I'm a Florida teacher. My passion to teach could be in violation of the law. | Opinion
This is the real damage: When fear begins to replace curiosity, and when silence replaces speech.
As I prepare to teach a new literature course at Palm Beach State College (PBSC) this term, I find myself hesitating over something that, until recently, would have been routine: Selecting the works I assign to my students.
The anthology adopted by our department includes powerful selections from African American, Latino, Asian American and LGBTQ+ writers – voices that capture the richness, contradiction and struggle of the American experience. These are voices I have taught for decades. But now I ask myself: Am I allowed to?
Florida's 2023 legislation – most notably, Senate Bill 266 – prohibits instruction that espouses theories suggesting systemic racism, sexism or privilege are inherent in the institutions of the United States and that they were created to maintain social or economic inequities.
The language is broad, and the intent seems clear: Restrict the way educators discuss identity, history and power. But what is less clear is what this means in practice for teachers like me, particularly in college classrooms. I am a lifelong educator. I spent 36 years in the New York City Department of Education as a teacher, department chair and supervisor. For the last 12 years, I have taught English literature at PBSC.
Does my passion to teach violate the law?
My passion has always been to encourage students to read deeply, think critically and reflect honestly – especially about the kind of country we live in and the lives we each bring to the table.
That requires a broad and inclusive literary canon. It requires teaching James Baldwin and Langston Hughes not only for their artistry, but also for the searing truths they offer about race and belonging in America. It means examining the cultural double-consciousness in Sandra Cisneros, the generational trauma in Ocean Vuong, the gender defiance in Audre Lorde.
Literature becomes real when it speaks both to and through the student reading it. That is the essence of education.
But now, when I consider assigning those same texts, I worry: Will presenting such works – even neutrally, even for discussion – be seen as violating this law?
If I ask students to consider the historical roots of injustice in a work by August Wilson or Toni Cade Bambara, could that be construed as "promoting a theory" rather than simply exposing students to a reality reflected in literature?
Worse, the chilling effect has begun to erode the classroom itself. Faculty colleagues increasingly wonder whether they should self-censor – not out of agreement with the law, but out of a desire to avoid trouble. This is the real damage: When fear begins to replace curiosity, and when silence replaces speech.
I do not seek to indoctrinate my students. I never have.
I seek to challenge them, to open doors through literature that lead into the complicated, layered and sometimes uncomfortable questions that make up life in a pluralistic democracy.
That is not political. That is educational.
Forbidding certain materials only limits our understanding
Let us be clear: Removing or discouraging the inclusion of marginalized voices in the classroom does not eliminate discomfort. It only eliminates understanding.
If our students cannot engage with difficult truths in college classrooms, where are they to encounter them? If we cannot safely present a range of American experiences through our literary heritage, what remains of our intellectual freedom?
I do not write this out of defiance, but out of love – for teaching, for literature and for the role education plays in shaping thoughtful citizens.
The danger of this legislation is not only in its enforcement but also in its ambiguity. It turns teachers into second-guessers. It turns students into cautious bystanders. And it risks turning Florida's classrooms into places where only the most neutral, safest voices are heard. But the world is not neutral. Literature is not safe. And education, at its best, is a form of illumination, not erasure.
Carmine Giordano is an adjunct lecturer in English at Palm Beach State College. This column originally appeared in the Palm Beach Post.