As an educator I aspire towards an intersectional Black feminist, Mothering-forward pedagogy which draws heavily from learner centered decision-making strategies. My sensibility emerges as an intentional disruption to what Paulo Freire calls the “‘banking model’ of education where students are vessels in which knowledge is deposited. Drawing from scholars like Felicia Rose Chavez, my pedagogical practices intend to position and empower students as possessors of their own unique expertise, and understanding of classroom success.  Because my own writing education was contextualized within a framework of establishing existence, and specifically in reclamation of the written word as the primary tool used for the attempted genocide (we call it Paper Genocide) of my ancestors, the Taíno, one of the indigenous peoples of the Caribbean, from the perspective of my colonizers, my writing was never intended to exist, and the rhetorical situation of my writing, no matter the audience or purpose, is always firmly centered in resistance. To invoke Yanira Rodriguez, in her article “Pedagogies of Refusal: What it Means to (Un) teach a Student Like Me”, “I conceive of my work as a teacher as that of a cultural worker and my pedagogy and the temporary communities of the classroom as spaces where we can work collectively ‘to make the revolution irresistible’ (Bambara 35)” (Rodriguez 10). Ultimately I see education as a revolutionary act of change within oneself. Resistance, as a method of critical inquiry, is a crucial tenant in my own personal philosophy, and one I both model and encourage in every classroom I enter.

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     Again, I draw heavily from Felicia Rose Chavez’ definition of mothering as, “will-power, fortitude, grit. It is the transcendent power to multiply oneself, succeeded by the supreme humility to serve that second self. Listening is an extension of that humility, a tribute to the fact that none of us are alone. We are multitudes, mothered again and again in rhythm with time” (Chavez 49).  As a teacher of creative writing, I receive this as a reclamation and reversal of the traditional notions of weakness implied in the feminine,  and an elevation of nurturing into a power, reminding us that there is no fault in those who seek to have their voices heard. Because I believe that my feelings about creative process connect to our inner children, and that creativity seeks nourishment, I aspire to create spaces where students can feel educationally nourished, not just by myself as teacher, but by the classroom collective.

 

     As such, I’ve curated policies in alignment with Tara Wood’s argument in “Cripping Time in the College Composition Classroom” that “disability makes it difficult to adhere to frames of time imposed by instructors” (Wood 274). To this I add to there are many intersections of power that aren’t officially protected by the University system. In this way I use mothering to prioritize healthy choices over attendance and promptness. My policies reflect protecting the classroom space from sickness, choosing to be late over reckless driving. I also build my syllabus mindfully around the semester, in attempt to ensure the work done in my classroom doesn’t suffer from the gluts of deadlines created at several points over the semester.

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     With a textual focus on the ways intersections of power impact, influence, and provide the foundations for American literary achievements, my courses aim to center marginalized voices across literary history in a position that acknowledges the foundation of this country was built on Blackness, which includes education, literature and lexicon. While my pedagogical strategies will shift according to the content, I hope to find ways to incorporate creative outlets or alternatives for students, where appropriate, in order to help encourage engagement.