Dear Paulo Freire SIG members,
As you may know Howard Zinn just passed away. Please see FYI.
Warm regards,
Cesar Rossatto
There was a wonderful tribute to Howard Zinn in the Chronicle of Higher
Education this morning:
Howard Zinn: A Public Intellectual Who Mattered
By Marc Bousquet
A guest post by Henry Giroux
In 1977 I took my first job in higher education at Boston University.
One reason I went there was because Howard Zinn was teaching there at
the time. As a high-school teacher, Howard's book, Vietnam: the Logic of
Withdrawal, published in 1968, had a profound effect on me. Not only was
it infused with a passion and sense of commitment that I admired as a
high-school teacher and tried to internalize as part of my own pedagogy,
but it captured something about the passion, sense of commitment and
respect for solidarity that came out of Howard's working-class
background. It offered me a language, history and politics that allowed
me to engage critically and articulate my opposition to the war that was
raging at the time.
I grew up in Providence, Rhode Island, and rarely met or read any
working-class intellectuals. After reading James Baldwin, hearing
William Kunstler and Stanley Aronowitz give talks, I caught a glimpse of
what it meant to occupy such a fragile, contradictory and often scorned
location. But reading Howard gave me the theoretical tools to understand
more clearly how the mix of biography, cultural capital and class
location could be finely honed into a viable and laudable politics.
Later, as I got to know Howard personally, I was able to fill in the
details about his working-class background and his intellectual
development. We had grown up in similar neighborhoods, shared a similar
cultural capital and we both probably learned more from the streets than
we had ever learned in formal schooling. There was something about
Howard's fearlessness, his courage, his willingness to risk not just his
academic position, but also his life, that marked him as special --
untainted by the often corrupting privileges of class entitlement.
Before I arrived in Boston to begin teaching at Boston University,
Howard was a mythic figure for me and I was anxious to meet him in real
life. How I first encountered him was perfectly suited to the myth.
While walking to my first class, as I was nearing the university, filled
with the trepidation of teaching a classroom of students, I caught my
first glimpse of Howard. He was standing on a box with a bullhorn in
front of the Martin Luther King memorial giving a talk calling for
opposition to Silber's attempt to undermine any democratic or
progressive function of the university. The image so perfectly matched
my own understanding of Howard that I remember thinking to myself, this
has to be the perfect introduction to such a heroic figure.
Soon afterwards, I wrote him a note and rather sheepishly asked if we
could meet. He got back to me in a day; we went out to lunch soon
afterwards, and a friendship developed that lasted over 30 years. While
teaching at Boston University, I often accompanied Howard when he went
to high schools to talk about his published work or his plays. I sat in
on many of his lectures and even taught one of his graduate courses. He
loved talking to students and they were equally attracted to him. His
pedagogy was dynamic, directive, focused, laced with humor and always
open to dialog and interpretation. He was a magnificent teacher, who
shredded all notions of the classroom as a place that was as
uninteresting as it was often irrelevant to larger social concerns. He
urged his students not just to learn from history, but to use it as a
resource to sharpen their intellectual prowess and hone their civic
responsibilities.
Howard refused to separate what he taught in the university classroom,
or any forum for that matter, from the most important problems and
issues facing the larger society. But he never demanded that students
follow his own actions; he simply provided a model of what a combination
of knowledge, teaching and social commitment meant. Central to Howard's
pedagogy was the belief that teaching students how to critically
understand a text or any other form of knowledge was not enough. They
also had to engage such knowledge as part of a broader engagement with
matters of civic agency and social responsibility. How they did that was
up to them, but, most importantly, they had to link what they learned to
a self-reflective understanding of their own responsibility as engaged
individuals and social actors.
He offered students a range of options. He wasn't interested in molding
students in the manner of Pygmalion, but in giving them the widest
possible set of choices and knowledge necessary for them to view what
they learned as an act of freedom and empowerment. There is a certain
poetry in his pedagogical style and scholarship and it is captured in
his belief that one can take a position without standing still. He
captured this sentiment well in a comment he made in his autobiography,
"You Can't Be Neutral on a Moving Train." He wrote:
"From the start, my teaching was infused with my own history. I would
try to be fair to other points of view, but I wanted more than
'objectivity'; I wanted students to leave my classes not just better
informed, but more prepared to relinquish the safety of silence, more
prepared to speak up, to act against injustice wherever they saw it.
This, of course, was a recipe for trouble."
In fact, Howard was under constant attack by John Silber, then president
of Boston University, because of his scholarship and teaching. One
expression of that attack took the form of freezing Howard's salary for
years.
Howard loved watching independent and Hollywood films and he and I and
Roz [Howard's wife] saw many films together while I was in Boston. I
remember how we quarreled over "Last Tango in Paris." I loved the film,
but he disagreed. But Howard disagreed in a way that was persuasive and
instructive. He listened, stood his ground, and, if he was wrong, often
said something like, "O.K., you got a point," always accompanied by that
broad and wonderful smile.
What was so moving and unmistakable about Howard was his humility, his
willingness to listen, his refusal of all orthodoxies and his sense of
respect for others. I remember once when he was leading a faculty strike
at BU in the late 1970s and I mentioned to him that too few people had
shown up. He looked at me and made it very clear that what should be
acknowledged is that some people did show up and that was a beginning.
He rightly put me in my place that day -- a lesson I never forgot.
Howard was no soppy optimist, but someone who believed that human
beings, in the face of injustice and with the necessary knowledge, were
willing to resist, organize, and collectively struggle. Howard led the
committee organized to fight my firing by Silber. We lost that battle,
but Howard was a source of deep comfort and friendship for me during a
time when I had given up hope. I later learned that Silber, the
notorious right-wing enemy of Howard and anyone else on the left, had
included me on a top-10 list of blacklisted academics at BU. Hearing
that I shared that list with Howard was a proud moment for me. But
Howard occupied a special place in Silber's list of enemies, and he once
falsely accused Howard of arson, a charge he was later forced to retract
once the charge was leaked to the press.
Howard was one of the few intellectuals I have met who took education
seriously. He embraced it as both necessary for creating an informed
citizenry and because he rightly felt it was crucial to the very nature
of politics and human dignity. He was a deeply committed scholar and
intellectual for whom the line between politics and life, teaching and
civic commitment, collapsed into each other.
Howard never allowed himself to be seduced by threats, the seductions of
fame, or the need to tone down his position for the standard bearers of
the new illiteracy that now populates the mainstream media. As an
intellectual for the public, he was a model of dignity, engagement, and
civic commitment. He believed that addressing human suffering and social
issues mattered, and he never flinched from that belief. His commitment
to justice and the voices of those expunged from the official narratives
of power are evident in such works as his monumental and best-known
book, A People's History of the United States, but it was also evident
in many of his other works, talks, interviews, and in the wide scope of
public interventions that marked his long and productive life. Howard
provided a model of what it meant to be an engaged scholar, who was
deeply committed to sustaining public values and a civic life in ways
that linked theory, history, and politics to the everyday needs and
language that informed everyday life. He never hid behind a firewall of
jargon, refused to substitute irony for civic courage and disdained the
assumption that working-class and oppressed people were incapable of
governing themselves.
Unlike so many public relations intellectuals today, I never heard him
interview himself while talking to others. Everything he talked about
often pointed to larger social issues, and all the while, he completely
rejected any vestige of political and moral purity. His lack of rigidity
coupled with his warmness and humor often threw people off, especially
those on the left and right who seem to pride themselves on their often
zombie-like stoicism. But, then again, Howard was not a child of
privilege. He had a working-class sensibility, though hardly
romanticized, and sympathy for the less privileged in society along with
those whose voices had been kept out of the official narratives, as well
as a deeply felt commitment to solidarity, justice, dialogue, and hope.
And it was precisely this great sense of dignity and generosity in his
politics and life that often moved people who shared his company
privately or publicly. A few days before his death, he sent me an email
commenting on something I had written for Truthout about zombie
politics. (It astonishes me that this will have been the last
correspondence. Even at my age, the encouragement and support of this
man, this towering figure in my life, meant such a great deal.) His
response captures something so enduring and moving about his spirit. He
wrote:
"Henry, we are in a situation where mild rebuke, even critiques we
consider 'radical' are not sufficient. (Frederick Douglass's speech on
the Fourth of July in 1852, thunderously angry, comes close to what is
needed). Raising the temperature of our language, our indignation, is
what you are doing and what is needed. I recall that Sartre, close to
death, was asked: 'What do you regret?' He answered: 'I wasn't radical
enough.'"
I suspect that Howard would have said the same thing about himself. And
maybe no one can ever be radical enough, but Howard came close to that
ideal in his work, life, and politics. Howard's death is especially
poignant for me because I think the formative culture that produced
intellectuals like him is gone. He leaves an enormous gap in the lives
of many thousands of people who knew him and were touched by the reality
of the embodied and deeply felt politics he offered to all of us. I will
miss him, his emails, his work, his smile, and his endearing presence.
Of course, he would frown on such a sentiment, and with a smile would
more than likely say, "do more than mourn, organize." Of course, he
would be right, but maybe we can do both.
Henry A. Giroux currently holds the Global Television Network Chair in
Communication Studies at McMaster University. He is on the advisory
board of Truthout and the author, most recently, of Youth in a Suspect
Society: Democracy or Disposability? (Palgrave-Macmillan, 2009).
Manuel Avalos
Associate Vice Chancellor
Faculty Support and Development
Academic Affairs
University of North Carolina at Wilmington
601 S. College Rd.
Wilmington, NC 28403
910 962-2286
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