Virtual Chat: Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg

 

Okay, I dove in, and I’m dying to share thoughts and read thoughts with you all about Sandberg’s theories on women in the workplace.   To be honest with you, I’m not sold on Sandberg yet.  But I’m wavering.  I do like this idea of leaning in, but it’s complicated, and when does Sandberg start talking about that?? (Disclaimer: I’m only on chapter 3).

Let’s start a comment thread to fuel the fire for our virtual chat here on Monday night at 8PM EST.  (Click on comments underneath the post’s title to see the thread and add comments).

Girl Power! (But what kind of power are we talking about?)

Here’s what’s running through my mind:

1) Sandberg claims that she does not advocate for all women having the same objectives, i.e. that it’s cool if some woman choose to go to work and that some women choose to stay home, saying “Some of the most important contributions to our world are made by caring for one person at a time.  We each have to chart our own unique course and define which goals fit our lives, values, and dreams.” (Sandberg 10).  However, she also claims that the only way for women to gain equal status with men is if women hold more positions of power.    She advocates for “ambition in any pursuit”.  Let’s keep it real Sheryl- those two ideas are dichotomous, and in my mind, they punch holes in your lean in theory. I question whether it’s possible for women to gain enough power in the world  to attain total equality with men given the biological drive women feel to stay home with their children, or spend time with their children.  The gap between men and women is the widest disparity in the world-it cuts through time, it cuts through culture.  Moreover, I question the idea and interpretation of “power” in our society, and wonder how attaining the power that Sandberg’s talking about will provide equality between men and women.

2) I love the connection between Tina Fey’s Bossypants and Sandberg’s Lean In: both profess how speaking up as a women in the workplace will laud you the title of “bitch” or that you are being “bossy”.  I work in a place full of women, and I still feel every time I speak up and am direct, people feel hurt or that I am being “bitchy”.  Sandberg says, “When a girl tries to lead, she is often labeled bossy. Boys are seldom called bossy because a boy taking the role of the boss does not surprise or offend” (19). I wonder how many other women feel like when they take the lead, they are judged negatively? Moreover, how can we as women support one another in these scenarios as opposed to pull each other down through gossip, or the expectation that we should receive emotional vindication at every meeting in the workplace?

Comment at your own pace!

In solidarity, Kass

Addendum: Let’s take two weeks to read this book.  It’s loaded! Can’t wait to comment throughout the weekend and chat on Monday via http://todaysmeet.com/LeanInBookChat

Double Addendum: This is a friendly chat designed to provoke our thoughts and to grow and learn from one another.  We might think differently, but that’s the awesome part.

For teachers, Summer is Strange

August 20, 2013  |  Family, Teaching  |  2 Comments

Every year, teachers are awarded with a supposed summer of grandeur. Or, if you live in New York City, an 8 week intermission sans students. Most of us continue to brush up on our educational selves, attending some sorts of professional development weeks, going to a few planning sessions with our fellow teachers, or dun dun dunnhhhhh….teaching summer school. I like to think that we are kind of like NBA players, training and doing all kinds of weird sprints on beaches and tours in foreign countries all for the love of the game.

This summer will be the first summer I did not do anything for the love of the game. Zero sand sprints, no ice, no meetings in China with the sports ambassador. I am like Raymond Felton the summer he got fat and the Knicks traded him. Really, aside from a couple of meetings about the teacher rating systems, I checked out of school, and completely checked in to other aspects of my life.

It took seven summers for me to get to a place where I felt okay checking out of Bloomberg Ed policy, deleting my Gotham Schools email, ignoring the new Diane Ravitch blog, and reading novels instead of new curriculum. Basically, I temporarily deactivated my educator self.

For many of us, this is no easy task. Teaching is not just what we do, it is who we are.We eat, breathe, and sleep thinking about our students. They are the topic of our dinner conversation, the subject of our dreams. Watching Breaking Bad on Sundays is never done without some lesson planning accompaniment.

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So, what happens when you turn all this off? What part of your self is left?

Good question. After pouring so much of ourselves into our school communities, we often forget to build communities within other parts of our lives. Our individual selves, once molded and guided by our separate and distinct interests are replaced by the desire to give whatever it takes for our students to do well. NYC.gov reports that in NYC, 25% of teachers will quit within the first two years of teaching. All those Saturday field trips, after school tutoring sessions, even materials acquisition alone eat up the other components of our lives that would otherwise make us balanced human beings.

This is why teaching, especially in high need urban schools, has one of the highest burn out rates amongst all careers. The difference between teachers who teach 5+ years and the teachers who teach for two years are many, but namely-the teachers who have any chance at longevity or those who act on a life beyond their students.

For me, this means getting out the sewing machine, calling up old friends, and going to museums with Soleil without thinking about the field trip potential. So, do yourself a favor and dust of the Xbox. Throw that plan book underneath your bed. Clear out your iPad, and relax. Our kiddos will be fine without us, and will be better off with a more balanced human being in front of them when September 9 rolls around.

-Kass

What I LOVE about Ms. Kass

Kass & Corn throwback wedding photo. Feels like yesterday...

What I LOVE about Ms. Kass

July 25, 2013  |  Culture, Family, Teaching  |  1 Comment

This week Kass and I celebrated another wedding anniversary. We were married during NYC’s Restaurant Week on the day before her birthday. That means 2-for-1 vintage wines, steaks, lobsters and infinite tasting plates EVERY anniversary dinner — for life. (Who knows how to save money like Corn!?!? Living #likeaboss — on a budget.) That also means mega fun multiple day birthday & anniversary celebrations each year.

Young Kass. Young Corn.

Young Kass. Young Corn.

Mostly, though, this gives us a wonderful opportunity each summer to pause and reflect on love. …to think on the work that we came together to do, to celebrate our accomplishments and to recommit ourselves to our shared future as a unit and our collective future as members of this community and this society.

My Pop used to tell me that if you are the smartest person in the room, you need to find a better room. He believes, as I do, that we must constantly be apprenticing ourselves to incredible people. We don’t die when we stop breathing. We die when we stop learning. Being married to Kass feels like that. Like I’m a lifelong apprentice to one of the most incredible people around. Here is not just what I learn from my partner, but how I learn from her — just some of what makes her awesome.

  1. Kass is fearless in her pursuit of fairness. Her advocacy work for kids with disabilities is the most gangster thing I’ve ever seen. As we’ve grown together, her work has intensified. What impresses me the most about this is that she consciously seeks to expand her knowledge of our community and of history. When we moved from Red Hook to Sunset Park, she immersed herself in the culture of the new neighborhood striving to learn as much as she could about Chinese and Mexican cultures. Many of our neighbors and students are from there, and who she has become in service to them is rooted in that learning. I love Kass because she understands that you cannot seek to make an impact on others unless you are boldly willing to be impacted by them.

    Word up.

    Word up.

  2. Kass gets that it is not just about us. She always reminds me that who we are and the the things that we enjoy are not ours alone. She sees that we are connected in intricate ways, not just to the people around us, but to history. Even in celebrating our anniversary, I was reminded that a small milestone like ours was made possible because of the incredible work of others. Notably, the Loving family, whose 1967 Supreme Court Case against the state of Virginia struck down the 1924 Racial Integrity act and made interracial marriage legal in the United States. We can never repay them, so what we owe them, we pay forward to the the LGBT community by continuing to work toward marriage equity. I love Kass because she understands our privilege. In that, she gets that no one is free if we are not all free. She is a fierce ally.
  3. Kass laughs (at me) a lot. As I’ve sought to learn with her and to be a good partner to her. I have made a lot of mistakes. I burn the rice. I don’t eat the vegetables (ever). I forget don’t want to clean the cat litter. I don’t wait outside the dressing room when I’m supposed to wait outside the dressing room. She has helped me to see that the world does not end when I fail, and together we’ve constructed some powerful lessons (and some incredible jokes) upon those failures. She is flexible and forgiving in her belief that one cannot know success without first knowing failure. I love Kass because she embodies the saying that “if you fall two times, get up three times.”

Clearly, I’m a lucky dude.

This Mourning

Mr. Martin

This Mourning

July 14, 2013  |  Culture, Family  |  11 Comments

My favorite author, James Baldwin, once wrote “To be black and conscious in America is to be in a constant state of rage.” Since I was in 10th grade, those words have been scribbled on a post-it note attached to the screen of every computer I’ve owned.

James Baldwin's The Fire Next Time is one of my all-time favorites.

James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time is one of my all-time favorites.

This morning, that rage is particularly intense. I have not been able to sleep since the NY Times news alerted my phone at 1:14 this morning – telling me that Zimmerman was acquitted in the killing of Trayvon Martin.

I knew that this was going to happen. I know America. Worse still, I know how race and class work in this country, and I know that the young are continually the victims of our inability to act responsibly as citizens and as change agents. I don’t need to recount the facts of Trayvon’s death or of the case here. There are hundreds of media outlets already doing that today.

I mourn for his family – understanding that by doing so, I am mourning for black and brown families with sons all over this country. Zimmerman was not on trial this month. Black maleness was. It wasn’t alarming to watch the defense labor to paint a picture of the unarmed black teenager as a menace who deserved death at the hands of a man who was warned by the police not to pursue him in the first place. It was, however, alarming to see how easy that labor was. It did not take much to sell the jurors (and much of America) on the idea that black boys are dangerous enough to shoot on sight now.

I work with youth in over five major American cities regularly, and I see this when the students I send to read at Starbucks in Seattle are denied entry… or in DC when I lead students into bookstores and all eyes shift to us… or even in NYC at Columbia when I’m continually carded by campus security because I regularly show up an hour early to enter the building where I teach.

Though they should not be, theses things are excusable to me. I’ve gotten good at teaching my way out of the tens of daily micro-aggressions that come with living in brown skin. I’ve had to – not for me – but because I live much of my life in front of teenagers. It is essential for black boys to see black men deal, in productive ways, with America’s inability to see us as whole individuals. Beyond that, it is essential for all children to have adults that don’t just consider their humanity, but who understand how complicated that humanity can be.

Trayvon’s case was inexcusable, though, because the consequence was not limited access to coffee house couches for reading or watching Columbia security admit nine white women without ID only to have them scrutinize every square centimeter of my campus ID card. The consequence for Trayvon was death. The moment for justice was over once George Zimmerman decided to follow him.

School to Prison Pipeline

School to Prison Pipeline

But it is not to late for everyone else. Moving forward, Justice for Trayvon means doing right by EVERY young person – even when it is not convenient and especially when it is challenging. Justice is ensuring that black and brown youth have access to the same opportunities as their white counterparts. Justice is understanding that in America when some teachers say “special ed” or “behavior problem” or “he won’t listen to me” what they are really saying is that I’ve given up. It is realizing that students who carry this label when they turn 15 are almost twice as likely than their peers to end up in jail. Justice is knowing that there are more black people in prison this morning than there were in slavery in 1850. Justice, ultimately, is understanding that this is not an accident.

Our unwillingness to deal frankly with the re-segregation of our schools and with the soul-crushing effects of poverty have made it so.

I’m paraphrasing Mychal Denzel Smith when I say that I hope that my work here doesn’t make you think I’m just an angry black man. My goal is to make it undeniably clear that I’m an angry black man. Each morning my heart is in classrooms, but this morning it is in Florida. My heart is also with you. I’m hoping that you are angry. I’m hoping that your anger at this verdict does not relent when all the editorials have been written or when all the rallies have been held or when work starts again on Monday morning.

I’m hoping that your anger will inspire you to work – in some capacity – with young people that are not in your class or directly related to you by blood. We cannot do much (this week) to counter years of institutional racism, but we can raise children to navigate and topple those institutions that continue to render us invisible and inhuman.

— Corn