Latina Teachers in the Deep South

Introduction

When I first moved to Birmingham, Alabama in 2007, I was intrigued by the notion of living in an area rich in racial courage and history. I envisioned a progressive space rife with thriving Black pride – I would be remiss if I didn’t shamelessly admit expecting to see a contemporary version of Angela Davis; not necessarily physical evidence of lustrous coils framing the contours of an afro, but certainly the type of fierce convictions that make a body walk taller and more confidently. I imagined White individuals working in tandem within the knowledge that civil rights had been fought and won inside the stories their parents and grandparents told. The stories of Black teachers would be tinged with pain yet brimming with power and hope. I anticipated living in an area where there might be a burgeoning Latinx community. I realized that no place would ever be like Miami, Florida, where I had begun my teaching career with the explicit intention of teaching Latinx kids.

I distinctly recall daydreaming about wearing combat boots; I would be, after all, working at a university where liberal minds and attire would likely prevail. Like the civil rights warriors before me, I too would celebrate my rebelliousness by sassing my unique Puerto Rican style among the hallways of the School of Education. I never imagined that my first year would be tinged with racial microaggressions. There is likely still a letter that resides in my personnel file detailing how my attire was offensive to a school administrator. Never mind that the administrator who complained was a mature Black man in the very system whose students marched the streets for civil rights so many years before. Never mind that the offense purportedly detailed the tightness of my pants, which my thick Latina thighs have always struggled to contain. Never mind that my White female boss likely influenced the genesis of that letter. That letter resulted in multiple self-reflections, including how my body was policed and what it meant to be an outsider even when my White Puerto Rican skin was supposed to mask my Latinidad. I was used to blending among other Latinas that looked like and unlike me; I had experienced the isolation that came from the anglicization of my Spanglish language – but this was different, I was an adult now who wasn’t supposed to crumble in defeat. I had to find another mask to protect myself from myself and others. I also had to cultivate allies, both Black and White.

I have always been deeply interested in the stories that cradle our individual experiences. Stories have always bridged my understanding of people, both similar and different than myself. They have, for example, allowed me to celebrate the complex differences that comprise the lives of narrators and characters residing in books. As a former English teacher and avid reader, it wasn’t until I was in college that I recall reading The House on Mango Street (Cisneros, 1984) with a Latina protagonist, Esperanza, who validated the importance of my family. I saw myself in Esperanza, even though she was Mexican and not Puerto Rican like me. Much like Esperanza, I yearned for a place to call home. After nearly 15 years living in Alabama, I finally felt sufficiently comfortable to sprinkle Spanish phrases and words into conversations with some colleagues. I had forgotten what it felt like to peel the outer White mold of myself and let the Puerto Rican-ness shine through. This comfort eased my sense of being an outsider, which made me wonder what other Latina teachers felt like in settings where they were the minority. I wondered whether, like me, they felt isolated; if they had their Spanish shamed out of them; if they sacrificed their bilingual and bicultural identities to make room for an assimilated version of themselves. I wondered who their allies were and what narratives and counter-narratives they shared with or kept silenced from their family and friends. I also wondered how young adult fiction written by Latinas could provide a platform to explore their personal and schooling experiences; and how such critical exploration and dialogue among other Latina teachers could contribute to group solidarity.