Reflection, Knowing and the Practice of Democracy in Service Learning Keith Morton, Providence College February 2015 The Civic Purposes of Service Learning When I think about the purposes of service learning, I find it useful to recall the following story, which I first came across in Louis Menand’s (2002) The Metaphysical Club. Alice Palmer, wife of a prominent member of the philosophy faculty, had invited Jane Addams to speak at a planning conference regarding the University of Chicago’s intention to create a settlement house, precursor to the present-­‐day community center. Addams was invited because of the success of Hull House, a settlement she had co-­‐founded in 1889, five years earlier. Addams would go on to serve on the government panel investigating the notorious Pullman Strike, co-­‐invent the field of social work, the community center and youth work, and win a Nobel Prize for Peace. Her understanding of the relationship between experience and learning, and her work with university faculty and students would make her a “grandmother” of service learning (Morton and Saltmarsh, 1997). Alice Palmer knew her, at this point, because of Hull House, and she assumed that Addams would be pleased to advise the startup of another settlement. John Dewey, also on the University’s philosophy faculty, and a long-­‐time friend and colleague of Addams, was present at the exchange. He reported to his wife: “ ‘There was no special aim’ [held by the settlements] Addams told the meeting, ‘because a settlement wasn’t a thing, but a way of living – hence had the same aims as life itself…Miss Addams hoped [the university’s] settlement wasn’t being started from…the desire to do good. Philanthropy had been identified with helping instead of with interpretation.’ ” (Menand, 2002, 312) In other words, Addams believed that a settlement house was a way of knowing, a site for a process of interpretation. She and her friends had created Hull House as a place not for doing good, but for interpreting the new social situation created by urbanization, industrialization and immigration. In its rush to do good, she expected the University would overlook this process of interpretation and leap into action, attempting to fix problems it did not, in fact, understand. It would concentrate on addressing material conditions rather than on entering into and revising social relationships. The next day, Addams told Dewey she considered Palmer “a dangerous nuisance.” I think of this story whenever I listen to or participate in a discussion on integrating service and learning in higher education. To rephrase Addams: colleges and universities have come to identify service learning with helping instead of with interpretation. And I want, here, to make a case for identifying service learning -­‐ and civic engagement -­‐ with interpretation rather than helping. This is an argumentative, counter-­‐cultural and perhaps even radical position, and I want to present it with some care. Community service, as Addams and her contemporaries were profoundly aware, grew out of changed social relationships, in circumstances where traditional charity had a degraded meaning or value. Urbanization, industrialization, industrial capitalism and immigration were profoundly changing social relationships and, as communal bonds unraveled, people found themselves increasingly isolated and in need, cut off from the organic provision of communal resources. Charity and philanthropy – what we now call “community service “ -­‐ were expected to fill the gap. In other words, the two necessary conditions for the concept and act of community service were, and are: 1. People or the environment are suffering and require assistance, and 2. Social bonds and the resources of a social system are not strong enough that the members of a community can be counted on to care for one another or their place. Community service, in other words, is a concept and act invented in the early 20th century to respond to the growing number of situations in which these two conditions obtained. Community service is how we respond to human suffering when social relationships are attenuated or alienated and a community is no longer intact. In “The Subtle Problems of Charity” (1899), Addams asked, poignantly rather than rhetorically, what distinguishes a neighbor loaning a second neighbor in need a pair of shoes from the giving of a pair of shoes to a person in need by a “charity worker”? Her answer revolves around the attenuated relationship of the charity worker and the person in need: “A most striking incongruity, at once apparent, is the difference between the emotional kindness with which relief is given by one poor neighbor to another poor neighbor, and the guarded care with which relief is given by a charity visitor to a charity recipient. The neighborhood mind is immediately confronted not only by the difference of method, but also by an absolute clashing of two ethical standards.” (p. 164) One act, repeated. Two clashing interpretations. This is the fundamental dilemma of service learning, to understand what our actions mean as they are interpreted by people we do not know and by members of communities of which we are, most often, not a part. How did we become so divided? How do we begin to understand the reality of an “other”? Our intentions, in this instance, count for very little, or nothing. Our judgments about the rightness or impact of our actions count for little by themselves. We are confronted with a problem of interpretation; and this problem is predicated not on our actions but on our relationship to an “other.” The dilemma of modern service, in other words, is relationship and, by extension, the problem of community. I want to explore this dilemma by considering the ethics of knowing in service learning. Knowing I first heard of Nelle Morton, in April of 1991 at a seminar offered by Parker Palmer to a gathering of religious studies educators, at a retreat center in south central Minnesota. Nelle Morton, Palmer said, describes a type of listening so intense that it can literally hear someone into speech. I liked this image and continue to think of it as the purpose of community service -­‐ an act of empowerment and an opportunity for agency. It seems to me the foundational act of democracy. To be heard. To listen. To draw forth meaning. To be invested enough in another person that you draw forth their voice. It is not unlike the call borrowed from Langston Hughes by educator Herman Blake (Melodia and Blake, 1993), who journeyed from the Black Panthers to a college presidency, to mentoring many in service learning: “listen eloquently.” The phrase “hear into speech” appears in Nelle Morton’s collection of essays, The Journey is Home,(1986) as she considers what a gender-­‐inclusive church might look like, and how it might differ from a male-­‐dominated church. One difference, she suggests, is that the emphasis might shift from speaking to hearing. We might revere a divinity that hears us into speech. We might practice faith by mimicking this – hearing others into speech. It is a useful image for us to ponder. Service is often constituted as being action-­‐oriented, about “speaking”. What if it was not about doing and fixing, but about relationship: not about “speaking” to a community, but about hearing a community into being? What if it wasn’t about “helping,” but about interpretation? This is what Addams meant, I think, when she rejected the University of Chicago’s settlement and described Hull House, in Democracy and Social Ethics (1902) as a living experience of interpretation. Hull House existed to hear the marginalized people of Halstead Street in Chicago into being a community. This is the fundamental act of what is called, in community service, empowerment. Author Wally Lamb (2004) offers as part of his reason for teaching writing to women inmates, and for publishing some of their stories in Couldn’t Keep it to Myslef, this thought: “To imprison a woman is to remove her voice from the world, but many women inmates have been silenced by life long before the transport van carries them from the courthouse to the correctional facility…[these] essays, then, are victories against voicelessness – miracles in print (p. 9).” In a similar vein, Lori Pompa (2002) describes immersing the students in her service learning class at Temple University in two correctional institutions: “[the students] are provided direct, unadulterated exposure to the exigencies of a particular context. This immersion engenders deeper interaction and involvement, often manifesting as a statement of solidarity with those who are struggling…What emerges is the possibility of considering the subject matter from a new context – that of those living within that context. The interplay of content and context provides a provocative juncture that takes the educational experience to a deeper level” (p. 68). Interpretation The concept of “interpretation” was first described by philosopher Josiah Royce (1908, 1916) in the early 1900s, as he tried to understand the changing nature of community, and it informed the “pragmatism” of his colleague, William James. James’ “Moral Equivalent of War” (1910) is often cited as a foundational document in calls for national service. The centrality of relationship in the joined problems of community and interpretation is also expressed in the “I/Thou or I/It” question framed by Jewish theologian Martin Buber (1923) during the same period. The thread of this relational and “interpretive” perspective is evident in the critiques of service, much cited in the service learning literature, offered by Ivan Illich (1968) and John McKnight (1989); and it is implicit in Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1970), which argues for the fundamental importance of educating the oppressed of the world to tell their own stories, in their own voices. Illich, McKnight and Freire all point to the danger of power imposing its narrative on the lived experiences of other people through the guise of service. In a more affirmative voice, this thread is carried through Parker Palmer’s reflections on community and learning, beginning with “Community Conflict and Ways of Knowing,” (1987) and is woven into Margaret Wheatley’s (2009) recent call for conversation as the foundational act of community building in Turning to One Another: Simple Conversations to Restore Hope to the Future. This ongoing emphasis on collectively “interpreting” experience, and recognizing as fundamental its inherent pluralism, has two other strands of cultural history worth noting: its place in the philosophy and practice of nonviolence, and its centrality in democratic and civic engagement. This matters because of the impact of nonviolent social movements (and particularly the Civil Rights movement) on the values and practices of service learning, and because service learning in higher education claims democracy and civic engagement as its ground. Nonviolence does not imagine a world without conflict, but argues that conflict should be resolved without resort to violence and in ways that are more just and equitable over time. A parallel argument can be made that democracy, at its root, is simply an agreement to resolve communal and public conflicts by sharing power rather than resorting to force (Arendt, 1958; Schell, 2004). While Mohandas Gandhi’s is not the first or last voice in the history of nonviolence, he offers a useful way of conceptualizing it in his autobiography, The Story of My Experiments with Truth (1925-­‐29) and in his collection of essays, Nonviolent Resistance (1961). His ideas and experiences, filtered through American practitioners as varied as WEB Dubois, Richard Gregg, James Lawson and Stoughton Lynd (Halberstam, 1999) had a profound impact on the Civil Rights movement in the US. Arguing that the purpose of life is to get at the truth of things, Gandhi describes nonviolence as a process of interpretation with three practices: self-­‐purification; the constructive program; and the political program. Self-­‐purification is about looking into one’s own life, being honest about the degree to which values and behaviors are aligned or misaligned, and following through on the implications of this insight; what in the student development literature today is called “values clarification.” The constructive program (community service), while intended to help those who are suffering, is primarily an opportunity to establish a relationship with people experiencing suffering, and learn from them and with them about their experiences and situation. Like Addams, the goal of Gandhi’s “constructive program” was not “helping,” but coming together for interpretation – a process that could cast new light on values, interests and perspective. By political program Gandhi meant an analysis of the interests, relationships, conditions and systems that produced the suffering witnessed in the constructive program. It did not mean electoral politics; it meant learning one’s own interests and the interests of the people around you, and exercising power through collective action that would result in a more just situation and more equitable relationships. The goal of Gandhi’s “experiment in living” was to have personal integrity, community engagement and political advocacy aligned, all informed by commitments to social values of truth, equality, freedom and compassion. When I locate service learning in a framework of interpretation, this is how I understand the relationship between service and citizenship, or service and civic engagement, or service and democracy. It is not about helping, as meaningful as helping might be, and as welcome as it might be. It is about engaging with other people to understand what is happening, developing one’s voice and telling one’s story – and sharing this story in progressively larger and more diverse circles, and having it be met with understanding, contradiction, rejection, empathy and other stories. “Democracy” emerges as we negotiate our competing interpretations of reality and determine how we will live together and how we will (and will not) act: it is a way of entering into and working through conflict, premised on a belief that a collective “us” has value. Democracy, as Jonathan Schell (2004) writes, offers an alternative to using violence and force to privilege one story and one perspective at the expense of others. The implications of this argument about the relationship among interpretation, service learning and democracy are, I believe, significant for service learning in higher education. They suggest that we are misguided if we make “helping” the goal of our work; stated more forcefully, it might even be said that focusing on “helping” obscures from view our reflections on the relationships, voices, contexts and systems of power that link our “constructive programs” to our understanding of ourselves as engaged citizens in a democracy. Disconnected from interpretation, then, service has little or nothing to do with civic engagement, citizenship or “practicing” democracy. It is not to say service disconnected from interpretation has no value; rather, it points to a profound misalignment of ends and means. What It Might Look Like For the last seven years I have been working with a growing community of college and community colleagues to experiment with the implications of this argument, through four linked community projects: Rec Night; the PC/Smith Hill Annex; “The City and…”; and Common Grounds Café. It is important to note that the argument outlined above emerged from our reflections on these projects. In other words, the projects were not spaces for “testing” a hypothesis about reflection, knowledge and democracy, but spaces in which our experiences and reflections led to our understanding of their importance. Rec Night was the first of the projects to emerge. It is a “safe space” program, run as a partnership between the Institute for the Study and Practice of Nonviolence, a Providence-­‐based group that focuses on preventing and intervening in street and gang violence, and the college’s Feinstein Institute for Public Service, where I am associate director. It began seven years ago when an ISPN Streetworker, once a member of Laos Pride, a local gang based in the Smith Hill neighborhood adjacent to the college, asked me to help him and the youth he worked with gain access to the local rec center. The rec director was hostile and resistant, and getting and keeping access was an ongoing political battle the first couple of years. The Smith Hill Community Development Corporation, City Council representatives, police leadership, school leadership, Rec Department leaders and a range of other individuals came to quarterly meetings and helped us gain and keep access. It mattered that I was there as a college professor with a certain kind of institutional authority. The model the then-­‐rec director advocated was traditional carrot and stick: bad kids got kicked out, good kids (obedient, respectful, polite) got small rewards. The thirty kids we started with were “bad” kids. Somehow, the punishment of expulsion and the possibility of readmission was expected to spark a character change. And if it didn’t, it was the kid’s choice and the product of “bad families.” The approach we advocated, based on different assumptions about youth development, (Roholt et al 2013; Baizerman 2007) used a different method: keep contact with the kids; show them constant hospitality and affirmation; keep the rules simple and communal. Our only rule was – is – you can’t do anything that hurts you or the people around you. As the participant numbers have grown to an average of 70-­‐80 per week we pack the space with 15-­‐20 “positive adults,” volunteers from community and campus. Many of the participants have stayed involved the entire seven years the program has been running. We model principles and steps of Kingian nonviolence. We serve pizza. We have a lot of conversations, and steer the conversations toward “meaning making” -­‐ what Addams had called decades earlier “social ethics.” We welcome kids who are in trouble elsewhere, as victims or perpetrators of violence. Most nights, participants represent one or two gangs, two or three “crews” (less organized groups of 10 or so youth), and their friends and family members. We have had only one punch thrown; and we have asked only one participant to stay away. Rather than trying to save or change or fix the youth, we treat them as persons with agency, people who want meaningful lives and are doing the best they can in complex and difficult circumstances. We try to understand their situations and in the process of teaching us, the youth discover alternative perspectives, interpretations and options. As we stripped the “helping” elements of Rec Night down to the minimum, the program taught us the power of relationships, the energy that comes from talking across cultural boundaries, the importance of conversation and reflection extended over time. The youth are profoundly aware of the politics of the program; we haven’t had any violence on site because they know that one incident would be enough to say that our approach is wrong-­‐headed, and get us kicked out. They “self-­‐
organize” to prevent this. Much of what happens is only loosely structured; conversations are often piecemeal, and only take shape over time. It often looks like not much is happening beyond pizza, basketball and conversation, but at its core, Rec Night is a space for reflection about the personal and the social. One of the Rec Night youth, a bboy/break dancer, dreamed in several conversations of a space he and his friends could use for practicing and hanging out. The violence he was involved in had isolated him: he had dropped out of school, couldn’t leave his neighborhood unless he was prepared to fight, and was effectively unemployable. His home situation was difficult. So we began looking for a way to satisfy this desire for a space that he and his friends could make their own. Stevie’s dream led us to imagine a “free space,” (Evans and Boyte, 1986), or a “third space” (Oldenburg, 1999), and to revisit the dynamics of institutions like the early settlement houses and the Highlander Folk Education Center that was so much a part of the civil rights movement. We were inspired by Addams (1902) and Freire (1970) and Horton (1997) and Palmer (1987) and Wheatley (2002). We asked, given what we know, how would we create a space, here, where “this” could happen? Not just a dance or hangout space, but a space where we could practice reflection in such a way that it contributed to personal and social transformation. We ended up creating the PC/Smith Hill Annex, a 1,000 square foot room leased from the Smith Hill CDC and used for any activity that brings campus and community together for conversation and interaction. We started in 2011 “squatting” in the space, kick-­‐started by a new course, “The City and…” Working with College Unbound and our youth network, we designed a course that would engage a different theme about the city each time it was taught. More importantly, the course would be composed of roughly two-­‐fifths PC students; two-­‐fifths College Unbound students; and one-­‐fifth local community members, most often high school students. College Unbound is an alternative, experientially based college for working adults. The majority of its students are Black and Latino; they mostly grew up in Providence, often “on the street.” The educational philosophy is one of liberatory pedagogy. Providence College is a traditional liberal arts college: its students tend to be white, are mostly right out of high school, are mostly Catholic, mostly from wealthier suburbs, and have mostly been successful in school: they are “good kids.” The courses thus far– the City and Its Youth, City and Its Storytellers, City and Its Generations – all focus on storytelling, cultural diversity, learning about the city, and the relationship between the personal and the political. The depth of conversation is humbling and moving and sometimes transformational. It motivates students to articulate their own truths and practice acting on those truths. Over the three years the Annex has been in place, 49 groups and organizations have shared the space, and many of them are now regulars: Project 401, a hip hop group; an informal weekly group of video gamers from campus and community; a recurring 12-­‐week workshop for caregivers run by the National Association for Mental Illness – introduced by a faculty member; an economic development discussion group; English for Action, which teaches English and engaged citizenship to recent immigrants; other courses in community history, fair trade, social change; the Milenio Latino Institute, a 12-­‐week program for aspiring entrepreneurs; community arts opportunities; a yoga class for girls; potluck dinners; workshops… . All of these are spaces and opportunities for learning and reflection. While many of the activities are “constructive programs,” intended to address specific problems, they are also spaces for conversation across cultural boundaries, bringing people who otherwise wouldn’t interact into regular proximity. Equally as important, the organizing work done on campus to gain support for the Annex has resulted in ongoing institutional commitment, and to the college administration reframing its relationship with the neighborhood from “helping” to “being a good neighbor.” The fourth expression of this ongoing experiment in reflection, in which we are acting our way into new ways of thinking, is Common Grounds Café. It is next door to the Annex, and does not have a full kitchen. It serves warm and cold beverages, a limited number of baked goods and a couple of items that can be made in a toaster oven. Drawing on the interests of the Smith Hill CDC (which owns the café), PC’s School of Business, and longstanding community conversations about the community’s economy, Common Grounds was opened in 2013 to contribute to the local economy and to serve as a meeting space for community and campus. It requires considerably more capital investment than do Rec Night or the Annex, and structures space for conversation quite differently. In addition to attracting a broader audience than Rec Night or the Annex, it increases the “density” of interaction: a couple of the Café staff have also been Rec Night participants and/or participated in Annex activities. Youth are welcome in the café; the setup is organized for, and the staff are trained, to encourage conversation. The Café caters many Annex events, and Annex users are regular customers. There are plans for more cross-­‐programming and youth employment. The financial pressures are great: at present, nearly half the cost of staying open is subsidized by external resources, and there is a two-­‐year window for the café to become self-­‐supporting. We are beginning to theorize out of these related experiences, around the organizing questions, “How do we build community”? “Does building community result in personal and social growth?” And, “What is the right balance of community building and service provision in responding to the challenges facing community and campus?” Our concept of community is built on the observations of Wendell Berry (1983) in his essay, “Does Community Have a Value?” Community, we think, is located in place; and it is a systems effect – a tangible effect produced when other parts of a place-­‐based social process are working in concert. A successful community passes knowledge on to its young; it helps its members grieve; it helps its members create and celebrate; and it provides access to a meaningful livelihood. Community is what happens when the feedback loops among these processes shorten and are strengthened and they begin to reinforce one another. We’d like to know how to support each of these components, and to begin to see more of the “systems effect” we are looking for. Rec Night, the Annex, The City and… and the Café weave together learning, grieving and celebrating. To some extent, they help participants get access to experiences, resources and next steps that help them move on with their lives. They don’t do as much to directly address the challenge of meaningful livelihood, though the Café is helping us feel our way into this. In other words, we expect to find that the youth are involved in less violence; that their lives are more successful in terms that they define; that they are more resilient. We expect residents to find more reasons to stay in and invest in the neighborhood, rather than dream of moving out to places with better schools, better housing and less social stress. We expect they will know more of their neighbors, across more physical and cultural boundaries; and will know and value the history of their neighborhood. Long term, we hope to see a greater percentage of the money flowing through the neighborhood “stick” before being spent at big box stores and given to absentee landlords. And we expect that people will turn out for community events for an increasing number of community events. Our argument is that all of these measurable goals – markers of the systems effect we call community (Zautra, Hall and Murray 2009) -­‐ begin with conversation and reflection. Our approach locates the “problem” outside the persons and neighborhood. You don’t solve youth violence by teaching kids how to mediate conflicts; you solve youth violence by changing the conditions that make the choice of violence seem less reasonable and meaningful. How do we do this? You don’t improve schools by tutoring students (though this is a reasonable stop-­‐gap strategy), but by changing the shared vision and expectations of what the school is and should be, an act of citizenship. You don’t convince poor people to spend more on coffee because it is the “right” thing to do; you create social value, a place where they can meet and interact with their friends and neighbors, that makes buying coffee worthwhile. You don’t learn “diversity” as an ideological construct, but as a lived experience in relationship building. The college students involved in Rec Night, the Annex and the Café report that the hardest thing for them in this constellation is letting go of the idea that their job is to “fix things.” They think that, as college students, they are leaders and “role models” to Rec Night youth. They learn that the youth most often don’t see them in this light –but see them as privileged, not very street smart, and as the products of their privilege. The youth are not harsh about this, but tell the college students, “with the same resources you have, I could do more of what I wanted, too.” The college students and Rec Night participants are very curious about one another. Almost inevitably, if they are going to keep the conversation going, the focus shifts to their joint consideration of inequality. The college students come to the Annex as participants, learning that everyone has a story. They learn that social enterprises, and constructive programs, while useful and interesting, don’t by themselves change things – and sometimes objectify the people they want to help. The college students experience a lot of cognitive dissonance, but they begin to see avenues out of these contradictions, inspired by conversation and reflection. They learn that, as Margaret Wheatley argues (2009, 26)“there is no more powerful way to initiate significant change than to convene a conversation. When a community of people discovers that they share a concern, change begins. There is no power equal to a community discovering what it cares about.” Each of these projects is vulnerable in a multitude of ways; each spreads “risk” across a broad base of interdependent relationships, making them harder to control and predict. We don’t know the outcomes ahead of time, and most of our impacts are too indirect to see clearly. We know, too, that measuring them accurately would change the social dynamic of the process. We are under-­‐theorized and need to learn to tell our story more clearly and accurately. And yet we are are inspired by the learning taking place and the tremendous personal and institutional energy that our focus on reflection, knowledge and civic engagement is generating. I especially want to thank Stephanie Nunes, Samantha Bergbauer, Lauren Kelly, and Kiley Leduc, for their work as AmeriCorps*VISTAs in support of these projects. Works Cited Addams, J. (2002, 1902). 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