I feel the need to preface my critique of progressive institutions with an acknowledgement of the privilege I have to be able to learn in spaces that value social change. I have also experienced institutions where oppressive structures of racism, xenophobia, homophobia, classism, and sexism are less than hidden, like in my New Jersey public middle school’s strict dress code and racist disciplinary policies. Or in my conservative Hebrew school’s blatant Zionist indoctrination. I have also seen and experienced these structures  in places like my high school which claims to “create activists,”and even in my summer job which mandated JEDI training, which stands for Justice, Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion. 

The more I examine them, the more I wonder if these institutions which still depend on hierarchy, power, and money to operate, could ever really embody these goals for social justice. Audre Lorde’s “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” is relevant here. From Native american residential schools to Christian missionary trips, western education has often been a tool of imperialism and white supremacy. american schools in particular are products of america’s extreme capitalism, and are designed to prepare kids for the workforce.

In Audre Lorde’s “Uses of the Erotic” she writes, “The principal horror of any system which defines the good in terms of profit rather than in terms of human need, or which defines human need to the exclusion of the psychic and emotional components of that need – the principal horror of such a system is that it robs our work of its erotic value, its erotic power and life appeal and fulfillment.”  While Lorde was not talking specifically about american schools, american schools are an example of how capitalism functions in this country. And just as capitalism robs work of the erotic, which Lorde describes as an emotional and spiritual power utilized to bring energy for change, so do american schools. Students are robbed of their erotic power through standardized learning, grades, and punitive action such as detentions. It is a system designed for homogeneity. 

These systems of standardization are less present in the teaching at my school where the mission is to use progressive methods of teaching to create active participants in society and to create students who are agents for change. Because of this, the content we learn and conversations we have, especially around systems of oppression, contrast heavily with the increasingly conservative school curricula in most of the country.  In other ways, these systems of standardization are very present. Schools don’t just rob students of the erotic in their learning, but also in their social interactions. In other words, to find social acceptance, students are often forced to repress so many parts of their identities and passions.

In short, students are forced to repress the erotic. At my New York City private school where the standard is perpetuated by classist, white, and effectively imperialist standards, this is especially true. In my school, to be anything other than extraordinarily rich and euro-centrically beautiful is to feel less than. This brings me back to my earlier questions, which are: can a school which robs students of the very power to make change really create activists? Can a school ever really dismantle the systems from which it was built?

When I look at my school, I see other ways in which it relies on traditional schooling practices: students still operate as subordinates to teachers and teachers as subordinates to the administration, and our activism is heavily monitored and censored. Dissent is not well received; our head of school sends long emails about our “activist generation” and posts photos of us on Instagram in orange shirts after the Uvalde shooting. Meanwhile, some teachers silence students who speak out about rape culture at the school, and one letter from the feminism club caused outrage.

This hypocrisy is not unique to my high school.

This summer I took a last minute job as a counselor, guiding climbing and canoeing trips through West Virginia and western Maryland. During counselor training, we had extensive conversations about ageism, racism, and sexism. They used language such as “femme presenting” (which is arguably more cis-normative, diluting gender identity to appearance and presentation), and we talked in depth about restorative justice– an  ideology of justice which focuses on the rehabilitation of offenders.

My trip unit consisted of three other counselors with whom I was to lead week-long trips. During those trips, my female co-counselor and I were constantly sexually harassed by our much older male co-staff, and badgered with questions about our sexual experiences. After finding out we were queer, one of our male co-staff pleaded us to describe lesbian sex, promising he’d leave us alone if we did. 

After returning from the first trip, I spoke to my boss. They told me that it was a “he said, she said” situation. My boss either believed me and didn’t care, or decided that the cost of hiring two new counselors just wasn’t worth it. But they had spent so much time telling me how much they were committed to creating a safe and inclusive environment, so they couldn’t tell me that truth. Instead, they told me that as an institution committed to restorative justice, I needed to give my co-staff more chances. They couldn’t tell me that their commitment to social change only went as far as their ability to successfully run their business, so they told me I wasn’t trying hard enough to see the situation from my male co-worker’s points of view. They couldn’t tell me my mental health wasn’t factored into the costs of operation, so they told me my fear of my co-staff must be a result of past trauma or some predisposed hatred of men, not of their violent and predatory behavior. And I believed them: I believed them because we spent hours making an anti-discrimination policy. I believed them because I thought an institution like this wouldn’t tolerate this behavior. 

Looking back on it, it baffles me how I convinced I was that I was to blame in the harassment and discrimination I faced at this job. I have always been outspoken, as I’ve been causing problems for administrations since I was eleven when I organized a protest against our strict dress code, encouraging everyone to wear tank tops. I have found it so easy to call out these oppressive systems in non-progressive spaces. But what do I say to the educator who runs a supposedly girl-centric club when they call me out for my clothing in the middle of the school lobby? And what do I say to my boss who practices diversity education when they blame me for my own harassment? 

I’ve watched this same behavior of emotional manipulation from teachers and administrators at my school. When called out on their bigotry, they often remind us of our privilege to be in a school like ours. Going to my school has been a huge privilege, but I have never understood why they think that means they are incapable of doing wrong. I am reminded of a line in the poem “To Be a Woman” by Monika Radojevic. She says, “I cut my teeth on better, And better isn’t good enough.” In some regards, a school like mine is better, it encourages critical thought and exposure to truth far beyond what I was exposed to in my earlier public school education. For that, I am grateful.

But better isn’t good enough. So much of learning in these progressive institutions is about broadening consciousness outside of mainstream conceptions around systems of oppression. But the more we broaden our understanding of oppressive systems, the more these institutions try to gaslight us to believe that those systems only exist outside of them, and that under a pretty package of politically correct language and liberal idioms, they aren’t trying to maintain a status quo. 

Just as gaslighting is a common tool in progressive spaces, so is tokenism. During the planning of a day devoted to politics, I listened to a teacher tell us that she needed to “find a trans student and a student of color,” to read lines at the assembly. When the day came and the student of color who she wanted to participate was not at school, this teacher pulled a different student of color from the audience and asked them to read it. She didn’t value either student’s role in the assembly for anything other than their racial or gender identity. She did not ask them to lead workshops as she personally asked many white students to do. Tokenism is common in progressive institutions, allowing them to congratulate themselves for representation without forcing them to lose control of the narratives pushed.

In Sister Outsider, Audre Lorde discusses being asked to speak at an NYU conference in 1981. She was asked to speak at a panel on the differences within the lives of american women. It was the only panel with a Black feminist. She says, “To read this program is to assume that lesbian and Black women have nothing to do with existentialism, the erotic, women’s culture and silence, developing feminist theory, or heterosexuality and power. And what does it mean when even the two Black women who did present here were literally found at the last hour.” To read Audre Lorde write about this experience fifty years ago, and then to see it so blatantly now, makes me wonder about the social progress my school has yet to achieve.

If the goal of these institutions is social progress, where is the push for change? Something I have noticed about my education and behavior in progressive institutions in general, is how informed we are of the inequity and oppression around us, but so few of us feel the pull to take action, nor are we taught how. I think this is a direct result of an elitist attitude we are taught in these institutions, one that tells us we are separate from these oppressive systems. 

In  Audre Lorde’s “Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism”, she talks about how the National Women’s Studies Association held a conference and refused to waive the fee for poor women and women of color who wanted to present, making it impossible for many women of color to attend. She says, “Is this merely another case of the academy discussing life within the closed circuits of the academy?” We are encouraged to speak about issues like they don’t affect us. We speak about attacks on women, queer people, people of color, Jewish people, or poor people as if none of us are women, queer, people of color, Jewish, or poor. 

Even for our junior class trip, where we are flown across the country to see and discuss social issues in person, we take an observing role. We are encouraged to distance ourselves like academics. As soon as I sit down in class I am stripped of my identities, I am a cold and unbiased analyst. But I wonder, how much anger would be generated in our classes if we began to connect our learning to our own identities? These institutions, who are so busy silencing dissent within their walls would have no choice but to listen. This would threaten them and their ability to operate, so they don’t encourage action, unless it involves talking to a board of trustees. As this chapter of my education begins to close, I am excruciatingly aware of how deeply unjust the world is, and with no idea of what to do about it.