Dystopian Teacher Tales: What a Stupid Question

Recently, I met a man named Professor Marvin Dunn, from Miami, Florida. Professor Dunn purchased five acres on which sit several key sites of the Roseville massacre, where scores of Black Americans were murdered in 1923. Professor Dunn told us that while surveying the property so he could lead tours there, he, his son, and several friends were nearly killed by a man shouting the N word.

In 2022.

At sentencing, Professor Dunn wrote a letter to the judge on behalf of his attacker, which may have very well saved the white man from spending the rest of his life in jail. Most recently, Professor Dunn is in the news trying to explain that African Americans were not, as Governor DeSantis put it, beneficiaries of slavery. 

Whether you know about Roseville or not, no doubt you’ve heard that in 1968, a teacher named Jane Elliot taught her Iowa third graders a lesson of a lifetime.  The day after Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s assassination, Mrs. Elliott led her students through a bold experiment wherein students of different eye color were treated with blatant favoritism. Brown eyed students were treated better than those with blue eyes. Then, Mrs. Elliott had the students switch places. The blue-eyed people and brown-eyed people alike, experienced both sides of preferential treatment. This was her way of giving white children an experience or at least familiarity with racism they had never experienced, nor ever would. It was daring. It was bold. It was a lesson that years later, those who had participated couldn’t forget. I’ve often seen the lesson used in teacher induction programs and for good reason. 

However, in today’s climate, the current White House press secretary, the U.S. President, and numerous cabinet members are giving preferential treatment. It isn’t based on eye color, but it’s apparent favoritism awarded to those of one political party over another. Both the president and his press secretary frequently belittle reporters. They refuse to answer questions that they deem “stupid.” Often, these questions revolve around themes that are antithetical to what folks like Dr. Dunn, myself, and the vast majority of Americans would like taught in schools.

In this dystopian tale, we consider what just a moment like this might look like in a classroom, after it’s gone mainstream.  This tale may feel dystopian, but after some of the changes suggested and currently being implemented by the Department of Education, sadly, it doesn’t feel that it’s altogether fiction in some future climate. 

“Mrs. Kendricks,” begins the kindergartener in the front row. “Mrs. Kendricks, where do babies come from?”

Mrs. Kendricks has her students sit on a rug during what she calls “Morning Question Time.” Each row is a different color. The kindergartener asking the question, a small black child with beautiful braids ending in colorful beads, sits on a square in the front, on the red row. She likes to sit in the front, and is always very inquisitive. She has her right hand fully extended. Her hand is waving like a leaf in a strong wind. This child’s name is Jamila and she happens to have the highest math and reading scores of her classmates. She’s only one of three children who are not white in this classroom.

She is the type of child who can always be found with a book outside of class and in class she is the first to have her book out. She hasn’t made many friends yet as her peers are still learning to play with one another and Jamila is predisposed to taking turns and using her manners. So outside she mostly sits on her own, as the kindergarten area is separated from other grades.  In class she’s different too. She’s the type of child who asks the questions the teacher has to think about, at any grade level. And Morning Question Time is her favorite part of the day.

Mrs. Kendricks sighs dramatically and leans forward towards Jamila.  “What a stupid question, Jamila.”

No one in the classroom reacts. The students here, all thirty-seven of them, have heard their teacher say this many times before. She explained to her class early on what she meant by saying it, and she explained why she did things like it to the parents at back-to-school night. Most of the parents encouraged her,and no one spoke against it. No one in her administration thought much about it, and that was all Mrs. Kendricks needed to continue the practice.  There was a time when it wouldn’t have been acceptable in a classroom to talk like Mrs. Kendricks does to children, but those days are long gone in the state of Mississippi. Or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say those days are back. Not that I can say that last bit out loud. 

“Children, some people believe there are no stupid questions. But our great president,” Mrs. Kendricks points to a picture of the 49th president, Caroline Leavitt.  “Our great president, President Leavitt does believe in stupid questions. Children, when Mrs. Leavitt was our press secretary for our dear visionary Donald J. Trump, she faced a lot of stupid questions didn’t she?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kendricks,” say the children in unison. Jamila’s hand falls to her side. 

“And then as our president, our first woman president, she continues to face a lot of stupid questions, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kendricks.”

“You know children, when Ms. Seevers was your age,” Mrs. Kendricks points to the back of the classroom where I am sitting. All the children turn around to look at me. I wink, and some of them begin to giggle. But Mrs. Kendricks tsks them playfully. So they put on their serious faces again, and each in turn swivel back around. All of them of course but Jamila. She stares at me, a little longer than the others.  Sometimes I wonder why she does this, even though deep down I know why. Then, she turns around, a little slower than the others did.

“Children, when Mrs. Seevers was your age, did you know she was here in my class? Did you know that?” Of course they all do. She says it practically every day. “In fact, Jamila, Ms. Seevers wore her hair just like yours. Same braids, and very colorful beads.” 

I can’t see her grin, but I know Jamila is grinning. She always does when she hears about how I wore my hair.

“Children, and you know that was back when we had some really strange doins and goins on happening in schools like ours.”

“Like what doins and goins?” It’s Josephina Richards. I swear sometimes she is like a plant.

“Well, thank you for asking Josephina. Now that is a great question! You see children, do you remember when we talked about President Obama’s presidency a few months ago?”

All the children nod. A couple make noises as if someone announced they had cooties in class.  Mrs. Kendricks nods at me and gives me a wink. She loves it when the children remember her lessons. 

“Well, you will all recall that at that time, many teachers taught lessons that made children feel bad.” Mrs. Kendricks makes a frown and most of the children do it back. Jamila, I know, won’t. “These lessons were part of an indoctrination. Children, can you say in-doc-tri-na-tion?”

“In…in…indoctr…na…tion.” Mrs. Kendricks helps the children several times until she is satisfied each gets it right. She smiles, pleased, and continues, “That’s right children. And indoctrination is a scary thing, because it can make us feel bad, when we ourselves have done nothing wrong. This is why there are stupid questions. We must think carefully before asking some questions, children, lest we make others feel bad who do not deserve to feel this way.”

It’s rare to see everyone so engaged, and clearly Mrs. Kendricks knows it too. She calls these times teachable moments.  “Many teachers let children ask these types of questions before our US Supreme Court upheld the 29th amendment, the Anti-Indoctrination Amendment.”

“I remember that one!” shouts John Saunders even though there isn’t any way that kid can. 

“Well, good, Johnny, very good. Because none of us should ever forget it. Heck, even teachers like Mrs. Kendricks would sometimes allow these types of questions.”

There is a gasp from someone in the second, blue row. I can’t see who it is, but I wouldn’t put it past Josephina. She’s a total ham for this stuff.

“But,” Mrs. Kendricks smiles broadly, “When President Leavitt was elected, she made it her priority to cut this silly stuff out, everywhere, especially in schools. She shared with us how the questions she was asked by the fake media made her feel when she tried to tell the truth. And she thought about kids in classes, kids like you.”

Here, Mrs. Kendricks always points to the picture of President Leavitt, just up above her teacher chair. President Trump is to it’s right.

“And I see no reason to argue with a president, do you children?”

“No, Mrs. Kendricks,” all the students, save Jamila, answer in unison.

“So,” continues Mrs. Kendricks. She slides to the edge of her chair and leans closer to Jamila. “If someone asks me where babies are from, when we know such things should not be asked in class, what kind of question is that?”
“Stupid, Mrs. Kendricks,” say all the children in unison.

“And if someone were to ask me, oh I don’t know, like someone did last week about whether or not unicorns were once real, when we all know they are not, what kind of question is that?”

“Stupid, Mrs. Kendricks,” answer the children.

Little Rory Adelman’s hand shoots up, but he doesn’t wait to be called on. His voice is as cute as a button. He talks as if he has a mouth full of mashed potatoes. “Like when Jamila asked last week about if slavery was our fault?”

Jamila is about to interject. It’s probably because that’s not how Jamila asked the question at all.  I can always tell when she is about to get into one of her moments when her little booty comes up off the rug. And there’s a little flutter of worry in my chest now thinking about the book I gave her. But this time she sits back down and I’m relieved. Last time, this devolved into something that Mrs. Kendricks wouldn’t let go of, and I had to sit with Jamila outside.  Even so, I feel myself mirroring the child, wanting her to keep at it, wanting her to ask her questions, just like I used to do.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Kendricks and she makes her classic deep sigh of contentment, leans back in her teacher chair and looks up at the ceiling. It’s her way of revealing that this was exactly the question she was hoping for. The children love it. Then she locks her eyes on Jamila, her classic drive the point home teacher look. “Exactly like that Rory. When a question can make someone in our classroom feel bad, even though they never did anything to harm someone in their whole life, then I’d have to say, that is a stupid question.”

The class soon heads out to recess, and I go with them to supervise. Everyone is getting out their wiggles, as Mrs. Kendricks likes to say. Rory is playing a game of soccer with the other boys, but complains they never pass it to him. Josephina is into more drama, and as usual getting other girls into things when they would be otherwise playing in harmony. 

Jamila sits under her favorite tree to read a book. From the cover, it looks like one about Jupiter. I know it isn’t the one she wants to read. And I feel a little bad now. It was me who gave her the book about slavery from the teacher-permission section.  I felt like if the child wanted to know, she should have an opportunity to know. Besides, I knew her mom would have approved. 

But things are different now. They aren’t like when Mrs. Kendricks was my teacher. And Mrs. Kendricks isn’t really the same either.  I wonder, sometimes,  if I am different too. 

Then I walk over to Jamila to hear what fascinating facts about Jupiter she has learned. These are facts I know that no one on Earth can deny. At least, I certainly hope not.