Get Out of the Car (and meet some new people this summer)

On October 10, 2015, an incident occurred at the University of Missouri homecoming parade that made national news but somehow escaped my attention. A group of black students protesting systemic and overt racism dating back to 1839, when the university was built as a whites-only institution using slave labor, blocked a convertible in which the university’s president, Tim Wolfe, was riding. Wolfe remained in the car as the small group of protestors interrupted the parade to present a chronological series of examples of ongoing racial injustices at Mizzou, “not an indictment on white folks but. . .an indictment on white structures and white supremacy.”

The mostly white crowd yelled at the protestors and chanted loudly as if to drown out what the protestors were saying. A number of white men and women attempted to move the protestors from the parade route and to form a human chain to block the protest and allow the president’s car to pass. All the while, President Wolfe remained in his red convertible, where he could clearly see and hear the protest. The protest ended 11 minutes after it began when several police officers intervened and asked the protestors to step aside.  

To simplify a complicated story, one of the activists involved in the protest, Jonathan Butler, began a hunger strike to protest the president’s lack of responsiveness to racist incidents, during the parade as well as when other complaints were reported. The hunger strike attracted media attention and put Mizzou in the spotlight.

Nearly a month after the parade incident, Wolfe finally issued an apology for his silence during the parade. “My behavior seemed like I didn’t care,” the apology stated. “That was not my intention. I was caught off guard at that moment. Nevertheless, had I gotten out of the car to acknowledge the students and talk with them, perhaps we wouldn’t be where we are today.” Several days later, after a threatened strike by Mizzou football players calling for his resignation, Wolfe stepped down.

Reading the news articles about this incident and watching video footage of the protest conjured up many emotions in me, but the part that keeps haunting me is the line in Wolfe’s apology: “[H]ad I gotten out of the car to acknowledge the students and talk with them, perhaps we wouldn’t be where we are today.”

I wonder if enough educators today are “getting out of the car:” meeting diverse students where they are and letting them know they are heard, seen, and valued.

I’m can’t say that every school is that racially charged or that most students of color have reached a similar brink of frustration. I do know that 80% of public school teachers in America are white, and that less than half of the 50 million students enrolled in public schools are white.

For the rest of this essay, I’ll be talking mostly to the 80% of us who are white educators, but the rest of you are welcome to join me to make sure I’m not saying anything foolish.

According to Beverly Daniel Tatum in Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?, a 2013 American Values Survey found that “75 percent of Whites have entirely White social networks, without any minority presence.” The same is not true about the homogeneity of other races’ social networks. Apparently, a lot of white people only hang out with other white people.

It’s difficult to understand the way others perceive the world if we don’t get to know them. In order for me to understand the treatment others experience, I need to listen to those people and hear their stories. I need to shut up and quit my whitesplaining (ironic, since that’s what I’m doing right here. . . sorry) so that I can give others a voice. If I know who someone is, I am more likely to connect with them and others who share an identity with them. If a growing number of the students I see every day come from racial backgrounds different than mine, I face some potential challenges in connecting with those students. I imagine some of these students feel like the students at the University of Missouri felt: unseen, unheard, and wronged. I need to get out of the car, listen to them, and let them know that they are valued.  

So what’s a white person to do if they’re among the 75% who only socialize with other white people? I suggest figuring out how to bring some diversity into your social circle. It’s terribly awkward (and, really, just wrong) to collect friends of different races like you are hunting Pokémon, so please don’t go out into the world with a diversity checklist to complete. Consider volunteering in the community at somewhere other than your place of worship (as those tend to remain largely segregated in America today), attending arts events (I love a good talkback after a theatre performance, though I usually listen a lot more than I talk), or finding a group, such as DFW’s Community Conversations, where people meet for the purpose of talking and listening to understand one another’s perspectives.

Making connections like these requires some effort, and there’s no guarantee of success. A less risky way to “meet” some new people is through reading their stories. Take a look at your bookshelf. Was every book written by a white author? Maybe it’s time to step outside the usual to encounter some new literary voices.

Some of my favorite reading experiences are ones in which I have allowed a person with a cultural identity unlike mine to tell me their story. As a college student on summer vacation reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X, I was uncomfortable, shocked, and moved as I experienced racism through Malcolm’s eyes and felt the source of his indignation. As an adult, digesting Ta-Nahesi Coates’s letter to his son, Between the World and Me, continued to stretch my thinking about race relations, cultural identity, and the struggles black Americans face that I seldom consider as a white male.  Recently, I’ve read a number of young adult novels with non-white characters and authors, each of which has helped me grow in my understanding of multicultural perspectives. In Erika L. Sánchez’s I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter, I felt the pains of growing up as a precocious Latina teen in inner-city Chicago. Getting to know Adib Khorram’s hilarious narrator in Darius the Great is Not Okay, who struggles with his half-Persian identity (and general teenage angst) as he travels to visit his mother’s family in Iran, provided some insight into cultural norms unlike my own. Reading Dear Martin (Nic Stone), On the Come Up (Angie Thomas), All-American Boys (Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely), and The Field Guide to the North American Teenager (Ben Philippe) gave me multiple perspectives on what it might be like to be a black teenager today. Understanding another cultural identity, that of transgender youth, is easier for me after reading Lily and Dunkin by Donna Gephart. The 57 Bus: The True Story of Two Teenagers and the Crime That Changed Their Lives by Dashka Slater helped me see two sides of an incident from the perspectives of two teens: a gender-fluid boy and his African-American classmate.

Can I claim to be an expert on any of these cultures because I read a few books or met a few people? Of course not. Every individual’s cultural identity and life experiences are their own. Just as I can’t speak with authority about the experience of every middle-aged, white male in America, I certainly have no right to claim a full understanding of the experiences of a group I don’t belong to based on my own interactions, however extensive. But opening my mind and heart as I let others tell their stories develops my understanding and empathy. And, when I learn from listening that something in the system we (and by “we,” I mean people who look a lot like me) have built in our country is corrupt, unfair, or unjust, I can lift my voice along with their voice to do something about changing it.

Fellow educators, I invite you to join me this summer in getting out of the car, meeting some new people (whether in real life or on the pages of books), and joining the conversation. Let others be heard, so that we can make more meaningful—more human—connections with our students, their parents, our colleagues, and all the other wonderful humans in this beautifully diverse country we live in.  

Restroom Equity

Many of the schools I visit have a restroom equity problem. I’m not talking about that issue at public venues like conference centers, performance halls, and sporting arenas where there are clearly not enough women’s toilets and their line snakes out the door while the men zip in and out of their restroom. The equity gap I most frequently observe is race-related.

I’m just going to say it. In many schools, a disproportionate number of students wandering around the halls with bathroom passes during class are not white or Asian, and more of them are male than female. I have no idea whether they ever actually go to the restroom or not. What I mostly see in the halls are black and Latino male students strolling with no sense of urgency individually, in pairs, or in larger groups during the times while (I assume) instruction is taking place in their classes.  

Here’s why I think this is an equity issue worth exploring. Equity issues in schools crop up whenever an outcome exists that that doesn’t mirror the demographics of the campus. Whether it’s enrollment in AP and honors classes, participation in extracurriculars, placement in disciplinary programs, or failure rates, if there’s a discrepancy between observable reality and campus demographics, that issue merits a closer look. If, for instance, 60% of students on a campus are white, then 60% of the students in the hallways during class should be white if we have true hall pass equity. If 90% of failures in a course appear on the report cards of male students, while males comprise 51% of the population enrolled in the class, there’s a gender-related equity problem. The roaming-in-the-hallways population I observe on many campuses doesn’t match those campuses’ demographics.    

It’s easy for us to make excuses, place blame, and point fingers to explain what’s happening, but as far as I can tell from a quick internet search (one that has no doubt sullied my Google search history and will lead to all kinds of weird shopping recommendations the next time I open Facebook or Amazon), bladder size doesn’t vary significantly according to race. It’s tempting to ask what it is about those kids that makes them not stay in class, but the conclusions that develop from conversations like that always sound racist to me. Blaming the students is easy, but it’s not productive because we can’t force students to change. We have to look at our own role in this.     

The better question to ask is this: “What is it that these students’ teachers are doing or not doing that is causing some students to want to leave class while others are staying put?”

As I see it, students ask to leave class for five (legal) reasons:

1.  They are bored.

2.  They hope to rendezvous with their friends.  

3.  They are restless and need to move around.

4.  They don’t feel like the time spent in class is valuable.

5.  They actually have to use the restroom.

Let’s explore these and the role we play as teachers in each:

1. Boredom.  When class gets boring, minds wander, which leads to kids wanting to wander, too. Keeping kids interested may be the key to keeping more kids in the room.  We can’t avoid the reality that some concepts we have to teach are more intrinsically exciting than others, but we can control the method of delivery, the pacing, and the way we “sell” the lesson. Framing the lesson in an engaging manner that links the content to students’ experiences, interests, life goals, and opinions helps ensure buy-in. Our own excitement about the learning matters, too, as apathy is contagious. Find something in every class period to be genuinely excited about and communicate that enthusiasm sincerely. Vary the mode of delivery and the activities, and keep the pace moving from bell to bell. Avoid lags and downtime by being extra prepared and by teaching with a sense of casual urgency. Spice up a routine with something unexpected. Students won’t want to be gone from your room for fear of missing out.

2. Social Opportunities.  News flash: Not every student comes to school for the learning. For many students—and particularly those in poverty, according to Eric Jensen in the fantastic book Poor Students, Rich Teaching—the opportunity to spend time with friends is the driving force behind school attendance. If social needs aren’t being met in class, students will seek peer interaction elsewhere (ie. in the hallways). Classrooms that rely on sit-and-get models of instruction, that demand student silence, and that fail to build community lack the social motivator for students to remain in class. I wonder if many of our classes, especially in schools where minority groups are truly in the minority, are segregated by race and class, with some students feeling like insiders and others feeling like they don’t belong. If white teachers (most of whom enjoyed school growing up) teach primarily to students who are like them in background and attitudes and don’t make special efforts to build relationships with the students who are most unlike them, the class divides into the “in” group and the “out” group. Classes where students know, appreciate, and interact with one another are ones that fulfill every student’s social and emotional needs. These are the classes where students feel they belong, and when a community exists, students don’t try to escape into the hall to find their pals.

3. The Need to Wiggle.  Classrooms where students stay put in their seats all period cater only to the compliant students with extreme attention spans. Many students, particularly adolescent boys, grow restless when they sit too long. If the teacher doesn’t build in opportunities to squirm and get some energy out, the logical recourse for restless students is to feign a bladder emergency so they can walk for a few minutes. Teachers who understand kids’ desire to wiggle incorporate movement into lessons, giving them chances to stand, walk, change their position, respond with physical movements, and do things besides quietly sitting and listening.

4. Lack of Value. Some things we do in school seem like a waste of time to students. When I was in fourth grade, my teacher (a sweet woman who, bless her heart, was not a dynamic oral reader) made us listen to her read aloud Jack London’s long and boring novel White Fang every day after recess for weeks. Nothing about this experience seemed pleasant or worthwhile at the time; I could have read the book on my own if I had cared anything about a dog in Alaska, which I didn’t. My solution was to figure out how to give myself the hiccups so that I could be excused to get a drink of water in hopes that the hiccuping would cease—and I was one of those kids who actually liked school. When class isn’t worthwhile, students can think of many places they’d rather be. These days, watching a full-length video (when every kid nowadays has immediate access to millions of videos in his or her pocket) seems like an excuse for the teacher not feeling like teaching that day. Being given way-too-much time to complete a not-that-challenging task takes away any sense of urgency to spend the class time working. Time to work independently and silently without in-the-moment feedback from someone else seems wasteful. It’s hard to work in isolation in school—the place where your friends are—rather than saving it for home (or not doing it at all). Having to do many repetitions of a skill they’ve already mastered is tedious and pointless. Using grades as a motivator only works with students who are particularly concerned about grades, so we have to think of other ways to make the learning matter to the other students. Make every minute count so that students won’t want to roam.  

5. Legitimate Need. Sometimes you actually need to pee.        

When we identify issues of equity, we have two choices. One is to accept the situation the way it is, which means that we are okay with inequality, with differences determined by race and class, and with some students receiving better opportunities and experiences than others. The other choice is to figure out what is wrong with our system and fix it. The education system in the United States was created at a time when denying opportunities to some sectors of society was not something the people in power seemed concerned about. Many aspects of that system have remained in place for over a century. Isn’t it time we started identifying places where equity gaps exist and figuring out what we need to do differently to fix them?

The Twin Monsters

Some students are easier to teach than others. For the first part of my career, my students were a breeze to teach. Most came from affluent or at least middle-class homes where education was a priority. Parents made sure students came to school fed, clothed, and equipped with supplies. A call home fixed nearly every problem in the classroom, from discipline to missing homework. Parents could—and would—bring their kids early or pick them up late if tutorials or remediation was required. All I had to do was show up, run an efficient classroom, assign some work, and grade a lot of papers. I held high standards for my students, and they, for the most part, rose to my expectations.

As time went on, our school’s student population started to change. We still had plenty of the old ready-to-learners, but an ever-increasing number of students showed up at the doorstep of our school with some obvious differences. Many came from poverty. Not all of them spoke English fluently. Quite a few came to us with limited skills. Some had moved from school to school and district to district throughout their educational lives. They didn’t look like our mostly-white, middle-class faculty and staff. They felt like outsiders among the affluent students. For a while we could ignore the changes and keep doing what we had always done. As gaps began to widen and disparities became more glaring, we had to do something about it.

I wish this paragraph could be about all the wonderful solutions we immediately discovered and how we turned everything around and created a dynamic place of learning for all students. The solutions, as anyone who has worked with challenging student populations knows, are not that easy to discover. Instead of talking about those solutions, however, I want to warn of two potential dangers that can surface when we work with students from educationally impoverished backgrounds. I have encountered them. Perhaps you have, too. I’m referring to the twin monsters of blame and pity.

The blame monster is an ugly one, with hundreds of fingers pointing in every direction. This monster appears early in the school year, as soon as the teacher discovers that “these kids” aren’t “where they should be.” The blame monster makes us question the credentials of the teachers who teach in grades below ours; turns us into armchair sociologists who blame demographics, economics, parents, peers, the media, cell phones, popular music, and the Kardashians; and causes us to make—and believe—all sorts of excuses about our students’ limitations. “These kids can’t!” is the battle cry of the teacher in the thrall of the blame monster. The monster spreads its deadly venom, infecting individuals, teams, and—horrible dictu!—entire campuses. Once the poison has spread, it manifests in a variety of guises:  despair, giving up hope, frustration, asking “Why me?”, feeling like you’re the only teacher/ campus/ district ever to face such odds. Teachers spend so much time finding causes for why their students can’t learn that they fail to focus on finding ways to get them to learn.

Teachers who know how to fight off the blame monster know that, though the monster is likely to show up in the first days of the school year, it needs to make its exit as soon as possible. Educators can’t control who walks into their classrooms; they can only control what they do with those students and how they make those students feel about themselves as learners and—equally important—as people. If the blame monster is still lurking around during the second semester and the students haven’t improved, teachers need to place the blame on themselves instead of on others or on outside factors. Quit blaming. Time’s a-wasting. Start teaching.

The pity monster is the blame monster’s less flashy but perhaps more dangerous sibling. Armed with an endless supply of Kleenex and hugs, the pity monster makes sure educators see how hard the lives of “these poor babies” are. Instead of seeing future possibilities, teachers attacked by the pity monster only see obstacles and hardships in the paths of their students, and—as any person with a heart would do—they feel overwhelming compassion. Rising from instinctual kind-heartedness, the pity monster feeds off the emotions of educators, making them fearful of being the ones who put one more difficulty or challenge onto the plates of these sweet kids and their sweet parents. The pity monster leaves a trail of low expectations; second, third, fourth, and fifth chances; thoughts of “It’s the best they can do;” and satisfaction with mediocrity. Students put their names on their paper? They get points. Students answer an easy question in a class discussion? They get a piece of candy. The teacher under the influence of the pity monster becomes the savior of the children, and all these poor babies have to do is show up and make a modicum of effort to receive praise, prizes, and high grades. The bar is set so low that any student can climb over it without difficulty. And if there is a struggle, the educator swoops in to rescue the poor, defenseless creatures and make sure they all succeed.

Defeating the pity monster requires the fortitude to set high expectations for every student, to actually believe that the students can reach those expectations, and to make the student believe they can achieve them, too. All students have to know you believe in them and that you will help make sure they can do all they are capable of. This requires building relationships; seeing the student, not the deficit; banishing the “poor babies” mentality; and getting down to business—no excuses!—in a classroom where you maximize every minute of instructional time because, scholars, you have places to go, and we have work to do to make sure you can get there!

Teaching is a tough job, and I don’t pretend to have all the answers for how to magically reach every student. I have, however, seen enough students in enough schools and to have interacted with enough teachers in my school, my district, and in many parts of the country (and even some in other countries) to know that the twin monsters of blame and pity are real and highly dangerous. They sneak up when we least expect it, and they quickly have us in their clutches. Being aware of the dangers and not being afraid to call them out when they appear is the first step to eradicating them.

All students—no matter where they come from, what skills or deficits they possess, what they look or sound like, or what obstacles they face—deserves the chance for a bright future. The twin monsters want to keep that from them, and we can’t let the monsters win.   

          

          

The Power of a Nudge

A little nudge can make a big difference. When Sonic sends me a text message informing me that “for today only” grilled cheese sandwiches are on sale for 50 cents each, I’m more likely to make a poor nutritional choice for lunch.  When the grocery store checker asks me if I’d like to make a $1 donation to help fight local hunger, I’m more likely to be philanthropic.  And when my 99-year-old grandma says that I’m getting a little tummy and pokes my belly when I see her at Christmas, I’m more likely to decide to jump back on the exercise bandwagon and forego that bargain grilled cheese from Sonic.

The power of suggestion exerts a mighty influence on us. Nobel Prize-winning behavioral economist Richard H. Thaler, whose book Misbehaving was a captivating read about a field I knew nothing about, examined the ways people are steered by others to make smart decisions that they themselves view as smart decisions after making them. As Thaler and his onetime research partner Cass Sunstein said it, their goal was to “influence choices in a way that will make choosers better off, as judged by themselves.” Thaler addressed the power of such persuasion, saying, “People can be nudged to save for retirement, to get more exercise, and to pay their taxes on time, but they can also be nudged to take out a second mortgage on their home and use the money on a spending binge.” In other words, people can be nudged to make good choices or to make poor choices.

Although the work of Thaler and Sunstein focused on the realm of economics, teachers and other adults in an educational setting have the opportunity to employ the power of the nudge in their interactions with students. In fact, a nudge from a teacher might be the kick-start that sends a student on the path to college.

We have reached the time of the year during which schools start asking students and parents to make decisions about their course selections for next year. Teachers often find themselves in the position to recommend classes to their students and offer advice, sometimes in a official capacity (as in a list submitted to counselors of students who should enroll in specific courses—whether at an advanced or remedial level—or a signature of recommendation on a student’s schedule card) and sometimes in a less formal way (such as giving advice to a student who asks your opinion about what class to take).

Sometimes data comes into play when recommendations are made. Teachers mine student data and identify cutoff points to see which students hit the magic number that makes them eligible for honors courses. Data can be dangerous, though, when it’s the only measure we use to measure student potential.

As I see it, test scores and other data are best used to identify potential in students who might not self-identify into rigorous courses or who might otherwise escape notice of those who are recommending. For instance, a student who didn’t grow up speaking English or who doesn’t come from a language-rich household might score lower on a standardized measure that is linguistically based, but that student’s high score on a nonverbal test of thinking skills (such as the nonverbal portion of the COGAT) indicates overall cognitive ability that might be developed over time in language-related areas. In that case, the student’s standardized data might be a flag to a teacher looking to nudge a student to consider taking a more challenging class.

The danger of standardized scores is that they are often used to justify gatekeeping, the practice of only admitting the top students into classes and excluding those who don’t fit a preconceived profile. I hear teachers speak of students as not being “honors (or AP) material.” Gatekeeping thrives on fixed mindsets like this, and doors of possibility remain closed to students. What teachers may not consider when discouraging a student from taking an advanced class is the long-term impact of not taking that class. Closing an academic door early on makes future doors harder to open.

The students who most need the nudge from teachers are the ones who don’t see the possibilities within themselves or who might not believe that honors and AP courses are for kids like them. Teachers should remain on the lookout for indicators of potential in their students and should let students know what they spot. Curiosity, a highly developed sense of humor, persistence, problem solving abilities, leadership skills, critical thinking, and organization are among the traits teachers should point out to students who possess them. Those students might not see those traits in themselves and may have never considered that those traits could indicate potential for success in challenging coursework.

I always notice the mentions of teachers in the award acceptance speeches that occur this time of year. “I’d like to thank my seventh grade teacher, Mrs. So-and-So, who saw in me something I couldn’t see and encouraged me to try out for the school play, launching my acting career.” “If it weren’t for Mr. Such-and-Such in tenth grade, I wouldn’t have believe that I could become a writer.”  Successful adults can often look back and identify that one adult who identified their potential, pointed it out to them, and gave them a nudge in the right direction. A nudge says, “I believe in you.” A nudge can say, “You can do it.” A nudge can say, “Here’s something you do well that will help you succeed.”

A nudge can also say, “This isn’t for you.”

I don’t want to be the adult who makes that decision on behalf of a young person. I don’t want to be the educator who relies on data to such an extent that I fail to see the human behind the numbers. I want to nudge for good rather than evil, for growth rather than discouragement, and for opportunity rather than oppression.

I want to be thanked someday in an award acceptance speech. I know it’s statistically unlikely to happen, but I figure my odds go up each time I nudge another kid to consider a previously-unconsidered possibility.

Looking for Potential

Energetic. Enthusiastic. Hyperactive. Uncontrollable. Impulsive. Eager. Rambunctious. Vibrant. Wiggly. Kinesthetic. Athletic. Rowdy. Unfocused.

Curious. Questioning. Challenging. Defiant. Inquisitive. Searching. Intrigued. Intrusive. Disrespectful. Interested. Complaining.  

Chatty. Talkative. Verbal. Charismatic. Mouthy. Communicative. Motor-mouthed. Conversational. Social. Gregarious. Interactional. Unreserved. Rude.

Everyone has a series of lenses through which they view the world. We see what we want to see. We identify good in the things we value or that match our own viewpoints, preferences, and experiences. We frequently overlook the positive in what is unfamiliar, is different, or challenges our own ideas and views. What one person sees as a negative could be viewed as a positive by someone else.

Does society place the same value on an assertive man and an assertive woman? Do some groups of people receive praise for questioning or challenging authority while others are criticized for it? Do you look differently at a person who speaks passionately about political ideas you agree with while disparaging those who oppose your stance?

I worry that as educators we allow ourselves to get in the way of seeing the potential in every student we teach. Worse, we find fault in places where we could be looking for greatness. What if we could train ourselves to look for potential in spots where we previously ignored it? What impact could that have on the kids we teach and how they view themselves?

I am not a confrontational person. I tend to avoid conflict, hate engaging in an argument, and am more likely to back away from any kind of disagreement until I am able to speak calmly. Furthermore, I’ve never been especially physical. Horseplay was never my thing. I wasn’t one of those kids who squirmed. I’d rather sit for hours with my nose in a book or at work on a creative project.

As a teacher, it’s easy for me to see the greatness in a student who comes to class, engages, and plays along. I can find a million positive things to say about students who are eager readers, thoughtful writers, and deep thinkers. I appreciate student creativity, especially if it makes me laugh because of its cleverness.

When things get heated in class discussion, however, my first inclination is to retreat into my shell. When students get uber-competitive in a game or get a little rambunctious during a class activity, I become a little nervous. I have to remind myself that the students who seem argumentative, confrontational, rowdy, and unruly to me during those activities could be passionate, principled, persuasive, engaged, energetic, and eager if I view them through a different lens.

  

Identifying and acknowledging our own biases is the first step in learning to seek the potential in everyone we encounter. Some biases are easy for us to spot; others exist on a deeper, unconscious level.

A 2016 study found that students of color are underrepresented in gifted programs nationwide. More specifically, black students are about half as likely to be identified as “gifted and talented” as their white peers with comparable standardized test scores. The researchers crunched all sorts of numbers to try to determine the cause for this disparity. Only one factor made a significant difference in identification of “gifted” black students: the race of their teachers. The put it more bluntly, white teachers aren’t good at spotting giftedness in non-white students.

This study has so many implications for the world of education. Not only does it underscore the importance of having teacher demographics that mirror student demographics, but it also invites all of us—regardless of our race—to examine our own implicit biases. It’s easy to shift the blame for this inequity to other people, but the data indicates that those of us who are pointing the fingers also need to take a look in the mirror.

Implicit biases are natural. Everyone has them. And because they are implicit, we usually don’t know we have them. These biases exist on an unconscious level. I’m not sure we can ever identify every bias we hold, but I do think that the important work for each of us involves acknowledging the existence of these biases, trying to become more aware of them, and then taking action to correct them.

Project Implicit, a non-profit research project led by professors from University of Washington, Harvard, and University of Virginia, has a number of tests you can take that are designed to help identify implicit biases. The information they gather from participants helps further their research. Always one to contribute what I can in the name of learning (but mostly because I was curious), I took a few of their tests. Of course, I was certain that the results would indicate that I was without prejudice or bias. That’s what we would all like to believe about ourselves, right? I was wrong. The tests pointed out some things that I’d never even considered to be biases I held. I have since shared the website with others, and what we uncovered made us uncomfortable and uneasy but opened up some extremely worthwhile conversations about our biases and, more significantly, what we should do about them. It was easy to beat ourselves up for having those biases, but we soon realized that our self-criticism was counterproductive without taking steps to change.

Trying to make the shift toward actively looking for potential in others—students, coworkers, strangers I meet at Kroger—has positively altered the way I see the world and the results I get from those around me. I’m not always great at it, but I’m working at improving. I’m sure it’s something I will have to keep working on forever. If it leads to finding more of the good in others and helping them find the good in themselves, the perpetual work will have been worth it.

Thank you for all the work you do to look for potential in places where it’s not easy for you to spot.