Common Objects

"To me, the Declaration of Independence is just a bunch of fluffy words." 

She is pushing back. Like the other twenty or so members of the class, she is participating in this pilot run of the Free Minds program. Part of the Clemente Course, it offers a study of the humanities for college credit, for free. Each person has his or her reasons for wanting to be a part of it; each reason is its own sobering admonishment, its own profound claim on my responsibility to teach well. 

I am teaching philosophical ethics, it is my first night, and I know I am in a hole. My sympathetic exposition, I see now, quite possibly slipped into homiletic territory. Now: of course a challenge to the text’s authority was coming, was neatly planned to dovetail into contrasting readings about work and hopelessness in a great American city. Regardless, the challenge is already on us, but will not seem like a welcome aspect of our journey together—rather, I fear, it will appear as part of a protest against my interpretation.

"I know it is better to have a government than just a, a jungle. But this is a jungle, right here. That’s what we live in,” she continues, and is not wrong, and there are knowing looks, nods around the table. 

She is across the room from me entirely, but even from here I can see how carefully she is choosing her words, how considered she is; she is tense with the effort of it, with the frustration she has bottled for the last hour. She lands “a jungle, right here,” with some force. How many other times has she felt this anger, in what other places—how studied is this way of channeling it, almost apologizing for what she is totally convinced of? So quickly, I realize, we have come to this discomfiting place where her analysis and conviction seem to her unwelcome. Can I, can we make it safer? We must, because how crystal clear, how adamantium, how fair is her grievance against the Declaration: that its compelling notions of safety and happiness inspire a whole white country to revolution while doing nothing for its enslaved population but grind harder their faces. So: just words. 

What is the point of a government that cannot make, that has historically never made “safety and happiness” a reality for this woman and her children, or these classmates of hers? They are, self-consciously, different from me, know it, speak from it, and in these moments the air is thick with it. “You went to SMU, I went to El Centro,” one woman has joked, not altogether lightly. If we are to see this class become a community it will be because they have gotten around me or I have earned their trust, and so far for the latter it is a high bar. A righteous thing, I think, a good thing. It should be hard, it should take some convincing, to trust me.

I flounder, it is true, before the bitter irony of the Declaration’s failures. I do bring the whole room into it as best I can, I honor and affirm her anger, the moral clarity it contains, the conversation it creates. “It is not my job to make you hopeful about this country,” I say. I am trying to remember everything Ta-Neishi Coates said to Jonathan Chait. I follow up: “It is, however, my job to help you understand it, to understand these ideas.”  So you can argue with them, use them for your own purposes, I suggest. 

Close enough. It all feels wan to me, though, even as I say it; telling rather than showing. As I think about it now, as I revise in my chair and not on my feet, a much more welcoming response comes to me: “What is it that gives you hope?” I could have asked. This is a categorically better response, primarily because it invites the student to build on her own intuition and analysis, rather than reinforcing my authority—even if that reinforcement was done through a demonstration of sympathy. 


Maybe more importantly, we are all in desperate need of authentic hopes. And I think there is, in spite of whatever long train of abuses we may find ourselves tied up in, a glimmer of hope in all of us, some intuition of happiness to come, an anticipation of meaningful satisfaction. On analysis there is no hope that is not in some measure political, or reliant on some political gift—just enough stability to navigate the world without misery, just enough infrastructure to survive disease and cold, just enough freedom to hear a good idea or find a decent school. Conversely there is no despair that is not also political in some measure, and in all too many lives the latter outnumber the former. Still, however slender the political threads in the fabrics of our hopes are, the politics remain integral. What might we do that would weave genuine hope, a hope for real future happiness? This is the democratic question. The democratic gamble is that we can, or that at least enough of us can, to make working together worth it. I am very, very fortunate that at least for now, these students are betting on each other, even betting on me. And I am so eager to see what they make.  View Larger

"To me, the Declaration of Independence is just a bunch of fluffy words." 

She is pushing back. Like the other twenty or so members of the class, she is participating in this pilot run of the Free Minds program. Part of the Clemente Course, it offers a study of the humanities for college credit, for free. Each person has his or her reasons for wanting to be a part of it; each reason is its own sobering admonishment, its own profound claim on my responsibility to teach well. 

I am teaching philosophical ethics, it is my first night, and I know I am in a hole. My sympathetic exposition, I see now, quite possibly slipped into homiletic territory. Now: of course a challenge to the text’s authority was coming, was neatly planned to dovetail into contrasting readings about work and hopelessness in a great American city. Regardless, the challenge is already on us, but will not seem like a welcome aspect of our journey together—rather, I fear, it will appear as part of a protest against my interpretation.

"I know it is better to have a government than just a, a jungle. But this is a jungle, right here. That’s what we live in,” she continues, and is not wrong, and there are knowing looks, nods around the table. 

She is across the room from me entirely, but even from here I can see how carefully she is choosing her words, how considered she is; she is tense with the effort of it, with the frustration she has bottled for the last hour. She lands “a jungle, right here,” with some force. How many other times has she felt this anger, in what other places—how studied is this way of channeling it, almost apologizing for what she is totally convinced of? So quickly, I realize, we have come to this discomfiting place where her analysis and conviction seem to her unwelcome. Can I, can we make it safer? We must, because how crystal clear, how adamantium, how fair is her grievance against the Declaration: that its compelling notions of safety and happiness inspire a whole white country to revolution while doing nothing for its enslaved population but grind harder their faces. So: just words. 

What is the point of a government that cannot make, that has historically never made “safety and happiness” a reality for this woman and her children, or these classmates of hers? They are, self-consciously, different from me, know it, speak from it, and in these moments the air is thick with it. “You went to SMU, I went to El Centro,” one woman has joked, not altogether lightly. If we are to see this class become a community it will be because they have gotten around me or I have earned their trust, and so far for the latter it is a high bar. A righteous thing, I think, a good thing. It should be hard, it should take some convincing, to trust me.

I flounder, it is true, before the bitter irony of the Declaration’s failures. I do bring the whole room into it as best I can, I honor and affirm her anger, the moral clarity it contains, the conversation it creates. “It is not my job to make you hopeful about this country,” I say. I am trying to remember everything Ta-Neishi Coates said to Jonathan Chait. I follow up: “It is, however, my job to help you understand it, to understand these ideas.”  So you can argue with them, use them for your own purposes, I suggest. 

Close enough. It all feels wan to me, though, even as I say it; telling rather than showing. As I think about it now, as I revise in my chair and not on my feet, a much more welcoming response comes to me: “What is it that gives you hope?” I could have asked. This is a categorically better response, primarily because it invites the student to build on her own intuition and analysis, rather than reinforcing my authority—even if that reinforcement was done through a demonstration of sympathy. 

Maybe more importantly, we are all in desperate need of authentic hopes. And I think there is, in spite of whatever long train of abuses we may find ourselves tied up in, a glimmer of hope in all of us, some intuition of happiness to come, an anticipation of meaningful satisfaction. On analysis there is no hope that is not in some measure political, or reliant on some political gift—just enough stability to navigate the world without misery, just enough infrastructure to survive disease and cold, just enough freedom to hear a good idea or find a decent school. Conversely there is no despair that is not also political in some measure, and in all too many lives the latter outnumber the former. Still, however slender the political threads in the fabrics of our hopes are, the politics remain integral. What might we do that would weave genuine hope, a hope for real future happiness? This is the democratic question. The democratic gamble is that we can, or that at least enough of us can, to make working together worth it. I am very, very fortunate that at least for now, these students are betting on each other, even betting on me. And I am so eager to see what they make. 


Reblogging this from another blog I write, which focuses on animal lives—not incidentally, the lives of non-human animals are subject to focused and relentless types of forgetting. This one is for the memory of Chuck, our dog, who died peacefully at our home on Tuesday at around 5:30. 
animalsiknow:

"I will take care of him." She is quiet for a moment. "Then I will call you."
Our vet is downstairs with me, standing in our front yard. In her arms is our dog Chuck, his body still warm but slack, wrapped in a blanket with grey and orange patterns. I cannot remember the pattern in any distinctive way. I have misplaced my glasses somewhere in the last hour while I cried. She is talking in gentle euphemisms about cremation. 
For weeks now his health has grown steadily more unpredictable. I have resolutely interpreted as inconsequential the thinning hair, the gradual weight loss, the unprecedented resistance to curling up next to us on the couch. As if these were minimal changes, a chronically ill dog just aging before his time. On Friday night he did not finish his food. 
There were tests and medicines and once more, for a few days, my sitting daily with him in our bedroom, administering fluids subcutaneously from an iv bag. I suspended it from a wooden clothes hanger on the closet door. Even if all this worked the status quo we could hope for was so far from the dog we knew, even the dog we knew last year. “We make it to the end of the block and that’s about it,” I told Dr. Rowan on Friday. This the dog that used to run two miles with me, walk every day with L., fly heedlessly over the couch. He would tear between L. and me in gigantic figure eights at the park, coming home caked with red dirt and mud from the baseball field. “Do you know where you are?” we would say, and let him off the leash, illicitly; he would tear around the diamond and into the outfield, easily outrunning me. 
Still, in contrast to the worst stages of his crash almost three years ago, the end of the block is something. I remember coaxing him up and down driveways to build his strength up to tackle curbs, picking him up to skip the two steps up and down our porch. Yet even yesterday he walked unaided up the steps to our second story apartment. In fact, yesterday was a very good day. Chuck and S. chased each other around the house; freed from dietary restrictions, we let him eat sweet potatoes and clean out our ice cream bowls. He performed his entire repertoire of rarely-seen tricks and came marching out of his crate with a toy in his mouth, which he has not done in years. 
But this could not last. His liver, too, was going, and this meant the whole medication regimen had to be reworked, a dreadful and destabilizing prospect. Grief for a good life is like this, from what I know: a relief, but a terrible one. 
—-
"I am sorry, Mr. D."  Dr. Rowan says just after she has scooped up Chuck’s body. She is careful but his head still moves at that awful angle. L. has left the room; I can hear her sobbing on the couch. I touch Rowan’s shoulder, the only time in six years I have made such a gesture. "Thank you for everything, Dr. Rowan," I say, as coherently as I can manage. We are heading downstairs. 
The euthanization process has been as emotionally wrenching as we feared it would be. L. and I have set up the place for them on our bed—the same spot, in fact, where he spent his first night with us, me assenting to L. and bringing the howling puppy into the bed despite what the books and websites say, his little body shuddering as he wedged in between my left arm and my body. That first night I checked to make sure he was breathing, his sleep was so quick and total. 
Today the vein takes a while to find; his blood pressure is probably low, Rowan explains. I nod and keep his face close to mine. He looks at me; I am talking incessantly to him. He does not writhe or twist, not as I have seen him do before. I call L. back in the room. She offers him pieces of sweet potato. He wolfs down the entire bowl full as if no one else is in the room. It is magnificent. When they have him secure, when we have him close to us, the first injection moves through him so quickly it startles me. He sits, his tongue lolls out. I gently move his jaw together, and L. and I ease him to his side on the bed. Feeling his body go limp strikes both of us, we discover later, as the first time we have felt him really relax in many weeks. His joints have ached now for a while, it seems; his historic commitment to, whenever possible, curling up so as to touch both of us finally broken. His breathing now grows quick. They put a second catheter in the back leg when the vein up front fails them. He jerks at this, it is upsetting. We speak to him and he quiets down. “Do you know where you are?” I say. “We’re here. We are going to the park. Think about the park. Doesn’t that sound good?” I am lying impulsively. I want him to think of the place, consider our smells along with the other smells he loves. 
Before Rowan and the tech arrive, L. and I sat alone with Chuck in the living room. He shifted from one place on the rug to another, legs kicked out in varying degrees of discomfort. We were with him on the ground, telling him the stories of himself—of the beach he went to, of what he was like when the baby first came, of places he hid when it was supposed to be time for bed, of the hours he spent curled up L.’s bathrobe, or in her lap, or surreptitiously on her side of the bed.
—-
"He will not close his eyes," Dr. Rowan says to me, mercifully, as she sees me trying to do this after Chuck’s heart and breath have stopped. I nod, accepting. His head is still heavy, warm in my hand; L.’s head is in my lap where his unfocused look traces his last gaze: right into her face. Our voices, our smells. He has given us a great deal, it occurs to me. Comfort in so many of the normal desperate moments we have shared; a reason to get over ourselves and outside every day, if just for a moment; a constant presence through the late nights and mornings while I wrote my dissertation; above all, a lesson to our child from the very beginning that delightful creatures exist independent of him—as his companions, friends, not as toys. Chuck’s ears hot and rigid in our hands, I think, whatever else, at least we have given him this. A good end. A good enough end. 
How to unravel this little life from ours? The absences are already stark: no intermittent clatter of claws, no tiny machine for catching scraps underfoot every time L makes dinner, no warm length of fur and teeth attending every return of ours to the house with equal, unqualified joy; an impulse to go outside and just walk around in the evening’s heat though he does not need me to walk him now. In the grand scheme it is no great thing, I guess: a dog’s life. But then I think, what else is a life? A small set of connections, a warmth up against someone’s side, a breath of air against another’s skin, and then we are gone, dirt again. What more, really, do most of us hope for? 
We clean up the visible traces of him as quickly as we can. We have to retrieve S. from our friends soon, and there is no reason to have the house filled with reminders, points for interrogations from a near-two-year old, responses to which can only be vague or upsetting or both. S. has only this past week really started talking to him, following him around to offer the food on the hi-chair tray. “Chuck! Come! Mecidine!” he has been saying, in imitation of us. 
I am unprepared for explaining this to him, and unprepared for the grief if he does not need an explanation. It is undeniable that we are privileged in our option to mourn a dog. But here we are, and what life is not small, I say. 
—-
When we picked up Chuck for the first time, he was the member of his litter that did not bite my shoes, did not chew at my face. He licked my nose frantically. All this confirmed L.’s preliminary investigation online, aimed at finding a black dog. He howled all the way from the shelter director’s home in Arlington to ours in Dallas, stopping only when we half-shamefully fed him cereal because there was nothing left to eat in the car. 
"I am awfully sad," L. said tonight, alone on the couch at 10:00 for the first time in over six years. "Yes," I replied, helpless. Yes. 

Reblogging this from another blog I write, which focuses on animal lives—not incidentally, the lives of non-human animals are subject to focused and relentless types of forgetting. This one is for the memory of Chuck, our dog, who died peacefully at our home on Tuesday at around 5:30. 

animalsiknow:

"I will take care of him." She is quiet for a moment. "Then I will call you."

Our vet is downstairs with me, standing in our front yard. In her arms is our dog Chuck, his body still warm but slack, wrapped in a blanket with grey and orange patterns. I cannot remember the pattern in any distinctive way. I have misplaced my glasses somewhere in the last hour while I cried. She is talking in gentle euphemisms about cremation. 

For weeks now his health has grown steadily more unpredictable. I have resolutely interpreted as inconsequential the thinning hair, the gradual weight loss, the unprecedented resistance to curling up next to us on the couch. As if these were minimal changes, a chronically ill dog just aging before his time. On Friday night he did not finish his food. 

There were tests and medicines and once more, for a few days, my sitting daily with him in our bedroom, administering fluids subcutaneously from an iv bag. I suspended it from a wooden clothes hanger on the closet door. Even if all this worked the status quo we could hope for was so far from the dog we knew, even the dog we knew last year. “We make it to the end of the block and that’s about it,” I told Dr. Rowan on Friday. This the dog that used to run two miles with me, walk every day with L., fly heedlessly over the couch. He would tear between L. and me in gigantic figure eights at the park, coming home caked with red dirt and mud from the baseball field. “Do you know where you are?” we would say, and let him off the leash, illicitly; he would tear around the diamond and into the outfield, easily outrunning me. 

Still, in contrast to the worst stages of his crash almost three years ago, the end of the block is something. I remember coaxing him up and down driveways to build his strength up to tackle curbs, picking him up to skip the two steps up and down our porch. Yet even yesterday he walked unaided up the steps to our second story apartment. In fact, yesterday was a very good day. Chuck and S. chased each other around the house; freed from dietary restrictions, we let him eat sweet potatoes and clean out our ice cream bowls. He performed his entire repertoire of rarely-seen tricks and came marching out of his crate with a toy in his mouth, which he has not done in years. 

But this could not last. His liver, too, was going, and this meant the whole medication regimen had to be reworked, a dreadful and destabilizing prospect. Grief for a good life is like this, from what I know: a relief, but a terrible one. 

—-

"I am sorry, Mr. D."  Dr. Rowan says just after she has scooped up Chuck’s body. She is careful but his head still moves at that awful angle. L. has left the room; I can hear her sobbing on the couch. I touch Rowan’s shoulder, the only time in six years I have made such a gesture. "Thank you for everything, Dr. Rowan," I say, as coherently as I can manage. We are heading downstairs. 

The euthanization process has been as emotionally wrenching as we feared it would be. L. and I have set up the place for them on our bed—the same spot, in fact, where he spent his first night with us, me assenting to L. and bringing the howling puppy into the bed despite what the books and websites say, his little body shuddering as he wedged in between my left arm and my body. That first night I checked to make sure he was breathing, his sleep was so quick and total. 

Today the vein takes a while to find; his blood pressure is probably low, Rowan explains. I nod and keep his face close to mine. He looks at me; I am talking incessantly to him. He does not writhe or twist, not as I have seen him do before. I call L. back in the room. She offers him pieces of sweet potato. He wolfs down the entire bowl full as if no one else is in the room. It is magnificent. When they have him secure, when we have him close to us, the first injection moves through him so quickly it startles me. He sits, his tongue lolls out. I gently move his jaw together, and L. and I ease him to his side on the bed. Feeling his body go limp strikes both of us, we discover later, as the first time we have felt him really relax in many weeks. His joints have ached now for a while, it seems; his historic commitment to, whenever possible, curling up so as to touch both of us finally broken. His breathing now grows quick. They put a second catheter in the back leg when the vein up front fails them. He jerks at this, it is upsetting. We speak to him and he quiets down. “Do you know where you are?” I say. “We’re here. We are going to the park. Think about the park. Doesn’t that sound good?” I am lying impulsively. I want him to think of the place, consider our smells along with the other smells he loves. 

Before Rowan and the tech arrive, L. and I sat alone with Chuck in the living room. He shifted from one place on the rug to another, legs kicked out in varying degrees of discomfort. We were with him on the ground, telling him the stories of himself—of the beach he went to, of what he was like when the baby first came, of places he hid when it was supposed to be time for bed, of the hours he spent curled up L.’s bathrobe, or in her lap, or surreptitiously on her side of the bed.

—-

"He will not close his eyes," Dr. Rowan says to me, mercifully, as she sees me trying to do this after Chuck’s heart and breath have stopped. I nod, accepting. His head is still heavy, warm in my hand; L.’s head is in my lap where his unfocused look traces his last gaze: right into her face. Our voices, our smells. He has given us a great deal, it occurs to me. Comfort in so many of the normal desperate moments we have shared; a reason to get over ourselves and outside every day, if just for a moment; a constant presence through the late nights and mornings while I wrote my dissertation; above all, a lesson to our child from the very beginning that delightful creatures exist independent of him—as his companions, friends, not as toys. Chuck’s ears hot and rigid in our hands, I think, whatever else, at least we have given him this. A good end. A good enough end. 

How to unravel this little life from ours? The absences are already stark: no intermittent clatter of claws, no tiny machine for catching scraps underfoot every time L makes dinner, no warm length of fur and teeth attending every return of ours to the house with equal, unqualified joy; an impulse to go outside and just walk around in the evening’s heat though he does not need me to walk him now. In the grand scheme it is no great thing, I guess: a dog’s life. But then I think, what else is a life? A small set of connections, a warmth up against someone’s side, a breath of air against another’s skin, and then we are gone, dirt again. What more, really, do most of us hope for? 

We clean up the visible traces of him as quickly as we can. We have to retrieve S. from our friends soon, and there is no reason to have the house filled with reminders, points for interrogations from a near-two-year old, responses to which can only be vague or upsetting or both. S. has only this past week really started talking to him, following him around to offer the food on the hi-chair tray. “Chuck! Come! Mecidine!” he has been saying, in imitation of us. 

I am unprepared for explaining this to him, and unprepared for the grief if he does not need an explanation. It is undeniable that we are privileged in our option to mourn a dog. But here we are, and what life is not small, I say. 

—-

When we picked up Chuck for the first time, he was the member of his litter that did not bite my shoes, did not chew at my face. He licked my nose frantically. All this confirmed L.’s preliminary investigation online, aimed at finding a black dog. He howled all the way from the shelter director’s home in Arlington to ours in Dallas, stopping only when we half-shamefully fed him cereal because there was nothing left to eat in the car. 

"I am awfully sad," L. said tonight, alone on the couch at 10:00 for the first time in over six years. "Yes," I replied, helpless. Yes. 



JACKSON, Miss. — Open fires sometimes burn unheeded in the solitary-confinement units of the East Mississippi Correctional Facility, a privately run state prison in Meridian, 90 miles east of here.

This morning at church we talked about mercy in John Chrysostom’s sermons on Philippians, about the discipline of humility directed towards the needs of other people. After class a woman who does more for the needy and young in our community in an average week than I have done in my entire life stopped me. She asked me about how it was possible to change the harsher, judgmental intuitions we bring to situations when people make demands on our generosity, on our time, on our sense of justice. 
"We should tell people to hang around you for a while," would have been the best answer probably. I instead suggested that she was identifying a central concern of Christians historically—how to make conversion more than momentary flash, but rather a continual merging of the detailed, individual neediness of the world with the presence of God. How particular challenges are to be resolved systematically is rightly a matter of debate, but that Christianity demands a disciplining of the emotions, a science of attention to hurting people no matter what they may ostensively "deserve": this is a central starting point for Christian reasoning about the world. 
We need help to do this consistently and meaningfully, and that is a good reason to have a church—or at least, that is a good way to start thinking about church: as a school for compassion. Our societies are so desperately in need of a genuine and sustainable compassion; they are so easily forgetful of the cruelties that shape the lives of vulnerable people; they are jam packed, sometimes run, by abusers who believe people always deserve what they get—prisoners, refugees, people of color, women in general. I think of the story about Mississippi prisons in the New York Times today. It’s just one story, just a few patches of land, with so much turmoil and neglect and predictable horror stacked on it.  And there is Chrysostom, lecturing the emperor about how avaricious people will never see God, that the one with enough who takes any gift cannot be among the saints, that the hungry person discloses Christ and vice versa. 
"So many of us grew up with such judgmental churches," she said, helplessly. But here you are, I thought. Here you are.  View Larger

JACKSON, Miss. — Open fires sometimes burn unheeded in the solitary-confinement units of the East Mississippi Correctional Facility, a privately run state prison in Meridian, 90 miles east of here.

This morning at church we talked about mercy in John Chrysostom’s sermons on Philippians, about the discipline of humility directed towards the needs of other people. After class a woman who does more for the needy and young in our community in an average week than I have done in my entire life stopped me. She asked me about how it was possible to change the harsher, judgmental intuitions we bring to situations when people make demands on our generosity, on our time, on our sense of justice. 

"We should tell people to hang around you for a while," would have been the best answer probably. I instead suggested that she was identifying a central concern of Christians historically—how to make conversion more than momentary flash, but rather a continual merging of the detailed, individual neediness of the world with the presence of God. How particular challenges are to be resolved systematically is rightly a matter of debate, but that Christianity demands a disciplining of the emotions, a science of attention to hurting people no matter what they may ostensively "deserve": this is a central starting point for Christian reasoning about the world. 

We need help to do this consistently and meaningfully, and that is a good reason to have a church—or at least, that is a good way to start thinking about church: as a school for compassion. Our societies are so desperately in need of a genuine and sustainable compassion; they are so easily forgetful of the cruelties that shape the lives of vulnerable people; they are jam packed, sometimes run, by abusers who believe people always deserve what they get—prisoners, refugees, people of color, women in general. I think of the story about Mississippi prisons in the New York Times today. It’s just one story, just a few patches of land, with so much turmoil and neglect and predictable horror stacked on it.  And there is Chrysostom, lecturing the emperor about how avaricious people will never see God, that the one with enough who takes any gift cannot be among the saints, that the hungry person discloses Christ and vice versa. 

"So many of us grew up with such judgmental churches," she said, helplessly. But here you are, I thought. Here you are. 


"…when turning our eyes from the temporary and the contingent in the Negro problem to the broader question of the permanent uplifting and civilization of black men in America, we have a right to inquire, as this enthusiasm for material advancement mounts to its height, if after all the industrial school is the final and sufficient answer in the training of the Negro race; and to ask gently, but in all sincerity, the ever-recurring query of the ages, ‘Is not life more than meat, and the body more than raiment?’

And men ask this to-day all the more eagerly because of sinister signs in recent educational movements. The tendency is here, born of slavery and quickened to renewed life by the crazy imperialism of the day, to regard human beings as among the material resources of a land to be trained with an eye single to future dividends.

Race-prejudices, which keep brown and black men in their ‘places,’ we are coming to regard as useful allies with such a theory, no matter how much they may dull the ambition and sicken the hearts of struggling human beings. And above all, we daily hear that an education that encourages aspiration, that sets the loftiest of ideals and seeks as an end culture and character rather than bread-winning, is the privilege of white men and the danger and delusion of black.”

— W.E.B. DuBois, The Souls of Black Folk (1903), 6.11. Available at http://www.bartleby.com/114/6.html. 

I submit to you that even today you could throw a rock and hit similar “sinister signs in contemporary educational movements.”