Welcome to My Social Justice High School

The bad advice adults gave me

Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Unsplash

“The teacher’s weak “Congratulations!” Opening a blue envelope as she said “This doesn’t really matter…” Award-winning SAT scores I swore to hide.

Eye rolls mocking me for wanting AP classes. Squalling protests over homework. Finding the book we read senior year in my middle school sister’s bookbag.”

This is a scene from Chapter 3 of my fiction piece IVY, where protagonist Seph Quark is told to hide his academic interests in favor of being something “different.”

The same scene happened to me with my ACT scores. I was told not to tell my friends I did well so they wouldn’t feel bad. I went to a private high school, one trying to correct the problems found in traditional education. We were told their curriculum was much better for our mental health.

I find it fitting that this piece is being published at The Coddling of the American Mind, as my high school’s curriculum is best described as “coddling us to death.”

The Coddling of My High School

Teachers employed a tactic they called “scaffolding,” which gives guidance so students wouldn’t be left to figure things out alone—for instance, using fill-in-the-blank worksheets in place of taking notes.

We were assigned 16 “senior exhibitions’ to prepare us for college (or as I like to call them, 16 actual homework assignments.) For instance, a test on “Calculations and Number Sense,” would include problems like, “Which number is in the hundreds place?”

Students could work on these homework assignments during regular classes, and we were also forced to attend summer school to make sure we finished them. Though it felt like we were being tested on things we should know in order to attend high school, our teachers told us, “Colleges want students who can challenge themselves. It’s not about being the smartest.”

No need for merit!

My art teacher taught us nothing. He offered three different electives — Comic Art, Drawing & Painting, and Bookbinding — but all were effectively a break period to do whatever we wanted, as long as we had some type of “art” for the school’s art show by the end of the year. We were told our teacher was missing qualifications, and the classes were named to look better on college applications.

My high school offered something called “spring mini-courses,” courses we paid for to study something special for a week. I signed up for a playwriting course, expecting something rigorous.

When we shared work for critique, I realized I wasted my money. We used something called “Liz Lerman style feedback.” As “all art is subjective,” our feedback was meant to help identify if the work met the artist’s intention. We were instructed to:

• Say what stood out to us

• Ask a question

• Say what we wanted to see more of

How could “learning what others wanted to see more of,” help us identify flaws in our work?

What if the work met the artist’s intentions, but failed in execution?

Weren’t we here to learn?

Luckily, artists were shielded from facing potential discomfort. After all, hearing criticism could make someone give up art.

---

Also by Margo Margan

• I'm Scared to Admit I'm Not Terrified: A Gen Zer reflects on the election

• How "The Coddling" Movie Helped Me: A Gen Zer's story

• “Why Do You Only Write About Gay Men?” My high school taught girls to fear straight men

• Will Homosexuality Be Pathologized Again? My mental health misdiagnosis opened my eyes to the threat

• Suffering from Anxiety? Maybe You’re Just Nervous

---

The Outside World is Deadly

While it may seem like we faced nothing difficult, this was not the case. My high school was sure to make us aware of society’s hard truths. Our curriculum had a social justice focus.

It began the first week of school.

We sat silently in the auditorium, as one by one, different identity groups were called to stand. While participation was optional, our principal told us we were “highly encouraged” to stand with our groups. I didn’t want to look selfish, so I did—even when I wanted to keep something private, like the disability I believed I had. (I was misdiagnosed with autism.)

I didn’t know these student’s names, but I knew which gender they had crushes on, and who had been diagnosed with mental disorders.

In fact, students were so happy to talk about challenging subjects that I knew which psychiatric medications everyone in my class was on.

In history class, we had a unit on social norms. We learned about influential sociologists, as well as a woman and a black man in the field. Our teachers made sure everyone felt “represented” so we would not become depressed.

Through this unit and others like it, we were shown footage from the darkest parts of American history. Riots against civil rights protestors? Yep. Stonewall Riots? Yep.

Pick a Historical U.S. Riot, I’ve seen every episode!

In English, we read books with themes of discrimination like Kate Chopin’s The Awakening, Gene Luen Yang’s American Born Chinese, and James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room. While my peers at other schools were reading To Kill a Mockingbird and practicing writing techniques, we were watching videos about Asian stereotypes and, yes, a documentary on the Stonewall Riots.

To Kill a Mockingbird was removed from our curriculum because the author was white.

Our school taught us to exercise critical thinking when analyzing texts. We learned that Shakespeare might be gay. We discussed if Nick from The Great Gatsby was gay.

Yes, Nick had a relationship with a woman, but she was the most masculine option he could choose. Yes, it was a book from the 1920s, but Fitzgerald, like Shakespeare before him, was definitely trying to slip some homosexuality into his work.

Yes, my teachers modeled the antics of middle school fanfiction authors who romanticize gays as supposedly being intellectually superior.

We were also sure to look for signs of prejudice in the texts. For instance, Giovanni’s Room was critiqued for lacking female representation. Sorry, Baldwin, not even your diversity credits could get you out of this one!

The Culture Spreads

It’s not a problem specific to only my high school. At the school where I interned for my gap year, these practices were not uniform, but they were starting to creep in among some of the staff.

For instance, I recall something from my leadership skills course — some of you may remember the class where my teacher asked if I was so quiet because my fellow student’s maleness made me uncomfortable.

We were shown something called an identity wheel (see above). The center circles are the “big ones,” as my teacher put it, the most important pieces of a person’s identity. Towards the outside are smaller, less important pieces.

We were asked to share what on the wheel we thought about the most. One of my classmates didn’t answer, saying it was “too personal.” I wish I had the courage he had.

Readers of IVY have told me that while Seph thinks about being gay a lot, it makes sense narratively and doesn’t feel preachy. Schools like mine and Seph’s pointed to a diagram and told us sexual orientation was the center of our personality. Whether it helps or hinders the narrative, it’s why I portray Seph thinking things like this: “…“being queer” was who I was meant to be. [...] I was coming out blazing or I was a deadbeat husk.”

The Aftermath

Did my school’s safety blanket of support prepare us to handle any challenges life threw at us? No.

My classmates snapped at the prick of a pin. When asked to read two chapters of Frankenstein— only ten pages—for a quiz the following day, the school was in an uproar. Students in this so-called “intensive” English class struggled so much, the teacher dropped the book in favor of reading a play adaptation. At least we learned Nick from Gatsby isn’t straight.

We were shown an inflated version of ugly truths. If we denied them, we were called cowards. But at the same time, the school babied us with frequent compliments. Instead of being taught to handle criticism, criticism was treated like a death sentence. We believed the world outside only contained bad apples—a mindset useful only for radical protesters.

Were we prepared for college? No.

A friend told me she hadn’t been challenged for so long she wasn’t even sure what she was capable of. She and nearly every person I knew from my school either had to transfer colleges or dropped out entirely. I can’t think of a single classmate of mine who actually graduated.

While many had mental health issues coming into my high school, I strongly believe the school made them worse. Moreover, the school drained the potential from many bright people who didn’t have mental health issues.

This scared me so much I canceled my own college plans. I was already dealing with a false diagnosis telling me I was going to barely get by. Seeing everyone I know fail made college seem hopeless.

A lot of artists say being judged for their craft gave them Imposter Syndrome. They try to counter this with “Don’t care what people think! All art has value!” mantras. But these statements never teach artists to accept reasonable critiques, and instead keep them reliant on validation.

Imposter syndrome? Try getting a scholarship-winning 4.0 you know you didn’t earn, and tell me you aren’t begging for criticism!

So, how did I not crumble like the rest?

Discipline. I could see through the facade, and decided to practice writing on my own. If it wasn’t for pushing myself with challenges like National Novel Writing Month, I probably wouldn’t have a shot at a job.

I tend to be hard on myself, but this comes from a place of not wanting to take compliments unless I know I’ve earned them. It’s not insecurity. It’s humility.

For instance, I used to write Warrior Cats fanfiction in notebooks during class. When people asked me what I was working on, I said, “Oh, just something dumb…”

My friends, teachers, everyone insisted “It’s not dumb!”

At first it might seem like they were just being polite. But no matter how much I insisted the piece was just a joke, the compliments never ceased… My notebook scribbles about shapeshifting anime cats were hailed as a masterpiece.

Sometimes, nobody will be there to put me in my place but me. But I’ve also had my share of negative feedback.

I’ve seen sexist comments. Homophobic comments. Angry liberal comments. They don’t stop me. I actually look forward to receiving these, like I’m earning battle scars.

And I need more training. So, go for it! Hit me with your best shot!