Remembering the Teachers Who Inspired Me, Part 1

What I Learned From My Teachers

There’s a lot we carry from our school days—the lessons that stick, the ones that shape us in ways we only realize years later. I’ve been thinking about the teachers who left a deep impression on me, and how those early experiences continue to resonate as a quiet, steady presence in my life and work today. This piece (Parts 1 & 2) is dedicated to the teachers who shaped me, and I want to honor them by name.

Image of book Under the Apple Tree. — I loved this book.

Mrs. Hood, 1st Grade: Recognizing Potential
Mrs. Hood saw something in me from the very start. I still have the report card she wrote on: “Ugena is a good student, but she talks too much.” That one line captured a lot. It was the first sign that someone recognized my potential—and my tendency to let my mouth run ahead of me. I’ve held onto that report card all these years, a reminder of what it means to be recognized for one’s potential and ability. In first grade, we received our first “real” readers, Under the Apple Tree. I remember sleeping with mine under my pillow. Years later, I found a copy and treasure it as a symbol of my lifelong love of learning.

Top: Mrs. Mavis Fowler and Jeannie Clement; Bottom left: Mrs. Fowler; Bottom right: a cute picture of my brother Tracy Whitlock

Mrs. Fowler, 2nd Grade: Be Kind and Carry a Red Paddle
Mrs. Fowler wasn’t just the first teacher to believe in me—she made me believe I was special. She had a way of balancing kindness with authority, and yes, she carried a red paddle as a reminder that rules mattered. But it wasn’t fear that motivated us in her classroom—it was the feeling that she cared. That balance of kindness and discipline taught me more than any lesson from a textbook. I also remember me, Jeannie Clement, and Susan Pace singing church hymns at the front of the class during school hours—something that feels almost unimaginable today, but back then, it was just part of the rhythm of life and learning in Mrs. Fowler’s class.

Mrs. Haley, 3rd Grade: You Can Do Hard Things in Challenging Places
Mrs. Haley was an African American teacher in an all-white school in Littleville, Alabama, in 1971. That alone was remarkable. But what sticks with me is how she tried to teach us about Dr. Martin Luther King—in a place and time where that wasn’t easy. She showed me that you can do hard things, even when the environment isn’t welcoming, and that courage can look like simply sharing the truth. I don’t know what happened to Mrs. Haley–what turns her life took. I hope she knows that in that little school room with green walls, she made a different.

Mrs. Haley and members of our 3rd Grade Play.
I was the narrator, second from left on right.

Mrs. Wimberly, 4th Grade: Finding Joy in Learning (and Neck Massages)
I absolutely adored Mrs. Wimberly. She had a way of making the classroom feel fun and alive. This was the year I first heard about the Osmond Brothers from Jeannie Clement, and while that might seem trivial, it’s part of what made school feel like a place where life happened. Mrs. Wimberly wasn’t naive either—she let us give her neck massages during PE, while having deep discussions about who was better, the Osmonds or Elvis. Looking back, I see that she knew how to keep us engaged, even if it meant a little creative classroom management.

Mrs. Wimberly was also the first person I had met who had seen Elvis live in concert. She gave me a photo book from the concert, and for Christmas, my mom got her the most wonderful present, which I had selected: a black plastic cat with diamond eyes and a fuzzy boa—filled with bubble bath. If nothing else, I have always been classy!

Mrs. Wimberly, probably on the last day of school.

Mrs. Marie Wimberly, behind the school at the baseball field. Notice the kid trying to give her rabbit ears.

Mrs. Wells, 5th Grade: The Best Education, No Matter Where You Are
Following Mrs. Wimberly was no small task, but Mrs. Wells handled it with grace and grit. She was the only teacher I had at Littleville who actually lived in our community, and she took that responsibility seriously. When I complained that math was hard and had a fifth grade hissy fit, she didn’t let me off the hook—she made sure I learned fractions. Mrs. Wells held an Education Specialist degree, and my mother once asked her why she stayed at Littleville School when she could’ve worked anywhere. Her answer: “Our kids deserve a good education, just like anybody else.” That belief has stayed with me, a quiet reminder that showing up fully isn’t just about personal pride—it’s because others deserve the best we have to offer, no matter where we are. Mrs. Wells eventually became the principal of Littleville School and remained in that position until it was closed in 1994. (I have written about Littleville School in “A Memoir of Littleville School: Identity, Community, and Rural Education in a Curriculum Study of Rural Place” in William Reynolds’s collection, Vol. 494, Forgotten Places: Critical Studies in Rural Education (2017), pp. 169-188.). Mrs. Ann Wells lived to be 88 years old, and till the end of her life, when she saw my parents, she asked about me.

Miss Renwick, 6th & 7th Grade English: The First Crush
Of all my teachers, Miss Renwick is the one I’ve wondered about the most over all these years. I wish I knew what happened to her. Looking back, I know now that she was my first crush, as young girls often have. I adored her, admired her, and hung on every word she said. My poor mother spent countless hours waiting for me in the parking lot of Littleville School while I lingered in Miss Renwick’s classroom after school. I really appreciate that—both my mother’s patience and Miss Renwick’s willingness to let a student hang around after a long day. She introduced us to literature–not just stories found in “readers,” but the classics. She described the faraway places where they took place. “You can go to these places, see these things,” she told me. I’d like for her, wherever she is, to know that although I took a circuitous route, I did.

Miss Renwick. Note her look at me coming into her classroom after school to take yet another picture.

Miss Renwick, last day of school, 6th grade

And yes, I did take a picture of her car. For years, I wanted a Toyota Tercel Wagon

Mr. Sizemore, 7th Grade Science: The Surprise of Humanity
Mr. Sizemore was a science teacher with a presence that made us all a little nervous. He was the only teacher I ever had who effectively taught while sitting behind his chair, which he did almost every day unless he got up for the occasional lab activity. He wore the same clothes every day: a blue shirt, blue jacket, dark pants, and shined brogans. His black hair was neatly combed with Brylcreem—long after Brylcreem had gone out of style. He wore black horned-rimmed glasses like Clark Kent. He drove an old blue Ford truck, and his stern demeanor was enough to keep us on edge. We were especially scared when he’d slam his book on the desk if we weren’t paying attention. But I remember my daddy talking about running into him out in public, chatting about chickens like old friends. It surprised me to realize Mr. Sizemore had a first name—David—and a life beyond the classroom. Thinking about him today, I realize just how young he must have been in 1976. That small realization stuck with me: teachers are people, too.

Littleville School 6th Grade Class Picture, 1974. Second Row: Far left, Mr. David Sizemore; far right, Miss Joyce Renwick; second from right, Ugena Whitlock

To be continued in Part 2…

Handwritten Table of Contents from my Littleville photo album in my best cursive.

Sojourners Together: Supporting Students Through the Struggle

Title: Sojourners Together: Supporting Students Through the Struggle

In my last post, I shared how online teaching has rekindled my passion for the classroom. I’m enjoying the challenge of engaging students in new ways, and I’ve found it fulfilling to build connections through messages, stories, and shared experiences. But as much as I’m finding this fresh approach to teaching rewarding, I’m also deeply aware that many of my students are struggling.

Recently, I sent out a weekly check-in message—something simple, just to touch base. While many students voiced their overall enjoyment of the class, several also let me know they’re having a hard time. These aren’t typical undergraduate students juggling part-time jobs and coursework. These are working professionals, members of a cohort in our Master’s in Applied Learning and Instruction program. They teach in local partner school districts. They’re educators, spouses, parents, coaches, community members. They’re churchgoers, pet owners, and caregivers. And yet, despite all these roles, they’ve committed to taking two graduate classes each semester for two years.

Applied Learning and Instruction (M.Ed)

They do this not just for a much-needed pay raise, but for their professional growth—to become better teachers for their students. Our children. And that humbles me. It’s not easy.

These students took a heavy blow during COVID-19. They were asked to be miracle workers, juggling the impossible demands of remote learning while supporting students, families, and their communities. If there was one silver lining to the pandemic, it’s that thousands of parents who had their children learning from home gained a newfound appreciation for teachers. They saw firsthand just how challenging this work is.

And yet, despite all of this, my students show up. They’re willing to do the hard work every day. But I know—and they know—that time is scarce. They probably don’t have six extra hours a week to devote to their studies, yet that’s the general guideline for graduate coursework. They’re balancing it all, and their struggle deepens my sense of responsibility as their instructor.

If I expect them to make time for this class, I have to make it worth their while. I owe them my best. If I want them to give of themselves, I need to give of myself.

Is the reading dry this week? Then I’ll record a discussion to bring it to life. Is the assignment complicated? I’ll walk them through it, step by step. Are assignments feeling routine and uninspired? I’ll revise them to appeal to different learning styles and spark engagement. Do they need more time to complete an assignment? I’ll do my best to accommodate that. Are they feeling overwhelmed? Then I’ll be present—showing up in the class, personalizing my feedback, and ensuring they don’t feel adrift in the online world.

I’ve practiced social-emotional learning long before it had a name. I know the value of a supportive learning environment, and yes, sometimes that means sharing pictures of our five pets to give them a chuckle. It’s about reminding them that I’m here, on the other side of the screen, rooting for them.

As hokey as it might sound, caring is part of the classroom culture I want to cultivate—a culture of care and connection. Teaching can be a lonely profession. Being a professor can be just as isolating. But this online space offers a chance to bridge that gap, to connect people who might otherwise feel alone in their struggles.

It is important that I keep asking them to check in—asking how they’re doing, beyond just the coursework. These check-ins aren’t just about staying informed; they’re about fostering trust and reminding them they’re not alone in this. We are sojourners together this semester. Yes, they will struggle. That’s part of the journey. But the most important assurance I can give them is that I am here. And sometimes, that’s enough to make all the difference.

Image of English Bulldog sleeping with tongue out. — Bruno knows the struggle is real.

Exploring Nostalgia, Place and Southern Identity in Writing

Nostalgia, Place, and Feeling Southern

In a recent essay, Evolving From Just Keep Swimming to The Front Porch Professor, I explored the journey of reimagining this blog to reflect my evolving focus on narrative storytelling. At its heart lies the front porch, a symbol that anchors my Southern identity and shapes the lens through which I write. This post builds on that foundation, unpacking the concepts of nostalgia, place, and Southern identity—terms that are complex and intertwined. Sitting on the front porch is an appropriate place from which to give them the careful exploration they deserve.

You may be asking, “Well, when are you going to start writing instead of just writing about your writing?” Good question. The process is a throwback to academic writing, where you have to describe your framework and method for presenting your ideas. In other words, I need to tell you how and why I’m going to tell you what I tell you. Then I can tell you. But you’ll be glad to know I’m about ready to start front porching.

Why The Front Porch Professor?

Claiming the title of professor in my blog name is about more than qualifications; it reflects a blend of storytelling, introspection, and intellectual curiosity. It signals that the reflections here are informed by years of observing and searching for meaning. The image of a professor on a front porch bridges the formality of academia and the warmth of casual conversation. I invite you into a space where lived experience meets thoughtful analysis, encouraging connections and deeper understanding.

Image of Dr. Ugena Whitlock at USC Upstate — Professor Whitlock

For me, the title is also a tribute. As a small-town girl from rural Alabama, raised by working-class parents, becoming a professor is a point of pride. It’s a testament to their sacrifices and the support of friends and loved ones. They are ever present in my writing, shaping the stories I tell and the perspectives I share. I am both proud of the accomplishment and humbled by the debt and responsibility I owe them.

Place and the Southern Perspective

When I write about place, I’m speaking to more than just geography. Place encompasses the physical environments where life unfolds. Place is the landscape on which contexts of culture, history, and society are painted. It’s where relationships, joys, disappointments, and lessons unfold. All this happens individually and collectively. Place is both a backdrop and a character in our stories, influencing who we are and how we navigate the world.

Image of small downtown Russellville, Alabama, with snow, church, and Roxy theater — Downtown Russellville, Alabama

Being Southern, then, adds layers to this concept. The South is more than a region; it’s a complex web of traditions, histories, and cultural markers. To call oneself Southern is to grapple with the beauty and contradictions of the place. With the South’s ugliness. Can one be proud to be a Southerner, as I am? What does this mean? What am I proud of? And what about the parts of Southern “heritage” that I am not proud of? What is my relationship to those people who claim and celebrate the ignoble parts?

Writing From a Southern Perspective

“Being Southern” is as much a state of mind as it is a physical state. My Southern identity isn’t about celebrating a romanticized version of the South–you know, moonlight and magnolias. Instead, it’s a lens through which I explore themes of home, culture, and identity. The South, for me, is a place of deep connections, shaped by family, history, and the rhythms of everyday life. Southern identity is not monolithic—I don’t assume my identity is exactly like yours, just as your experiences may differ from mine. While we may share certain aspects, identity is deeply individual and uniquely shaped by personal experiences.

Image of dinner with deviled eggs and mashed potatoes — Southern food–note the Thanksgiving Chicken and Dressing

Family and home are central to this perspective, grounding my stories in the relationships and traditions that define Southern life for me. The culture of the place is a tapestry woven through the land, neighbors, communities, histories, food, churches, schools, music, and football. These often appear in my writing, not only offering insights into shared experiences but also helping us understand the world around us and highlighting the relevance of our observations. Yes, there are lessons to be got from SEC football. Roll Tide, y’all.

Image of a handmade quilt with a crimson and white Alabama football theme. The quilt features appliqué designs of football helmets, footballs, the letter 'A,' and elephants in alternating squares. Each design is outlined with visible stitching, and the quilt is bordered with a crimson edge, showcasing school spirit and craftsmanship. — Lovingly made Alabama Quilt from my Mother

But writing from a Southern perspective also means wrestling with the region’s complexities. The South is as much about its tensions and contradictions as its traditions. It’s a place where politics, identity, and history converge, challenging us to confront difficult truths while celebrating what makes it unique. Without acknowledging the turmoil and inequalities of its past, any discussion of Southern life, identity, and culture feels inauthentic and incomplete—it’s a Southern writer’s malpractice. As someone who often says, “I love the South,” I can be trusted to both celebrate and critique it. Critique from someone who hasn’t lived it or can’t celebrate it is equally incomplete–and there are plenty of these critics around. This is my not so humble Southern opinion.

Nostalgia: A Lens for Understanding

Nostalgia, as I see it, is not about longing for a bygone era but about connecting the past with the present to find meaning that may inform the future. The word itself comes from the Greek words nostos, meaning “homecoming,” and algos, meaning “pain” or “longing.” It speaks to a deep yearning for the familiarity and comfort of home, even if that home is more an idea than a place. Some homes are not the kind we can long for; rather, we might long to be released from their memory. This etymology captures the duality of nostalgia: it brings remembrances of warmth and connection, yet it also reminds us of what is distant or lost. The dual nature of nostalgia vies for our attention, wrestles for focus, and fights for dominance—keeping many of us in therapy for years.

Image of small stone church, Littleville Church of Christ, Littleville, Alabama — My home church, Littleville Church of Christ, Littleville, Alabama

It’s a complex emotion, often blending warm memories with a bittersweet awareness of time’s passage. Far from being purely personal, nostalgia is often collective, rooted in shared experiences and cultural touchstones like family recipes, cherished traditions, or the familiar strains of an old song. In my writing, nostalgia becomes a guide for exploration. Stories about homeplace and family lead me to reflections of broader themes, such as the importance of community, civility, and the pace of modern life. Nostalgia isn’t a destination where we can remain lost in the preferred past; for me, it’s like wrapping myself in an old quilt, offering warmth as I navigate the here and now. You can’t linger too long, though, because living means stepping into the day with clarity and intention.

The Front Porch as a Space for Reflection and Stories

The front porch, in this context, is both a literal and metaphorical space—a place where complex ideas meet honest, accessible conversation. It’s where intellectual rigor mingles with the warmth of shared stories, and where connections are formed through curiosity and reflection. This is the balance I strive for: nostalgia not as an escape but as a framework for growing and learning.

The front porch is open to anyone willing to join the conversation, to explore what place, the South, and our shared histories mean in today’s world. And if you aren’t Southern, you might still have a good time and make connections, too. Together, we can find clarity, joy, and meaning in the stories we tell. I believe we have a responsibility to one another to make the world a better place–a place where we indeed have the liberty to pursue the happiness of a gratifying life. Taking care of our neighbors has never been as important as it is now. It feels like not only have we forgotten how, but we have forgotten that we ought to in the first place. That’s another reason front porches are important. I hope you will join me.

Evolving from Just Keep Swimming to The Front Porch Professor

Time for a Change

After fourteen years maintaining my blog Just Keep Swimming, I decided it was time for a change. When I started blogging those years ago, blogs, shorthand for “weblogs,” (remember that?) were fairly new, and I was deep into building a career by writing articles for academic journals. I knew that autobiographical narrative Curriculum Theory (my professional writing) would not be a lucrative venture. It wouldn’t earn money or attract thousands of readers. I determined that I would use the blog as a journal. I wrote personal essays in memoir style that might later be crafted into journal articles–a sort of pre-writing holding station. I also told myself that my blog was really only for me. I thought this would lessen my disappointment at having no readers. That part was sad because I really wanted somebody to read what I was writing.

Logo for Just Keep Swimming Blog

So, the blog was a patchwork of ideas and topics with loose themes and frameworks pulling them together. Not surprisingly, then, I had difficulty giving it a name. Sarah helped. The more I obsessed over finding just the right name for a blog nobody would read, the more I secretly hoped someone would. The more I obsessed, the more she tried to help me get centered. She tried to help me find some resilience somewhere. “Just keep swimming,” she said, as much a suggestion for my state of mind as for the blog title. It fit. For almost a decade, I have worked on justkeepswimming.life–mostly sporadically. During those same ten years, my career evolved from faculty member to department chair to college dean. As a small-town girl from Littleville, Alabama, I wanted to see just how far I could go. I told myself I didn’t have the time to write regularly. I did well to just keep swimming.

This Spring I will once again be a faculty member in the college, without an administrative role of any kind. I’ve been thinking about this change a lot, and I reckon it will be a good move. I am looking forward to teaching again. I am also eager to have some autonomy over my time. Faculty generally work more than 40 hours per week, but oftentimes, when and where we work is up to us. This kind of flexibility will take away an important excuse for not posting regularly—that’s the goal. Updating the blog’s purpose and branding reflects the updates going on in my life. What is my new identity–who am I now that my decades-long professional identity has changed? What kind writing do I want to do, and what will I write about? What do I, as one white Southern professor with blue collar roots, have to say?

Heading Out To the Front Porch

I reflected on what I wanted the blog to be. I asked myself why I started blogging. It isn’t to have a journal to springboard into professional papers. Nor do I write to make money or achieve celebrity status as a blogger. I write blog posts because it brings me joyful engagement. This engagement gives me purpose. It also provides an immediate connection to you, and you to me. And somewhere among the joy, purpose, and connection, there is also the urgency of needing to tell.

In her book, Why I Write, Joan Didion wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear” (“Why I Write.” The White Album, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1979, pp. 192–194.). Her quote has been shortened over the years to “I never know what I think until I read what I write,” which is unfortunate since it leaves out the part about what one wants and fears. When I write I am participating in the world around me and putting meaning on what I see and experience. And yes, desire and fear are part of it, just like they are ever-present in one’s consciousness. What anything means to me won’t be what it means to you, for you are participating from your consciousness, your home place. And that’s what I’d like to evoke with my stories–for both me and you.

New Logo for The Front Porch Professor that includes a rocking chair, antique typewriter, and Mazda Miata.

In essence, then, I am re-claiming my identity as a writer. Who am I? I value education, so I got a PhD and became a professor. I am a Southerner to my soul, and my perspectives for writing are shaped–and shape–that identity. I write about the South, my particular anchor of homeplace. Homeplace is a treasured concept for me, one that encompasses family, food, religion, politics, music, sexuality, culture–it is the landscape on which my life has been written. I view the landscape through a lens–a veil, as I like to think of it–of nostalgia. As I write, I hold the present up, looking backwards to the past—my recollection and understanding of it—with a questioning eye toward the future. To symbolize the space from which I can observe and cast a critical eye on Southern place, I chose the front porch.

A front porch is more than just a place—it’s a state of mind. It’s where stories are told, where folks sit and hang around together. It’s a place where the world slows down just enough to reflect on what truly matters to me. With The Front Porch Professor, my goal is to bring the warmth and depth of this space into the stories I share. I work through the tensions between issues that matter to readers today. I also offer honest, insider critiques of the South. Sound idyllic? It can be, but just like the South, the front porch can also be a troubled and complicated place where anguish, heartbreak, disappointment, and violence take place. Every few days, I have to sweep the porch to clear dust and cobwebs to make sure it is an inviting place for myself and others.

Who Should Read It?

The intended audience for The Front Porch Professor are folks who appreciate stories that resonate on both a personal and universal level, blending the warmth of lived experience with the relevance of today’s challenges. My readers might be older adults, reflecting on their own life journeys and drawn to narratives that echo their experiences. They might be educators or seekers who appreciate the intersection of storytelling with deeper ideas about culture, family, and identity.

This blog also speaks to those who find meaning in the everyday—the simple joys of a shared meal, the comfort of homeplace, or the peace found while sitting in the shade in a back yard. I believe there is also value for people who can’t recollect joy from their homes. There may be appeal here for them as well. Home for some–if it means anything at all–are places of atrocities, hurt, and darkness. Home may be a place of utter ambivalence. If this is you, then I invite you, too. In this blog, I look for the mysteries to be found in simplifying the complex and complicating the simple.

Why Does It Matter?

Our world is a noisy place, and it feels to me like we are distracted by it–not just distracted but affected in other ways. Noisy politics, for example, has polarized some of us to the point of violence. It has also created animosity with friends and family. We seem to have lost focus on the things that matter, which is always others. I hope my stories can balance out some of the clutter. I hope that together we can pause and look for grounding–the kind that I find from recollecting and observing what happens around me and to me.

Alternate Logo for The Front Porch Professor that includes ukelele and typewriter with no Miata.

Maybe you, like me, want to have a deeper engagement with life around us and with others in it. Maybe you, like me, want to nourish a homeplace of the heart, our own personal touchstone where inward reflection points us out-ward toward purpose. A safe and joyful place of our making–whatever that might look like for you–where we contemplate how our own sense of belonging connects us to others. I hope The Front Porch Professor is engaging and entertaining; still, I do not consider life merely to entertain. As you read, I invite you to actively participate with me as we pause, surmise, and make meaning. Don’t just read. Come along with me on our shared journey.

Image of Dr. Ugena Whitlock, author of The Front Porch Professor. — Introducing Dr. Ugena Whitlock, The Front Porch Professor!

Exciting News: A New Chapter for the Blog!

Hello, friends! I’m thrilled to share that my blog is getting a fresh start under a new name: “The Front Porch Professor.” This new space will continue to feature the reflections, stories, and observations you’ve enjoyed, with a renewed focus on life, learning, and the journey ahead—all with a touch of Southern charm.

I’m currently working on exporting all my posts from Just Keep Swimming to the new blog, so nothing will be lost. If you’ve been following here, I hope you’ll join me on this new adventure! With any luck, your subscription will carry over seamlessly, but if not, I’ll share the link to the new blog soon so you can continue following along.

Thank you for your support and encouragement—stay tuned for updates and more from “The Front Porch Professor.”

My Long, Strange Curriculum Journey

Note: The following essay was submitted in draft form for a collection to which I was invited to contribute called “Letters to the Field” (of curriculum studies). The call was in 2021, and the theme of the book was to be reflections on the dumpster fire that was the year 2020. Each piece was to be handwritten in the author’s preferred style and format. The book may be in production. If so, here’s what my entry will be. If not, here’s what it would have been. Enjoy.

Hello, Field.

I hope you are well. As I write, we are mid-way through 2021, which seems incredible. Time has been “out of joint” since March 2020. I sat in my office and watch seasons pass; each time I stepped outside, I was stepping into a different season. It was nearly a year and a half before I traveled to see my family, and I still have not seen my grandchildren. How did I fare? Well, I’m introverted, so for a long while, the virtual/remote situation was ideal. Like most everyone, I enjoyed pajama Zooms and working at my own pace. After 15 months, I found myself searching for webinars to join during the day, just to feel plugged in professionally. This was most unusual for me. And you? I noticed several calls for works about Covid and race in the U.S. I see that your various conferences made valiant virtual attempts as did others. I suppose, then, it was not an ideal situation for most of us.

Truthfully, I was a spectator to the last two years. Being at home made it easy to self-isolate. And I did not write a word about either pandemic–Covid 19 or Black Lives. I’ve thought about why not. During 2020 I was finishing a Master of Divinity degree from seminary. From March 2020 to March 2021, I followed nothing but Covid until I got my vaccines. I tracked the death toll. In late spring and summer, I watched cities burn as we paid a collective price for the sin of racism. It was also an election year–after 4 years of having Donald J. Trump as the U.S. president. I watched as a dispicable, weak, narcissistic emperor with no clothes attempted a coup–aided and abetted by dispicable, weak, narcissistic congressional and state legislative sycophants.On January 6, I watched, jaw dropped, the coup attempt unfold, when the U.S. Capitol was stormed on live tv as Congress was about to certify the election results anyway. I was weary and suffering from media overload. I tuned in and cried on an Inauguration Day, which was blessedly uneventful.

I cried two other times in 2020. Both took place the first weekend I visited my parents in over a year. We were sitting around having coffee when my daddy–dismissing Mother’s cautioning against it–brought up politics. It’s important to him that we find common ground in his conservative worldview. “The US isn’t a democracy any more. We’re somewhere in the middle of Socialism and Communism.” Now, I’m not going to unpack any of that or sort out the concepts. I replied as long as we have free elections, we have something of a Republic still. Then my mom drove home the point. She said the election was rigged. That was it. I had a meltdown, which I won’t describe, other than to say I began to cry. The conversation, thankfully, ended. Daddy moved on.

The following day, Sunday, I was moved to tears again; however, the context and feeling were entirely different. My parent’s church, the one I grew up in, was still distancing for Covid. A handful went inside the building, yet there was still a “drive-in” option in the parking lot. The Elders had purchased a transmitter, and people were directed to tune their radios to 92.5, where they could hear the service. The rest of my family worshipped inside, but I, now feeling like a full-fledged outsider, changed my dial. Daddy gave the welcome and announcement, and I smiled as his voice came from my car’s speakers. Then the congregation turned in their hymnals to the opening song. Then the old, familiar hymns began, songs for which I did not need a song book. I knew all the verses of all the songs. Then the contentment and peace that comes from losing oneself in music came over me. I didn’t care how I might have looked to those driving in or driving by.

I am sure you’ve received plenty of letters i that are emphatic about our field never having been as relevant and necessary (!) as it is now. We are poised, they will say, to address the contexts of the Age of Pandemics. I know this because at every crisis point since Curriculum Theory has existed, we have made those proclamations. And we are not wrong. Yet, here we are again. So, Field, what are your intentions? I’m reading over my stories above, and have a “more things change more they stay the same” moment. In the years that I’ve worked as an administrator and stepped back from curriculum theory writing, convictions of white Southerners (whites everywhere?) have deepened. As time has passed, the difference is that now they are sanctioned by politicians who court them as their voting base. The implications of radical conservative politics ranges promoting the Big Lie of voter fraud to the All Lives Matter refrain to righteous, nationalistic indignation at being directed to wear a mask to prevent the spread of a highly contaigous and deadly disease. This week, parents are protesting our local school district because a white school board member sent them a video link that features a video with the “real truth” about masks: they don’t work (and neither does the vaccine). The danger, then, of curriculum studies of Southern place is more discernable for me. But so is the necessity of doing it.

Don’t I have anything positive to contribute in terms of being central to the present moment? Same old, same old, I guess. I will continue going to the conferences and publishing in the journals. After all, we have to put our work somewhere. At those conferences, we will continue to look for ways to put our theorizing into activism. I suspect we will write very sternly worded letters and post them on our websites. We will do what we can to advance the field so that there is a place to post the letters. Mostly, we will tell ourselves that ours is the New Fresh Next Voice that will change the world and make it more equitable and inclusive. Why so negative, you ask. I suppose it’s because we’ve been telling ourselves this for all these years. Truth is, I stepped back for 6 years in part because I could not see that I was making any difference with you, dear Field. The biggest difference has been in me. I am changed from the writing and from the politics and social untethering. I am changed by COVID-19. Administration has changed me and so has studying for the ministry. I’m older, more seasoned, and yes, resigned to the way the world keeps turning.

Writing curriculum theory is not so unlike studying for ministry in that both look for ways to connect with the human spirit in a world that cares very little for the spirit. So in the end, the real question for me is not whether there is a place for my curriculum theory at your table but rather for your table in my curriculum theory. Really, it’s not me it’s you.

And that, in the end, is what my divine nudger whispers to me.

Yours(?)

Ugena

“White Savior Barbie,” Not me!

I really love my seminary, the McAfee School of Theology, Mercer University. Faculty and staff there are committed to issues of justice and spiritual growth. It is also a place where only about 45% of the students are white. I want to support a place like that and more important, learn from the variety of perspectives and experiences of my classmates. It is a place where I can focus on issues important to me, like being a good ally by attending to my white privilege. I am convinced that my anti-racist work as a white Southern academic should also include theological and religious frameworks. I needed to get in touch with my Jesus.

Part of the institution’s commitment to spiritual formation is the annual faculty, staff, and student weekend retreat, which the founding faculty built into the design of the programs. We just recently had one at the Pinnacle Center in the North Georgia mountains, where we spend two days worshiping together and getting to know one another. We build deeper relationships as classmates at a setting like this, where we pray and take communion together. This year, the dean announced he had been working with friends in Union Point, Georgia, to plan a work day at a historic cemetery near the original location of Mercer University. Here’s what he said:

This summer I learned of a neglected African American cemetery located nearby the Penfield cemetery. I have partnered with African American activists and other leaders to help them with a clean-up effort on October 26. I would very much appreciate it if you would join me as we honor this sacred space and practice remembrance.

He noted that enslaved persons were buried there.

Here is what I wish I had thought: Does it make a difference that the dean is a straight, white, cis-male? Were faculty invited to discuss this topic, welcoming voices from faculty of color? Could groundwork have been laid so that the announcement would have had context for the benefit of the students, most of whom were African American? What is motivating me to want to participate?

What I actually did, though, was volunteer to clean up the cemetery.

A few days later, the dean sent a reminder and included additional information that a filmmaker friend and seminary grad would be filming for a documentary. A few days after that, I learned that a group of African American students had submitted a letter to the dean to express concerns about the project. I have not seen this letter, but the seminary grapevine is real. That was the day I discovered the “Savior Barbie” Instagram account. If you haven’t heard about it, below is a Huff Post article, along with 2 examples of Barbie’s posts.

White Savior Barbie Huff Post

White Savior Barbie

White Savior Barbie pokes fun at people who suffer from “White Savior Complex,” the term used to describe the white Westerners who travel to third world countries and make the entire affair an exercise in self-congratulatory sacrifice. (Huff Post). The account owners, who remain anonymous, point out, “We have both struggled with our own realizations and are definitely not claiming innocence here.” “Barbie Savior, we hope, is an entertaining jumping off point for some very real discussions, debates, and resolves.” It isn’t that there is anything inherently wrong with doing volunteer work to help people. WSB targets the idea that Africa needs saving from itself and white people are the ones who can do it. Barbie Savior is there for a photo op, the ultimate selfie. This kind of thinking supported colonialism, conquest, and slavery. It is white supremacy.

Barbie Savior (@barbiesavior)

White Savior Barbie 3

Let me be clear: I am not suggesting for a minute that the McAfee dean is in error. I have no idea until and unless he discusses it what the process was for bringing this opportunity to the students. For all I know, he brought it to the faculty first for them to unpack together. The letter from students is said to contain references to a diversity strategic plan, which I imagine calls for voice and conversation and inclusion in initiative planning. I have no doubt he is prayerfully and profoundly considering what they have written and will respond appropriately. This is not about him; it is about my own complicity in maintaining racist systems in which the White Savior Complex operates.

So just what was I thinking? My first thought was what a great service project! As a Southern Christian who knows what “Decoration Day” is, I have cleaned old cemeteries for as long as I can remember. My second thought was about the historical significance of the place, for yes, I was in part motivated by it being a very, very old African American cemetery that was the final resting place of former enslaved persons.

My third thought was about my friend Edeltress in Baton Rouge, who had taken me on a detour to her ancestral cemetery one day while we were on a school visit for work. “Do you mind?” she asked me. “It’s been so long since I’ve been here. I was a little girl and my parents brought me.” So we drove to a countryside in Louisiana that I couldn’t find today if I had to. “Here it is,” she said. But looking around, I couldn’t see a graveyard. Just what looked like woods, undergrowth, weeds–way back, about a hundred feet off the side of the road. Edeltress laughed. “Oh, you’re looking for a white cemetery. This is how our cemeteries look.” We tramped around the site, being careful not to step on the graves, and on the way home, she told me stories about her father, who had driven an old broken-down truck so that his white neighbors would not recognize him for a landowner and successful farmer. My people were dangerous. So that is the image I got in my head when the dean asked for volunteers. I thought of paying tribute, in this small way, to my friend.

That is why I am going to acknowledge my white privilege, acknowledge the concerns of my classmates–for they hold us accountable for thinking of and processing these issues before complying–and then go clean up a grave yard. But you won’t see it on Facebook or Twitter. I will not take a selfie with a tombstone. Does this make me admirable? Is this sufficient acknowledgement, or am I assuaging my conscience? Am I asking the right questions? I don’t know, but it gives me something to ponder as I pull weeds.

White Savior Barbie 2

White supremacy can look like skin heads carrying swastikas; it can look like angry white people wearing red hats. It can be masked by well intentioned white people who secretly voted for Trump. And it can be a white seminary student who fails to do the work of problematizing a workday over the graves of enslaved persons. There is another White Savior resource I find relevant here. White Savior: Racism in the American Church (2019). The film “explores the historic relationship between racism and American Christianity, the ongoing segregation of the church in the US, and the complexities of racial reconciliation” (imdb). I recommend it. The film closes with an African American minister from the Bronx discussing being an ally. “Being an ally,” he said, “means asking ‘What do you need? and sometimes that means just shut up and listen.”

At the end of the day, I believe in a place like McAfee. It exemplifies the complexity of racial reconciling and justice. The messiness of it. It is a place where we can make all the mistakes–and there are many–and learn that the sky doesn’t fall when we make them. It is a place where, sometimes, we can just shut up and listen.

Giving Account of Oneself

All my brainiac friends don’t get excited. This ain’t about Judith Butler.

There is one part of being a professor that I actually don’t mind: the annual review process. I also enjoyed (!) the Tenure & Promotion process a few years ago, which is very similar, just a little bit higher stakes. Am I a glutton for punishment? Do I also enjoy visiting the dentist or gynecologist? No, I think find the review process meaningful because, at least so far, when I have paused to give account of myself professionally, I have come out on the plus side.

My friend Nichole, also an academic–and one whose good opinion I value and want to keep–helped me start the process this year. She has told me several times that she ought to hang out a shingle for all the counseling she gives me. I don’t argue with her. This time, I was bemoaning my lack of discipline and motivation for writing. “Whitlock,” she said, “what are you talking about? You spent a year interviewing people for your book. And you had an edited collection published this year!” I guess, I told her, I hadn’t thought about those. I tend to focus on the writing that I don’t get done. I wonder if other academics do that. I wonder if other women academics do it. It is a very prohibitive and debilitating habit.

With that in mind, I approached my annual review, which this year must meticulously be entered into an online system. One good thing about having to enter each tiny part of publication information into separate fields is that you can’t miss what you’ve done! In the hope that I won’t lose sight of it this time and thereby break my nasty habit of null productivity (I made that up just now), here is a list of what I have done this year:
I was invited to speak at TCU as part of the Green Honors Chair Lecture Series. I was awarded a sabbatical (see previous post). I chaired a dissertation committee and served as external member on two from Georgia Southern. I wrote a book review that I’m now revising, and I have one book chapter in press and one published. I wrote an invited afterword in a special edition of a journal. I was invited by the dean to give a lecture in her speaker series. I gave three conference presentations. I researched for a book. As far as service (the bane of most academics’ existence), I am associate department chair. I served on a department-level tenure and promotion committee and on a college-level one. I taught an online course for the first time (and liked it!). And: I started seminary at Emory’s Candler School of Theology and moved from my apartment into a bungalow in Atlanta. I started back to church and joined the choir. I made new friends and reconnected with old
ones.

All in all, this has been one of the best years I’ve ever had.

On Writing, Part 2: The Sabbatical Begins

A sabbatical is a powerful thing. At my university, they aren’t actually called sabbaticals; They are “Enhanced Faculty Leave.” They are competitive, awarded based on a research proposal. At universities that honor the writing processes of its faculty, sabbaticals are given about once every six or seven years. Sabbaticals, not Enhanced Faculty Leave. Why can’t my university call a sabbatical a sabbatical? Because it would imply to the voting (Republican) public that we lazy, blood-sucking socialist/communist academics were getting something for nothing. That’s about what folks think of academics. Just once I’d like our leadership to take a break from politicking local legislators for additional funds for things like football programs and inform the public that about once every six or seven years, professors need time. Just time. To let the fields lie fallow, which is what has to happen for re-creation, creativity, and good writing to take place. As an act of resistance, I will call my Enhanced Faculty Leave a Sabbatical.

It takes a while to settle in to a sabbatical–I still haven’t completely done it yet. I keep waiting to have to get up and get ready to go somewhere or do something. What I feel beginning to happen is my mind “un-tensing”–relaxing. I’m mentally starting to sort through how I want to approach my various writing projects. I got out a large yellow pad yesterday–the kind people used to hand write dissertations on years ago. I love those yellow pads; you can tell I’m ready to get down to business when I break out an official pad. While I always have top-notch pens, I’ll write on anything. So yesterday I wrote out a list of every project I want to work on this semester. Here’s the list: 1) two conference papers, 2) an essay for a book about my mentor Bill, 2) a book review that’s a year over due, 3) a review of a manuscript for a publisher, 4) my annual review documents, 5) an essay for a new curriculum studies handbook, 6) a book. Thank God I’m on Enhanced Faculty Leave and not a lazy good for nothing sabbatical.

Putting everything on a list is helpful to me. Now, I have sense enough to know that these can’t all be 6 separate writing projects. The conference papers will have to have some framing in common. The book will mine from what I write in them, etc. This prevents me from having to start with a blank page, which is self-defeating to me. If I can only cut and paste a little, I can go forth steadily. Usually. First, I’m going to do the mindless work of the annual review documents. I’m not being flip about taking them seriously. I do. But, it’s like filling out a job application when you have a good resume in front of you. You just lift from on document and put it on the other. This will be time consuming, but little thinking is involved. Next, I will finish the book review before I lose a good friend, the long suffering journal editor, Alan Block. I’m giving myself a week and a half to get these projects done. The others will need framing up theoretically. And that gets tricky. More on this later.

Recovering from Fundamentalism, Part 1

One of my friends is, like me, a recovering fundamentalist Christian.

She suggested that I might get to the root of my issues, whether about relationships, teaching, or writing–whatever–by forgiving myself. It took a recovering fundamentalist to recognize that and present it in that way. The closest I ever got thinking about forgiveness was when my therapist (the one I pay) suggested that I look back at the girl who married young because of gender role social expectations and not so subtle pressure from family. She asked me to engage with that young woman, going back even to the smart tom-boy who felt different and often alone. When I did that very hard work, I asked the young me for forgiveness. I realized that I did not feel like I had taken care of her. I remember that was a very hard session.

But forgiving myself now–that’s different from looking back at me then. Forgive, for what? The issue is the essentially the same it seems. Since my divorce, I have felt robbed of the 16 years I was married. (Side note: it has been 16 years since my divorce. Geez. Get over it.) Robbed, as though they were taken. Passive verb. I had blamed the fundamentalist church, my parents, my husband, Alabama–anyone, everyone. But me. Thing is, I’ve been furious with myself for having done this to myself–and for staying in it for those years. I did this. Me. (Now suddenly the anger issues my paid therapist brought up that I couldn’t see became very clear and noticeable). My unpaid counselor friend calls it discipline fundamentalism. I try to be “good,” but all that old unforgiven baggage surfaces and I act out (yes, there has been acting out), leaving me guilt laden and sorrowful. I make a pact with myself and resolve to do better. Trouble is, that doesn’t work. Hasn’t worked.

In addition to forgiving my self, I will tell myself as often as I need to hear it, “it is enough.” Not “I am enough.” I know I am–my issues are not about confidence or worthiness. I’m just never satisfied with what I’ve accomplished. It’s almost always writing. When I can’t dig in and write a lot, I will read, or now, write here. That’s enough. It’s working. Even writing it now I feel a tremendous sense of relief and peace. So whatever I do, it’s enough for today.

You may ask what this deep reflection has to do with fundamentalism. I think the imprint fundamental Christianity has had on me as a female has been about judgement. Naturally, I was taught at all costs to be a good girl because I would be judged by God. Here on earth, meanwhile, I was expected to be good and conform so I would be judged acceptable by others (what will the neighbors think). I learned to be good so that my daddy would not lose his temper. Be good, be good, be good. And if I were ever human–spontaneous, uninhibited, free-spirited (and all the behaviors these entail)–I felt that judgement upon me from all sides and fell short. So, forgiveness and acceptance is the first, deeply internal step to recovery from fundamentalism. It is the step that allows me to see that judgement is something that somebody else does. And it has very little to do with me. More on this later.

Share this:

Share this:

Nostalgia, Place, and Feeling Southern

Share this:

Time for a Change

Heading Out To the Front Porch

Who Should Read It?

Why Does It Matter?

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: