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I recently returned from an overnight trip to see some old family friends. They live about four hours away by car, so I only make it for a visit once every year or two. My friends have seven children, ranging from teenagers to young adults. So, there’s usually a milestone to celebrate in one of their kids’ lives, prompting me to make an annual trip. This year, it was the wedding of their oldest son.Their celebrations are always casual and relaxed, backyard parties including lots of food and drink. By the end of the evening, people either congregate around a bonfire or make their way into the living room.Their living room always makes an impression on me. Not because of its furniture or décor (it includes a well-worn couch and old piano, and is without a TV), but because of the way it welcomes and nourishes so many people.The room is typically full of people of all ages, races, and walks of life. It includes family members, old friends (like me), new neighbors and acquaintances, local migrant workers, single teenage mothers, children they are fostering (sometimes long-term, sometimes short-term), and even pet reptiles (this time I was introduced to an elderly snake who was struggling to deliver infertile eggs).The room provides a place to meet new people, to sing and dance around the piano, and to have conversations that relish in both the beauty and hardships of common humanity.Whenever I leave my friends’ house, I try to tell them how much grace I feel in their living room; I’m just so impressed by how a home created by two people can touch countless lives.And without a doubt, after each visit I reflect on my own life and reflect on how I might emulate some of their radical inclusivity and hospitality.I’ve been thinking about radical inclusivity quite a bit lately, anyway. Not so much in relation to my home, but to my classroom. I got to thinking about this while reading a new book by a former colleague of mine that notes how many diversity, equity, and inclusion programs and trauma-informed care trainings within the academy “remain entirely cognitively driven” and “situated within a deficiency praxis.” She says these programs are “not integrative or radical because they do not create ‘safe’ spaces for those of us who actively embody and allow our sensitive, intuitive implicit selves to be present”[i]The major insight I have taken away from this book is that in order to create these “safe” spaces, those of us within the academy need to resist the age-old structures of cognitive and colonial-patriarchal knowledge that have deemed all other ways of being and knowing as deficient.As a white tenured professor, I have certainly benefitted in many ways from this model. But I have also been reminded of the ways in which I have not measured up to this model: I am a woman, my family is blue-collar; my academic training has not been elite or traditional; and I have a proclivity for religion, and spiritual and embodied ways of knowing. That I have not been good enough has been said to me both directly and indirectly (in the form of jokes and insults) by professionals in the field, sometimes over “collegial” drinks and dinners, and sometimes as direct feedback in rejections from academic programs and teaching positions.Perhaps, because of these experiences, I have wanted something different for my students. I have wanted each and every student, regardless of their academic preparation, socioeconomic background, sexual orientation, or racial, gender, or religious identification, to feel welcome in my classroom and to have the opportunity to learn.Up until now, I’ve been trying to create this safe space mostly by my attitude and as a teacher. As much as possible, I try to connect with and meet each student where they are at. I do this by learning and using their chosen names, creating a space for them to connect their life experiences to course content, respecting differing opinions, and devoting some time in each class to checking in with how they are doing as people (not just as students). I also try to avoid using academic jargon, or ways of speaking which are unfamiliar to first-generation students.This, I hope, creates a safe and welcoming vibe similar to that in my friends’ living room: a space that is free from pretense, and in its simplicity allows for a deeper recognition of the diverse beauty and hardships of human experience, which comprise our common humanity.Something interesting about my friends is that one of them is a medical doctor, but nothing about their home, mannerisms, or even the company they keep indicates this to others. They intentionally live a radically simple lifestyle, without concern for status, possessions, or notoriety. Their home embodies a space that is free from the paradigms which are typically used to measure human worth. This, of course, is a sign of resistance, and is perhaps the main reason that people from all walks of life feel so welcome and comfortable in their space.This is a type of resistance that I can introduce to my classroom practice to make the space even safer. Beyond a welcoming presence, and course material that is representationally inclusive, I’m now considering how to reimagine the cognitive structures in which my courses are based. How might I measure learning and construct assessments in ways that are, dare I say, nonacademic? How can I create a space where first-generation and prep school students alike are on the same footing? What would an assignment in a first-year theology course look like, that allows people to learn in ways more unique to them and less-determined as deficient by old paradigms? How can I signal a deep valuing and respect for diverse and embodied ways of knowing?I look forward to suggestions from others! Notes & Bibliography[i] Iris Gildea, The Poetry of Belonging (Toronto: Mad and Crip Theology Press, 2024)

It’s common these days, you may have seen, on academic conference name tags or at the bottom of email signatures, to indicate one’s pronouns--not “preferred” pronouns, since this isn’t some kind of preference, but rather just an identity a person holds, like any other. It’s happening in other work spaces too. The public declaration of pronouns emerges out of a concern that we may incorrectly assume and use someone’s pronouns, thereby misgendering them, which can result in feelings of alienation, exclusion, exhaustion, invalidation, marginalization, invisibility, or worse. Articles, posts, and university websites (such as this one) will sometimes suggest that instructors ask students to go around in a circle (a “pronoun round” or a “pronoun go-around”) and indicate their pronouns in front of the whole group early on in the semester. The intentions of pronoun disclosure (like so many on-campus diversity and inclusion efforts) are, of course, good. It is intended as a form of inclusion. It is intended to foster a sense of belonging. It is intended to signal to members of the transgender community that such spaces, in the words of my campus, are a “safe zone” for those whose sex assigned or registered at birth may be different than their identified gender. Since research shows how “trans* students are forced to develop skills and strategies for navigating a collegiate environment that continues to be shaped without them in mind” (Nicolazzo, Trans* in College, 2016), asking about pronouns is thought to be one small practice that eases their way. There are concerns, however, with the exercise of going around the room (actual or virtual) and inviting people to share their pronouns. As one Harvard student wrote, this practice “can actually harm the community it’s intended to support.” For some, pronouns may be a private matter. Some students may be “out” as trans to their friends or family, but not ready to share this information with just anyone else—people like peers and professors they don’t necessarily know or trust. Some students may, of course, not be out to anyone at all! Some students may be in the process of a transition and not sure yet which pronouns they would like others to use. Some students may not actually identify as trans, even though others in the room might make such assumptions (based on limited notions of how different genders are supposed to look or behave). Some students may feel the exercise draws attention to them; they may feel spotlighted or singled out, which can be uncomfortable and stressful. Some students may not feel, despite the exercise being framed as an invitation, that they can really decline (since doing so may invite scrutiny and further assumptions). Whatever answer is given in the go-around may immediately place a person in a box, a box that inevitably fails to capture the full person and their complexity. There may not be a learning environment created yet in which it feels safe to disclose this kind of information. One common justification for the exercise is that “when only trans, non-binary, and gender non-conforming people share pronouns, it makes it easy for them to be targeted and harrassed.” But, of course, if transgender people are going to be targeted and harassed, this could very easily (more easily?) happen once they’ve publicly revealed this information, whether or not others have too. This ritual has been called, by some trans critics, a “performance.” Paradoxically, it may privilege those for whom pronouns are “easy” or “settled”—cis folks whose gender and sex align—and further “other” trans folks. Like many other so-called acts of inclusion, it may simply make those of us in the dominant group feel like we’re being good allies, with the accompanying self-pats on the back, when we are simply not doing much to help at all. Think of the Instagram black squares in purported support of Black Lives Matter, whose “performative allyship” resulted in the “the memeification of social justice activism and no substantial progress toward diversity, equity, and inclusion.” Plenty of pieces, like this one, talk about actual needs (e.g., medical and economic) that the transgender community cares quite a bit about. Yet I still find myself not wanting to misgender my students! It seems like such a low-hanging fruit in terms of basic decency. Though I understand that, for many trans folks, someone accidentally using the wrong pronouns (when the intention is there and good) is not really a “disaster”—and can usually be remedied by a simple apology and changed future action—I still would like to proceed with care and a focus on forming good relationships from the get-go. So, what is there to do? One way I’ve solicited pronouns, while avoiding some of the problems of the circle strategy, is on a “getting to know you” questionnaire that I require students to fill out as their first assignment. They get full credit simply for completing it. The questionnaire asks many questions, mostly about why they chose my class, their prior experience studying religion, how their current position toward religion may help AND hinder their learning, and so on. This is an assignment they turn in to me only (though it seeds in-class activities), so there is no forced public disclosure. However, I do indicate on the form that I plan to use these pronouns to refer to students in class, so the pronouns would become public, if a student decided to disclose. That way, everyone can make the best decision for themselves about whether they want this information out there. This is actually an adjustment I made to the form, after learning that this intention wasn’t clear. Originally, I didn’t state why I wanted to know this information or how it would be used. That’s inclusive teaching for you. Always a learning process! And, even with this information, I have accidentally misgendered students before, so being equipped with the correct information isn’t any guarantee we won’t cause harm. But it does make it just a bit easier. Now, what else can we do, beyond the bare minimum, to ensure our classrooms and other learning environments are as inclusive and welcoming and caring as possible, for trans students and all others?

Countless hate crimes since Election Day already show the widespread effect of the President-Elect’s unpredictable nature and his death-inducing ideologies: racism, islamophobia, heteropatriarchy, xenophobia, anti-Semitism. What do we as higher educators do when our global context is unstable, the future is uncertain, and the local context is even dangerous for our students? The first matter is safety. We need to make sure that our students are safe. If they are not, we need to point them to resources for protection and help. As teachers in a divided nation, we cannot add to the authoritative calls for unity, which serve only to silence the cries of the oppressed further. Advising victims to be in union with their oppressors is dangerous. What we can do is signal to our students—especially those who are immigrants, people of color, LGBT, Muslim, Jewish—that our classroom is a safe zone. Wearing a safety-pin may offer them a palpable sign, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. A much deeper and more credible sign is committed to work to fixing these systemic injustices, both inside and outside of the classroom. For example, as a white professor, I could claim that I’m not racist, or I could actively engage in anti-racist work. The difference is critical for our students given the current political climate, wherein silence signals complicity. As higher educators, writing and teaching are the areas in which we can give ourselves the most effectively because this is where we are trained and have expertise. Yet perhaps like many of you, I have felt the need lately to re-evaluate everything I’ve ever done. The current context of global oppression demands this. It is urgent that we remove any curriculum and practice that reinforces systems of domination. It is also time, if we have not already done so, to heed bell hooks’ call to “take the risks that engaged pedagogy requires” and make our very “teaching practices a site of resistance.”[1] Practically speaking, in terms of content and curriculum, it should be a given that we include in our reading lists those groups often underrepresented intellectually. What we “progressive” professors are often unaware of, however, is how we use such readings. As Stephen Ray warns, we cannot keep placing the “texts of historically marginalized communities” at the “margins of conversation” (e.g., using Hildegard of Bingen as a “counterfoil” to Anselm's atonement theory or James Cones as a critique of the white American theological tradition). Such usage results in our students experiencing “these thinkers as primarily kibitzers and only vaguely as primary contributors to the tradition.”[2] Given that white nationalists are rising to cabinet level authority in our current political context, it is imperative that we stop centering the work of European male thinkers. This also relates to how we manage the space/time given to marginalized students within our classroom. hooks suggests “an inversion of hierarchal structures,” wherein the professor uses her/his authority to decenter the voices of the privileged.[3] One pedagogical strategy, for instance, would be to begin each class of an entire semester with a reading from the Quran. This not only resists islamophobia but also signifies to the class the privileging of Muslim students’ voices. As hooks reminds us, we professors too often critique domination from an intellectual perspective, emphasizing “an understanding of the politics of difference, of race, class gender, even though classroom dynamics remain conventional, business as usual.”[4] As election exit polls have shown, our white students have a long way to come in understanding intersectionality; maybe this is why. Furthermore, in this post-election aftermath, teachers of religion and theology need to be asking ourselves an obvious and basic question: Do our students have the ability to recognize that their political stances rely on particular theological or philosophical assumptions? In more general terms, no matter which topic we teach, we need to consider the degree to which our pedagogies reinforce the dualistic separation of the public and private spheres and the mind/body split.[5] Do we craft assignments that require students to make connections between their life experiences and course material? As teachers, do we model these connections for our students? I invite discussion in the comment boxes below. What pedagogical strategies of resistance have you used effectively? Please be specific.   [1] bell hooks, Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom (New York: Routledge, 1994), 21. [2] Stephen Ray, “E-Racing While Black,” in Being Black, Teaching Black: Politics and Pedagogy in Religious Studies, ed. Nancy Lynne Westfield (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2008), 52. [3] hooks, 188. [4] Ibid., 180. [5] Ibid., 16.