, no. 39: 238. Winton, George B. 1905. A New Era in Old Mexico. Nashville: Publishing House

of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. --. 1913. Mexico To-day: Social , Political, and Religious Conditions. New York:

Missionary Education Movement of the United States and Canada.

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1

Hana Nguyen

Department of Child and Adolescent Studies

California State University, Fullerton

CHIC 325 Chicana and Chicano Education

Judith C. Pérez, Ph.D.

October 10, 2022

2

PERSONALIZED EDUCATIONAL NARRATIVE

Every day, we are taught new things. Invisible and untouchable, it cannot be perceived by

the senses. The impact of education extends far beyond the classroom and into every facet of

human existence. I am a student from Asia (Vietnam). There seems to be a big gap between how

various cultures conceptualize schooling. Looking back at my academic journey, I can see that

there were many points where I doubted the point of school. The way I felt about school was

shaped by my instructors, my family background, and my environment. To be sure, I come from

a culture with a lot of social inequality and a biased educational system. Being Vietnamese was

never something I was proud of throughout my schooling in the US. Peers and the community

alike instilled in me the belief that I should not celebrate my unique identity.

As early as I recall, I was the target of assumptions about my worth based on factors like

my race, ethnicity, and appearance. Raised in a group where everyone, except you, appeared to

have their priorities straight. The stereotype holds that many Asians will follow in their parent's

footsteps by excelling in the hard sciences. The trouble was that I could not connect to the

conventional family dynamic because neither of my parents went to college for a scientific or

medical career. Both parents had just completed high school when they made their daring escape

from their country. I never had anybody to look up to or relate to when I was growing up.

On the other hand, I did not join in any of such activities, I behaved simply like any other

youngster in my area without paying a thought to my surroundings. My close Asian-American

relatives grew up in the same area as me. They exemplified the model Asian-American kid,

succeeding in all they tried in school and extracurricular activities. However, did I truly have the

finest role models in them? My cousin and I come from quite different backgrounds, mostly

because our parents are very different. In contrast to my other aunts, uncles, and cousins, whom

3

all seem to have master's degrees and well-organized lives, my parents were impoverished,

illiterate, and muddled. The fact that my parents did not achieve these or those goals is not

anything I hold against them.

I had no choice but to push through the obstacles and put in long hours. I altered the

standard view of education as consisting only of formal schooling. The importance of education

to modern society has now dawned on me. Problem-solving, analytical reasoning, civic duty,

teamwork, and social skills are all important aspects of development that should be emphasized

in the classroom alongside subject matter expertise. Once class begins, my outlook and

understanding may shift for the better.

While I first believed that succeeding academically would be challenging, I have now

learned that anybody can attain academic success with time and work. If I ever struggled with a

particular topic, someone was there to provide a hand; for that, I am grateful. Every student has

to deal with difficulties, but they should never forget to be thankful. As a result, if I upset

anybody in the class, they have my sincere apologies. Because certain facts might be deceiving, I

should also express my appreciation to my teachers for providing me with the correct

information.

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