Education, Faculty of
Educational Studies (EDST), Department of
DSpace
UBCV
Paterson, Kathryn
Doctor of Philosophy - PhD
University of British Columbia
This dissertation explores how elementary educators in Alberta, Canada make sense of and engage with queer, trans, and gender non-conforming diversity in elementary education, and how those understandings inform their pedagogy and practices. Contextualized within Alberta’s political conservatism, this research consists of a policy analysis of Alberta Education’s Guidelines for Best Practices and 12 school district policies, 14 interviews with elementary educators and two group discussions. This dissertation makes a critical contribution to the field by exploring how elementary education is shaped by necropolitical regimes of normativity that bestow privilege and support to some queer and trans kids, while increasing vulnerability and precarity for others. By focusing on discursive practices, this research explores why current government and school district policies, professional development, administrative interventions, and classroom strategies for queer and trans “inclusion” are insufficient. Findings underscore the limitations of an individualized, reactive, “accommodation approach” to change in schools that does little to confront larger, systemic issues in Canada’s public education system. Highlighting the workings of white settler colonialism, cisnormativity, heteronormativity, and neoliberalism, this research discusses how even supportive and knowledgeable educators often perpetuate harmful discourses despite their best intentions. Educators’ stories reveal the pressures, risks, and responsibilities they face as they navigate institutional constraints that are not conducive to implementing queer, trans, and gender diversity into the classroom and school in meaningful ways. By critically examining the limitations of existing approaches to building “safe, inclusive, and welcoming schools,” this research aims to contribute to a better schooling future for queer and trans students in Alberta, thereby improving conditions for all students.
“IT’S A VERY CAREFUL LINE WE WALK”: HOW EDUCATORS RESIST, NAVIGATE, AND MAKE SENSE OF THE QUEER, TRANS NECROPOLITICAL LANDSCAPE OF ELEMENTARY EDUCATION by Kathryn Paterson B.A., Mount Allison University, 2013 M.A., Brock University, 2015 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Educational Studies) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) April 2021 © Kathryn Paterson, 2021 ii The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the dissertation entitled: “It’s a very careful line we walk”: How educators resist, navigate, and make sense of the queer, trans necropolitical landscape of elementary education submitted by Kathryn (Kate) Paterson in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Educational Studies Examining Committee: Dr. Deirdre Kelly, Professor, Educational Studies, UBC Co-supervisor Dr. Mona Gleason, Professor, Educational Studies, UBC Co-supervisor Dr. Travers, Professor, Sociology, SFU Supervisory Committee Member Dr. Harper Keenan, Professor, Curriculum & Pedagogy, UBC University Examiner Dr. Claudia Ruitenberg, Professor, Educational Studies, UBC University Examiner Dr. Elizabeth Meyer, Professor, School of Education, University of Colorado Boulder External Examiner iii Abstract This dissertation explores how elementary educators in Alberta, Canada make sense of and engage with queer, trans, and gender non-conforming diversity in elementary education, and how those understandings inform their pedagogy and practices. Contextualized within Alberta’s political conservatism, this research consists of a policy analysis of Alberta Education’s Guidelines for Best Practices and 12 school district policies, 14 interviews with elementary educators and two group discussions. This dissertation makes a critical contribution to the field by exploring how elementary education is shaped by necropolitical regimes of normativity that bestow privilege and support to some queer and trans kids, while increasing vulnerability and precarity for others. By focusing on discursive practices, this research explores why current government and school district policies, professional development, administrative interventions, and classroom strategies for queer and trans “inclusion” are insufficient. Findings underscore the limitations of an individualized, reactive, “accommodation approach” to change in schools that does little to confront larger, systemic issues in Canada’s public education system. Highlighting the workings of white settler colonialism, cisnormativity, heteronormativity, and neoliberalism, this research discusses how even supportive and knowledgeable educators often perpetuate harmful discourses despite their best intentions. Educators’ stories reveal the pressures, risks, and responsibilities they face as they navigate institutional constraints that are not conducive to implementing queer, trans, and gender diversity into the classroom and school in meaningful ways. By critically examining the limitations of existing approaches to building “safe, inclusive, and welcoming schools,” this research aims to contribute to a better schooling future for queer and trans students in Alberta, thereby improving conditions for all students. iv Lay Summary Research over the past several decades has identified elementary education as a site where children learn traditional, dominant, and oppressive understandings of gender identity, gender expression, and sexual orientation. Through policy analysis, interviews, and group discussions, this research explores how 14 elementary educators in Alberta understand and engage with gender and sexual diversity in their schools and classrooms. Findings suggest that current policies and approaches to accommodating queer, trans, and gender non-conforming students do not address underlying issues in Alberta’s schooling system that are rooted in racism, colonialism, and oppressive norms around gender and sexuality. The stories of educators in this study reveal the pressures, risks, and responsibilities they face as they navigate increased workloads, class sizes, and parental concerns that impact their ability to create the kinds of learning environments necessary to actively support and affirm queer, trans, and gender diverse students. v Preface This dissertation is the sole intellectual work of the author and all research was conducted independently. This research is covered by the Behavioural Research Ethics Board Certificate number H18-02883. vi Table of Contents Abstract ......................................................................................................................................... iii Lay Summary ................................................................................................................................ iv Preface ............................................................................................................................................ v Table of Contents .......................................................................................................................... vi List of Tables ................................................................................................................................. xi List of Figures .............................................................................................................................. xii Acknowledgements ..................................................................................................................... xiii Chapter 1: Introduction ................................................................................................................ 1 1.1 Study Overview ............................................................................................................... 3 1.2 Clarification of Terminology ........................................................................................... 5 1.2.1 Terms and “Definitions” .......................................................................................... 7 1.3 Research Context and Rationale .................................................................................... 10 1.3.1 Queer Research in Alberta ..................................................................................... 14 1.4 Organization of Dissertation .......................................................................................... 19 Chapter 2: Literature Review: The (Continuing) Legacy of Normative Gender and Sexuality in Elementary Education ........................................................................................... 20 2.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................... 20 2.2 (Cis)gender and (Hetero)sexual Schooling Practices: Historical Roots ........................ 22 2.3 Contemporary (Cis)gender and (Hetero)sexual Schooling Practices ............................ 26 2.4 Queer, Trans, and Gender Non-Conformity in Canada’s Public Schools ..................... 29 2.4.1 Queer, Trans, and Gender Non-Conformity in Elementary Education ................. 33 vii 2.5 LGBTQ+ School Policies as “Protection” .................................................................... 39 2.6 Queering Education in Neoliberal Times ...................................................................... 43 2.7 Intersections of “Childhood” with Queer, Trans, and Gender Non-Conformity ........... 47 Chapter 3: Theoretical Concepts and Frameworks ................................................................. 52 3.1 Introduction: Queer Theory and Necropolitics .............................................................. 52 3.2 Heteronormativity .......................................................................................................... 58 3.3 The Sex/Gender System ................................................................................................ 61 3.4 The Heterosexual Matrix ............................................................................................... 64 3.5 Gender Policing and Passing ......................................................................................... 69 3.6 Homo/trans-normativity and Homonationalism ............................................................ 74 3.7 Disability and Disabling Environments ......................................................................... 80 3.8 Conclusion ..................................................................................................................... 81 Chapter 4: Study Design: Queer(ing) Methods and Methodologies ....................................... 84 4.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................... 84 4.2 Provincial Context: “Hey hey, ho ho, Jason Kenney has got to go!” ............................ 85 4.3 Methodological Influences ............................................................................................ 87 4.4 Methodological Approaches .......................................................................................... 89 4.4.1 Policy Analysis ...................................................................................................... 89 4.4.2 Epistemological Approach to Interviews .............................................................. 91 4.4.2.1 Interviews with Educators ................................................................................. 93 4.4.3 Small Group Discussions ...................................................................................... 96 4.5 Participant Recruitment ................................................................................................. 99 4.6 Description of Participants .......................................................................................... 100 viii 4.7 Being Reflexive in the Field: “I want your story, too” ............................................... 107 4.7.1 Queer Reflexivity: Revealing versus Concealing Queerness in the Field ........... 111 4.7.2 Negotiating My Role as “Researcher” ................................................................ 114 4.8 Analysis of Interview and Group Discussion Data ..................................................... 118 4.9 Conclusion ................................................................................................................... 122 Chapter 5: From Policy to Practice: Relying on an “Accommodation Approach” for QTGD Students ...................................................................................................................................... 124 5.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................. 124 5.2 The Alberta Guidelines for Best Practices .................................................................. 127 5.2.1 Framing QTGD Students as “Problems” to be “Solved” .................................... 135 5.2.2 Maintaining Cisnormativity and Heteronormativity ........................................... 138 5.3 Alberta School District Policies .................................................................................. 141 5.3.1 Problem Representations in School District Policies .......................................... 143 5.3.2 GSAs as the “Solution” ....................................................................................... 145 5.4 Conclusion ................................................................................................................... 146 Chapter 6: “Bring us the ‘broken children’”: Schools as Sites of Normativity .................... 151 6.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................. 151 6.2 “Celebrating Diversity” without “Drawing Attention” ............................................... 155 6.2.1 “A Double Whammy”: Reflections on Racial Diversity and Intersectionality ... 161 6.2.2 The Limits of Diversity: Who Gets to be Celebrated? ........................................ 165 6.3 Lesbian, Gay, and (Binary) Trans: How Educators Seek to “Make it Normal” .......... 171 6.4 Conclusion ................................................................................................................... 176 ix Chapter 7: “She 100% looks like a boy”: Understanding, Navigating, and Accommodating QTGD Students in Cisnormative Contexts ............................................................................. 179 7.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................. 179 7.2 Cisnormative Classrooms, Schools, and Practices ...................................................... 183 7.3 Sex/Gender-Segregated Spaces: “Where are they going to go to the bathroom?” .... 192 7.3.1 The Single Stall “Transgender bathroom”: But “You’re not handicapped!” .... 194 7.4 Conclusion: Queer Responsibility, School Reactivity, and Student Accommodation 205 Chapter 8: “I can’t get through the curriculum as it is”: Exploring the Barriers to Creating Queer, Trans, and Gender Affirming Classrooms and Schools ............................................ 210 8.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................. 210 8.2 Fitting it in: Neoliberalism in Elementary Education .................................................. 212 8.3 “The school knows nothing”: Professional Development and Administrative Support (or Lack Thereof) .................................................................................................................... 225 8.4 “Be careful…we don’t want lawsuits”: Fear of Parents and Parental Fears ............... 234 8.4.1 Parental Dissent or Compliance: Applying “Spoon Theory” .............................. 242 8.5 Conclusion ................................................................................................................... 246 Chapter 9: Educators’ Risks and Motivations in Supporting QTGD Students .................. 249 9.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................. 249 9.2 “Every year is a new coming out process”: Personal and Professional Risks ............ 249 9.3 “I bring my past with me”: Personal Responsibility and Motivations ........................ 260 9.3.1 “Like me”: Queer Adult Origins in Supporting QTGD Children ....................... 265 9.4 Conclusion ................................................................................................................... 270 Chapter 10: Conclusion ............................................................................................................ 275 x 10.1 Introduction: “A tougher path” ................................................................................... 275 10.2 Summary of Findings .................................................................................................. 276 10.3 Research Limitations ................................................................................................... 284 10.4 Contribution and Significance ..................................................................................... 286 10.5 Suggestions for Harm Reduction ................................................................................. 288 10.6 Looking Ahead: Recontextualizing the Research in 2020 .......................................... 293 10.6.1 Suggestions for Future Research ......................................................................... 298 10.7 Concluding Thoughts: Imagining Queerness in Elementary Education ..................... 299 Bibliography ............................................................................................................................... 303 Appendices ................................................................................................................................. 346 Appendix A - Interview Guide ................................................................................................ 346 Appendix B - Demographic Survey ........................................................................................ 350 Appendix C - Recruitment Poster ............................................................................................ 351 Appendix D - Letter of Invitation ............................................................................................ 352 xi List of Tables Table 4.1 Participant demographics ............................................................................................ 103 xii List of Figures Figure 8.1 Public education system ............................................................................................. 220 xiii Acknowledgements Pursuing a doctoral degree is challenging on many levels. I credit my ability to complete this program to my incredible support system and community. I am grateful to my advisors, Dr. Deirdre Kelly and Dr. Mona Gleason, who encouraged and supported me to become a stronger, more discerning researcher through their thoughtful feedback and guidance. I thank them for their steady and calm presence, continued belief in my project and, most importantly, for their vote of confidence in my skills and abilities. I thank my committee member, Dr. Travers, for their invaluable contributions to my dissertation and to my scholarly development. Their expertise in the field and thoughtful critiques helped push my work towards its full potential. I gratefully acknowledge the Faculty of Education Graduate Award, the University of British Columbia’s Four Year Doctoral Fellowship, and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council, Joseph-Armand Bombardier Canadian Graduate Doctoral Scholarship for funding my degree. Completing a doctoral dissertation is challenging in the best of times, and even more so during a pandemic. I would not be where I am today without the unconditional love and support of my friends and family. Words cannot properly express my gratitude for my parents, John and Kathy, whose incredible belief in my work and unwavering support of my dreams have held me through all of life’s ups and downs. I thank my spouse, Taelor, for loving me through every challenge, success, and curveball over the past five years. There is no one I would rather have standing by my side. Many people have cheered me on, and I am appreciative of each and every one of them. I am especially grateful to Robyn LeBlanc, Sam Eldridge, Layla Cameron, Neeyati Shah, Kelly Cubbon, David Paterson, Stéphanie Black, JoAnna Herring, Jenna Boksteyn, Andrea Doucet, Christa Jehnichen and Chris Jehnichen. I am indebted to A.J. Lowik for their kindness, compassion, and discerning intellect throughout this process. Through our long-distance commiserating, collaboration, and co-editing, I have found a true and lifelong friend. Finally, I am deeply appreciative of the educators who have dedicated so much of their time and energy to supporting queer, trans, and gender non-conforming kids, and who so generously shared their experiences and stories with me. This research would not have been possible without them. 1 Chapter 1: Introduction “Little Leah1 is such a blessing for the school to have a child – plus one who’s so gregarious and outgoing and sweet, just a nice kid. A great ambassador for the [LGBTQ+] community, ‘cause no one’s threatened by it. Everybody thinks, ‘what? Leah’s normal. Leah’s totally normal.’” (Bill, rural elementary school principal) On a typical snowy Albertan winter’s day, I travelled to a small elementary school, tucked away in rural Alberta, where I interviewed both the principal, Bill, and grade-four teacher, Susan. After being greeted by friendly staff and colourful posters, I began my interview with Bill in his office. It was not long before Bill was telling me about the “overt displays of the [rainbow] flag and the stickers” in his school and the importance of them: “some children need more explicit support than others and this [the LGBTQ+2] community is one of those.” Throughout my interviews with Bill and Susan, I quickly learned about Leah, a student who was enveloped in “a big umbrella of love and support” (Bill) while she transitioned MTF3 in grade two. Bill and Susan’s accounts of how the school rallied around Leah are heartwarming – different from the stories shared by other participants in my study where trans or gender non-conforming students were not as fully embraced or understood (if at all). The following are quotes compiled from my interview with Susan where she detailed how Leah transitioned during the school year: So [Leah’s] mom came in and presented to the staff. She had a little presentation, like a slide show. She was so brave. She was so brave. She showed us beautiful pictures and took us through the whole walk [and] she was brilliant. She started with the male pronouns and [said], “we had a little boy and his name was [Leah]4, and we did this, and this…”. And she showed us pictures of him growing up. And then she started to talk about how her little boy wanted to wear these kinds of clothes at home, wanted to play 1 All names and places are anonymized through pseudonyms. 2 See section 1.2 for clarification on the language used throughout this dissertation. 3 MTF stands for “male to female” – or, assigned male at birth to living and presenting as female. 4 Bill and Susan both used Leah’s deadname (the name given at birth that is no longer used) in the interviews. In these cases, I will use: [Leah]. 2 with these kinds of dolls at home - and what did they did as a family to try to wrench that little spirit back into the box. How that journey as a family went, where they realized they needed to stop. That this was not okay, that this was not honouring that little person and how much they loved - her. And how that love really just allowed them to move through this really hard journey… As she went through the story, the pronouns changed and the pictures changed and the hair grew longer and the shoes got sparklier and it was just - it was beautiful. I was in tears for the entire time, because I just felt so worried for Leah’s mom because I could tell - her voice was quaking and her hands were shaking and how much courage that took to stand in front of all of us and say, “this is our little person who we love and please don't hurt her.” According to Bill, Leah is a celebrated and welcomed member of the school community, spoken about as if she were the impetus for change in their school (a likely possibility), and cited in our interview as a symbol of the school’s stance on “diversity” and “inclusion.” Perhaps most notably, Bill shared with me how “non-threatening” and “normal” Leah is (see opening quote). He also stated, It’s nice too that [Leah’s] a likeable child, which I have to say makes a difference. [It] shouldn’t, because the little bastards are also kids we’ve got to take care of… some kids are hard to like. Leah’s not. Leah’s a lovely person. The story above of how Leah and her family strategically approached her transition in the middle of the school year, and the kinds of support she was (or was not) afforded by the school community, serves as a touchstone for the many questions and lines of inquiry that arose throughout my study. What privileges does Leah’s family possess that allowed them the time, energy, ability, knowledge, and courage to advocate for and support their daughter’s transition in front of the entire school staff? What privileges does Leah herself have that enables her to be “likeable,” “non-threatening,” and “totally normal,” as Bill describes her. While I cannot be certain of her economic or racial status5, Leah is perhaps what might be described as a “palatable 5 Susan describes the school as “very white” with “little to no ethnic diversity.” Bill describes the school as “fairly heterogeneous, like very Caucasian” with the lowest socio-economic population in the school division. 3 trans child,” one who does not “rock the boat” or cause too much of a commotion in the school or parental community because she fits so easily within the cisnormativity6 of her school and classroom. I do not say this to discount Leah’s experiences or what she has had to endure, particularly as a child made inherently more vulnerable due to her trans identity.7 As Travers (2018) reminds us, “it is deeply problematic to be critical in any way of trans kids who conform to binary norms either because they self-define as boys or girls or as a means of reducing their precarity” (p. 178, emphasis in original). Rather, I am critical of our educational system and its institutional reliance on a Euro-colonial, cisnormative, heteronormative binary model of sex/gender. As this dissertation explores, queer, trans, and gender diverse (QTGD) students are often understood as problems that need fixing, accommodation, or assimilation to fit into dominant oppressive discourses which serve as part of the foundation of our schools. It is in these spaces that I see the limitations of queer and trans inclusion, the shortcomings of focusing on diversity, and how we are failing kids over and over again – not just queer and trans kids, but all kids, as elected officials, administrators, teachers, parents, and adults more broadly continually define who and what children can be or ought to be. 1.1 Study Overview The purpose of this research is to explore the factors that motivate and support elementary educators8 who are committed to creating queer, trans, gender diverse and affirming schools and 6 The privileged belief and assumption that a person’s gender identity matches their sex/gender assigned at birth. 7 This is not to say that trans children must be vulnerable. Rather, as Travers (2018) clarifies, “trans kids experience precarity because they are ‘other’ in binary-based schemes of sex/gender differentiation” (p. 44). 8 To explore more of a whole school approach to queer, trans, and gender inclusion in elementary education, I opted to interview educators rather than just teachers. By “educators,” I refer to anyone who works within the elementary school setting or environment. For the purpose of recruitment, this definition included librarians, support staff, teachers, principals, and educational consultants, etc. 4 classrooms. This research also explored the specific strategies undertaken by educators, in their particular role or position within elementary education, as to how they supported QTGD students or sought to create more affirming educational environments. The broader purpose of this dissertation is to contribute to a better schooling future for queer and trans students in Alberta, thereby improving conditions for all students. The research consists of a policy analysis of relevant policies and documents that explicitly mention or are for/about queer and trans students, 14 interviews with elementary educators, and two group discussions with interview participants. I had originally intended to ground my research in the Alberta government’s document, Guidelines for Best Practices: Creating Learning Environments that Respect Diverse Sexual Orientations, Gender Identities and Gender Expressions (Alberta Government, 2016) and explore how educators made sense of this document and implemented its recommendations into practice. I quickly learned that very few participants were aware of the existence of this document (a finding noteworthy in and of itself); thus, I shifted the focus of my project to educators’ broad understandings of queer and trans issues in elementary education, the discourses they draw upon to inform their practice, and possibilities for creating queer(ed) educational spaces. This research is guided by the following questions: 1. How do elementary educators “make sense” of and engage with queer, trans, and gender non-conforming diversity in elementary education9? a. What discourses do educators draw upon to inform their understandings and practice in the classroom and school environment? 9 In Alberta, elementary education is grades K-6. 5 2. What supports (or impedes) elementary educators’ ability and/or willingness to incorporate queer, trans, and gender non-conforming diversity in the classroom, as well as perceived or felt responsibility for this work? 3. What might a “queered” classroom and school environment, culture, and pedagogy look like? What is needed to create one? 1.2 Clarification of Terminology As our understandings of gender identity, expression, and sexuality evolve, so too does our language. In the recruitment materials and initial writing of this research, I used “LGBTQ2SA+ and gender diversity”10 to describe the identities of the students and the specific communities this research is intended to support. I used this language on recruitment materials and in conversations with participants to be explicit about the intent of this research and to reach those who were interested in this area of activism or advocacy. I was concerned if I were to use the words “queer” and “trans” (rather than “LGBTQ2SA+ and gender diverse”), I may not reach educators who were unfamiliar with these “umbrella” terms. The common use of the “LGBTQ+” acronym (and its different variations) served as a signifier for what my research is about. I therefore use “LGBTQ2SA+/gender diverse” in my conversations with educators, though have since changed my use of this language more broadly. As I began writing this dissertation, I became uncomfortable with employing the “LGBTQ2SA+” acronym as a descriptor for students’ and educators’ identities and the specific topics and issues that I see as crucial to build into school policies, practices, and curricula. As a 10 Lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, queer, two-spirit, asexual. The plus sign denotes all other identities under the gender/sexuality spectrum. “Gender diverse” refers to those who do not identify as their assigned sex at birth and/or express their gender in ways that go against traditional gender norms. 6 scholar who is informed by poststructuralism, I resist the tendency and impulse to find and use language that categorizes identities as if they are stable and fixed. There are many complexities and nuances to using the LGBTQ2SA+ (or similar) acronym. For example, I recently learned that the inclusion of “2S” in the LGBTQ+ acronym is “problematic because it equates Two-Spirit with Western identities” (Pruden & Salway, 2020, para. 6). Furthermore, since gender identities and sexual orientations are vast, fluid, and constantly evolving, many identities will inevitably be left out of the acronym. Spencer and Patterson (2017) note that the use of “LGBTQ” paints the identities and communities within the acronym with a normative brush and overlooks intersecting identities and the needs of trans students of colour. Instead, I have chosen to use “queer, trans, and gender non-conforming (or gender diverse/diversity)” (QTGD) to describe the non-cisgender, non-heterosexual identities, topics, and issues discussed in this research. Though the “umbrella” terms (“queer” and “trans”) still hold a complex history (Davidson, 2007; Namaste, 1999), I find these terms offer room for the expansiveness required when discussing gender and sexuality. I use “queer” as both an umbrella term for non-heterosexual identities as well as a political orientation towards destabilizing cisnormativity and heteronormativity. “Queer” also destabilizes discourses that emphasize fixed, stable, and linear understandings of gender and sexuality. Similarly, trans identities cannot be concretely defined or understood. I therefore use “trans” for gender identities that disrupt the assumed linkage between bodily anatomy and sex/gender assigned at birth, but in my use of “trans” I do not assume one shared common experience or set of experiences. Lastly, I employ both “gender diverse/diversity” and “gender non-conforming” to refer to people whose gender identities and expressions do not conform to or reside within the sex/gender binary or dominant gender norms. 7 1.2.1 Terms and “Definitions” There are many different terms throughout this dissertation when referencing gender and sexuality that may require some clarification, particularly in how I understand or use them. Participants in my study also used a number of terms that I will offer definitions for below. Language is constantly in flux, constructing rather than reflecting reality (St. Pierre, 2000; Weedon, 1987), and helps to shape our understandings of the world and what is possible within it. As such, the terms that I use and the definitions I offer below should not be seen as fixed. As well, while many participants used these terms during the interviews and group discussions, I cannot assume that the definitions I offer here are an accurate description of what participants meant or understood. The following should be viewed as a starting point for the language used throughout this dissertation, with the recognition that the terms themselves as well as their definitions, will inevitably shift, flow and evolve. Ally:11 A person who does not identify as part of a particular marginalized group but is committed to lessening the effects of oppression on members of that group and/or community. Asexual/ity (or “ace”): A sexual orientation of a person who does not experience sexual arousal or attraction but may experience emotional and/or romantic attraction. Binary sex/gender system: “Sociopolitical and economic systems based on a binary view of sex” (Travers, 2018, p. 219). 11 I have included “ally” here because it is a term used by participants primarily during the interviews. I would like to draw attention to Airton’s (2018) caution that “‘ally’ has a connotation of being apart or separate from a phenomenon that is causing harm to others” (p. 56). In terms of gender rules and expectations, Airton states “there is no ‘outside of’ this phenomenon, even if some people are affected differently than others” (p. 56). 8 Bisexual (or “bi”): A sexual orientation of someone who is emotionally/romantically/sexually attracted to more than one gender (this term has evolved beyond the two-gender binary system and no longer necessarily means “attracted to both genders,” as we now recognize there are many more gender identities). Cisgender (or “cis”): A term used to describe someone whose gender identity aligns with their sex/gender assigned at birth. Cisnormativity: The privileged belief and assumption that a person’s gender identity matches their sex/gender assigned at birth. Cis-sexism: “The assumption that congruence between assigned sex/gender at birth and self-identity is the norm” (Travers, 2018, p. 220). Gender binary/gender binarism/binarist: The privileged belief and assumption that there are two opposing genders that fall into two distinct categories (male/female, masculine/feminine). Gender conforming: “Consistent with normative binary sex/gender stereotypes or characteristics” (Travers, 2018, p. 221). Gender diverse/diversity: Referring to the expansiveness and range of possibilities of gender identities and expressions that extend beyond binary sex/gender. Gender expression: How one expresses their gender outwardly (i.e., through appearance, clothing, accessories, behaviour, interests, etc.). Gender identity: An individual's own (internal) sense of gender. 9 Gender non-conforming: “Unwilling or unable to conform to binary sex/gender norms” (Travers, 2018, p. 221). Heteronormativity: The organization of society based on the privileged belief and assumption that heterosexuality is the “default” sexual orientation, considered as natural, inevitable, and “normal.” Heterosexism: The belief that heterosexuality is dominant, inevitable, and more correct than other sexual orientations; associated with the phenomenon of heteronormativity. Homophobia: The irrational fear/hatred of and/or discomfort with people who do not identify as heterosexual and with people perceived to be non-heterosexual. LGBTQ+: An acronym that stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer (the + sign denotes all other identities within the gender/sexuality spectrum). It is often used to represent members within that community who may hold similar identities and common political and social concerns. It is important to note that due to the ever-shifting nature of sexuality and gender identity, we will never have an acronym that is all-encompassing. Non-binary: A gender identity, expression, or both that is not exclusively male or female. Pansexual: A sexual orientation of a person who is emotionally, romantically and/or sexually attracted to people regardless of their gender identity. Queer: Formerly a derogatory term to refer to the LGBTQ+ community but has since been reclaimed as an empowering political and personal identity. “Queer” has multiple meanings and can be difficult to define. For example, “queer” can refer to: 1) an umbrella term for the LGBTQ+/gender diverse community, 2) a person's sexual orientation and/or gender identity/expression in such a way that does not overtly label or categorize them and, 3) a political, personal, and cultural identity that seeks to deconstruct binary and rigid understandings of gender and sexuality. Queer may also be used as a verb (i.e., “to 10 queer” something). I primarily use queer throughout this dissertation as a (personal and political) refusal to adhere to normative, fixed understandings of gender identity, expression, and sexual orientation. Sex/gender assigned at birth: The sex/gender (based upon external genitalia) imposed upon infants at birth (or in utero). Trans/transgender: An umbrella term for people who do not identify with the sex/gender they were assigned at birth. Throughout this dissertation, I grappled with using “trans” as a qualifier for women and men who do not identify with their sex/gender assigned at birth because a trans woman is a woman. In other words, genitalia and chromosomes (for which there are many configurations) do not equate with gender. Many individuals who do not identify with their sex/gender assigned at birth find power in identifying as trans, while others assert that a qualifier is not needed since genitals are not prerequisites to womanhood or manhood. For the sake of clarity throughout this thesis, I use the prefixes “trans” and “cisgender,” while doing so in the hope that someday we will no longer need to qualify one’s gender identity. Transphobia: The irrational fear/hatred of and/or discomfort with transgender people. Two-Spirit (2S): A term used to reflect Indigenous understandings of the connectedness and fluidity of gender identity, sexuality, and spirituality. According to Pruden and Salway (2020), Two-Spirit “is a way to organize the Indigenous Peoples of Turtle Island who embody diverse sexualities, gender identities, roles and/or expressions…. a way for Indigenous Peoples to reconnect with their traditional language, ways and cultures within a pre-Colonial setting” (para 2.). 1.3 Research Context and Rationale If one were to observe a typical elementary school classroom today and note the use of physical space, the teacher and students in the classroom, the use of language, what the students are wearing, the curriculum content they are learning, and how they are learning it, one fact would likely be clear: the classroom – its functional space, the people within it, and the social and 11 political institutions that inform it – is designed for a certain vision or ideal of the student12. Canadian public schooling is predicated upon a particular understanding of the purpose of education, past, present and future, and is foregrounded by the shadows of a turbulent history with those who do not fit the idealized standard of white, able-bodied, heterosexual and traditionally gendered within the sex/gender binary. Desks, chairs, and doorways are built for a standard size and shape of student; curricular content is white, westernized, and colonial, and there exists an underlying and pervasive sex/gender binary and heterosexualized regime that validates and upholds a particular Eurocentric and colonial understanding of oppressive, dominant masculinity and femininity. As Travers (2018) states, Schools are a central site where children bump up against an environment built around naturalized but falsely universal abilities: including but not limited to those related to gender and sexual conformity, English-language proficiency, neurotypical learning styles, the ‘able body,’ and white, middle-class standards of living and cultural norms. (pp. 48-49) This analysis of a typical classroom, albeit brief, invites discussion of identity and inclusion politics in education. It also brings to light the idea that the Canadian public schooling system has been historically designed for, and caters to, specific bodies and identities. Indeed, a large body of research, in both Canada and the United States, indicates that queer and trans children and youth are not being adequately supported in schools and are suffering devastating consequences (Hatzenbuehler, 2011; Higa et al., 2012; Peter, Taylor, & Chamberland, 2015; 12 Schools also assume cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied teachers (see Endo, Reece-Miller & Santavicca, 2010; Pritchard, 2010). 12 Russell, 2003; Taylor et al., 2011; Travers, 2018). The result has been a push to instigate “safe, welcoming, and caring school” policies across school districts, seemingly in an attempt to both address and prevent incidents of bullying or intolerance amongst students and staff. However, as Stafford (2016) recognizes, “policies do not prevent school cultures from positioning queer and transgender people as outsiders” (p. 10). Policies and guidelines put forth by districts and individual schools, which merely scratch the surface of structural and societal inequities, risk being only band-aid solutions that mask much larger systemic issues. Participants in this study are caught in the messiness of having to navigate the intersections of inequality in the classroom while left wondering how to adequately and appropriately represent and “address” all of the identities present amongst their students. Though their efforts may be extended to include discussion or celebration of people of different cultures, ethnicities, or identities to curricula, the very addition of these lessons inevitably point to the fact they are being offered as “other” alongside an existing, dominant culture that is being taught both implicitly and explicitly in classrooms and schools. Throughout this dissertation, I make critical interventions to consider and to reexamine classroom and school policies, practices, and discourses beyond the oft-repeated prescription of safety, tolerance, and watered-down approaches to inclusion. Rather than aspiring to simply have marginalized identities “included” or added to the classroom, I aim to shift the focus to broader regimes of power that impact how (and if) QTGD students are supported and affirmed in their schools. Throughout my research and analysis, I draw upon Siebers’ (2008) and Travers’ (2018) call for exposing the “blueprint” (Siebers, 2008, p. 32) of the social construction of binary sex/gender and heteronormativity in schools and how white settler colonial discourses of gender and sexuality give rise to policies and practices that support some queer and trans kids and not others. It is no longer a question of 13 if (or even how, as many studies have clearly indicated how binary sex/gender and heteronormative discourses are enforced upon students) schools perpetuate particular understandings of gender and sexuality, but why these issues are still as prevalent as they were many decades ago and where there may be opportunities for creating queer and trans affirming learning environments. For my undergraduate and master’s theses (Paterson, 2013, 2015), I interviewed students in grades one and two to explore how they made sense of children’s literature that offered (potentially) new understandings of gender and sexuality. Throughout my research and numerous other conversations with QTGD kids and their parents, it became abundantly clear that it was not elementary students themselves I needed to focus on in this dissertation. Rather, I decided to redirect my attention to the adults in positions of authority – educators, among some of the most influential – who have the agency to help construct the environments in which children learn about who they are and what they can be, and make decisions that can either affirm or deny children’s identities and experiences. Additionally, rather than searching for “visibly queer” children to study or searching for classrooms where queer or trans children had made themselves known (Hellen, 2009), I reference Airton’s (2013) call to “leave queer kids alone” (p. 534) and to centre queerness, rather than queer children themselves. To centre queerness within the context of this dissertation means to first recognize how QTGD students and staff are rendered more precarious and vulnerable within Alberta’s education system. Second, by foregrounding the limitations of current approaches to QTGD “accommodation,” this project asks how queerness can be mobilized as a discourse that is available for the benefit of all. 14 1.3.1 Queer Research in Alberta It is important to note this project was undertaken during the 2019 Alberta provincial election campaign that culminated in the United Conservative Party (UCP) leader, Jason Kenney – well known for his anti-queer and anti-trans record – being elected premier. Throughout the recruitment and interview process of this research, I felt palpable fear amongst queer and trans communities and a rising sense of hesitation or nervousness from many of my interview participants. The research concluded with two group discussions that took place a few weeks after Kenney was elected in which a great deal of the discussion was centred on how to move forward with queer and trans activism and advocacy under this conservative government. This study took place across six different school districts in Alberta, a province that is often characterized by its social and political conservatism. There are three treaties in Alberta (Treaty 6, 7 and 8), 45 First Nations, and 8 Metis Settlements. Present-day “Calgary,” where I live and work, is traditional Blackfoot territory and part of Treaty 7, which includes the Siksika, the Piikuni, the Kainai, the Tsuut’ina and the Stoney Nakoda First Nations, including Chiniki, Bearspaw, and Wesley First Nations. This research took place on the land of Treaties 6 and 7. According to Stats Canada (2016a), Alberta has a population of over four million people, with an annual median household income that is $8,000 higher than the national average. Alberta also has the third highest percentage of visible minorities in Canada, with 23% of Albertans identifying as a visible minority in 2015. The abundance of oil and gas in Alberta has made the province a hotbed for ongoing colonial tension whereby the province has continually inflicted violence on Indigenous land, rights, and health (Huseman & Short, 2012; Hussey, Hill & Alook, 2017). For example, Huseman and Short (2012) note the devastating and ongoing environmental and health consequences for Indigenous peoples due to tar sands mining in Northern Alberta. 15 Unquestionably, this has shaped the social and political landscape of the province and its people. Prior to my research interviews, Alberta Education (then under NDP government) introduced a mandate13 for all educators to teach Indigenous history and culture in every subject and grade. Many participants compared or related this mandate to their struggles with implementing queer, trans, and gender diverse content in their classrooms (more on this in later chapters). Alberta has earned a historical reputation as being one of the most politically and socially conservative provinces in Canada, one with a fraught history and relationship with marginalized communities. The majority of QTGD research in Canada notably takes place in large metropolitan cities such as Toronto, Vancouver, or Montreal, where queer and trans communities are largely recognized and established. Even though Alberta’s capital city, Edmonton, had a population of just under one million in 2016 (Stats Canada, 2016c), and Calgary (as one of Canada’s largest cities) has a population of over 1.3 million (Stats Canada, 2016b), there is a dearth of research focusing on QTGD communities in these areas. During the early 1990s, the Alberta government contested legal rights for “sexual minorities,” which, as Filax (2006) notes, “juxtaposed with expanding lesbian and gay rights at the federal level” (p. xii). Filax helps to further contextualize queer and trans rights in Alberta within a broader historical political landscape: The province of Alberta remains unique in the Canadian mosaic of ten provinces and three territories for its continued refusal to realign its human rights code or to extend 13 This mandate is part of Alberta’s new K-12 curriculum (parts of the current curriculum were written three decades ago), which had been in the works since 2016, with an estimated cost of $20 million (CBC News, 2017). The UCP has since promised to halt the curriculum review, calling it an “ideological rewrite” (Clancy, 2019a). As of October 2020, the UCP revealed proposed curriculum changes that would remove all references to residential schools and encourages first graders to memorize Bible verses (French, 2020). 16 human rights protections by reading homosexuality as a protected category into the provincial human rights code. Provincial premier Ralph Klein has defended this position by indicating that “severely normal” Albertans do not support such measures. (p. xiii) Although the above quotation described events that occurred approximately 13 years ago, this information is pertinent to both how Alberta and its largest cities are perceived as well as to any resulting educational policies and discourses related to QTGD populations in the present. Notably (and surprisingly, given the province’s conservatism), the Alberta Teachers’ Association (ATA) revised their Code of Professional Conduct in 1999 to add “sexual orientation” as a protected category and became the first teachers’ association in Canada to extend protection to students and staff on the basis of gender identity in 2003. The ATA continued this work in 2005 with an initiative to help teachers create “safe, caring, and inclusive schools for LGBTQ students” (Phair & Wells, 2006, p. 153). The Calgary Board of Education (CBE), one of western Canada’s largest public school districts, additionally took action in 1996 (despite political and social tensions at the time) to develop an informative package to ensure the safety and inclusion of sexual minority youth and appoint a gender equity officer. Filax (2006) elaborates: The resultant backlash placed the [CBE’s] action plan in a defensive position, with every action and purchase in support of lesbian and gay youth coming under intense public scrutiny…it was the largest school board in the province and was often embroiled in controversy with the provincial government. (p. 127) Dissent against the CBE (much of which stemmed from religious groups in Calgary) escalated, resulting in intimidation against board members and staff, threats, and concern about the safety of the gender equity officer at the time (Filax, 2006). 17 It is important to note the above events took place during a deeply conservative political time in 1997 when Ralph Klein was re-elected premier of Alberta and his Progressive Conservative party won a large majority, 63 of 83 seats. (Elections Alberta, 1997). In 2003, Klein acted on his deeply entrenched conservative views when the Ontario Appeal Court ruled in favour of legally recognizing same-sex marriage (The Globe and Mail, 2003). He called for a referendum and promised to invoke the notwithstanding clause in the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms to prevent any provincial directive to legally allow same-sex marriage (Harding, 2004). When the Federal government approved same-sex marriage in 2005, Klein believed he could fight the ruling, though later realized he would have no legal power to do so (Walton, 2005). While same-sex marriage cannot – and should not – be indicative of Alberta’s “success” or “failure” at protecting human rights, it is one marker of the government’s turbulent relationship with queer communities in Alberta as well as its resistance against perhaps the most rudimentary of rights for queer people. The NDP swept to power in the 2015 provincial general election and won a majority government led by Rachel Notley. The election was significant as it ended the long reign of the Progressive Conservatives dating back to 1971. The left-of-centre platform of the NDP was now poised to change the conservative landscape of the province. The new government made waves for queer and trans communities – specifically for the rights of queer and trans youth and GSAs14 in schools. It established a working group to ban conversion therapy in Alberta and the passing 14 Gay Straight Alliances (or “gender-sexuality alliances”) are extracurricular clubs that foster support for queer and trans youth in schools. They are typically youth led (with staff support) and are held in junior high and high schools, though some elementary GSAs also exist. 18 of Bill 24 which allowed students to immediately start GSAs in K-12 schools, offering greater protections15 for students. In the months prior to the 2019 provincial general election, there were mounting concerns regarding Jason Kenney’s anti-queer and anti-trans agenda. After assuming power in April 2019 with a majority government, Premier Kenney immediately began to implement his conservative agenda that harkens back to a time 15 years ago with a similar cultural and political climate. A few months later, he cancelled the working group for banning conversion therapy and replaced Bill 24 with Bill 8 (dubbed “BillH8” by the Opposition and many members and supporters of queer and trans communities), which rolls back rights and protections for students. Under Bill 8, students will no longer be guaranteed permission to use the words “gay” or “queer” in club names, principals will have an indefinite amount of time to approve students’ requests to start a GSA, and school staff may now inform parents of their child’s involvement in the clubs (effectively outing students to their families, increasing the potential for harm and violence). Other recent moves made by the UCP include the carbon tax repeal, removal of overtime hours (meaning workers will no longer be paid time-and-a-half for overtime), corporate tax reductions (Clancy, 2019b), and cuts to youth minimum wage, making it legal for employers to pay youth aged 17 and under only $13 per hour (instead of the previous $15/hour) (Wyton, 2019). These initiatives not only target vulnerable youth and marginalized communities, but they incite further colonial violence on the land and environment, providing a glimpse of what may transpire over the next four years under the UCP government. 15 Under Bill 24, school staff were prohibited from informing parents about their child’s involvement in the school GSA. 19 1.4 Organization of Dissertation This dissertation includes ten chapters. Chapter 2 provides a review of the literature, including an overview of the historical roots of gender and sexuality in schooling practices, contemporary schooling practices, and queer, trans, and gender diversity in elementary education. It then explores policy as “protection” in schools and contextualizes the education system within neoliberalism. Chapter 3 outlines the theoretical concepts and frameworks that guided this research, queer theory and queer/trans necropolitics, while exploring key concepts relating to gender and sexuality. Chapter 4 discusses methodological influences, approaches, and specific methods used in this study including my approach to policy analysis, interviews, and the group discussions /workshops. Chapter 5 provides a policy analysis of Alberta Education’s Guidelines for Best Practice and school district policies. Chapter 6 explores how educators in this study approached “difference” and diversity in their schools and classrooms. Chapter 7 shares specific stories and examples of how educators navigated having “out” and “visible” trans and gender non-conforming students in cisnormative and heteronormative schooling contexts. Chapters 8 and 9 focus on the experiences of educators in this study and explores the systemic and interpersonal barriers, personal and professional risks, and motivations for incorporating queer, trans, and gender diversity in educators’ schools and classrooms. This dissertation concludes with Chapter 10 in which I discuss the limitations and contributions of this research, share suggestions for harm reduction in schools, recontextualize my findings within the COVID-19 pandemic, and offer recommendations for future studies. 20 Chapter 2: Literature Review: The (Continuing) Legacy of Normative Gender and Sexuality in Elementary Education 2.1 Introduction Public schools have been identified as contentious spaces where students must navigate an almost daily bombardment of sex/gender-specific ideology and heteronormative dialogue. A cursory look at the typical school and classroom reveals sex/gender-segregated washrooms and change rooms, sex/gender-segregated activities, storybooks and curricula material with cisnormative messages that support and maintain a rigid sex/gender binary, all of which promote the idea that heterosexuality is the only natural, inevitable, and preferred sexual orientation. The need to be appropriately gendered within the sex/gender binary, and adhere to heteronormativity, is so entrenched within contemporary Canadian society that this detrimental dialogue may not even be registered on a conscious level. For QTGD students, however, current educational practices, policies, language use, and the way schools are physically organized to reinforce oppressive regimes of gender and sexuality, can be painfully obvious and deeply troubling. There is no doubt there has been progress within Canadian schools over the past several decades with the advent of anti-bullying and safe school programs to “support” QTGD youth, and yet research and anecdotal evidence strongly suggest there is much to improve upon (Rayside, 2014). Mainstream campaigns and initiatives such as “It Gets Better,” a campaign and organization started by Dan Savage and Terry Miller, are often created with the intent of spreading hope and encouragement to struggling queer and trans youth, many of whom turn to or attempt suicide. While seemingly a valid attempt at addressing the brutal realities faced by queer and trans kids, particularly in schools, the “It Gets Better” project promotes a kind of “white 21 futurity” that is touted as being an eventual, utopic endpoint for tortured youth (Haritaworn, Kuntsman & Posocco, 2014). The message of the campaign itself ends up “[illustrating] how a form of gayness implicitly linked to whiteness and upward mobility stakes its claim to the future” (Haritaworn et al., 2014, p. 196). It must be asked, for whom will the future get better? What conditions must be fulfilled to claim one’s optimistic future? As Gleason (2017) states, “shifting social norms continue to shape who is governed as a deserving child and who is not” (p. 36). These “deserving” children – white, able-bodied, gender-conforming, economically privileged children – are so often the only ones who have a place in line for this promised future. The fantasy of life getting “better” for queer and trans people relies upon a particular vision of the future where queer desire and futurity are in harmony with broader social values, including state values, wherein queers are (perhaps unknowingly) recruited in support of an ongoing colonialist, racist project in return for basic human rights. Focusing on rights as a measure of progress, however, ends up reifying violent inequalities (Dhoot, 2015; Puar, 2007; Travers, 2018). Walcott (2015) proposes that conceptualizing queer as “refusing the normative at each turn” (p. ix) is crucial to the goal of proliferating ideas of what is considered a valuable body or identity. Schools are one such site of intense ideological struggle in which education contributes to white settler colonialist, racist, classist, cisgender, ableist, hetero-patriarchal, neoliberal discourses, and yet still holds the profound potential to create openings in our understandings of what is considered to be a valuable or intelligible body, identity, or way of life. This chapter explores how normative, Euro-colonial discourses of gender and sexuality have served as part of the foundation of elementary education policies and practices. I begin by providing an overview of how particular ideals regarding gender and sexuality have historically been – and continue to be – imposed upon children in elementary education and function as an 22 organizational tool in both the classroom and school environment. I then explore existing literature pertaining to queer and trans issues in elementary education including prevailing approaches to and examples of how QTGD identities have been addressed in schools and classrooms. The chapter proceeds to review how policy has been positioned as a source of protection for queer and trans students and educators who wish to engage with “controversial” subject matter. Finally, I situate prevalent issues regarding queer and trans “inclusion” and “diversity” in elementary education within a broader context of neoliberalism and explore the intersections of “childhood” with QTGD identities. 2.2 (Cis)gender and (Hetero)sexual Schooling Practices: Historical Roots The advent of formal public schooling was both a technical and a moral endeavour: technical, to train future workers to feed the economy, and moral, to instill a sense of social cohesiveness within society (Auger & Krug, 2013; Balagopalan, 2008). The requirement for cohesion amongst citizens, particularly regarding the desire for “Canadianization” in the midst of an influx of immigrants entering the country in the late 19th century (Gleason, 2001), drove the education system to function as a tool for both moral and social regulation (Prentice, 1994). Further contextualized by the eugenics movement in Canada and the United States (Strange & Stephen, 2010), concerns about rising birthrates amongst “lower” classes and immigrants, supposedly those who possessed less than desirable attributes, led school reformers to firmly believe in the school’s role as an equalizer – the idea being that education would “promote the ‘mental improvement’ of the lower classes ‘in order…to elevate their character rather than their station’” (JEUC 1854, p. 112, as cited in Baldus & Kassam, 1996, p. 335). Compulsory elementary education commenced in the late 1800s in most Canadian provinces, and along with it came an increase in the state’s control over what values and social 23 mores were to be instilled in Canadian youth (Axelrod, 1997). It was around this time that the first residential schools in Canada were established and, from their inception, there was an even stronger moral imperative by the federal government and church to “civilize” Indigenous children whom they believed to be “barbaric” and “savage” (Neegan, 2005). Residential schools imposed dominant white, Western, colonialist ideals upon Indigenous students in the hopes that these children would assimilate into Canadian society. The actual goal of residential schooling was to abolish Indigenous culture, force assimilation, and (at times, quite literally) “kill the Indian in the child” (Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015). This involved erasing the children’s ties to their family and home life, language, culture and heritage and replacing them with government and church-sanctioned social norms and values, including those pertaining to normative gender and sexuality. Any semblance of connection to Indigenous understandings of gender and sexuality were forcibly severed and replaced by Western ideals through residential schooling. As Hanson (2016) states, “residential schools were used to intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically entrench patriarchal Western values into Aboriginal children. For female students, this meant learning to be subservient and submissive to male authority” (p. 4) amongst other gender-specific rules and regulations. Hunt (2018) describes how residential schools imposed “racialized gender norms onto the young bodies of Native children” (p. 4) through binary sex/gender categorization and by instilling colonial gender roles. Euro-colonial efforts were justified by marking young Indigenous bodies as uncivilized and in need of regulation, particularly for those who did not adhere to normative gender expectations. It is clear that the sex/gender binary is a Euro-colonial construct. Hunt (2007, 2018) and Cameron (2005) remind us of the effects of white colonial violence on Indigenous understandings of gender systems and sexuality in which many cultures recognize the 24 existence of six genders and multiple sexual orientations. According to Lang (1997), “two-spirit people are seen as being neither men nor women, but as belonging to genders of their own within cultural systems of multi-genders” (p. 114). In many cultures, sexual relationships were based on gender orientation and “the roles the person chooses to align with” (Cameron, 2005, p. 124), rather than physical body parts. The erasure of Indigenous ways of understanding and appreciating the multiplicity of gender and sexuality (many groups considered two-spirit people as revered and integral parts of their communities [Cameron, 2005]) has a lasting impact that is still reverberating today with a myriad of pressing social, health, economic and political issues. As Hunt (2018) states, “after many generations of Native children being indoctrinated in these gendered educational spaces [residential schools] … and many other ways of replacing Indigenous cultural practices with colonial ones, the racialized gender binary has become difficult to question” (p. 24). Rather than being understood as simply a part of our past, colonialism must be acknowledged and recognized as an ongoing practice of gender violence, amidst other kinds of state violence, locating all Canadian schools as embedded within this context. Euro-colonialism in residential schools has undoubtedly influenced and laid the groundwork and context for modern schooling practices that privilege a particular ideal of Western childhood: that is, the image of the white, able bodied, cisgender, heterosexualized child. According to Leighteizer (2013), “foundational assumptions about what to teach, and how, were predicated upon those [white, able-bodied, male] children” (p. 149). For this reason, whenever I refer to “traditional” or “dominant” cisgender, heterosexual discourses, I am denoting a white, Euro-centric understanding of gender and sexuality. 25 Gleason (2001) notes the school’s role and investment in the construction of normalized, disciplined bodies. Fear of corporal punishment or emotional embarrassment, for example, have long served as regulatory forces in compelling children to act and behave in a socially acceptable manner. Traditional attitudes about gender and sexuality have functioned in similar ways to normalize and discipline children’s bodies. Gleason states, “connections between acceptable student bodies and gendered thinking and sexuality shaped the official curricula of formal lessons and the unofficial curricula of everyday experience” (p. 205). Underlying pervasive gender bias in the curriculum – including explicit lessons for what was expected of men and women – and an “exclusively heterosexual understanding of sexual desire and romantic involvement” (p. 206), once again, provide the context and historical roots of current schooling practices that privilege and valorize gender normativity and heterosexuality. For identities that are seemingly so “natural” and inevitable, schools have placed considerable effort, time, energy and resources into reinforcing these categories and continue to do so. The historical underpinnings and debates over the ideal (white, able-bodied, cisgender, heterosexual) child – while briefly presented here– are pertinent to the discussion of gender, sexuality and schooling because what and who “the child” is (or is thought to be) plays a significant role in terms of what has been understood to be the functional role of education. Although there have been significant changes within the education system, particularly through the progressive education movement16 in the 1960s and 1970s, Leighteizer (2013) argues, “many of these surface changes have done almost nothing to disrupt the unseen and unchallenged 16 This movement led to a greater focus on child-directed education and progressive practices such as individual learning programs and non-graded classrooms (see Taylor [2001], The Politics of Educational Reform in Alberta). 26 ‘normalized’ child at the centre of policies and practices of schooling processes” (p. 149). Further questions are therefore raised regarding how what is taught is influenced by predominant cultural discourses – including what is in the hidden curriculum, the subtle or not so subtle circulation of societal norms, expectations and values in the classroom – and how this teaching continually informs the image of the ideal child. 2.3 Contemporary (Cis)gender and (Hetero)sexual Schooling Practices From a Foucauldian perspective, the school functions as a regulatory force to establish, control, and maintain particular ways of being (Foucault, 1977, 1982; Gleason, 2001; Graham, Treharne, & Nairn, 2017). Foucault’s theory of disciplinary power and surveillance extends to how children are gendered and heterosexualized in school settings. Spanning from a broad area of research, discourses of normative gender and (hetero)sexuality are omnipresent in the education system, from gender policing among peers, to reinforced gendered behaviour by teachers and school administrators. As Short (2013) argues, “schools can be considered cultural sites where dominant gender roles and heterosexist norms are continually vouched for and privileged” (p. 109). The elementary classroom, in particular, has been acknowledged as a site where cis-sexist, “homo-negative” (Wegner, 2014) and trans-negative discourses and practices are defined and reinforced (Blaise, 2005a; Blaise, 2005b; Duke & McCarthy, 2009; Gansen, 2017; Ryan, Patraw, & Bednar, 2013; Stafford, 2013). Numerous studies have referenced the white, ableist, binarist, heterosexist culture of the elementary school classroom, especially in terms of cisgender, heteronormative representation within curriculum materials and instruction (Paterson, 2014; Paterson, 2015; Payne & Smith, 2014; Renold, 2000; Stafford, 2013, 2016). Many of these biases (some more explicit than others) exist within the hidden curriculum such as sex/gender-segregated activities, classroom instruction shaped by the sex/gender binary, heterosexist beliefs 27 and attitudes (for example, encouraging social and artistic ability in girls, and mathematical prowess in boys), including a conspicuous lack of queer, trans, and gender diverse representation in the classroom. How dominant and traditional understandings of masculinity, femininity and heterosexuality have permeated and informed elementary education, as well as underscoring children’s identity formation and gender socialization, have been well documented over the past several decades, and spanning multiple geographic locations (Bickmore, 1999; Blaise, 2005b, 2009, 2013; Curran, Chiarolli, Pallotta-Chiarolli, 2009; Davies, 1989a, 2003; DePalma & Atkinson, 2006; Gansen, 2017; Martin, 1998; Renold, 2000; Thorne, 1993; Thorne & Luria, 1986; Wohlwend, 2009). Thorne’s pivotal work, Gender Play (1993), provided observations regarding how children construct and play with gender in elementary schools, asking how the social organization of gender is both created and influenced by the assemblages of race, class, age and sexuality. Davies (1989a, 1989b, 1991, 2006) studied how children take up and negotiate gender in primary school, strongly informed by a discussion of agency and the feminist poststructural subject. Both Thorne’s and Davies’ work foregrounded the idea that children are not merely sponges who absorb the world, but are active, creative agents in the navigation and negotiation of gender discourses. Many studies have further explored gender and heteronormative socialization, including sex/gender-segregated play and how children construct meaning from talk and text in the classroom that is informed by the sex/gender binary. In her study of the primary school as an arena for the reproduction of children’s gender and sexual identities, Renold (2000) found that heterosexuality dominates children’s cultures in the primary classroom and is strongly influenced by the gender binary system. Blaise (2005a, 2009, 2013) investigated how children engage in 28 Butler’s (1990) heterosexual matrix and take part in “doing gender” (West & Zimmerman, 1987) in the kindergarten classroom by participating in, negotiating, and reinforcing traditional understandings of masculinity and femininity. Ryan (2016) also explored how heterosexuality has become a constitutive part of the elementary classroom, informing both formal curricula and instruction as well as children’s talk and activities. Ryan emphasizes in particular that sexuality is not “brought in” to classrooms, as suggested by many who fear the introduction of sexuality during childhood. Rather, conversations and ideas about sexuality “infuse everyday social interactions and circulate conversations throughout the school day, even in the lives of elementary-aged children” (p. 85). These studies, among others, emphasize children’s role in the creation of identity and negate the belief that children are born heterosexual as a default, laying the foundations necessary to inquire further about the possibilities for queerness in childhood and education more broadly. Though not necessarily a new area of research, it is noteworthy that findings from many of the above studies conducted approximately 20 years ago are still relevant today. Gansen (2017) reiterates that gender normative, heterosexualized understandings and practices are extremely prevalent in preschool and elementary education, emphasizing in particular that children are highly skilled in policing gender and sexuality in peer-to-peer interaction. Gansen also highlights how educators’ expectations, beliefs and perspectives surrounding gender and sexuality play a significant role in terms of how heteronormativity and gendered practices are established and reproduced in the classroom. In a study of kindergarten students’ everyday gender practices in the classroom, Stafford (2013) found the students and classroom culture were imbued with cisnormativity and heteronormativity, and the introduction or question of “queerness” in the classroom was associated with “otherness,” resistance and fear. Fear and 29 anxiety surrounding introducing concepts that extend outside of traditional gender and heterosexual norms are pervasive and serve as shields against approaching these “controversial” subject matters. The strong historical presence of cisnormativity and heteronormativity in elementary education, as discussed throughout section 2.2, proffers discourses in the classroom where it is difficult – if not, at times impossible – to imagine alternatives outside of cisgender and heteronormative schooling practices. 2.4 Queer, Trans, and Gender Non-Conformity in Canada’s Public Schools Much of the literature surrounding queer and trans issues in educational research begins with a litany of disheartening, sobering facts and statistics: a) QTGD youth are at high risk for depression and suicidal behaviours, (Hatzenbuehler, 2011; Higa et al., 2012; Russell, 2003; Taylor et al., 2011), b) homophobic, transphobic, and heterosexist harassment is rampant in secondary schools (Taylor et al., 2011), c) 74% of trans high school students in Canada reported17 verbal harassment on the basis of their gender expression and, d) more than one in five QTGD students reported physical harassment or assault (Taylor, et al., 2011). Like several others (Goldstein, Russell, & Daley, 2007; Rayside, 2014; Talburt & Rasmussen, 2010), I am wary of contributing to these “damage-centered” (Tuck, 2009), victim-based lenses and discourses by reiterating stories of QTGD youth harassment, depression and suicide. Nevertheless, I feel it is also necessary to acknowledge the driving force behind much of the work and research we do as social justice educators and researchers. Current educational environments and discourses 17 As found in Every Class in Every School: The First National Climate Survey on Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia in Canadian Schools. Final Report by Egale Canada Human Rights Trust (Taylor et al., 2011). 30 provide the very real sense that there is little room for representation, respect and inclusivity of QTGD identities in schools, let alone society at large. Queer, trans, and gender diverse topics, issues, and people in Canadian public schools have had a turbulent history. For example, in British Columbia, the Surrey School Board’s decision to ban teacher James Chamberlain from using three same-sex picture books in his kindergarten classroom found its way to the Supreme Court of Canada,18 and set a precedent when it came to inclusion and diversity in the elementary school classroom. While it was eventually ruled that Chamberlain would be permitted to use the books in his classroom, the sheer uproar and strident opposition (from a very vocal parental group) to engaging in discussions of queer issues with children sent powerful messages regarding the inclusion of queer content in the classroom, namely, that doing so went against what is considered “right,” “moral,” and “normal.” The North Vancouver School Board was also engaged in controversy in 2002 when a student, Azmi Jubran, who had endured years of relentless homo-negative bullying and harassment, sued the school board for not protecting him or intervening on his behalf (CBC News, 2005). The school board initially appealed his case due to the fact that Jubran self-identified as heterosexual, though eventually conceded that perceived sexual orientation19 also warranted grounds for protection (Walton, 2006). The North Vancouver School Board made headlines once again in 2004 when it chose to remove a school play because it showed a brief kiss between two women, but, notably, not due to the play’s themes of violence or rape (Gatchalian, 2004). 18 Chamberlain v. Surrey School District No. 36, 2002 19 Notably, perceived sexual orientation is rooted within gender-based discrimination, where gender identity, expression, and sexuality are conflated. 31 While school boards and individual teachers may declare their commitments to “anti-bullying,” “safe spaces” and “LGBTQ+ friendly” frameworks, what actually transpires in practice becomes an individualized, haphazard approach to effecting changes. In a study of LGBT school resources, Greytak, Kosciw, and Boesen (2013) found that while anti-bullying policies increased a sense of safety for LGBT youth, “youth in schools with a comprehensive [anti-bullying/anti-harassment] policy were victimized as often as those in schools without such a policy” (p. 57), suggesting that having an anti-bullying policy in and of itself is not sufficient. Rather, it is the “take-up” or implementation of such policy initiatives that is important, focusing, in particular, on the gap between policy and what occurs in school classrooms and hallways (Rayside, 2014). Responses to homo-negative and trans-negative school cultures, including Pink Shirt Day20 and one-day lectures or workshops, often focus on anti-homophobia and “safe school” initiatives (characterized by anti-bullying programs, “safe zones” for QTGD students, and gay-straight alliances [GSAs]), citing the need for “tolerance,” “diversity,” and “respect” (Sadowski, 2016). While perhaps valid attempts at inclusion, these events reify heterosexuality, cisgender identities and gender-normative expressions as “normal” and relegate all other identities as “deviant” and in need of special attention (MacIntosh, 2007). Unfortunately, anti-bullying or “zero-tolerance” approaches often do not confront the reality of structural and procedural forces within the education system that have served to reinforce and reproduce dominant understandings of normative gender and (hetero)sexuality and queer and trans inequality (Payne & Smith, 2013; Quinn & Meiners, 2013). For instance, Goldstein, Russell, and 20 Pink Shirt Day originated in Nova Scotia in 2007 when two high school students decided to start a pink t-shirt campaign to show support for a fellow student who was harassed for wearing a pink shirt to school. The campaign has since become known as “anti-bullying day,” eschewing the fact that most “bullying” is rooted in misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, and often directed at racialized and/or visibly poor children. 32 Daley (2007) remark that anti-homophobia policies are “offered as a remedy for homophobia … where only a particular version of queer identities—those that are just like heterosexual— are possible” (p. 186). Consistent with the queer/trans necropolitics of binary sex/gender, racism, and ableism, many “anti-homophobia” policies produce and reproduce particular knowledge claims about normative queerness and transness, while excluding more marginalized identities, expressions and embodiments. Payne & Smith (2013) suggest that “anti-bullying programs are more often pushing violent behaviour underground than they are calling systemic privileging and marginalization into question. They do not get to the ‘root’ of the problem” (p. 10) – that is, the continual reinforcement of racism, cisnormativity and heteronormativity through institutional and schooling practices. Policies that are in place to protect students, particularly zero-tolerance policies, for example, have been shown to contribute to the school-to-prison pipeline for racialized and Indigenous children and youth who engage in homo/trans-negative bullying (Meiners, 2015; Travers, 2018). According to Travers (2018), “strong-armed anti-bullying policies actually reinforce institutional racism by exposing more kids to criminalization, family intervention, and system of law enforcement” (p. 195). Anti-bullying policies have additionally been shown to blame gender non-conforming and trans youth – especially youth of colour – for their own victimization (Burdge, Hyemingway, & Licona, 2014; Snapp, Hoenig, Fields, & Russell, 2015). Such was the case for 12-year-old Milan Halikowski of Prince George, BC, a trans child who was brutally victimized at school and yet faced detention for using the “incorrect bathroom” and was suspended after being physically and sexually assaulted (Britten, 2016). Rather than confronting systemic and pervasive homo-negative and trans-negative attitudes and discourses 33 that led to a school culture of violence and harassment, Halikowski’s case was reduced to an isolated incident of bullying. According to Meiners (2015), Instead of excavating core heteronormativity and homophobia in schools (always intersectional), [anti-bullying policies and state laws] define the “problem” narrowly and posit punishment and criminalization as the response. These laws suggest that if the “few bad kids” were removed, schools would be safer for queers. These initiatives are not capable of excavating pervasive heteronormativity. (p. 132) While rights, protections and policy changes for queer and trans youth in schools are important and necessary in terms of harm reduction (provided they begin to adequately address and change school procedures and practices), prevailing public investment in punishment for those who participate in bullying or harassment may offer protection to more privileged white, normative kids, while reinscribing institutional racism for those who are more precarious. 2.4.1 Queer, Trans, and Gender Non-Conformity in Elementary Education A review of existing literature indicates that, compared to research at the secondary level, there are few studies on queer, trans, and gender identity and diversity issues in elementary education. This gap is due to notions regarding childhood “innocence” and their (supposed) inherent non-sexuality, but also to the prevailing assumption that all children are and will identify as cisgender, heterosexual and adhere to gender normative expressions until proven otherwise. Ongoing opposition to queer, trans, and gender diverse content in elementary education cites discourses of “childhood innocence” and “developmental appropriateness” as arguments to avoid discussing non-normative genders and sexualities with children (Allan, Atkinson, Brace, DePalma, & Hemingway, 2008; Payne & Smith, 2014). However, a recent global study on the early years of adolescence found that children have already been inculcated with gender 34 normative ideology by the age of ten (arguably much earlier), and such early exposure to cultural gender stereotypes has been linked with lifelong mental and physical health problems (Grinberg & Larned, 2017). Introducing queer, trans, and gender diverse content into the elementary classroom and school has been shown to incite a great deal of fear and hesitation among educators and parental communities (Allan et al., 2008; Cumming-Potvin & Martino, 2014; Curran et al., 2009; DePalma & Atkinson, 2006; Malins, 2016; Payne & Smith, 2014, 2017). The transgender child in the primary classroom, according to Payne and Smith (2014), prompts a fear of the sexed body and of sexuality, and heightens teacher anxiety about how to address such topics. In these cases, introducing the queer “Other” (Kumashiro, 2002) challenges what parents, educators, and students have long believed regarding the “safety” and “innocence” of the elementary school classroom in which the sex/gender binary system and heterosexuality are considered “neutral” and “comfortable.” According to Payne and Smith (2014), “discourses of fear establish ‘the other’ as a danger to oneself and to one’s very life and existence – they work to justify hostility and resistance toward ‘the other’ by joining with narratives of preservation and defense of the self” (p. 403) and in defense of how things have always been. Researchers note that there exists a strong desire amongst teachers to assuage parental concerns by downplaying or altogether avoiding “sensitive” or “controversial” topics so as not to cause parental discomfort or dissent (Athanases & Larrabee, 2003; Curran et al., 2009; Goldstein, Collins, & Halder, 2008). As Meyer (2015) states, “efforts to include LGBT people and issues in curricula often spark unfounded fears that there will be explicit discussions of sexual behaviors in K–12 classrooms” (p. 350). Such fears reflect the prevailing view of children’s supposed innocence, and the school and educator’s expected role in protecting this innocence. According to Kelly and Brooks’ 35 (2009) study of teachers’ assumptions about young children and teaching for social justice, the greater the belief in this innocence, the more likely teachers were to avoid controversial or “iffy” subject matters in the classroom. “Innocence” in this case is understood to be devoid of any discussion of sexuality or gender identity. Gleason (2017) notes that “sexuality is largely incompatible with childhood” (p. 38). It is well documented, of course, that children are assumed to be heterosexual and participate in gendered and heterosexualized talk and play in the classroom – including pretend weddings, playing “house,” discussing heterosexual families, and privileging heteronormative stories and fairytales (Paterson, 2014, 2015; Payne & Smith, 2014; Stafford, 2013, 2016). In fact, discussion of and participation in sexuality is omnipresent in children’s culture and everyday worlds (Bruhm & Hurley, 2004; Gleason, 2017). Though educators may reject the idea of discussing sexuality with young students, it is evident that many elementary students are permitted and encouraged to discuss and even celebrate sexuality, so long as it follows an appropriate, normative gender script of heterosexuality. Research that explores elementary teachers’ perceptions, fears and hesitancies surrounding engaging with queer and trans affirming education, suggests that educators need greater access to professional development and resources to gain confidence and knowledge with this subject area (Goldstein, Collins, & Halder, 2008; Meyer, Quantz, Taylor, and Peter, 2018; Springer et al., 2020; Taylor et al., 2016). While this is certainly a component to creating queer and trans affirming classrooms, I am wary of recommendations that focus primarily upon educators’ personal or professional perspectives, rather than examining broader systems and regimes of power. For example, in their large-scale survey of K-12 educators, Meyer et al. (2018) explored many of the barriers to LGBT-inclusive practices in elementary education, including teachers’ lack of confidence and comfort with the topic. One of their concluding 36 recommendations for educators directly speaks to their intended teacher audience: “final recommendation [is] to not let fear stop you from doing work that you know will have a positive impact on students and communities” (p. 14). This recommendation, however, seems to not only place pressure and responsibility upon individual educators for this work, but fails to contextualize queer and trans affirming education within broader systems of inequality and ongoing oppression. Although there is a desire among many educators to take action against increased homo-negative “bullying” and to “help young queers” (Airton, 2013, p. 532) by creating more inclusive and welcoming schools and classrooms, there is a relatively small body of literature and research on what social justice for QTGD students in the primary grades looks like in practice. One of the barriers to implementing queer and trans affirming practices is a lack of expressed need for educator education and professional development. For example, through interviews with elementary principals, Mangin (2020) found that prior to having an (“out”) transgender student in their school, participants in their study did not have preexisting knowledge or practices in place that would support trans and gender diverse students. This finding suggests that schools are taking a reactive accommodation approach to shifting their classroom pedagogy and schooling practices. Principals in Mangin’s study advocate for a child-centred approach to focusing on the needs of transgender students, including consultation with individual students and their families. As Mangin acknowledges, however, although students’ individual needs may be met, the overall school culture still perpetuates sex/gender binary norms and discourses. Furthermore, relying upon trans and gender non-conforming students and their families for education on gender identity and expression falsely assumes that all QTGD students have access to adequate parental support (let alone parents who possess the cultural capital necessary to navigate oppressive 37 institutions) and removes responsibility from schooling systems to critically examine cisnormative and heteronormative policies and practices that impact all students, not just those who are able or willing to “come out.” While more research is necessary, there are a few studies that demonstrate how elementary educators are working towards challenging oppressive cultures in their schools. In their yearlong study, Souto-Manning and Lanza (2019) discuss how they sought to interrupt normative discourses surrounding gender and sexuality in a grade two classroom. Their pedagogical and practical interventions included avoiding labeling or categorizing students as “boys and girls” and interrupting the sex/gender binary and heteronormativity in terms of book choices and everyday classroom conversations. For example, although the school washrooms were organized by sex/gender, Lanza encouraged her students to use the bathroom they most closely identified with. However, the authors do not contextualize these changes within the broader school context. I wonder, for example, how (or if) other staff members in the school responded to these changes or if they reprimanded Lanza’s students as they ignored the school washroom’s sex/gender code. Vilkin et al.’s (2020) study examines how an arts-based curriculum for grades K-5 helped students develop more expansive and less binary beliefs and attitudes about gender. Although the curriculum notably took place in an after-school program and was not woven into existing classroom practices, the findings point to opportunities for students’ ideas of gender to shift, evolve, and promote greater inclusivity across the gender spectrum. A number of other studies explore what might be described as “subtle” interventions in the classroom to begin to challenge the sex/gender binary and heteronormativity, often including a list of suggestions and recommendations for teachers to implement, such as hanging a rainbow flag, avoiding gendered language, and incorporating LGBT children’s literature into 38 the classroom (Flores, 2012; Skrlac Lo, 2019; Staley & Leonardi, 2019). Though perhaps steps in the right direction towards creating moments of inclusivity, it unlikely that queer and trans students in greater states of precarity will be supported through these types of interventions. These additive approaches do little to challenge how the sex/gender binary and heteronormativity are engrained within school and classroom discourses, and do not address the harms that these systems continually inflict upon all students, as well as QTGD educators and school staff. Although many teachers have incorporated (or attempted to incorporate) “controversial” queer and trans subject matter within their classrooms, educators risk backlash and ostracism from fellow staff members, administration, and parents, and they themselves may be subject to homophobia on the basis of their perceived sexual orientation (Athanases & Larrabee, 2003; DePalma & Atkinson, 2006; Macgillivray, 2000; Meyer, 2015; Rayside, 2014; Schneider & Dimito, 2008; Valenti & Campbell, 2009). Additional fears about “confusing” children about their gender identity or sexual orientation, fear of offending parents, and a general discomfort and uncertainty in approaching these topics with young children in the classroom (again, reflecting discourses of childhood innocence and developmental appropriateness), are used as rationales or excuses for not engaging with queer and trans issues (Athanases & Larrabee, 2003; DePalma & Atkinson, 2006; Kelly & Brooks, 2009; Meyer, 2015; Meyer et al., 2019). As found by Payne and Smith (2014), “elementary educators may feel particularly insulated from the likelihood of having to address these issues in their schools and classrooms, framing them as something that ‘happens’ at the older grade levels” (p. 401). Not only does this belief perpetuate the false notion that gender and sexuality are not present in the elementary grades, but perhaps also seemingly absolves teachers, administrators, and policy makers of the responsibility to 39 critically examine the identities and expressions that are privileged and upheld in elementary education. 2.5 LGBTQ+ School Policies as “Protection” “There has been change in Canadian schools, no doubt. The shifts evident in provincial education policies, however, have only been developed after long delays, are still often framed in terms of school violence and bullying, and still betray the pattern of caution that has long enveloped these issues.” (Rayside, 2014, p. 205) Educational policy – and policy more broadly – can be understood as a practice of power (Levinson, Sutton, & Winstead, 2009), often with the intended goal of addressing or solving an identified problem (Heck, 2004; Stein, 2004). As Malen (2005) reminds us, “public school systems are complex political systems [that are] nestled in governmental structures [and] confronted by multiple competing demands” (p. 191). Educational policy is located within particular social, historical and political contexts that must also balance conflicting pressures from education stakeholders such as provincial governments, parents, students, and interest groups. Alberta Education, for instance, has a “broad and long-running commitment” (Banack, 2015, p. 951) to prioritizing the desires of religious parents and “parental choice in schooling” (p. 951). As Banack (2015) explains, faith-based groups have held significant influence in Alberta’s education system and policy development due to the conservative government’s history of “dependence on rural electoral support as well as their broader ideological commitment to ‘school choice’” (p. 954). For example, not only are Catholic schools publicly funded in Alberta, these schools are also permitted to organize and operate according to their religious values, which “reduce[s] the willingness of school boards to move assertively towards LGBT inclusiveness, as well as the capacity to ensure comprehensive application of policy” (Rayside, 40 2014, p. 204). Policies specific to supporting QTGD students are devised and implemented (or not) within these specific histories and contexts (Leonardi & Staley, 2018; Martino, Airton, Kuhl, & Cumming-Potvin, 2018). It is not surprising, then, that existing guidelines and policies for QTGD students in Alberta emphasize “protection” and “safety,” perhaps because schooling environments have proven to be unsafe for queer and trans students (Callaghan, 2019; Taylor, et al. 2011) but also as a more palatable approach to accommodating queerness and transness in schools. Incidents of “gay bashing,” youth suicide, and anti-queer, anti-trans bullying and harassment have seemingly “awakened” and prompted many school administrations and boards to respond to queer and trans issues in education (Black, Fedewa, & Gonzalez, 2012; Hatzenbuehler, 2011; Quinn & Meiners, 2013). Meyer (2015) notes, however, that most policy changes have been “a result of lawsuits or individual tragedies, rather than as responses to research” (p. 349). Concentrating on the “damage-centered” narratives and stories of abuse and harassment of QTGD people, though perhaps contentious, shows the political, social and material consequences and impact on the life chances and opportunities for precarious and victimized queer and trans youth. Policy changes and regulations are often only introduced when these brutal realities for QTGD youth are recognized. Though all Canadians are purportedly protected from discrimination based on sexual orientation and/or gender identity under the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, individual provinces and territories have developed their own laws and policies in an attempt to ensure “safe and inclusive” school environments. For example, Ontario’s Education Act was amended in 2012 to mandate that “all students should feel safe at school and deserve a positive school climate that is inclusive and accepting,” specifically adding that the whole school “has a 41 role to play in creating a positive school climate and preventing inappropriate behaviour, such as bullying, sexual assault, gender-based violence and incidents based on homophobia, transphobia or biphobia” (Bill 13, 2012, para. 4-8). The Act to Amend the Alberta Bill of Rights to Protect our Children (Bill 10, 2014) is a similar response by the Alberta government to create “safe and inclusive learning environments” by allowing students to start GSAs in Alberta’s K-12 schools. The result is a new policy directive from Alberta Education that strives to promote a “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environment that respects diversity and fosters a sense of belonging” (Bill 10, 2014, p. 9). At first glance, it is difficult to argue against such policies (though many do) that have reassuring words like “safety,” “inclusion” and “tolerance.” However, upon deeper reflection, question arises as how to challenge pervasive and culturally engrained and informed cisnormativity, heteronormativity, and anti-queer, anti-trans discourses. For example, although the Ontario Education Act may advocate for the entire school’s involvement in “creating a positive school climate,” what does this mean in practice? The emphasis placed on “safety” for QTGD students is, as Sadowski (2016) explains, “a basic prerequisite for schooling” but at the same time, “is not a sufficient goal in itself” (p. 13, emphasis in original). The “safe school” paradigm raises questions about school staff’s preparedness and competency to address queer, trans, and gender diverse concerns and the school’s ability to respect and affirm QTGD identities, rather than simply to tolerate them. Anti-homophobia, anti-transphobia and safe school discourses, however, provide merely band-aids for much larger, systemic, structural issues and inequalities faced by QTGD students and educators. As MacIntosh (2007) argues, anti-bullying, anti-homophobia and safe-school initiatives do not engage with systemic change. In addition, isolating bullying and harassment as problems faced by QTGD students implies that the school is a place designed for heterosexual, cisgender, and 42 gender-normative students, and the answer to such problems is for QTGD students to be merely tolerated and accommodated (Walton, 2004). By focusing on specific student identities and expressions, rather than broader systems of power taking place in schools, policies also “run the risk of simultaneously codifying what it means to be trans and limiting whose gender expression may be protected by such policies” (Meyer & Keenan, 2018, p. 2). Consequently, policies designed for queer and trans students’ protection and “safety” will end up only offering protection to certain more privileged students, reifying whose bodies and ways of being are considered acceptable, and those who are not. This approach only serves to further mask the anti-oppressive work that actually needs to be done in classrooms, schools, and the education system at large (Meyer, 2010), as clearly evidenced by the challenges and struggles faced by educators who are on the frontlines of policy implementation. Policies for QTGD students are posited as though they offer a solution to the struggles and problems faced by both students and educators. However, even when these policies or guidelines are in place, many studies cite educators’ frustrations with the absence of preparation and administrative support when approaching queer and trans issues in the classroom, especially when they are only implemented when there is an “out” QTGD student who has requested (or seems to be in need of) explicit support (Goldstein et al., 2008; Payne & Smith, 2012, 2014). In a 2014 study of incoming teacher education students, 84% of respondents indicated that they had had no previous training in LGBTQ+ issues, leaving a huge gap in knowledge for the Bachelor of Education program to fill (Kearns, Mitton Kükner, & Tompkins, 2014). It may come as little surprise that many researchers note that queer and trans issues are seldom addressed in teacher education programs or ongoing professional development (Kearns et al., 2014; Kitchen & Bellini, 2013; Tompkins, Kearns, & Mitton Kükner, 2017). In their case study of anti- 43 homophobia policies in the classroom and teacher development, Goldstein et al. (2008) cite teachers’ ignorance and lack of preparedness as barriers to policy implementation and argue that “disrupting homophobia and heterosexism in schools may be futile” (p. 57) if educators do not have the skills or knowledge base necessary to respond to questions or resulting conversations. Indeed, one-day training sessions or lectures for school staff to learn about queer and trans issues often lack permanence and do not inform teachers on how to continually disrupt homophobia, transphobia and sexism in order to effect meaningful change. These workshops do not provide “an adequate antidote to the negative ideas about homosexuality that are entrenched in school cultures” (Goldstein et al., 2008, p. 55), nor do they provide educators with the skills and competencies necessary to effectively implement what few policy measures are available. 2.6 Queering Education in Neoliberal Times While policy is often relied upon as a source of legal protection and a point of reference for teachers who see the need to engage with this “risky” subject matter, we must ask what these policies look like and what can they do, particularly in educational contexts where many QTGD are racialized, living in poverty, and perhaps come to school too tired or hungry to learn. There are many proponents of using policy as a starting point for educational reform. Schneider and Dimito (2008) suggest that “policy is a key component in providing an organizational climate in which LGBT-positive work can be initiated” (p. 66). The final report by Egale Canada Human Rights Trust (Taylor et al., 2011) also asserts that in order to address the issues surrounding homophobia and transphobia in schools, provincial ministries of education will need to develop – and require schools to implement – queer- and trans-positive policies that engender and foster more socially just, equitable learning environments for all students, staff and their families. A common policy, for example, has been symbolic anti-bullying initiatives. But as Kitchen and 44 Bellini (2013) note, “one of the limitations of many anti-bullying initiatives is that they address only one aspect of students’ lives” (p. 456). A more comprehensive, intersectional approach is clearly needed to understand the issues students are experiencing, as well as the challenges educators are facing in their classrooms and school cultures today, in order to move away from viewing instances of bullying and harassment as individual acts of violence, and towards situating them more broadly within systems of oppression, discrimination and injustice. Quinn and Meiners (2013) suggest that the focus on anti-bullying laws that “tentatively includes sexual orientation and occasionally gender identity,” (p. 152) does very little to address structural violence and inequalities. Instead, these initiatives “distract educators and others from identifying and addressing structural conditions that foster interpersonal forms of violence” (p. 152), and often absolves educators from doing the “real work” of examining their own privileges and biases. Of course, school policies and practices do not exist within a vacuum and the work of elementary educators must be located within a broader context. Within our current neoliberal context, the onus is placed upon individual educators to wrestle with issues of social justice in their schools and classrooms that are often perceived as difficult and time-consuming. Neoliberalism, as a form of governmentality, “involves extending and disseminating market values to all institutions and social action” (Brown, 2003, para. 7, emphasis in original). Education systems are thus impacted by neoliberal ideology and framed “in neo-liberal language with business and industry playing a central role, where the products of education are controlled, regulated and nationally standardized” (Davies & Saltmarsh, 2007, p. 4). In viewing the education system as more akin to a business model that churns out students who will be of benefit to neoliberal economies and the current social order, as Davies and Saltmarsh (2007) state, “certainly social justice is passé in neo-liberal forms of Government,” (p. 45 5) and thus in neoliberal classrooms. Connell (2013) emphasize that under neoliberalism, education is characterized by “competition for privilege, social conformity, fear and corruption, while protest and rational alternatives are marginalized” (p. 110). Education’s entanglement with neoliberalism produces false notions of “fairness” and equity, implying that all students have an equal opportunity for success when, in fact, competitive individualism reifies racialized and economic disadvantages (Blackmore, 2019). As Brown (2003) explains, “Neo-liberalism does not simply assume that all aspects of social, cultural and political life can be reduced to such a calculus, rather it develops institutional practices and rewards for enacting this vision” (para. 9). Take, for instance, the unequal distribution of funds to schools in which predominantly white school districts in the United States are shown to receive $23 billion more per year than districts with racialized students (Croft, 2019). First Nations schools in Canada are also shown to receive 30% less per student than other schools, resulting in an education system that must cut corners, which puts Indigenous students at a disadvantage (Dart, 2017). Concern is further raised, as Brown (2003) voices, that “when democratic principles of governance, civil codes, and even religious morality are submitted to economic calculation, when no value or good stands outside of this calculus, sources of opposition to, and mere modulation of, capitalist rationality disappear” (para. 21). Aims for social justice in education must therefore submit to neoliberal discourses and link to its perceived “economic value” in order for socially just conversations, policies and practices to be considered justifiable and legitimate in the school and classroom. Neoliberal discourses in education limit the possibilities of what can be said (or done) within these frameworks. Fraser and Lamble (2014) ask what a queer approach to education can look like in the context of neoliberal, “instrumentalist and consumer-based modes of learning” (p. 61), whereby 46 the student is seen as consumer and the educator as an expert. Educators are on the frontlines of having to navigate an increasingly intensive workload and challenging classroom environments due to increased class sizes, privatization (echoing the idea that parents and students are “consumers” of education and therefore must have a choice between public versus private education), and funding cuts (Davidson-Harden, Kuehn, Schugurensky, & Smaller, 2009; Tarc, 2007). In a study of teachers’ experiences with formal/informal learning and professional development across British Columbia, Alberta, Nova Scotia and Ontario, it was found that 80% of respondents felt their workload had increased compared to previous years (Tarc, 2007). In fact, respondents reported that such a heavy workload impacted their ability to engage with formal and informal learning. How, then, are educators expected to take on the added workload and responsibility of engaging with issues of social justice in the classroom, particularly without administrative support? In their analysis of a social justice teacher education project, Kelly and Brandes (2010) found that graduates of the social justice cohort experienced a myriad of barriers to “translat[ing] one’s vision of social justice into the realities of everyday classroom teaching” (p. 393), including the “diversity of students, school micro-politics and bureaucratic constraints, prevalence of material inequalities and dominant community values” (p. 393). This individualized approach to social change, whereby educators are seen as responsible for the take-up and implementation of queer and trans policies and practices, is not only challenging for teachers who are, as Kelly and Brandes (2010) put it, dealing with the “messy realities of schools” (p. 395), but also obscures the need for larger, more structural changes within the education system. Fraser and Lamble (2014) suggest, When [neoliberal] frameworks become entrenched, other kinds of learning practices become almost unthinkable. Non-normative teaching practices are seen as distractions from 47 “real” learning, superfluous add-ons to the curriculum or radical whims of idealistic teachers. In short, space for critical and transformative pedagogies becomes limited. (p. 64) Normative discourses and particular knowledges surrounding gender identity, expression, and sexual orientation are consistently reproduced and prioritized within the education system, to the extent they have become naturalized and engrained as a foundational, unquestionable part of classroom learning (consider, for example, the pervasiveness of cisnormativity in schools and classrooms). Rather than being considered a valuable part of learning about the expansiveness of human identity and expression, introducing queer, trans, and gender non-conforming topics, issues and desires may be discounted as “radical whims” or “superfluous add-ons” that do not have a rightful place in the classroom and take time away from other “more important” subject matters. Since social justice education may be understood as being incongruent with the pressures of a neoliberal classroom (Picower, 2011), schools have turned to individual21 accommodation for QTGD students, rather than critically examining the need for change on an institutional level. 2.7 Intersections of “Childhood” with Queer, Trans, and Gender Non-Conformity As Meiners (2015) states, “childhood, like adolescence and other categorizations, is a shifting and invented construct” (p. 123), continually open to new interpretations, coinciding with political and cultural climates. Representations of young children, in particular, possess an emotional investment that has shifted with social norms over time (Gleason, 2017; Moss & Petrie, 2002; Wells, 2009), helping to rationalize certain political or economic decisions, as for 21 See also the individualization of oppression, a liberal humanist project “whereby experiences and one’s standpoint become the locus of analysis” (Jirbin & Salem, 2015, p. 12) rather than systemic oppression. 48 example, in proposing a social or economic policy “for the good of the children.” According to Dubinsky (2012), “children act as mute but powerful lightning rods for adult political conflicts and how they bear the social and political anxieties and aspirations of adults on their shoulders” (p. 9). The primary message in the construction of childhood has appeared to follow the clichéd saying, “children are the future,” that often provides a rationale for implementing specific social or economic policies with the child being “the fantasmatic beneficiary of every political intervention” (p. 3). This future for children (and eventual adults), however, is tightly bound around distinct ideals of race, gender, and sexuality. The idealized child is white, able-bodied, middle class, adheres to gender normativity, and is always presumed to be heterosexual (Edelman, 2004; Meiners, 2015). Meiners (2015) remarks, “not everyone benefits from an affiliation with childhood” (p. 124). The elusive “future” is only truly available to certain children with idealized (normative, sanctioned) bodies and identities. Children have been largely thought to be innocent, naïve, asexualized and in need of protection while, at the same time, are deemed to possess a willful nature, be potentially reckless and defiant, thus requiring surveillance and control (Bruhm & Hurley, 2004; Gleason, 2017; Herriot, 2015; Stockton, 2009). The innocent child is “defined as lacking, deficient, passive, incomplete, under-developed” (Moss & Petrie, 2002, p. 59), especially as each stage of childhood is in a constant state of becoming, to reach adulthood. Schooling is found at the intersections of these conceptualizations of childhood, “not only does the state, through schools, seek to shape and control the future adult population…but it does so by an expanding influence over children’s everyday lives” (Moss & Petrie, 2002, p. 98). Children are arguably an oppressed group that experience varying degrees of precarity, in part, by being construed as innocent and in need of constant guidance and instruction. Gleason (2017), for example, traces how associating 49 children with innocence renders them more vulnerable to exploitation. Children are therefore – unequally – subjected to close surveillance and “adultism” (Flasher, 1978) – the power that adults wield over children. Racialized, Indigenous, queer, trans, gender non-conforming, and impoverished, disabled children, however, do not experience these discourses of innocence, surveillance and adultism equally. Goff et al. (2014), for example, explain how the innocence typically associated with childhood is not afforded to Black boys who are “seen as less ‘childlike’ than their [w]hite peers” (p. 526). McClellan (2020) also states that “Black girls are perceived as less innocent and more adult-like in comparison to their white counterparts” (p. 258). Payne and Smith (2014) additionally demonstrate how the mere presence of trans children disrupt elementary schools and classrooms as supposedly “innocent” spaces. Gill-Peterson (2018) dismantles the dominant narrative that transgender children are a “new” phenomenon and traces their histories over the past century. She argues that “trans children were central to the medicalization of sex and gender during the twentieth century” (p. 11), in such a way that limited their “value to an abstract biological force,” resulting in a lack of investment in trans children’s personhood (p. 11). According to Travers (2018), “the relationship between ‘transgender’ and ‘childhood’ is a troubled one given that children are not typically credited with the ability to authenticate their own gender identities or to know themselves” (p. 41). This is evidenced through the histories of the transgender child (Gill-Peterson, 2018), as well as lengthy debates and arguments22 surrounding whether (and how) trans and gender non-conforming children can “truly know” that they are trans (notably, cisgender children are not 22 Anecdotally, the most common question people ask upon learning about my area of research is “but how do young children know they are trans?” Furthermore, a cursory google search results in thousands of results arguing the “legitimacy” and science behind children’s non-cisgender identities. 50 questioned on their gender identities). The reluctance in believing children when they tell adults who they are is further shown by the lengths and processes trans and gender non-conforming students must go through for their schools to acknowledge and validate their identities. The very need to “come out” for policy implementation to ensue, as will be discussed throughout this dissertation, is reliant upon children knowing themselves “well enough” – and having access to the supports, language and knowledge systems required – to describe themselves as being part of QTGD communities. The ongoing medicalization of trans and intersex children’s bodies additionally highlight the extent to which children’s bodies are surveilled (Gill-Peterson, 2018), but also the pressures trans and gender non-conforming children may feel to stake their claim to a particular identity in order to “fit in.” As Stafford (2013) argues, discourses of children’s innocence and discourses of difference work together to normalize rigidly gendered heterosexuality, compelling children to conform to such norms or face social othering in the form of isolation and persecution for their characteristics that do not fit within the strict boundaries of normalcy. (pp. 3-4) The false notion of a stable, intelligible gender identity (or identities) over the course of one’s life – from childhood to adulthood – certainly comes into play when considering the pressures children face to “come out,” claim an identity or to transition. Travers (2018) articulates the dilemma in needing to protect and expand children’s access to supports that help and enable them to ascertain and/or transition their gender in ways that makes their lives more livable, while at the same time, critiquing the systems in place that require them to do so. In my discussions and explorations of cisnormativity and heteronormativity in elementary education throughout this dissertation, I wish to be clear that my focus on the education system and educators themselves is not to suggest that children are passive and easily influenced by their 51 schools and teachers. I align with critical childhood scholars who locate children as active agents with the capacity and ability to engage with, and resist, the discourses and social actors around them (Herriot, 2015; Leonard, 2020; Moss & Petrie, 2002; Stafford, 2013). Travers (2018) reminds us, all children do gender work, but the gender work that trans kids do to resist the sex/gender identity assigned to them is particularly powerful in its ability to make the social construction and imposition of binary sex and gender systems more visible. (p. 3) In fact, it is the incredible inner-knowing, creativity and resilience of QTGD children that serve as my motivation to “leave queer kids alone” (Airton, 2013, p. 534), and to focus more broadly on the necropolitical landscape (defined in the following chapter) of elementary education that currently limit possibilities for more queer, trans, and gender expansiveness and affirming classrooms and schools. 52 Chapter 3: Theoretical Concepts and Frameworks 3.1 Introduction: Queer Theory and Necropolitics This dissertation is grounded in concepts from queer theory and queer/trans necropolitics as frameworks to explore how educators in this study engaged with queer, trans, and gender non-conformity in elementary education. I focus, in particular, on how participants spoke about and drew upon concepts of inclusion, diversity and difference across lines of race, class, ability, sexuality, and gender identity. Queer theory, with its roots in feminist poststructuralism, offers a lens to interrogate common-sense understandings of gender and sexuality in dominant social discourse, particularly those that rely upon an intelligible, essentialist, coherent view of sex and gender. Liberal humanism is an ideology central to the ongoing colonialist project of essentialism, individualism, and rational justification for inequality and exclusion, such that “only some humans rise above biological disadvantages related to gender, racialization, social class, sexuality, age, and non-Christian status” (Travers, 2018, p. 37). Building upon the works of Foucault23 (1978), Butler (1990), Sedgwick (1990) and Warner (1993), mainstream queer theory was developed in Western Europe and the United States in the 1990s, in part, as a response to liberal humanist debates within feminist theory and gay and lesbian studies that argued for a stable, essentialist view of identity. For instance, during Second Wave Feminism, a feminist movement that began in the late 1950s, identity politics were vital and strategic in arguing the case for a shared 23 Despite Foucault’s extensive writings on power, he did not extend his analysis to gender and said very little about race. Many scholars have since revisited his writings and applied his theories to analyses of gender oppression, policing, and systemic racism. 53 essential experience of sexism and female oppression. One limitation of such an essentialist foundation of identity politics at this time was the definition of “women’s experience” as a singular entity—which historically was that of a cisgender white woman’s experience. This unidimensional understanding effectively marginalized those who did not fit within the narrow definition of “woman” and, as many Black feminists noted, ignored (and continues to ignore) how racial categories are defined, policed, and are inseparable from gender, sexuality, class, and (dis)ability. Echoes of this essentialist logic have resonated with other social movements. For example, many people within QTGD communities have clung to the “Born This Way” mantra, proclaiming there is a biological basis for sexual orientation and gender identity as a way to legitimize their identities for those who think they can be easily changed. Claiming queer and trans people are born with an immutable sexual orientation or gender identity, however, not only implies that identities are static, but suggests that if one were able to choose a sexual orientation or gender identity, they would choose to be cisgender and/or heterosexual, resulting in significant tension both within and outside of queer and trans communities. As Nagoshi and Brzuzy (2010) note, “such essentialist ideas came to link gender roles, gender identity, and sexual orientation tightly within a binary, biologically based, heteronormative gender schema” (p. 434). By contrast, queer theory suggests there is no stable, fixed “self” to discover, and identity is always in process (Turner, 2000). Although there is no one singular definition of queer theory (Seidman, 1994), its primary tenets destabilize taken-for-granted “truths” regarding how gender and sexuality have been normalized into standardized categories, exposing how gender and sexual identity are constructed and produced through dominant discourse. According to Loutzenheiser (2015), 54 Queer invites an opening up of the normative, staid categorizations that sex, gender and sexuality occupy, and the political, social, historical contexts in which they function. Now unsettled, these necessarily repetitive spaces of subjectivity and signification are open to challenge. (p. 102) Common criticisms of queer theory include its failure to consider lived realities and experiences, particularly of those who navigate multiple identities, ignoring material conditions and consequences of the identity categories that they occupy (Gunnarsson, 2011; Nagoshi & Brzuzy, 2010). Critics of queer theory echo Alcoff’s (1988) concerns regarding the poststructuralist subject, that if we “de-gender subjectivity” (p. 423), we are left with a “neutral” subject, one who has been historically constructed as white, cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied and male, leaving little ground for political activism and social justice. Gunnarsson (2011), employing a critical realist perspective, argues in favour of recognizing the global category and collective struggle of “women.” She suggests that poststructuralism’s denial of gender categorization is problematic when analyzing “women’s specific relation to a gender structure” (p. 34). Although Gunnarsson notes that we should continue to deconstruct essentialist notions of gender, I question whether it is possible to critique essentialism while advocating for the categorization of gender in the same breath. I suggest it may be more meaningful to focus analysis on how the sex/gender binary is discursively constructed, imposed and enforced. Queer of colour theorists such as Hames-García (2011) and Perez (2005) bring to light the limits of queer theory’s “post-identity” or “subjectless” critique that serves to reinstate whiteness. Hames-García (2011) states, Too often the turn from gay and lesbian to the purportedly less identity-bound queer allows theorists to duck responsibility for thinking about how more traditional identities 55 function in their work, that is, how queer can all too easily and without notice simply stand in for ‘white gay men and lesbians.’ (p. 36, emphasis in original) For instance, Butler’s (1990) famous assertion that there is no “‘doer’ behind the deed” (p. 34) implies a subject that is devoid of identity and perhaps therefore absolved of whiteness. “It is as if once one makes the disclaimer (‘I am talking about queer, not gay or lesbian—sex and desire, not identity’), one no longer needs to critically question the white identities hiding behind the queer curtain” (Hames-García, 2011, p. 36, emphasis in original). Queer theory’s tendency to isolate sexuality as its primary field of inquiry results in a lack of attention to how gender, sexuality, race, class, and ability intersect (Crenshaw, 1989; Hill Collins, 1990). In contrast, critical race theory emerges to explore how race is imbedded in systems of oppression. Black feminist theorists and critical race scholars such as Cohen (1997), Hill Collins (2004), Lugones (2007), Razack (2000), and Razack, Smith and Thobani (2010) make clear that heteronormativity and gender oppression cannot be separated from the mechanisms of race and colonial violence. Queer/trans necropolitics is a radical critical race theory that emerges from Foucault’s analysis of biopower, “the subjugation of bodies and the control of populations” (Foucault, 1978, p. 140). Biopower is, in other words, “the power to make something live or to let it die, the power to regularize life, the authority to force living not just to happen but to endure and appear in particular ways” (Berlant, 2007, p. 756, emphasis in original). Necropolitics, as articulated by Mbembe (2003), offers a framework for exploring the intersections of gender, sexuality, race, 56 class, and ability by examining how the assemblages24 of whiteness and hetero-patriarchy cohere to define what it means to have a desired and valued body and identity. As Mbembe describes, sovereignty is defined as the power of the state to decide who lives and who dies or, in other words, to decide which bodies are considered valuable versus dispensable. According to necropolitics, some lives are fostered for living while others are relegated for – at times, quite literal – death. Travers (2018) further explains that with the emergence of biopolitical governance came a shift from dictating life and death to “state population management that fostered life or disallowed it” (p. 37). The distinction between those who are “folded into life” (Puar, 2007, p. 10) and those who are in the margins of society resides within the intersections and assemblages of gender, sexuality, race, class, and ability, whereby the hetero-patriarchal, white, cisgender, able-bodied male is upheld as the social and political utopian ideal upon which our laws, policies, and social mores are predicated. Puar (2007) extends Mbembe’s theory of necropolitics to define queer necropolitics, a framework that shows how queer and trans rights-based movements have ended up reifying a regulatory ideal of the “good queer” that proffers respectability and protection to some queer folks at the expense of racialized and classed others. While the premise of many queer and trans rights movements has been that of tacit acceptance (or in many cases, simply “tolerance”) and “inclusion,” Haritaworn, Kuntsman, and Posocco (2014) draw attention towards “the violence of inclusion itself…the ways various intersections between racism, border regimes and wars differentiate between those queers folded 24 Referencing Travers’ (2018) explanation, “assemblage refers to integrated systems of oppression: an intricate web of social history/social forces that surround us and impact experience in embodied ways” (p. 228, note 63). Puar (2012) suggests supplementing intersectionality with assemblage, particularly to understand categories of race, gender, and sexuality as “events, actions, and encounters between bodies, rather than simply entities and attributes of subjects” (p. 58). 57 into legal and political subjecthood, and those destined for wartime killing or everyday deadly abandonment” (p. 12). Though all people exist in spaces of discipline and surveillance to some degree or another, necropolitics underscores the state’s control over its most marginalized populations — that is, to deny certain people citizenship, subjecthood, and resigning them to “slow death.” As described by Berlant (2007), slow death involves so much more than death itself, rather, it is about social exclusion, alienation, and the resulting political, material, and social consequences of not being/having a “valued” body or identity. Berlant further explains, “the phrase slow death refers to the physical wearing out of a population and the deterioration of people in that population that is very nearly a defining condition of their experience and historical existence” (p. 754, emphasis in original). Consider, for example, as I referenced in Chapter 2, most texts about queer and trans children and youth will begin with a series of statistics about mental health issues, suicide, and harmful behaviours. Dishearteningly, the precariousness and turmoil so often faced by members of queer, trans, and gender diverse communities – not limited to poor health outcomes, family abandonment, and restricted access to meaningful employment – have seemingly become defining characteristics of the population.25 Offering a trans necropolitical perspective, Snorton and Haritaworn (2013) extend this discussion by exploring how trans bodies are regulated and policed under systemic racism, classism, and gender norms that control access to basic human rights such as healthcare. Queer and trans necropolitics help to identify systemic and institutionalized racist and classist 25 Within my circle of QTGD friends and colleagues, there is often an unspoken acknowledgement of these struggles and experiences. This shared and implied understanding contributes to closer bonding within our communities, while also highlighting the prevalence of these damage-based narratives. 58 discourses as pillars of a state-sanctioned violence and control over unruly, undesirable bodies and identities. As Snorton and Haritaworn state, it is necessary to interrogate how the uneven institutionalization of women’s, gay, and trans politics produced a transnormative subject, whose universalized trajectory of coming out/transition, visibility, recognition, protection, and self-actualization largely remains uninterrogated in its complicities and convergences with biomedical, neoliberal, racist and imperialist projects. (p. 67) Snorton and Haritaworn’s analysis reflect many of the narratives drawn upon by educators when discussing queer and trans youth in schools, thus providing a powerful framework for interpreting the data in this dissertation. As such, throughout this research I will be drawing upon concepts from queer theory – namely the construction of dominant discourses of gender and sexuality – while engaging with queer/trans necropolitics as frameworks to explore how current discourses around the sex/gender system and heteronormativity are racialized concepts that result in material, social, and violent consequences. The following sections in this chapter will elaborate on key concepts in this dissertation that are important and relevant for my analyses: Heteronormativity, the sex/gender system, the heterosexual matrix, gender policing and passing, homo/trans-normativity and homonationalism, and disability as it pertains to the disabling effects of anti-queer/anti-trans discourses. 3.2 Heteronormativity I place heteronormativity – as Warner (1993) defines it, “the elemental form of human association, as the very model of inter-gender relations, as the indivisible basis of all community, and as the means of reproduction without which society wouldn't exist” (p. xxi) – at the centre of my inquiry. The institution of heteronormativity arguably informs all of our social, political, 59 economic, and social realms. Britzman (1995), Butler (1990), Rich (1980), Warner (1993) and Wittig (1992) have been foundational in their writings and theorizing about the perceived “naturalness” of heterosexuality as being central to the study of gender. Heterosexuality is thought to be compulsory (Rich, 1980), implied, and tightly bound within a matrix (Butler, 1990) of interpersonal and social relations. Ingraham (1994) further conceives of heterosexuality as a fundamental organizing institution, referring to this “way of thinking” as the “heterosexual imaginary” (p. 203). Before moving forward, it is essential to trace heteronormativity as being inextricably linked with white settler colonialism, racism, and sexism (Arvin, Tuck, & Morrill, 2013; Hames-García, 2011; Hill Collins, 2004; Lugones, 2007; Morgensen, 2010; Puar, 2007). Modern conceptualizations of heterosexuality and oppression of non-normative sexualities emerge from the histories of violence during European colonization and transatlantic enslavement, whereby enslavers in the United States relied upon particular understandings of sexuality and sexual deviance to maintain control and regulation (Hill Collins, 2004). As Hill Collins (2004) observes, “colonial regimes routinely manipulated ideas about sexuality in order to maintain unjust power relations” (p. 87). Ferguson (2004) notes, slave emancipation in the United States prompted the “demand for sexual regulation and the abolition of nonnormative practices” (pp. 85-86). Sexual acts and formations of kinship that were deemed “deviant,” such as non-monogamy and non-heteronormative sexual behaviours, provided justification for constructing African Americans as sexually aggressive, barbaric, savage, and uncivilized. Ferguson further explains how African Americans who did not conform to monogamy or heterosexual relations were imprisoned and denied citizenship, tightening “the link between citizenship and a racialized heteronormativity” 60 (p. 86).26 Hill Collins (2004) discusses how Black women participate in “respectability politics” as a means to distance themselves from racist imagery and stereotypes associated with “poor and working-class Black femininity” (p. 139). In order to obtain middle-class status and upward mobility, Black women’s sexuality must safely reside within the confines of heterosexuality. The idealization and sanctity of heterosexual relations, as well as the heteronormative nuclear family, thus coheres around a nexus of racism, sexism, classism, and capitalism. Similarly, violence and injustices occur within the context of Canada as a white settler colonial state in which Indigenous ways of understanding gender and sexualities were eradicated – and continue to be – through the project of ongoing colonization (Hunt, 2018; Morgensen, 2010; Simpson, 2016). Extending Puar’s (2007) analysis of homonationalism, Morgensen (2010) asks how the modern queer subject produces “settler homonationalism” (p. 107), noting how Euro-colonial expansion served to shape gender and sexuality regimes. As Morgensen states, “colonization produced the biopolitics of modern sexuality that I call ‘settler sexuality’: a white national heteronormativity that regulates Indigenous sexuality and gender by supplanting them with the sexual modernity of settler subjects” (p. 106). Hunt (2018) details how the diversity of Indigenous gender systems has been replaced by colonial understandings of the sex/gender binary, resulting in the erasure of Two-Spirit identities and the perpetuation of ongoing colonial gender-based violence. 26 This parallels to what we can observe taking place today with the fight for gay and lesbian “marriage equality,” whereby the right to marriage is heavily marked with citizenship and correlation with a nation’s (homonormative) values. 61 3.3 The Sex/Gender System27 Although a distinction between “gender” and “sex” has been claimed (the former is understood to be an identity, the latter being chromosomally and biologically determined), we must ask at what point, then, do we become gendered? The implied distinction that we are born “gender-less” (but not sex-less) does not withstand the belief that we are born into gender discourse. The declaration upon a child’s birth, “the baby’s sex is female,” for example, still has deeply gendered implications although the speaker may claim to be simply talking about the child’s biological sex. The very utterance of this sentence genders the subject (the newborn baby) and incites her into discourse (as I just did with the use of a she/her pronoun). As Butler (1990) states, repeating Simone de Beauvoir’s famous phrase, “one is not born a woman, but, rather, becomes one” (Beauvoir, 1949/1973, p. 301, as cited in Butler, 1990, p. 11). It is precisely the process of becoming a woman that concerns Butler. They continue, “there is no recourse to a body that has not always already been interpreted by cultural meanings…. Indeed, sex, by definition, will be shown to have been gender all along” (p. 11). Here, Butler reminds the reader that because we are born into gender discourse, it is impossible to extrapolate “social” gender from “biological” sex (as they are currently widely understood). Thus, they are one and the same, laying the foundation for what I refer to as the sex/gender system (or binary) throughout this dissertation. The commonly held belief that sex/gender is a biological, natural trait has rendered it logical for certain laws, policies, and social mores to be established based on this understanding, 27 The sex/gender binary system must be understood as a colonial construct; thus, it is important to remember that the language used throughout this section is bound up in and informed by Western European understandings of sex and gender. 62 serving to constantly reify and strengthen the sex/gender binary. Binaried gender pronouns or sex/gender-segregated washrooms, for example, strengthen the male/female duality and defines the (supposed) difference between the two. Defenders of sex as a biological basis of differentiation between cisgender men and women fail to recognize how gendered assumptions have been ascribed to XX/XY chromosomes and that “biological sex” is not just culturally – but scientifically – shown to be non-binary (Fausto-Sterling, 2018; Richardson, 2013). Intersex bodies directly confront the sex/gender binary and the notion “that a healthy body is identifiably male or female, masculine or feminine, and heterosexual” (Davis, Dewey & Murphy, 2016, p. 491). What, then, becomes of those who do not physically fit within the imposed sex/gender binary at birth, or identify within the sex/gender binary (or within traditionally masculine and/or feminine ideals) and are, therefore, possibly seen as “gender failures” (Spoon & Coyote, 2014)? For intersex people, “unintelligible” genetics and genitalia has historically28 resulted in pathologizing and corrective medical and/or psychological treatments, often without consent (Davis et al., 2016; Gill-Peterson, 2018). The prevailing rhetoric surrounding trans identity and resulting “interventions” (particularly for young children), as Gill-Peterson (2018), Travers (2018), and Hughes (2018) note, frequently follow a distinctly binarist “born in the wrong body” framework. The “wrong body” narrative implicitly suggests there is a “right body,” one that maintains a relationship between the sexed body and cisgender identity. According to Travers (2018), “sex/gender systems appear to be resilient enough to adapt to some transgender disruptions by restabilizing around binary categories, which may lessen the relative precarity of transgender kids who 28 See Fausto-Sterling (2000), Richardson (2013), van den Wijngaard (1997). 63 undergo affirmative medical intervention early enough to avoid puberty” (p. 16) but does little to disrupt dominate discourses surrounding sex/gender. While the experience of having a “wrong body” will undoubtedly ring true for some, not all gender identities fall within one of two categories (“man” or “woman”), and such a framework often means that accessing medical services or support is contingent upon conforming to the sex/gender binary. Hughes (2018) illustrates how diagnoses for trans people has been related to “how closely one’s story echoed the WBN [wrong body narrative]” (p. 182), highlighting that trans bodies and identities may be more easily “understood,” so long as they still closely align with cisnormative scripts. Gender transition in the province of Alberta, for example, is still considered a mental health issue. Those who are interested in accessing gender affirming surgery must have a referral to a psychiatrist to confirm a diagnosis of gender dysphoria.29 While it is incorrect to assume that all trans people who wish to access hormone replacement therapy or gender affirming surgery will have gender dysphoria, these mandatory visits to a psychiatrist act as a form of gatekeeping and the policing of bodies and identities. Many people who seek trans affirming care memorize a “born in the wrong body” or gender dysphoric script in order to access these services, to effectively “prove” their eligibility (Hughes, 2018). Hughes (2018) reminds us that: within a neoliberal context like Canada wherein social value is promised to those who can best approximate the mythical ideas of settler-colonial whiteness, normalcy will only ever be accessible to those for whom “trans” is the singular disruption to a white-settler, able-bodied, heterosexual, middle-class identity. (p. 184) 29 Until recently, mental health providers and general practitioners were able to authorize gender affirming procedures. Under the new Conservative government, patients must now be referred by a psychiatrist, of which there are very few who specialize in trans healthcare, further bottlenecking an already strained and insufficient system (Croteau, 2019). 64 In other words, in order to stay “within the fold” and maintain one’s place within the necropolitical landscape of valued and valuable bodies, one’s trans identity must not only be the “singular disruption,” as Hughes describes it, but their trans identity must also be transnormative. While it is imperative to reduce the harm and precarity faced by trans people, the current biomedical approach to – and view of – trans bodies simply ends up reifying and stabilizing the sex/gender binary system. Those who identify as agender,30 or with genders that are not easily defined and exist outside of the binary, are often left out of the fold, perhaps seen as less than fully human. Travers (2018) pointedly states, “nonbinary trans kids, or those who do not stick with one transition but retreat, move sideways, or go ahead in a different direction, are cited as examples to reinforce cultural norms and prescriptions that infantilize teenagers and preteens” (p. 17). This is not only reflective of how adults tend to disbelieve children and youth when it comes to their experiences of gender, but also demonstrates how cisnormativity functions to reestablish and stabilize binary understandings of sex/gender. As Hughes (2018) and Travers (2018) make clear, the focus of critique here should not be placed upon individuals who opt for medical interventions or physical transitions to make their lives more livable. Rather, it is crucial to examine the logic of transnormativity which suggests “that the only viable solution to a transphobic social world is to transition” (Hughes, 2018, p. 184), particularly while staying within the binary. 3.4 The Heterosexual Matrix The sex/gender binary and heteronormativity are, of course, intimately intertwined. Butler (1990) explains: 30 Defined as “without gender.” 65 The very injunction to be a given gender takes place through discursive routes: to be a good mother, to be a heterosexually desirable object, to be a fit worker, in sum, to signify a multiplicity of guarantees in response to a variety of demands all at once. (p. 199) In order for bodies to make sense within current dominant gender discourse, they must oppose (through marked physical difference) and desire each other, providing the basis of Butler’s (1990) heterosexual matrix. Within the matrix, gender identity and expression must align with sexual desire “that is oppositionally and hierarchically defined through the compulsory practice of heterosexuality” (p. 208, note 6). Indeed, as Hellen (2009) notes, “society appears to want to make transgendered [sic] people invisible, possibly because no established rules or conventions exist for social interaction with people who do not consider themselves as either 100% male or 100% female” (p. 82). Gender – particularly intelligible gender within the binary – is embedded and organized into everyday life, providing the basis for “the global subordination of women to men” (Connell, 1987, p. 183), an order that systematically accommodates – and legitimizes – the interests and desires of the patriarchy. The gender order informs and supports what Rich (1980) refers to as “compulsory heterosexuality” and the “political institution” of heterosexuality (p. 637, emphasis in original). From heterosexualized and highly normative gender play and classroom instruction in primary school (Payne & Smith, 2014; Renold, 2000; Stafford, 2013, 2016), to the entire (repetitive) process of “coming out” as any orientation other than heterosexual, the institution of heterosexuality is ubiquitous. To do away with the gender order, as it is currently conceived, would be to dismantle the very institution of heterosexuality and the heterosexual matrix – that is, “proliferating gender configurations, destabilizing substantive identity, and depriving the naturalizing narratives of compulsory heterosexuality of their central protagonists: ‘man’ and ‘woman’” (Butler, 1990, p. 200). Since the sex/gender binary and 66 heteronormativity are so heavily institutionalized, the heterosexual matrix is effective at enforcing normative gender identity. Its reach extends to people in non-heterosexual relationships, as well as trans, non-binary, or gender queer individuals who may not identify with their sex assigned at birth yet are still governed and guided by the normative gender order. Many trans people can and do, of course, perform masculinity and femininity in particular ways that effectively “pass”31 as cisgender (Schilt & Westbrook, 2009), whether assimilation is their intention or not. Schilt and Westbrook (2009) suggest some trans individuals “present a challenge to heteronormativity” (p. 441) yet can still be seen as participating within it and maintaining normative gender practices. This is not a criticism of trans people who wish to – or just do – pass as cisgender (after all, trans women are subject to the same – if not more so – pressures and policing of femininity under the patriarchy as cisgender women). Rather, the desire to “pass” (and the safety that often comes with being able to conceal one’s transness) is yet another example of the insidiousness and power of the heterosexual matrix and the sex/gender binary. When bodies have an “unintelligible” gender, however, the matrix is challenged and people struggle to determine the gender of the person in front of them, resulting in “gender panic” and increased violence against trans people, particularly trans women of colour working in the sex trade (Lyons et al., 2017; Snorton & Haritaworn, 2013). Westbrook and Schilt (2014) explain, gender panics are not just about gender, but also about sexuality. In the 31 The concept of “passing” will be more fully explored in the next section. 67 sex/gender/sexuality system, all bodies are presumed heterosexual. This assumption makes gender-segregated spaces seem safe because they are then [presumed] “sexuality-free zones.” (p. 49) In other words, when transgender people do not “pass” as cisgender in sex/gender-segregated spaces, the instability of their sexed body, gender identity, and sexual orientation is made apparent and the space is no longer presumably “sexuality free.” While sex/gender opposition is necessary for social interactions to make sense within the heterosexual matrix, sex/gender sameness (even if this means individuals are passing as the same gender) is required for segregated spaces such as public washrooms. Not only does this reinforce the idea that sexuality is limited to male/female opposition and desire (falsely understanding that a sex/gender-segregated locker room or bathroom is devoid of sexuality), but it underscores the institutionalization of the sex/gender binary. The moral panic surrounding transgender people being “permitted” to use the public washroom that corresponds with their gender identity is due to an assumed threat to “vulnerable,” white, middle-upper class women and children, who will supposedly be at risk of sexual violence. These concerns are largely unfounded since it is trans people themselves who are far more likely to be subject to violence rather than be the perpetrators of sexual assaults (Schilt & Westbrook, 2015). Schilt and Westbrook (2015) propose that these concerns should be considered “penis panics” rather than simply “gender panics,” as the conversation tends to centralize on fear of male-assigned-at-birth individuals entering female-only spaces. This only serves to strengthen a heteronormative understanding of gender difference and bolsters the contention that people with penises will always desire women (and will take violent and 68 aggressive measures to act on those desires) and if bathroom rights are extended to transgender people, they will have even greater access to women and girls.32 Many Canadian public schools are now implementing single stall “gender neutral,” or “all gender” washrooms, purportedly “a big sign of inclusion” (Graham, 2016). It must be asked, however, what it means for a student to continually use a designated single stall, gender-neutral washroom on a daily basis. While seemingly a benign and respectful option for trans, non-binary, and gender non-conforming students, “these remain the spaces of otherness where a student both sees themselves as other, continually reproduced and continually in the making as Other and problem” (Loutzenheiser, 2015, p. 112). Ironically, the desire for increased “privacy” is negated by virtue of the fact that the student using the single stall washroom may be socially isolated and singled out for being “different.” As one youth stated at a Vancouver School Board committee meeting (as quoted in Loutzenheiser, 2015), While I want to be myself and just be non-binary and, when needed, have washrooms [for me to go to] and people who [harass me to] get in trouble…do I have to call attention to who I am to do that? Do I have to say to teachers I want to use that space and just have it be normal or do I have to make a big deal announcement or something. I would hate that. (pp. 109-110) The most equitable solution in the case of school bathrooms is clear – universal washrooms for all that are not organized by gender. Because the pervasiveness of heteronormativity and linkages with sex/gender normativity are well-entrenched, the idea of a universal non-gendered 32 It is also pertinent to note here that concerns about sexual violence against cis women are often justified in this particular context (when transwomen are the perceived threat), whereas commonplace sexual violence of the heteropatriarchy goes largely unchallenged. 69 washroom is often threatening and unheard of, particularly in schools. As revealed throughout the interviews with elementary educators in this study, the washroom is a site of significant stress and contention for staff and administrators who are often faced with balancing parental concerns and student safety (referring to, in most cases, gender policing and anti-trans bullying that take place in the bathroom stalls). Some may raise concern that universal washrooms ignore the possibility of gender-based male to female violence. If the purpose behind sex/gender-segregated washrooms is to prioritize the (presumed, as there is nothing to guarantee safety in these spaces) safety and privacy of cisgender girls and women, I suggest greater attention be paid to rape culture and how discourses of masculinity are perpetuated in schools, rather than ignoring the daily transphobic violence that takes place due to institutionalized binary sex/gender. In order to maintain the heterosexual matrix, we are all bound within a system of language and discourse that relies heavily upon gender norm policing for it to function. As the student in the above passage indicates, by consistently calling attention to their non-binary gender identity when needing to use the only washroom available to them, they are continually marked as “other” and are subject to constant gender norm policing for something as simple – and political – as using the washroom. Destabilizing heterosexual norms and heteronormative narratives (for example, by not assuming heterosexuality at birth, or by not having to “come out” as anything other than the norm), promotes greater possibility for social change across lines of gender and sexuality. 3.5 Gender Policing and Passing Underpinning the discussion surrounding gender identity, sexuality, and “normalcy” is a fixation on the connection between gender and genitalia and the profound effect of policing on gender. Gender policing takes place in a variety of ways: gendered play in schools, sex/gender 70 segregated washrooms and classroom activities, purposefully ignoring or misusing a person’s pronouns, encouraging certain gendered behaviours/activities/roles, or self-monitoring one’s appearance and mannerisms in public. Gender policing aids in the construction of privilege – such that cisgender individuals who largely identify with and conform to gender normative expressions and behaviours will not require overt policing from others – as well as exerting disciplinary power, wielding constant coercion and control upon people’s bodies, imploring them to appear, act, and behave in particular ways. For example, observe the use of binarist language in the classroom which refers only to “boys and girls.” To consistently assign a specific binary sex/gender to students – with no room for variation – is to incite them into a discourse in which a gendered subject is made a valid or recognizable student. As Davies (1989b) reminds us, “as children learn the discursive practices of their society, they learn to position themselves correctly as male or female, since that is what is required of them to have a recognizable identity within the existing social order” (p. 13). Failure to do so, she continues, “is to be perceived as a social failure” (p. 13) – that is, one who does not conform to the unwritten, though largely understood, cultural rules of gender presentation and performativity (Butler, 1990). To be rooted within a particular discourse requires people to act, behave, think and identify in certain ways. In order to be accepted, there is a felt imperative to abide by the principles of such discourses. For example, when properly gendered in the classroom, one may then be viewed as being a “good” student who is able to conform to normative expectations. Similar gender regulations and processes take place for government identification cards and access to basic healthcare that requires people to identify their sex/gender (often only presenting two options from which to select from) in order to access a myriad of services. These are just a few of the ways in which the state enacts gender violence and polices identity. 71 Many scholars have drawn upon Foucault’s (1977) concept of discipline and the surveillance society in order to theorize gender policing in which societal forces govern individual (and collective) behaviour (Bender-Baird, 2016; Davies, Vipond, & King, 2019; Ingrey, 2012, 2018). Foucault’s theory uses Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon, a circular prison where the guard sits in a central watchtower, providing visible access to all surrounding cells, and leaving prisoners with a sense of being under constant surveillance. Foucault (1977) explains: This enclosed, segmented space, observed at every point, in which the individuals are inserted in a fixed place, in which the slightest movements are supervised, in which all events are recorded... all this constitutes a compact model of the disciplinary mechanism. (p. 197) The purpose of the watchtower is to make the prisoners feel as though they are being monitored at all hours of the day, to the point where they begin self-regulation and monitoring, “hence the major effect of the Panopticon: to induce in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power” (Foucault, 1977, p. 201). The metaphor of the Panopticon is often applied to gender policing – that is, self-monitoring governs our actions, behaviours, and physical appearance which are all under the watchful eyes of peers, teachers, friends, family members, and even strangers. As stated by Kelly, Pomerantz, and Currie (2006), “there is a felt moral imperative to get gender ‘right’ or risk being seen as abnormal within one’s social networks” (p. 7). Young children are found to discursively position themselves – and police others to do the same – as gender-norm abiding boys and girls (Baker-Sperry, 2007). Sex/gender-segregated washrooms are also an effectual form of gender policing and disciplinary power such that the very construction and use of a 72 public washroom creates gendered bodies by way of taken-for-granted practices of sorting. The washroom, then, becomes a utilitarian form of gender coercion over time such that the bodies that enter it will become gender obedient. The segregated washroom, in this example, uses both signs and imagery (i.e., the identifiable gendered washroom signs of a man and a woman) but also relies upon peer policing to carry out its discipline (the “penis panic” as previously discussed). Since self-monitoring, policing, and regulation are so much a part of daily life within and outside schools and classrooms, it becomes difficult to see beyond gender normative discourse, further perpetuating the violence that comes with such policing. As Siebers (2008) states, “people easily perceive when someone is different from them but rarely acknowledge the violence of their perception” (p. 55). Once discourses cohere to the point where certain identities, expressions, and orientations are considered to have always been that way or are viewed as more “natural” than others, it then becomes justifiable to create laws, policies, and explanations or practices that support and protect those beliefs (Boldt, 1996). There is a long history surrounding the terminology of “passing” to describe people of colour who are able to pass as white, thereby permitting them to escape some of the consequences and effects of racism (Khanna & Johnson, 2010). Khanna and Johnson (2010) note that “passing” strongly emerged during enslavement and then with the “Jim Crow era” in which racial segregation laws were enforced in the Southern United States during the end of the 19th century. Passing (as white) was used as a survival mechanism, “a choice that biracial mothers and fathers made in order to protect their children from subordinate status and mistreatment” (Harris, 2018, p. 2074). The concept of “passing” strengthens the notion that there are certain ways of living which are deemed more acceptable than others, and particular social groups hold higher status and desirability. In essence, to “pass” is to be interpretable and acceptable to others, 73 to have the ability to avoid the violent consequences of necropolitics by concealing the marginalized aspects of one’s identity and embodiment. Piper (1992) reflects on her own experience of passing as white, A benefit and a disadvantage of looking white is that most people treat you as though you were white…. realizing that you're being treated this way because people think you're white, but rather falsely supposing that you're being treated this way because people think you are a valuable person. (p. 25) Individuals with any number of traits or qualities that deviate from the dominant group or the norm are said to pass if they are able to successfully appear as a member of the group they wish to be a part of. For instance, transgender individuals are said to pass if they appear as cisgender; disabled or chronically ill people pass if others see them as able-bodied; people from a low socioeconomic class may pass as wealthy depending on their relation to whiteness and purchasing power; queer people pass (as “palatable queers,” or as heterosexual) if they adhere to heteronormative assumptions and discourses. In many cases, passing is a matter of literal life or death, allowing those who are not typically seen as part of the dominant group to escape the violent or deadly consequences of their particular body or identity. Passing preserves social hierarchies and draws a clear line as to what is a normal and desirable body, identity, and social positioning (Siebers, 2008). Yoshino’s (2006) concept of “covering” extends this discussion by explaining how “outsiders” may be included (or brought into the fold) but only if they conceal what is considered undesirable by the mainstream, seek assimilation, and “behave like insiders” (p. 22). When people do not pass, adhere to the norm, or adequately “cover,” it is clear that they are not meeting the criteria necessary for respectability, and are living outside of privileged ideals. While there is a definite privilege to being able to “pass” or “cover,” this also evokes a 74 sense of isolation and a sadness with the erasure and concealment of one’s identity and family.33 3.6 Homo/trans-normativity and Homonationalism By the 1970s, the LGBTQ+ human rights movement focused on political organizing for sexual citizenship to be on par with the rights and freedoms presumably enjoyed by heterosexuals. These rights included human rights legislation and “protection” for discrimination against sexual orientation and the fight for legal, social, and cultural recognition of same-sex marriage and inclusion in the military as well as national security. Inclusion within these heteronormative, gendered, racialized, classed, ableist, imperialist social institutions entrenched queer people as being “just like them” (“them” being white, cisgender, middle-class, able-bodied heterosexuals). As Gentile and Kinsman (2015) suggest, although “major gains and important victories were won through these struggles …they also reshaped lesbian and gay, and eventually queer, movements, [moving] them away from substantive forms of social equality and liberation” (p. 135), perhaps most notably, at the expense and exclusion of racialized and lower socioeconomic groups. Puar (2007) states, “heteronormativity is, as it always has been, indispensable to the promotion of an aggressive militarist, masculinist, race-and class-specific nationalism” (p. 40). In a post 9/11 world, for instance, to be “properly patriotic,” (p. 40) normative, or acceptable, is to follow a heteronormative script that adheres to social and material neoliberal ideology, the heterosexual matrix, and nuclear family. Post 9/11 patriotism, as explained by Puar, “was 33 As stated by Khanna and Johnson (2010), “[many people] cut ties with their black communities, friends, and even family members to gain access to opportunities unavailable to them as African Americans (e.g. schools, jobs), and to escape the social stigma associated with blackness” (p. 382). 75 inextricably tied to a reinvigoration of heterosexual norms” (p. 41) and relied upon family structures to consolidate the nation and its white, hetero-patriarchal capitalist values. She states, family structures of the nation work both to consolidate heterosexuality as indispensable to national belonging and homosexuality as inimical to it…Queer bodies may be disallowed, yet there is room for the absorption and management of homosexuality—temporally, historically, and spatially specific— when advantageous for the nation… Thus the nation not only allows for queer bodies, but also actually disciplines and normalizes them; in other words, the nation is not only heteronormative, but also homonormative. (p. 50) Puar draws upon Duggan’s (2003) concept of “homonormativity,” a project that replicates and upholds heteronormative prerogatives under the guise of the inclusion, acceptance, and gay liberation. In effect, homonormativity reifies heterosexuality as the idealized norm. For example, the “fight” for marriage equality is so often seen as a benchmark of a nation’s success at “progressive” values, proffering nations, such as Canada, the perceived right to boast itself as a safe haven and leader in the human rights movement while simultaneously ignoring its continued colonial violence and harms against marginalized populations (Travers & Shearman, 2017). As Dhoot (2015) remarks, “in a bid to appear ‘gay friendly’ and as human rights defenders, certain Western states assert themselves as enlightened leaders through their inclusive gay rights laws, thereby allowing them to repudiate other states for their anti-homosexual laws” (pp. 49-50). Canadians often commend themselves as having a “post-racial” and “progressive” national identity, particularly when compared to “an ostensibly more virile racism in the U.S.” (Howard, 2018, p. 88).34 Relying upon the small “progressive” gains that have taken place in Canada – 34 See also “new racism” (e.g. Bonilla-Silva, 2003). 76 such as legalizing same-sex marriage in 2005 – serves to construct Canada as somehow “better than” the United States, while ignoring Canada’s white settler-colonial context and ongoing anti-Blackness and carceral violence (Howard, 2018; Mullings, Morgan, & Quelleng, 2016). Homonationalism effectively paints queer people with one (normative) brush, bringing particular (but certainly not all) queers into the fold, purporting queerness as being separate from “relations of class, poverty, ability, colonization, and racialization” (Gentile & Kinsman, 2015, p. 141), and coding “queer” “as adult, white, (largely) male, [cisgender] and middle class” (p. 141). This common sense understanding of mainstream queer politics inflicts a particular kind of violence itself by isolating (or altogether ignoring) the experiences of queers of colour, Indigenous queers, queer children, disabled queers, and impoverished queers, all while Canada – and the mainstream or “palatable” queers within it – applauds itself for being such a “safe haven” for LGBTQ+ people. Although the nation state may not overtly deny queer people access to the benefits and resources it claims to provide, it sets specific limitations on who may access a particular kind of desirable life, whereby certain – white, neoliberal, capitalist, hetero-patriarchal – normative conditions must be met. Snorton and Haritaworn (2013) note that “neoliberal regimes…invite novel performances of transness as innocent, colorfully diverse, and entitled to survival and protection. Nevertheless, these biopolitical and necropolitical conversions do not accrue value equally to all trans people” (p. 67). Although Snorton and Haritaworn (2013) are specifically referring to a European global context in the above passage, we can see how such an analysis extends to issues within Canada. For example, while some (palatable or acceptable) trans people are offered rights and protection, the convergence of racism, gender, and sexuality render trans people of colour and Two-Spirit peoples as “too queer,” “too trans,” or 77 “unintelligible,” resulting in severe criminal, political, and social implications, often with deadly consequences (Trevenen & Degagne, 2015). Trevenen and Degagne (2015) explore how policies and laws aimed at “protecting” queer and trans people – primarily in the form of hate crime legislation – often end up targeting and punishing the most vulnerable groups: queers of colour, Indigenous queers, and those of low economic and/or social status. As the Canadian government focuses on hate crime legislation, it feeds the prison industrial complex (the rapid expansion of prisons by disproportionately incarcerating Black and Indigenous people, serving its economic and political motives). The presumption is made that the supposedly innocent victims of said hate crimes are “white, gender conforming, consumptive and respectable” (Haritaworn et al., 2014, p. 18). Funneling those who commit hate crimes into the prison system – where prisons themselves are rife with heteronormative, gender-based violence – perpetuates the false belief that homophobia and transphobia are problems that reside within the individual rather than being part of broader, nation-wide anti-queer and anti-trans discourses that perpetuate discrimination and violence in laws and policies. Snorton and Haritaworn (2013) state, “those whose multiple vulnerabilities lend the moral panic its spectacularly violated bodies are continually reinscribed as degenerate and killable” (p. 67), which invariably sustains and reinscribes those who are “good queers” by anchoring queer politics in white, hetero-patriarchal, neoliberal capitalist values such as patriotism, normative nuclear family structures (i.e., reproducing monogamous queers), domesticity, and consumerism. These “respectable,” good, race and class privileged queers are becoming increasingly invested in the punishment of others (Lamble 2014; Travers, 2018), 78 ironically, disavowing the tensions between queer and trans communities and the police during the Stonewall Riots,35 serving to further support the carceral state. Lamble (2014) states, As the more race-and class-privileged members of LGBT communities are ushered into new forms of neoliberal citizenship – where buying power, respectability and nationalism are the price of welcome – “lesbian and gay rights” discourse has marked a striking shift away from previous critiques of the carceral state and towards a growing desire for punitive politics. (p. 151) As certain normative queer and trans populations become further invested in state-sanctioned policing projects, so do associations with queerness as being part of a white, nationalistic imperative. Perhaps most notably, “uncritically reading the inclusion of queer people as a signifier of progress fails to ask why (now) LGBT rights have become so important. As well, such assumptions of inclusion and progress figure [certain] queers as outside oppression” (Dhoot, 2015, p. 50). Within the context of educational change, the conversation may now shift from questions of “bullying” and “safe schools” to a central question of “which lives are considered valuable, and which are not?” The previously referenced “It Gets Better” campaign, for example, not only ignores the present realities faced by QTGD children and youth, but also underscores the argument made by queer/trans necropolitics – that is, the lives and suffering of some are worth saving and protecting over others. The “It Gets Better” campaign’s individualized approach to protection and the fantasy of a better future ignores larger power structures and dynamics, systemic racism, gender-based violence and harassment that targets 35 Often referred to as the catalyst for the gay rights movement, the Stonewall Riots of 1969 resulted from spontaneous anti-gay and anti-trans police raids in Greenwich Village, New York, and was led by trans women of colour. 79 certain groups, particularly trans people of colour. As a result, “white gay and lesbian politics must remain silent on anti-black racism, must position itself as anything but black to keep its place in line for the future” (Haritaworn et al., 2014, p. 196). What happens, then, for the most precarious, racialized, poor, disabled children and youth, who are often not the intended beneficiaries of all the work that is currently going into the construction of a better, brighter, more inclusive future? We must ask what happens to those who do not adhere to normative gendered, able-bodied, white supremacist and settler colonial expectations, and do not experience – first-hand – the concept of a “life worth living.” According to Butler (1993), “it is their very humanness that comes into question” (p. xvii). The human is pitted against the inhuman, the acceptable versus the unacceptable or undesirable. Identity is questioned when it is unidentifiable and when difference is visibly marked. Butler (2004b) continues their argument in Precarious Life, “the question of who will be treated humanely presupposes that we have first settled the question of who does and does not count as a human” (p. 91). In a post 9/11 world, in particular, the acute awareness of racial “otherness” has rendered it nearly impossible for racialized bodies to be publicly vouched for and grieved, again referencing this distinction between the human versus the inhuman. For instance, the very existence of Black Lives Matter – a global movement created in response to racial profiling and the murder of Black lives by carceral states – makes a patently obvious point: if Black lives were not perceived as “less than” or “other,” the movement would have no need to exist. Similarly, if queer, trans, and gender non-conforming lives were considered “fully human,” perhaps we would not need “safe school” discourses, campaigns or slogans that aim to create “safe spaces” or the imperative to “protect” queer and trans kids. 80 3.7 Disability and Disabling Environments Unlike the medical model of disability, which defines particular bodies as requiring medical intervention, the social model defines disability as “relative to the social and built environment, arguing that disabling environments produce disability in bodies and requires interventions at the level of social justice” (Siebers, 2008, p. 25). Siebers is careful to clarify that this understanding of disability does not discount bodies that are affected by health conditions, chronic pain, and aging. Rather, he draws upon the theory of “complex embodiment,” which views disabilities on a “spectrum of human variation” (p. 25), such that bodily experience and social representation are understood as reciprocal, rather than unidirectional. “The ideology of ability,” as Siebers defines and uses it, permeates the entirety of our social organization; “it defines the baseline by which humanness is determined, setting the measure of body and mind that gives or denies human status to individual persons” (2008, p. 8). The human body (and life itself) is fundamentally precarious – disability being something that any one of us could (and often do, at various points in our lives) experience via accident, disease, aging, or social identity that is not upheld as the norm (thereby holding a disabling effect). Siebers maintains that although identities are socially constructed and disabling environments are produced, this does not negate the fact that certain individuals and groups of people will experience and face discrimination and violence that impact their precarity and life chances. The social model of disability is particularly relevant when critically analyzing how social, institutional, and state forces render the transgender body and identity as a social and/or physical disability. Take, for instance, significant barriers to bathroom access for transgender people. When inclusive washrooms are not safely available, it is not uncommon for trans folks to avoid using the washroom throughout the day, resulting in psychological and physical damage 81 including anxiety, depression, and bladder and kidney infections (Weinhardt et al., 2017). Consistent with the medical model of disability, the medicalization of transgender identities views trans bodies as possessing a “defect” to be managed or addressed through medical and psychological intervention. The biomedical model’s reliance upon – and enforcement of – the sex/gender binary through which to understand and pathologize trans bodies also further marginalizes nonbinary or genderqueer identities – those that may not neatly fit within one of two gender categories. As Browne (2004) elaborates, “everyday spaces can be ‘disabling environments’ for those who do not correspond to presumed gender norms” (p. 339). The school, as a whole, from curriculum to policy and physical structure of the school and classroom, produces many disabling environments for queer and trans students with increased precarity and vulnerability for students who do not fit into normative categories across lines of race, class, ability, sexual orientation, and sex/gender. 3.8 Conclusion In this chapter, I provided a brief history of my theoretical orientations and detailed the key concepts and frameworks that inform my data analysis and findings. Researchers and educators often speak of improving school environments to make them more “inclusive,” with an eye on introducing “otherness” into the classroom to expand students’ awareness of “difference.” Currently, the present focus in both research and praxis with QTGD children and youth in schools is geared towards “fixing,” “figuring out,” and “supporting” (Airton, 2013). Given that the prevailing rhetoric surrounding “out” trans kids in schools (and resulting administrative “accommodations” discussed throughout this dissertation) frequently follows a disabling “born in the wrong body” framework, policy provisions and approaches to supporting trans students are 82 still limited to conforming around the sex/gender binary. While participants in this study clearly desire to affirm and support QTGD students, “solutions,” “accommodations” and “supports” for students often end up reaffirming oppressive sex/gender and hetero-patriarchal systems and discourses within the classroom, school, and education system as a whole. The frameworks of “inclusion” and “diversity” so often used in the context of public education – usually taking place in the form of anti-bullying campaigns, policies and safe school discourses – are what I consider to be normative conceptualizations of social change. These initiatives unfortunately offer little in terms of effectively confronting privilege and inequality in the education system. If educators are to initiate meaningful and enduring educational change, then the very foundation that contemporary educational practices have been built upon – colonizing, hetero-patriarchal, binary sex/gender discourses that produce disabling environments for queer and trans students – must be re-examined. Further questions remain surrounding how the education system (as a proxy of the state), which is a primary source of violence and contention for QTGD kids, can achieve the vision and hope for a kinder, gentler, more compassionate classroom and a school environment that affirms and supports students for who they are. Throughout this dissertation, I propose we question why schools continue to function as sites where gender identity and sexual orientation are so heavily policed and regulated, and why deviations from what has been considered the norm must be “addressed” or “accommodated” through damaging interventions. My perspective is greatly informed by Airton (2013), who asks, “how can education welcome queerness, whatever it is or will be? What could make all of these things easier to live with and live through, or how might queerness be helped to flourish in education?” (p. 549). Throughout my research, I aim to extend Airton’s queries by asking how an intersectional queering of elementary education may offer spaces for all kids to explore and 83 express identities without being restricted and judged by a limiting and oppressive view of gender and sexuality. 84 Chapter 4: Study Design: Queer(ing) Methods and Methodologies 4.1 Introduction I begin this chapter by locating my recruitment and data generation within the social and political context of Alberta, and how political tensions in the province inevitably influenced how my project took shape. I then describe my methodological influences and epistemological and ontological approaches to research. Next, I provide an overview of how I recruited participants, their demographics, and factors that may have affected who participated in this study. I discuss the different methods I used for generating data: policy analysis, interviews, field notes, and group discussions/workshops. Throughout this chapter I include my processes surrounding ethics, consent, and confidentiality. I then provide a discussion of queer reflexivity in qualitative research, concluding with my approach to discourse analysis and thematic coding. The purpose of this research was to identify and explore the factors that motivate and support educators who are committed to creating QTGD affirming educational environments. My methodological approaches and decisions to conduct interviews, group discussions/workshops, and policy analysis with a queer, social justice-oriented lens are influenced by my desire to trace how normative regimes of race, class, ability, gender, and sexuality shape how QTGD students are discussed, understood, and framed in elementary education. As I spoke with participants, it became increasing evident that I was engaging with Roulston’s (2010) “transformative” approach to interviews and group discussions, in which it became important to me – both methodologically and personally – to make what I describe as “gentle” interventions in participants’ language and knowledge, with further (more direct) interventions in my data analysis and discussions. The interventions made throughout this 85 research are done so with a clear goal of contributing to a better schooling future for queer and trans students in Alberta, thereby improving conditions for all students. 4.2 Provincial Context: “Hey hey, ho ho, Jason Kenney has got to go!”36 “There is a political agenda in Alberta right now that is diametrically opposed to the principles of equality.” (Taylor, urban elementary teacher) The data collected for this study took place during a significant time of tension in Alberta, where conversations and debates surrounding the pipeline, gas prices, homophobia, and threats to school GSAs frequently made headlines during the lead up to the 2019 provincial election (and continued to do so, months after Jason Kenney became Premier). Among the most pressing concerns, particularly for the queer and trans communities, educators, students, and activists, were related to the United Conservative Party’s (UCP) stance on GSAs (as discussed in Chapter 1). The hashtag #QueerKidsAB began trending nationwide on Twitter as a response to the UCP’s threats to rollback protections for students who join their school’s GSA (Global News, 2019). Multiple rallies and protests were held across the province to show support for queer students, teachers, and GSAs, including a student-led province-wide school walkout in which thousands of students across Alberta stepped out of their classrooms at 9:30am on May 3rd, 2019 (McMillan, 2019). As one of the student organizers stated, “It's really important to do this because as students ... we are the people, we are the audience that this policy is going to affect” (McMillan, 36 A popular cheer at the many protests and rallies around the province. 86 2019, para. 12). I attended as many of these events as I could as a community activist37 and, unofficially, as a researcher to get a sense of what was “going on” in Alberta during this time. In a province that has historically grappled with anti-queer and anti-trans discourses, particularly within educational contexts, I was keenly aware that my research would have to walk a careful line between naming the issues surrounding gender and sexuality within Alberta’s schools and being sensitive to potential fears and uncertainties, especially those held by participants. Throughout the early stage of my research, I faced barriers to conducting my original project idea which I suspect may have been due, in part, to the fear and tension within the province when it came to queer and trans issues in schools. The original design for my research was a multi-case study of three elementary classrooms in three different schools. Once I began the process of applying for school board ethics, I was informed that I would not be able to name Alberta as the location of my research (a significant obstacle, as the political and social landscape of the province is integral to situating my findings). Consequently, I altered my project to take place outside the purview of the school board, opting instead to interview individual elementary educators around the province. Removing the school board restriction broadened my research scope, but I was now faced with additional challenges surrounding recruiting participants. For example, a key informant, whose professional work explicitly deals with QTGD youth in schools, expressed interest in participating in my study, but was restricted by her supervisor in speaking with me (despite my reassurance that she may participate on her own time, with complete anonymity and no details of 37 When I moved to Alberta, I created an Instagram account to build a platform for queer education and community. I began the account as a way to build community for myself and others, eventually becoming a hub for queer activism and events. 87 her place of work). Additionally, I received many initial requests for information from interested educators around the province who seemed to have great enthusiasm for the project. However, often times, I did not receive a response past the second follow-up email. The timing of my original call for participants may have been a factor. The NDP, with their socially minded agenda, were still in power in Alberta and the writ had not yet been dropped to announce an election. Once the election campaign was in full swing, Jason Kenney and the United Conservative Party quickly launched into promoting their conservative agenda to the electorate. While this is speculation on my part, perhaps this cast a sense of fear amongst educators in the province, and potential research participants might have been hesitant to openly speak their minds. 4.3 Methodological Influences “a queer methodology only works if we know where we stand, where we are trying to go, and whom we are trying to take with us” (Haritaworn, 2008, p. 9) The types of knowledge we produce and re-produce, the questions we ask—as well as how and why we ask them— matter in our approaches to feminist qualitative research. As Doucet and Mauthner (2002) state, “those who are involved in the processes of knowledge production have an ethical responsibility to those from whom/for whom knowledge is produced as well as to others who are involved in the production of theory, knowledge and policy” (p. 123). Part of this responsibility involves disentangling assumptions about who research participants are, the false belief that researchers can generate “objective” data without bias, and expectations within research that so often ask us to stake claim to verifiable “truth” and “fact.” My methodological 88 approach throughout my academic career has been greatly informed by a feminist poststructuralist epistemology that espouses a complex, relational view of subjectivity, advocates for multiple truths and identities, and complicates the concept of “experience” and “reality” by underscoring the constitutive power of discourse. Drawing upon my theoretical concepts from Chapter 3, I understand a queer feminist methodology as one that seeks to destabilize taken-for-granted meanings, perceived truths, and dominant discourses relating to systemic racism, colonization, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity. My decision to conduct interviews is strongly influenced by my desire to explore how elementary educators create meaning out of their experiences with QTGD students, curriculum and policy, within a broader context of queer/trans necropolitics. For example, what discourses are available to participants, and what is rendered (im)possible within those discursive processes? How does the queer/trans necropolitical landscape of schooling contribute to unequal social, cultural, and material resources for QTGD students? Further, how might talk and text throughout the interviews and group discussions in this study offer new ways of thinking about queer and trans issues in schools? Though difficult to concretely define (in fact, doing so would be in opposition to the usages of queer: to proliferate, destabilize, and step away from policing boundaries [Browne & Nash, 2016]), queer approaches to research dispute the liberal humanist subject that is thought to have a rational, objective, stable, core sense of self. Many post-positivist social scientists have problematized the notion of researcher objectivity, claiming that there is no such thing as neutrality. Haraway’s (1988) notable concept, “situated knowledges,” illustrates the perspective that researchers cannot be removed from their social worlds, context, and the “marked bodies” (p. 581) in which they live and occupy. Haraway (1988) states, “I am arguing for politics and epistemologies of location, positioning, and situating, where partiality and not universality is the 89 condition of being heard to make rational knowledge claims” (p. 589). From this perspective, the promise of objectivity and universality in research is illusory as the researcher is inevitably informed by the social discourses in which they are entrenched – that is, our knowledge (and therefore knowledge production) is always situated. As understandings of colonization, white supremacy, cisnormativity, and heternormativity expand, so must the perspectives, methodologies, and methods we employ in queer, feminist, social justice-oriented research. The uncertainty over what constitutes “feminist methodology” fits well within a queer epistemology which is less interested in concrete definitions and more open to the disruption of monolithic categories. Many researchers in the field of gender, sexualities, and anti-normative frameworks are now turning to queer(ed) methodologies and methods in an attempt to alleviate conceptual and methodological concerns about studying identity, subjectivity, representation and anti-oppression (Browne & Nash, 2016; Namaste, 1994). 4.4 Methodological Approaches 4.4.1 Policy Analysis Conducting an analysis of relevant provincial and school policies and documents – those that explicitly mention or are for/about QTGD students – was essential to providing the context and background to my research questions, interview and group discussion questions and, most importantly, how participants talked about gender and sexuality. The final report by Egale Canada Human Rights Trust (Taylor et al., 2011) emphasizes the importance of policy as protection for students and staff as well as playing a critical role in the development of a positive and supportive school culture for QTGD students and their families. In the same vein, many researchers also attest to the need for policy evaluation, raising questions as to whether policy 90 itself is enough, and what else is needed for more comprehensive change in schools. Levinson, Sutton, and Winstead (2009) suggest that “the way to unpack policy is to see it as a kind of social practice, specifically, a practice of power” (p. 767). As such, throughout my content analysis of the Alberta Guidelines for Best Practices (2016) and 12 school district policies,38 I paid particular attention to what kinds of discourses and social practices of power were being drawn upon in the language and examples used in each document. As corroborated by Herriot (2015), Lingard (2009) and Loutzenheiser (2015), theoretical perspectives, such as queer theory, that aim to disrupt dominant, commonsense understandings and expose how particular issues are socially constructed, are central in examining how policy is framed, the supposed problems policy seeks to address, and how the language and discourses used within policy shape and construct those affected by and through it. I draw upon queer/trans necropolitics to expose how the policies analyzed in this study produce and promote homonormative and transnormative conceptions of the “good” (or “palatable”) queer/trans student, those who are more easily “understood” and therefore accommodated by and through the policy’s “best practices.” In my policy analysis, I draw upon poststructural influences and Bacchi’s “what’s the problem represented [WPR] to be?” approach39 (Bacchi, 2012), in which “the task in a ‘WPR’ analysis is to read policies with an eye to discerning how the ‘problem’ is represented within them and to subject this problem representation to critical scrutiny” (p. 21). A poststructural approach to policy analysis views policy as discourse (Ball, 1993), informing understandings and 38 I selected 12 districts to analyze so as to explore a range of different district policies across Alberta (including rural and urban areas). The participants’ school districts (six) are included in the list of policies I selected. However, in order to maintain anonymity, I will not be naming the districts or providing any identifying information. The remaining six districts were randomly selected. 39 Discussed further in Chapter 5. 91 certain “truths” about a particular topic or aspect of social and political life. I chose this approach because it is consistent with feminist and queer theorizing that seeks to disrupt dominant, commonsense and taken-for-granted understandings about what is considered to be the “problem.” The following six questions guide Bacchi’s approach to policy analysis: 1. What’s the “problem”…represented to be in a specific policy or policy proposal? 2. What presuppositions or assumptions underpin this representation of the “problem”? 3. How has this representation of the ‘problem’ come about? 4. What is left unproblematic in this problem representation? Where are the silences? Can the “problem” be thought about differently? 5. What effects are produced by this representation of the “problem”? 6. How/where has this representation of the “problem” been produced, disseminated and defended? How has it been (or could it be) questioned, disrupted and replaced? (Bacchi, 2012, p. 21) The above questions guided my analysis in exploring how QTGD identities, anti-queer and anti-trans bullying, and queerness in general are constructed as problems within elementary education to be addressed or solved, supposedly through policy interventions. 4.4.2 Epistemological Approach to Interviews The majority of data for this project comes from 14 in-depth, semi-structured interviews with elementary educators from six different school districts in Alberta. I chose interviews as my primary method for a variety of reasons. First, I wanted to reach a number of educators across the province. Interviewing provided me with the option to extend a wide call for participants and conduct interviews either in-person or on the phone/Skype. Second, interviews offered the opportunity for participants to engage with my research topic by sharing stories, examples of classroom lessons, or raise problems and challenges they had encountered while working with QTGD students, curriculum, and policy both in and out of the classroom. The traditional interview is a well-constructed, liberal humanist project. St. Pierre (2011) describes the tensions of navigating research traditions that are so greatly informed by liberal 92 humanism: “if we no longer believe in a disentangled humanist self, individual, person, we have to rethink qualitative methods (interviewing and observation) grounded in that human being as well as humanist representation” (p. 620). Furthermore, if we are to deconstruct dominant discourses and how they function – and unpack what makes for a liveable life (Butler, 2004a) – we must also generate new ways of interviewing and interpreting interviews as texts and approaches to analyzing subjectivity and subjecthood as being constantly in process, rather than being viewed as fixed reality. Dispelling the traditional notion that researchers ought to obtain “objective” or “truthful” data from participants, I paid particular attention to what participants shared (or did not share), but more so, how they described their experiences, and what larger discourses may have helped to inform those experiences. In interviewing educators about QTGD students in their schools and classrooms, discussions evolved around the kinds of (im)possibilities that are available for queer and trans subjects in elementary education. Queering interviewing methods recognizes that there are many, often competing, subjectivities, multiple truths and no essential experience to claim (Browne & Nash, 2016). Rather, experience may be understood as grounded in, and informed by, discourse. According to Nash (2016), “queer epistemological and ontological perspectives” in a “queered methodological perspective,” focuses “attention on how social categories of being, and lived experience, are constituted within certain historical, cultural and spatialized contexts, including normative ideas about” gender and sexuality (p. 133). In shifting the framework of interviewing and interview analysis away from that which is perceived to be “real” and distanced from concern for “what exactly is being said,” it becomes possible to move our attention towards curiosity about what discursive practices make it possible to say or believe certain things and act in particular ways. Deconstructing how participants made sense of QTGD identities and 93 expressions (as informed by and contextualized within dominant discourses of gender and sexuality), offered greater insight into how discourse functions rather than focusing solely on what is being said/not said. Ellingson (2012) further emphasizes that the interview is “a site of knowledge construction, not only of information transmission, as traditionally framed” (p. 529, emphasis added). How I conducted my interviews and groups discussions is a reflection of my theoretical orientation as a poststructuralist and queer theorist, in recognition that I am always embedded in the process of data generation. Consequently, my role in co-constructing knowledge with participants meant that I engaged participants in reciprocal conversation and shared opportunities for reflection or new information. 4.4.2.1 Interviews with Educators With this critical scholarship in mind, I conducted in-depth, semi-structured (see interview guide in Appendix A) interviews with 14 educators (six different school districts; five rural residents, nine urban) in a variety of roles within elementary education including teacher, principal, consultant, and psychologist (see section 4.6 for a full description). Interviews averaged 90 minutes in length and were audio recorded for later transcription. Interviews took place in varied locations (such as a quiet library room or the local queer resource centre) depending on the participant’s comfort level, my ability to travel outside of the city where I live (the majority of data generation took place during the winter months when road conditions were not optimal for travel), and what worked best with both of our schedules. I conducted 11 in-person interviews and three phone interviews. I began each interview by asking participants to fill out a basic demographic survey (see Appendix B) to help contextualize their responses. My interview questions were designed around exploring how educators engage with and make sense of queer, trans, and gender non- 94 conforming diversity in their particular role in elementary education. Broad questions regarding their position in elementary education, understandings of queer, trans, and gender diversity and inclusion as well as personal and professional experience with LGBTQ+ related training and competency helped to orient participants to the study, and to familiarize myself with their current understandings and discursive positionings. More detailed questions narrowed in on specific examples and discussions of how gender, sexuality, race, class, and ability show up in their particular roles in elementary education, in their workplace and amongst their colleagues. I took detailed field notes before, during, and after each interview so as to record points for future consideration, my own thoughts and feelings, as well as participants’ body language, pauses, and noteworthy responses. My questions inevitably shifted and evolved as the interviews unfolded, depending on the information and responses provided by participants and myself. I employed aspects of what Roulston (2010) describes as “transformative” interviewing, in which the interviewer “intentionally aims to challenge and change the understandings of participants… fostering productive dialogue and action contributing to social justice goals” (pp. 220-221, emphasis in original). I feel it is important to distinguish, however, that I did not approach each interview as a whole with the mindset of challenging and changing participants. Rather, during our discussions, opportunities emerged for what I term “gentle interventions” on participants’ language use and understandings (for a more detailed discussion of my role in the interviews, see section 4.7.2). Recalling that interviews are reciprocal and generative, I view these interventions not as a way to exert a power differential between myself and participants, but as an invitation for co-constructing new understandings. For example, when participants indicated a somewhat limited knowledge of, or had questions pertaining to QTGD identities and expressions, I offered a 95 different perspective or information that I thought might be useful to them. This was a process that I engaged with throughout my data generation. The shift in my response towards a gentle intervention during interviews with participants is illustrated in the following exchanges with Jenny, an urban elementary teacher: JENNY: I actually get a little bit confused when I see drag queens because I don’t know if I should say “she” or “he”? Like pronoun wise?... so, things like that I’m a little bit worried about because I don’t want to offend anybody. KATE: There’s a lot of nuance, eh? It’s great that you asked your friend because people could dress in drag and present as a feminine drag queen but yet prefer “he/him” pronouns. It can be hard to know [what pronouns to use], I can empathize with that. JENNY: Yeah! And I actually just read an article this morning about certain words and phrases that people use in everyday language that could be considered offensive, but people don’t even know?... I do use words like that, not often, but I… it’s not something that I would have considered offensive… KATE: It sounds like it’s… from your experience, it’s hard to know what to say and what not to say? JENNY: mmhmm, yeah. KATE: How do you kind of draw that distinction? JENNY: Um… some of it is through people I know. And some of it is through like, reading articles on Facebook, yeah… Our conversation shifted slightly then circled back to what Jenny felt had influenced her perspective and understandings of QTGD identities. JENNY: I took a gender psychology course years ago when I was getting my first degree… In that course they had um [pause] a transgender [pause] now see, and that’s something I read in the article this morning, that you can’t use the word “transgendered” cause it’s… [trails off] KATE: Transgendered? With “ed”? Yeah, you would just say a “trans woman” or “trans man” or “trans person.” JENNY: So then if it’s a male like [pause] born male, but [pause] changed into female, then is that a transgender woman? Or is that transgender… [trails off] 96 KATE: So, we would generally say “assigned male at birth” and then if they transitioned, we would say “trans woman.” JENNY: Oh, ok so it’s what [the gender] they end up as. In light of queering my approach to interviews, in the above conversations with Jenny I paid attention to how the hesitations in her responses were indicative of her process of meaning-making and what discourses were available to her as she grappled with language around gender identity and expression. Although these conversations did not specifically pertain to QTGD students, policy, and curriculum, it was important to respond to Jenny’s language use, both personally and methodologically, as her understandings of gender and sexuality certainly applies more broadly to her work in elementary education. 4.4.3 Small Group Discussions Since I was interested in how elementary educators engage with queer, trans, and gender issues in their particular roles in education, a focus group setting (referred to as a “small group discussion/workshop” due to the size of the participant pool) for educators where they could share their thoughts and ideas – including concerns related to the UCP being elected and its inevitable impact on queer issues in education – was what I had expected, and hoped to be a crucial component to my study. Because participants in this study shared a comparable professional social culture (where their different roles within elementary education bring a range of diverse experiences and perspectives), it was my intention for educators to share ideas, questions, or the policy documents and examples discussed during their one-on-one interviews, and possibly brainstorm classroom techniques or lessons that might benefit one another. The group discussions also became an opportunity to make additional interventions and offer information on what participants expressed as gaps in their knowledge or understandings of 97 QTGD issues. These discussions were especially important as participants continually cited the dearth of opportunities to collaborate with educators interested in this particular field as well as a severe lack of queer and trans specific trainings and workshops in their school districts. The small group discussion/workshop took place at the end of my study, providing me with the opportunity to share an overview of my culminated interview data (used as a means to generate discussion, rather than a critique of individual responses40) with participants and engage them in a discussion of my preliminary findings. This may also be seen as a form of “member checking” with participants. It is important to note that the purpose of member checking in this way was not to confirm the “truth” or “accuracy” of participants’ interviews; rather, it served to signal their resonance with how I portrayed their responses and insights. Member checking in this way was important to me in terms of my commitment to building respectful, ethical relationships with participants in which I hoped it would be evident that I did not intend or desire to judge or critique educators’ individual practices or responses. I had originally intended to host the group discussions in two major cities in Alberta (one in the Northern region, the other in the Southern), so participants would have the opportunity to attend in the city closest to them. Due to a lower number of interested participants in the Northern city, I was not able to host a group discussion in that area. A local queer resource centre offered space for me to host my workshops on two Saturdays in the Southern location. The centre provided a comfortable private meeting space, a screen for my PowerPoint presentation (to share quotes and other “stimulus texts” [Törrönen, 2002]), as well as beverages and snacks. Unfortunately, the city was hit with Alberta’s typical (often unpredictable) spring snowstorm, 40 Any quotes from participants shared in the group discussion/workshop were given with consent and anonymized. 98 and I had a number of participants cancel at the last minute. In the end, four participants (2 in each session) were able to attend the discussions, which was beneficial both for transcribing a group conversation (as I opted not to use video recording), and for the depth of discussion. The participants who were able to attend the discussions used it as an opportunity to share questions and concerns related to Jason Kenney and the UCP, as well as their own experiences working in elementary classrooms and schools, offering deeper and richer data to complement my interviews and policy analysis. Each group discussion was 90 minutes in length and was audio recorded for later transcription. Detailed field notes were taken before, during, and after each group discussion. Ethics and confidentiality were primary concerns when developing this component of my research as participants in the group discussion would then inevitably be aware of who had participated in the interview portion of the study (and would potentially know some of the other participants by virtue of working in the same field). To help alleviate these ethical concerns, I began the group discussion by expressing the importance of maintaining confidentiality of those who were in attendance and invited participants to introduce themselves to their level of comfort, explaining that they may choose to omit their name, professional role, and place of work. I also expressed that while I hoped our conversations could be kept confidential, I could not guarantee that those in the group would not later talk about what was said. I opened the group discussion by sharing preliminary findings from the interview data and asked participants if these themes resonated with their experiences in and out of the classroom. Since another goal of the group discussion/workshop was to address some gaps in knowledge or understanding that arose during the interviews, I organized the group discussion to function as somewhat of a “training” or workshop while primarily focusing on generating discussion on topics I believed could benefit 99 from further exploration. As such, I offered gentle interventions in the form of exploratory questions relating to problematic themes that were raised throughout the interviews (for instance, the idea that sexuality is not present in elementary classrooms or the perceived lack of connection between colonization and cis/heteronormative school practices) to prompt discussion of new ideas and discourses. 4.5 Participant Recruitment All participants were recruited between November 2018 and April 2019. To recruit educators to participate in this study, I created a bright flyer (see Appendix C) with information about my study and posted copies in public spaces such as coffee shops, libraries, and community centres in three major cities in Alberta, as well as multiple small towns and rural areas. I also attempted to recruit through word of mouth by distributing fliers (via email or hardcopy) to my contacts throughout Alberta and providing copies to participants at the end of each interview so they could pass along the information to other interested educators. I was therefore able to recruit a few educators who worked in the same school as the flyer circulated amongst staff. In these few situations, I reiterated to each participant that their information is treated as confidential and a pseudonym would be used in the research, but that I would not be able to guarantee that their colleagues would not discuss the research or their participation with them. I then asked these participants if they would be comfortable joining the group discussion even if it meant the possibility of their colleagues being present (reiterating that participation was completely voluntary). While I was able to cover a number of locations throughout Alberta (for example, when travelling to and from a conference in Edmonton, I made a point of stopping in different areas of the city as well as smaller centres to post my flyers. I would also post flyers when I conducted 100 interviews in different cities and rural areas), the majority of participants were recruited through social media. I posted an electronic version of the flyer in online spaces such as Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. The flyer was shared on multiple local Facebook groups with the permission of each group’s administrator, as well as my community Instagram and Facebook accounts. Participants responded by reaching out to my email address as well as my Facebook and Instagram accounts (at which point I would move the conversation to email). I responded to participant inquiries with a letter of invitation (see Appendix D), which included the specific details of my study. As a thank you for participating in this study, participants received a PDF package with queer, trans, and gender affirming lesson plans, resources, and posters. Participants were also entered into a draw to win three LGBTQ+/gender diverse picture books. The development of this package (and the contents within it) served, in part, as a response to participants’ frustrations surrounding the lack of QTGD resources available to educators who are interested in building affirming practices and classrooms. 4.6 Description of Participants At the beginning of every interview, I invited participants to fill out a basic demographic survey to their level of comfort. The survey offered space for information about the participant’s identities (gender, sexual orientation, and racial/ethnic background), educational background, and level of professional experience in elementary education. Using a demographic survey was a complex decision, as obtaining such information from participants may a) imply a fixed understanding of participant subjectivity (for example, by asking the gender identities and sexual orientations of participants) and b) suggest that certain conclusions could be drawn based on the backgrounds of the educators in this study. Halberstam (1998), for instance, along with other feminist and queer scholars, raises concern that surveys as a methodological tool expect to 101 “squeeze truth from raw data” (p. 10). Browne and Nash (2016) ask, “if, as queer thinking argues, subjects and subjectivities are fluid, unstable and perpetually becoming, how can we gather ‘data’ from those tenuous and fleeting subjects using the standard methods of data collection such as interviews or questionnaires?” (p. 1). In reconciling these concerns, it is important to recognize responses to the demographic surveys not as stable facts, but as indicative of participants’ relative positions of privilege that may have informed their understandings of queer, trans, and gender diversity and systems of power more broadly. I understand participants’ identities in the demographic surveys as unstable and in-process, rather than fixed (Browne, 2016). For example, during each interview, I tried not to make assumptions about how each participant understood themselves personally and professionally in relation to queerness, since identities and social positionings are far more complex than what can be captured in a short survey. Given that participants responded to the demographic surveys months before I began writing this dissertation, the surveys may be understood as a snapshot through which to contextualize participant responses at that time but cannot be understood as absolute. Because identity and subjectivity are always in process, it is possible that participants’ understandings of their gender identities and/or sexual orientations on the survey have since shifted. Table 4.1 provides a breakdown of participant demographics to help contextualize the interviews and group discussions. The table also includes school demographics, which was one of the first questions I asked during the interview. It was important to obtain a general sense of the participant’s workplace environment across lines of race, class, socio-economic status (SES), or how “diverse” (or not) participants felt their schools were. In the table, I recorded the language that each participant used on their written survey (and for the school demographics section) as closely as possible so as to reflect how they understood their identities and 102 experiences and the demographics of their schools at that time. For example, Kathryn41 described her racial/ethnic background as “so very white.” I felt it was important to use Kathryn’s language when describing herself in this way, just as I felt it was also important to include Andi’s,“White but Jewish,” Randy’s question mark after “European?” and participants’ use42 of “caucasian.”43 41 Participants were invited to choose their own pseudonyms. 42 For a detailed discussion about my decision-making process regarding intervening on participants’ language, see section 4.7.2. 43 “Caucasian,” while still widely used, is considered by many to be a racist term that dates back to scientific racial classification in the eighteenth century (Mukhopadhyay, 2008). 103 Table 4.1 Participant demographics 104 Based on the demographic survey responses, participants in this study are predominantly in their 30s and 40s, white, cisgender,44 and female. Eight participants identify with a sexual orientation other than heterosexual, five identify as “straight” or “heterosexual” and one participant did not disclose their sexual orientation. Most participants are teachers who have at least ten years of experience in elementary education and work in an urban school district (“urban” meaning as within one of Alberta’s major cities). While I made a concerted effort to distribute posters widely (for example, in many different areas of each city, town, and rural area I visited as well as a diverse array of social media groups), I let “snowball sampling” drive my recruitment of participants and, consequently, my demographics. Elementary education is documented as a female-dominated profession (Stats Canada reported that in 2016, 84% of elementary and kindergarten teachers were women [Stats Canada 2018]), though there is very limited information regarding the approximate number of white educators in Canada. One participant, Gwen, observed: GWEN: All of the educators that I know that are doing this stuff [LGBTQ+ and gender diversity/inclusion in schools] are white. KATE: Do you know why? GWEN: Alberta. Also, I think - I would be curious to know what the demographics are, especially elementary teachers in Alberta. KATE: In terms of? 44 The language participants used for their gender identity is indicated verbatim in the gender identity column of the table. Participants did not explicitly identify themselves as cisgender on their surveys. Rather, it is my understanding (based on our conversations) that the majority of participants do not identify as trans or nonbinary. It is important to note, however, that just because a person does not identify themselves as trans, does not mean they identify with the gender they were assigned at birth (for instance, a woman who was assigned male at birth may not identify as trans). 105 GWEN: Race. I think a lot of teachers are white.... we have one Muslim45 teacher [at this school], and we have like 50% Muslim students. Our conversation did not go far beyond the above exchange, but I found it interesting – and relevant – that Gwen implied that the reason she only knows of white educators working in this particular area is because we are in Alberta, perhaps due to its historical (and current) conservatism where there may not be the social and institutional supports and resources necessary for educators of colour to take on the additional labour of doing this particular work. Ryan, Pollock, and Antonelli (2009) additionally found that while the population of “visible minority” residents and students in Canada has significantly increased, “the ratio of racialized teachers to the racialized Canadian population is falling, and in some instances, dramatically so” (p. 597). Unfortunately, there is no recent data available to confirm if these trends have continued in recent years, although, as Gwen illustrated, there is anecdotal evidence to suggest that they have. It is also important to acknowledge how my embodiment as a white person who passes as cisgender and heterosexual might have influenced the demographics of who contacted me to participate in this study. My identity markers – presumed, such as my gender identity and sexual orientation – and visible – such as my whiteness – carry significance and may have impacted who felt comfortable and/or safe speaking with me. Prospective participants may have, for instance, searched my name on the internet to gather information about who I am. Since a number of participants identified as “straight” or “heterosexual,” it is possible that these 45 While Muslim is a religious affiliation, within the context of our conversation, Gwen was also referring to Muslim as a racialized identity. In order to contextualize Gwen’s statement, I turned to Garner and Selod (2015), who explain how Muslims have been subjected to racialization, particularly within the context of rising Islamophobia and the relationship between religion, race, and culture. 106 participants felt more at ease speaking with someone they assumed shared their perspectives and role as an “ally” to queer and trans communities (for more discussion on this topic, see section 4.7.1). Various understandings or assumptions relating to my identity and research topic may have also impacted who participants thought of when sharing information about my study with their colleagues (i.e., white educators, allies to queer and trans communities etc.). It is also possible that I was presumed to be uninterested in race or racialization in relation to queer and trans affirming schooling practices, in part due to the prevailing tendency to conflate whiteness with queer and trans issues, but also because the recruitment poster did not explicitly mention race. My recruitment of predominantly white participants may also be reflective of the dominant understanding of “whiteness as an unmarked narrative, invisible category” (Solomon et al., 2005) and the failure to recognize that white people are also implicated and participate within systems of racialization, that inevitably intersect with other forms of marginalization. Finally, it must be noted that the demographics of my participant sample is driven by and indicative of necropolitics in and of itself. Those who are noticeably absent from this research (Black, Brown, Indigenous, queer and trans educators of colour) are found furthest from power; those most proximate to power had the privilege (in expending the time, energy, and vulnerability) of being able (and willing) to participate in research. The educators who participated in this study hold various forms of privilege across lines of race, gender identity, sexual orientation, and level of postsecondary education. While I am careful to not draw a direct line or correlation between identity markers and knowledge or experience, it is important to recognize – and integrate into my analysis – how participants’ social positionings shape their perspectives and approaches to gender and sexuality issues in 107 education. For example, Randy, a rural elementary teacher, shared how he came to develop his sense of “allyship” to LGBTQ+ communities: RANDY: Growing up in Northern Alberta, in a small community, there wasn’t a lot of diversity shown. It was there, obviously, but the [LGBTQ+] individuals were definitely closeted or hidden away. And so not seeing that diversity I grew up and [my] ignorance started off just passively, with not knowing anything, and then I would say it even went to actively, where like I did say slurs …it definitely didn’t help or probably made things worse for some people, for sure…. I have a close family member that I always looked up to, who eventually did come out to the family… watching their journey was just super inspirational and helped me want to learn more, and it came to a point where I really had, like a guilt, kind of, for how I acted as a youth … So now I want to take that and help other people who are in a similar journey, with just not knowing, and helping them know, helping them learn and helping them know it’s okay and ultimately helping anyone who is marginalised in this community, in any of the communities to feel more welcome. KATE: I’m really curious to hear your perspective about how you personally feel you can reach people who might not have that knowledge [of LGBTQ+ communities] or might have those biases that you felt you had in your past. RANDY: I spend lots of time around people who are marginalised, as an ally, and it’s interesting, coming as a cisgender, heterosexual white male who, in history, is the oppressor, and I mean still is […] now I understand that […] it’s okay that I’m the “other.” It’s okay that I feel uncomfortable, because many of the people I am around have felt that way for their whole lives, and in all different circumstances, and it’s okay that I feel that way, as long as I’m working to make it better for everyone. Randy’s reflections46 of his own privilege – as “the oppressor” – reminds me that interviewing participants who hold various forms of social and cultural privilege is an important opportunity to explore how educators in privileged positions make meaning out of their own experiences working with queer issues and negotiate discourses relevant to supporting and affirming queer and trans students in elementary education. 4.7 Being Reflexive in the Field: “I want your story, too” KATE: I digress, sorry! This is not really … “research appropriate.” 46 Randy’s positionality will be discussed in further detail in Chapter 9. 108 ANDI: Honestly, this is helping me… we’re talking about empathy; I want to know where you’re coming from. And if you don’t have anything to do when you’re done [interviewing] me, I want your story, too. The above exchange between me and one of my first participant interviews offers a glimpse into the much larger internal conversation that I experienced throughout my interviews and group discussions in which I felt as though I were toeing a fine line between my role as a researcher and my more personal relationship to the research topic. This excerpt from my interview with Andi took place when I caught myself commiserating about complicated family dynamics and sharing (what I feared was too much of) my own experience with interpersonal homophobia. Nash (2016) acknowledges how, particularly for researchers interested in studying gender and sexuality, “queering the field” includes the “instability of the researcher’s ‘insider/outsider’ status” (p. 131). Pomerantz (2008) additionally asserts that the “researcher, researched, and research process are intertwined” (p. 25). Just as queer research is interested in how discourses are enacted, strengthened, or challenged, I must also recognize how I am part of and participate in these very discourses (Britzman, 2000; Cairns, 2013). In conducting interviews, it became necessary to engage in active and embodied listening with participants (Ellingson, 2012), but also to be attuned to continual reflexivity to elucidate how I am contributing to dialogues and knowledge production in meaningful ways. Indeed, at times, my conversation with Andi felt more like one between two old friends, rather than that of a researcher and participant. What does it mean when these lines and roles are blurred? Many feminist, poststructuralist, and queer researchers have theorized and highlighted the complexities of interviewing (DeVault & Gross, 2012; Ellingson, 2012; Gale & Wyatt, 2006; Muñoz, 2016; Nash, 2016; Roulston, 2010). I draw on the insights of these scholars in my own conceptions of qualitative interviewing. While my 109 insider status with Andi perhaps helped the interview to flow into an effortless conversation, I could feel myself growing wary of my ease with Andi, concerned that I had crossed a professional line by sharing parts of my own story. Perhaps rather than viewing my connection with participants as a detriment to the “professionalism” of my research, Frohard-Dourlent (2016) suggests, By acknowledging that the data generated in the process of interviewing are discursive productions of reality, it is possible to transform the range of our positionalities from being a problem that “gets in the way” of proper interviewing to being both a potential resource for understanding our data. (p. 59) Determining a line between insider/outsider status is, as Nash (2016) notes, a “boundary construction, in itself, is an exercise of power relations that is at the heart of the ongoing and negotiated relationship between researcher and researched” (p. 136). Andi’s reply, “Honestly, this is helping me… we’re talking about empathy; I want to know where you’re coming from” reminds me – especially now, one year after formal data generation has ended – of the importance of building connections with participants and generating knowledge together, rather than attempting to assume the role of an objective, unfeeling observer. Queer methodologies render it necessary to also “‘queer’ the positions of researcher and researched themselves through a recognition that the relations between them are perpetually unstable” (p. 141). In this section, I engage with reflexivity, first as a well-known practice in qualitative research to unpack the kinds of assumptions we make and knowledge we produce, and later, as a queer reflexive approach that seeks to understand both the researcher’s and participants’ relational and multiple identities as they continually emerge throughout the research process. Finally, I share some important reflections about my role as researcher in both the interviews and group discussions. 110 Reflexivity has been widely accepted as a useful practice for researchers to locate themselves within their research and to provide the context necessary for the knowledge claims they produce (Blakely, 2007; Creswell, 2013; Harding, 1987; Mauthner & Doucet, 2003; Pillow, 2003). From my perspective in the context of this research project, reflexivity asks me to interrogate my role in the research process, asking questions such as: What is my role in this project? In what ways do I show up and co-produce knowledge with participants? How do power dynamics impact the researcher/researched relationship and inform the kinds of discourses that are drawn upon in both the interviews and group discussions? Pillow (2003) states, “to be reflexive… not only contributes to producing knowledge that aids in understanding and gaining insight into the workings of our social world but also provides insight on how this knowledge is produced” (p. 178). Questions inevitably arise regarding what knowledge is produced and how it is historically, culturally, socially, and politically located. These are particularly notable and relevant concepts when engaging in queer research where it becomes crucial to destabilize traditionalist ideas about “accessible reality” and the generating of claims to certain kinds of truth. Still, there is much criticism and debate surrounding reflexivity concerning its purpose and “fail[ure] to provide a meaningful account of how power organizes knowledge production” (McCorkel & Myers, 2003, p. 208). McCorkel and Myers suggest that much of the concern surrounding situating the researcher within their study “are demons at the door of positivist science” (p. 200), where researchers have been traditionally trained to maintain an objective, unbiased and neutral position so as to “accurately” represent knowledge. Pillow (2015) additionally notes the rising “crisis of representation” (p. 421) within qualitative research in which concerns are raised about the ethics of representation, research subjectivity, 111 responsibilities, and the role of self-reflexivity in the hopes that we may untangle some of the messiness of our research projects. One of the challenges with reflexivity, however, is the false belief that by engaging in it, we create a “truer”, clearer, more “accurate” view of research or data. The purpose of reflexivity simply cannot be to obtain a clearer window into reality. Rather than engaging in reflexivity solely as a means of producing more “transparent” or “honest” research, reflexivity can be reimagined as a practice that deconstructs knowledge claims by exposing power structures and questions of authority. It can ultimately function as “a methodological tool to address researcher roles in implicit power/privilege imbalances and oppressions” (Pillow, 2015, p. 425), that open the door to new possibilities in conceptualizing previously taken for granted knowledge. Just as I have touched upon in my discussion of how my presumed and visible identity markers may have impacted the demographics of participants (see section 4.6), I must also meaningfully explore the ways my various identities and experiences showed up throughout the research process, and how participants and I understood and related to each other. 4.7.1 Queer Reflexivity: Revealing versus Concealing Queerness in the Field Drawing heavily upon queer theory, McDonald (2013, 2016) articulates a “queer reflexivity” that “involves questioning how the boundaries of all categories are created, regulated, contested, and subject to change” (2013, p. 132). As such, researchers’ beliefs and understandings about their own identities and how they show up throughout the research process are opened up to the fluidity of identity categories and the possibility of changing or renegotiating how we understand and relate to ourselves, research topics, and participants. McDonald (2013) expresses concern that by naming one’s identities in reflexive research, researchers may end up reifying or 112 recentring their own (often privileged) categories of difference, as if “the meanings of these categories somehow speak for themselves” (p. 132), indicative of a stable view of identity. The same can be said for researchers’ understandings of their participants’ identities. For instance, as noted in section 4.6, while I used a demographic survey for participants to self-identify their gender, sexual orientation, and race, I am careful not to make broad assumptions based on how participants identified themselves at the time of filling out the survey, nor do I assume these identity categories are fixed. McDonald (2013, 2016) emphasizes, due to the instability of identity, there is no way to predict or know how the various aspects of ourselves will show up (or not) in our research. Recalling my opening to this section in which Andi encouraged me to share more of myself in the interview, perhaps in order to relate to me better, I am reminded that how I understood and viewed myself during my interviews and group discussions is not as important as how participants understood or “read” me. Just as my embodied identities may have impacted who I recruited to participate in this study, how I was read by participants undoubtedly impacted my data. McDonald (2016) asserts, “queer reflexivity entails reflecting on what one reveals and/or conceals about oneself in the field” (p. 392). Just as it is impossible to know who my participants are (since subjects and subjectivities are unstable), my embodied experience as a researcher highlighted the impossibility of my participants knowing who I am as well. In reflecting upon how I did or did not disclose my queer identities in each interview, for example, it became evident that I felt far more comfortable sharing my queerness with fellow queer participants (as is evident in my interview with Andi). I was not as open about my identities or experiences with participants who did not identify as queer, allowing myself to be physically read as cisgender and heterosexual (as my gender expression is easily read as normative and “feminine”). It is difficult 113 to ascertain whether or not this was a purely conscious move on my part – to make myself more palatable for heterosexual allies to share their thoughts with me – or was this indicative of living in a highly conservative province and city in which I have grown accustomed to consciously choosing47 if and when to disclose my queerness, a practice of both personal safety and comfort that perhaps bled into my research. This is not to say that I created a dichotomy between what I would share with queer versus non-queer participants, but rather, a reflection on how much pause I took before revealing parts of myself that felt particularly vulnerable. Months after formal data generation was completed, I still wondered if my non-queer participants’ initial assumptions of me allowed space for them to share as much as they did about their own perspectives and potential gaps in knowledge. For example, at the end of one of my first interviews, my participant asked what led me to this area of research. At this point I had not disclosed any personal information about myself or my motivations for working in this field. Her surprise was noticeable when I began explaining my relation to queerness as if she had not expected me to identify as such. Had our prior conversation flowed so well due to her assumption that she and I held similar identities and experiences? Similarly, I wonder if readily disclosing my queer identity to my queer participants offered more space, ease, and comfort for them to openly respond to my questions. While I have no definite answers to these queries, I raise them as examples of the messiness, and importance, of taking up queer reflexivity in qualitative research. 47 I must acknowledge here that choosing if and when to identify myself as queer is a privilege that comes with presenting (and being read) as cisgender and heterosexual. 114 4.7.2 Negotiating My Role as “Researcher” “I thought you’d be a stuffy PhD academic and I was so glad to see that you’re not!” (Elementary teacher) Throughout this research, I felt caught between many roles. The above statement took place after one of the participant interviews, encapsulating what I had feared might happen – that participants would expect or perceive me to be “stuffy,” unapproachable, or “superior” due to my position as a PhD student researcher. Specifically, I feared participants might be skeptical of the fact that I was studying their field without being a teacher myself. Upon introducing myself to each participant (prior to even turning on the audio recorder), I was careful to position myself as eager to learn from participants, stating that there were “no wrong answers.” I could sense, at times, participants were concerned about saying the “wrong” things, apprehensive about their own perceived lack of knowledge in this area: KATE: Basically, the interview is kind of in three parts. It starts with your personal background, your professional experience as an educator and then it goes into the school as a whole. And then we talk about the [Alberta Guidelines] policy. HAZEL: [nervously] Oh gosh! KATE: Oh no – HAZEL: [quietly] – There’s no wrong answers… KATE: There are no wrong answers at all! HAZEL: [laughs] ok!... perfect. While I still believe that there were no “wrong answers,” there were, however, problematic ones. For example, some participants used outdated language that made me uncomfortable, such as “transvestite” or “homosexual,” terms that have a clinical history and were used to “diagnose” 115 queer people or imply that we were “diseased” or “disordered.” Again, often times it became clear that some participants believed I was an ally to queer and trans communities, and not necessarily a part of them. Although this may have served as a factor in building rapport with participants who identified themselves as cisgender, heterosexual allies, it also implicated me in cisnormative and heteronormative discourses. This is illustrated in the following exchange with Jenny: KATE: How would you define being LGBTQ and gender inclusive? As a whole in our society, do you think? JENNY: It’s just not letting that [a person’s sexual orientation] define who they are. Like, my friend is my friend. Like, he is who he is. He’s not [pause] a gay person. Or a homosexual person. Or he’s not a drag queen. He’s just his name. Right? Like so things like that… I don’t draw attention to it, and I don’t really pay attention to it. Or I try not to, anyways. That’s kind of the ideal goal. My conversation with Jenny throughout the interview made me feel as though she were sharing insider knowledge with me as a fellow ally. Jenny’s frankness about how she understands what it means to be “inclusive” or “accepting” of LGBTQ+ and gender diversity and continual use of “right?” or “you know?” throughout her responses, whether rhetorical or not, seemed to invite me into the conversation to affirm or confirm what she believes or understands. Jenny’s dismissal of her friend’s queer identity – akin to being “colour-evasive”48 in regard to racialization – and implication that she was seeking my acknowledgement of her perspective is but one example of how cisnormative and heteronormative discourses are strengthened through language and conversation. In instances such as the one illustrated above, I felt an impulse to “correct” or intervene on participants’ lack of knowledge, understanding, or their use of terms 48 Civitillo et al. (2019) suggest using the term “color-evasive” rather than “colour-blind,” which holds ableist connotations. 116 that are generally considered unacceptable and offensive. In an effort to not incite a power differential or potentially cause Jenny embarrassment (especially given that the above statements were shared near the beginning of the interview, prior to building any rapport), I did not respond to her statements. Still, I wonder if and how my silences during these moments served to bolster participants’ cisnormative and heteronormative views. Perhaps inevitably, during the interviews and group discussions, I found that many participants located me as a knowledgeable “expert” in the field of gender and sexuality in elementary education. While this may be true to a certain extent, (for example, a few participants were recruited after attending a workshop I facilitated on creating QTGD affirming classrooms in elementary education), this placed me in a somewhat difficult position. It is no secret that I have knowledge in this particular field, but what was to be my role with this knowledge in a research context? I struggled to negotiate my position as a researcher interested in how participants positioned themselves and made sense of discourse, versus my role as a queer activist and academic from whom some participants seemed eager to learn. I felt this tension between my various roles, particularly given the group discussion/workshop component of my research design where the expectation was for participants to share insights and learn from each other, and from myself (through discussing preliminary findings and stimulus texts). Though the notion of researchers being “objective” and distant during data generation does not fit within my epistemological understandings, I was still uncertain of my role in these exchanges as I did not want to interfere or intervene too heavily. However, it became increasingly stressful to listen to participants’ lament over the lack of queer, trans, and gender diverse professional learning opportunities, resources and general knowledge available to them as elementary educators who are interested in doing this important work. If I held knowledge and skills that could benefit their 117 practice (and if the educators were interested and willing to hear), why couldn’t I share it with them? My decision on if/when to intervene was based on a number of complex factors, including the level of rapport I felt between myself and the participant, ease of conversation, how receptive I felt participants may be to my interventions, and my constant negotiation of researcher/researched power dynamics. In the cases in which I did choose to intervene, I offered gentle interventions in participants’ language or practices with the intention of interrupting dominant discourses of cisnormativity and heteronormativity and to introduce some new ways of thinking about queerness in and out of the classroom. The following exchange with Susan was a particularly meaningful one for us both: KATE: So, would you have that [LGBTQ+ book] collection in your classroom without Leah [a trans student] present? SUSAN: [pause] I don't have it this year. I should. I don't. KATE: Do you think you might? SUSAN: Yes... Because I never thought of it! This is me learning! [laughter] KATE: Sometimes it's - you know, it takes a child to be “out” …To be that reminder like “oh, this is important. Oh, I have to do this.” But what's interesting is that you might have a child in your class right now who's trans or nonbinary – SUSAN: – That I don't know. That’s right. KATE: – or gender fluid that you just don't know and to see themselves represented in the classroom is huge. SUSAN: And just as powerful whether I know it's happening or not. KATE: Yeah, exactly. That's just something I want to – SUSAN: Thank you. Thank you. Susan had shared with me that upon learning that Leah was going to be in her class the following year, she prepared for six months, researching, reading, and learning about trans identity so that 118 Susan could “[make] sure that [she] was not going to be the person who screwed this up.” Susan had a collection of LGBTQ+ picture books in her classroom when Leah was present but had not thought of keeping those books as a staple in her classroom when Leah had moved on to the next grade, indicative of a cisnormative view and understanding of who is in her classroom. The above exchange is but one example of how I felt I had to intervene in that moment, both as a way of diving deeper into the question at hand, but also as a means to introduce a new idea to Susan that she may not have considered. Many of these kinds of conversations also took place once the audio recorder was turned off when participants would perhaps feel free or safe enough to ask me direct questions. A few participants asked if they could add me on Facebook when data generation was complete stating that they “felt they could learn so much from me.” Susan later told me (nearly one year after data generation) that she now has my voice in her head while she is teaching. I believe participants’ eager and appreciative responses to my interventions during the interviews and group discussions are indicative of just how starved elementary educators are for resources and support for creating QTGD affirming schools and classrooms. In utilizing the “transformative moments” and “gentle interventions” in my data generation, I aimed to identify opportunities for interrupting discourse and common-sense understandings of gender and sexuality to open up a range of possibilities of what queerness in elementary education could look like. 4.8 Analysis of Interview and Group Discussion Data Grounded in my theoretical conceptions of queer theory and queer/trans necropolitics, my analysis of interview and group discussion data sought to explore how taken-for-granted assumptions about the social world are discursively produced in talk and text, resulting in material, necropolitical consequences for queer and trans students (such as increased 119 surveillance, violence, and the unequal distribution of support and resources). In my analyses of interviews and group discussion data, it was not only important to explore what educators say, but to look at how discursive practices of whiteness, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity help to frame how educators talk about QTGD students in their schools and classrooms. According to Lazar (2007), “the taken-for-grantedness and normalcy of such knowledge is what mystifies or obscures the power differential and inequality at work” (p. 147). In asking how educators “make sense” of queer, trans, and gender diversity in their classrooms and schools, I aimed to highlight the dominant discourses that helped to inform their classroom and schooling practices that construct QTGD students and queer and trans issues in ways that contribute to the ongoing necropolitics of racism, colonialism, and binary systems of sex/gender. Since my focus during data analysis was to explore educators’ discursive practices and the dominant discourses that helped them talk about gender and sexuality in elementary education, I drew upon the insights from Critical Discourse Analysis (CDA) (Fairclough, 1992, 2003; van Dijk, 1993, 2001) and my theoretical orientation towards poststructuralism whereby I examined the way language functions to “word the world” (St. Pierre, 2000, p. 483), constructing, rather than reflecting reality. CDA was well suited to my project as it brings to surface “the way social power abuse, dominance, and inequality are enacted, reproduced, and resisted by text and talk in the social and political context” (van Dijk, 2001, p. 352), with the goal of understanding, exposing, and challenging the conditions that contribute to and sustain inequality and injustice. Poststructural influences on CDA aim to examine the complexities of gendered assumptions and power relations, and how they are produced and sustained through discursive relations and necropolitical regimes of power such as whiteness, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity. Thus, it is not necessarily what participants say in the data that is most 120 noteworthy, but how they make meaning and relate their words and experiences to larger power relations and systemic inequalities. Phase 1 of data analysis involved transcribing and re-reading the interview and group discussion data. Oliver, Serovich, and Mason (2005) explain that transcriptions provide part of the foundation for our analyses and raises questions about representation as well as the choices the researcher makes in terms of what to include and exclude when translating audio to text. I realized early on that transcribing the lengthy audio recordings caused my chronic pain condition to flare. Therefore, all transcriptions were completed by a third-party Canadian company.49 Since I did not transcribe the recordings myself, it was important for me to listen to each audio recording multiple times and compare what was said with the transcriptions that I received. In doing so, I paid analytic attention to laughter, pauses, silences and hesitancies, intonation, and adjusted the written transcripts accordingly. Phase 2 of my data analysis involved thematic coding and analysis of interview and group discussion data using NVivo to explore the language and discourses used and negotiated by participants. As Braun and Clarke (2006) suggest, “you can either code for a quite specific research question (which maps onto the more theoretical approach) or the specific research question can evolve through the coding process (which maps onto the inductive approach)” (p. 84). Since my theoretical and analytic orientations cannot be separated from what the data “tells me,” I relied upon both inductive and theoretical (deductive) coding. I began by creating a list of expected themes and concepts based on my research questions and prior knowledge from existing literature and my previous research studies. Grbich (2007) suggests that “themes may 49 This company was based in a different province and signed a confidentiality agreement. 121 come from previous relevant research which you have reviewed, from myths/evidence within the area being studied, or from your gut feelings, as well as from the views of those being observed or interviewed” (p. 32). I read and listened through each transcript carefully, broadly coding for words, topics, and concepts that were repeated throughout each interview, as well as the data as a whole (for example, I broadly coded “fear” as a concept that came up in the majority of interviews, as well as both group discussions). I paid particular attention to participants’ assumptions or taken-for-granted understandings of sex, gender, sexuality, “diversity” and “inclusion” in elementary education, as well as contradictions as they negotiated competing discourses. Throughout this process, I frequently referred back to my field notes, particularly to review my observations of body language during each interview and group discussion, and any of my own thoughts or feelings that I made note of at the time. Phase 2 provided an opportunity to explore how the language and examples used by participants contributed to their understandings of dominant discourse which relate to broader systems of power and inequality that produce material and social consequences. Phase 3 involved revisiting my codes to refine my analysis. I used conceptual mapping to visualize how my many codes fit within the themes that I began to identify. While I began this process by using the mapping feature in NVivo, I ultimately decided to use post-it notes, with different colours for each main theme, on a blank wall in my office. This allowed me to obtain a more flexible picture of my data and observe how my various themes and codes were connecting (or not) with each other. Themes with the most salient codes eventually became the foundation for what would become chapters in this dissertation. Among my methodological challenges was navigating how to write about and represent participants, as well as the students they talked about. In my analysis of interview and group 122 discussion data, I had to make decisions about what parts of educators’ stories to include/exclude, and how to frame their language. Additionally, throughout the interviews and group discussions, educators assigned identifiers to students whom they believed to be queer, trans, and/or gender non-conforming. The intention of using these terms to describe or refer to children who resist the binary sex/gender system and/or heteronormativity should be seen as an analytical tool in exploring how these students are understood by their educators, rather than indicative of the language or identities that the students themselves may (or may not) use. Although identity terms and self-determination are critically important (Miller, 2015), the design of my study meant that it was not possible to find out how students identified. In grappling with these tensions of representation (Pickering & Kara, 2017; Roulston, 2010), I wish to remind the reader that responses from participants cannot be interpreted as “transparent evidence of that which is real” (Davies, 2004, p. 4, emphasis in original). Rather, participants’ statements “reveal the ways in which sense is being made” (p. 4, emphasis in original). As Frohard-Dourlent (2016) suggests, the terms used by educators to describe their students “must therefore be understood primarily as analytical categories rather than reflections of terminology preferred by young people” (p. 10). Similarly, the ways I chose to I write about participants are not shared as “truth,” but highlight what I felt was most analytically useful and important in educators’ “sense-making” processes. 4.9 Conclusion In this chapter, I have aimed to provide an account of how I approached my data generation and analysis, both methodologically and analytically. I highlighted my process by exploring the technical and practical details of how I recruited participants and conducted policy analysis, interviews, and group discussions, but also the epistemological and ontological reasonings 123 behind these decisions. As Pillow (2003) suggests, “the qualitative research arena would benefit from more ‘messy’ examples, examples that may not always be successful, examples that do not seek a comfortable, transcendent end-point but leave us in the uncomfortable reality of doing engaged qualitative research” (p. 193). Therefore, a goal throughout this chapter was to be as reflexive and thoughtful as possible to consider how my own positionings, background, and experiences shaped whom I was able to recruit for this study, how I interpreted the data and the research process as a whole. A feminist, queer epistemological approach informed by poststructuralism is one that encourages me to accept ambiguity in favour of searching for multiple truths, rather than seeking one singular account of what is considered universally true. Questions within my research practice have inevitably shifted from concerns about maintaining objectivity and rationality as a researcher, to asking how my role as a queer activist can help to address gaps in participants’ knowledge through gentle interventions, promoting a kind of “academic activism” within my data generation that can hopefully challenge and interrupt cisnormative and heteronormative discourses which have been so engrained in elementary education. In doing so, I hope this chapter contributes, even slightly, to new ways of conducting transformative research and engaging in a critical, queer reflexivity. 124 Chapter 5: From Policy to Practice: Relying on an “Accommodation Approach” for QTGD Students 5.1 Introduction The imperative to address incidents of bullying, discrimination, harassment, and the inclusion of queer, trans, and gender diversity in elementary education is evident in a number of educational contexts. With the impulse to move towards and emphasize equality and diversity, many schools have implemented “anti-bullying,” “zero-tolerance,” and “safe school” policies and programs in an attempt to improve the school culture and climate for QTGD students. Researchers such as Case and Meier (2014), DePalma and Atkinson (2006; 2009), Goldstein, Collins, and Halder (2008), Kitchen and Bellini (2013), Payne and Smith (2014), Swanson and Gettinger (2016), and Taylor et al. (2011), stress the importance of having school policies in place as a source of protection for QTGD students and staff. Many of these scholars also note, however, that such policies cannot be viewed as sufficient in and of themselves in creating affirming, supportive school environments. For instance, one of the most effective ways to address anti-queer and anti-trans discourses in schools is to promote queer and trans inclusivity as a school-wide project, with support from staff and administrators (Hernandez & Fraynd, 2014; Malins, 2016; Meyer, Taylor, & Peter, 2015; Peter, Taylor, & Edkins, 2016), stressing that emphasis cannot be placed solely on “bullying,” an over-individualized concept that reinforces punishment. Policies specific to QTGD students are often relied upon as starting points for addressing problems in the classroom and education system at large, and function as a point of reference and source of legal protection for teachers and administrators to support marginalized students, but are rarely integrated into daily, school-wide and embodied teaching practices. As participants in 125 Kelly and Brandes’ (2010) study articulated, “social justice needs to be everywhere; it can’t just be in one place” (p. 399). Policies or institutional back up (“protection” for educators) “need to be evident in multiple domains” and “embodied in practices that are modeled in…schools, and stated in official documents and policies recognized by school districts and universities” (p. 400). Yet, as participants in this dissertation emphasized, policies for QTGD students in their schools were largely invisible or only discussed if there was an expressed “need” to reference them (for example, by having a student transition during the school year). Still, the importance of having policies as a source of institutional support and protection cannot be understated. Schneider and Dimito (2008) suggest that “policy is a key component in providing an organizational climate in which LGBT-positive work can be initiated” (p. 66). The final report by Egale Canada Human Rights Trust (Taylor et al., 2011) additionally asserts that in order to address the issues surrounding homophobia and transphobia in schools, provincial ministries of education need to develop and require schools to implement queer and trans-positive and intersectional policies that engender and foster more socially just, equitable learning environments for all students, staff, and their families. These substantial objectives place immense pressure on the policy itself to address and “fix” perceived problems within school environments and raises questions as to how policies are implemented, the “effectiveness” of (or the follow through on) the policy’s recommendations, and at what point the desired outcomes of “inclusivity” and “safety for all students” could be declared “successful.” Further questions arise regarding what practical supports are available for educators and what is actually involved in creating a supportive and welcoming environment for all students. While these questions are certainly important for continued discussion, the analysis I employ in this chapter does not seek to address the effectiveness of school policies. Rather, I explore the “underlying normative and exclusionary 126 assumptions” (Goodwin, 2009, p. 30) in each policy’s vision for creating “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environments” (Alberta Government, 2016, p. 1) for QTGD students in Alberta. Loutzenheiser (2015) states, “thinking through policy involves close consideration of the issue(s) being addressed by the policy, including asking for whom is such a policy being developed and who is produced through the policy?” (p. 99). My policy analysis uses Bacchi’s WPR approach to explore how queerness has been problematized in elementary education and how QTGD students are produced as particular subjects in need of “fixing” or “accommodation.” Bacchi’s approach is strongly rooted within poststructural, Foucauldian, and, arguably, queer theorizing, whereby the goal of policy analysis is not to assess the policy’s (or policymaker’s) intentions or the perceived success or failure of implementation. Rather, Bacchi’s approach provides the conceptual framework to critically examine normative and taken-for-granted assumptions and constructions within policy documents that reflect and respond to political interests and tensions while also offering the opportunity to “destabilize an existing problem representation by drawing attention to silences, or unproblematized elements… to imagine worlds in which a specific confluence of circumstances is either not problematized or problematized differently” (Bacchi & Goodman, 2014, p. 22). This chapter provides an overview of each policy50 (or set of policies, in the case of the 12 district policies) selected for analysis. Throughout this chapter I incorporate responses from 50 I had originally intended on analyzing Bill 10, “An Act to Amend the Alberta Bill of Rights to Protect Our Children” and Bill 24, “– An Act to Support Gay Straight Alliances.” Both have since been repealed under the United Conservative Government with Bill 8 (“The Education Amendment Act”) passing after 40 hours of continuous debate. Bill 8 replaced the 31-year-old School Act which had included specific protections and provisions for GSAs in schools. Bill 8 will now make it more challenging for queer youth to start a GSA in their schools and no longer protects students from being “outed” to their parents (Ramsay, 2019). 127 participants that highlight how educators engaged with and understood the policies analyzed in this study. In my analysis, I explore the discourses, problematic representations and limitations within the policies, demonstrating how the language within the policy documents reproduce particular knowledges of QTGD students, and contribute to the necropolitics of racism, classism, and binary sex/gender, as well as their implications for elementary school cultures and educator practices. 5.2 The Alberta Guidelines for Best Practices “The fact that they’re even calling it a ‘guideline.’ They might as well say ‘suggestion.’ It’s like the waitress saying, ‘oh I like the lasagna.’ That doesn’t mean you have to eat the lasagna.” (Hazel, rural elementary teacher) The Alberta Guidelines for Best Practices: Creating Learning Environments that Respect Diverse Sexual Orientations, Gender Identities and Gender Expressions was introduced in 2016 under former Education Minister, David Eggen, just one year after the NDP government was elected. The Guidelines for Best Practices were developed to help school boards across Alberta create government-mandated LGBTQ+ school policies51 to meet legal requirements resulting from Bill 10 and Bill 24 which stipulated specific provisions for allowing GSAs in K-12 schools and the promotion of a “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environment that respects diversity and fosters a sense of belonging” (Bill 24, section 45.1(4)). All school boards in Alberta were expected to create and submit their policies by March 31, 2018 (Public Interest 51 These individual district policies were still available and seemed to be in effect at the time of my analysis despite recent changes to the School Act. 128 Alberta, 2018a). Although the United Conservative Party has repealed much of what was introduced by the NDP, the Guidelines for Best Practices has remained. In discussing the Guidelines in 2016, Eggen stated, I think the policy ensures all students have protections available and in place. The bottom line here is the equality and integrity of every student to feel safe and welcome and cared for in our schools across the province. That's exactly what we will do with this policy and I believe that the outcome will exceed our expectations. (CBC, 2016, para. 3-4) It is interesting to note Eggen’s use of “policy” when referring to the guidelines, but the nuances here are crucial: The Guidelines for Best Practices document itself is understood as a guideline, while the individual school district policies are mandated. However, what is within each district policy is up for broad interpretation (discussed further in section 5.3). The language of this document comes across as purposeful, such that Alberta Education may reference this document and the recommendations within it, but not make them mandatory for every district and educator to follow. One participant, Morgan, a behavioural consultant in elementary education, shared with me how she uses the Guidelines to “justify [her] stance” on LGBTQ+ issues in the work she does in schools, but lamented the use of the term “guideline,” rather than “policy.” She pointedly said, “there's a huge distinction between a policy and a guideline… when you bring in legality a little bit, ‘policies,’ you know, people do listen.” Morgan touches upon an important component to legally mandating the changes that must happen in schools, yet it must also be noted that, although policies may be mandated, this does not mean they will be implemented (Levinson, Sutton, & Winstead, 2009). After realizing many participants in this study were not even aware of the existence of the Guidelines for Best Practices, or had little support for engaging with it, I asked Bill, the principal 129 of a rural elementary school, what the process is for introducing official documents, guidelines, and policies from Alberta Education to teachers and staff. The following conversation took place which helped to clarify the process and potential gaps in information: KATE: … most people that I’ve spoken to so far have not heard anything [about the Alberta Guidelines]. And so, I wonder where that gap is… Because I know that that information is there on the Board’s end, then I don’t know what’s been lost in translation? Not that you can answer that— BILL: But I know schools… There are Boards that are actively hostile and have resisted [the Guidelines] and even sued the government to prevent it… So, new policy happens at the division level. They send it down to principals, we’re briefed, and then we take it to our staff. Now, depending on the policy and how important it is to that principal depends… KATE: Okay, so it’s really the principal’s discretion it seems about how in depth - BILL: I’d say that’s true. KATE: - so it might be that their principal might think that it’s not relevant in their school? BILL: That’s possible. They may think, “Well, we don’t have any kids like that in my school.” … I mean it’s nice when people recognize that you may not have any out children in your school, but you have those children in your school. … KATE: They [Alberta Education] call it a “guideline,” I wonder if quite purposely because they’re not calling it policy? BILL: Mm-hmm, yep. KATE: So, they call it a “guideline,” but it doesn’t have to be mandated is my observation. BILL: [Nodding] And the level above is mandated. The above conversation with Bill offered some much-needed insight as to how policies and documents are distributed to school boards and staff, and a possible explanation as to why so many participants had not heard of the Guidelines or had little (or no) follow-up after being told 130 about them. Sara, an urban elementary teacher, explained how she learned about the Guidelines: “we got an email saying, ‘please read these [guidelines] that are located in this place, which I’m sure nobody read.” Sara told me that there was no follow-up conversation or training offered after she and her colleagues were notified of the Guidelines. Other participants, such as Gwen, Hazel, and Kathryn had not heard of the Guidelines, while Randy told me he only knew about them due to his personal interest and his “persistence with admin.” While principals are certainly in positions to act as gatekeepers to information (and training) from the government and School Board, depending on what they feel is useful or relevant to their school, it is highly arguable that documents (such as the Guidelines) pertaining to the safety and well-being of QTGD students should not be considered a mere suggestion, but mandatory. Policy appropriation, as discussed by Levinson, Sutton, and Winstead (2009), distinguishes between the official introduction of a policy (in this case, the Guidelines being introduced by the Provincial Government) and the “later moments of the policy process” whereby “creative agents interpret and take in elements of policy… incorporating these discursive resources into their own schemes of interest, motivation, and action” (p. 779). As Bill illustrated, some administrators may think, “Well, we don’t have any kids like that in my school” or may not consider policies and provisions for QTGD students to be “high on [their] list of priorities.” Taylor, an urban elementary teacher, also expressed frustration over the disconnect between policy creation and policy appropriation: “principals are hesitant to bring in [LGBTQ+] policies and, if administration isn't bringing in those policies, teachers are even more hesitant to bring them in.” Although the documents I am analyzing in this chapter are publicly available – as such, educators could find them on their own – questions must be raised about the perceived lack of 131 value or relevancy of these documents if they are not being widely distributed and used. One major barrier is perhaps the use of the term “guideline” rather than “policy.” Bill – along with recent research in Alberta (Anderson, 2020) – confirmed my suspicions that Alberta Education perhaps quite purposefully avoided the term “policy” so as to bypass the social and political angst that may result from mandating these provisions in every school and classroom in the province. While Alberta Education may not wish to define their Guidelines specifically as a policy document, throughout this dissertation I take a broader approach, interpreting the documents in this chapter as policies wherein dominant discourses of gender, sexuality, and identity are central in asking what (and who) are represented as the problem to be solved through the policy’s recommendations. All policies are, as Edelman (1988) states, “semantically created as value-laden interpretations of differences in action and in language. A ‘policy,’ then, is a set of shifting, diverse, and contradictory responses to a spectrum of political interests” (p. 16). Given the political climate in Alberta, it is of particular interest to examine existing policies relating to QTGD students and explore the dominant values and discourses within them. I chose to analyze the Guidelines for Best Practices because it is the primary document provided by Alberta Education to support QTGD52 students, parents, and staff. The Guidelines provide the baseline of information which individual school district policies are – supposedly – based on, making it an interesting and pertinent document for examination. The intended purpose of the Guidelines is to: 52 While the Guidelines use the phrase “students with diverse sexual orientations, gender identities and gender expressions” throughout, I will continue to use QTGD for consistency. 132 …enable school authorities to use best practices in creating and supporting learning environments that respect diverse sexual orientations, gender identities and gender expressions by: • reviewing and revising existing policies, regulations and procedures; • creating new policies, regulations, procedures and resources; • informing professional development planning and professional conversations; and • communicating more effectively with students, staff, families and community members. (Alberta Government, 2016, p. 1) Throughout the 21-page document, the Guidelines for Best Practices outlines legislation and policy requirements (as of 2016) and principles essential to so-called “best practices,” highlighting respect and dignity, privacy and confidentiality, and actively including QTGD students and staff in decision-making processes. The document then outlines the 12 Best Practices, described as “effective and appropriate in the creation of learning environments that are welcoming, caring, respectful and safe for students, staff, families and all other members of the school community” (p. 3). Each Best Practice includes a description, rationale, and indicators of what this practice looks like in action. The Best Practices outlined in the Guidelines are as follows: 1. Providing supports that respond to a student’s individual needs. 2. Respecting an individual’s right to self-identification. 3. Maintaining school records in a way that respects privacy and confidentiality. 4. Ensuring dress codes respect an individual’s gender identity and gender expression. 5. Minimizing gender-segregated activities. 6. Enabling students with diverse sexual orientations, gender identities and gender expressions to have full, safe and equitable participation in curricular and extra-curricular activities. 7. Providing safe access to washroom and change-room facilities. 133 8. Providing professional learning opportunities that build the capacity of staff to understand and support diverse sexual orientations, gender identities and gender expressions. 9. Using a comprehensive whole-school approach to promote healthy relationships and prevent and respond to bullying behaviour. 10. Ensuring students have the understanding, skills and opportunities to contribute to welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environments that respect diversity and nurture a sense of belonging and a positive sense of self. 11. Ensuring all families are welcomed and supported as valued members of the school community. 12. Ensuring that school staff have work environments where they are protected from discrimination based on their sexual orientations, gender identities and gender expressions. (p. 3-4) The Guidelines for Best Practices is, like any other text, layered with varied meanings and incites particular discourses. At first glance, the policy appears to be progressive in its recommendations for schools, staff, and administration. Deeper analysis reveals underlying assumptions about the experiences of QTGD children in schools and how the Guidelines attempt to address perceived inequities or harms that these students may face. It should be noted that the phrase “best practices” is rooted within neoliberal, depoliticizing governance (Brown, 2016) and evidence-based positivism that limits opportunities for educators’ professional judgement that is sensitive to students’ needs and context (Biesta, 2007, 2015). As Biesta (2007) suggests, focusing “on ‘what works’ [or ‘best practices’] makes it difficult if not impossible to ask the questions of what it should work for and who should have a say in determining the latter” (p. 5, emphasis in original). Using the language of “best practices” sets limits around what other knowledges might be worth exploring and positions the Guidelines as a superior document, thus pre-empting conversations about alternatives and maintaining discursive practices around 134 whiteness, cisnormativity and heteronormativity. The language of “best practices” may also result in failing to attend to, or acknowledge, the harms done by those practices since they are neutrally framed as being “the best.” Levinson et al. (2009) state, “policy process should be understood as a normative cultural discourse with positive and negative sanctions… [presupposing] an implicit view of how things are – a model of the world” (p. 770). The Guidelines hold a particular vision or model of how schools “should” be, relying on buzzwords such as “equitable,” “inclusive” and frequently repeating the string of words, “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe” to describe the desired and intended outcomes of implementing the 12 Best Practices. Lingard (2009) suggests that “repetitive usage of certain words and types of words” is an attempt to justify or perhaps legitimize a policy (and the need for it) (p. 236). The desire for inclusive, welcoming, respectful, caring and safe learning environments is “natural and obvious” (Bacchi & Goodwin, 2016, p. 20). Using the WPR approach, Bacchi and Goodwin (2016) remind policy analysts that they must “start from stated ‘solutions’ to inquire into their implicit problematization(s)” (p. 21, emphasis in original). Implicit in the Guidelines’ language is the underlying and unquestioned assumption that schools currently are not welcoming, caring, respectful or safe, and it is perhaps the job and purpose of the Guidelines to make them so. The over-repeated intended goals and outcomes of the Guidelines begin to touch upon Bacchi’s second question in WPR policy analysis, the “presuppositions or assumptions [that] underpin” (2012, p. 21) the problem represented. In this case, the Guidelines hold the assumption and belief that schools are places where students should be welcomed, respected, safe, and cared for. The following sections will examine how the Guidelines frame queerness, trans identities, and gender diversity as barriers to achieving this vision and the effects produced by this representation. 135 5.2.1 Framing QTGD Students as “Problems” to be “Solved” As Loutzenheiser (2015) observes, “anti-discrimination policies are often undertaken because there is a perceived inequality of experience or perceived wrongdoing” (p. 105). Countless studies and statistics, including a few I provide throughout Chapter 2, indicate that QTGD students are in school cultures where they experience violence, harassment, and ridicule. The underlying assumption of the Guidelines for Best Practices is that these inequities can be adequately addressed through the implementation of 12 Best Practices and various behavioural and administrative interventions. Rather than focusing on the conditions that create and contribute to these harms, however, implicit in the Guidelines is the construction of QTGD students as the “problem” that requires solving through adequate policy, teacher and administrative involvement. The following section outlines the first stage of my policy analysis, responding to Bacchi’s question, “what is the ‘problem’… represented to be?” (Bacchi, 2012, p. 21). Upon first glance, the problem represented in the Guidelines for Best Practices may be homophobic bullying, harassment, discrimination, and high rates of queer and trans youth suicide. These inequities, however, are not mentioned in the document, nor are any of the socio-cultural factors such as institutionalized racism and ongoing colonization that contribute to anti-queer and anti-trans schooling environments. Throughout the Guidelines, emphasis is placed on the needs of individual students, highlighting their queerness and/or transness as the problem or issue that needs addressing. As framed by the Guidelines’ language and initiatives, responsibility is placed upon QTGD students to label and identify themselves as such in order for their needs to be met. Not only does this immediately render the student as the “other,” it constructs their specific needs as being distinct, different, and perhaps more “challenging” compared to those of 136 their cis-heterosexual peers and classmates. The Guidelines are clear that “self-identification is the sole measure of an individual’s sexual orientation, gender identity or gender expression” (p. 3), and then goes on to say the purpose of this statement is so that the needs of QTGD students and staff may be accommodated (p. 5). This begins with students self-identifying and labeling themselves as having a different gender identity and/or expression from the (assumed) congruent cisgender identities and expressions of their peers. Though the Guidelines do not say as much, responses from participants in this dissertation indicate that the legitimacy of the student’s gender identity is often in question (by staff, students and the parental community), placing unfair expectations upon the student to perform that identity in particular identifiable, intelligible ways, and highlighting ageist assumptions about children’s presumed inability to know themselves. It is important to note here that the ability to publicly identify one’s self as queer or trans in order to seek specific supports, particularly in oppressive schooling environments, is linked with privileges that are not afforded to every queer or trans child within necropolitical regimes. These regimes dictate who has access to other resources such as parental support and advocacy (Travers, 2018). There is also is a lack of awareness and acknowledgement within the Guidelines of intersectional and shifting identities, drawing upon liberal humanist understandings of fixed, internal selfhood and assumptions that queer and trans identities are intertwined with whiteness. According to Davies (2006), “in educational contexts students and teachers are usually understood in liberal humanist terms; that is, as autonomous individuals with varying degrees of freedom to choose what kind of a person to be” (p. 425). Gowlett et al. (2015) further suggest that policy actors and stakeholders frequently “[encourage] this liberal humanist conception of self” (p. 151). By classifying QTGD students as having identities that may be static and tangibly 137 understood, it becomes easier for school boards (and teachers, staff, and administration) to compartmentalize and address the needs of these students. Loutzenheiser (2015) explains that “identity nomenclature is useful as it provides courts and policy makers with bodies to classify as ‘special cases’ which give said bodies standing in order for discrimination to be addressed in policy and law” (p. 106). However, it is crucial to recognize that while “policy demands such signification,” QTGD identities cannot be understood as universal (p. 106). Queer and trans identities are very often conflated with whiteness or treated with “colour evasion,” whereby queerness and transness are seen as being removed from other identities such as race and disability and reiterate homonormative and transnormative ideals. Recall earlier discussions in Chapter 3, where “normalcy will only ever be accessible to those for whom ‘trans’ is the singular disruption to a white-settler, able-bodied, heterosexual, middle-class identity” (Hughes, 2018, p. 184). School policies fail to attend to – and perpetuate – how systemic racism, colonialism, and cis-heteronormativity unequally impact students across lines of race, wealth, ability, gender identity and expression. As Travers and Shearman (2017) state, “the focus on LGBT issues in isolation… renders invisible what a queer/trans necropolitical lens brings into sharp relief: racist, sexist, and classist state violence interacting in concert with homophobia” (p. 49). Loutzenheiser (2015) makes a similar argument, that “by failing to mark race, racism or intersectionalities, the [school] Board neglects to recognize the racialized and Indigenous communities that may… experience homophobic/heteronormative/transphobic harassment and violence differently than those” who hold white privilege (p. 111). The very fact there is now a policy document as a point of reference for how to accommodate queer and trans issues suggests that QTGD students have unchanging, universalized identities with a corresponding set of needs. According to Loutzenheiser (2015), “dominant groups have a tendency to essentialize the experiences of 138 nondominant groups into one common experience. It is often this universal experience that policies are meant to address” (p. 106). There is no mention within the Guidelines of intersecting identities, overlooking the idea that students may hold gender identities and/or sexual orientations that are inevitably informed and shaped by their experiences with racism, colonialism, ableism, and classism within schools. Two-Spirit identity is mentioned in the Guidelines, but only insofar as listing a range of gender identities and providing resource links for supporting Two-Spirit youth. The Guidelines’ failure to include discussions of how Indigenous and racialized youth’s experiences with gender identity and sexual orientation are often different and more complex, once again, emphasizes that queerness and transness are understood as the problems to be solved through policy – ones that exist outside of other issues such as racism. Individualizing and problematizing queerness and transness in this way serves to reinforce understandings of identity as being stable and fixed, while maintaining prevailing white supremacist, cisnormative, and heteronormative discourses in and out of the classroom. 5.2.2 Maintaining Cisnormativity and Heteronormativity Throughout the Guidelines for Best Practices, there exists underlying social inequities and power imbalances that are unaddressed or concealed through discourses of “safety,” “anti-bullying” and “inclusion.” Edelman (1988) suggests that “because there is ordinarily a consensus on long-standing social practices, only a small subset of them become problems, and these are not likely to be the most damaging” (p. 14). Arguably, most educational stakeholders, including educators who are the intended audience of the Guidelines, accept “bullying” in schools to be an existing social problem that deserves attention. They may even go so far as to consider the lack of queer, trans, and gender “inclusion” and “diversity” in schools to be a “problem” (referring to, perhaps, queer and trans youth’s experiences in schools, particularly those shared within Taylor et al.’s 139 much cited 2011 study) and are therefore addressing these issues through the Guidelines. The damaging structural conditions – white supremacy, colonization, cisnormativity, heteronormativity – of anti-queer and anti-trans bullying and rising rates of queer and trans youth suicide and mental illness are effectively obscured by focusing on the smaller, more digestible problems that may be easily addressed through the Guidelines’ Best Practices. Edelman (1988) continues, “perhaps the most powerful influence of news, talk, and writing about problems is the immunity from notice and criticism they grant to damaging conditions that are not on the list” (p. 14). How does focusing on the importance of GSAs in schools, for instance, rather than examining the underlying reasons for why students require a GSA in the first place, suppress much-needed conversations about school cultures and institutionalized racism, misogyny, anti-queer, and anti-trans discourses? The Guidelines recommend a variety of (fairly minor, when considered as a whole within the education system) alterations be made during daily school life for QTGD students so that teachers and administrators may accommodate these students’ needs. For example, the Guidelines state that “when there are [sex/gender] segregated educational, recreational or competitive activities, students who are trans and gender-diverse have the right to participate in these activities in ways that are safe, comfortable and congruent with their gender identity or gender expression” (p. 7). The same recommendation is made with regard to washrooms and change rooms. However, unless these sex/gender segregated activities and washrooms are divided into every possible gender identity one can imagine (i.e., a “girls’” team, “boys’” team, “agender” team, “pan-gender” team, “non-binary” team, and so on – the possibilities are truly endless), then the Guidelines are assuming that trans and gender diverse students will have identities and expressions that are congruent with the sex/gender binary. 140 The language used within the Guidelines reinforces the indisputable fact that school environments are deeply rooted within sex/gender binary activities and spaces. Rather than recommending that educators “reduce gender-segregated activities” (p. 7, emphasis added), or encouraging schools to offer a “non-gendered single stall washroom” (p. 9), should the conversation not focus on asking why school activities and spaces are reliant upon students’ gender to function? Travers (2018) cites the school’s preoccupation with gender as an “institutional reliance on binary sex organization, practices of sex segregation and differentiation, and anti-queer and trans-oppressive environments” (p. 49). This institutional reliance on the sex/gender system is left unproblematized within policies which seem to assume that, with proper administrative support and accommodation, QTGD students will become similar enough to their cisgender and heterosexual peers and the school will therefore achieve a “safe, welcoming, and caring” environment. The Guidelines seemingly understand gender identity and sexual orientation as something that resides within individual students who “show up” (by “coming out”) in the classroom to then be accommodated by school staff. Individualizing queerness and transness (and reducing “homophobia” and “transphobia” to isolated incidents) mitigates the need for educators, administrators, and educational stakeholders to consider how institutionalized racism, cisnormativity and heteronormativity impact the well-being of all students, and specifically create school and classroom cultures that are simply not designed for QTGD identities and expressions. It is in this way that policies such as the Guidelines for Best Practices (and the school district policies, which will be discussed later in this chapter) reproduce and reinforce white, middle-class homonormativity and transnormativity in schools, whereby proximity to 141 whiteness and binary systems of sex/gender effectively help to reduce the precarity felt by queer and trans students. 5.3 Alberta School District Policies A primary purpose of the Guidelines for Best Practices was to provide a resource for all school districts across Alberta to draw upon when creating their own government mandated LGBTQ+ “safe school” policies to comply with the requirements of (former) Bill 10 and Bill 24 (including privacy protections for QTGD students and GSAs). Rather than analyzing each policy individually53 to see how closely they aligned with the Guidelines or met the requirements of Bill 10 and Bill 24, I took a broader WPR approach (Bacchi, 2012) to explore how, overall, the 12 policies construct problem representations and underlying assumptions and discourses relating to queer, trans, and gender issues in elementary education. Since a number of participants stated that they were either unaware of the existence of their district’s LGBTQ+ “safe school” policy or felt unsupported by it, I selected 12 school district policies54 to help further contextualize my interviews and group discussions. Indeed, in searching for the policies on each district’s website, it became clear that some were easier to locate than others. The districts that might be considered “urban” had more direct links to their “safe and caring” school policies that could be easily found from the homepage, while many of the “rural” districts required more in-depth searching to find the policies. This may be indicative of urban versus rural attitudes pertaining to queer, trans, and gender diversity in education, or 53 For a more detailed report on four Alberta School District policies, see Public Interest Alberta (2018b) available at: https://www.pialberta.org/lgbtqprogressreport 54 I first selected the six policies from participants’ School Boards. The other six were randomly selected from a list of the remaining School Boards for analysis. I randomly chose Boards according to geographic location, ensuring a wide coverage of the province. My analysis includes four “urban” districts and eight “rural.” To maintain anonymity for participants, I will not name the districts selected or provide any identifying information. 142 each district’s level of commitment to implementing their policy and taking a definitive stance regarding gender and sexual diversity in their schools. Responses from participants reiterate the lack of support they felt from administrations and School Boards in some rural areas of Alberta. During the group discussion, Hazel recounted the responsibility she felt to helping QTGD kids, particularly given the culture in her rural area: Especially where we are out in the boonies [rural Alberta], like it’s pretty touchy still out there. Like our junior high and senior high do have GSAs now, but even that is still like “shhh, don’t talk about it,” right? Even though Hazel’s school district had specific information in their policy regarding GSA groups and the importance of “respecting diversity,” the prevailing attitude towards GSAs in Hazel’s professional network did not reflect these policy provisions. Randy, another rural elementary teacher, also noted that there was a lot of resistance to supporting QTGD students in his community, again, despite one of the more comprehensive district policies being in place. All of the urban district policies in this analysis provided more detailed definitions of QTGD identities and specific provisions for creating “safe and accepting” environments for gender diverse students. However, it is crucial to note that many participants who worked in urban districts with more comprehensive policies still did not feel a sense of administrative or institutional support for queer, trans, and gender diversity in their schools. Rather than attempting to make blanket assumptions regarding urban versus rural school districts in Alberta, the disconnect between district policies and educator practices and institutional supports is perhaps more indicative of the lack of policy “take-up” or “appropriation” (Levinson, Sutton, & Winstead, 2009) in schools and classrooms, and highlights the need for further action in the education system beyond the mere creation of policy documents. 143 5.3.1 Problem Representations in School District Policies All 12 of the policies followed the general recommendations and language used within the Guidelines for Best Practices (mostly when emphasizing discourses of safety and respect for all students), and most vaguely referenced the Alberta Human Rights Act and Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms when stating the legal rights and protections for QTGD students and staff. A broad, general desire for respect, dignity, inclusion, and the goal of creating “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environments” was at the centre of each of the policies, though the detail of the document and degree to which gender identity and/or sexual orientation were focused upon varied greatly. For example, despite the fact that the (mandated) purpose of these policies is to address best practices for QTGD students and staff, a number of rural districts notably did not even mention the words “gender,” “sexual/ity” or “GSA groups” in their policies. The problem representation in these cases appear to rest solely on the district’s obligation to create the government-mandated policy. These particular policies are brief, vague, and emphasize a general commitment to creating “positive, accepting environments for all,” while perhaps remaining “politically neutral” on issues of gender and sexual diversity. For the district policies that focused on the need to create “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environments” specifically for QTGD students (and not just in general), it is interesting to note that these policies also briefly mention other identities and socio-cultural factors as part of their commitment to inclusion and diversity, including race, age, ancestry, skin colour, marital status, income, and disability. None of these policies, however, discuss why it is also important to consider these aspects of a student or staff member’s identity or life experiences, and do not include procedures for ensuring the safety of these groups. How, for example, might a “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environment” be created for 144 racialized students in a white supremacist, colonial schooling context? Again, this lack of attention to the assemblages of race, gender, and sexuality (particularly given that schools are also sites of racism whereby Indigenous youth and youth of colour are more likely to face violence and harassment due to racism, rather than gender identity or sexual orientation [Taylor et al., 2011]), highlights QTGD identities as the problem to be solved in these policy documents. Many of the districts also represent “bullying” as the overarching, ambiguous problem to be addressed through each policy, though with little attention being given to how white supremacist, ableist, cisnormative, and heteronormative environments contribute to and enable violence, abuse, harassment, and poor mental health in schools. Recalling “anti-bullying” and “safe school” discourses as discussed in Chapter 2, the concept of bullying and “safe schools” as a framework to respond to peer-to-peer violence and harassment is well cited in educational literature and policy documents. The way bullying is approached and framed in the school district policies renders it an individual act or series of acts that can supposedly be addressed through teacher and administrative intervention. As Walton (2004) states, Educational policies and accompanying programs typify bullying as a problem of specific children who need specific interventions or punishments. There is no focus on systemic problems (e.g., homophobia) that manifest some of these behaviours or on how structural changes in curriculum, policy, or teaching can reduce school violence by fostering respect for sexual diversity. (p. 29) Many of the district policies suggest disciplinary action for individual acts of bullying, outlining zero-tolerance policies that do not confront the systemic issues in schools, and often end up punishing and further marginalizing racialized, disabled, and poor students (Travers, 2018). 145 5.3.2 GSAs as the “Solution” The purpose of the Guidelines for Best Practices and resulting district policies were, first and foremost, to fulfill and reflect the requirements regarding QTGD youth mandated by Bills 10 and 24, in which GSAs were of primary concern. All but two district policies included in this analysis have a specific section on GSAs, indicating – to varying degrees – that principals shall a) grant permission and support the establishment and naming of a GSA, b) designate a staff member to assist the GSA and, c) protect the privacy of students who join the GSA.55 While there is no doubt that GSAs offer an essential element to reducing the harms experienced by QTGD youth in schools, the focus on GSAs in school policies (and in the media) position them as being the solution to anti-queer and anti-trans discrimination in schools. Given that there must be a need present for the creation of a GSA (i.e., a student or group of students who request a GSA be started in their school), the impetus is once again placed upon individual students to seek support and resources for queer and trans inclusion. It is in this way that GSAs may be positioned in these policy documents as both the problem and the solution. In other words, the school policies analyzed in this chapter are created in order to address mandated requirements by the government to support QTGD students and school GSAs, with the underlying assumption that there are QTGD students who are in need of support that can only be fulfilled by these groups. While GSAs are shown to make significant improvements to the lives of queer and trans youth (and administrative and teacher support – not simply acknowledgement – of these groups is paramount) (Heck, Flentje, & Cochran, 2011; Herriot, 2015; Taylor et al., 2011), it seems GSAs are one of the only spaces – if not the only space – where QTGD identities are welcomed 55 It is important to reiterate that these provisions have since changed under the UCP government. 146 and celebrated, raising questions about institutional and systemic cisnormativity and heteronormativity that remain unchallenged. As MacIntosh (2007) pointedly states, “instead of recognizing the palpable need for antihomophobia work, educators and administrators are inclined to leave it in the hands of GSAs, celebrating, at arm’s length, the work of sexual minority youth and their allies” (pp. 38-39), and effectively obscuring the need for greater change both in and out of the classroom. During the group discussion/workshops, participants in this study considered what it might look like for their schools to function as the GSA, rather than a small group of students during an isolated time during lunch hour. Gwen, an urban elementary teacher, stated: There are so many students at our school that need that inclusive space and don’t access it for a whole variety of reasons so, I think it would be exciting if the whole school was the support group. Reimagining the whole school as a space that encompasses the practices and values of a GSA – where students of all gender identities, expressions, and sexual orientations are welcomed, accepted, and embraced – underscores the possibilities of what queer, trans, and gender affirming schools could look like, yet would require significant changes to how policy is currently being implemented (or not) in elementary education in order to actualize this vision in both policy and practice. 5.4 Conclusion “We need to create that culture where it’s not just words on a page, it’s not just lip service, it’s not just saying, ‘isn’t this [policy] great,’ but actually having it in practice in the school, where everybody just sort of understands.” (Taylor, urban elementary teacher) 147 While the Guidelines for Best Practices and many of the district policies analyzed in this chapter emphasize that changes are needed in curriculum and classroom practices to help create diverse and respectful learning environments (such as the Guidelines’ recommendation to reduce sex/gender segregated activities and for staff to use inclusive language), these changes are stated vaguely and in no absolute terms. This leaves a wide gap between policy recommendations and changes to classroom practices with little support for educators who are interested in taking on this work. As Bill explained in his interview, if administrators do not see the value or usefulness in their district’s policy, then school staff may not even be aware of the existence of these policies or have access to the training and professional development necessary to support their students. Many participants in this study were surprised (and some were relieved) to learn that policies exist to support and protect queer and trans inclusion and diversity in their classrooms and schools as if the policies outlined in this chapter provide educators with much-need permission to begin to challenge anti-queer and anti-trans discourses. The broad statements and commitments for QTGD students within each of the district policies, however, as Kelly and Brandes (2010) remind us, are “not always, or even usually, self-evident until broad value statements are put into practice and contested in local arenas” (p. 400). It is in this way that documents such as the Guidelines and the school district policies may be seen as much needed harm reduction but cannot (and should not) be seen as the final destination when it comes to supporting queer and trans identities in schools. As Travers (2018) emphasizes, “rights- and policy-oriented changes do make improvements in aspects of the lives of some queer and trans students” (p. 198), but we also “need to keep the most precarious trans kids in mind in our social change efforts” (p. 199). The Guidelines for Best Practices and resulting school district policies offer affirming resources and “accommodations” that benefit kids in lesser states of vulnerability 148 and precarity. I raise questions regarding if and when the policies outlined in this chapter will take effect in Alberta’s elementary schools, and if their recommendations can even begin to make meaningful and lasting changes in the lives of QTGD students alongside ongoing necropolitical forces of colonialism, racism, ableism, cisnormativity and heteronormativity. For instance, a prominent line of questioning I draw upon in my analysis of interview and group discussion data is which queer and trans students do these policies benefit and in what ways? When discussing what would have to happen for her district’s LGBTQ+ policy to be implemented in her school, Rory remarked, “I think that in our school district we would need to have a number of tragedies before it would be taken seriously.” Rory’s stark statement references the devastating consequences of the queer/trans necropolitical landscape of education, in which both visible and non-visible QTGD kids are vulnerable to self-harm and suicidal behaviours. Rory suggests that action towards implementing her district’s policy would likely take place reactively, only after such tragedies occur. Many participants made a similar point of noting how the Guidelines and school district policies are simply “lip-service” and reactionary, rather than proactive, emphasizing how the problem representation is focused on queer and trans students themselves rather than the conditions that contribute to their harm and suffering. By rendering queer and trans students as problems to be solved through policy, it becomes clear that in order for their needs to be addressed, those students must “come out” for the policy to be in effect. Participants’ frustrations about the lack of proactive measures to protect and support QTGD kids brings to mind Majkowski’s (2011) critique of the “It Gets Better” campaign: “without saying as much, the message [of the campaign] is: Dear Queers, just wait it out and try not to die before we get around to making things better” (p. 164). The framework of queer and trans necropolitics highlights how this reactive approach to policy implementation “operate[s] 149 through mundane regimes of abandonment and disposability, of ‘letting die’” (Haritaworn et al., 2014, p. 14). By only implementing policy if/when tragedy strikes (or if/when students “come out”), kids who are rendered more vulnerable and precarious by the necropolitics of racism, colonialism, and poverty are pushed further into the margins, subjecting them to social abandonment and sometimes quite literal death (Hatzenbuehler, 2011; Higa et al., 2012; Russell, 2003; Taylor et al., 2011). The analysis in this chapter corroborates Airton’s (2013) argument that “in education the nebulous (queerness) tends to become concrete (homophobia) and therefore actionable (fight homophobia)” (p. 543). This linear view of problem identification and policy intervention does not account for the inevitable messiness that comes with navigating, supporting, and affirming complex and intersecting identities in schools, nor does it begin to address larger, more structural systems and forces of oppression and marginalization. Rory additionally stated in her interview: Yeah, there are the policies in place that say we have “safe and caring schools” and so I think there's this perception that they've [the government and school districts] done enough. They've done a policy, you know, the policy’s there and then they don't really need to rock the boat any more than that. But my argument is that our students then are the ones rocking the boat by being themselves every single day because we weren't brave enough to do that for them. Rory’s argument suggests that the impulse to create “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environments” has been in response to students who are able, willing, safe, and “brave enough” to clearly identify their needs, desires, and seek support and resources from school staff who are, more often than not, uncertain of how to navigate QTGD identities in highly cisnormative and heteronormative schooling contexts. As I will reiterate throughout this dissertation, only the most privileged, supported QTGD students may be able to have their needs met in their schools and classrooms. More vulnerable students in conditions of greater precarity 150 (those without sufficient parental support, racialized, disabled, and/or impoverished students) will either be hanging onto the coattails of their more privileged counterparts or waiting until their district finally gets around to creating the “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe” schools they have been promised. 151 Chapter 6: “Bring us the ‘broken children’”: Schools as Sites of Normativity 6.1 Introduction “We’re blessed to have all these different kids… Not that I go out and say, ‘Okay, bring us the broken children.’ We have lots of those too… Or ‘different, diverse’ [children], but when they’re here it’s so much better for all the other kids. When you have a child in a wheelchair everybody else becomes a better person [or] when I have the autistic child [in the school]. Diversity makes everybody better.” (Bill, rural elementary school principal) I begin this chapter with a passage from my interview with Bill, a rural elementary school principal who prides himself on creating a safe and inclusive environment where “every child should see themselves [represented] in the building” (Bill). This opening excerpt displays a microcosm of layered meanings and themes relating to how educators in this study navigate increasing pressures to create anti-oppressive and inclusive educational environments, often without the support or knowledge necessary to do so (DeLuca, 2012; Rayside 2014; Solomon et al., 2005). Underlying Bill’s statements about “broken children” and the importance of “difference” and “diversity” in educational settings is the implication that schools are designed to represent, support, validate, and affirm the “non-broken” children – those who likely do not fall into the category of “different” or “diverse” and possess bodies and identities that hold social privilege. By having “difference” and “diversity” present in the school (by way of these “broken children,”) Bill’s statements insinuate that the mere presence and visibility of difference creates “better” (or perhaps more progressive, socially aware, or compassionate) people. As he states, “When you have a child in a wheelchair everybody else becomes a better person.” While one can perhaps read the intent behind Bill’s words – that is, exposure to different bodies and 152 identities may help to educate others and bring them outside of their own perspective or worldview – his words suggest that educators may also use or rely upon the identities and experiences of marginalized students to teach and inform their privileged counterparts, highlighting the school as a site of normativity that must deliberately add in difference. As my conversation with Bill progressed, he elaborated, “I mean, the nice thing about Leah is she wears her transgendered shirt,” meaning that Leah’s identity as a trans girl is marked as visible to the rest of the school community, contributing to their overall sense of diversity. Bill’s statements made me wonder, if Leah had not been “out” at school, would transgender identities be visible in the school through some other format (for example, picture books in the library or celebrations for Transgender Day of Visibility)? In what other ways might Bill’s school community learn about, support, and affirm all gender identities? A few educators made statements similar to Bill’s explanation and understanding of diversity and the perceived benefits of including and welcoming “difference” in the elementary school. For example, during my interview with Randy, a rural elementary school teacher and self-proclaimed ally to queer and trans communities, a similar sentiment about diversity was shared: “As soon as you make, like a positive change to make something more diverse, everyone ends up benefiting in a roundabout way anyways. So it just becomes like a safer and more inclusive place in all areas.” My conversation with Taylor, an out gay urban elementary teacher who had been working in education for 23 years, also portrayed diversity as something that resides within particular individuals, seen as beneficial to teach and inform others: KATE: How would you personally define LGBTQ and gender diversity and inclusion? TAYLOR: I think that’s the idea there is that we celebrate diversity in the classroom, that when somebody comes into the classroom with differences, those are things that enrich our classroom, and they are a different perspective that we bring to the classroom. 153 It’s a lot like having a new perspective to the room, so if you have somebody who is transgender or they’re gay or they’re a lesbian, or they’re bi, or wherever they want to put themselves on the spectrum, they truly do bring a new way of looking at things, and a new way of playing games. Bill, Randy, and Taylor’s understanding of the benefits of diversity are complex, yet also unrealistically simplistic. Their statements suggest that the mere presence of marginalized identities inherently offer different perspectives and therefore (supposedly) improved conditions for all students. This is not to say that these educators do not also put time and effort into building affirming environments in other ways (such as through lesson plans and group discussions, contributing to the overall culture of the school and classroom), but these statements hold greater meaning in terms of which bodies and identities are considered “diverse” and the impact this has on educational practices both in and out of the classroom. The idea of “adding diversity” into the classroom and school environment was a common theme throughout my interviews, and one that is reflective of the language used within the Guidelines for Best Practices, individual school district policies, and perhaps indicative of Canada’s neoliberal push towards multiculturalism. Bickmore (2006) notes that “public schooling, a project of the state, has a built-in mandate to legitimate the existing (inequitable) social order” (p. 360). It therefore follows that the drive to create inclusive and diverse classrooms with an emphasis on harmony and “social cohesion” (Bickmore, 2006, p. 361) is instilled in Canada’s public elementary schools. A contributing factor to such strong discourses of diversity can be found in teacher education programs that identify diversity as a key value (Holden & Kitchen, 2018) and the Alberta Teachers’ Association’s commitment to promoting the importance of diversity in education to its members (ATA, n.d.). Problems arise, however, when students have differences or needs that do not fit into the overall culture or physical 154 structure of the classroom or school (for example, gender diverse students who do not feel comfortable or safe using sex/gender segregated washrooms) and require additional thought, effort and accommodation.56 If educators are adding in difference, which bodies and identities are already present and welcomed in the school, classroom, and curriculum? Kannen and Acker (2008), for instance, found that diversity in the classroom was only considered an “issue” by teachers when “the composition (or sometimes interests) of the student body made it so. If not an observable part of the scene, there was no ‘issue’” (p. 33). This finding underscores that the presence of students with notable “differences” marks them as “other” and defines them as an “issue” to be resolved or addressed in the classroom. I begin my analysis with an exploration of how educators understood and drew upon discourses of diversity and difference in the interviews and group discussions, illuminating how certain identities and ways of being are privileged over others, situating my study within a broader institutional and necropolitical context where schools are recognized as sites of white, Euro-colonial, cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied normativity. I then explore how educators’ narratives and examples of how they “include” discussions of trans identities and different family structures in their classrooms and school cultures set the boundaries and limits of what are considered to be “normal” expressions of gender identity and sexual orientation. By delineating who and what are considered “normal” in the classroom and school, educators’ responses throughout this chapter bring the logic of necropolitics into clear view: “the capacity to define who matters and who does not, who is disposable and who is not” (Mbembe, 2003, p. 27). 56 I will be exploring this further in Chapter 7. 155 6.2 “Celebrating Diversity” without “Drawing Attention” “We’re teaching children that we respect everyone, no matter what their background, no matter what their culture, no matter what their beliefs, no matter what their gender… To me, that’s super important, but [sigh] there’s not that intentional teaching for LGBTQ+ and gender.” (Hazel, rural elementary teacher) Although problematic, discourses of diversity have certainly been important and strategic in the call for educators to implement policies and practices that support students who do not identify as cisgender or heterosexual (McCarthy, 2003). The Guidelines for Best Practices, for example, frequently cites respecting and fostering diversity as a crucial outcome of LGBTQ+ policy implementation. It is important to note, however, that “diversity” has arguably become a buzzword in education without a concrete definition. Morrish and O’Mara (2011) elaborate, “diversity is ‘good,’ a signifier of everything and yet nothing; it is conveniently nonspecific” (p. 974). Indeed, diversity was drawn upon frequently throughout my interviews and group discussions yet was seldom defined or explained in practice. Throughout the interviews, the concept of diversity began to sound like an elusive catch-all for “representation” and “equality” – not just for gender and sexuality, but also for racialized identities and “different cultures.” “Diversity” became the dominant format through which educators understood all forms of difference. Most educators in this study proudly professed that they “celebrate diversity” in their classrooms as the primary way in which they address or approach identities that differ from the (white, cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied) norm. Many of those who proclaimed to “celebrate diversity,” however, also walked a fine line between wanting to outwardly discuss difference 156 with their students while not necessarily drawing attention to what these differences are (or, notably, not entering discussions of how these differences impact how one is treated or experiences the world). In the following excerpt, Bill explains the demographic composition of his elementary school, noting how his school does not draw attention to or notice differences between racialized and non-racialized students: BILL: Now there is a growing population of children from overseas, like the Filipino community is probably now the second largest [population in the school] after Caucasian. It’s quite a few. And then there are a number of families who actually are from Africa, so they’re actually African families, they’re not African Canadian, they’re African. KATE: They’re from Africa, right. BILL: And as far as I can tell, they’re all doing very well and that’s what of course we’re going for. If they’re having any kind of problems related to race, it’s not apparent- either the kids haven’t said anything, we don’t see anything, the other children don’t seem to notice any differences. Bill’s comment that the racialized kids at his school appear to be “doing very well” brings to mind Travers’ (2018) observation: “some of these children appear to be fine, at least on the outside, but inwardly struggle” (p. 48) within the confines of a school “built around naturalized but falsely universal abilities” (p. 48), with whiteness and middle-class values permeating the school culture and curriculum. Bill then shared with me his commitment to ensuring that “every kid should recognize themselves in the building,” at which point I asked how children of different races or ethnicities see themselves represented in the otherwise “fairly heterogeneous, like very Caucasian” (Bill) school. Bill’s answer reflects a desire to uphold a vision for diversity, while downplaying “difference”: The children of racial diversity, we haven’t done [explicit work or talk for] that and we won’t. Like we’re not going to stand up and say these African kids are different in this way. Because the [other] kids don’t recognize them as being different for the most part. They see that’s Sally, that’s Johnny, that’s so what? 157 The two excerpts shared above illuminate Bill’s belief that the “other children” (non-racialized white students) “don’t seem to notice any differences.” He (perhaps unwittingly) uses a “colour-evasive,” liberal humanist view of racialization, in which outward markers of identity or physical attributes “shouldn’t matter” or make a difference in how we see other people. This conversation with Bill was strikingly similar to my interview with Jenny, briefly shared in section 4.7.2, in which Jenny, an urban elementary teacher, explained how she does not “see” sexuality: It’s just not letting that [a person’s sexual orientation] define who they are. Like, my friend is my friend. Like, he is who he is. He’s not… a gay person. Or a homosexual person. Or…he’s not a drag queen. He’s just his name. Right? Like so things like that… I don’t draw attention to it, and I don’t really pay attention to it. Or I try not to, anyways. That’s kind of the ideal goal. This desire to “see beyond” the (marginalized) identities of others is not uncommon amongst educators who are embedded in cis-heterosexual colonial whiteness, institutionalized to the point that these markers become uncontested and naturalized (Solomon et al., 2005). The “I just see the person underneath” approach to diversity, however, ignores the societal and material realities and consequences57 of having a racialized body and/or marginalized identity. Notably, Bill did not answer my question about how racialized students see themselves, despite his continual assertion that all students are represented in his school: BILL: Because every child needs to be included and as I said before, see themselves [represented in the school] whoever they are. Including our cisgendered caucasian58 majority, but they see themselves. 57 While this statement may seem to be at odds with poststructural theory, there are differing material consequences for subject positions that are more or less privileged and rewarded than others. As Weedon (1999) writes, “the idea that differences are produced within discourse does not… mean that they do not take material forms which have material effects” (p. 24). A consequence of these societal differences are seen in the necropolitics surrounding policy, law, medical, and curricula decisions and provisions that affect certain groups of people unequally depending on their social location. 58 See section 4.6 for a critique of the word “caucasian.” 158 KATE: They always see themselves. BILL: And I’ve already said that, so. Bill clearly recognizes how the cisgender white students “see” themselves in his school but was unable to articulate or answer how racialized students are (or even can be) represented the same way whiteness is. To be fair, my question is perhaps unanswerable within the context of an education system so heavily built – and reliant – upon “the institutionalization of whiteness and the systemic factors that underscore its continued dominance” (Solomon et al., 2005, p. 147) and perceived naturalness. However, Bill’s adamancy that his school is exemplary in welcoming all kinds of difference, yet his inability to describe how this takes place in practice, is noteworthy. The dichotomy between claiming diversity as a way to educate and inform others (more privileged students) about difference, while refraining from teaching about difference “explicitly” or drawing too much attention to race, class, disability, gender, or sexuality, emerged frequently throughout my interviews. Jenny shared: “I think for me, it’s [being LGBTQ+ and gender inclusive] just [pause]… [stutter] it- it’s… I mean, it’s striking a balance I guess between being aware and having that awareness and that education but also not drawing attention to it, I think.” Jenny’s hesitancy (as articulated through her pausing and stuttering) was perhaps indicative of her desire to meet increasing demands and desires for inclusive and equitable classrooms (ATA, 2015), while also downplaying these differences so as not to single out those students who are visibly or notably “different” from their peers. A number of participants shared that they try their best to interweave diversity into their classrooms while making a concerted effort not to emphasize differences amongst their students. When asked how they discuss gender identities or sexual orientations in their classrooms, these educators were quick to tell me that 159 they do not discuss gender and sexuality “explicitly.” Susan, a rural elementary teacher, explained her approach to diversity in the classroom: KATE: And what does that [diversity] look like to you? SUSAN: Well it's little things like a “Safe Space” sticker on the door and picture books in my library, the “I Am Jazz” book on the shelf. Just a few of those pieces. And then more specifically it's conversations - any chance I can kind of bring it forward on the beauty of being different - different is beautiful. So, the books I choose we talk about inclusivity on a broad scale. Not specific to, necessarily, like an ethnic group or an LGBTQ or any of that. But just that whole idea of different is beautiful is kind of our umbrella in the whole classroom culture…. we try really hard to notice and celebrate all those pieces that make each of those little people in front of you special and unique. And then for some kiddos it's more obvious or people talk about it more than, “oh you have two different coloured eyes.” But trying to really bring that out as that's what makes you special, and this is what makes you special. And we're not all the same with one person who's different, but we're all different and that's the best part. Although it may not necessarily be detrimental to focus on “the beauty of being different” in the classroom, this approach to diversity fails to address power and how certain groups of people experience unequal privilege and oppression. It is important to note that even in the phrase, “the beauty of being different,” there are certainly dominant standards of beauty that hold differing levels of privilege. Susan’s response brings to mind liberal humanist ideology surrounding individualism, equal opportunity and meritocracy, whereby we are all simply “special” and “unique” on a level playing field. As Kelly (2012) explains, “if educators assume that difference resides in the individual, it can be easy to see difference as deficit and lose sight of institutional inequities and historical power imbalances” (p. 136). Boler and Zembylas (2003) additionally note that “those who teach issues of race, class, gender, and sexual orientation in the field of education are familiar with the problem of difference being understood as benign” (p. 109), resulting in harmful beliefs and practices that are not currently (or adequately) addressed in the education system. By not “drawing attention” to difference, or portraying difference as “just a 160 human thing” (Morgan, an educational behavioural consultant), educators fail to recognize how they – and many of their students – are complicit in systems of power and privilege. During her interview, Susan succinctly summarized the tension between recognizing and celebrating difference while not drawing attention to those differences: It's a very careful line we walk… Because you are uber protective of that little person, more than even the other kiddos in your room, because you know of the risks that come inherently in that experience, where you're just like, “oh God please don't let her have to deal with things that I read in the statistics.” You just want so badly to protect them from that. But you also want to validate and celebrate who they are, and so you want to say it out loud. But you don't want to say it out loud too many times. And you want the safe space sticker, but you don't want to, like, do a bulletin board that says, “safe space.” You want the rainbow flag, but you don't want someone to feel like you want to wear your transgender pin, which I do all the time, but then - You know. It's just one of those things where you're like, how do I find that balance, like - of honouring but not spotlighting. The “little person” that Susan feels so protective of is Leah, the student frequently mentioned in other sections of this dissertation, who transitioned halfway through the school year. Susan is clearly aware of the incidence of bullying and suicidal behaviours among transgender kids, as she notes, “please don’t let her have to deal with things that I read in the statistics.” Susan struggles to find a balance between validating Leah’s identity as a transgender girl, while not targeting or highlighting her gender identity to the rest of the school community (this is in contrast to Bill’s perspective, who is grateful that Leah wears her “transgendered shirt”) or, as Susan stated, “honouring but not spotlighting.” Minow (1990) refers to the tension that Susan articulates as “the dilemma of difference” (p. 20). Minow poses the questions, “when does treating people differently emphasize their differences and stigmatize or hinder them on that basis? And when does treating people the same become insensitive to their difference and likely to stigmatize or hinder them on that basis?” (p. 20, emphasis in original). Certainly, and ironically, educators’ fear and hesitancy surrounding explicit discussion of transgender identities 161 are contributing factors to the devastating statistics for transgender communities that Susan alludes to in her interview. Throughout their book, Travers (2018) highlights the (often invisible) emotional and physical burden carried by transgender and gender diverse students. From a lack of queer and trans representation in curriculum to binaried sex/gender-segregation, “schools are often spaces of psychological difficulty and physical danger for trans kids” (p. 49). Responses from educators in this chapter reflect prevailing approaches to (and limitations of) using discourses of diversity to grapple with issues of “difference” among students (Allard & Santoro, 2008; Frohard-Dourlent, 2016; Harper, 1997; Kannen & Acker, 2008; Lubienski, 2003). How participants in this study make sense of difference and diversity must not be seen as individual “failures” to adequately understand issues of privilege and oppression in education, rather, they are indicative of the language used within LGBTQ+ activism and teacher resources that employ “diversity” in their efforts to help create more inclusive schools.59 Using discourses of diversity to figure out how best to support and accommodate QTGD identities and expressions in educational policy and practice must be understood within a broader context of cisnormativity and heteronormativity, whereby “diversity” can only go so far to challenge institutional systems in education that are invested in maintaining gender and sexual normativity. 6.2.1 “A Double Whammy”: Reflections on Racial Diversity and Intersectionality Solomon et al. (2005) contend that teachers are often not prepared or taught how to discuss systems of privilege and oppression with their students. A mechanism that perpetuates the existing “racial order” (p. 148) in the classroom is teachers’ (and schools’) positioning and 59 For examples, see the “resource” section of Taylor et al.’s (2011) report which recommends “Pink T-Shirt Day” as a way to “celebrate diversity” (p. 150). The Alberta Teachers’ Association also promotes the “PRISM Toolkit” to help teachers create safe and supportive classrooms. The toolkit describes Alberta’s students as “a vibrant kaleidoscope of diversity” and promotes accepting difference and celebrating diversity throughout (PRISM, 2016). 162 investment in liberal ideologies of individualism, the invisibility/denial of white privilege, and lack of intersectional analysis to social problems. Participants’ hesitancy to draw attention to identities that differ from their own or from the cultural norm often stemmed from a place of either lack of knowledge or comfort in the topic. Gwen, an urban elementary teacher of 11 years, shared how she finds race to be a difficult topic to approach in the classroom: GWEN: I find race really hard to talk about in a classroom. KATE: Do you know why that is? GWEN: I think it's because… I mean, I'm more comfortable now that I know more. But I think I didn't – I don't think I knew enough to have the conversation. And then because I didn't know enough, it made me nervous where the conversation was going to go… KATE: So how to approach these conversations from an educated place? GWEN: Yeah and I think it's really hard – it's hard both ways. It's hard to have the conversation in your classroom when you have students that have experienced racism. It's also hard to have the conversation when you have students that haven't experienced racism. Gwen wanted to approach important conversations about privilege and oppression with her class but was unsure of how to navigate the topic of racism, with both racialized and non-racialized students with varying life experiences in the room. She continued, “But you know, I never want to depend on the students' lived experience to provide an example, right?” Gwen is not alone in her reluctance surrounding how to attend to issues of race in the classroom, particularly when “using a child as ‘informant’ about his/her culture would separate them from their majority peers” (Kannen & Acker, 2008) and highlight uncomfortable inequalities in the classroom. “Pedagogical silences” regarding race and racialization “maintain[s] the status quo of whiteness as privileged, invisible and normative,” (Kannen & Acker, 2008, p. 37), yet many teachers feel 163 they are not equipped to deal with these conversations (Bolgatz, 2005; Hollingworth, 2009; Martell, 2016; Thomas, 2015). A number of educators in this study including Gwen, Randy, Kathryn, and particularly Andi, who passionately exclaimed, “intersectionality or nothing!,” held a personal appreciation and understanding of intersectionality that unfortunately was not shared by their school cultures. Gwen, for example, acknowledged that her school does not have an intersectional understanding of identity in terms of how diversity is discussed in the classroom or in conversations between staff members and administration. Other participants were unaware of the concept or expressed difficulty in applying an intersectional60 approach to their educational practices. During each interview, I asked educators how race and disability were approached in each of their schools and if they saw this as similar or different to how issues of gender and/or sexuality were addressed. Most of these conversations started and ended with “valuing difference,” which is perhaps indicative of educators’ reluctance to discuss race with students (Kannen & Acker, 2008) and the “erasure or invisibility of disability in discussions of difference” (Loutzenheiser & Erevelles, 2019, p. 377). My discussion with Jenny, however, evolved into a deeper understanding: KATE: How does your school approach race or class or disability? JENNY: Um… like we kind of talk about it under the umbrella of bullying. I would say it’s all corralled into that. Like gender diversity kind of comes in with… you know, physical disabilities and whatever differences, diversity. KATE: In terms of accepting people as they are? JENNY: Yeah. 60 It is worth noting that intersectionality has been contested by many scholars (Gunnarsson, 2017; Harris & Leonardo, 2018; Jorba & Rodó-Zárate, 2019; Tefera, Power, & Fischman, 2018). Still, intersectionality may be pedagogically useful for educators who are working through issues of privilege, oppression, and identity. 164 KATE: Do you see any relation between LGBTQ+ and gender differences, with, for example, racism?... Do they interconnect or do you think of them as separate issues? It’s kind of a big question. JENNY: Yeah, I’ve never really thought about it. Um… [long pause] I want to say from a teacher’s perspective that I would… [pause] treat it the same? [pause] Like if a kid had said to somebody like, “you know you’re a chink” or said “you’re gay” … [long pause] I think the conversation would be very similar. I intentionally indicated in the above passage where Jenny paused and took her time in responding to my questions. In listening back to the recording of our conversation, Jenny seemed to really consider my question, speaking slowly and quietly, almost as if to herself, in forming her response. JENNY: …it almost feels wrong that I would treat it [race and LGBTQ+ issues] the same, but I think I would? KATE: Sure, it’s however you conceptualize it. JENNY: I’m trying to think! [laughs] That’s something I’ll have to think about. I’ll probably have a different answer like in a week! [laughs] That is really interesting. I guess… it’s … I would talk about it in the same way. You’re born… [pause, speaking quietly] you know, you’re born Asian, or you’re born… homosexual. This glimpse into Jenny’s inner dialogue as she negotiated her own understandings of how racism and homophobia intersect was not only interesting to observe but offered an opportunity to prompt further discussion of intersectionality. KATE: It can be important to try to connect like how someone’s intersecting identities forms or impacts how they’re treated and how they experience the world. And so that’s kind of the background behind this question, if that helps. JENNY: I can kind of see it… um…being double loaded. KATE: In what way? JENNY: Like if you’re – say, a gay Black man, or something, right? Like, so not only do you have to deal with the racial issue – or a poor gay Black man. There, just keep loading it on. 165 KATE: And how do you think that would affect that fictional person in this example moving throughout this world? JENNY: [long pause] hmm… that’s interesting to think about. It’s like you’ve got the privileged white, gay man and then you’ve got the underpriv—oh my! Jenny’s recognition that being racialized, gay, and economically poor would result in being “double loaded” indicates her understanding (and discovery) of how certain groups and identities are more privileged than others. As she speaks, she cuts herself off from the word “underprivileged” and expresses surprise at her own revelation and analysis (“oh my!”). She continued by sharing another example of what she felt was a “double whammy,” connecting her understanding and personal experiences of Asian cultures being “less accepting of homosexuality.” The above conversation with Jenny evolved from approaching racial diversity under the umbrella of bullying to perhaps a richer, deeper analysis of racial and class privilege and oppression. 6.2.2 The Limits of Diversity: Who Gets to be Celebrated? How far can “celebrating diversity” go in terms of creating inclusive and welcoming classrooms within the context of an education system that places necropolitical constraints on who and what is worthy of celebration? While many educators may espouse to being supportive of diversity in their classrooms – often relegating marginalized students as “learning opportunities” – the ways in which diversity was understood and approached in my interviews and group discussions raises questions about what kinds of difference are acceptable in elementary education, and in society more broadly. From a necropolitical perspective, “celebration” is read alongside – and in contrast to – “violent erasure” (Haritaworn, et al. 2014, p. 5). Although a generic form of “diversity” is championed in elementary education, often as a marker for how “safe” or “welcoming” the 166 school is, there is a noticeable distinction in my discussions with educators between forms of difference that are considered acceptable versus what is “too much” or “too far,” effectively erasing those who are not as tolerable or valuable within systems of racism, colonialism, classism, and ableism. Differences in cultural celebrations between students (and amongst staff) seemed to be benign enough subjects to openly discuss in the classroom. Taylor explained how he celebrates different cultures in his kindergarten class, as part of a celebration of diversity in his school, which he characterizes as “not the world’s most diverse school in some ways, but in other ways it really is in terms of just being accepting.” He continued: [Diversity] has to be [about] everybody. It has to be everybody. So yes, we celebrated Robbie Burns Day, but this week we’ve been making red envelopes and we’re making Chinese dragons and lanterns to celebrate the year of the pig, right? I have children who actually do celebrate Chinese New Year in my classroom, and on Wednesday, I’m going to have the grade 5 teacher, who happens to be Chinese, come and teach about Chinese New Year to my kids. Having teachers with different talents and different backgrounds helps in that sharing process. Not “everybody” or every culture, however, is as easily welcomed or celebrated as the Scottish holiday or Chinese New Year in Taylor’s classroom. For instance, Hazel provided me with an example of what she calls the “uneducated and opinionated” mindset of her rural school: We had this beautiful Syrian refugee family come to our school. And when they called and said, “hey we’re putting this little girl in your class,” I was so excited and you know what my friend [and colleague] said? “Oh my god I hope they don’t bomb our school.” It’s just stuff like that. And I said, “why on earth would they bomb the school that their children are attending?” Like imagine how much they’ve [the Syrian family] gone through to get here. Like – but still, I had to work on it [her colleague’s opinion] for months, and it wasn’t until that little girl had been here for a long time that that opinion started changing. And I don’t think it ever got to the point where she thought, “wow I’m sure glad you’re here.” The district’s policy and promise of a “safe and welcoming school” clearly did not reach as far as Hazel’s colleague’s racism, indicating that, for some, there is a line drawn between differences 167 that are willingly (and easily) celebrated and those that prove to be too much or too provocative. This will be explored further in Chapter 7 in relation to which gender identities and expressions are considered more palatable and acceptable in the school and classroom environment. Other educators noted that they celebrate or “do” Black History Month, and many brought up how they teach and learn about Indigenous cultures as part of the government’s mandate to integrate Indigenous education into each subject of the curriculum. As Randy stated, “we’re working really hard in our journey in reconciliation.” Taylor and Randy explained how their schools both have Indigenous-inspired mascots and logos,61 and regularly invite Indigenous community members to drum, talk about their cultures and share stories. The above examples of cultural celebration in the school and classroom are not shared as a criticism so much as a prompt for asking who and what are left out of these discussions. While there may be attempts at reconciliation, as suggested by both Taylor and Randy, such efforts will have little impact on an education system that is deeply rooted in the project of ongoing colonization. One participant, Kathryn, had previously taught at a school on a First Nations reserve in Alberta. This offered me an opportunity to ask if (and how) QTGD students were supported differently at this school, where one might expect more focus on and integration of Indigenous understandings of gender and sexual identities: KATE: Was it - was the perception or the understanding or the issues regarding LGBTQ+ and gender diversity different would you say at that particular school [on the reserve]? KATHRYN: No, I don't think so. I think they had been too impacted by white values. Like the whole Two Spirit thing, they talk about it, but it means nothing to that community anymore…. It is sad too. And I think having two lesbian teachers at the school at the same time did make a difference because I think kids that were older, a lot of kids came out 61 The irony of having Indigenous symbols as mascots and logos for state-run schools operating under ongoing colonialism is not lost on me but was raised as a point of school pride for participants. 168 during that time because they knew they had a safe place to go. We still weren't allowed to have a GSA though, like we were told “no.” KATE: Really, from the administrative team? KATHRYN: From Chief and Council, yeah. Kathryn continued, explaining the “political struggles” she experienced with her administrative team’s blatant transphobia. She told me about her attempts at calling out this behaviour: “in my last year there I said, ‘this needs to stop, we have kids in our school who identify as trans, like this needs to stop.’ And they all just told me I was being sensitive.” The far-reaching and violent effects of colonial discourse – in this case, the erasure of Indigenous cultural understandings of gender diversity at a First Nations school – renders it difficult (if not impossible) to imagine reconciliation taking place within our existing education system. Although efforts towards, at the very least, acknowledging Canada’s history and participation in colonization have been made in Alberta Education, it is my understanding based on discussions with educators that they are not required to discuss colonization or residential schooling with their students despite the mandate for Indigenous education to take place in every subject. The NDP’s proposed Alberta K-12 curriculum would have made lessons about residential schooling mandatory for all Albertan students. The UCP, however, has since halted progress on the new curriculum initiated by the NDP and proposed drastic changes including eliminating “all references to residential schools and ‘equity’” (French, 2020, para 1). Without clear or sufficient institutional support and resources from Alberta Education, educators struggle to know how to approach challenging, yet important, conversations in their schools and classrooms, let alone if they are even allowed to do so. Susan, for example, told me about how she wished they could discuss difficult topics in her school: 169 We're not there yet. And so, I think we do need to purposefully mandate talk about residential schools, talk about the '60s scoop. Talk about our LGBTQ+ kiddos. Talk about their experiences. Talk about the risks for them. Like maybe not in elementary but, like, big [older] kids. You know what I mean – like, actually say it out loud. The support to “say it out loud” – to directly name and discuss systemic inequalities, rather than dancing around uncomfortable topics – however, is missing in teachers’ professional development. Susan’s statement, “maybe not in elementary,” also points to which topics educators may feel are too mature or inappropriate for younger students, even though many of the educators I spoke with emphasized the importance of discussing difficult topics at a young age to “destigmatize” them. Lamenting the gap in knowledge and curriculum during the group discussion, Hazel shared, “when you go to all the workshops, all the PD [professional development] sessions about all the Indigenous studies and that’s [colonization] not brought up at all.” Participants’ frustrations with not having the knowledge, supports, or resources to move beyond simple celebrations of culture is indicative of the limits of discourses of diversity. What educators feel comfortable discussing in the classroom – including what they are allowed to teach – has distinct boundaries. A number of educators were hesitant to teach or talk about QTGD identities and expressions explicitly with their students outside of the sexual health curriculum due to rules and regulations62 from Alberta Education that stipulates teachers require a letter of permission63 from parents if they want to discuss these topics with their students. This regulation undoubtedly creates 62 The Alberta Education Act, section 58.2. states: “Where a teacher or other person providing instruction, teaching a course or program of study or using the instructional materials referred to in subsection (1) [subject matter that deals with primarily and explicitly with religion or human sexuality] receives a written request signed by a parent of a student that the student be excluded from the instruction” (p. 61). Since topics related to gender and sexuality are (according to what participants have been told by their administrations) considered part of “human sexuality,” teachers must require a letter to discuss these subjects. 63 This will be discussed further in section 8.2. 170 fear and tension surrounding discussing identities that are outside of the cisgender heterosexual norm, especially for participants who identified as part of queer and/or trans communities. As Anderson (2020) remarks, “LGBTI teachers… reckon with how their identities are viewed as controversial, falling under the umbrella of human sexuality and the purview of the Education Act” (p. 135, emphasis in original). This is illustrated through Rory’s experiences as a relatively new teacher who had been working in an urban elementary school for three years and how she approached her principal in her first year of teaching to ask for permission to share her personal life with her students: I was like “okay, number one: I'm married to a woman [and] I would really like to be allowed to share parts of my life the way that straight people are allowed to put up a picture or say that they're married or talk about what they did with their husband on the weekend. Are you going to have my back if I do that?” Although Rory told me she was supported by her administration, it is clear that she was unsure if this would be the case if she were to “come out” at work. Regardless, Rory should not have felt the need (or pressure) to ask for permission to discuss an important aspect of her life with her students. In this context, it is understandable for the educators in this study to feel apprehensive about explicitly discussing non-normative gender and sexuality with their students, even in age-appropriate and relevant contexts. Since Alberta Education has conflated queer, trans, and gender issues with sex education (Anderson, 2020), a sense of taboo is created surrounding these topics thereby making it more difficult for educators to integrate representations of gender and sexual diversity, but also highlights how heteronormativity is a foundational aspect of the education system. The fact that educators do not feel as though they need permission to discuss cisgender identities or heterosexuality – indeed, these discussions are omnipresent in elementary classrooms and schools (Paterson, 2014, 2015; Payne & Smith, 2014; Stafford, 2013, 2016) – 171 reinforces a distinctly anti-queer, anti-trans educational environment, which discourses of diversity do little to disrupt. 6.3 Lesbian, Gay, and (Binary) Trans: How Educators Seek to “Make it Normal” In nearly every conversation about queer, trans, and gender diversity, educators touched upon and embraced the idea of “making it normal.” In these conversations, participants expressed their desire for gender and sexual diversity to be integrated into the classroom and school culture such that “it’s not necessarily about this explicit teaching of these things; although, that’s part of it, but it’s also that like infused normalization of people living diverse lives” (Gwen). Most of the context surrounding educators’ desire to “normalize” QTGD identities was focused on making it a “non-issue” for students to see or hear representations of transgender people and families with two moms or two dads. For example, many participants expressed the importance of introducing gender diverse and “same-sex family” discussions to students starting at a young age, supposedly before they have preconceived notions about these topics. Kathryn, a teacher of eight years in an urban elementary school, explained how she had not originally planned on sharing her sexual orientation with her students and school community, but had met a colleague while working at a different school who helped changed her perspective: “she taught high school and she was out to all the students. And they needed that. They needed her to be out.” The statement, “they needed her to be out” suggests that the students greatly benefit from having an openly queer role model in the school. Similar to how educators in this study (such as Bill, Randy, and Taylor) emphasized the benefits of having visibly “different” children in their schools and classrooms, Kathryn’s statement above mirrors the same logic and belief that “diversity” creates improved conditions for everyone. As will be further discussed in Chapter 8, it is crucial to recognize the kinds of work and additional emotional labour that people from “diverse” 172 communities or with “diverse” identities are asked and expected to do64. “Diverse communities and identities” in these contexts implicitly mean those with marginalized identities and experiences who are already facing the effects and burdens of white supremacy, colonization, anti-queer and anti-trans negativity. Kathryn explained how, after witnessing the benefits of her colleague being “out” at school, she saw the value in being deliberately open about her personal life (which her sexual orientation is a part of) in the classroom, especially for younger students: “kids need to see this [representations of LGBTQ+ people] in their really formative years, this is when it should be normalized and introduced to them [so that it’s like] ‘oh my favourite grade one teacher is a lesbian,’ like big frigging deal.” Kathryn saw an opportunity to normalize her lesbian identity for her students by being open65 about who she is, in the hopes that this would make a lasting impression on their perception of queer people. Hazel made a similar point when she said, “I think if we can make it a non-issue when they’re five, then hopefully it’ll stay a non-issue.” The lasting impact that Kathryn and Hazel both hope to have on their students, however, is also affected by many outside factors, including how these students’ families, peer group, future educators, media, and own personal gender identity and sexual orientation influence their continually evolving perception of queerness and transness. Many educators explained that they rely on picture books with “same-sex” families to help prompt discussion of “different family structures” in a non-threatening, normalizing (and de-sexualized) way. During the group discussion, Hazel discussed the benefits of introducing 64 For example, the labour of Black women and femmes is frequently used and relied upon by white people for anti-racist work. 65 Being openly queer can unfortunately put educators at risk of harassment, abuse, and loss of employment. Many educators noted this as being a significant barrier to being “out” in their workplaces. This will be explored further in Chapter 8. 173 families with two moms or two dads to kids at a young age, again, suggesting that age is correlated with the ability to be open to new ideas without bias: The beauty is when the kids are really little, it can be normal to them. Like that “Family is a Family” book, there’s two moms. I had one kid go, “she has two moms?” And I’m like “yeah,” and she’s like, “okay!!” Hazel’s belief that “same-sex families” can be “normal” to young children hinges, however, on the assumption that these students have families who are also open and accepting of queer identities. Additionally, while picture books have been shown to help gently introduce gender and sexual diversity in the classroom (Paterson, 2015), these narratives often still follow a limiting cisnormative, heteronormative script (Esposito, 2009; Lester, 2007). Focusing solely on lesbian and gay sexual identities – safely within the confines of the homonormative nuclear family – and erasure of other identities within the spectrum (including bisexual and pansexual) is not surprising given the marginalization of bisexual identities (Elia, 2014). Also, according to many participants, discussions of sexual identity outside of the safety net of the “same-sex (homonormative) family” risks conflation with sexual activity and behaviour. The embeddedness and ubiquity of heterosexuality in elementary education renders it a non-sexualized, unthreatening terrain (Allan et al., 2008), whereas queer sexual orientations are earmarked as inherently sexual and must therefore be heavily policed and boundaried. As many educators reminded me, any discussion of non-cisgender and non-heterosexual identities that could even remotely be linked with sex-education would not be permitted in the classroom outside of the health curriculum. It is particularly interesting that, as I asked participants about how they approach queer sexualities/orientations in their classrooms or schools, a few stated that those topics were not relevant or appropriate for elementary education. Susan explained: 174 I mean we don't touch a lot on the sexuality piece, because really honestly our kiddos aren't there yet, most of them. [In] grade 5, we start talking about puberty and that starts to happen a little bit, where you start to have feelings [or] thinking someone's kind of special and that might be something that starts happening with our older kiddos. But honestly for most of our littles it's gender based if it's going to be something… I'm not worried too much about the sexuality piece. I feel like that's…the junior high teacher's job. It is noteworthy that Susan immediately linked “LGBTQ+ diversity” with students’ own personal feelings and experiences with (queer) sexual orientation and attraction, emphasizing that “our kiddos aren’t there yet.” Much research, however, points to pervasive discussion of and participation in heterosexual orientation and attraction in the classroom through (what is seen as) benign practices, including make-believe weddings, performing masculinity and femininity, highly gendered talk, and texts such as fairytales that valorize heterosexual relationships (Blaise, 2005; Paterson, 2014; Payne & Smith, 2014; Stafford, 2013, 2016). It may be that the embeddedness of heteronormativity renders these examples of sexuality as benign and universally accepted, or “normal,” whereas questions of queer sexualities and attractions raises adults’ preoccupation with presumed childhood innocence (Athanases & Larrabee, 2003; DePalma & Atkinson, 2006; Kelly & Brooks, 2009; Meyer, 2015; Walton, 2004). Most other participants understood “LGBTQ+ diversity” as part of the “same-sex family” discussion which was deemed acceptable to include in the elementary curriculum. Kathryn explained that she, as well as many other teachers, navigate the restriction66 put in place by Alberta Education by using a picture book in the classroom to discuss different “family structures” or character development in English class, but this still limits what they are able to talk about with their students. It is likely, for example, that discussions of bisexuality and 66 Limiting conversations surrounding gender and sexuality as part of “human sexuality.” 175 pansexuality deviate too far from the safety of the heterosexual nuclear family dynamic, effectively limiting discussions of queerness to that of “same-sex families.” Similar “normalizing” discussions of gender identity and expression seemed to be limited to representations of binary trans people or cisgender children with varied interests that extend beyond stereotypical boy/girl activities (such as the popular picture book, “Morris Micklewhite and the Tangerine Dress,” in which a cisgender boy loves the dress-up station at school). These are perhaps the “safe” topics and discussions that some educators expressed interest in “normalizing,” while effectively leaving non-binary, intersex, and gender queer identities and expressions out of the conversation. While the intent behind participants’ desire to normalize representations of QTGD identities and expressions (with limits on which identities and expressions are considered “appropriate”) is to foster more “inclusive,” welcoming learning environments, the concept of “normalizing” is likely an insufficient approach to creating queer and trans affirming educational environments. A major limitation of focusing on making queer, trans, and gender diversity “normal” is that there will inevitably be some identities and ways of being that are excluded. Drawing upon Foucault’s writings on norms and normalization, Taylor (2009) states, “normalizing norms encourages subjects to become highly efficient at performing a narrowly defined range of practices” (p. 47) which simply creates a whole new “disciplinary system” for those “who cannot be assimilated” (McWhorter, 2014, p. 317). We can see this in effect when some queer and trans identities are more easily understood and accepted – more normalized – in the classroom and school culture than others. Increased surveillance and control of these identities that are now thought to be “normal” will create sharper, more distinct boundaries around which gender identities, expressions, and sexual orientations are acceptable, 176 and those that are not, in relation to their proximity to homonormative and transnormative ideals (Duggan, 2003; Puar, 2007; Snorton & Haritaworn, 2013). 6.4 Conclusion I opened this chapter with a salient quote from Bill, an elementary school principal who told me about the benefits of including “broken” – or “different, diverse” – children in his school. While I do not think Bill actually believes there are indeed broken children, his choice of words is noteworthy in delineating which bodies and identities are dominant and privileged in his school and is also indicative of how educators in this study struggled to approach issues of “difference” in elementary education. Kannen and Acker (2008) similarly found, “teaching about difference or diversity to young children presents teachers with numerous dilemmas” (p. 28). In this chapter I discussed how educators engaged with a number of dilemmas when attending to “diversity,” specifically, how educators desired to “celebrate diversity” but without “drawing attention” to visible differences among students. As Susan explained, she struggled to find the balance of “honouring but not spotlighting” the gender diversity in her classroom. Certainly, as Kannen and Acker (2008) suggest, “what message the children take from these discussions is difficult to fathom. We are all the same; but we are all different. Differences are good, but differences do not matter” (p. 28). Ignoring differences between and among students, however, or trying to mitigate these differences under a celebratory blanket of “diversity,” helps to reestablish whiteness, able-bodiedness, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity as normative regimes. How educators in this study approached complex issues of difference and diversity in their classrooms and schools is reflective of larger, systemic, necropolitical issues within Canada as a white settler nation that has prioritized certain bodies and identities as more valued and valuable. 177 Bill’s vision for his school, in which “every child should see themselves,” is perhaps currently unattainable given dominant nation state discourses that disproportionately exclude poor people, people of colour, disabled people, and vulnerable queer and trans people from life-giving resources and protections. As evidenced through participants’ experiences in their schools, certain forms of difference are more easily understood or are more “palatable” than others, reflecting the necropolitical and homonationalist underpinnings of race, class, and binary sex/gender that work to sustain inequality and control access to basic human rights. Furthermore, the desire to “normalize” QTGD identities and expressions, while understandable, ends up creating more of a dichotomy between acceptable versus unacceptable ways of being. Minow (1990) pointedly suggests, “the difference dilemma is a symptom of a particular way of looking at the world. The problem arises only in a culture that officially condemns the assigned status of inequalities and yet, in practice, perpetuates them” (p. 79). Participant responses throughout this chapter are from educators who disavow oppressive systems in our society, yet (understandably) struggle to address these disparities in schools and classrooms that are within systems and institutions that perpetuates the inequalities they are critical of. Perhaps it is not necessarily most important to focus on how or what educators teach to their students about “difference,” but to bring our attention to the systems in which these conversations and dilemmas take place. Necropolitics works to create divisions between “the way certain bodies are marked and marketed to live…wherein other bodies are seen as either already dead or destined towards death” (Martin-Baron, 2014, p. 51). Consequently, speaking to a class of students about trans identities within an institution that is complicit in the devaluing of trans people – where it may be evident that trans people are disadvantaged in their school (and society more broadly) – highlights 178 oppression without being able to create the kinds of changes and interventions so desperately needed to adequately affirm and support QTGD students. 179 Chapter 7: “She 100% looks like a boy”: Understanding, Navigating, and Accommodating QTGD Students in Cisnormative Contexts 7.1 Introduction “[Transitioning] caused her so much stress that she just decided she didn’t care, and she seems less stressed about it, you know? And some kids call her ‘him,’ and I asked what she [wanted to be called]– and she said, ‘you can call me 'she,' I don’t care.’ So, I call her ‘she,’ but I think that she feels very much like I did.67 I think she likes it if she gets mistaken for a boy.” (Sara, urban elementary teacher) This chapter explores how educators navigated having “out” trans and “visible” gender non-conforming students in their elementary classrooms and schools, highlighting how their responses, options, and the resources available to them are constrained within institutionalized colonization and cisnormativity. It became clear throughout my conversations with educators that students with visible or notable “gender differences” are expected, encouraged, or pressured to transition (or assimilate) themselves to fit the structure of the school, rather than shifting the school itself to address systemic and institutionalized inequalities. Accommodations, while frequently posited as being in the best interest of the student, are often more aligned with causing the least amount of conflict or trouble for other school staff, students, and parental communities. As Payne and Smith (2014) found in their study, educators’ narratives surrounding accommodations for transgender students implied a felt responsibility “to parents, community, or the myth of childhood innocence—not to the transgender child” (p. 415). Indeed, queer/trans necropolitics highlights how by employing the “reactive accommodation” approach, schools fail 67 This particular comment, which refers to how Sara felt as a child, will be further explored in section 8.6. 180 to protect the most marginalized QTGD kids. The kids who are most able to be “accommodated” are those who are already understood as least disruptive to the cisnormative and heteronormative discourses of the school by virtue of their “palatability.” The opening passage from my interview with Sara indicates just how challenging and “stressful” it was for a grade two student in her school to transition, so much so that the student “just decided she didn’t care.” Sara recounted how this student wanted to start using he/him pronouns in grade one, which then “caused a lot of kids [to say], ‘well no, you’re a girl, because I remember you were a girl in kindergarten.’” When I asked Sara if there was any conversation among staff and administration regarding this student or how to support their68 transition, she shared greater context that reveals how the student’s decision to “just not care” is indeed one that is shaped – and constrained – by institutionalized anti-queer, anti-trans, and cisnormative discourses: KATE: What was the conversation like with staff, if there was one, when that child decided to transition - SARA: We had to have a conversation because she’s in another class, and I guess during the lunch hour she was in the girls’ washroom, and a supervisor who didn’t know who she was – she looks like a boy but still chooses to use the girls’ washroom – what happened was the supervisor had her kicked out of the washroom, because they thought that there was a boy in the girls’ washroom. And so, she was embarrassed about that because she got in trouble and like got brought down to the office. So, we had to have a meeting… I don’t know if that’s the right thing, but, you know, we needed to let the staff know, you know, not to kick her out of the girls’ washroom. KATE: Is that what the conversation was mostly, let this child use whatever washroom they wanted to use? SARA: Yes. And then I stood up, and I said, “and could you please stop trying to tell the kids to line up by girl and by boy? Because I still hear it [happening].” 68 Since it is unclear what pronouns this student uses, I am using “they/them” pronouns. 181 KATE: And what was the response to that? SARA: “I’ll try.” KATE: Okay. And do you see it still happening? SARA: It still happens. While it is likely that the supervisor who reprimanded the student for going into the “girls’” washroom was simply doing their best to enforce “school rules,” questions must be raised regarding why there are rules for which washrooms students are “permitted” to use in the first place. As Sara explained, the student in this example “looks like a boy but still chooses to use the girls’ washroom,” which exposes how schools – and educators – rely upon a linear understanding of gender expression and gender identity to function, such that, in the above example for instance, students who are read as male will therefore identify as male, behave as male, and will use the physical spaces designated for male bodies (such as washrooms, changerooms, and even play stations, sports, or activities on the playground). The student in Sara’s example presumably disrupts this linear, simplistic understanding of gender, creating conflict among school staff and embarrassment for the student, so much so that they “decided” not to care how people refer to them. Queer/trans necropolitics helps to explains how the normalized, mundane violence of gender policing in Sara’s school is consistent with state “abandonment” and a lack of belonging, whereby the day-to-day violence of being misgendered proved to be too conflicting for her student. When considering the repetitive gender policing taking place in the school, did Sara’s student decide not to care how others refer to them or did they merely relent (due to exhaustion, embarrassment, coercion) and revert back to their assigned gender identity to more closely align with school policy and procedure? Sara noted that the student is “less stressed about it” (“it” being their transition or asking people to use their correct 182 pronouns); however, this response may be in part related to the student’s decision to refrain from engaging in gender-affirming actions and behaviours, and the resulting conflict that doing so would have generated. Examples of how students navigated institutionalized binary sex/gender constraints, as the one shared above, speak to the power and authority school environments – and school staff – have over students’ ability to express their identity, self-determine and move throughout the school in ways that feel good to them. Given that school authorities often feel justified in questioning – and in the case above, reprimanding – students’ choice of washroom also suggests “the pervasive ageist assumption that children lack knowledge about, and authority over themselves” (Travers, 2018, p. 54). Further complications arise for more marginalized students, those who do not identify within the sex/gender binary, may not have the support of their families and teachers, who face racialization, ableism, classism, and feel the effects of a cisnormative colonial schooling system more harshly. Recalling Bill and Susan’s accounts, in Chapter 1 of this dissertation, of how enthusiastically Leah’s binary gender transition was supported (and celebrated) in the school community, when juxtaposed with stories from participants who had students without such a positive reception, offers a window into the kinds of gender expressions, presentations, and identities that are seen as more palatable and easier to accommodate than others. I begin this chapter by exploring some of the (cis)gendered practices taking place in participants’ classrooms and schools to contextualize the spaces in which trans and gender non-conforming students are accommodated. I then explore how educators understood and navigated the sex/gender-segregated bathroom as a highly debated and contested space for trans and gender non-conforming students and how such spaces create disabling environments (Siebers, 2008). Finally, I examine how, by responding reactively, schools 183 emphasize an “accommodation approach” that places responsibility upon trans and gender non-conforming students to “come out” and be the impetus for change. 7.2 Cisnormative Classrooms, Schools, and Practices Explicit and covert cisnormative gendered practices in and out of the elementary classroom and school are not necessarily new areas of exploration (Blaise, 2005; Davies, 1989a; 1989b, 2003; Gansen, 2017; Renold, 2000, 2002; Ryan, 2016; Stafford 2013; Thorne 1993). Nevertheless, examples of binaried sex/gender practices permeate many participant interviews and group discussions explored in this study. Binary sex/gender norms in elementary education have become naturalized to the point where many harmful gendered practices and assumptions (such as sex/gender-segregated spaces and sports teams, gendered language, beliefs about how boys versus girls learn, act, and (mis)behave) become uncontested, or seen as “just the way things are.” When “out” and visible trans and gender non-conforming students are present in the school, the supposed “naturalness” and stability of the sex/gender binary is challenged. Staff and administration must then accommodate these students within the existing structures and discourses of the school and broader education system or find ways to confront these systems. The following section explores how educators spoke about gender more broadly and highlights some of the challenges and barriers in disrupting naturalized and institutionalized cisnormativity. At the same time, this section also provides the context necessary for the sections that follow later in this chapter about how educators seek to support and accommodate trans and gender non-conforming students in highly gendered classroom and school environments. The production, reinforcement, and attempts to counter what could be referred to as “traditional” gender stereotypes, expectations, and assumptions (a “cis-assumptive space,” as one participant, Rupert, phrased it) frequented my interview data. Many educators expressed that 184 they are aware of how the sex/gender binary shows up in their classrooms and teaching practices, but they often struggle to make a lasting change in their use of language (for example, referring to their students as “boys and girls”) and categorization (grouping students by two genders). It becomes difficult to challenge the naturalization of the sex/gender binary when it has become so engrained in educational discourse and school culture, especially so when other staff members and administration do not see cisnormativity as an issue, let alone one that needs challenging. Educators shared their frustrations about colleagues and staff members who perpetuated and projected harmful gender ideology onto their students. Kathryn told me about an assigned-female-at-birth student in her class whose confidence sky-rocketed when they came to school with a “very like traditionally male haircut.” She continued: Her confidence changed, like it was like goose bumps level of the confidence that this kid started presenting. And I'm not saying this kid is trans, I'm just saying something as simple as a haircut has changed this child's life… Sorry I'm saying “her” because she's gone by that so - and her mom is still going by that [she/her pronouns] too. But I see the change in her, the confidence. And all the other teachers are saying in the staff room is, “why would her mom give her that horrible haircut?” And I actually think it looks very cute, like it's pretty adorable. And she does look like a cis boy now, 100% looks like a boy. Like you walk in my classroom, JT's a boy, like that's not a girl anymore, that's a boy. But until she tells me something different, that's where we're at. But that's all they [the other teachers] can see is that [JT looks like a boy now] and that's a bad thing, right? Like okay, so what if she looks like a boy. So what? Kathryn expresses her annoyance with her colleagues for critiquing JT’s haircut and “boyish” appearance while, at the same time, also perpetuates binary sex/gender discourse in her statement and repetitive assertions that JT is essentially a boy: “she does look like a cis boy now, 100% looks like a boy. Like you walk in my classroom, JT's a boy, like that's not a girl anymore, that's a boy.” There is seemingly no room in this example for JT to identify as nonbinary, agender, or to simply express their gender through a different haircut that brings them joy and confidence. Instead, the student’s shorter hair is automatically assumed to be a “boy haircut” and opens up 185 their gender identity for debate and analysis, where it is understood that JT “100% looks like a boy,” denoting what the culturally agreed upon gender expression is for “boys.” Although Kathryn does not assume JT is trans – and, interestingly, apologizes in the above passage for using she/her pronouns, explaining that JT has not expressed a desire to use different ones – she also seems to have an expectation that the student wishes to look like a boy, rather than opening up the possibility for a range of different gender expressions and identities. At the end of this part of our conversation, Kathryn states, “so what?” Indeed, examples shared by participants of the gender policing (and debate and analysis of students’ gender) that take place in the classroom, staff room, and school environment raises the question, so what? The time, energy, and focus on this student’s “ambiguous” gender identity and expression highlights gender as being a fundamental organizational tool in education, both for the physical structure of the school (i.e., sex/gender-segregated washrooms) and for how students and staff relate to and among each other (Woolley, 2015, 2019). It was not uncommon for participants, on the one hand, to notice the sex/gender binary and gender stereotyping as worthy of critique and analysis and, on the other hand, contribute to dominant gender discourse. Hazel had a student in her class whom she described as “gender non-conforming,” while noting that, “I can’t put a label [on him], like it’s not my place to do that.” This student wore sparkly nail polish, pink clothes, and had long hair. She explained that he “chooses typical stereotype ‘boy’ games and toys but as far as his appearance? Very female.” She sighed as she shared how her educational assistant consistently criticized the student’s appearance: It drives her crazy. She’s like, “Why do those parents let him—” like, he just got this brand-new winter coat. It’s super cute! It’s got like these big pink and purple polka dots. 186 I love it! But she’s like, “why would they let him come to school dressed like that!”69 Then she makes fun of his new coat! Just like the way she says it. And I just [exasperated] – especially because she knows what we have been through in my family. Hazel was frequently at odds with her school culture and the opinions of her fellow colleagues and staff. During her interview, Hazel shared details of her own family’s experience while her child transitioned, and the struggles Hazel encountered in both her social and professional life, including a friend and colleague who outright refuses to stop using her child’s deadname (name given at birth that is no longer used) and other staff who seem to lack compassion for what they went through. As Fredman, Schultz, and Hoffman (2015) found in their study of how educators define and navigate the “rules” of their school systems, even teachers who were supportive of building LGBTQ+ inclusive classrooms, found it difficult to actually do so under the pressure and perceived threat of school and community backlash. Indeed, many educators have to evaluate the risks of teaching about queer, trans, and gender diversity in their classrooms and schools. Hazel expressed concern over being seen as the “troublemaker” in her school, “the person who taught these outrageous things to kids. Not that I think they’re outrageous, but I’m going to be careful for a bit,” implying that her school’s culture and attitudes are not conducive to the kind of lessons and work she would ideally like to do in her classroom. She expressed concern over not obtaining the job references she will need in the future: I fight, I advocate hard for kids that need advocating for. And sometimes that doesn’t [pause] go well. Um…[quietly] I once said to my principal, “Oh, I don’t think you realize – I’m an autism mom70. Like… I don’t back down. I know what kids deserve and I’m going to go for it.” And that didn’t go over very well… but [laughs] um… I’m a little bit afraid, especially when I’m at the point now that I’m applying for other jobs elsewhere and will need references. I don’t want to be seen as the “troublemaker” or the person 69 These statements from Hazel’s colleague can be understood as a form of transmisogyny, in which demeaning comments centre around the student’s desire to express their gender through traditionally feminine clothing and aesthetic choices, such as painted nails, pink clothes, and long hair (Serano, 2007). 70 Hazel has a child on the autism spectrum. 187 that taught these “outrageous things” to kids. Not that I think they’re outrageous, but…I’m going to be careful for a bit. But I honestly believe once I get to [the city], watch me roll! In a later conversation, Hazel remarked again, “I think when I get to [the city] it’ll be better, because I’ll have more teachers with the same mindset? Not be the only one upstairs who is a little crazy! [laughs].” Hazel is a fierce advocate for QTGD students but found herself caught within the rigid confines of her rural school environment and culture in which there is fear of criticism and repercussions for teaching what is seen as “outrageous things” to her students. The fact that Hazel believes queer, trans, and gender inclusive topics and lessons would be considered to be “outrageous” – and that she herself is viewed as “a little crazy” – by her colleagues points to the dominance of cisnormativity and heteronormativity in Hazel’s school such that any ideas outside of those discourses of gender and sexuality are thought to be inconceivable – and unacceptable. Hazel suggests, once she moves to the city, she will be able to teach the way she wants, assuming an urban environment will result in more socially liberal and accepting school cultures. Unfortunately, many participants who did teach in urban cities in Alberta met similar resistance to incorporating queer, trans, and gender diverse content in their classrooms, suggesting that larger social, political, and cultural factors are at play within Alberta’s education system. When discussing gender in a more general sense (typically in response to my questions about if/how educators teach/talk about gender diversity with their students, and if/how queer and trans inclusivity is relevant in elementary education), many participants described a kind of “watered-down” or more “tolerant” form of gender equality (rather than supporting the gender spectrum) in their classrooms. Liberal feminist aims for gender equality emphasize equal opportunity for girls and boys, opening up access for girls to participate in traditionally 188 masculine domains and subjects (such as sports and math) and encouraging sensitivity and the arts for boys (Martin, 2005). Bigler and Pahlke (2019) suggest that challenging sexism among children, “teaching both boys and girls to understand, identify, and confront sexism in their environments,” (p. 301) is necessary in order to address the negative consequences of gender stereotyping on an individual and societal level. The focus on equality between and among boys and girls, however, is not only exclusionary for non-binary trans and gender non-conforming students, but continually emphasizes the sex/gender binary as a foundational part of the education system and is implicitly anti-queer and anti-trans. As Martin (2005) found in her study about gender-neutral child rearing, “children’s gender nonconformity is still viewed as problematic because it is linked implicitly and explicitly to homosexuality” (p. 456). Indeed, it seems gender variance is acceptable so long as it remains within a tightly woven cisgender, heteronormative boundary. Gender equality may be useful as a response to patriarchal sexism but does not attend to, nor seek to disrupt, cisnormativity. For Andi, a non-binary, asexual, neuro-diverse preschool and elementary teacher of ten years, gender equality was as far as they felt they could go in terms of conversations about gender identity with their students in their rural environment. They noted the frustration they feel at not being able to have the discussions about gender and sexuality they would ideally like to with students, citing rural Alberta’s conservatism and fear of parental backlash as primary reasons for holding back: KATE: What are your experiences with implementing gender non-conformity, gender roles, or LGBTQ+ issues, sexual orientation in your work with kids? It sounds like it’s important to you. Do you purposefully bring it up? ANDI: Most of it’s gender roles at the age I work with. I do a whole lesson, two or three times a year, on “boys can do anything, girls can do anything.” Every boy gets to hold a doll and I tell them, “you know you’re going to be daddies one day, maybe, and your 189 daddies hold you. Don’t you want to know how to hold a baby?” Knowing that that’s probably not true for everybody. And I make the girls pick up the plastic tools and go “don’t you want to know how to fix a car? What if your daddy’s not there?” You know? Um… knowing that that’s not true for everybody. That – you know, 80% of those girls are going to be housewives and there’s nothing I can do about it. But I want them to have that memory of someone standing there going “you can do anything.” Because, statistically, if there’s one adult in your life who’s supportive, it makes the difference between your whole life being a mess and you having that one experience to fall back on. So I – [sigh] you know, even though I know most won’t remember [me], most won’t need to... most will probably stick with small town gender roles, but for the few kids who need that memory to fall back on, it’ll be there. Andi is keenly aware of the gender dynamics of their classroom and rural town, so much so that participating in, and reiterating dominant heteronormative and gender discourse – while doing their best to disrupt this knowledge in some small way – is the most impact they feel they can successfully (and perhaps safely, as a queer educator) have on their students. This limitation, a product of the political, social, and cultural environment in which they teach and live, weighs heavily on Andi, particularly as a non-binary, asexual person who is actively involved in their queer community. Andi expressed how they frequently felt torn between what they know to be true and what are deemed “acceptable” conversations in their town and school community: KATE: I’ve heard you say many times throughout our conversation so far, that like, “I know that’s not true; I’m using the language that I think that they’ll understand.” How would you approach those conversations differently so that it would feel true to you? … If things were not currently how they are, how would we talk to kids about that? What would need to change? ANDI: I would add a third category [of gender to the conversation]. I’d talk about things girls can do, things boys can do, things you can do if you’re not a boy or a girl. Knowing that that means sometimes both and sometimes neither. KATE: And do you think you could approach it like that now? ANDI: [sigh] No. I don’t. KATE: And is there anything behind that? 190 ANDI: I think… I’d be… fired and run out of town. I think it would be [considered] “creepy” and “sexual.” KATE: Ok. And do you think that’s a product of being in a rural place? ANDI: Mmhmm. I think I could easily do it in [a large city outside of Alberta where they previously taught]. In Andi’s classroom, disrupting dominant gender discourse by encouraging boys and girls to transcend their expected gender roles, while still remaining well within the confines of cisnormativity and heteronormativity, is considered progressive. By aiming to respond to or mitigate sexism within cisnormative boundaries, their lessons may be seen by others (including colleagues and parents) as more palatable and acceptable. ANDI: [sighs] fundamentally there’s value to [kids] knowing the names of their parts. It cuts the risk of sexual abuse in half. So I will err on the side of safety and say to little girls you know, “your vagina is your own business.” And little boys, “your penis is your own business.” And I know that’s not accurate! I am lying! [laughs] I’m lying to these kids, going “boys have penises” because I’m married to a boy who doesn’t! [laughs]. And so there’s this cognitive dissonance there. But at the same time, if it keeps one kid from getting hurt, I’m willing to tell that lie still. KATE: It’s kind of like you’re butting up against your own personal experience with the realities that we’re facing. ANDI: Absolutely. KATE: And that I can imagine would be quite difficult. ANDI: Mmhmm! It is awkward as hell. Andi says they know that they are “lying” to their students by omission, by not sharing the knowledge that they know to be true for themselves and their queer community, but is also entangled in discourses where only certain things can be spoken. Andi has a strong vision for a queer future, a queer classroom and school that is intersectional, accessible, intergenerational, wherein “everything we do hinges on love and empathy.” What I find particularly interesting 191 about my conversations with Andi is that they are an educator with a rich, in-depth knowledge of intersectionality, colonization, gender diversity, queer and trans identities, and the power of language. Even so, with all of their knowledge, skills, and personal and professional experience, Andi struggled to build and integrate queer and trans content – including the provisions recommended and outlined in the Guidelines for Best Practices – into their classroom and teaching practices. Andi’s preparedness could not withstand the lack of support from the school, parental, and broader community, entrenched within cisnormativity and heteronormativity where they live and work. For educators such as Hazel and Andi, who both desire to create more affirming classroom environments, their moral and ethical compass is compromised by school rules and cultures that forces them to maintain the status quo (often against their better judgement). While much research and literature suggests that it is teachers’ lack of knowledge, preparedness, and comfort with these topics that poses a significant barrier to implementing queer, trans, and gender diversity in classroom and school cultures (Goldstein, Collins, & Halder, 2008; Kearns, Mitton Kükner, & Tompkins, 2014; Payne & Smith, 2011, 2014), my interview with Andi highlights, 1) the challenges of seeking to disrupt environments that are deeply rooted in rural prairie conservatism (in which cisnormativity and heteronormativity are foundational), 2) the immense importance of a whole-school approach to affirming queer, trans, and gender diversity in elementary education and, 3) this work cannot be the sole responsibility of the queer educator whose involvement and investment puts them at great personal and professional risk71 – as Andi stated, if they were teaching what they really wanted to, “I’d be fired and run out of town.” 71 This will be explored further in Chapter 8. 192 The following section explores examples of how educators in this study navigated one of the most pressing concerns when a student “comes out” as trans: the sex/gender-segregated bathroom. Responses from participants are shared within the context of highly cisnormative educational environments such as Andi’s experiences of teaching in rural Alberta. While there may be a tendency to place blame upon educators who seemingly did not make the “right” choices in responding to the needs of their trans students, the situations and examples shared in the following section do not exist in a vacuum. Rather, stories from participants are shared with the understanding that choices, responses, and accommodations for students are informed and constrained by the contexts in which they take place, revealing more about the discourses of colonization, gender and sexuality, rather than individual educators or schools. 7.3 Sex/Gender-Segregated Spaces: “Where are they going to go to the bathroom?” “In my school if somebody came out as trans I think the big concern [would be] where are they going to go to the bathroom?” (Kathryn, urban elementary teacher) The public bathroom is a space that reproduces social and physical exclusion. Travers (2018) states, “as a requirement of public spaces, bathrooms are central to citizenship, and to use them, one must be readable at a glance or be, to use Butler’s term, ‘intelligible’” (p. 79). Bathroom access is a necessity of public life, yet access is not granted equitably, highlighting which bodies and identities are understood as worthy, valid, and recognizable. Castrodale and Lane (2015) note, “access to built environments is often a question of equity and social justice that raises questions about who, what, where, when, and why certain bodies are privileged in their use of public spaces” (p. 72). Many people must navigate the social, cultural, and physically inscribed 193 rules of the bathroom, and some do so more easily than others. The lack of universal and accessible public washroom facilities underscores the ways in which racialized, impoverished, homeless, disabled, and transgender people are dehumanized and denied privacy to perform basic bodily functions. Among the most cited topics during participant interviews and group discussions were fears and concerns relating to school washrooms – specifically, which bathroom trans and gender non-conforming students would be “permitted” to use during school hours. Davies, Vipond, and King (2019), Herriot, Burns, and Yeung (2017), Ingrey (2012), Meyer, Stafford, and Airton (2016), Stafford (2013), Travers (2018) and many others locate the sex/gender-segregated school bathroom as an area of tension for both educators and students, highlighting an incongruence with the structure of the school and the needs of its QTGD students. Sex/gender-segregated school washrooms are a known source of contention for students, staff, and parents for differing reasons. Having to navigate sex/gender-segregated bathrooms at school causes immense stress to trans and gender non-conforming students, so much so that many students will abstain from drinking throughout the day to avoid having to use the washroom, or hold their urine indefinitely, causing long-term kidney and bladder problems (Herriot, Burns, & Yeung, 2017; Weinhardt, et al., 2017). One participant shared that their child, who transitioned halfway through the school year, was ridiculed and tormented so badly in the school bathroom that he has since avoided using the washroom and now faces lifelong bladder issues. The lens of queer/trans necropolitics reminds us that in order to “protect” cisgender kids (and the discourse of cisnormativity), trans and gender non-conforming kids must be “managed” or have their safety and wellbeing sacrificed. As shown throughout my discussions with participants, the ways in which educators and school districts attempt to address the “bathroom issue” reveals much about 194 the logic of necropolitical governmentality over trans and gender non-conforming kids, to the extent that a “successful” gender transition may be said to occur when trans and gender non-conforming students are adequately assimilated back into the sex/gender binary system, or altogether removed from public view. 7.3.1 The Single Stall “Transgender bathroom”: But “You’re not handicapped!” A “solution” to the barriers presented by sex/gender-segregated school washrooms proposed by many participants’ school administrations was to permit trans and gender non-conforming students to use the single stall staff washroom. This is not an uncommon accommodation, particularly as the Guidelines for Best Practices notes that an indication of “best practice” is for schools to “provide a non-gendered, single-stall washroom for use by any student who desires increased privacy, regardless of the reason (e.g., medical, religious, cultural, gender identity, gender expression, etc.)” (Alberta Government, 2016, p. 9). The intended use and purpose of the single stall gender-neutral washroom, however, appears to be poorly communicated to some schools. For example, Jenny shared that at her school it was mandated that the school designate a single stall, gender-neutral washroom, particularly for the use of one student who was experiencing homophobic bullying: JENNY: Recently I know we talked about having a gender-neutral washroom. Not that I know of anybody who has asked for one, but I think it’s a little bit more on the forefront of our minds, especially the junior high teachers. And I know that they’ve talked about – there’s a specific boy, where they’ve heard, you know – ‘cause we hear things, right? Like kids don’t necessarily say it to us, but we hear things. And so, he’s apparently been called “gay” and been made fun of. And so the teacher who said it was just kind of like “you know, just if you hear anything, just be aware. Increase that awareness and if you hear it, then let’s do something about it.” So, we did assign a gender-neutral washroom. I don’t know if it’s even labeled. It was, again, it was one of those flash in the pan conversations. KATE: Right. Is it like a staff washroom? 195 JENNY: It was a staff washroom, yeah. KATE: Has any student asked for it at this point? JENNY: I’ve never had anybody ask for it. But I almost would assume that it would come from a junior high student. KATE: Any particular reason why you would think a junior high student would be more likely to use a gender-neutral washroom? JENNY: I guess- and I know it’s probably stereotypical and whatnot, right? But I feel like maybe they’re more aware of sexuality at that point? And like, you know having crushes and stuff like that. I mean, there’s the odd kid that says, “I have a crush” or a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever… Whereas in grade 5, I noticed a big difference in the way boys and girls interact with each other… KATE: Right. And so the gender-neutral washroom… what would be the purpose of the gender-neutral washroom based on discussions that you’ve had with your colleagues? Is it to provide a safe space from bullying… JENNY: um… [pause] we didn’t really talk about the reasons why… Well, I think it was a mandate. The Board came down and said every school had to have one, to assign one. So I think that’s the only reason we brought it up. The conflation of gender and sexuality in our conversation leads me to believe that neither Jenny nor the school were aware or informed of the intended purpose behind the implementation of a gender-neutral washroom. As Jenny later reveals, “we didn’t really talk about the reasons why.” I was – and still am – confused as to why a student who was experiencing homophobic bullying would be offered a gender-neutral washroom as if this single stall bathroom could offer a safe haven from harassment and resolve the issue. Presumably, the school staff and administration who were attempting to address the homophobic bullying were not adequately supported in doing so, resulting in isolating the victim of bullying rather than addressing a greater systemic issue in the school culture (Payne & Smith, 2013). The Guidelines for Best Practices state that the use of this single-stall washroom is to be a “matter of choice for students…not a compulsory requirement” (2016, p. 9). What does it 196 mean, however, when a single-stall washroom, typically far away from the other students and therefore quite “othering” and isolated, is offered as the only alternative to a sex/gender-segregated washroom? The following conversation between Hazel and me explores some of the disadvantages of positioning the single-stall (also the only wheelchair-accessible one available) washroom as the only option for a transgender student in her school: HAZEL: So really the only conversation – the only reason it [this student] was brought up in the staff meeting was because we have a private bathroom. Um… but we have the “handicap” bathroom. KATE: The private one-stall staff bathroom? HAZEL: No, it’s actually a kid bathroom but all that’s on it is a handicap sign… it’s a little room just one toilet. It really bothers me that it’s just a handicap sign ‘cause they’re not handicap! Other people use that bathroom. You know? KATE: And what was the point of that bathroom? HAZEL: Just so that that child could have a place to go without having to go to the girls’ bathroom or the boys’ bathroom. So I don’t know if they were— KATE: Even though they were transitioning as male? HAZEL: Yeah… so I don’t know the decision behind that. Maybe it was the child’s choice, maybe it was the family’s request, I don’t know. To be honest, I can see the school saying, “well then you have to use that—” but I’m speculating! …. I don’t know whose choice it was for [the trans student] to use that bathroom. At a later point in the interview, the topic of washrooms was raised again, building upon what was discussed above: KATE: Every time that student has to go, they might have to answer questions, it’s “othering.” … We should talk about going into the bathroom, doing your business, wash your hands and get out. 72 72 In the above excerpt I began to share some of my own thoughts and observations with Hazel, as I often did when I noticed an opportunity to introduce an applicable idea, word, or concept – in this case, “othering” (recall section 4.7.2 for a more detailed explanation of my “gentle interventions”). 197 HAZEL: You don’t need to look at what anyone else is doing in there! I like that word, “othering.” KATE: It’s completely othering, to feel like you have to go down a secret hallway to go to the bathroom. HAZEL: Exactly! And then you have to make sure your friends aren’t in the hallway, you don’t want anyone to see you go in… and I don’t know, for some reason, that’s what grates on me about that whole situation. There’s a big handicap sign on the door. Like… you’re not handicapped! The above excerpts touch upon a number of issues raised throughout many other interviews. Firstly, the transgender student is often seen as a threat in school environments. Payne and Smith (2014) suggest, “transgender children introduce the body—and, implicitly, sexuality—into the classroom” (p. 402) and, arguably, the school as a whole. Even though the student in Hazel’s school transitioned to a binary gender and may wish to use the “boys’” bathroom, the school thought it best to suggest that he use the private “handicap” bathroom. As Hazel remarks, “I don’t know the decision behind that. Maybe it was the child’s choice, maybe it was the family’s request, I don’t know. To be honest, I can see the school saying, ‘well then you have to use that—'.” Although Hazel quickly adds, “but I’m speculating!,” her comments about how she would not be surprised if the school enforced the use of the private bathroom, not taking the child’s wishes into consideration, is likely based on the overall school culture or how previous situations were handled with regard to QTGD students. Similarly, when word spread about Leah’s transition to the school’s parental community, Bill received a phone call from a parent after they had heard that “‘there’s a boy who’s using the girls’ bathrooms.’” Bill elaborated: I had one phone call from one parent, and they were apologetic. They called and they were concerned [and said], “I’ve just heard that there’s a boy who’s using the girls’ bathrooms.” She [continued], “I know people get to choose their lifestyle.” [And] I said, “It’s not lifestyle, it’s who they are.” … So, I just said [to the parent], “Okay, right now, I have told that child she is welcome to use any bathroom, however, we’re opting to use the- uh we have a gender-neutral one just around the corner, like a single stall. So that’s 198 the one that that child planned to use” … She now uses the girls’ bathroom and [the school] division actually told me that the transgender children are to use the single-stall bathrooms, the transgender bathrooms. The phone call from the concerned parent in which they, according to Bill, apologetically asked about the “boy who’s using the girls’ bathrooms,” citing being trans as a “lifestyle choice,” is one example of a response that exposes the fear surrounding the presence of trans children in schools. The parent’s distressed phone call implies that they are perhaps concerned about their own (cisgender) child’s safety, positioning trans children as dangerous and insinuating the need to “carefully create a boundary between them and their gender-normative peers” (Payne & Smith, 2014, p. 411). Such a boundary is clearly delineated by the school division’s response (to Bill in the above passage) that “transgender children are to use… the transgender bathrooms.” The school board’s recommendation underscores a key feature of necropolitics: “the rationalization of inhumane treatment, violence, and oppression for the greater good” (Travers, 2018, p. 39) – in this case, the subjugation of trans kids from public washrooms for the benefit of “vulnerable,” “innocent” cisgender students. The system educators work within seems to be more interested in maintaining the status quo by accommodating QTGD students with as little disruption to cisnormativity and heteronormativity as possible and appeasing parental concerns. Indeed, as Frohard-Dourlent (2016) argues, “the assumed conservatism of parents…can function to avoid considering certain changes at the school, particularly systemic ones which might be more likely to draw outside attention” (p. 232). Sheila, an urban teacher of ten years, shared the fear expressed by other teachers at her school when gender-neutral washrooms were discussed: I remember when that conversation [about gender-neutral washrooms] first came a lot of teachers at my previous school were very concerned about that, and they didn’t want their –for example, one colleague was concerned, like she wouldn’t want her daughter 199 sharing a bathroom. They’re just worried about attacks, and there are just wrong perceptions about it. It’s misinformation. I’m like, “What’s stopping anyone from attacking her right now?” Like [anyone can] walk into the bathroom and [start] attacking. There’s nothing stopping anybody, so I don’t really see how, and these [transgender] people are not going in there to attack, but they [my colleagues] were just going off the premise that someone would take advantage. Hypothetical and irrational fears of transgender students being perpetrators of sexual violence are unfounded (Schilt & Westbrook, 2015), and concerns such as those shared by Sheila’s colleague are more likely based upon a fundamental desire to protect cisgender children’s innocence. As Sheila states, “it’s misinformation.” The fear surrounding transgender people, their bodies and identities additionally “incite a desire to restrict the movement of the transgender child” (Payne & Smith, 2014, p. 411), in this case, through the use of a segregated washroom, or the “transgender washroom,” as Bill was instructed by his school district to encourage Leah to use. Susan elaborated Leah’s washroom use during her interview, noting, similar to the student in Hazel’s example, that Leah was not consulted on which washrooms she would like to use: SUSAN: [the bathroom] was one of the things that we as a staff - after Leah's mom did her presentation [about Leah’s transition] - she headed out and then we had a quick conversation - I can't remember if it was that day or the next staff meeting about what bathroom would Leah use? And it was agreed that she would use the family [single stall] bathroom here at the front [of the school]. KATE: Did you ask her what bathroom she wanted to use? SUSAN: I don't know if anyone did. That's a good question. The conversations surrounding which washroom Leah should use – which notably did not include Leah or her parent(s) – once again present the authority that school administrators (and school district administrators, as Bill shared) have over how and where trans bodies show up and move throughout the school, as well as Leah’s presumed inability to make decisions that impact 200 her own life. Susan then shared that Leah eventually (and quietly) began using the “girls’” washroom: SUSAN: I know in grade three she was still using this one [the single-stall washroom]. And then our classroom is way up here by the front of the school, and so when she was in grade four, I was going to just – don't tell Bill [laughs] – if [Leah] had just said to me, “Miss W, I'm not comfortable [using the single-stall bathroom]” I would have said “use whatever bathroom you're comfortable with." Because that's where I was landing on that. [But] She just quietly started using the girls' bathroom. And it was probably about three months into grade four when I realized and I thought, perfect. Done and done. KATE: Yeah, let her do what she wants. SUSAN: Nobody needs to be involved in where she goes to the bathroom. That is nobody's business. It's not mine. You go where you're comfortable, babe. Susan’s comments about how she would have just “allowed” Leah to use the “girls’” washroom had Leah asked for her permission are interspersed with a tone of secrecy, as if doing so might be considered defiant. She states, “don’t tell Bill,” which, while shared lightheartedly, implies that her desire to allow Leah to use the “girls’” washroom is in opposition to what the school administration had decided. She expressed how pleased she was that Leah had “quietly started using the girls’ bathroom” and that it’s “nobody’s business” where she goes. Admittedly, however, it appeared to be entirely the school staff and administration’s business, as they had initially – and unilaterally – decided which washroom Leah should use. When Hazel expressed her frustration at her school for requiring trans students to use the “handicap” washroom (referring back to the example shared earlier in this chapter), exasperatedly stating, “you’re not handicapped!,” she touches upon a body of literature that draws connection between gender, disability, and disabling environments. Recall Browne’s (2004) observation, “everyday spaces can be ‘disabling environments’ for those who do not correspond to presumed gender norms” (p. 339), reinscribing those who are considered normal 201 versus abnormal (or, valid versus invalid). Siebers (2008) emphasizes how social and physical, or “built” (p. 31), environments construct which bodies are considered disabled and therefore in need of intervention or accommodation. Morgan, an educational behavioural consultant who had worked with various school districts over the past ten years to support students with behavioural challenges or disabilities, made a poignant observation regarding how environments, assumptions, and beliefs about who people are and what they can do all work to create a disabling effect. Our conversation began with Morgan expressing frustration over the sex/gender binary system: MORGAN: It’s not one of two [genders]. I always go off on [and talk about] the Indigenous culture and how they have like multiple genders in some of them. And they have forever! KATE: Yes, can we talk about that for a second? MORGAN: Sure! KATE: Yeah, this is something I'm hearing a lot of and something that I'm really trying to tease out. How do you see that as relating to our current gender and sexuality system? MORGAN: Well, we - because then, it’s another group of “less than,” right? So anything that came from them [Indigenous cultures] was supposed to be stamped out. It's just one more thing that came from that group of people that we’re [white settlers] like “oh no, going to take that away from them too.” KATE: And by “that” you mean multiple genders, understanding of multiple genders? MORGAN: Multiple genders and even the belief that that was a positive, right? So in Indigenous culture yeah, believing that you're two spirited, that's a great thing. I think we [white settlers] stamped that out hard. KATE: Colonization just like slapped that away. MORGAN: Yeah and I think that's maybe one of the things they really – there's many things they [white settlers] didn't like about the Indigenous culture – but 202 that's one thing that I'm sure threatened them the most because the way we were built, our religious system, the Catholic Church, all of that. KATE: They didn't understand that. MORGAN: Nope. And the way to keep women in place was to have two genders. KATE: I find it really interesting that it’s been mandated from the Ministry of Education to talk about Indigeneity in curriculum and all teachers have to meet these curriculum standards and yet so many people are telling me that gender's not super relevant. MORGAN: It's hugely relevant. KATE: And particularly when we think about how Indigenous education has been mandated, but we're missing out on what you just said, our understanding of multiple genders— MORGAN: —Because we're patriarchal and we think that they're like children and they can't have sexuality just like disabilities, like being Indigenous is like a disability. Anybody who is not a white male [has a disability] ….and I think that’s what we've likened being Indigenous to for a long time, being a child or being disabled. The Indian Act is like wildly patriarchal. Morgan astutely notes how Indigenous cultures and ways of understanding multiple genders have been “stamped out” by colonization. She shares her observation that Indigenous peoples are patronized by being likened to children73 and disabled people (who are also often assumed to be incompetent, asexual, and dehumanized). Her assertions, “being Indigenous is like a disability” and that “anybody who is not a white male [has a disability]” elucidates how the social and built environment – the dominant discourses surrounding, for example, patriarchy, childhood innocence, and the colonization of Indigenous peoples – exposes what Siebers (2008) calls “the ideology of ability – the ideology that uses ability to determine human status” (p. 32). As Travers (2018) elaborates, “this ideology of ability is fundamental to liberal humanism’s 73 Dehumanization is especially true for children who are not white (Goff et al., 2014). 203 hierarchy of humanity and helps to generate an individual’s status and qualification for inclusion and access, or exclusion and denial” (p. 44). Morgan knowledgeably identified that “anybody who is not a [presumably cisgender, heterosexual] white male” may as well be considered to have a disability, revealing the social, economic, and physical privileges that come with such identities and embodiments. The ideology of ability exposes how and why many of my participants’ trans and gender non-conforming students experienced challenges and barriers in getting their basic needs met – such as access to the bathroom of their choice – within a highly institutionalized system of binary sex/gender where such a bathroom may not even exist. It is important to note here that I am unaware of the racial, economic, and class backgrounds of the students mentioned throughout my research, and to recognize that trans and gender non-conforming students who also experience racialization and poverty will be especially vulnerable to interpersonal and institutionalized violence in their classrooms and schools. Indeed, one limitation of my research may have been its narrow focus on the experiences of educators doing this work such that some of these intersectional nuances of the students’ experiences themselves, which are inevitably intertwined with the school culture, were not captured by my research questions. As McRuer (2002) argues, it is presumed and assumed that the cultural default and preference is for able-bodiedness, with physical space, non-verbal and verbal cultural cues, and societal expectation to reflect this belief. Both trans and disabled people (and disabled trans people) face a compulsory requirement to fit and alter their bodies, expressions, and identities to align with the closest rendition of “normal,” recognizable, and intelligible. As a result, connections can be drawn from and between “compulsory heterosexuality” (Rich, 1980), 204 “compulsory able-bodiedness” (McRuer, 2002), and “compulsory gender-normativity,74” in which cisnormativity compels trans, non-binary, and gender non-conforming people to express their gender in intelligible, palatable ways and cause as little disturbance as possible to cisnormative spaces. In the case of the bathroom, this might mean giving in to using the single-stall private washroom (the designated “transgender bathroom”) or presenting feminine or masculine enough in order to use the binary washrooms available. For many of my participants’ students, it is the physical structure (such as the sex/gender-segregated washroom) and cultural environment (including anti-queer, anti-trans assumptions, beliefs, and attitudes) that render transgender and gender non-conforming bodies as “disabled.” While school staff and administration may claim that they are recommending the use of a single stall washroom for the privacy, safety, and benefit of the trans student, it is more likely that this recommendation is for the privacy, safety, and comfort of cisgender students, staff, and parents. Siebers (2008) notes how the physical built (and arguably social) environment is full of aides and tools (“technologies”) to more easily perform certain tasks or move throughout the world. He continues: The moment that individuals are marked as disabled or diseased, however, the expectation is that they will maintain the maximum standard of physical performance at every moment, and the technologies designed to make their life easier are viewed as 74 The concept of “compulsory gender-normativity” appears to be new in the literature. “Compulsory gender binarism” is mentioned in Cole and Cate’s (2008) article, “Compulsory Gender and Transgender Existence: Adrienne Rich’s Queer Possibility.” “Compulsory cisgender identity” is also briefly touched upon in Henningsen’s (2019) article, “‘Calling [herself] Eleanor’: Gender Labor and Becoming a Woman in the Rykener Case.” My use of “compulsory gender-normativity” is not necessarily the compulsory requirement to identify within the gender binary, but to express and move one’s body to be in alignment with cisnormative discourses. 205 expensive additions, unnecessary accommodations, and a burden on society. (p. 31, emphasis added) Siebers’ analysis applies as well to the examples shared throughout this chapter of how schools responded to trans students’ needs. “Maintaining the maximum standard of physical performance,” as Siebers notes above, is akin to the pressures placed upon trans students to assimilate themselves to the social and built environments of their schools. Cisgender students have a number of “technologies” that support their gender, including sex/gender-segregated washrooms, change rooms, sports teams, gendered language engrained in classroom talk and text, whereas many trans students must fight to have their basic needs and rights – including the ability to use the washroom of their choice and pronouns respected – merely accommodated. As evidenced throughout my conversations with educators, these accommodations are indeed often viewed as “expensive additions,” “unnecessary,” and a “burden” on the school and parental community. 7.4 Conclusion: Queer Responsibility, School Reactivity, and Student Accommodation The engrained and institutionalized cisnormativity within the organization of schools, and particularly within educators’ classrooms, renders it difficult to step outside of existing gender discourse and see the need for more gender diverse and affirming curriculum and teaching practices. Interviews and group discussions with educators in this study indicate that accommodations for trans and gender diverse students are, more often than not, an individualized reactionary response, as opposed to a proactive broader institutional response. The responsibility is thereby placed upon QTGD students to “come out” and identify what changes need to be made in the school and classroom, rather than there already being proactive measures in place to 206 ensure trans and gender non-conforming students are having their needs met and identities respected and recognized. The efforts and changes required to create more “welcoming, caring, respectful and safe learning environments” (Alberta Government, 2016, p. 1) are seemingly contingent upon the presence of a marginalized student – and that student making their identities (and needs) be known – in the school. In their study of how kindergarten teachers attend to diversity in their pedagogy, Kannen and Acker (2008) found that when teachers identified something as an “issue” to address in their classrooms, it was related to who was (or was not) present in the classroom. For example, the authors found that “if there are no bodies in the classroom that visibly challenge the normality of whiteness, the teachers do not usually consider it to be their responsibility to introduce the topic of difference,” referring to this lack of response as a “pedagogical silence” (p. 34, emphasis in original). Similarly, as many educators in this study suggested, if they were not aware of a gender diverse or trans student’s presence in their classroom or school, the topic of gender diversity (beyond challenging binary sex/gender roles and stereotypes) did not seem to register as an issue that required addressing or pedagogical intervention. Rupert, a psychology intern in an urban elementary school, noted that educators’ responses to gender-neutral washrooms, for example, has “become a reactive issue to students coming out, rather than this kind of very proactive space of like, maybe we should just have these things available because, it's really not a big deal.” Rupert suggests that building gender-neutral washrooms into the school, regardless of the presence of “need,” is a proactive measure that helps contribute to the overall culture of inclusion in the school, so that it is, as Rupert says, “really not a big deal.” In addition to being reactive, schools also use and emphasize an “accommodation approach” that works to passively support (or tolerate) those with non- 207 normative identities, while allowing colonial whiteness, cisnormativity and heteronormativity to thrive. In essence, the “accommodation approach” protects these oppressive systems, and sustains them. The presence of trans and gender non-conforming students in the classroom and school is often the catalyst for any kind of change, whether it be individualized or institutional. As Travers (2018) states, “schools typically do not adopt measures for trans inclusion until a visible transgender kid shows up” (p. 76). This approach places immense responsibility on already vulnerable students to assert and defend their identities, while condemning more precarious kids to “‘slow death’ by virtue of being starved for resources, treated to ‘social death,’ and/or violated on a day-to-day basis” (p. 39). As discussed throughout this dissertation, those students who feel able, willing, and safe enough to make their gender identity and needs known to their educators and school community are also likely to be the ones who have certain racial, social, and economic privileges. Recall that Leah’s parents were able and willing to create a slideshow presentation for the school staff to understand Leah’s gender identity and transition. Many parents may not be able – nor, unfortunately, have the desire – to support their child in this way. The responsibility of educating school staff and administration on trans issues and accommodations for Leah, unfortunately, fell upon the shoulders of Leah and her parents. Although LGBTQ+ training is generally available for school staff, many participants indicated that it is not provided unless educators are interested and see the need and value in this knowledge, which is often synonymous with the presence of visible and “out” QTGD students in their classrooms. When asked if there were any school protocols or policies in place to support QTGD students, Susan, Leah’s teacher, told me that Leah was their first official venture into navigating trans issues in their school, essentially paving the way for other future trans students: 208 The only policy I can think of we had as a school…is when Leah was going to use a specific bathroom. Now, wonderfully, no one has said that [critiquing Leah's bathroom choice] out loud in two years. … If we had a new kiddo that came to school and used female pronouns and everything - that there would be nobody that said, “oh sorry, you wrote ‘male’ on the registration form. You have to go in that bathroom.” I think that [Leah] was our like, okay, how are we going to make this our very first official [trans child in the school] – how do we navigate these waters, make it comfortable. In this passage, Susan indicates her school did not have policies in place (nor ones that extend beyond bathroom use) prior to Leah’s transition. Leah was their impetus for figuring out how to navigate accommodations for trans students within the confines of cisnormativity. Interestingly, Susan also speaks to an institutionalized cisnormative practice in the above quotation (i.e., noting the requirement of listing students’ assigned gender on the school’s registration form) but does not contest or challenge this, perhaps because it is not recognizable as an “issue.” Accommodations for trans and gender non-conforming students, as discussed throughout this chapter, are more easily attained within the sex/gender binary, and do not directly challenge cisnormative environments or practices, highlighting the “disposability” of non-binary or “unintelligible” trans and gender non-conforming kids who do not fit within binary systems of sex/gender. Recall also the example shared in section 4.7.2 of this dissertation in which Susan and I discuss how she no longer has an LGBTQ+ book collection in her classroom since Leah is now in a different class. Susan noted that our conversation was a learning moment for her in terms of recognizing that there may indeed be students in her classroom who are trans or gender non-conforming who could benefit from the LGBTQ+ books (I would also suggest that all children benefit from this content) but have just not asserted their identities or “come out.” The requirement for students to “come out” in order for their needs to be met and identities to be validated underscores the dominance of cisnormativity in education and clearly warrants the 209 need to be proactive rather than reactive, and to do more than simply emphasize the “accommodation” of QTGD students in schools. 210 Chapter 8: “I can’t get through the curriculum as it is”: Exploring the Barriers to Creating Queer, Trans, and Gender Affirming Classrooms and Schools 8.1 Introduction One of the primary purposes of this dissertation is to explore the ability and willingness of elementary educators to implement queer, trans, and gender diversity into their classrooms and schools to create more affirming, supportive environments. In earlier chapters, I discussed how educators made sense of, approached, or accommodated queer, trans, and gender diversity issues in their schools while navigating institutionalized cisnormativity and heteronormativity. In this chapter, I focus on systemic and interpersonal factors that constrained, impeded, or limited educators’ ability to create the kinds of educational environments needed to actively affirm and support QTGD identities and expressions. Even though teachers may generally have the autonomy to determine which current events and issues are worthy of classroom attention – Jenny, for example, told me that every morning she shares “school appropriate memes or videos” and “real life conversations” with her students – many participants in this study voiced their frustrations at the lack of resources, training, and limited time available to cover QTGD topics throughout the schoolyear, particularly in an integrated and sustainable way. As previously discussed, a visible or “out” QTGD student is often the impetus for sparking such lessons and conversations. Recall Susan, who found passion for this work when (but only when) a trans student was “out” in her class. The following passage narrates a time after Susan realized she had included trans-inclusive books in her classroom for the year Leah was present. When Leah moved on to the next grade, the books were 211 no longer considered relevant in the classroom. Susan reflected on this during our conversation and wondered if her colleagues had taken the same approach: Now I don't know whether they are like me. [If] they did really good the year they had [Leah] and now they're - you know, worried about thinking about other things. Or if they’ve kept it [LGBTQ+ and gender diversity] up. That would be a good question to ask and talk about right now. It was interesting to hear Susan and her colleagues perhaps only “did really good” when it came to trans inclusion for the year Leah was in their classrooms. As Susan notes, being “worried about thinking about other things,” speaks to a common barrier to incorporating queer, trans, and gender diversity into educators’ classrooms and pedagogy, with or without QTGD students present. In a similar statement by Susan, as shared in section 6.2, “we try really hard to notice and celebrate all those pieces that make each of those little people in front of you special and unique.” With exceedingly large class sizes in Alberta – some with 37 students (Lough, 2019) – and increased workloads (Alberta Education, 2015; Tarc, 2007), many educators are simply doing the best they can to meet the needs of the students in front of them and are often “worried about… other things.” This may help to explain why there is a perceived necessity for QTGD students to make themselves known in order for diverse lesson plans, representations, and support for these students to make their way into the classroom and school environment and culture. As Hazel states, “I can’t get through the curriculum as it is,” suggesting there is not sufficient time during the school day to meaningfully integrate queer, trans, and gender diversity into one’s pedagogical approach. Increasing pressures on educators to incorporate queer, trans, and gender diversity into their lessons, teaching practices, and school procedures do not exist within a vacuum. While inadequate accommodations for QTGD students may be seen as an individualized failure of 212 particular educators or schools, a broader discussion needs to be undertaken within the context of neoliberal colonial educational discourses. This chapter explores the various barriers educators face in creating the kinds of schools and classrooms that provide spaces and opportunities for QTGD students to thrive, and for queer, trans, and gender diversity to become part of curriculum and pedagogical practices, regardless of which gender identities or expressions are “out,” visible, or present in the classroom. I begin by locating the frustrations expressed by participants in the context of the neoliberal classroom, where increased workload and fear of parental backlash are overwhelmingly cited as reasons for avoiding discussions of gender and sexuality. Throughout this chapter I underscore the social and political workings of neoliberalism using a necropolitical framework that justifies and rationalizes the current dearth of resources, administrative support, professional development, and overall lack of provincial and state investment in QTGD students. 8.2 Fitting it in: Neoliberalism in Elementary Education As educators expressed their frustrations at not being able (or permitted) to teach and integrate queer, trans, and gender diverse content into their teaching practices and classrooms, it became clear how neoliberal discourses in education obscure the need for social justice in schools. Even though one of the purposes of the Guidelines for Best Practices is to help create policies ensuring an educational system that is “equitable and inclusive” (2016, p. 1), according to Tuters, Portelli, and MacDonald-Vemic (2018), “the neoliberal agenda of globalization carries with it a threat to educational policies that address equity and inclusion” (p. 216). Discourses of neoliberalism position inequality as an individualized problem where “inequalities are routinely assigned to ‘private’ life, understood as ‘natural,’ and bracketed away from consideration in the ‘public’ life of the state” (Duggan, 2003, p. 5). When issues of social inequality make their way into educational discourse, it is often through approaches to “anti-bullying” and promoting 213 “diversity” and “equal opportunity” for the purposes of achieving (or at least reaching towards) social unity and cohesion. Joshee (2008) explains, While neoliberal processes necessitate increased social inequality (see, e.g., Harvey, 2006; Hill, 2004) this agenda also requires that policy actors pay attention to equity and diversity in ways that create social cohesion and provide access to opportunities to participate in the economy…. Diversity then is constructed in relation to equity of achievement in academic subjects and the economy. (pp. 36-39) Approaching social issues and inequalities through watered-down approaches to “diversity” that do not attend to social justice conceals the workings of cisgender, heteronormative, colonial whiteness which are hidden through the discourse of “supporting the economy.” Drawing upon Mbembe’s theory of necropolitics, Banerjee (2008) articulates the concept of “necrocapitalism” to describe the relationship between capitalism and necropower that distributes precarity through the specific arrangements and policies of neoliberalism. In the case of elementary education, the finite resources and time allotted to educators are funneled towards capitalist aims and the students who are perhaps seen as most likely to meaningfully contribute to the future workforce (and therefore, the economy). Indeed, it is evident how necropolitics resides at the core of neoliberal ideologies by maintaining systems of oppression that disproportionately affect the most vulnerable, precarious and marginalized QTGD kids. The neoliberal project has shaped current understandings of the purpose and function of public education and the educator’s role and capacity within it. Connell (2013) explains, “Neoliberalism has a definite view of education… It is the business of forming the skills and attitudes needed by a productive workforce –productive in the precise sense of producing an ever-growing mass of profits for the market economy” (p. 104). One participant, Morgan, echoes 214 Connell’s analysis of education as a business model, as she stated: “I think school boards in general have become a business instead of a teaching tool. And we're running them like businesses, having high-powered school boards, people who get paid way too much money to not even enter schools.” Indeed, neoliberalism’s economic policies of individualism, standardization, competition, and surveillance correspond to a cultural agenda that denounces those who do not fit within its narrow norms; it “redefines education in terms of its contribution to the economy (viewing individuals as discrete pieces of capital)” (Grady, 2012, p. 985) with an emphasis on “student achievement.” Addressing inequality from this highly individualized position places immense responsibility and pressure upon educators to meaningfully address social inequities in their schools and classrooms, often with little administrative and institutional guidance, support, or resources. Working under the neoliberal regime has become naturalized to the point where educators, like those who participated in this study, are often left wondering why they cannot seem to get a firm grasp on social justice issues in the classroom. Their sentiments are of no surprise given increased workloads and class sizes, as well as the prioritization of large-scale standardized, predesigned testing and curriculum for the average (read: white, able-bodied, cisgender, heterosexual) student. Unfortunately, social justice issues in education are often relegated to the back burner and sometimes completely forgotten. As Hazel explains in the following passage, the pressure educators feel to meet curricular demands undoubtedly impacts their time, energy, and capacity to implement lesson plans on queer, trans, and gender diverse topics. KATE: Have you ever done a lesson on gender identity or anything like that? HAZEL: I haven’t… but you know, one of the reasons – it sounds like a cop-out – one of the reasons is because I can’t get through the curriculum as it is. So, there’s all these 215 things to cover, and if I do something that doesn’t fit in [to curriculum], I feel like “oh my god, you just wasted time! Because now you’re not going to fit in this and this and this.” Yet, in her interview, Hazel admits – with a hint of embarrassment – she has not taught a lesson on gender identity (“it sounds like a cop-out”), as if I might think it is her fault for not being able to implement these discussions in the classroom. My conversation with Hazel reveals a number of salient points about how challenging it can be for educators to implement queer, trans, and gender diverse content and discussions within a highly standardized curriculum and school culture that prioritizes certain student identities and embodiments over others. As Hazel remarks, a lesson about gender identity (seemingly) does not fit into existing curriculum and may be considered “wasted time.” Her rushed observation (“because now you’re not going to fit in this and this and this”) highlights that Hazel is aware of – though may not name it as such – the neoliberal influences in her classroom. Though Hazel seems to imply that the lack of queer, trans and gender diverse content in her classroom is a professional failure on her part, it is more constructive to focus on how demands on educators to teach to a cisnormative and heteronormative curriculum limit the possibilities of what may be taught or discussed with their students. It is important to note that although Alberta’s K-6 curriculum may not include learning objectives explicitly about gender identity and sexual orientation (particularly outside of human sexuality education), inclusion of these topics can easily fit within general curriculum outcomes for many subjects such as social studies and English language arts. A general learning outcome for K-6 English, for example, is to “respect others,” “strengthen community,” and “appreciate diversity” (Learn Alberta, 2000). Regular classroom discussions about gender pronouns, gender identity and expression, and queer families certainly meets a multitude of curriculum objectives 216 and is a starting point to a more affirming classroom pedagogy. However, as Page (2017) found in their survey of English teachers’ comfort levels in integrating LGBT literature into curricula, very few teachers – despite professing a level of comfort with the subject – specifically and intentionally addressed LGBT topics in their teaching practices. Similarly, although all educators in this dissertation strongly supported the incorporation of gender and sexual diversity in elementary education, few were able to integrate it into their own pedagogy. For some, the hesitation to discuss these topics in their classrooms and schools was due to fears surrounding administrative repercussion or parental backlash. As discussed in section 6.2.2, many educators are under the impression they must obtain parental consent in order to discuss anything75 pertaining to gender and sexuality. As Gwen describes it, “I think the idea was they [Alberta Education] didn't want teachers ‘indoctrinating students with a certain value76 system’ – I say that with facetiousness.” Kathryn illustrates how she is able to meet curriculum objectives without requiring parental consent by using an indirect approach: KATE: You're not allowed [to talk about gender or sexuality]? KATHRYN: No, not without a letter. KATE: Really? KATHRYN: Yeah, yeah that's what I was trying to get at. KATE: Okay, I thought you were only talking about the sex-ed piece. KATHRYN: Well because it is sex-ed. 75 Notably, teachers are not required to obtain parental consent when discussing cisgender and heterosexual identities, further underscoring the dominance of cisnormative, heteronormative, and anti-queer, anti-trans discourses in education. 76 Kelly (2012) reminds us that (despite those who may suggest otherwise) teaching is not value-free and is “an inherently moral and political enterprise, and teachers’ daily actions do matter in the effort to build a more just, caring, and democratic society” (p. 135). 217 KATE: It's perceived to be sex-ed I guess. KATHRYN: Yes. So, like if I wanted to teach my students what it meant to be trans, if that was my outcome, I would need to get a letter. But that's why I'm saying there's ways around that. So, if that's what you wanted [to teach]… I couldn't say "let's talk about being trans today"; I would say "I've got a book for you." And so, my learner intention would need to be around English. So, we're talking about character development or what problems this child faces. And then through that someone's going to say, “I don't know what the word trans means” and then you can talk about it because that's not [technically in] my lesson plan. Kathryn was among the few participants I spoke with who proactively saw opportunities for how to (cleverly) integrate gender diversity into their lesson plans. For other educators, like Sheila, who expressed frustration over how “vague” and “tricky” the curriculum is (“it doesn’t really give specifics as to how to teach or talk about it [LGBTQ+ and gender diversity], so it’s very confusing in elementary school level”), the flexibility – or time and resources available – to purposefully choose diverse and inclusive materials seemed much more challenging. By contrast, Taylor told me, quite passionately, that it is the teacher’s responsibility to figure out how to create an inclusive curriculum: You can do it any way you want, and that’s one of the great things, and I think that’s true about all the younger grades. It’s certainly less restrictive curriculum. A lot is left up to the teacher and how you get there…. Do. Your. Job. Once this has become— because this is part of the understanding of the curriculum, it’s part and parcel of how teachers are meant to present themselves in schools and to present the curriculum itself, this means that when I’m teaching about gender and sexual minorities, that in fact, I’m supported by Alberta Education. Taylor emphasized that when he is “teaching about gender and sexual minorities” in an integrated way through which to meet curriculum objectives, he is in fact, “supported by Alberta Education,” offering assurance that it is his professional right to teach the topics he desires. Taylor’s comments led me to wonder why other participants, Sheila and Hazel, experienced difficulties in seeing how gender and sexual diversity could be integrated into the existing 218 curriculum. Even though a lack of administrative, institutional and parental supports are certainly contributing factors (more on this in sections 8.3 and 8.4), the dominance of cisnormativity and heteronormativity in elementary education undoubtedly impacts the lens through which educators (personally and professionally) interpret the curriculum. For many, a classroom and school culture and pedagogy that actively celebrates a variety of QTGD identities and expressions simply is not within the realm of possibility. Within the context of the neoliberal classroom, these lessons and topics may be viewed by the overworked teacher – or their fellow colleagues and administration – as “superfluous add-ons to the curriculum” (Fraser & Lamble, 2014, p. 64). When asked about what she felt was the biggest barrier to integrating queer, trans, and gender diversity into her classroom, Sara pointedly replied, “okay, so teachers feel overworked. And they feel like they don’t have enough time to do anything. To go and seek out something is not the top priority when you have so much other stuff happening in the classroom.” She continued by explaining that changes in the classroom or curriculum would require stronger administrative leadership such as: …mandating teachers to do something or providing like a mandated PD workshop…. [Something that] won’t take a lot of teachers’ time. Because I think a lot of it comes down to time…it’s all about practical with teachers… give me something that I can take home and do with my class tomorrow. My conversation with Sara highlights the limitations of what’s possible in neoliberal educational discourses: the pressures and constraints of Sara’s teaching job are simply not conducive to the in-depth professional training and development that is required to build and implement queer, trans, and gender diversity into the classroom and school in meaningful ways. 219 There is also a financial component as to whether or not educators are able to provide and integrate queer, trans, and gender diverse resources and affirming environments for their students. Gwen comments: I think there is an element of financial support for being able to have contemporary materials, right? Like, a lot of schools are still relying – like, in grade four, you study this novel. And there's no money and there's no support to do something different, right? By “contemporary materials,” Gwen is referring to books in the classroom representing a variety of gender identities, expressions, and sexual orientations, noting that wealthier schools are the ones with greater financial support and thereby possessing a wider range of resources. Rory also reflected that “a lot of things in education come down to money… there would need to be a funding piece for the architectural changes in schools and for the professional development for teachers.” Bathrooms that are not organized by gender, for example, require funding from the school board to cover construction costs. Sheila explained that although her principal had mentioned universal gender-neutral washrooms to the staff, she wasn’t sure if (or how) they would be considered “because it’s a big financial piece to it as well. [It] is a really small school… again, it’s not anything that anybody feels is relevant to us right now, so.” To justify the financial costs of construction or resource development, there must be an expressed and relevant “need.” In many cases, this means there must be a visible and/or “out” QTGD student present in the school. During one of the concluding group workshops, participants engaged in a spontaneous discussion about the impact and influences of neoliberalism in education. The discussion began by exploring everyday practices which contribute to ongoing colonization, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity in the schooling system. Since the group discussion offered an opportunity to 220 share emerging findings and themes from the interviews, I created the following image (Figure 8.1) in a PowerPoint presentation. Figure 8.1 Public education system The image was shown to workshop participants as a potential stimulus text to help make connections between queer, trans, and gender diversity with the newly mandated Indigenous curriculum in Alberta Education – a topic that was brought up in nearly every interview. During the group discussion, I asked participants how they interpreted77 the image, and if (and in what ways) they felt it was useful. Rather than explicitly discussing how colonization, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity take place in their schools and classrooms, Hazel and Gwen took the conversation in a different direction, highlighting some key issues within Alberta’s education system and providing insight into some of the more challenging barriers teachers face when taking on the work of queer, trans, and gender diversity in their classrooms. 77 Prior to this conversation, participants established that they had working knowledge of cisnormativity, heteronormativity, and colonization. 221 GWEN: I think the image, that idea that it’s a cycle and you can’t – I mean it’s so, so cynical, but like I don’t think that without some paradigm shift in the education system like the industrial model, I don’t think the change that needs to happen will happen. Like it’s just the cyclical nature of having 25 kids or 30 kids in a class. It’s like this assembly line of “learn this, go onto the next grade, learn this, go onto the next grade.” And you know, you’re [organized] by gender or by age or by subject and you’re streamed into your little you know, like skill-based or ability-based or socioeconomic-based [areas]. And I don’t know, I think that the idea that it’s a cycle is absolutely true, but I don’t know that there’s necessarily a…solution... HAZEL: Yeah, as long as the government has all these people who think that they know better, like how will it change? Because we have people that have no idea, have never taught anything making all these important decisions about education. Gwen makes a powerful point in her analysis of how the education system functions under neoliberal discourse in which the only conceivable way to get 25-30 students through on the “assembly line” is to organize, categorize, and stream them in a perpetual cycle that ultimately feeds a neoliberal economic agenda. Gwen and Hazel both concluded that a paradigm shift – including a restructuring of who makes important decisions about education – is required for “the change that needs to happen.” Under the existing model of education, as Gwen describes it in the above passage, maintaining social inequities are fundamental to sustaining skill, ability, and socioeconomic-based streams, in a continuous cycle of inequality. There is a distinct necropolitical agenda, and economic advantage, to avoiding critical discussions of privilege and oppression in education. By upholding the “naturalness” and (false) stability of the sex/gender binary, for example, sex/gender-based streams and heteronormative patriarchal discourses are maintained, thus preserving conditions for those who are “folded into life” (Puar, 2007, p. 10). As I explored in Chapter 6, by promoting “diversity” through a lens of “celebrating difference” in the classroom – rather than a critical examination of systemic and institutionalized racist and classist discourses – dominant oppressive systems remain unchallenged. 222 When I showed the slide above (Figure 1) to the group discussion participants, I provided further context to the image by explaining that our current understandings of the sex/gender binary and heteronormativity are Euro-colonial creations. This offered an opportunity to provide a gentle intervention into participants’ knowledges, as well as an invitation for participants to reflect on this particular area. As Hazel notes in the following exchange, the possibilities for connections to be made between classroom practices and Euro-colonial ideas of sex/gender and sexuality seem to be overlooked in teachers’ professional development. KATE: I created this image to help make connections between the Indigenous mandate and what was discussed in my interviews. If it doesn’t resonate with you, that’s totally fine, but I am wondering if it brings to mind anything. Does it make sense or how do you make sense of it? And then – the next image I have has examples of what happens in the classroom that contributes to colonial ideas of gender and sexuality that we’re experiencing today. HAZEL: When you go to all the workshops, all the PD sessions about all the Indigenous studies and that’s not brought up at all. Like maybe the people who are doing the PD workshops- are they even aware of [what you just talked about]? Like maybe they need to learn that and then share that information too because it’s huge. But I don’t think people are even aware. In her interview, Hazel also noted there are ample opportunities for PD sessions on Indigenous education, but very few (if any) for gender and sexuality. In her view, the education system is extremely “reactionary.” She explained further: HAZEL: I have a very jaded view of education [laughs] and I’m going to be highly unprofessional by saying this. [sigh] The education system is very reactionary. Like, we’re not a proactive group of people. Um… like, not us [teachers], but like the people who oversee everything. It’s like [they’re saying], “oh this is happening politically, we need to show now that we are going to educate people blah blah blah so that we look—” It’s all about appearances with them. Like, I hate to say it, but if they really cared, they would have done this [the Indigenous education mandate] ages ago. KATE: Arguably, LGBTQ rights is in the news, it is political, it is very ‘current,’ why do you think it hasn’t been taken up [in the education system] the same way as Indigenous education? 223 HAZEL: Because the queer community isn’t at the government’s door, complaining about how they’ve been treated in the past. Like, there’s a bit of it, of course. But it’s not the same…Frankly, they don’t have that power that the Indigenous people have. And rightly so. They [Indigenous communities] should have that power. [sigh] I think the government feels more threat from the Indigenous community. And I don’t mean that in a bad way, but they know that they have that ability to cause waves. Do you know what I mean? I think the queer community absolutely has power – and I think it’s getting strong and stronger and stronger – but I don’t think they’re there yet. Where I see it relationally, is that we’re teaching children that we respect everyone, no matter what their background, no matter what their culture, no matter what their beliefs, no matter what their gender, you know what I mean? That’s where I see the relationship. To me, that’s super important, but [sigh] there’s not that intentional teaching for LGBTQ and gender. Hazel makes a crucial point that the government is reacting to social issues, such as increasing momentum for Indigenous sovereignty, as well as a renewed focus on the Truth and Reconciliation movement. The government’s response, an initiative called “Education for Reconciliation” (Alberta Government, n.d.), which Hazel views as “all about appearances,” mandates Indigenous education become integrated into all subject areas. Indeed, the guiding framework created to clarify this curriculum development states: To honour the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada: Calls to Action and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, Alberta is committed to rebalancing the education system by including Indigenous ways of knowing in curriculum to advance reconciliation for all Albertans. (Alberta Education, n.d., p. 10) In speaking with educators about their understanding of the Indigenous education mandate, it was not clear how the curriculum intended to “rebalance the education system” or what exactly was to be taught, leading me to wonder if “Education for Reconciliation” is yet another additive,78 watered-down attempt at inclusion and placation. As Indigenous scholar Alfred 78 For example, many participants shared that their school mascots and sports’ teams use Indigenous imagery and names. This might perhaps be understood as a step towards reconciliation, since, for example, Randy told me his school is “very big into reconciliation” right before telling me about the school’s Indigenous logo and mascot. How 224 (2009) writes, “Canadians understand implicitly that reconciliation will not force them to question what they have done, but it will allow them to congratulate themselves for their forbearance and understanding once Indigenous peoples…are reconciled with imperialism” (p. 183). It must be asked, what can Alberta Education’s efforts towards “Education for Reconciliation” do in the context of a colonial institution? Alfred continues, “put simply, the imperial enterprise called ‘Canada’ that is operating in the guise of a liberal democratic state is, by design and culture, incapable of just and peaceful relations with Indigenous peoples” (p. 184). The insufficiency of Alberta Education’s attempts of reconciliation can also be seen in the complete lack of connection and awareness regarding how queer and trans oppression are inextricably linked to ongoing colonization. While Hazel suggests that the queer community just does not have as much “power,” it is more likely that queer and trans politics are seen as separate from issues that pertain to public education and Alberta Education’s reconciliation efforts. Throughout the interviews and group discussions, it seemed as though a number of educators in this study were not aware that dominant understandings of sex/gender and sexuality are colonial understandings. Many participants, for instance, discussed the Indigenous mandate as an example of how queer and trans issues could also be mandated, missing the link between how the discursive practices of cisnormativity and heteronormativity are tightly bound with white settler colonialism. In returning to the conversation that took place after showing participants the image in Figure 1, Gwen made a crucial point that Alberta Education would have to commit to a far, however, can (arguably appropriative) Indigenous imagery go towards reconciliation when there are prevailing white, cisnormative, heteronormative discourses taking place in curriculum, policy, and practice? 225 strong political stance if they were to formally acknowledge colonization’s impact on gender and sexual oppression: There’s probably the same fears I think that you [Kate] were saying are echoed in so many of the people that you speak to. Those are probably fears that are also echoed by like formally committing to that [connection between Indigeneity and LGBTQ oppression] on behalf of Alberta Ed or behalf of the PD workshop that they’re offering or whatever. Like that’s a political stance, that’s a scary stance I would say to commit to in terms of the unpacking you’d need to do with so many different groups that don’t have the kind of, like you said, the foundational [knowledge] piece around like what is all of this. Regarding Alberta’s response to Indigenous issues in the province, Gwen added, “I kind of got the impression that that was a PR move.” Arguably, it is not in the best political interests of the provincial and federal government to take a stronger stance and commitment to formally acknowledge Canada’s history of Indigenous genocide and how this legacy is still alive and well in the nation’s public education system. 8.3 “The school knows nothing”: Professional Development and Administrative Support (or Lack Thereof) Comprehensive professional development that explicitly discusses how to integrate queer, trans, and gender diverse content into daily teaching practices was cited by participants as necessary to feeling comfortable and confident in doing this work in their own classrooms and schools. Unfortunately, though, very few participants were aware of – or had access to – these opportunities. Since Bachelor of Education programs are sorely lacking in gender and sexual diversity training (Kearns, Mitton Kükner, & Tompkins, 2014; Kitchen & Bellini, 2013; Tompkins, Kearns, & Mitton Kükner, 2017), there is a significant need for professional development in this area. Payne and Smith’s (2014) study found that participants “had not been trained on how to work with [transgender] students, and this lack of training left them feeling 226 stressed, anxious, and incompetent when faced with ‘the problem’ of creating accommodations for a transgender child” (Payne & Smith 2014, p. 405). Many participants expressed a desire for comprehensive training on queer, trans, and gender diversity in education, not just a basic “101” lesson. Although sessions on gender and sexual diversity are often offered at conferences or teachers’ conventions, a number of participants voiced frustration over the content (or lack thereof). While a few participants, who were admittedly not as well-versed in queer, trans, and gender diverse topics, desired more time devoted to teaching basic LGBTQ+ terminology and identities, others lamented that professional development, so far to date, has emphasized social connection over practical recommendations. As Rupert explained, his last training did not offer practical information and, instead, focused on socializing with fellow colleagues through baking. Rupert bluntly stated, “Like, I made cupcakes at my last [training], you know, like, what the fuck did that do for anyone?” Rupert’s frustration – expressing that baking cupcakes was not helpful, nor productive – is understandable, given the overall lack of resources, support, and opportunities for educators to learn how to meaningfully implement queer, trans, and gender diversity into their pedagogy and practices. Even when more comprehensive queer, trans, and gender diverse professional development or training is offered, it is often not mandatory. As a result, it may only be that educators who are specifically seeking this information attend PD sessions on these topics and are usually there because of a catalyst to do so (i.e., a visible and/or “out” QTGD student is present in their school). For example, Susan and Bill said that professional development for queer, trans, and gender diversity was only offered at the administrative level (not even at the 227 school) when Leah transitioned. Bill79 contextualized this further in his interview, where he explained that while administrators spent “a couple hours doing a briefing seminar/PD session” on “LGBTQ+ sort of explicit training,” administrators were then only given the option of offering this training to staff: BILL: Schools that chose to could bring in the trainers and spend a PD day doing it now. I didn’t do that because we’re good. I literally couldn’t imagine – sure, as everything, there’s never an upper limit to what can be better but… KATE: But you felt like you were [already] doing a pretty solid job? BILL: I thought we were pretty awesome, yeah. Bill chose not to offer this training to his staff because, in his professional opinion, they had already successfully created an inclusive and welcoming school. By contrast, Susan mentioned she and her colleagues struggled with knowing how best to support Leah while she transitioned, relying upon a teacher in their school who was already a strong advocate for trans inclusion and gender diversity. In reflecting on how much work this teacher did to create a supportive environment for Leah, Susan stated, “thank God she was here. She was perfect…. she just became this wild thing of information and pushing things out to us as the staff – here's some books, here's some lessons, here's some this, here's some that.” It seems as though if it were not for this particular staff member, Leah might not have had such a supportive classroom and school environment. Bill also noted that the staff received “training” when Leah’s parent gave a slideshow presentation on Leah’s gender transition: “Well certainly when the parent came in that was basically a PL [professional learning] session, she spoke to us for an hour.” Schools cannot – and should not – have to rely upon individual educators or parents for the training they require 79 As a reminder, Bill is the principal of the school where Susan teaches. 228 or wait until students “come out” to provide professional development in this area. As Kathryn affirmed, “PD needs to be for all schools not just the schools where there's a kid who [has] identified [as queer or trans]. No, every school needs some [training].” She suggested the perceived lack of need or motivation if there are no “out” students in one’s classroom or school is a barrier to accessing this professional development. She continued: KATHRYN: I think sometimes you need to start with the basics, right? Like hey, you can't see what's going on in that kid's mind, you don't know that they’re suffering, and you don't know when they're being beaten at home, like you don't know what they're experiencing. [Which is similar to how] just because you see they’re wearing a dress doesn't mean they see themselves as a girl. KATE: You can't see their identities, yeah. KATHRYN: Yeah and I think that's a big thing because people – teachers – get it, right? In the sense that when you've got a kid in front of you who's hurting in some way you can’t see it, you don't know why they're hurting and you don't know what's going on in their home life, you don't know if they're eating. We understand that, so why is it so hard to understand that you don't actually know if they're a boy or a girl? Kathryn makes reference to other “unknown” or less visible student experiences and identities teachers are typically attuned to – such as bullying, poverty, child abuse – and the assumptions made about gender identity and expression. If teachers, she explains, have a sense that students are experiencing difficulties in other areas of their personal lives, then why can’t the same perspective be applied to gender and sexual identity? KATE: Something that I learned at [an LGBTQ+ organization] while I did their training was “needs not identities.” And it changed my perspective; I've never heard it put just so simply as that: a child has this need. For example, they don't have to identify as trans [in order to] use this washroom. KATHRYN: Well and that's interesting because teachers do the same thing. You’ve got a kid in front of you who can't see the blackboard or whatever we use now, so you put them near the front of it. It doesn't matter whether they have a prescription or not. “Oh, you don't have glasses, so we'll keep you back there.” No, you treat it, give them what they need, like you just get them that access to what it is. Yeah, I don't know, I think it's - it shouldn't be so hard. But I think, you know, even just what you said is like… I've been 229 sitting here and made the assumption all along that you used she and her pronouns, but I didn't ask you. My conversation with Kathryn was enlightening in terms of the kinds of accommodations that are, perhaps, more effortlessly made in schools regardless of a formal “diagnosis” or identification (for example, accommodations made for a student who cannot see the front of the classroom). Similarly, the “needs not identities” perspective for queer, trans, and gender diversity might encourage educators to consider what needs their students have, rather than requiring them to assert an identity. This approach may be one possible solution to the “dilemmas of difference,” that I touched upon in section 6.2. Referring back to Siebers’ (2008) analysis of the “technologies” that are employed to make one’s life “easier” (or, arguably, more livable), it may be useful to consider that all students have unique needs, with technologies or accommodations supporting them throughout the school day. Borrowing from Moore’s (2017) model of inclusive education for students with “special” needs, “if we look at inclusion as a concept of teaching to the diversity of all, rather than just a special education initiative, we can bridge this gap. We are diverse, all of us” (p. 4). Though I am critical of narratives of “inclusion” for QTGD students (models of inclusion do little to dismantle oppressive discourses and end up reifying homonormativity and transnormativity [Fox, 2013]), there is merit in “broadening the definition of who is the same” (Kelly, 2000, p. 117) in the classroom as a form of harm reduction for QTGD students. Should a similar approach be adopted by schools, students may be able to choose the pronouns or bathrooms they wish to use without having to assert a (seemingly unchanging) identity, thereby allowing for greater gender and sexual fluidity, and benefiting all students. 230 As shown with the interview excerpt above, Kathryn agreed with the “needs not identities” approach, suggesting we should not be so quick to make assumptions and draw conclusions about identity, and yet she caught herself making an assumption about my pronouns based on my gender expression (also recall my earlier conversation with Kathryn in section 7.2, about the student who “100% looks like a boy”). These conversations with Kathryn imply educators in this study may not have been offered opportunities to develop the discursive tools necessary to grasp the nuances of gender diverse identities and expressions and how to navigate and support QTGD students within highly cisnormative and heteronormative schooling contexts. The current reactive and individualized approach to professional development (for example, in which a few staff members – or parents of trans children – provide most of the necessary education and resources on their own time), does little to challenge the long-standing, oppressive discourses in schools and points to an overall lack of provincial investment in preparing educators for how to support a variety of different students in the classroom. Kathryn’s statement, “it shouldn’t be so hard” (to not make assumptions about gender) and simultaneous realization of how she gendered me highlights how the conflation of gender identity and expression are so discursively entwined in the ways we interact with one another. Similarly, the “usefulness” of gender as an organizing principle in schools perhaps makes it more challenging to avoid making assumptions about students’ gender identities. Thus, in order to adopt the “needs not identities” approach, gender must also be dismantled as an organizing and disciplinary tool at the institutional level of education. Administrative support for queer, trans, and gender diversity in elementary education was also cited by participants as central to providing a solid foundation both personally and professionally in order to integrate diverse content in the classroom and school as well as 231 responding to potential parental concerns.80 As Taylor et al. (2016) found in their study, “even though the vast majority of participants approved of LGBTQ-inclusive education, far fewer felt their school administrators or colleagues would support them if they addressed LGBTQ issues” (p. 131). Rory frequently noted in her interview how she had no negative encounters with parents or the broader school community regarding queer, trans, or gender diversity issues due to the overt support she receives from her administrative team. When I gave some examples of parental resistance and controversy from existing research, Rory stated, “if I taught at a different school, undoubtedly that would be the case.” She credits the culture of her school for being able to successfully avoid these conflicts. She told me about another occasion that further contextualized the importance of administrative support: RORY: Our entire district is reading the same book and it's about… a Muslim family that moves into a community and people are extremely Islamophobic. And one of the school communities in our district is freaking out because they think there might be sort of a transgender character or something in the book but it's like very, very, very, very subtle. KATE: Okay and yet they're concerned about it. RORY: Yeah, they're very, very upset. So, it really depends on where you are, if I was in a different community and I had different administration, I think that my experience would be a lot different. KATE: Okay, that's really important to know. That administrative piece is huge. RORY: Absolutely. Rory’s experience was an exception amongst accounts from other participants. During one of the group discussions, a participant recalled how she feared for parents of QTGD children who would be unsupported by her school’s administration: 80 This will be explored further in section 8.4. 232 It’s so sad, like the parent group [a support group for parents of gender diverse kids] that I’ve been coming to - it’s hard as a teacher to sit here and bite my tongue because all of the parents, I’d say most of them have had a really negative experience with their kid’s teachers. Like really negative and I sit here feeling kind of guilty like I think as a profession we are failing these kids, right... it’s horrific what these kids have gone through… I think, too, like as educators we can do so much, but these poor parents like when they do come to the school for support, the school knows nothing. Like how then do they get the support that they need too, like it’s a huge bubble that overlaps. I think if parents came to our school and they went to the administration and said “hey, we need support with this,” they’d be out of luck. Lack of administrative support for queer, trans, and gender diversity can clearly present a significant barrier for parents to feel safe and comfortable with their child attending the school (Slesaransky-Poe et al., 2013), and for educators being able to create the kinds of affirming classrooms they aspire to. As Payne and Smith (2017) state, “school leaders are…in a position to serve as gatekeepers for social justice work and to substantially influence the impact of social justice initiatives in school” (p. 186). Indeed, many participants felt their administrations acted as gatekeepers. Sheila expressed that it was difficult for her to judge how her administration felt about queer and trans issues: “You don’t go and ask your administrator, ‘how do you feel about this? Where do you stand?’ Not this sort of, ‘Would you support this?’” Sheila’s reluctance to speak with her administration was made more difficult due to her not being “out” to all of her colleagues, a struggle that many participants also faced.81 A number of participants commented that unwavering administrative support for queer, trans, and gender diversity in the classroom must be clearly communicated to the teachers and educational support staff. Rupert mentioned that he had never worked somewhere where he felt institutional support for queer and trans diversity. He told me support from the administration is 81 Discussed further in Chapter 9. 233 essential to feeling confident in doing the work needed to create more liberatory and supportive spaces for QTGD students: RUPERT: …knowing that those conversations are allowed, knowing what those conversations are allowed to look like, knowing that there will be support if they did happen, knowing that parents getting mad at the school or something, which I can imagine happening. I want to know that people are actually behind that and okay with it. KATE: Right, so, you would feel more comfortable addressing comments or offensive language if you knew that, for example, the administrative team was behind you. RUPERT: 100%. Taylor was in agreement with Rupert, stating, “Administrators, I think, set a tone for the community in school.” Existing research certainly corroborates participants’ reflections about the importance of administrative support (Grace, 2007; Payne & Smith, 2017). Payne and Smith (2017) note a number of reasons for administrative reluctance and resistance in supporting LGBTQ+ inclusive classrooms and schools, such as the belief that gender and sexual diversity is only relevant to a few students and is therefore not an issue that demands broader attention. This perspective, one that is held by many participants’ administrations, ignores how cisnormativity and heteronormativity influence educational policy and practice which negatively impacts all students – not just those who have “come out” as an identity other than cisgender and heterosexual. Arguably, schools – and Alberta’s education system as a whole – require a discursive shift in terms of how educators, parents, and community members understand gender and sexuality. Moving towards more liberatory educational spaces where students are encouraged to explore their identities outside of limiting, oppressive, and institutionalized cisnormative and heteronormative discourses would expand the possibilities of who and what students can be and have implications for social and economic hierarchies that structure Canadian society. 234 8.4 “Be careful…we don’t want lawsuits”: Fear of Parents and Parental Fears “I would love to see something like that [a GSA] with our school even in elementary school, but I’m worried the parents will feel like ‘oh, great you’re planting ideas in their heads’ … because you know parents.” (Hazel, rural elementary teacher) Existing research indicates that fear of parental criticism and resistance is a “significant gatekeeping mechanism” (Hermann-Wilmarth & Ryan, 2019, p. 89) when it comes to disrupting or challenging cisnormative and heteronormative discourses in schools (Clark, 2010; Darolia, 2019; Flores, 2014; Hermann-Wilmarth & Ryan, 2019; Payne & Smith, 2014; Taylor et al., 2016). Many participants identified fear of parental backlash and navigating parental concerns as posing substantial barriers to queer, trans, and gender diversity in their classrooms and schools, whether they had experienced explicitly negative reactions or not. Hazel remarks: I find schools also run on fear. We don’t want parents to complain… I mean, I have to be careful what I say, but you know, we’re [teachers] always told, “be careful. We don’t want parents complaining. We don’t want lawsuits.” The hint of any possibility that parents might react poorly to a queer, trans, or gender diverse lesson plan, for example, was enough for many participants to abstain from those conversations. Jenny speaks to this fear of potential parental criticism in the following exchange: JENNY: I feel like personally there’s a long way to go before that’s [LGBTQ+ and gender diversity] going to be [pause] talked about? Um… in my school in particular it feels like it’s a taboo subject. I feel like, and again it’s obviously just a misconception perhaps… I can’t prove it; I don’t know for sure. But the feeling I get is, the parental community um… it wouldn’t be a subject that I would be comfortable talking about due to parent reaction… KATE: You said right now it’s a bit taboo. Can you speak to that? What do you mean – is it a felt sense? Has anything happened or conversations? 235 JENNY: I feel like it— it is taboo, but I feel like it’s mostly from what we perceive to be the parents’ perspective. I’ve never had a parent say anything I guess, so that’s why it’s – it’s a perception. Whether or not they would be open to it, there’s no way to tell unless we actually asked… KATE: And where do you think that fear comes from, or that perception that they’ll [the parents] be offended or upset comes from? JENNY: Maybe because of the stories or the things that have happened with other issues. Like we have parents that get really upset over everything. Like, we had parents – one parent who was super, super upset that we weren’t selling healthy snacks at the basketball game. We had parents who came in and said that their child wasn’t getting enough physical activity time… So, it’s just little things like that where we kind of just shake our heads and so I guess all these little instances have built up this perception of our parents being really uptight, I guess. And I’ve had other teachers kind of warn me, right? Like… “you know, be careful of what the parents are going to say!” Or whatever. Um… So, I guess that’s where that perception came from. KATE: Because they’ve spoken up about other even more benign things, it sounds like? So, if you’re bringing up gender and sexuality, what might they say about that? Is that kind of the feeling? JENNY: Yeah, yeah… And as a staff, like from an admin perspective, there’s no taboo there I would say. Like, we – not that we really talk about it or highlight it, but it’s definitely – if we had to, I wouldn’t be afraid to say anything. And I know that my principal wouldn’t be afraid to say something to staff. Yeah, I think she would have an issue with parents. Like, if I were to bring something up [about LGBTQ+ or gender] and a parent got upset, she would apologize on my behalf. Jenny and her colleagues are assuming that discussions or lesson plans about non-normative gender and sexuality in the classroom will invite confrontation by the school’s “uptight” parental community. This assumption perpetuates the sense of “taboo” associated with queer, trans, and gender diversity and suggests the school administration and staff have taken a particular stance on these issues (in this case, one of silence or avoidance). By prioritizing potential reactions from parents, parental interests – even those that are assumed – are effectively ranked above the needs, and arguably best interests, of the students. Under neoliberal discourses of education, parents are positioned as the “consumers” of education (Bunar, 2008; Tuters et al., 2018; Wilkins, 2018), 236 whereby educators often feel they are “under pressure to perform for parents” (Tuters et al., 2018, p. 219). This is exemplified by the principal of Jenny’s school who felt the need to be accountable more to parents – “she would apologize on my behalf” – than to her staff or students. Many participants worked with principals and administrations who gave preference to any (even imagined) parental reactions over the needs of the student body. Gwen, for example, who ran the GSA club at her school, told me that the club was intentionally left out of the newsletter which was distributed to parents at the beginning of the year. When asked why the club was omitted, administration replied, “We don't want parents to be questioning their children on whether or not they belong to that club.” When presented with research indicating GSAs “make things safer for everyone” (Gwen), the administration recognized their mistake and announced the club on a bulletin board in the school, although, notably, did not correct this mistake directly to the parental community. Gwen contextualized the demographics and culture of her school, observing its large female student population and many female-only spaces which has heightened parental concerns about non-normative sexualities: GWEN: So, we have students that are out in terms of identifying as a lesbian. And I think that that's…[pause] We get a lot of parents asking, “Well, does your school turn everyone into lesbians?” … So, then the response to that varies in terms of like [saying], “No!” … [which is] not a good response…‘cause that basically says like, “No, there's a problem with that.” KATE: Exactly. GWEN: Right? So then how do we… KATE: [It’s like saying] “But of course not. Don't worry.” GWEN: That's exactly it. So, it's like, no, that cannot be the response [to parents]. That's not a good response. So, then the response is “We accept” right? “We are accepting of how everyone identifies, and we are compassionate,” whatever, whatever. 237 KATE: And is that the school's response? GWEN: Well, that's… Kind of. KATE: Kind of? GWEN: It depends on who answers the phone. The school’s insufficient and inconsistent response to parental concerns about students being “turned into lesbians” offers insight into both the general lack of preparedness to address these concerns in a way that doesn’t perpetuate anti-queer discourse and who the administration feels the most responsibility to (in this case, parents). In an attempt to try and alleviate potential parental fears and concerns, Gwen told me her GSA team had discussed the possibility of having to rename the group to something more “palatable” but expressed worry that doing so “won’t catch the kids that are looking specifically for a GSA.” Again, it is the “perception of [parental] discomfort,” as Gwen describes it, that seems to prevent many educators from taking a strong stance on queer, trans, and gender diversity in their schools and creating actively affirming classrooms and spaces. However, it is important to note, even though there may be only a perception of parental dissent (rather than explicit backlash), the fear and concern educators feel is indeed very real and influences their teaching practices. Although the majority of participants expressed fear and hesitancy over the potential for parental backlash – again, indicative of how dominant and harmful discourses of normative gender and sexuality often puts parents’ needs over students’ wellbeing – a few participants spoke of instances of explicit criticism, disapproval, or obvious anti-queer and anti-trans sentiment from their parental communities. In one particularly disheartening example, Sara and 238 her school’s administration had to figure out how to respond to parents who were blatantly anti-trans. She explains the situation in the following conversation: SARA: So, when I was teaching kindergarten, I had a little boy, and he came in, and I noticed him immediately. Because on the very first day they had to draw a picture of themselves in their book, and he drew himself as a mermaid, with like long, flowing hair, and, you know? And I noticed him right away. And he called himself a mermaid, and, you know? So, I thought - like he was adorable. He was a sweet little boy. And then I met his parents a few days later, and they were like, “so you met Kyle?” And I said, “yeah.” And they were like, “yeah, so… where can we go from here?” And I – you know, I was thinking, “I’m going to get all these books, and these resources, and, you know, I’m going to make him feel–” and they said, “no, I want you to only put him in groups with guys, I want you to encourage – I want you to discourage these things.” His parents like wanted me to filter what books he was allowed to take out of the library… And so, I just told the parents flat out that I wouldn’t do that. KATE: Good for you. SARA: And it did not go over well. KATE: What happened, if you don’t mind me asking? SARA: They pulled him out of school, and they sent him to a guy in Toronto who apparently can “cure” kids of – things... I don’t know. So, they pulled him out. Then he was there for a while, he came back, they tried to pull him out of my classroom, but my principal was like, “oh, hell no. Like he’s in the right class.” KATE: It sounds like your principal really had your – and the student’s – back, then? SARA: Yes. As was the case with many participants, Sara’s instinct upon meeting Kyle and noticing his gender fluidity, was to find gender diverse resources and books to help Kyle feel welcome, accepted, and represented in the classroom. Kyle’s parents clearly opposed his gender expression and attempted to compel Sara to “discourage these things” (presumably Kyle’s femininity) and, instead, encourage cisgender “appropriate” activities and friendships (“only put him in groups with guys”). After Sara denied the parents’ request to police Kyle’s gender, she spoke about how 239 he was sent to a conversion (or “normalizing”) therapy82 practitioner in Ontario in an attempt to “cure” his gender non-compliance. Since our conversation got sidetracked, I did not ask how Kyle seemed to her when he returned to Alberta or if she made further efforts to support his gender fluidity. Based on existing research exposing the unethical and incredibly harmful practices of “corrective” and “normalizing” approaches to gender identity (Florence, 2019; Hidalgo et al., 2013), it is reasonable to assume that Kyle did not return to school unscarred. Fortunately, Sara and her school’s administrative positions were clear. They were not going to do anything outward to discourage Kyle’s gender identity and expression. As Sara explained, her principal was adamant that Kyle was in the “right class,” implying this student would be well supported by a teacher such as Sara. Indeed, Sara noted her principal strategically – and purposely – places students who are gender diverse in classrooms with teachers who are equipped and willing to support them: KATE: The grade two student [who is gender diverse], for example, do you think their teacher will explicitly discuss gender identity? SARA: Oh, that teacher, 100% KATE: Yeah, and bring it up? SARA: And she has. And she’s comfortable doing that…. Which is also why that student’s in her class. KATE: Okay. Was that purposeful? SARA: Yes. So, we identify where – when we think that a kid would be best suited in a certain classroom. 82 Canada has yet to broadly ban the practice of conversion therapy (Bensadoun, 2020). It is important to note, however, that even if /when conversion therapy is officially banned, many conversion therapy practices will still take place by fundamentalist Christian groups “under the radar” by using different terms and program names. 240 Although it is arguably a sufficient (albeit temporary) harm reduction strategy to place (identifiably) gender diverse students in classrooms where they will be supported and accommodated, this strategy raises a number of important points. Streaming gender diverse students into specific classrooms effectively creates “safe pockets,” while the cisnormative and heteronormative discourses within the school remain unchallenged. This is not unlike the implementation of a GSA club which creates a segregated “safe space” within the school, but does little to attend to the harmful discourses that led to the necessity of a GSA in the first place. Furthermore, this strategy will only be effective for those students who are “out” or “visibly” gender non-conforming. What supports would there be for students who may not be able – or have the desire to – “come out”? The school, in its entirety, would likely still uphold an institutionalized sex/gender binary through sex/gender-segregated bathrooms, sports teams, administrative forms, and not provide the education and resources necessary for other teachers or staff who may not have prior knowledge in creating queer, trans, and gender affirming classrooms. I asked Sara, “In an ideal world would all teachers have that knowledge [to support gender diverse students]?” Her reply is telling, “In an ideal world. But the thing is, look who came to your – who’s signing up for your study? It’s not the teachers that need it.” Implied in Sara’s response is that my study did not reach those who might truly benefit from the important conversations and resources shared83 throughout data generation. Certainly, the educators who participated in this study are those who already had interest and experience (to varying degrees) in creating queer, trans, and gender affirming classrooms (as was the purpose of my study and 83 As a thank you for participating in this study, participants received a package with queer, trans, and gender affirming lesson plans, resources, and posters. 241 reflective in the language used on my recruitment poster). Those who do not feel the need or motivation to support QTGD students are not necessarily seeking out this information, thus the responsibility to do this work falls upon the shoulders of those who are able and willing to take it on. Of course, in an “ideal world,” all teachers and classrooms would be equipped and prepared to support QTGD students. Until then, many educators (such as those within Sara’s school) are simply doing the best they can to assist their students with what they have available to them. Even then, as Hazel reminds us, there is only so much teachers can do if a child’s parents are not supportive of their gender identity or expression: The sad thing is we can do all of that work, but if you have a parent who’s like, “are you kidding me, that kid’s wearing pink!” like you can’t come back from that because that’s what your mom and dad said. No matter what parents do, kids think they’re right, so, it’s tough. Indeed, even when substantial resources are provided to a school, Randy explained how parental dissension can pose a significant barrier. For instance, Randy’s elementary school was preparing to engage with SOGI 12384, an organization with substantial resources and support for educators, but was met with strong parental resistance: RANDY: I would say it’s very hesitant. There’s a lot of resistance. Like with the [universal] bathrooms being built, there was a lot of resistance… Alberta decided they were going to bring [SOGI 123] into Alberta and pilot it out [in our school]. And one of our parents was an advocate against it, joined one of these groups and went to the legislature and protested against it and had a meeting with our admin and said, “this better not be in our schools and blah, blah, blah.” And so there’s a lot of that…. the parent who actively protested against SOGI 123, that’s been communicated to all teachers, which I think scared teachers. And then there was a big community backlash about the bathrooms, the gender-neutral washrooms, so I think there is a very strong overall assumption that parents are against it or not willing at this time. 84 SOGI (sexual orientation & gender identity) 123 provides educational resources to support educators in building SOGI-inclusive schools. SOGI 123 began in British Columbia and has participation from all 60 school districts. SOGI 123 is currently expanding to Alberta and has participation from six districts. 242 KATE: That’s really interesting to hear…that there’s quite that — and not overly surprising – but that there’s that pushback against [SOGI 123] coming into Alberta. RANDY: Yeah… Well and it’s only this one family, but - I’ve been trying to bring [SOGI 123] into our school, to just talk about it with the teachers at first. Just to show them the resources. And our admin has been pretty hesitant because they’re worried about this backlash. But, I mean, I gave a lesson on it today, so it was all good. They’re finally on board. The above conversation with Randy typifies how a few instances of parental objections (in this case, a strong one) can negatively impact staff and administration’s willingness to integrate queer, trans, and gender diversity into the school. Randy recalled how this one parent’s antagonistic reaction to SOGI 123 led teachers in the school to assume that SOGI 123 would teach “explicit” (inappropriate) material “when it really is just about… being careful with our language, being sensitive to it. Showing representations of all different communities and things.” Challenging faulty assumptions and being able to share actual resources from SOGI 123 “really opened a lot of minds” and brought other staff members on board, though it did little to alleviate their fear of offending parents. 8.4.1 Parental Dissent or Compliance: Applying “Spoon Theory” “…the families that we have are generally speaking are sort of occupied with life or death sort of issues and they don't usually raise a fuss about things like human rights.” (Rory, urban elementary teacher) Participants often spoke of “parents” as if they were a monolithic group, assuming them to be inherently conservative, anti-queer, anti-trans, and, as Jenny said, “really uptight.” The race and class demographics of the parental community played a particularly significant role in terms of how “accepting” or “non-confrontational” parents were perceived to be. Existing research 243 suggests racialized and classed backgrounds impact how accepting or supportive communities are of queer, trans, and gender diversity (Frohard-Dourlent, 2016; Hunter, 2010; Logie & Rwigema, 2014), thereby posing a potential barrier to implementing this work in schools. As Frohard-Dourlent found in their 2016 study of educators’ experiences with trans and gender non-conforming students, “when they were explicitly mentioned, parents with immigrant/racialized backgrounds were more likely to be imagined as unsupportive or uninformed” (p. 233). Such assumptions reinforce the white supremacist and colonial underpinnings of heteropatriarchy and contribute to the erasure of racialized queer and trans bodies (Dryden & Lenon, 2015). There is a belief that lower SES and racialized parental communities present a barrier to integrating queer, trans, and gender diverse content into the classroom. However, participants in my study suggested otherwise, and said they were actually more cautious of white, educated, affluent parents. When I asked Andi why they felt “rich white parents” posed a threat to queer and trans affirming classrooms, they explained: ANDI: It’s that Maslow pyramid. They’re already at the top. They’re not going to lose housing, or security or food if something’s “weird” at their kid’s school. You know? If you’re cleaning houses for three different people and your kids are going to school in Harlem, you’re not going to want to rock the boat. But if you can pull your kid out of that school if somebody says something you don’t like, and just as easily put them in a different school with no time lost for you, then why not? KATE: Why not give it [LGBTQ+/gender inclusion] a chance? ANDI: Yeah! Give it a shot. Cause what’s the worst that can happen? Maybe my kid will miss a couple days of school while I move my mansion [to another district]… like… KATE: Or maybe I pull them out during human sexuality because I don’t agree with the gender conversation because I can afford to do that? ANDI: Exactly. My kid’s not going to like… drop a grade level. Nothing’s going to happen. And it’s spoons. Parents in poor communities don’t have the spoons. 244 Andi illustrates an important distinction between racialized poor parents versus affluent white parents in terms of parental choice and the ability to actively oppose what is being taught in schools. As they state, “Parents in poor communities don’t have the spoons.” By “spoons,” Andi is referring to Miserandino’s (2003) “spoon theory,” a metaphor for describing life with a disability whereby different activities or aspects of the day use up more “spoons.” Miserandino explains, “most people start the day with [an] unlimited amount of possibilities, and energy to do whatever they desire… I [use] spoons to convey this point” (para. 7). They continue to explain that non-disabled people have a “never-ending supply of spoons” (para. 9), whereas disabled people may start their day with a limited number of spoons that quickly dwindle as taxing encounters and activities take place. Miserandino’s spoon theory has since been applied throughout disability studies – and largely within queer and trans communities – to help illustrate chronic illness, physical disability and mental health challenges. In my exchange with Andi, they applied spoon theory to the experiences of parents who live within the necropolitics of colonialism, racism, ableism, and poverty, such that they do not have the abundant supply of spoons (privilege) to be able to “rock the boat” and openly dispute what is being taught in their children’s schools. Wealthy white parents, however, have the economic clout (and arguably, the ability and energy) to challenge schools on what they deem to be “inappropriate” subject matter. Rory mentioned a similar situation at her school where she is able to teach what she wishes, in part, because of the parental demographic. This freedom has led to Rory and her colleagues to describe their school as “the gayest elementary school in the city.” RORY: I think that my school's unique in that I teach in a really low SES school and the families that we have are, generally speaking, sort of occupied with life or death sort of issues, and they don't usually raise a fuss about things like human rights. But because I teach in [city redacted] and because it's such a religious community, there are lots of horror stories that go around in our community of families making a stink about issues 245 that are not really a big deal, about conversations and books and that sort of thing that are much less obvious and much less proud than some of the work we do in my school. It is interesting that Rory observes many families who are occupied with “life or death” issues, so much so that they don’t “raise a fuss about things like human rights.” It was insinuated, in our conversation, that low SES parents don’t have the spoons – to borrow from my conversation with Andi – to complain about or oppose queer, trans, and gender diverse (which Rory refers to in our conversation as “human rights”) content being taught in their children’s schools. The issues that Rory believes are impacting her parental community are effectively positioned as being distinct and oppositional from queer and trans rights. It is assumed in this conversation the parents Rory speaks of are cisgender and heterosexual and are struggling with income inequality and racialization. Later in our discussion, Rory added: RORY: We have a nice pocket of really progressive parents at our school, parents who bring their kids to Pride and who are really open with their kids about those conversations. We also have a group of parents that they're busy dealing with really pressing other matters in their lives. We've got lots of parents who are working two or three jobs, lots of parents who are battling mental illness, lots of parents who are on permanent disability, and so my experience with those parents is that they're less engaged, but I don't want to say that in a way that sounds negative or accusatory. KATE: No, I get it, yeah. RORY: But sometimes I think we benefit from our parents being less vigilant than some other parents in other places in our community where they have - some other parents in our community have stay-at-home moms who are always very involved in every single thing that's happening at the school. And some of what we do in my school goes unnoticed. And I think that our parent community has quite a lot of trust in the teachers in our school and in our education and training and our ideas about what to teach their kids because lots of our families are battling their own feelings of struggle in school. We've got a number of families [presumably, Rory means the parents] that are illiterate, and so they sort of let us do what we think we need to do for their kids because they see us as experts. KATE: Right, as opposed to in a lot of the wealthier communities where parents breathe down teachers’ necks, that kind of thing? 246 RORY: Absolutely, yeah. While not Rory’s intent, from the above conversation, positive or negative attention to queer and trans issues and rights are once again conflated with white privilege, relative wealth, and higher education. Perhaps missing from our conversation is the possibility that low SES, racialized parents are also part of queer and trans communities. Certainly, Rory’s school may be “benefitting” – in terms of being able to integrate queer, trans, and gender diverse content without opposition – from the implicit trust the parental community has placed in the school staff’s training and education and, consequently, translates to a less scrutinizing or vigilant approach from parents. It is noteworthy, however, that the “life and death issues” Rory refers to are positioned outside of the “human rights” that are taught in her school. If parents are struggling within the necropolitics of racism and poverty, many students in Rory’s school are likely to be facing the same realities. As a radical departure from the current norm, what would an affirming school community look like that takes an intersectional approach, attending to how queer and trans oppression is inevitably intertwined with issues of racism, poverty, capitalism, and colonialism? 8.5 Conclusion In this chapter, I highlighted some of the barriers limiting elementary educators’ ability (and safety, as will be explored in Chapter 9) to create queer, trans, and gender affirming schools and classrooms. Educators in this study faced immense pressure to meet the needs of marginalized students while also navigating increased workloads and class size demands, as expected within a neoliberal education system that underpins the workings of necropolitics. Additionally, many participants only felt equipped to support QTGD students once there was a visible or “out” 247 student through which to initiate conversations amongst staff and administration, seek out resources, and to prompt the need for professional development. Absent from many conversations with participants was locating their individual struggles to “attend to diversity” or support their QTGD students in the broader context of how schools function within the discursive practices of neoliberalism, which emphasizes a “business model” of education. Educators must also contend with institutional and cultural constraints as they navigate dominant societal misconceptions and fearmongering related to gender and sexual diversity. For example, dominant societal (mis)understandings of what it might mean to incorporate queer, trans, and gender affirming content into the classroom (recall how teachers in Randy’s school believed SOGI 123 would promote the teaching of “explicit” [read: inappropriate] material in the classroom) informed how educators in this study (and their colleagues) understood potential backlash from their schools’ respective parental communities. Fear of parental reactions (regardless of whether an incident had occurred or not) shaped how (or if) educators spoke about gender and sexuality in their classrooms. These fears are bolstered by the fact that Alberta Education conflates any discussion of non-normative gender and sexuality with the sexual health curriculum, and therefore requires a letter of permission from parents to discuss these topics with students. This provision not only contributes to increased stigmatization and misunderstandings of what it means to create queer, trans, and gender affirming schools and classrooms, but also foregrounds how cisgender identities and heterosexuality are so strongly embedded in the culture of elementary education, such that these identities, notably, do not require a letter. In the face of a verifiable dearth of educational resources, support, training, and professional development, participants spoke of “progress” in terms of creating supportive and 248 affirming environments for gender and sexual diversity through the singular efforts of individual educators in their schools (either themselves or colleagues). These efforts demand these educators take extra time, energy, and labour to “fix” or “accommodate” the “problems” relevant to QTGD students. While no one teacher or administrator should have to bear the burden of creating more affirming classrooms, this was a tactic employed by many schools when seeking to manage a queer, trans, or gender “issue” when no other professional support was provided. As Rory related, “last year we had some teachers do the kindergarten to grade three [LGBTQ+ and gender lesson plans] with the grade three class, but we haven't had anybody do them this year. That teacher moved to a different school.” Relying upon the knowledge, efforts, and labour of a few individual educators to create the kinds of environments needed to support and affirm QTGD students in schools are sporadic attempts at support and “accommodation,” rather than effecting systematic, lasting and meaningful change. The inner workings of cisnormativity and heteronormativity, embedded in the education system and rooted within queer/trans necropolitics, continue to remain elusive, while efforts for “inclusion” (for instance, one lesson on gender identity taught by one teacher) are merely a drop in the bucket. 249 Chapter 9: Educators’ Risks and Motivations in Supporting QTGD Students 9.1 Introduction The necropolitical landscape and discursive practices of neoliberalism, white settler colonialism, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity challenged educators in this study to be creative in their individual efforts in supporting their students – often at great personal and professional risk and sacrifice. This chapter first discusses how (and if) queer educators in this study “came out” in their classrooms and the risks they undertook when challenging dominant cisnormative and heteronormative discourses in their schools. I then explore some of the “risk management” strategies educators employed in order to mitigate some of the discomfort and precarity they felt, and to live a more livable life in their workplaces. Next, I share educators’ personal reflections, motivations, and the responsibility they felt towards improving school conditions for QTGD students, in spite of the immense institutional and interpersonal obstacles they face. 9.2 “Every year is a new coming out process”: Personal and Professional Risks “Parents don’t trust you if they think there’s something ‘wrong’ with you.” (Andi, rural elementary teacher) Due to prevailing discourses of “childhood innocence” and “developmental appropriateness,” in conjunction with anti-queer, anti-trans discrimination, discussing non-normative gender and sexuality is especially risky for elementary educators who shoulder the load of queer, trans, and gender diversity in their classrooms and schools (Allan et al., 2008; DePalma & Atkinson, 2009; Fredman, Schultz, & Hoffman, 2015; Payne & Smith, 2012, 2014). As articulated through many participant interviews, consistent with existing research, educators who identify as queer themselves are especially vulnerable to both personal and professional risks (Endo et al., 2010; 250 Grace & Benson, 2000; Gray, 2013). Rory, for example, recounted that she fears parents will reject her because of her queer identity, potentially impacting her ability to be an effective teacher: RORY: …there's always this fear that a parent is going to be really upset that we're teaching their child something that they believe is wrong… And then I think for me as well that I'm also gay, I'm always worried that the families will reject me personally as their child's teacher and that that will impact my ability to teach their kid. KATE: Do you feel like there's a sense of risk from being part of the queer community, risk as a teacher in having that be part of your identity? RORY: Absolutely. I think every year, every year is a new coming out process, right? And so, I have pictures up beside my computer of my wife and I and our wedding and the kids ask lots of questions. And so, every year it's like this whole new coming out with my class and also a whole new coming out with the parents and with all of the new staff. And so, it's one of those things where you always just take a deep breath when they notice the photo and they ask you about it and then jump in. KATE: And hope for the best? RORY: Yeah, exactly. Heteronormative discourses in education, where teachers are presumed to be heterosexual (Gray, 2013), have inevitably influenced Rory’s fears and anticipation of criticism and controversy in her career. Grace and Benson (2000) write, “in everyday life, heterosexism and homophobia have spawned a public pedagogy of negation, erasure and violence that violates queer identity” (p. 90), making it understandable why so many educators are fearful of “coming out” and being visibly queer to their school community. Similar to Gray’s (2013) findings, where participants were “unable to disrupt the heteronormative assumptions of [their] colleagues because of a lack of discursive space to do this without potentially causing professional difficulty” (p. 707), many educators in this study faced a period of negotiation and internal dialogue about whether or not it was a) safe, b) relevant, and c) 251 conceivable for them to reveal their queer sexual orientation to their administration, colleagues, and students. As Taylor expressed, “there’s a lot of teachers out there who are afraid to come out.” Interestingly, both Sara and Kathryn waited to “come out” to their students until they had a – legitimate, monogamous – relationship, perhaps through which to contextualize their sexual orientations. Kathryn said that while she doesn’t “shy away” from discussing her partner, she wouldn’t mention them if they were “just dating.” She states, “the fact that we live together and we're getting married, like that's important that they [students] hear those things.” Sara shared a similar perspective, explaining that she didn’t disclose her sexual orientation until she was married: I got married about five years ago, and then that’s when I first started coming out to students. Because before, they would say, are you married? And I would just say “no.” Because that was the truth. Sara continued to explain that, since having a child of her own, she feels she can freely disclose information about her family. For many queer participants, there is perhaps safety in “coming out” as queer but also married85 because it more closely aligns their sexual orientation and identity with heteronormative values. In essence, their queer identity may become more “palatable” through marriage. A number of participants told me how they used their relationship status or a photo of their wedding day to “come out” to their students, which helps to strengthen the connection between their queer identity and acceptable, homonormative family values, and possibly mitigate their perceived sense of personal and professional risk. As Duggan (2003) defines it, homonormativity is “a politics that does not contest dominant heteronormative 85 It would be interesting to interview educators who are in a relationship that “passes” as heterosexual, and how this possibly impacts their queer identity (and “coming out” process) in the classroom and school environment. 252 assumptions and institutions, but upholds and sustains them” (p. 50). “Coming out” in this way is a declaration of “neoliberal subjecthood in order to enter an expanded realm of normativity” (Martin-Baron, 2014, p. 53), akin to saying, “don’t worry, I’m just like you!” while preserving the structures that produce such norms. Queer necropolitics draws attention to how, by aligning themselves with the regulatory ideals of homonormativity to “fit in” with their colleagues, participants may be “folded into life” (Puar, 2007, p. 10) and granted rights and respectability, while racialized and “radical” queers are marked for slow death. Endo et al. (2010) explain how “heteronormativity embedded in the school system also informs gay and lesbian teachers how to behave in the educational setting” (p. 1024), whereby conforming to the “‘good teacher’ image…an image which perpetuates heteronormative expectations” (p. 1026) is required for social inclusion (Haritaworn et al., 2014), but inconducive to a radically queer identity outside of (monogamous, state-sanctioned) marriage. Participants noted that they did not feel they could “come out” until they were sure it would not impact their personal safety or career. Sara recalled that when she first began teaching, she was present during many staffroom conversations about Canada’s legalization of same-sex marriage: I was privy to many conversations and debates about the whole – like that was when same-sex marriage was, you know, coming to a front… And when people don’t know you, you’re privy to those conversations. If they know you’re gay, you’re not. And so, it was just… you really got a sense of how things were…and people’s opinions. What Sara heard from her colleagues was enough for her to not want to “come out” at the time. Sheila also expressed that her colleagues’ staff room discussions and vocal opinions on QTGD identities contributed to her overall sense of risk in “coming out.” Her colleagues would freely discuss their own (heterosexual) spouses, but never engaged Sheila in conversation. She said 253 “nobody ever asks me” about her partner and it was “hard to know where people stand” when it came to LGBTQ+ issues. After Sheila’s students kept asking her if she had a husband (indicative of well established, oppressive heteronormative discourses in elementary schools), she asked one of her colleagues, “is it ok to say I have a wife?” Her colleague’s reply reiterated discourses of childhood innocence, developmental appropriateness, and heteronormativity: She [replied,] “Oh well, I don’t know. They’re too young.” They were in grade two, and her own reaction was that way. Her husband is a social worker, so she went home and came back the next day, and she’s like, “You know what, I went and talked to my husband, you’re absolutely okay to tell them.” But her initial response was “no, it’s not age appropriate.” So, even just among teachers, it’s hard to get away from your own biases or to realize that you are approaching these things with a bias or with a stereotype in mind. Whether or not heterosexual teachers can or should talk about their personal lives and relationships at work is never a topic of debate. In Sheila’s case, however, it seemed her colleague and her colleague’s social worker husband (who presumably has access to different knowledges regarding LGBTQ+ issues) are positioned as gatekeepers (even by Sheila herself) in deciding if Sheila can or should discuss her life in the classroom. This example is indicative of the heteronormative discourses operating in Sheila’s school in which it is clear that QTGD identities are still considered non-normative and even taboo. In speaking of her administration, Sheila stated: They don’t know that I’m with a woman, so it’s always hard for me to know… like I know that my union would support me 100% and I wouldn’t lose my job or anything like that, but you don’t know which parents are going to be supportive. Like you just never know how it’s going to affect. It was disheartening to hear how many participants felt they needed to determine whether or not they would be fired from their positions for having a non-normative identity. Andi expressed fear they would be fired from their job if people were to find out that they are autistic: 254 “That’s another thing I can’t be out about. I’ve never told anybody in the teaching field that I’m on the [autism] spectrum.” Andi’s reluctance to disclose their neurodiversity is further contextualized by the fact they were previously dismissed for “admitting” that they have OCD.86 Andi told me they recognized their dismissal was illegal, and they could have fought it, “I could have sued them, but at that point – I didn’t have the spoons.” As a queer, non-binary, neurodivergent person with mental health struggles, Andi did not have the energy or resources to fight their wrongful dismissal. Undoubtedly impacted by having experienced discrimination in the teaching field, Andi told me that they “don’t talk about it [autism, mental health, their queer identity] in the classroom anymore. Parents don’t trust you if they think there’s something ‘wrong’ with you.” Andi is keenly aware of how schools are not designed for – or supportive of – non-normative identities, including those of neurodivergence, able-bodiedness, and mental health status. In addition to censoring their neurodiversity, Andi takes precautions to conceal their gender identity in the classroom “because gender is so often conflated with sexuality.” ANDI: I [pause] am not gender-neutral in the classroom. I am “Mrs. T” and I perform femininity. I don’t wear dresses; I don’t go that far. But if kids ask me why my hair’s so short, I just go “oh ‘cause I like it.” And there’s another thing, like I had on shorts one day, but I was really nervous about it ‘cause I don’t shave my legs. And all the moms were like “oh yeah, we’re lazy, we don’t shave either, like, we have 3 kids blah blah blah.” Andi’s gender identity and expression put them at risk of being “unintelligible” in the workplace, whereby the necropolitics of binary systems of sex/gender limits the possibilities of what is considered acceptable. As part of risk management in avoiding outing themselves as non-binary, Andi followed proper gender coding and discourse for what it means to be a “woman” – short 86 Obsessive compulsive disorder. 255 hair because they “like” it (not because it is part of how they express their non-binary gender) and sharing a cultural “busy mom” narrative whereby women no longer have the time to shave their legs, rather than it being a purposeful and legitimate choice. Andi continued: ANDI: There were a few moms I trusted with, you know, [the knowledge that] my partner’s a trans guy, and some of that I felt like it was performative, like [pause] “he’s really a girl, it’s ok if he’s with your kids.” Because there’s still anxiety about a man volunteering in the classroom. And my first year of teaching, we were really short on parent help. And he wasn’t working at the time, and so he would come in and help the kids. And they loved him! KATE: And so, did you feel like you had to disclose your partner’s [trans] identity to parents to alleviate those concerns? ANDI: [deep breath] that’s not how I phrased it to them, but yeah. I dropped it into conversation to ease their minds. [quietly] He doesn’t have a penis; he’s not going to rape your child [sigh]. It is not an uncommon narrative to hear of parents harbouring a perception (that is, one of wariness) of men who choose to be around young children as being “sexually suspect” (Berrill & Martino, 2002, p. 60). Doucet (2006), for example, writes about how the men in her study were keenly aware of their unwelcomed presence in traditionally female-dominated spaces. As Andi said, the hesitancy towards men who are around children is partly based on fear of sexual violence and abuse. This hesitancy references a “complex embodiment” (Siebers, 2008) in which one’s bodily experience will vary depending upon where it is socially located. Andi’s partner (presumably) “passes” as cisgender and thus his masculine appearance may pose an assumed threat to parents because of their cisnormative assumptions about his body parts – a biological essentialist perspective that serves to reinforce oppressive, transphobic, binarist conceptions about gender. Although Andi is aware their tactic is transphobic in nature, they disclose their partner’s trans identity as part of their risk management strategy to “ease” parents’ minds. It became clear Andi is particularly attuned to concerns surrounding safety and avoiding child 256 abuse, as this topic came up numerous times throughout their interview. From their perspective, given the highly cis-heteronormative space of early childhood education, perhaps the only convincing way to reassure parents of their partner’s presence was to “out” them. As Andi expressed, they got the sense parents only trusted their partner because of the unspoken and anti-trans understanding that “he’s really a girl,” rendering his participation in female-dominated, child-centric spaces as no longer threatening. The risk management strategies Andi employs – and navigates – as an early childhood educator, in a particularly conservative rural part of Alberta,87 continually conflicts with what they know to be true for themselves, their identities, and their family and community, but helps to reduce their precarity and mitigate potential for violence. It is imperative to note that the majority of educators in this study who spoke of “risk” identified themselves as white or white-passing. A significant gap in this research is to explore the risks faced by Black, Indigenous, queer and trans educators of colour whose experiences working in education are further complicated by the necropolitics of racism, colonialism, cis-heteronormativity, and anti-Blackness in schools (Brockenbrough, 2011).88 While all educators may be discursively positioned by the same systems of oppression, participants in this study, who are white and white-passing, notably did not directly experience the damaging consequences and material effects of institutionalized racism, and inevitably benefitted from their whiteness. Randy,89 who did not identify as a member of queer or trans communities, still 87 It is interesting to note that, in this particular context, it felt safer for Andi to “out” their trans partner. 88 There is an acute lack of existing research pertaining to the experiences of QTBIPOC (queer trans Black Indigenous People of Colour) educators. 89 Randy’s identities and subject positions offered an important conversation about privilege and “allyship.” Our conversation is explored in greater detail in section 9.2. 257 feared being reprimanded for his desire to teach about QTGD identities, though he benefited greatly from his privileges as a white, cisgender, heterosexual man. Notably, during his first year of teaching, Randy was “very scared with not having, like a continuous contract, not having that job security… Especially in our very conservative school. I was really worried about going too fast, too quickly [with his activism].” He went on to tell me that despite his job insecurity, he never stopped trying to have conversations with his administrative team or pushing them to be better. In speaking of how he was able to work with his colleagues and administration on being more open to gender and sexual diversity, he stated: I just put in the work and made good relationships, and when you do that it’s easy for people to sympathize and to listen and to want to have those conversations with you. And so now, like I would say, at my school, it’s about 50/50 with people that are doing very similar things and are actively searching out professional development. I feel like my admin 100% backs me in everything I do, because of the open communication I’ve always had with them, so I feel like it’s getting a lot better than it was four and a half years ago, for sure. During this conversation with Randy, it was important to see how his privileges supported him in reaching this point in his career. For instance, for the queer educators in this study, it was not “easy” for fellow staff, colleagues, and administration to engage in meaningful conversations about queer, trans, and gender diversity. It is too simplistic to say that Randy’s administration supports him because of “open communication.” We must turn out attention to who is communicating these ideas and in what ways. Randy’s proximity to – and embeddedness within – systems of colonial whiteness, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity make his voice more legitimate and efforts for gender and sexual diversity more palatable and more easily understood for those who feel threatened by these conversations. For Randy, it is far more likely that his administrative team supports him in his efforts because of the non-threatening privileges he 258 embodies, including his whiteness, cisgender identity and heterosexual orientation. I gently raised this point with Randy to unpack some of the nuance in his responses: KATE: Do you feel that ... I mean, you’ve spoken about the privileges that you have as a white straight male, is that how you identified yourself? RANDY: Yeah. Yes. KATE: Do you feel like those privileges have helped you in this journey and in being an advocate, particularly to other staff members and admin? RANDY: I definitely think so, at my school, for sure… Because everyone that I work with are privileged in more than one way. So, we have that in common. And when I share my story and my journey of, like being very ignorant and being just an idiot, growing up, and how I’ve changed and how I feel like it’s one of my obligations to use that ... my own journey to help other people on their journeys and just to try to learn something or to open their mind a little bit. That connection is easier to make and so that makes me happy, that at least I can provide some webbing to new allyships that are potentials, and blossoming. KATE: Yeah. And perhaps you’re not ... I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here, if you feel I’m incorrect in this statement, but perhaps you don’t feel a sense of precarity that other people might, if they were a queer educator doing this work? RANDY: Yeah, definitely. KATE: Your narrative is different from the ones that I’ve heard so far, and I think…I wonder if that’s in part because of the privileges that you do hold? RANDY: Oh, for sure. Yeah, I agree 100% that I ... there’s a sense of safety and security with the privileges that I have, so it’s - Yeah, I probably do find a lot of comfort and ease in going that route, because of my privileges, for sure. Initially, Randy responded to my question by expressing his sense of obligation to share his own journey from “ignorance to allyship” with his other privileged colleagues in the hopes that they may, too, open their minds. Eventually, we both acknowledged that he has a different sense of safety and security in his job which afforded him the opportunities and ability to be vocal about what’s important to him, whereas many others cannot. 259 In marked contrast to Randy’s ability to actively voice his beliefs and values to his administration, Taylor shared that he was once fired after he came out to his principal at a private school: There was a time when I was actually fired when I came out. So, I went through the human rights process – and they didn’t say they were firing me because I was gay. What happened was, I had a child in my class who had two parents, two moms…There was some negative talk going around about it, and there was also talk going on in the school about, “you’re gay, and you’re gay,” and using it as an insult, and I was feeling frustrated. I went to the principal, and I dressed this nicely [pointing to his suit], and I said, “and you know that I’m gay, right?” And he said, “actually I didn’t.” I said, “well, if you look, I’ve actually got a [rainbow] decal on the back of my car, and I don’t hide it from the kids, and most kids can actually pick up on it to be perfectly honest.” But they [the school] didn’t want me to be out. Taylor was not able to tell me whether or not the school he was fired from was a Catholic private school, but his experiences are consistent with existing research on LGBTQ+ teachers’ experiences of discrimination and dismissal in the Canadian Catholic school system (Callaghan & Esterhuizen, 2020). Taylor continued to experience discrimination in other positions. At a previous school, he had worked with three other gay men who were not able to come out “because it wasn’t a safe environment.” Taylor continued, “I've been in other schools where you sort of look around and you realize, there's nothing in this school to let me know that this is a safe place for me to be out.” The importance of queer visual cues in gauging an overall sense of personal and professional risk was also cited by other participants. Sara, for example, shared that her first principal was “out and gay” and once wore a sweater with a rainbow across it during a staff meeting. She told me that while no conversations ever took place surrounding the principal’s identity, she “just knew” he was gay. When she saw the rainbow sweater she remembered being surprised and relieved, “I was like, huh! And yeah, so that actually did give me a lot more confidence. I just was – still wasn’t ready [to “come out”]. But I remember that 260 did – it did stay with me.” Bill also expressed the importance of visual “safe space” cues, while noting the problematics with relying upon visual representation, “the symbols by themselves are not sufficient you have to also live it. But the symbols allow somebody to come in here who is a member of the [queer and/or trans] community and say, ‘Oh, there’s me.’” As Bill touched upon, the difficulty with visual representations and cues of “welcomeness” for (some) QTGD people – such as rainbow flags or LGBTQ+ “safe space” posters – is they do little to demonstrate how much (or how little) work has gone into actually disrupting systemic, oppressive anti-queer, anti-trans discourses in the school. Taylor’s comments about how he and his colleagues needed some sort of representation to feel a sense of “safety” led me to wonder how schools can demonstrate their commitment and ongoing work to challenge cisnormativity and heteronormativity with more than just posters and stickers. While having visual representation of LGBTQ+ and gender diversity in schools is a very critical component to harm reduction for QTGD youth, what constitutes a “safe space” is highly debatable (Sadowski, 2016). Arguably, it may be more consequential to disrupt cis-heteronormativity at its colonial root and ask why QTGD people need to come out in the first place. How do we build classrooms and schools where there is no need to assume, ascertain, or state one’s gender identity or sexual orientation? 9.3 “I bring my past with me”: Personal Responsibility and Motivations Arising from their personal experiences, connection to the topic, and motivation to support QTGD students, many participants in this study have assumed a leadership role when it comes to advocating for gender and sexual diversity in elementary education. In fact, all but one participant expressed a specific experience (such as a student who transitioned in their school) or a strong personal connection to QTGD communities, for motivating them to pursue the integration of gender and sexuality diversity into their classrooms and schools. 261 Since I was (and still am) interested in how educators who do not identify as queer might be motivated and invested in creating queer, trans, and gender affirming schools and classrooms, Randy offered an important opportunity to discuss how he developed (what he referred to as) his sense of “allyship” to LGBTQ+ communities. Our conversation, briefly discussed in sections 4.6 and 9.2 of this dissertation, is discussed in more detail below: RANDY: Growing up in Northern Alberta, in a small community, there wasn’t a lot of diversity shown. It was there, obviously, but the [LGBTQ+] individuals were definitely closeted or hidden away. And so not seeing that diversity I grew up and [my] ignorance started off just passively, with not knowing anything, and then I would say it even went to actively, where like I did say slurs …it definitely didn’t help or probably made things worse for some people, for sure…. I have a close family member that I always looked up to, who eventually did come out to the family… watching their journey was just super inspirational and helped me want to learn more, and it came to a point where I really had, like a guilt, kind of, for how I acted as a youth … So now I want to take that and help other people who are in a similar journey, with just not knowing, and helping them know, helping them learn and helping them know it’s okay and ultimately helping anyone who is marginalised in this community, in any of the communities to feel more welcome. KATE: I’m really curious to hear your perspective about how you personally feel you can reach people who might not have that knowledge [of LGBTQ+ communities] or might have those biases that you felt you had in your past. RANDY: I spend lots of time around people who are marginalized, as an ally, and it’s interesting, coming as a cisgender, heterosexual white male who, in history, is the oppressor, and I mean still is... sitting those meetings and these groups where I do get a lot of looks, like “you shouldn't be here” or “I'm the other,” and at first I would get defensive like "I'm just here to help." But now I understand that […] it’s okay that I’m the “other.” It’s okay that I feel uncomfortable, because many of the people I am around have felt that way for their whole lives, and in all different circumstances, and it’s okay that I feel that way, as long as I’m working to make it better for everyone. There are many salient points to unpack in my conversation with Randy as he occupies many privileged positions that are reflective of the identities and embodiments which are most valued in society. Randy’s narrative from ignorance to allyship (by witnessing a family member “come out”) is hardly new, but it is noteworthy in terms of exploring which educators are most likely to take on the labour and effort of becoming an “ally” to QTGD students. From my perspective, 262 Randy is saying all the “right” things about acknowledging his privilege as “the oppressor,” but misses some critical nuance in how he describes being “the other” and his “allyship.” My discussion with Randy captures the “messiness” of what it might mean for – and the limits of – a cisgender, heterosexual white male made to feel “othered” in spaces where he may indeed be the numerical minority (in terms of being the only one present with his privileges). At the same time, he will always be within the powerful discursive majority, and continually benefit from his subject positions and embodiments. Throughout his interview, Randy came across as a fierce advocate for queer, trans, and gender diversity, continually expressing his desire to help “make it better for everyone.” This sentiment at times came across as a kind of self-declared altruistic allyship and led me to wonder if there was another source of motivation for Randy’s advocacy work beyond cisgender, heterosexual guilt for how he acted in his youth. Participant responses throughout this research raise questions surrounding which educators are most likely to support QTGD students and accept the responsibility for this work. Frohard-Dourlent (2016) raised similar questions in their study of educators’ experiences with trans and gender-nonconforming students and concluded, “who participants ended up being is in part shaped by who is likely to work with trans and gender-nonconforming students, which itself is shaped by people who are perceived to be potential ‘allies’ to these students” (p. 276). Indeed, all but one participant in my study explicitly mentioned a personal motivation and vested interest in this work – to varying degrees – and Randy is no exception. Randy mentioned – in passing – that his child attended a camp for transgender kids, implying that his child is not cisgender. Though he did not cite his child as a source of motivation for his advocacy work and “allyship” (and nor should he have to), it became clear that Randy is simultaneously a cisgender, heterosexual white male, and also the parent of a transgender, non-binary, or gender non-conforming child. All of these elements of 263 Randy’s identity and subject positionings inform his understandings of altruism, and perhaps his motivation for such a strong commitment to this work. Many educators acknowledged their own queer identity – as well as the broader political context in Alberta – as their motivation to create queer, trans, and gender affirming classrooms and schools. As Taylor stated, “I bring my past with me, and I want to make sure that I’m creating a generation of children who feel safe in school.” In the group discussion, Taylor located his desire to help students feel safe within the context of Alberta’s upcoming election: There is a political agenda in Alberta right now that is diametrically opposed to the principles of equality, to a progressive view of education… something that we're going to end up in a very political battle over… I think, these changes are coming and do need to be fought against. Similarly, Gwen said that there are “lots of different reasons why I care” about integrating queer and trans diversity into her classroom and pedagogy and supporting QTGD kids more broadly. She cited the upcoming provincial election, noting that “Alberta is a scary place right now” and she sees “a lot of people that don’t feel safe... if the upcoming election shifts power, I think there's big work that's going to need to be done to protect students.” Gwen also said that although she’s not sure how her son will identify in the future, his gender expression is currently fluid, and she wants “the world to be kind to him as he grows up.” Taylor and Gwen both recognize the power the United Conservative Party (which had not yet won the election at the time of Gwen’s interview and Taylor’s group discussion) has over denying resources, rights, and protections to QTGD students. Queer and trans necropolitics highlights the deeply conservative and damaging ideologies of the UCP that underscores the state’s control over its most marginalized populations. At the time of these conversations, the UCP had already proposed an 264 agenda90 that directly and purposefully targeted queer and trans youth, reflecting a queer and trans necropolitical approach to governance that rationalizes the control of “unruly,” “undesirable” bodies and identities. Several participants cited their children as the impetus for their passion and motivation in this area, with Hazel and Bill noting the mental health challenges that their children have faced, underscoring the consequences of queer and trans necropolitics, particularly where trans and gender non-conforming kids experience precarity in binary systems of sex/gender (Travers, 2018). Throughout my conversations with participants, it became abundantly clear that I was not just interviewing educators who were interested in this work – I was speaking with people who carry experiences and traumas within necropolitical systems of governance that they have had to navigate with their own families. Hazel explained that she is “crazy passionate about it [LGBTQ+/gender diversity] because I’ve seen the mental health issues that my child ended up [in the hospital] with and I don’t want that for other kids, so I feel this huge responsibility to dive in and help other kids.” Bill’s child also struggled with mental health and was admitted to the hospital following a suicide attempt. He reflected: That day, the first day she went to the hospital, was the day we met her girlfriend… we brought her girlfriend to the hospital and she started getting better, and so in my mind, I associate LGBTQ with my daughter’s life…. So, my understanding of that community and what that is, is she’s alive because of it. You can’t learn that… the emotional connection there is unique. I know other people have it too, but where it happened for me, means that forever I will see the rainbow flag and think “it saves lives.” Bill expressly said his experience with his child’s hospitalization – and through witnessing how affirming both her queer relationship and identity “saved her life” – served as the motivation for 90 See section 1.3.1 265 the kind of school he has created in which he wants all students to “see themselves” represented and affirmed. The harms their children experienced sparked the motivations for both Hazel and Bill to become dedicated in supporting queer, trans, and gender diversity in their schools so that QTGD students do not encounter the same heartbreaking circumstances. Queer and trans necropolitics locates QTGD kids within systems of oppression that can be mitigated by familial and community support. Indeed, as Travers (2018) notes, “the resilience that transgender kids are able to marshal depends, to begin with, on the extent of their parents’ or caregivers’ resources – cultural and material – and then the degree to which these resources are available to them” (p. 117). That said, the obvious questions must be asked: why must it take such tragic situations – such as hospitalizations and suicide attempts – for queer and trans children to receive the supports they need, and what becomes of the kids who do not have families who are able (or willing) to look out for them. Further, what are the limits of familial and community support? 9.3.1 “Like me”: Queer Adult Origins in Supporting QTGD Children For a few participants, their own queer childhoods and histories greatly informed their work and motivations for creating queer and trans affirming spaces. Taylor reflected on his difficult past as a queer child, sharing how he was called “queer” (as a slur). He recalled his physical torment and how “teachers would actually [say], ‘boys will be boys,’ and they’d turn a blind eye.” His experiences, as he explained to me, undoubtedly inform how – and what – he teaches. For Sara, our conversation about her queer origins was much more in-depth. Returning to a quote from Sara, shared in the opening of Chapter 7: [Transitioning] caused her so much stress that she just decided she didn’t care, and she seems less stressed about it, you know? And some kids call her ‘him,’ and I asked what she [wanted to be called]– and she said, ‘you can call me 'she,' I don’t care.’ So, I call her ‘she,’ but I think that she feels very much like I did. I think she likes it if she gets mistaken for a boy. 266 A particular passage from the above quotation – “I think that she feels very much like I did” – echoes Airton’s (2013) argument “that the ‘queer child’ is the vehicle of queer adult longing for origins… a queer adult fantasy of wholeness and coherence is condensed in a belated mirror relation with children who are, in a phrase, ‘like me.’” (pp. 532-537). Sara’s student was indeed very much like her. The ways in which Sara understood and related to the student mentioned in the above passage were – as she acknowledged – inextricably tied to her own queer childhood and personal history. A significant factor in terms of Sara’s motivation to advocate for this student was linked to how closely the student’s struggles mirrored her own: SARA: So... like I grew up very identifying male, like for a long time. When I was a kid, though, like I – my parents were super amazing and supportive, and I had – my best friend was a boy, and my hair was like really short, like brush-cut, and I asked to be a boy, like every day. Like for my birthday, I’d blow out candles, wanting to be a boy. And my mom let me dress however I wanted, and I looked like a boy, and I was mistaken for a boy at school all the time. And people would – and I would never correct anyone. If someone mistook me for a boy, I would not correct them. KATE: Did you like being mistaken? SARA: Yeah. I got teased a little bit, once in a while, but I could also give it back just as bad… I was about maybe 12 or 13 when I realized what a lesbian was, and I was like, “ooh, I don’t want people to figure this out.” So, then I called those my “undercover years.” So, I like grew my hair out, and then moved across the country by myself, when I was 18, so that I could like just like figure this out on my own. So as soon as I landed, I like basically started cutting my hair, and started like, you know, and was almost in the process of transitioning [FTM] – and then I was dating this girl, who was straight, and she said – and I – she cheated on me with a boy – and I said to her, “this never would have happened if I was a boy.” And she was like, “oh no, honey. You’re five foot-one…I never would have dated you in the first place if you were a boy, because you’d be really short.” And I thought about that… up to this point I had been doing okay like with the ladies and realized that she was totally right. And I thought about some of my friends who were shorter guys, and struggled, and I don’t want to say she “fixed it,” but she made me – at – in that moment, it changed like for me forever. KATE: What did she change? What was that? SARA: She made me realize that I would not be happier. 267 KATE: As a man? SARA: Right. She made me realize I would maybe – will get by better in life, and be happier, if I just stuck with who I was. And, I mean, other than the long hair, and the makeup, I dressed – this is a – this [pointing to her shirt] is one of my girlier shirts. I actually usually wear button-ups all the way, done up. You know, my clothes – KATE: More masculine? SARA: Mm-hmm. And so that’s when I realized that it’s not so black or white, and that it’s not going to be for all the little trans kids either. So – and I think that the biggest fear that people is have is that, well, what if they transition, and then they change their mind? And it’s like it’s the - KATE: A little parental fear, too. SARA: Right. But even for the kids they might worry, you know? “Oh, that’s what [the kind of life] I’m looking at…”. But the thing is, is that you – that’s okay, you can change your mind…. I understand the whole transgender thing coming, and people who have so many fears, and so many worries, and one of them being that they’ll change their mind. But I don’t think that they understand that it’s so fluid, that they might change their mind 12 times in their life. They might feel feminine one day, and masculine another day. My conversation with Sara underscored how her own queer history was entangled with her perception of and investment in her student’s experiences of a non-normative gender identity. Sara’s negotiation of her gender identity had been greatly informed by a limiting gender discourse including narratives and expectations of what a “desirable man” is or ought to be. Her ex-girlfriend’s rigid belief that short men are undesirable or unattractive (reminiscent of culturally inscribed discourses of masculinity: as Sara noticed, her shorter male friends “struggled” – presumably with dating) evidently stuck with Sara for the rest of her life. She said her experiences led her to the understanding that gender is not so “black and white” and motivates her to help trans kids (and their parents) understand it’s okay if they change their minds about their identities: in other words, adopt a more fluid understanding of gender. Indeed, there is an expectation that gender is a stable identity, immutable once declared, especially for 268 trans kids. Adults and schools, generally speaking, are preoccupied with the idea of gender being a fixed identity (i.e., sex/gender-segregated washrooms, administrative forms organized by the sex/gender binary, unnecessary and harmful medical interventions for intersex kids) and, once a child transitions, a false perception that they can never “go back,” limiting possibilities for non-binary and gender fluid identities. My conversation with Sara continued: KATE: It sounds like that experience – thank you for sharing that with me – it sounds like that experience for you personally has impacted how you view these issues now, that it’s not so binary, perhaps… And perhaps those, I don’t know – I can’t speak for you, of course – but perhaps those feelings are still in you somewhere – SARA: Oh, yeah. Oh, I still – if I could snap my fingers and be a tall guy, 100%. Do I feel like a guy on the inside? Yes. Do I identify male? No. Like I use – I use female pronouns. KATE: It sounds like there’s a lot of slippage there - connections between gender identity and sexual orientation… SARA: Yes. I always knew I liked women. That was always a thing. I knew that I liked girls since I was like four, but I didn’t – I thought that that was just me. And then when I heard about what “gay” was, that was when I was like, oh God, other people are like this, and people don’t like it. And so… So, from seeing that, I realized that it’s so – even for me, I – it’s almost too hard to explain to so many people, you know? And so, I – it’s just easier for me to be this [gestures to self]. And I try and explain it to some people sometimes, because it’s easy for me to look like this [a mix of feminine and masculine], and I’m trying to explain that it’s – but then I have a friend, and he’s – he dresses in women’s clothing sometimes, but he also sports a moustache. And that makes people really uncomfortable. Because they can’t peg him… And so – essentially, we’re the same, but I – but it’s easier for me to look like this, and wear men’s clothes, than for him to have a moustache, and wear women’s clothes. That’s just – that’s a societal thing still… but society’s even coming along for if a little boy wants to wear a dress. That’s fine, but he can’t have a moustache and a dress, you know? It is interesting, and noteworthy, to hear if it weren’t for cultural expectations surrounding masculinity (and heterosexuality) and her “short stature,” Sara would likely have transitioned. Hearing Sara’s narrative reminds me of the rigidness surrounding cisnormative and heteronormative discourses – sometimes with heartbreaking realities for those who cannot live 269 up to gendered expectations. As she recounted to me, “it’s almost too hard to explain to so many people… it’s just easier for me to be this,” implying, due to the rigidity of the sex/gender binary and the ways transgender people are mistreated and misunderstood, she has resigned herself to a gender expression that does not fully align with her identity. She notes it is easier for her to “look like this” (based on Sara’s gender expression at the time of our interview, I assume this to mean a blend of femininity and masculinity) than it is for her friend to do the same, due to transmisogyny that disproportionately criticizes gender non-conforming and/or trans femme/feminine people for their feminine gender expressions and/or identities (Serano, 2007). Serano (2007) explains that while all trans and gender non-conforming people may experience gender policing and social stigma for “failing” to adhere to normative gender discourse, the additional marginalization and scrutiny of trans feminine people is not merely due to transphobia, but transmisogyny, the assumption that femininity is inferior (and exists for the benefit of) masculinity. Interestingly, but perhaps not surprisingly, Sara’s account of her student’s experiences – as shared in section 7.1 – with gender identity very closely mirror her own. As Airton (2013) states: Perhaps queer adults—the adults who watch out for these children particularly out of place—seek and retroactively inscribe the signs of our own “real” queerness on the bodies of selected children in the present. They are the vehicle of our own longing for the origin story denied us by the need to claim our backward birth; they are the matter, the ink and paper, of our own story of how we always were what we are. (p. 537) It is not a far stretch to wonder if a significant part of Sara’s motivation in supporting and affirming trans and gender non-conforming students is a nod to her own queer origin story. The 270 primary student Sara spoke of in her interview was the one who was not able to transition and was not treated in ways that aligned with their gender identity or expression. This student did not easily fit within either gender “box,” and they encountered resistance with rigid, transphobic understandings of gender to the point where the student “decided” not to care because it was “too stressful” to transition. Similarly, Sara’s decision not to transition was likely a constrained choice when considering how necropolitical regimes of sex/gender, sexism, and misogyny shape whose lives are rendered livable. Like her student, it seems Sara has also “decided” not to care, ceding to a gender expression that does not necessarily feel as aligned as she wishes, but is one she can live with. 9.4 Conclusion This chapter explored responses from educators who acknowledged they are among the few staff members at their school who are interested in this work and are known as the ones who “push limits” (Hazel). Assuming this role – whether consciously or by forced necessity – does not come without risks, as explored in section 9.2. Queer-identifying participants, in particular, face immense pressure and responsibility to “come out” and be the lightning rod for “inclusion” and “diversity” in their schools even though it can negatively impact their personal and professional lives. Indeed, Grace and Benson (2000) state, “when queer teachers are invisible in schools, queer students are denied the opportunity to identify with them as part of their own coming out and coming to terms with being queer” (p. 99). Grace and Benson suggest when queer educators do not (or cannot) come out, this contributes to an “educational shunning of queer students who are left to trespass hetero-normalized school culture where heterosexism and homophobia are at work” (p. 99). A number of participants concur with Grace and Benson’s argument and appeal for more teachers to “come out” and be willing to contribute to “real change” in schools. 271 Recalling how, as relayed in section 6.3, Kathryn believed her school “needed” her queer colleague to be “out,” it is clear schools rely upon queer educators for certain kinds of work or emotional labour. The expressed and felt “need” for educators to “come out” is indeed a response to a lack of institutional and administrative support for the work that needs to be done in schools to create queer and trans affirming environments. In the face of a lack of professional development and resources, queer educators are implored to put themselves at great personal and professional risk and take on the immense responsibility of making schools better for QTGD kids. For instance, the “queer liaison” position or GSA leader are often roles designated for queer-identifying educators. While this is perhaps understandable – queer youth greatly benefit from queer adult role models – there is enormous pressure and a sense of duty for queer educators to “come out” and extend their (already strained) personal thresholds for advocacy work – unpaid and not without risk. Rory reflected on how much work was on her plate, stating, “my students would love a GSA, but I don't have time to supervise that club, right? So, it's tricky.” Taylor was steadfast as he proclaimed, “those teachers who are feeling uncomfortable, I think they need to come out, and I think they need to be very open about creating safe spaces in their school.” He continued: Teaching’s a very personal profession. You have to be who you are when you are teaching, and if you’re not, you’re not giving your best teaching, and you’re not the best teacher you can be, and it’s not the best school it can be if you as a teacher – imagine that you as an adult don’t feel safe in a school. How does a kid feel? How does a six-year-old kid feel in a school where even their teacher doesn’t feel safe to come out, right? There’s still progress to be made, and I think the number one reason that staff need to be supported is because it’s good for students, because that’s what the school’s about. 272 Taylor makes a valid argument that for QTGD students to feel safe and supported, queer educators must also (or arguably, first) feel as though they are able to “come out.” Even in doing so, I fear the broader cultural, institutional, and necropolitical context is still missing from these conversations. While emphasizing a personal, individualized sense of “safety,” “comfort,” and “support” is commendable, it does not address the root of the problem: the ways in which white, able-bodied, cisnormativity and heteronormativity permeate throughout the school and broader education system which serves to discursively position those who are able to feel “safe” (and welcomed, validated, respected) and those who are not. Hunt and Holmes (2015) propose we ask, “critical questions about non-Indigenous queer and trans claims for safe space, rights, and belonging in the context of ongoing colonial dispossession” (p. 155). For example, is “safety” and “comfort” even possible for Two-Spirit educators in the context of a colonialist schooling system that continually reaffirms the sex/gender binary? Just as anti-bullying policies – with their individualized approach to discrimination and harassment – do not make QTGD kids “safer,” pressuring queer educators to “come out” amidst the necropolitics of racism, colonialism, and oppressive cisnormativity and heteronormativity do not attend to the broader issues and factors that continually reinforce anti-queer, anti-trans discourses in schools. As this chapter – and those before it – has explored, there is a distinct “accommodation” approach to supporting QTGD students which emphasizes a default assumption: children are – and will be until proven or stated otherwise – cisgender and heterosexual. As it often seems to be the case, a “crisis” must occur for educators to take a closer look how their current beliefs and perspectives, present systems, curriculum, and practices create intolerable environments for QTGD kids, and to feel the personal motivation for addressing these concerns. The typical catalyst in actively supporting QTGD students in schools often follows a predictable pattern: a 273 caregiver, educator, or school is made aware of a child’s non-normative identity (or identities), at which point, advice or counsel is sought from family, medical professionals or allied team members in order to support the child. This process is insufficient even for the most privileged QTGD students, let alone those who do not have a supportive care network and/or experience greater precarity due to the necropolitics of colonialism, racism, and poverty. As has been discussed throughout this dissertation, focusing upon individual accommodation and support ignores the institutional and systemic discourses and unequal distribution of resources that contribute to poor outcomes for QTGD children. Similarly, as this chapter explores, schools cannot hinge their efforts towards creating queer and trans affirming classrooms upon the shoulders of individual educators who have had a significant and impactful (often tragic) experience with queerness in their own personal lives. As Bill told me, “I don’t think you can create passion [for LGBTQ+ advocacy], but you can create the professionalism.” Professionalism in terms of educators’ professional obligation to creating “welcoming and safe” spaces for students may certainly be one tactic in the web of harm reduction for QTGD students, but I wonder how we might we destabilize the dichotomy between those who “care” and are “passionate” for queer and trans activism and those who simply do not have a vested interest or motivation? How might we generate a personal and professional investment in creating schools that are liberatory for all, rather than siloing the needs and “problems” of particular non-normative students? In raising these questions, I am reminded of the widely known and powerful statement from the Queensland Aboriginal activist group: “If you have come here to help me you are wasting your time, but if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then 274 let us work together.”91 Queer and trans liberation in schools is possible but doing so requires a collective effort to realize how we are all bound within systems of injustice and oppression that places limits on who and what we can be. 91 While often attributed to a speech in 1985 at the United Nations Conference in Nairobi given by Indigenous activist and educator, Lilla Watson, Watson has noted that she prefers the quote be credited to the Queensland Aboriginal activist group, since she describes the quote as arising from a collective process. See http://nationalunitygovernment.org/content/liberation-and-you-are-aboriginal-land 275 Chapter 10: Conclusion 10.1 Introduction: “A tougher path” One of my first interviews for this dissertation was with Hazel, an elementary teacher who openly discussed her struggles, passion, and motivations for queer, trans, and gender diversity both in and out of the classroom. She spoke freely about how her eyes had been opened to the vast array of queer and trans identities and experiences when her own child “came out,” first as lesbian and then as non-binary. Her child’s gender identity came up frequently throughout our conversation. At one point, Hazel said to me, “would I choose [for] them to have a tougher path in life? Absolutely not.” I reflected upon this statement and recalled how over the years my partner and I, and many of our queer and trans friends, had heard similar sentiments from well-meaning and concerned family members. The assumption that no one would actively choose to be queer or trans, as well as the belief that one’s queer/trans identity is part and parcel of dire circumstances or a “tougher path,” is indicative of the kinds of (im)possibilities many QTGD people face within necropolitical regimes of normativity that render some lives more livable than others. Although class and white privilege certainly aid in delaying the “slow death” (Berlant, 2007) of a white supremacist cis-heteronormative, patriarchal state, it is clear that prevailing cultural, societal, and necropolitical discourses are simply not intended – or conducive – for queer and trans lives to survive, let alone flourish. Even those who are highly invested (and are uniquely positioned to make a difference) in creating positive futures for QTGD children – such as parents and queer educators – face incredible barriers to achieving this vision. If it is difficult for Hazel, a supportive parent of a child with a non-normative gender identity, to imagine positive outcomes and futures for QTGD children, it may be equally difficult to imagine schools 276 and classrooms where queerness and transness are not only welcomed but celebrated and embraced. Among the many challenges in determining how to best support QTGD students in elementary education, one that was especially salient in this research is the belief that accommodations and changes to the school’s physical environment (such as installing universal washrooms) or curriculum are solely for the benefit of the queer or trans student(s) in question, without recognizing that such changes are beneficial to all students regardless of identity. Waiting until a student asserts a particular identity that initiates change within a school immediately designates queerness and transness as “other” while still maintaining cisgender identities and heterosexuality as assumed and “natural.” Throughout many of my discussions with educators on the topic of gender and sexuality in elementary education, queer and trans identities were repeatedly spoken about as if they were anomalies or aberrations in their schools and classrooms – a special circumstance that is sometimes welcomed, but more often feared and tentatively accommodated in the hopes that it might fade away quietly into the background. Even amongst queer identifying participants, queerness was often understood as specific to a certain community of people, rather than an identity or discourse that could be accessible to everyone. What might elementary schools and classrooms look like if we were to, as Airton (2013) suggests, imagine “all children [as] queer because queerness thrives in childhood” (p. 548, emphasis in original)? 10.2 Summary of Findings This dissertation set out to explore how elementary educators make sense of and engage with queer, trans, and gender non-conforming diversity in elementary education, and how those understandings inform their pedagogy and practices in the classroom and school environment. 277 The intended purpose of this research was to identify and explore the factors which motivate and support educators who are committed to creating affirming educational environments. This research was also aimed at exploring the specific strategies undertaken by educators, in their particular role or position within elementary education, as to how they supported queer and trans students. This research was guided by the following questions: 1. How do elementary educators “make sense” of and engage with queer, trans, and gender non-conforming diversity in elementary education? a. What discourses do educators draw upon to inform their understandings and practice in the classroom and school environment? 2. What supports (or impedes) elementary educators’ ability and/or willingness to incorporate queer, trans, and gender non-conforming diversity in the classroom as well as perceived or felt responsibility for this work? 3. What might a “queered” classroom and school environment, culture, and pedagogy look like? What is needed to create one? These questions were further guided by an analysis of the Alberta Guidelines for Best Practices and 12 school district level policies which illuminated how the (visible or known) presence of queer, trans, and gender non-conforming students is positioned as “the problem” to be solved or accommodated by school staff and administration. Importantly, this research has shown that the experiences and needs of these students are not universal nor do they exist in a vacuum. In Chapter 2, I explored how Euro-colonial discourses of gender and sexuality function as an organizational tool in education. I then traced existing literature pertaining to queer and trans issues in elementary education, with a focus on policy as “protection.” Finally, I situated prevailing issues and challenges regarding queer and trans “inclusion” and “diversity” within a 278 broader context of neoliberalism. Chapter 3 provided a brief history of poststructuralism, queer theory and queer/trans necropolitics and explain how I draw upon these theories as a framework to explore how colonial constructs of the sex/gender binary, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity have served as organizing and disciplinary tools in elementary education. This chapter traces key concepts that serve as the foundation for my findings and data analysis chapters: heteronormativity, the sex/gender binary, the heterosexual matrix, gender policing and passing, homo/transnormativity, and how the discursive practices of queer- and trans- negativity create disabling effects and violent consequences for QTGD people. Chapter 4 discussed the methodological influences, approaches, methods, and reflexive strategies used in this study specifically from a queered perspective. Throughout this chapter I emphasized how my epistemological and ontological perspectives supported me in paying critical attention to exploring how discursive practices and necropolitical regimes of normativity shape how educators talk about gender and sexuality in elementary education, but also the (im)possibilities of what can be said within those frameworks. I also engaged in a discussion of queer reflexivity to explore the “messiness” that comes with being a queer identifying researcher doing queer research. In these sections, I employed reflexivity to unpack how my positionalities inevitably affected my research process, participant recruitment, interviews, group discussions, and data analysis. Finally, I shared how I navigated my queer identity in the field and negotiated my role as a researcher. I detail how, in these moments, I shifted the dynamics of insider/outside status as I connected with participants as a queer person or offered “gentle interventions” as a queer educator and activist. The first findings chapter of this dissertation, Chapter 5, explored how educational policies, designed with the purpose of making safer, more welcoming schools for QTGD 279 students, appear to make recommendations for students with straightforward needs and identities that fit within the sex/gender binary and assumes students will already have a support system in place. As suggested throughout the policies analyzed, the motivation for seemingly meaningful change within the elementary school and classroom often follows a distinct “accommodation approach” in which a school is made aware of a student’s non-normative identity (or identities) and then seeks out individualized accommodation and instruction from the student’s family. Pedagogical practices that are affirming and supportive of QTGD identities are often contingent upon the visibility of individual queer and trans students, or reactively take place after “tragedy strikes.” Responsibility is then placed upon educators (and often the student’s family) to regulate this visibility, navigating the student’s “differences,” while ensuring they don’t feel or look too different. Specific accommodations for QTGD students, throughout the policies analyzed, are positioned through the lens of maintaining the sex/gender binary, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity, while ignoring the underlying necropolitical, violent conditions that lead to a need for these specific policies in the first place. In Chapter 6, I explored how schools are sites of normativity where “difference” is often added into the school or classroom in an attempt to create a more “diverse,” “inclusive” environment. The mere presence of difference, however, does little to confront pervasive discourses of whiteness, ableism, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity in elementary education. In explaining how they support (or have supported in the past) queer, trans, and gender non-conforming students, educators in this study drew largely upon discourses of diversity as a way to indicate their commitment and efforts to create safer, more welcoming educational environments. Many participants found themselves caught in the tension of “celebrating diversity” while minimizing differences amongst their students, highlighting necropolitical 280 constraints of who and what are considered worthy of celebration. This suggests that educators are not equipped with the knowledge and resources in being able to discuss broader systems of inequality, such as how white settler colonialism, racism, able-bodiedness, cisnormativity and heteronormativity play out in elementary education and society are large. I also discuss how discourses of diversity were often employed by educators in an attempt to “normalize” difference. A limitation of this approach, however, is that there will always inevitably be some identities that are more easily “normalized” than others (such as binary trans students), creating yet another disciplinary system through which bodies and identities will be surveilled. In Chapter 7, I shared specific stories and examples of how educators in this study navigated having “out” and “visible” trans and gender non-conforming students in their classrooms and schools. The stories detailed throughout this chapter highlight how the supports and accommodations available to educators are constrained within an institutionalized sex/gender binary and cisnormativity which privileges students who have other resources in place (such as supportive family members) to help ease their gender transition in school. Findings within this chapter emphasize how responsibility is placed upon individual trans and gender non-conforming students to assert their identities in order for their needs to be met or addressed, rather than challenging an institutionalized sex/gender binary in the education system. A queer/trans necropolitical framework shows how, in order to sustain and protect cisnormative discourses, trans and gender non-conforming students must be “accommodated” in particular ways. This individualized, reactive, “accommodation approach” to change in schools does little to create safe, long-lasting and affirming environments for students who do not identify within the binary or for those who are unable or unwilling to “come out” at school. With examples of how educators in this study supported (or attempted to support) their trans and gender non- 281 conforming students, I emphasize how schools operate within cisnormative discourses in which the physical environment, curriculum and everyday language and practices maintain the assumption of a stable sex/gender binary. A binary understanding of gender is a fundamental organizing tool within education that enables students and staff to relate to each other (and the physical environment) in particular ways (Woolley, 2015, 2019). Understanding cisnormativity as an educational regime of power helps to explain why educators in this study, even those who prided themselves as knowledgeable and supportive of the nuances of gender identity, often perpetuated cisnormative discourses despite their best intentions. This research explores how issues of gender and sexual diversity rarely make their way into elementary curriculum, policy, and pedagogy unless a QTGD student is made known, emphasizing an “accommodation approach” that works to solidify inadequate and insufficient understandings of queerness and transness in schools. In Chapter 8, I situated this approach by discussing how educators, who are interested and invested in this work, are tasked with doing so in the context of a neoliberal education system that is discursively positioned and shaped by the sex/gender binary and heteronormativity. With increased workloads, class sizes, pressures to meet standardized curricular demands and greater pressure from parental communities, educators in this study expressed a lack of time, energy, resources, and support to regularly implement lesson plans and activities on QTGD issues. Such lessons and topics are additionally seen as additive rather than something that can and should be integrated into the curriculum. While there may be a tendency among educators to blame themselves for being “unaware” of the inequalities present in their classrooms, it is more constructive to ask how dominant discourses and the necropolitics of colonization, racism, and the sex/gender binary function to obscure the need for social justice interventions in elementary education. The ways in 282 which white supremacy permeates elementary education, for example, are ubiquitous to the point where its disruption in curriculum and classroom practice require intentional thought and planning. For example, many educators in this study said they intentionally celebrate Black History Month. Though not an inherently problematic pedagogical choice, the fact that educators widely dedicate one month of the school year to focusing on Black histories highlights the dominance and acceptance of white histories in our education system. A similar and interconnected prevailing assumption is that students are (and will continue to be) cisgender and heterosexual, masking the need for queer, trans, and gender diversity issues to be integrated (until a student “comes out”). Using “inclusion” as a framework for supporting QTGD students is therefore merely a band-aid solution to inequity in the classroom when contrasted with how settler colonialism, whiteness, cisnormativity and heteronormativity provide the foundation for knowledge, policy, and practice in elementary education. These assumptions also influence the kinds of administrative supports and professional development opportunities offered to educators which tend to focus on introductory, superficial information pertaining to LGBTQ+ identities and offer easy-to-implement reactive “accommodation” measures to the presence of a queer, trans, or gender non-conforming student. Finally, in Chapter 9, I discussed the personal and professional risks assumed by educators in this study – particularly those who identify as queer – as they shoulder the responsibility for creating safe, affirming spaces for their QTGD students and themselves. The queer-identifying educators in this study faced additional risk as they questioned whether or not it was safe, relevant, or conceivable for them to “come out” in their workplaces. Many participants shared that one strategy they used in order to “come out” at work was to wait until they had a legitimized, monogamous relationship to discuss with their colleagues and students. 283 In doing so, educators (perhaps unknowingly) strengthen a connection between their queer identity and heteronormative family values (i.e., the “palatable queer”), thereby mitigating their sense of personal and professional risk. The hesitation felt by queer educators in this study as to whether or not to reveal their personal identities (for fear of job loss, judgement, or parental backlash) once again highlights the unalloyed dominance of cisnormativity and heteronormativity in elementary education, as well as the necropolitical underpinnings of who is seen as worthy of acceptance and respectability. Throughout this chapter – and dissertation at large – I interrogate why queer, trans, gender non-conforming students and educators need to “come out” in order for their needs to be met. Further, I question if and how we can build classrooms and schools that are no longer governed and organized by gender identity or sexual orientation where it is unnecessary for anyone to “come out.” The ways in which elementary educators in this study made sense of gender and sexual diversity in their professional lives were inevitably shaped by their personal experiences and interactions with non-normative genders and sexualities – often through their own queer identities or by having a queer, trans, or gender non-conforming child. All but one participant noted a particularly profound encounter or collection of experiences with queerness and/or transness that influenced both their perspective on queer, trans, and gender diversity in elementary education and their motivations for working towards creating more queer- and trans-affirming schools and classrooms. In concluding Chapter 9, I make a call for collective efforts for queer and trans liberation, in recognition that we are all governed by the same systems of oppression which limit knowledge and understandings of the diversity and expansiveness of ourselves and others. 284 10.3 Research Limitations The limitations of this research are located within the nuances, complexities, and “messiness” of doing interview and group discussion research, as well as the scope of this study. Although the purpose of conducting interview and group discussion research was to explore how participants discursively positioned themselves (and others) within larger power relations and systemic inequalities to make sense of gender and sexual diversity, it is important to acknowledge the limits of this approach. For instance, responses from participants cannot be viewed as “evidence of that which is real” (Davies, 2004, p. 4, emphasis in original). It is therefore impossible to ascertain whether participants’ narratives of their experiences within their schools and classrooms are “accurate,” or if there were other important considerations or factors to their stories that went unmentioned. Furthermore, the limited number of educators who participated in this study does not permit me to make broad claims about the state of education in Alberta, although it is important to note the significant overlap in participant responses – and the discourses they drew upon in their sense-making of gender and sexual diversity – from multiple different roles in education and geographic locations across the province. Another limitation in this research are the privileged subject positionings and embodiments of my participants (the majority of whom are white, [presumably] cisgender educators) that limit the viewpoints and perspectives that are shared in this dissertation. A significant gap in this research is to explore the how Black, Indigenous, queer and trans educators of colour incorporate queer, trans, and gender diversity into their schools and classrooms, while also navigating the necropolitics of racism, colonialism, and poverty. This research is also limited to the lens through which I interpret and analyze the policy documents, 285 interview, and group discussion data as a queer white settler, and how my embodiment as a white person shaped the recruitment process and conversations with participants. While I contend that it is crucial to focus on the discourses and necropolitical regimes of normativity that contribute to disabling environments and increased precarity and vulnerability for QTGD students (rather than conducting research with queer and trans students themselves), this research may be still limited by its sole focus on the experiences of educators. Consequently, the intersectional nuances of the students discussed by participants in this study were not captured by my research questions. For instance, I relied upon discussions of each participant’s general perception of the demographic makeup of their school to help inform my analysis. Having more in-depth information about how QTGD students (and their caregivers) navigate oppressive systems of inequality in elementary education might have strengthened my research findings. Lastly, I am grateful to the work of Frohard-Dourlent (2016) for reminding me of the critical importance of reflecting upon and “acknowledg[ing] the tension of doing queer and trans research on…indigenous lands without centrally focusing on indigeneity” (p. 276). As Hunt and Holmes (2015) argue, “examinations of settler colonialism often remain peripheral to theorizations of queer rights and gender and sexuality more broadly (p. 155). Although I situate the sex/gender binary and normative sexuality as being central to the project of ongoing colonialism in Canada (in which Indigenous understandings and ways of knowing were – and continue to be – eradicated), this was not the primary focus of this dissertation. Admittedly, my understandings of Indigenous rights and sovereignty and the discursive practices of cisnormativity and heteronormativity as being located within the histories of anti-Black racism and white settler colonialism have significantly evolved as I wrote this dissertation. For future 286 research, I see the importance of taking up Hunt and Holmes’ (2015) call to “focus on strengthening knowledge of local Indigenous gender and sexual identity practices, building knowledge of both contemporary and historic Two-Spirit issues on the lands in which we live” (p. 160) with decolonization being fundamental and integral to the queer and trans liberation I seek. 10.4 Contribution and Significance The findings throughout this study contribute to the growing body of research by scholars studying how cisnormative and heteronormative discourses have permeated and informed early childhood and elementary education (Bickmore, 1999; Blaise, 2005b, 2009, 2013; Curran, Chiarolli, Pallotta-Chiarolli, 2009; Davies, 1989a, 2003; DePalma & Atkinson, 2006; Gansen, 2017; Martin, 1998; Renold, 2000; Stafford, 2013; Thorne, 1993; Thorne & Luria, 1986; Wohlwend, 2009) as well as how queer, trans, and gender diverse identities and expressions are understood and supported (or not) in elementary education more broadly (Allan et al., 2008; Cumming-Potvin & Martino, 2014; Curran et al., 2009; DePalma & Atkinson, 2006; Malins, 2016; Payne & Smith, 2014, 2017; Woolley, 2015, 2019). Notably, findings from over two decades ago are consistent throughout this dissertation research, revealing that little has changed in Canadian elementary education with regards to gender and sexuality. This dissertation makes a critical contribution to the field by exploring how elementary education is shaped by necropolitical regimes and white settler colonial discourses of gender and sexuality that bestows privilege and support to some queer, trans, and gender non-conforming kids and not for others. My findings also contribute to the field by illuminating why current government and school district policies, administrative interventions, and classroom strategies for queer and trans “inclusion” are insufficient (Meyer & Keenan, 2018). The logic of queer and 287 trans necropolitics underscores my findings and analyses by showing how, in order to protect prevailing systems of whiteness, cisnormativity and heteronormativity, the vulnerability, precarity, and “slow death” of Indigenous, racialized, impoverished, and disabled queer and trans kids becomes a necessity. Necropolitical governmentality at the level of elementary education means normalizing the “mundane violence” of gender policing, control over how and where trans and gender non-conforming students move throughout the school, and “reactive accommodation” approaches to policy implementation that suggests which students are “invited into life” (Haritaworn, et al., 2014, p. 20) by virtue of their proximity to whiteness and intelligibility within binary systems of sex/gender. The “reactive accommodation” approach discussed and critiqued throughout this dissertation is more than just an inadequate reaction to queerness and transness in schools – it is a productive technology in and of itself that functions to ensure and protect the necropolitics of colonization, racism, classism, and perpetuates binary systems of sex/gender, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity. This research provides evidence that interventions pertaining to queer, trans, and gender diversity in elementary education – even those considered to be “Best Practices” by Alberta Education – are inadequate to reform, let alone transform, institutionalized education. Prevailing interventions and “best practices” fail to create the kinds of classrooms required to actively affirm (rather than simply tolerate or accommodate) queer, trans, and gender diverse identities and expressions – particularly those who do not have whiteness, economic wealth, and the sex/gender binary as normative touchstones. Queer and trans necropolitics elucidates how it is not necessarily and/or exclusively through literal weapons that kill those who are excluded – QTGD students are exposed to the possibility of death that is both literal and symbolic (Mbembe, 2003). At the elementary level, it is through policy provisions and “best practices” 288 that provide life-giving resources, affirmation, and support to some queer and trans students, at the expense of their more vulnerable and precarious peers. Notably, recommended policies and practices for elementary educators to foster “safe, welcoming, and inclusive” educational environments for queer and trans children, take place within a colonial institution that continues to perpetuate harms, not just to queer and trans kids, but to all students who are bound within and restricted by the sex/gender binary, cisnormative, and heteronormative discourses. While one of the original purposes of this research was to explore educators’ motivations, strategies, and practices for queer, trans, and gender affirming schools and classrooms (in part, as an inquiry into how more educators might take up discourses that support QTGD students), their stories reveal that, even with the best of intentions, their strategies are going to fall short within an institution that reifies privileged identities and reinforces the sex/gender binary. I am skeptical of district, school, and classroom interventions and accommodations that are only initiated by the presence of a marginalized student and are not systematically or adequately integrated into the curriculum and daily pedagogy. The passion and dedication of the educators who participated in this study, who have expended much of their own personal time and resources to support QTGD students, cannot be overstated. It is abundantly clear throughout my findings that what impedes educators’ ability (and often willingness) to centre queer, trans, and gender diversity in the elementary school and classroom is the schooling system itself. 10.5 Suggestions for Harm Reduction Although I am wary of making suggestions or recommendations that are likely to be insufficient given the extent of existing oppressive discourses at an institutional level, I am also reminded of the participants who were frustrated by the dearth of information and tools for educators eager to support their queer, trans, and gender non-conforming students. I am therefore caught between 289 my desire to offer practical solutions for educators to implement in their classrooms and schools and knowing these suggestions can only go so far towards creating the kinds of meaningful educational environments that are so desperately needed. Nevertheless, I offer the following suggestions, as a starting point, for harm reduction strategies and interventions necessary to creating educational spaces that move away from restrictive binary sex/gender norms and heteronormative assumptions. The following suggestions will benefit all students but will particularly benefit those who have not (or will not) “come out” or are experiencing conflict within the sex/gender binary and heteronormative system. To help approximate a school’s cultural climate surrounding QTGD issues and assess staff and administration's readiness to begin implementing the following suggestions, I recommend Woolley and Airton's (2020) “School Climate Chart” (p. 14-15). The authors detail four different school climates, recognizing there are many factors that influence how receptive educators and school environments may be to structural, curricular, and procedural changes. 1. Mandatory professional development. In order to begin to shift school culture, educators need ready access to mandatory and comprehensive professional development that discusses how cisnormativity and heteronormativity function in elementary education and how they are rooted in white settler colonial discourse. This professional development should provide non-additive suggestions and resources for how to proactively anticipate and prepare for the presence of QTGD students in their schools and classrooms without relying upon identity disclosures or expressions of “gender difference” (for example, an assigned male at birth student who displays interest in traditionally “feminine” activities or gender expressions). Educators also need comprehensive professional development regarding sex education so as to teach 290 students about their bodies without relying upon sex/gender-based discussions and reaffirming cisnormative and heteronormative assumptions. I suggest professional development should be on-going (rather than on a one-off, as-needed basis) and include all school staff. Since parental and community dissent to QTGD policies and practices usually stem from a lack of knowledge, I also recommend professional development and information sessions be available to broader parental and school communities. 2. Challenge cisnormativity and heteronormativity by acknowledging QTGD identities as legitimate and valid for children. Children engage with gender and sexuality as part of their everyday lives. However, prevailing discourses of childhood innocence and developmental appropriateness limit this engagement within the sex/gender binary and heterosexuality. Consequently, queer, trans, and gender diverse expressions and identities for children, in particular, are frequently categorized as taboo or deviant. Acknowledging QTGD identities and expressions as legitimate and valid for children and recognizing children’s agency to explore a range of gender and sexual identities through self-exploration, imaginative play, media, and peer interaction are critical to challenging cisnormativity and heteronormativity. a. Avoid assumptions about how students currently identify or will identify in the future in terms of gender identity, expression, and sexual orientation. b. Proactively anticipate that students of diverse gender identities, expressions, and sexual orientations will be present in the school and classroom, regardless of whether or not they have “come out.” 291 c. Recognize how schools and classrooms are organized by sex/gender (e.g., washrooms, sports teams, group activities, language) and establish new spaces and practices that are not reliant upon gendered categories. d. If discussing family structures or romantic relationships, include a variety of relationships with people of different gender identities, expressions, and sexual orientations (beyond only “same-sex” couples). 3. Structural and procedural changes within schools: Reducing institutional reliance on the sex/gender binary. a. Ideally, build or renovate school washrooms and change rooms to be gender-neutral including single-stall washrooms throughout the school and universal group washrooms with floor-to-ceiling stall doors.92 I recommend that schools offer non-surveilled access to the single stall washroom (if one is available) to all students, not just to those who have expressed a need or desire for it. If renovation is not possible, alter signage to include multiple gender identities or, ideally, completely remove gender as a marker. b. Create space on administrative forms for students’ legal names, chosen names, and pronouns. c. Familiarize all school staff (including reception, custodial staff, administration, playground supervisors, educational assistants, teachers, librarians, etc.) with QTGD identities, expressions and pronouns (and how to ask for, use, and respect 92 One participant, Bill, shared his plans to build universal washrooms in his school with floor-to-ceiling stall doors (with a master key in the principal’s office, should students need assistance) and a wall open to the hallway. He believed his proposal would reduce a myriad of problems, including “bullying.” 292 pronouns). Discourage staff from making assumptions about, and policing, students’ gender identities and expressions. 4. Classroom pedagogy and curriculum. a. Limit cisnormative and heteronormative language in the classroom (such as “boys and girls,” “mom and dad”). b. Regularly integrate queer, trans, and gender diverse books, activities, lesson plans and discussions into the curriculum regardless of whether or not a visible or “out” student is present. c. Familiarize students with the practice of asking for and using gender pronouns. For example, routinely integrate different pronouns as part of regular discussion and have a basket of pronoun buttons available for volunteers to use when they join the classroom. 5. Focus on needs rather than identities. Policies that seek to support or accommodate QTGD students often rely upon students asserting a particular identity in order for their needs to be met, suggesting that identities are fixed and stable. By focusing on needs rather than identities, students may be able to assert their needs (such as stating the pronouns or washrooms they wish to use) without having to declare an identity, thereby allowing for greater gender and sexual fluidity. 6. Centre the needs of (and create a school system for) the most marginalized students. As Love (2019) suggests, creating a school system that is intentionally designed to centre the needs of students who have historically been displaced and negated will create environments that will benefit all students. A profoundly important intervention for improving the well-being of QTGD students is to create a schooling system that centres and “direct[s] social 293 change efforts to increasing the agency of the most precarious trans kids” (Travers, 2018, p. 200). Doing so “will incorporate the gender self-determination needs of more privileged trans kids” (p. 200) and arguably create the environments necessary for all kids to be afforded the freedom to explore their gender identity, expression, and sexual orientation. 10.6 Looking Ahead: Recontextualizing the Research in 2020 The world is different now than it was when I first began this research in early 2019. In the wake of public uproar surrounding the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Tony McDade, Dion Johnson, Breonna Taylor and George Floyd, a global interest in the Black Lives Matter movement (Bogdan, 2020; Jackson & Lao, 2020), continual violation of Indigenous rights (Palmater, 2020; Ryan, 2020), and facing the ongoing economic, social, and political upheavals of a global pandemic, I find myself reflecting upon my research and asking how my findings are situated within the world today. The individuals named above are certainly not the first and only Black lives to be murdered at the hands of state violence, but the public outrage at these deaths have been remarkably intense, sustained and widespread for a number of crucial reasons. George Floyd’s murder, following Arbery’s and Taylor’s, occurred in the middle of the COVID-19 lockdown in the United States in which increasing unemployment, anxiety, and political unrest led to what might be described as the perfect storm for mass protests demanding racial justice. George Floyd’s last words, “I can’t breathe,” have been used as a rally cry by the Black Lives Matter movement since the same words were uttered by Eric Garner, a Black man who was murdered by New York City police in 2014 (Baker, Valentino-DeVries, Frernandez, and LaForgia, 2020). These three words speak to the life-threatening effects and consequences of oppression. Not only could Floyd literally not breathe in his last moments, but metaphorically could not breathe 294 throughout his life as he navigated the necropolitical landscape of state surveillance and institutional, systemic racism. Likewise, many people in queer and trans communities, especially trans feminine people of colour and Two-Spirit peoples (NIMMIWG, 2019), live within a nexus of state violence and control, intersecting with white settler colonialism, racism, transphobia, classism, and misogyny. The National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls notes that “rates of violence against Métis, Inuit, and First Nations women, girls, and 2SLGBTQQIA people are much higher than for non-Indigenous women in Canada, even when all other differentiating factors are accounted for” (NIMMIWG, 2019, Exec. Sum., p. 3). Even a cursory look at the systems of injustice that treat Black, Brown, and Indigenous peoples as disposable begs the questions: under what conditions are people being asked to live – or die? In what ways are the lives of those around us made more or less livable and grievable (Butler, 2004a) than others? How do existing necropolitical regimes within elementary education contribute to the ongoing vulnerability and precarity for queer, trans, and gender non-conforming children of colour? While it is beyond the scope of this dissertation to engage in an in-depth discussion of prison abolition and defunding the police, it is necessary that we, as researchers and educators, look towards eliminating the conditions and systems of injustice that lead to policing inside and outside of schools. It is crucial to recognize how QTGD students face institutionalized state control over their bodies and identities and to acknowledge that the most precarious racialized, impoverished, disabled students will often face increased punishment and surveillance. The public schooling system is built for those who are more able to easily navigate white, cisnormative and heteronormative discourses, and is intentionally designed to funnel marginalized people into systems of greater surveillance. Recall, for example, how policies and 295 practices that are in place as “band-aid” solutions for anti-queer, anti-trans bullying and harassment, contribute to the school to prison pipeline for racialized, poor, disabled, and Indigenous children and youth and do little to improve educational environments for queer and trans students (Meiners, 2015; Travers, 2018). In many ways, this dissertation explores how QTGD students are not granted the same conditions and educational environments to survive (let alone thrive) as their white, able-bodied, cisgender, heterosexual peers. As indicated by the alarmingly high rates of queer and trans youth who experience ongoing discrimination and harassment, depression, and death by suicide (Hatzenbuehler, 2011; Higa et al., 2012; Russell, 2003; Taylor et al., 2011), it is clear that within systems of necropolitics, queer and trans kids are often unable to breathe or exist as they are or wish to be. Although one of the main purposes of this research was to explore how educators made sense of queer, trans, and gender diversity in elementary education, participants’ stories highlight how school environments failed their QTGD students simply because they lived outside of the sex/gender binary and cisnormative, heteronormative ideals. Participants in this study discussed the students in their schools and classrooms who were scrutinized and monitored by other staff members, struggled to have their names and pronouns used and respected, denied the right to use the bathroom of their choice (or had no suitable option available), or were forced into conversion (“normalizing”) therapy. The students who were able (or willing) to alter their physical appearance, identities, or employ a number of strategies to live a more livable life while at school, were more likely able to do so by virtue of their proximity to homo/transnormative, white, middle-class privilege and cultural ideals. 296 With increased focus and attention93 on the importance of dismantling white supremacy and engaging in anti-racist work in our day-to-day lives, it is my hope that these conversations may be leveraged and make their way into the sphere of public education in order to begin challenging and unsettling the white settler colonialist, cisgender, hetero-patriarchy that is dominant within school policies, practices, and curriculum. However, the implications of implementing and navigating COVID-19 precautions in which schools have been opened despite increasing numbers of cases and deaths around the country (D’Amore, 2020), raises questions about how much time and energy educators will have to tackle issues of social justice. The Alberta Teachers’ Association released a report in June 2020 detailing the stress, anxiety and fatigue felt by teachers across the province as they were balancing teaching their students online, homeschooling their own children and dealing with their own mental and physical well-being (ATA, 2020). Inevitably, as the school year began in September, teachers have reported “extreme and unsustainable levels of fatigue, stress, and anxiety” (Johnson, 2020, para. 2). Many educators are concerned about their students in “at-risk” categories as students themselves manage isolation, increased stress and anxiety both at home and school, food and economic insecurity and the potential for decreased family support as parents and caregivers face unemployment, illness and smaller (or non-existent) care networks.94 Should schools close again (either temporarily, as they have been when an outbreak has been declared, or more permanently), questions and concerns are raised about which students are able to access the kind 93 Anti-racist book sales have surged (Flood, 2020) and social media platforms, such as Instagram and TikTok, are being used as both activist and educational platforms (Rosenblatt, 2020). 94 Care networks are decreasing due to having to maintain a small “bubble” to reduce the spread of the virus, the closure of daycare centres, and staying home from work or school at the sign of a COVID-19 symptom. 297 of technology, care and support required95 for at-home learning. If schools close entirely, one option for at-home learning is to create “learning pods,” where a small group of students meet with a teacher, parents or tutor (Dangerfield, 2020). These pods, however, are shaped by race and income inequality where it is the more privileged, wealthy children who have access to this option. The schooling system – in-person or online – does not (and cannot) support all students equitably and justly under the best of current circumstances. As Sandset (2021) argues, “the COVID-19 pandemic is entangled with necropolitical factors of slow violence and death that preceded the pandemic and adds to the disproportional distribution of vulnerabilities towards the risk of infection, death, and economic impoverishment” (p. 2). Certainly, the most precarious students, who are devalued within the necropolitics of colonialism, racism, poverty, ableism, homophobia, and transphobia, will be – and have already been (CUPE, 2020; James, 2020; van Lancker & Parolin, 2020) – affected more profoundly by the COVID-19 crisis. In examining the findings of this dissertation, it is clear that the COVID-19 pandemic will exacerbate these issues and also highlight the failings of our current education system. I am fearful, for instance, that the supports currently available for QTGD students such as the Guidelines for Best Practices, school GSA clubs, and the efforts of educators who are invested in this work – which, despite their shortcomings, are critical for harm reduction for queer and trans kids – will fall by the wayside. COVID-19 containment measures will continue to drain schools, staff, and administration of their time, money, energy, resources and impact their ability to gather safely in groups and build communities that are paramount to the safety and wellbeing of queer 95 Especially for disabled students whose learning is often dependent upon Educational Assistants and technology that may not be available or accessible at home. 298 and trans kids and the queer-identifying educators in this study. Perhaps more than ever, we require new, more resilient, justice-focused educational policies, practices, and systems that are capable of affirming and supporting students through – and beyond – these unprecedented times. 10.6.1 Suggestions for Future Research Despite the concerns raised surrounding public education and the COVID-19 pandemic, there is the potential to open up and expand necessary conversations about how vulnerable communities could be better served and supported through guaranteed basic income and greater social services and supports (Green, Kesselman, & Tedds, 2020). Schools – and the education system more broadly – also have the opportunity to be reimagined differently. There is a limit, however, as to how much change, harm reduction, and reform can take place within elementary education given current social, political, and cultural discourses. A broader conversation needs to be undertaken regarding cuts to school funding (particularly under Alberta’s Conservative government), lack of access to gender-affirming healthcare, and punishment as a means of social control whereby the most vulnerable members of society face incarceration that continues to perpetuate the cycle of inequality. The COVID-19 pandemic presents a unique opportunity to explore how schools may be reimagined in ways that will better serve and support a range of social justice issues. While there is an extensive field of research surrounding gender and sexuality in junior and senior high schools, research in the area of queer, trans, and gender diversity at the elementary level is in its relative infancy. Future research exploring connections between white settler colonialism and queer and trans oppression within teacher education programs would provide greater insight into how colonial discourses play out in elementary education and impact educators’ perspectives on queer, trans, and gender diversity and their intersections with racism, poverty, and ableism. As suggested in my research, students with gender identities and 299 expressions that do not adhere to the sex/gender binary directly challenge the way cisnormativity pervades school policies and practice. As educators begin to recognize more students are exploring non-binary identities and/or gender fluidity, research, focusing particularly on the experiences of non-binary and gender non-conforming elementary students, is crucial when seeking to change school cultures. Additional research should explore what queer(ing) education could look like, especially outside of our current institutionalized education system, bridging the problematic gap between queer research and decolonial efforts (see Hunt & Holmes, 2015). What does it mean to queer education beyond gender pronouns, bathrooms, and intake forms? What does it mean to decolonize elementary education? Finally, I recommend future research focus on what it means to conduct “abolitionist teaching,” defined by Love (2019) as “the practice of working in solidarity with communities of color while drawing on the imagination, creativity, refusal, (re)membering, visionary thinking, healing, rebellious spirit, boldness, determination, and subversiveness of abolitionists to eradicate injustice in and outside of schools” (p. 2). Rather than measuring oppression in schools, I would like to see educational research that actively seeks to dismantle and eliminate systems of oppression and injustice. 10.7 Concluding Thoughts: Imagining Queerness in Elementary Education “Hating injustice is a queer value.” (Andi, rural elementary teacher) Although I asked the question at the end of each interview, Andi was the only participant who had a concrete vision for what they imagine a queer school and classroom to look like: KATE: If you could just dream up this beautiful queer future, what would a queered classroom look like? ANDI: So many, many books. And everything would be accessible, online too, parents could share these resources. There would be e-books that you could lend out and share 300 with your families, there would be family nights – come learn, bring your grandparents and they’ll see that it’s [queerness] not scary! … Lots of language about emotion, lots of language about empathy, and support. So many resources… it would also be a place for so many different learning styles and neuro-diversities and disabilities. Because we don’t keep one group safe at the expense of others. There would be couches, bean bags, tables, standing tables. There would be printed language, there would be sign language being used… I would talk about the experiences of mixed race kids. I would talk about how race is a social construct. I would do units of study on what it would be like if our world looked like this or this. And it’s hard to do that without being appropriative. But I would want advice from people in those communities. [I would say] “How do I bring your viewpoint into my classroom? Come teach my kids!” KATE: And do you see that as being a specific queer classroom? ANDI: Yes! KATE: And how do you see that as part of queerness? ANDI: Because “queer” is… here’s where I’m going to get political. “Queer” is an agenda to make things better. Queer is a verb. When you “queer” something, you are opening the door. You’re making it less binary in every sense. It’s not about good kids or bad kids, it’s about kids who make choices. It’s not about whether you’re gifted and talented or in special-ed, it’s about everywhere on the spectrum. Queering things is making more room. KATE: I love that all of this is falling under the queer umbrella for you. ANDI: It is! It is. Because there’s no other part of my life that would make sense without this framework. Hating injustice is a queer value. Andi’s vision of a queer classroom is not limited to accommodating QTGD students or creating environments that are “good enough.” Their approach to queerness in schools is one of intersectionality where “to queer” is to make more room for all identities and expressions. It has become clear throughout this dissertation, however, that the social and cultural change that is required to actualize Andi’s vision of a radical, queer, intersectional school cannot take place within our existing education system. My research reveals the limitations of policies, professional development and strategies for “inclusion” that can only go so far to bring certain queer and trans kids into the fold due to 301 prevailing discourses of settler colonial whiteness, cisnormativity, and heteronormativity in elementary education. For instance, many of the QTGD kids discussed throughout this dissertation had the love and support of their families and teachers and had privileges that aided their transitions or experiences of gender in the classroom. Recall Leah, whose binary gender transition at school was made possible with the support of her family (who had the willingness and ability to advocate on her behalf), a dedicated principal and compassionate teachers who took it upon themselves to seek out information and resources to support her. Indeed, as Travers (2018) argues, “the ways in which life-affirming resources that enable transition for the trans kids who are able to access them have a necropolitical footprint for others without such access” (p. 172). It is therefore imperative to ask how Leah’s experience while transitioning in school might have been different had she been in a state of greater precarity and vulnerability. There are undoubtedly queer, trans, and gender non-conforming students who are unable or unwilling to be visible in their schools – and nor should they have to be in order for their whole selves to be affirmed and their needs be met. Once again, I echo Airton’s (2013) assertion that “queer young people ought to be left alone” (p. 533). The focus and scrutiny placed upon how to accommodate and “fix” queer and trans kids (when there is truly nothing broken about them in the first place) through policy and interventionist, “accommodation” strategies are merely distractions from where the focus needs to be. We cannot rely upon educational reform to create the kinds of school systems necessary for Black, Brown, Indigenous joy and resilience to thrive, and for the expansiveness of queer and trans identities and expressions to be fully embraced. As Angela Davis (2020) states, in speaking of the structures of policing and punishment, “ironically, many efforts to change these repressive structures – to reform them – have instead provided the glue that has guaranteed their continued presence and acceptance” 302 (para. 1, emphasis added). The focus on reform “has superseded other paths toward change” (para.1). 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To save me writing down too many notes, with your permission, I will be recording our conversation today. There are no right or wrong answers – I’m interested in learning from and with you. Background 1. Briefly describe your current position in elementary education. 2. How long have you been in this particular role? 3. How would you define LGBTQ+/gender diversity and inclusion? a. How did you come to this definition? [prompt: personal interest, family, friends, occupation, pride, events, media, etc.] 4. Do you know anyone who identifies as LGBTQ+/gender diverse in your personal or professional life who has impacted your perspective/definition? 5. Have you ever attended any trainings or workshops on LGBTQ+ issues, either for personal or professional development? 6. Would you consider yourself “involved” in the queer community, and in what ways? 7. Has your thinking or understanding of the LGBTQ+ community or gender diversity evolved over time? a. In what ways? b. What helped facilitate or support these changes? Professional Experience - Educator 1. What has your experience been with LGBTQ+/gender diversity in elementary education and in your role specifically? 2. Do you feel LGBTQ+ and gender diversity are important and/or relevant in elementary education, and in your role in particular? a. Why or why not? b. How are they important and/or relevant? 347 3. If applicable, can you tell me about the first time that you worked with an LGBTQ+ and/or gender diverse student at your school/in your role? How did you first learn that the student was LGBTQ+ and/or gender diverse? a. What were your thoughts originally? b. How did other people at the school react? 4. What are your experiences with implementing gender non-conformity, gender roles, or LGBTQ+ issues, or sexual orientation in your [position]? a. Could you please provide me with an example? b. How did you respond to this event? c. How did students/other staff respond? d. Were some changes easier to implement than others? 5. Do you talk about gender identity and/or sexual orientation with your students? a. In what contexts? b. What resources do you use your draw upon? 6. How do you think LGBTQ+ and gender diversity inform or interact with other kinds of “difference” or “diversity” at your school, or in elementary education in general? (by this, I am referring to race, class, disability, neuro-diversity) Professional Experience – School 1. How would you describe the school’s overall response to the LGBTQ+/gender diversity in the classroom and school environment? a. Could you provide me with an example? 2. Are you aware of protocol or policies in your school to help address/support LGBTQ+ students? a. Has this come up in staff meetings or discussions? 3. Would you say there is support and encouragement within your school to implement and engage with LGBTQ+/gender diversity in everyday teaching practices/school culture and environment? a. If yes, what kind of support and from who? [prompt: other staff/administration/principal; parents, students] i. What has occurred in your school – to the best of your knowledge? b. If no, why do you think that is? 4. Has there been any professional development offered to help you with LGBTQ+ and gender inclusion/diversity, and how this applies to your role as an elementary educator? a. If yes, have many have you attended? i. If yes, what do you recall from this experience? ii. After the workshop/training/info session, do you feel better prepared to implement all aspects of the guidelines into your role? 1. If no, what seems to be missing? 348 iii. Are there specific areas of the guidelines that seem more challenging than others to implement? b. If no, are you interested in professional development sessions to help increase your knowledge and understanding of the guideline? / have plans to attend in the future? 5. Are you aware of any of your colleagues’ experiences with LGBTQ+/gender diversity in their school or in their classroom practices? [make clear that there is no need to be specific about the identity of the colleague if concerns arise. This question may also pertain to colleagues outside of the school the educator currently works in] a. Could you provide me with an example? b. Have you had discussions with colleagues –in your school, or perhaps at a different school or educational environment- about this topic? 6. From your experience to date, how would you describe parents’ overall response to LGBTQ+/gender diversity issues in education? [Probe for specific stories or examples]. Policy/Alberta Guidelines 1. Are you aware of the Alberta Government’s “Guidelines for Best Practice: Creating Learning Environments that Respect Diverse Sexual Orientations, Gender Identities and Gender Expressions? 2. To make sure we are both familiar with the document I am talking about, I’d like to go through the document very briefly. [Provide printed hand-out of the policy and read through together] 3. When and how did you first learn about the guidelines? [Prompts: Through the ATA/other organization/other staff/administration or principal/professional development/parents/students/own interest/media] 4. Would you say there is support and encouragement within your school to implement the guidelines and engage with LGBTQ+/gender diversity in everyday teaching practices/school culture and environment? a. If yes, what kind of support and from who? [prompt: other staff/administration/principal; parents, students] i. What has occurred in your school – to the best of your knowledge – since the guideline has been introduced in 2016? b. If no, why do you think that is? 5. Has there been any professional development offered to help you understand the guidelines specifically and how to use them in your role as an elementary educator? a. If yes, have many have you attended? i. If yes, what do you recall from this experience? 349 ii. After the workshop/training/info session, do you feel better prepared to implement all aspects of the guidelines into your role? 1. If no, what seems to be missing? iii. Are there specific areas of the guidelines that seem more challenging than others to implement? b. If no, are you interested in professional development sessions to help increase your knowledge and understanding of the guideline? / have plans to attend in the future? 6. Have you personally implemented any of the Alberta guidelines in your daily work as an elementary educator? a. If yes, could you please share an example with me? i. How did students respond to this? ii. If applicable, how did parents respond to this? If no, what would need to happen for you to implement the policy in your work? [Prompt: more professional development, time, resources, prompting from students/their parents, staff or administration] 7. Have any parents approached you regarding the Alberta guidelines? a. If yes, could you share an example of this with me? i. What was your response? 8. Are there any areas of the guidelines that resonate with you? [or excite, intrigue, confuse etc.] a. Please elaborate. 9. Do you feel there are areas in the guidelines or supports for teachers or other staff members that could be improved? a. If yes, please explain. Conclusion 1. What would you say is the biggest barrier or challenge to implementing LGBTQ+ and gender diversity/inclusion in elementary education/ your role? 2. What do you feel is needed to support this work in your school/in the education system as a whole/ your role? 3. Is there anything else you would like to share with me before we wrap up? Thank you very much for speaking with me. 350 Appendix B - Demographic Survey 1. Today’s date: ____________ 2. Your name: ________________________________________ 3. Gender pronouns: ______________ 4. Please provide a fictional first name you would like us to use in the research: _______________________________________ 5. Current position in elementary education (i.e. teacher, principal, EA, teacher on call, librarian, etc.) ________________________________________ 6. Number of years working in elementary education: ____________ 7. What grades have you taught, if any? ________________________________________ Please note, the following questions are optional: 8. Age: ______ 9. Gender identity: _____________ 10. Sexual orientation: ______________ 11. How would you describe your racial and ethnic (cultural) background? _________________________________________________________________ 12. Language background: ______________________________________________ 13. Religion: ______________ 14. Educational background (i.e. Bachelors degree, Masters degree, PhD, certificates, etc.): ______________________________________________________________________ 351 Appendix C - Recruitment Poster 352 Appendix D - Letter of Invitation Study Title: From policy to practice: LGBTQ2SA+ and gender inclusion in elementary education Dear Educator, My name is Kate Paterson and I am a PhD candidate in Educational Studies at The University of British Columbia. I am conducting a research project on LGBTQ2SA+ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans, Queer, Two-Spirited, Asexual, the + sign indicates all other identities on the gender/sexuality spectrum) inclusion and diversity in elementary education, particularly within the context of the Alberta Government’s “Guidelines for Best Practice: Creating Learning Environments that Respect Diverse Sexual Orientations, Gender Identities and Gender Expressions.” Please note, knowledge or experience with these guidelines is not a necessity. According to a national report by Egale Canada Human Rights Trust, 64% of LGBTQ2SA+ secondary students reported feeling unsafe at school, 74% of transgender students reported verbal harassment on the basis of their gender expression, and more than one in five LGBTQ2SA+ students report physical harassment or assault (Taylor et al., 2011). The majority of research in this area focuses on high school students, while there are very few studies done on this topic in elementary education. It is my hope that my research will help to fill this gap, and explore how we can support LGBTQ2SA+ inclusivity beginning at an earlier age. I am writing to you because you have expressed interest in participating in this study. I am seeking elementary school educators who are interested in (or those who are already doing this work) implementing LGBTQ2SA+/gender inclusion and diversity in their role as an elementary educator and/or in their school environment. It is important to note that I have no interest in critiquing or judging educators’ practices. Rather, it is my intention to learn from, and with educators, as to how we can create more inclusive, welcoming, and supportive environments for LGBTQ2SA+/gender diverse students, families, and staff. Please find below important information about the study: What is involved in the study? • A 60-90 minute interview about your experiences with LGBTQ2SA+/gender diversity in elementary education. Interviews may be in-person (depending on your location and my availability to travel) or via skype/telephone. In-person interviews will take place in a quiet public location, such as a community room or library. At the beginning of the interview, you will be asked to fill out a basic demographic survey. 353 • You may also be invited to participate in an optional group discussion/workshop with other like-minded elementary school educators in Alberta. This group discussion/workshop will take place in both Calgary and Edmonton (you will be given a choice of location) and will offer the opportunity for educators to share stories, challenges, and triumphs of LGBTQ2SA +/gender inclusion and diversity. Please note, you are welcome to participate in the interview without participating in the group discussion. Confidentiality: Personal identifying information you provide will remain confidential. All data and documents will be kept in a password protected file, or locked filing cabinet. Participants will be identified using a pseudonym in all study materials and publications. It is important to note that there may be limited confidentiality in the group discussion/workshop. We will encourage all participants to refrain from disclosing the contents of the discussion outside of the group; however, we cannot control what other participants do with the information discussed. This dissertation will be a public document and will be made available in the future. Once data is made publicly available in the dissertation, you will not be able to withdraw your data from the study. If you decide to participate, the personal identifying information you provide (e.g. your name) will remain confidential. All other information will be shared using a pseudonym. Voluntary participation: Participation in this study is completely voluntary. If you choose to participate in this study, you are free to withdraw at any time. If I do not receive a response from you in two weeks, I will send you a follow-up email. If you would prefer to not receive this follow-up email or any further communication, please let me know using the contact information below. Contact information Should you have any questions or would like further information, please feel free to contact myself at [email]. You may also contact my thesis supervisors, Dr. Deirdre Kelly at [email] or Dr. Mona Gleason at [email]. Thank you! Sincerely, Kate Paterson, co-investigator Dr. Deirdre Kelly, principal investigator
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“It’s a very careful line we walk” : how educators resist, navigate, and make sense of the queer, trans necropolitical landscape of elementary education
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