Dalrymple Boulevard begins just yards from the Mississippi River and meanders northward, eventually becoming Park Boulevard. It once separated south Baton Rouge's white community from its poorer, black neighborhoods. In Jim Crow days, if you were black, you could not cross the boulevard after 6 p.m. And city police patrolled the area's graceful, tree-lined streets just to make sure you didn't try.
Lisa Delpit was born on the wrong side of that dividing line. The Baton Rouge she knew as a child was a place where her mother could not try on a hat in the department stores downtown. When she and her siblings visited the pediatrician, they had to enter through the back door. Black children could not go to school with white children.
"I remember some of the black nuns we had would tell us, 'Act your age, not your color,' '' Delpit recalls now. "There was such internalization of society's views of black people.''
Her father, Thomas Delpit, died of kidney failure at the age of 47. He could not get access to a dialysis machine. At the time, the local hospital maintained separate wards for white and "colored'' patients. It is not clear whether the hospital had a dialysis machine at the time or whether it simply didn't share the machine it had with black patients. All that's certain is that Thomas Delpit didn't get dialysis, and he left behind a large family, including Lisa, who was 7 years old at the time.
As Lisa grew into a pretty, plump teenager with light skin, freckles, and reddish hair, the geographic and societal lines that defined her life began to break down. The world was changing and dragging a reluctant Baton Rouge along with it. Lisa became one of only a handful of frightened black students to integrate one Catholic high school and then another. It wouldn't be the last time she'd stand up to accepted norms. Three decades later, Lisa Delpit--educator, author, and mom--is still crossing lines, still challenging the status quo.
Delpit, who is now 46, has won accolades for her work on teaching and learning in urban schools. In 1990, she was the only educator among 15 recipients of the prestigious MacArthur "genius'' award; the honor came with a $224,000 check. She has studied education in both Alaska and Papua New Guinea, has written a well-received book, and is a sought-after speaker. A gifted writer, Delpit is that rare phenomenon in higher education: An academic whose ideas have reverberated beyond the walls of the ivory tower. Delpit is best known, however, for the philosophical bombs she has lobbed at some of contemporary education's most sacred cows.
Those eloquent, straightforward essays, published over the past decade in the Harvard Educational Review, questioned the validity of using progressive teaching strategies like whole language and process writing with many African-American students. A collection of those essays was spun off into a book, Other People's Children: Cultural Conflict in the Classroom, published last year by The New Press.
The problem, Delpit explains in her essays, is not that whole language and process writing are inherently bad. They work for some students, possibly most; but they don't work for everybody. And often the children these techniques are least effective for are those, like Delpit herself, who were born black and poor. What's more, she argues, these strategies might not work well for any group of children with strong, distinctive cultural roots that is perched on the edge of society. "Those with good intentions say that they want to create an educational system that would be best for 'my' children, because what's best for 'my' children will be best for everybody's children,'' Delpit writes in her book. "The difficulty is that all children don't have exactly the same needs.''
Although Delpit had originally singled out open classrooms, process writing, and whole language, her words were meant to encompass a wider range of progressive teaching philosophies and cutting-edge reform ideas. She later took on the National Board for Professional Teaching Standards, the private nonprofit organization creating a national certification system for schoolteachers. The group's policies, she argued, fail to recognize successful teaching styles and strategies of black educators.
What a lot of the fashionable progressive approaches have in common is that they de-emphasize the rote, skills aspects of schooling--phonics drills, sentence diagramming, and the like--and focus instead on literature, students' stories, and critical thinking. The reasoning is that the more quickly children are immersed in reading and writing, the sooner they will appreciate language's utility. The trouble with this, Delpit says, is that many poor, minority children do not come to school with the same basic skills and familiarity with standard English that white, middle-class children do. Standard English, Delpit says, isn't necessarily a better way to talk--in fact, black dialect may sometimes be a superior rhetorical choice--but it's a passport to a better future. It's what poor, minority children need to know to prosper in a society dominated by the rhythms, grammar, and conventions of white, middle-class life.
Black teachers, Delpit says, intuitively know this. "Progressive white teachers seem to say to their black students, 'Let me help you find your voice. I promise not to criticize one note as you search for your own song,' '' she writes in the first of her essays. "But the black teachers say, 'I've heard your song loud and clear. Now, I want you to harmonize with the rest of the world.' If minority people are to effect the change which will allow them to truly progress, we must insist on 'skills' within the context of creative thinking.'' Delpit put it a little differently in a speech to Head Start workers: "If you teach less and you do it slower, do you get ahead? No.''
But as Delpit points out in later writings, it's more complicated than just teaching more and more basic skills. Teachers also have to recognize, acknowledge, and value the cultural strengths a child brings to school. Those who say, "I don't see color in my classroom,'' Delpit says, are doing the opposite. "What does it say to our children if we cannot discuss a visible aspect of them?'' she asks. "It says there's something wrong with them.''
If you really want to know how best to teach urban children, Delpit maintains, you must talk with them and their parents; you must ask the teachers who know them best, those who have similar cultural backgrounds. "We must keep the perspective that people are experts in their own lives,'' she writes. "There are certainly aspects of the outside world of which they may not be aware, but they can be the only authentic chroniclers of their own experience.''
Put in the context of Delpit's life and work, her overall message makes perfect sense. But most of the academics and educators who pioneered the teaching strategies that she targeted were white liberals committed to racial equity. They believed they were doing the right thing. Delpit was accusing them of ignoring the voices not only of the children they were trying to help but also of their black colleagues. The criticism stung. Many were incensed. Some called her a pawn of the Far Right, while others questioned her motives. "One woman,'' Delpit recalls, "said to me in an accusing way, 'I have been working in civil rights all my life, and when I read your stuff it makes me rethink everything I've ever done.' I said, 'Well, you know, that's good.' ''
But that wasn't the only response. Delpit also received dozens of supportive letters from black educators and students. "When you're talking to white people, they still want it to be their way,'' one African-American teacher from an urban school wrote. "You can try to talk to them and give them examples, but they're so headstrong, they think they know what's best for everybody, for everybody's children. So, I shut them out. I go back to my own little cubby, my classroom, and I try to teach the way I know will work, no matter what those folk say. And when I get black kids, I just try to undo the damage they did.''
It was a common refrain: Black teachers, thinking that no one else shared their views, were quietly teaching the way they knew was best. Finally, someone who shared their ideas had forcefully spoken out.
"Teaching is like telling a story. But you have to look at people while you're telling the story, and you can't tell the same story to everyone.'' Lisa Delpit is talking, dispensing advice that she once received to the eight doctoral students in "Readings in Urban Educational Excellence,'' a course she teaches at Georgia State University in Atlanta. Tall, even stately, Delpit is a commanding presence. Today she is dressed in a black and gold dashiki-style caftan that flows loosely over black pants and a turtleneck. Thick, gold bangles adorn her wrists, and generous dollops of earrings dangle from her ears. "Lisa is one of those people who is larger than life,'' says Fred Frank, chairman of the university's department of educational policy studies. "She brings a presence to whatever she does.''
The students in Delpit's class--she teaches only rarely--hang on her every word. They are a mixture of young and old, black and white. There are those who grew up attending all-girls high schools as Delpit did, those who went to integrated schools, and one who went to a private, whites-only school in which textbook pictures of famous black people were pasted over with pictures of famous white figures. Over the course of the semester, the students have watched the documentary film Hoop Dreams and explored writings on urban education by such noted authors as Herbert Kohl, Vivian Gussin Paley, Gloria Ladson-Billings, and Delpit herself. One student, Pamela Hoage, who once taught in the Atlanta public schools, calls Delpit's writing "eye-opening.'' "It's like 'Oh, I should've done this,' '' she says. Lee Daily, one of Hoage's classmates, says, "Many of the people I teach with would not take this class. It's much too radical.''
Delpit has a pristine white corner office kitty-corner from that of Asa Hilliard, another well-known, controversial African-American educator. Delpit, Hilliard, and their black colleagues in the department make up one quarter of all tenure-track black faculty on the entire university campus. Delpit holds the Benjamin E. Mays chair of Urban Educational Leadership, a post that requires her to be half a traditional academic chair and half an in-the-trenches school reformer. A warm, savvy diplomat, Delpit is especially good at the latter. As part of that job, she is launching a Center on Urban Educational Excellence, which, when it's up and running later this year, will work with educators in the predominantly black Atlanta Public School System on school-improvement projects. She's also working with the district to create a local branch of the Urban Writing Project, an incarnation of the National Writing Project, which Delpit has lambasted in several of her essays. Despite her misgivings about certain aspects of the project, Delpit says she believes in its basic approach.
"Sure, there's been controversy,'' Samuel Dietz, dean of Georgia State's education school, says of Delpit. "We've had people in the community or on the faculty say, 'Hey, wait a minute,' when she came on, and that's a good thing. But she's been good at building relationships with Atlanta public schools. And if we don't have an involvement with Atlanta public schools, then we're not the kind of institution that we want to be.''
Lisa Delpit isn't the only risk-taking educator in her family. Years before she helped integrate the all-white St. Anthony's High School and later St. Joseph's Academy for Girls, Delpit's mother, Edmae Butler, was breaking her own color barriers. Butler, who is now 80, returned to college before Lisa, the youngest of her three children, was born. In 1954, Butler became the first African-American woman to earn a graduate degree at Louisiana State University. Equipped with her degree in education, Butler went on to teach mathematics at both all-black and integrated high schools around Baton Rouge. And she was, by many accounts, the kind of teacher Delpit praises in her writings. "She was not only able to demystify the subject, but she also could make you believe that just because she had mastered it so could you,'' says Hedi Butler, who had the good fortune to have her stepmother as a teacher.
By the time Lisa reached high school, her older brother, Joseph Delpit, was challenging local racial barriers as a civil rights activist and leader. Joseph's involvement in the movement catapulted him to a seat on the Baton Rouge City Council. He was the city's first elected black official since Reconstruction. Later, Joseph traded his City Council post for a seat in the Statehouse. He went on to become the legislature's first black speaker pro tem before retiring from political life four years ago. Reflecting back on her siblings' upbringing, Delpit's sister, Billie Cunningham, a state education administrator, says, "It's amazing for black kids growing up in a white society that there was nothing that made us think we were less than anybody else.''
Before all that, however, the Delpit family operated a fried-chicken restaurant near the corner of Lettsworth Street and what was then known as East Boulevard. Called "Delpit's Chicken Shack,'' the eatery was a social center for the black community. Entertainers Louis Armstrong and Cab Calloway stopped by when they were in town as did athletes Sugar Ray Robinson and Jesse Owens. The NAACP and the Congress of Racial Equality held organizing meetings in the restaurant's private rooms.
Over the years, the business prospered, growing to include four restaurants, two nursing homes, and a proprietary school. But Joseph Delpit, who runs the enterprise now, has steadfastly maintained the firm's headquarters in the old family restaurant. When he was speaker pro tem, he kept his political offices in the building.
These days, the refurbished, gold-toned Chicken Shack Inc. building is the only modern-looking structure on a street of long, narrow houses known throughout the South as "shotgun shacks.'' (It was said that if you were to fire a shotgun blast through the front door of such a house, it would pass straight through and out the back door without hitting anything--thus, shotgun shack.) Simple, weather-blistered boxes squatting on cinder-block legs, the houses in the neighborhood look much today as they did when the Delpit children were growing up. The original Chicken Shack was located in such a house; the Delpits lived in the back. By the time Lisa was born, the family had built a larger, two-story home next door. Lisa's brother and sister were nearly grown by then, but they remember their youngest sibling as a bright, bossy child who was adored by her father and who liked to play school with the neighborhood children. She was the teacher.
In those years, the Delpit children went to all-black schools, most of them Roman Catholic. The education they got was heavy on the basics. As Delpit later writes of those years, "When I was growing up, my mother and my teachers in the pre-integration, poor black Catholic school that I attended corrected every word I uttered in their effort to coerce my Black English into sometimes hypercorrect standard English forms acceptable to black nuns in Catholic schools. In elementary school, I diagrammed thousands of sentences, filled in tens of thousands of blanks, and never wrote any text longer than two sentences until I was in the 10th grade of high school.''
When integration finally came to Baton Rouge's Catholic schools in the late 1960s, Lisa was one of four or five black children from "good'' families to integrate St. Anthony's High School. "There was great hostility in the school,'' Delpit recalls of that time. There was a nun who admonished her pupils to "stop acting like a bunch of niggers'' and a coach who decided black girls would not be allowed to play on the basketball team. As Delpit remembers it, "She said, 'If we let black girls play, then nobody else would play them.' ''
When that school closed down--partly over the integration controversy--Delpit moved on to another previously all-white school, St. Joseph's Academy for Girls. It was there, behind imposing sand-colored brick walls, that Delpit made a startling discovery: She knew just as much--if not more--than her white classmates.
Those were turbulent years. The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy had both been gunned down by assassins. But, in the cocoon formed by her family and St. Joseph's wrought-iron gates, Delpit lived apart from many of the events of the times. That ended abruptly with her unorthodox college choice: Antioch. In those days, Antioch College, set amid Ohio cornfields, was a center of radicalism. As soon as Delpit got there, she mailed home her pleated skirts and asked her mother to send her father's old work shirts.
At Antioch, Delpit got her first taste of progressive education. She learned, she writes, "that the open classroom was the most 'humanizing' of learning environments, that children should be in control of their own learning, and that all children would read when they were ready.''
Delpit, the young idealist, was eager to try out all these new ideas and strategies when she landed her first teaching job at an inner-city elementary school in Philadelphia. The school was considered progressive, although a number of black teachers, Delpit later learned, were quietly engaged in more traditional forms of instruction. Sixty percent of the students were poor, black children from South Philly; the rest were white children from Society Hill. "The black kids went to school there because it was their only neighborhood school,'' Delpit would later write. "The white kids went to school there because their parents had learned the same kinds of things I had learned about education.''
Describing her teaching, she writes, "I had an open classroom; I had learning stations; I had children write books and stories to share; I provided games and used weaving to teach math and fine motor skills. I threw out all the desks and added carpets.'' To her surprise, Delpit found her methods didn't work for everybody. She writes: "My white students zoomed ahead. They worked hard at the learning stations. They did amazing things with books and writing. My black students played the games; they learned how to weave; and they threw the books around the learning stations. They practiced karate moves on the new carpets. Some of them even learned how to read, but none of them as quickly as my white students. I was doing the same thing for all of my students--what was the problem? What did those black nuns from my childhood and those black teachers from the school in which I taught understand that my 'education' had hidden from me?''
Later on, when Delpit was working toward an advanced degree at the Harvard Graduate School of Education, professors assured her that she had done the right thing for her students in Philadelphia. At Harvard, she learned that people learn to write "not by being taught 'skills' and grammar but by 'writing in meaningful contexts' ''--one of the philosophical underpinnings of the process-writing movement.
But something else happened at Harvard. Delpit got to know Courtney Cazden, now a professor of education emerita. Cazden, who later became Delpit's mentor, and other researchers had noticed a tendency among white children to tell "topic-centered'' stories--stories that focused on one event. But black children's stories differed, tending to be more "episodic.''
In a study that Delpit would often quote later, Cazden asked white adults to retell black and white children's narratives on tape, removing all syntax and dialectal markers. Upon hearing the sanitized tapes, white teachers criticized one black child's narrative, offering comments like, "Terrible story, incoherent.'' Black teachers, on the other hand, viewed the story more favorably. "Three of the black adults selected the story as the best of the five they had heard, and all but one judged the child as exceptionally bright, highly verbal, and successful in school,'' Delpit writes in her book. This and similar studies provided food for thought. "I really got words for the first time to understanding culture and cultural differences,'' she says.
Delpit further explored the impact of culture on learning during a fellowship to Papua New Guinea. An island nation in the Southwest Pacific, Papua New Guinea offered a natural laboratory for observing the intersection of diverse cultures and languages in learning. Despite the country's relatively small size--it has a land mass four times that of the six New England states--islanders speak more than 700 languages. But because the country is a former colony of Australia, the official language of its schools is English.
Delpit spent a year evaluating school programs for the government and conducting research of her own. A team of Australian researchers she worked with there was trying to identify what the local citizens wanted from their schools. "Part of what people wanted,'' she says, "was for their children not to lose their culture.'' In Other People's Children, she describes a program, the Vilis Tokples Pri-skul, that seemed to address this concern. Children in the program began two years of preschool instruction at age 7, followed by six years of English-language primary school beginning at age 9. The focus of the preschool was teaching children to read, write, and count in their mother tongue. The children also received a basic cultural education in the customs and values of their own community. Later, the primary school curriculum exposed them to English and the larger world. Delpit says the program managed to please both the islanders who feared their culture was eroding and government officials who wanted to see student achievement rise. "It proved that a Third World people, a black people, need not give up their culture and their language to succeed in the Western world,'' she writes.
Delpit's controversial writings, however, were not launched from Harvard or Papua New Guinea but Alaska. Delpit was teaching prospective teachers at the University of Alaska when she came across a poorly written paper by a young Native Alaskan woman. She covered up the student's name, duplicated the paper, and circulated it among her colleagues in order to prompt a discussion on the university's responsibilities toward its minority students. The faculty, she found, was of two minds. The traditionalists argued that the student's skills were so poor that she should never have been admitted in the first place. The progressives--the group with whom Delpit had felt most comfortable--chided her, she writes, saying she had internalized "the repressive and disempowering forces of the power elite to suggest that something was wrong with a student just because she had another style of writing.''
Frustrated, she wrote a long letter to two progressive colleagues. She published it in the Harvard Educational Review in 1986 under the title, "Skills and Other Dilemmas of a Progressive Black Educator.'' The article and another she wrote two years later are among the 20 most requested in the Review's history. Explaining their popularity, Cazden says, "I think it was the idea that she was putting forward that maybe some of the ideas that we take for granted as the best word in teaching practice, maybe they're not good for everybody; maybe they get popular on the basis of how they work for some teachers and some kids. And she said it pretty bluntly so that nobody could mistake her message.'' Asa Hilliard, Delpit's Georgia State colleague, attributes the attention her articles drew to the realistic portraits she paints of racial insensitivity in schools. "I believe she's one of the most important writers in education today,'' he says.
The fact that Delpit was a good writer didn't hurt. Where academic essays are usually dry and obtuse, hers were sprinkled with human stories told in clear language. "School people, parents, and community members can understand what she has to say,'' explains author Gloria Ladson-Billings, an education professor at the University of Wisconsin at Madison who uses Delpit's book in her own class.
Still, the criticism that followed the publication of the essays was quick and harsh. Ten years later, that criticism has become more of an undercurrent, always there just below the surface.
"Whole language isn't just literature, and I think Lisa Delpit knows that,'' says Ken Goodman, a University of Arizona professor who helped pioneer the whole language approach. "When we encourage children to use invented spelling, we're encouraging them to develop phonics skills. When children proofread what they have written and check spelling, they're working on punctuation. What makes whole language so appropriate--not only for black kids--is the fact that we start by accepting kids' language.''
Goodman continues: "I think she set herself up to be used by people who said, 'Look, a black person is saying whole language doesn't work for black kids.' That's not what she intended.'' (Delpit, who says she never entirely denounced whole language and other progressive methods, explicitly denies being used by anyone.)
As for the National Writing Project, which helped foster the process-writing movement in this country, Richard Sterling, the organization's new executive director, says it has taken at least some of Delpit's criticism to heart. The writing project has always fancied itself as a democracy where groups of teachers can come together to discuss research on writing, improve their practice, and conduct research of their own. In her essays, Delpit accused the group of ignoring black teachers. She quoted African-American friends who derisively referred to the organization as "the white people's project.''
"When the article first appeared, of course, it caused some upsets among the projects,'' Sterling says of the group's affiliated organizations. "We took the work and gave it to the teachers. It found its way into summer institutes all over the country as a debating point.''
It also spurred some changes. With Delpit's help, Urban Writing Projects, an offshoot of the national project involving a wider cross section of inner-city teachers, were formed in 10 cities. "One of the things we've learned is if we are really to understand the kind of mix of populations we have in school, we have to have conversations among as diverse a group of teachers as we can assemble,'' Sterling says. Still, he notes, there was a sense among some members that Delpit had unfairly singled out the project. "Good writing teachers will always use as many strategies as are available,'' Sterling says.
Delpit says she never meant for her writing to become a wholesale indictment of either whole language or process writing; she was just calling on schools to teach skills in the context of critical thinking and to be sensitive to cultural differences. Nor was she saying that all black children should be taught differently than whites, drilled in phonics, and placed in highly structured learning environments similar to the Catholic schools she attended. "Culture doesn't help you teach somebody,'' she says. "Start off with what is to the best of your knowledge good teaching. If you run into problems, then culture is one of the explanations that you can look into to solve a problem.''
School is out for the day, and Delpit and her daughter, Maya, happy to be home, burst into their sprawling brick home in Decatur. Inside, there are Fijian bark paintings, whalebone sculptures from Alaska, sacred masks from Papua New Guinea, African-print fabrics--and a 3-foot-tall Barbie house.
"Now what are the four things you have to do?'' Delpit asks her 6-year-old.
"Practice my violin?'' Maya asks. "Feed the cats? Clean the litter box?''
"Yes, what else?'' her mother asks.
"Umm, did I say feed the cats?'' the child asks.
"Yes, what else? It's got something to do with school.''
"Homework!'' Maya says, delighted to have answered correctly. Then she clowns on the gray-tiled floor, stands up, and hugs her mother round the waist.
Sometimes, in an effort to draw out reticent college students--especially black students who remind her of herself when she was an unsure neophyte in the halls of academe--Delpit tells them to "trust in their own stories.'' That's what she did. Were it not for the years of Catholic-school drilling, the sense she got as a teacher that something was not right in her classroom, and the studies at Harvard and in Papua New Guinea, Delpit might never have come to question the ideas and practices that everyone around her was embracing. "To me,'' she says, "that's what makes something real or not--whether we can identify something in our life that connects with it.''
In that way, Maya gives Delpit new fodder and new perspectives for her evolving views on education. Delpit adopted Maya when the child was not yet two. At the time, Delpit was single and living in Baltimore, where she was a senior research associate at Morgan State University's Institute for Urban Research. A sunny child, Maya couldn't wait to start school this past September. She woke up on the Sunday morning before her first day and was crestfallen to learn she had to wait one more day. She told her mother she was going back to bed, hoping that way the first day of school would somehow arrive sooner.
By the end of that first week, however, the child no longer wanted to go to school. It turned out that Maya, who could already read, was being penalized for not coloring her work sheets fast enough. It was a kind of instructional approach that Delpit has often railed against for minority students. The white teacher had also put Maya's name on the blackboard for talking in class. When Delpit came to visit the classroom, she found Maya's desk turned toward the window. Everyone else was facing the front. Delpit quickly moved her daughter to another public school.
"Maya is adopted, and she is, in another way of looking at it, an 'other people's child,' and I'm willing to give her the best that I have,'' Delpit says. The same should be true for classroom teachers, she adds. "When we have kids in our life, they are other people's children, too, and we have to give them the very best that we have.''