The weighty power of words
In my Comp 1 class last week I introduced a chapter on Explaining a Concept. To do this I put some concepts on the board about which I knew students would likely have opinions: American, Southern, Christian, Patriotism, Feminism. I also threw in Hillbilly since I identify as such.
The Hillbilly is my high school mascot, and I was indoctrinated from kindergarten through 12th grade that hillbillies are amazing. Some might even say I was groomed to become a proud Ozark Hillbilly. It worked. I graduated from Ozark High School 33 years ago, and as I sit here with three dogs at my feet in the woods overlooking the Arkansas River that winds through my hometown, my Hillbilly pride still runs deep.
I have raised my kids to be Ozark Hillbillies. What that means to us is that we are kind, smart, self-sufficient, hardworking people. My son fills our freezers with deer and other wild game he hunts on our land. That meat shares space with catfish from trotlines we run on the river all summer and crappie we catch from our ponds.
My mom makes jelly from muscadines that grow wild on our place, and we eat it on naturally leavened sourdough bread I feed and knead and bake. My girls can pickles, and we freeze tomatoes with peppers we grow in our yard to eat all winter. We get fresh eggs from hardworking hens, and until recently kept a goat for milking.
My oldest daughter was a National Merit finalist who earned her bachelor’s degree in two years at U of A and graduates this spring from law school at age 23. Harper earned a full ride at Arkansas Tech where he is a sophomore biomedical major with a 4.0 GPA. Both were valedictorians of their high school classes.
My hope and expectations are that Adelaide, 16, and Stella, 11, will follow the example of their older siblings even as they blaze their own trails. This is what hillbillies do.
It never occurred to me that a hillbilly could be a bad thing until one time on vacation in Branson as a child I saw a postcard caricature that was supposed to be funny. These so-called hillbillies were toothless, dirty, wild-eyed drunk-looking specimens. Not the muscular guy with a fierce look of intelligence that graced my yearbook cover.
Some of the props were similar—a fishing pole, gun, even a moonshine jug—and one or two may have been in overalls. But the vibe was wrong. Hillbillies were not lazy, inbred, ignorant fools like the postcard implied. Hillbillies were awesome like my classmates and teachers. Like the whole town that supported us. Like my family and friends.
I told this story to my students, then asked them to consider the other concepts on the board. What did those things mean to them? What emotions do they evoke? Where did they get their ideas of what it means to be American, Southern, Christian? What exactly is patriotism? Feminism?
The magic of being a teacher is really two-fold. It happens when you see light bulbs appear above your students’ heads and you know their world just expanded; the light reflects an acquisition of book knowledge, but also self-knowledge, the realization they are capable. They can learn and actively participate in the human conversation, own their experiences, make sense of their world.
The other miracle is the light that dawns in my head because students teach me and expand my world when they share their stories and ideas, the perspectives from which they walk through the world. I know I am always going on about how we can’t pay our teachers enough for the huge responsibility of the job, and we can’t, even though we should try. But like most who view teaching as a calling, I would do it for free if I could. Because there is nothing like the magic that happens in a classroom.
My hope for students as they learn how to read and understand new concepts, then write essays that explain concepts to others, is that they critically think about those concepts. Because words are powerful. And when we encounter a concept that can mean more than one thing, we do well to stop and consider whose explanation we want to accept. We better consider the source and who benefits from our acceptance of their explanation, because our active agreement—or passive acceptance—gives them power.
Who benefits by believing hillbillies are idiots who never amount to anything? Certainly not any kid from Ozark, Arkansas. Who benefits if people believe Christians can vote for only one political party, or patriotism requires we attack our own Capitol? Who does it serve if feminism is a bad word? If Southern means you like the Confederate flag? If American means, as it does in some places, infidel?
The answers to these questions reveal why it is so important to folks in power to control our understanding of a concept. And why it is imperative we don’t give up that control—to anyone—but guard our hearts and minds as we actively seek what is true. What benefits the most people. And what leads us to a better, more just, and peaceful world.