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while the students were in small groups discussing indigenous theoretical perspectives.Jason, an African American male who frequently and sfrongly articulated his belief thatoppression of Black people is a White conspiracy, found his leg the target of Eric'stwitching foot. Eric, a White male, portrayed himself as a successful teacher of urban,African Ameriean children. After repetitive eneotinters with Eric's foot, Jason jumpedup, fists clenched at his sides, and asked Erie to step outside. Eric remained seated.Silence fell over the room, tensions rose, slowly weakened, and Jason, audibly breath-ing, sat down. These experiences sparked my desire to query once again the possibilitiesand limitations of dialogue in the classroom.

Paulo Freiré (1971), discussing his literacy work in a popular education context inBrazil, suggested that dialogue as an educational practice can facilitate learning toread and write the word and the world, and thus it has the potential to transform theworld. Answering Freire's call to situate his theories in other contexts, many writershave drawn on his work to discuss a theory and practice of critical pedagogy relatedto both formal and nonformal educational settings (Giroux, 1994, 2005; Macedo,2006; McLaren, 1994; McLaren & Companeras y Companeros, 2005; McLaren &Kincheloe 2007; Shor, 1992, 1996) as well as to critique and reform such approachesfrom feminist, postmodern, and cultural perspectives (hooks, 1994; Jones, 1999; Orner,1992; Roman, 1997). There has also been discussion of these issues from feminist,poststructural, and antiraeist perspectives from some scholars specifically in adulteducation (Cervero & Wilson, 2001; Grace, 2001; Hart, 2001; Johnson-Bailey, 2001;Tisdell, 2001a). But after decades of theoretical debate and insight, to date thereare only a few pieces that analyze a critical dialogical practice (Garogian, 1999;Ellsworth, 1992; Jones, 1999; Shor 1992, 1996). These pieces, however, are primarilyreflective and/or autobiographical; there remains a paucity of empirically basedresearch that examines critical pedagogy in general (Sleeter & Delgado Bemal, 2004)and dialogue in particular.

Instigated by my experiences in the classroom and the paucity of empirical stud-ies examining dialogue in the higher education classroom, this artiele presents areexamination of data I collected in 1996 for an ethnographic study focusing on theexperiences of the participants in an ethnic literature course. I return to this data tocast further insight into my own teaching. Although much has changed in the UnitedStates since I originally collected this data—the first African Ameriean presidenthas been elected; free speech has been curtailed after 9/11 ; Muslim-appearing peoplehave been deplaned, deported, or attacked; many academics have become trepidabout voicing political critiques because "bad" (a conservative signifier for liberal)professors are publically listed on the Internet; and the category of one's opinion hasoften been reduced to "for us" or "against us"—I argue that the basic patterns andexperiences of dialogue in the higher education classroom in the United Statesremain predominately unchanged. Dialogue is a deeply embedded cultural practice.Unless consciously attended to, significant ehange to such practices manifest overgenerations, not decades.

The data used in this analysis was generated in a Chicano/a Autobiography coursetaught by an associate professor at a Research 1 university in the northwestern United

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States. At the time of the study, the instmctor. Dr. Gonzales (pseudonyms are used forall names, courses, and places) was an untenured professor who self-identified as aChieano and consciously grounded his pedagogy in the works of Paulo Freiré, specifi-cally The Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1971), while aligning with feminist critiquesof the practice. This article examines the dialogical experiences and practices of theparticipants—the instmctor and students—in this course.

I discuss the literature pertaining to dialogue in adult education, from Freiré (1971),the text referenced by Dr. Gonzales, to the present. In the findings section, two catego-ries within the theme of dialogue are explored: speaking (or not) as a cultural praetieeand translating dialogue to democracy. I conclude with the argument that dialogue, aspracticed in this particular classroom, often reified positions of power and rarelydemystified oppressive ideologies.

The LiteraturePaulo Freiré (1971) ereated a rationally based pedagogy that was informed by his baek-ground in Hegelian dialectics, Marxism, and Catholicism. Set within a South Americansociocultural and political context. Freiré suggested the task of the oppressed was to liber-ate themselves fi"om the oppressors. Freirean critical pedagogy, situated in the lifeworldof the partieipants, is grounded in dialogue and praxis, refieetion and action. Dialogue isan encounter between people who name the world; it is an epistemological process that"cannot exist... in the absence of a profound love for the world and for people,... cannotexist without humility, . . . [and] requires an intense faith in humankind" (pp. 90-91).Dialogue "is the essence of revolutionary action" (Freiré, 1971, p. 135, Footnote 10) andthe practice, along with praxis, through which the oppressed can transform the world.

Speeifying that his pedagogieal practice is contextual, created specifically to teachliteracy to Brazilian peasants. Freiré called on edueators to modify his theories andpractices to their situations (Macedo, 1994). Several American educators answeredthis call—Ira Shor, Donaldo Macedo, Henry Giroux, and Peter McLaren.

Shor (1992) believed that critical consciousness is the goal of Freirean education inthe American higher edueation classroom. Critical consciousness, which encompassesbeing aware of power relations, analyzing habits of thinking, challenging discursive andideological formations, and taking initiative, is developed in student-centered dialoguethat problematizes generative themes fi"om everyday life, topical issues fi'om society,and academic subject matter from specific disciplines (Shor, 1992, 1994). Maeedo(1994) wanted to unveil the euphemisms, myths, lies, and omission of facts that safe-guard a unitary and vamished view of dominant Ameriean culture. To do this he proposed"antimethod" pedagogy (p. 181). This pedagogy refiises models and methodologicalparadigms as it "points to the impossibility of disarticulating methods from theoreticalprinciples that inform them and the interests of power" (p. 181). This disarticulationprevents fi"agmentation of knowledge and requires critical understanding of the relation-ship between facts and the reason for their existence. Beeause it requires the sharing ofvoice to move beyond the personal, demanding that its possibilities be interrogated, aFreirean dialogical practice beeomes a form of social praxis within the elassroom.

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Two of the most prolific North American voices to answer Freire's call were HenryGiroux and Peter McLaren. Throughout the 1990s, these men argued that schoolslegitimated certain ideologies, productions of knowledge, and social formations thatthey passed onto students to maintain the existing class, race, and gender stmcture ofsociety. According to Giroux, schools "have served primarily as a powerful instmmentfor the reproducdon of capitalist relations and dominant legidmating ideologies of themling group" (Giroux & McLaren, 1994, p. 9). Through using the White upper-middle-class as a referent, legitimating certain knowledge productions, and espousing aunified theory of tmth, schools have been in the serviee of reproducing and maintain-ing the status quo through the constmction of subjects who passively accept traditionalhegemonic relations. To liberate the student from this oppression, Giroux and McLaren(Giroux, 1994,2005; Giroux & McLaren, 1994; MeLaren, 1994; McLaren & Lankshire,1994) called for the development of cridcal literacy. This pracdce goes beyond thefunctional and cultural definitions of literacy that emphasize decoding and accumula-tion of facts. Critical literacy demands a reading of the world in which the verystmcture and practice of representation, meaning itself, becomes problematic (Giroux,1994, 2005). They argued that liberation would not be possible until critical literacywas practiced, the stmetures in whieh the student is positioned were deconstructed,and altemative dialogues and lexicons were ereated. The development of critical lit-eracy was directly related to the development of a language of empowerment and alanguage of critique (Giroux, 1994). Giroux and McLaren (1994) argued, "We bothproduce language and are produced by it" (p. 13). It is only within the limitations oflanguage that people are able to name their experience and thus eonstmct their identi-ties, subjectivities, and world. In this view, language is not a neutral site; it does notoffer a prisdne representadon. It is embedded with political, ideological, geographieal,and temporal referents. Through these hidden referents and the lack of vocabulary toname and interrogate its own discursive production, language operates as a discourseof oppression and dominadon (Giroux & McLaren, 1994). The constmcdon of a lan-guage of empowerment and critique enables students to interrogate discourseseritically and to develop a sense of critical agency—the ability to analyze subjectivity;reflect on assumed subject positions; and choose those discourses that were the leastoppressive to themselves, to others, and to society as a whole.

Although Giroux's work to date remains predominately grounded in postmodemtheory, McLaren (2007), while admitting the value of a postmodem theory in decon-structing metanarradves, has tumed to the concepts of eeonomic and military imperialism,neoliberalism, and the works of Marx, Friere, and Gramsei to bring "theoretical ballast toteetering cridcal educadon" (p. 14). This theoretical grounding allows him to idendfy thespecific historical factors that mediate understanding (McLaren, 2007), read these experi-ences dialecdcally against the totality in which they are generated; address how difference"is defined in relation to existing soeial reladons of capitalist production and subjeetedto their interests" (McLaren, 2006, p. 30); and explore how these reladons, especiallyclass—understood as a universal form of exploitadon—affect ideological production ofracist, sexist, and homophobic cultural identities.

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As evidenced in the above discussion, critical pedagogy, both in the founding formof Paulo Freiré and the North American voices of Ira Shor, Donaldo Macedo, HenryGiroux, and the earlier Peter McLaren, centered dialogue in its practice. It was throughdialogue that the student came to know and to act. However, this dialogical practice,represented in a mystical language of triumph (Weiler, 2001), was problematic forsome feminists, many whom wrote about this in the 1990s. Two issues were often cen-tered in these contestations: (a) dialogue was considered a cultural, not neutral, practiceand (b) how dialogue translated into critical democracy—ideologically demystifyingoppressive discourses or materially altering oppressive relations—remained opaqueand undertheorized. In relation to the first issue, speaking was understood as a culturalpractice, wherein who speaks, how to speak, what to speak, and where to speak arerule-governed activities, which, within the North American classroom, revolve arounda Eurocentric standpoint (hooks, 1994). Whites, rather than striving to be mutual, aprinciple that can "forge boundaries across the barriers that racism creates" (hooks,2003, p. 63), force minority students to alter their actions to conform to the Westerncultural ideal, where rational thought is valued over emotion and passion, the writtenword is weightier than experience, and voice is valued over silence. Silence, devaluedin this context, was often read as a lack of voice or social identity, and its use as a strat-egy of resistance remained invisible to the dominant (Ellsworth, 1992). Additionally, inthe intersection of different cultural practices of talk, some students, it was suggested,felt unsafe to speak. Yet the possibility of dialogue was predicated on the postulate ofsafety in the classroom—an assumption that students will feel free enough to sharetheir experiences, beliefs, and standpoints (hooks, 1994; Ellsworth, 1992; Omer, 1992).Thus, the practice of who speaks, how they speak, and who speaks for whom called tobe disrupted (Fine, 1992; hooks, 1994; Jones, 1999; Lewis, 1992; Spivak, 1996).Regarding the second issue, how dialogue translates into critical democracy, the pos-sibility of this translation remained unclear (Gore, 1992). Not only was little considerationgiven to how oppositional voices may be constructed from the multiple and partialvoices present (Ellsworth, 1992), there was no discussion of how dialogue translatesinto action. The move from talk to action was not explicitly addressed in the theoreticalliterature and discussions of classroom practice, and often it was noted that physicalaction emerging from dialogue failed to transpire (Kaufmann, 1996; Shor, 1992, 1996).Thus, for these feminists, dialogue left unquestioned was problematic. Based on Euro-centric values, it was understood to have the propensity to reify the very powerstructures it was meant to dismantle. Feminists who questioned a dialogic practice werenot, as Jones (1999) noted, necessarily arguing to dispose of the practice. The liberatoryideal remained but the pathway to that ideal continued to be riddled by unexamineddialogical experiences and practices.

After the turn of the century, poststructural discourse strongly influenced writingson dialogue in the field of adult education. Language was no longer understood as adirect means of translation, knowledge was no longer exclusively rationale, andpower—^which implicidy or explicitly grounds all discussions of dialogue—^was no longerconceptualized as sovereign power, which functions from the top down (Foucault,

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1980). Replacing sovereign power was disciplinary power, which is pervasive, capil-lary, and productive; which operates through disciplinary practices; and which functionsin tandem with resistance (English, 2008; Foucault, 1980). Within this theoreticalmilieu, two issues pertinent to this study repeatedly appeared in the discussions ofdialogue in the adult education literature: stories: telling and listening, and dialogue: asituated practice. In relation to the first theme, the rational for telling one's story is oftengrounded in identity. Identity, one's conscious conceptualizations and unconsciousassumptions of oneself, is constantly shifting and multiple (Flannery & Hayes, 2001;Sheared & Sissel, 2001, Tisdell, 2001b). It is shaped by, among other factors, one'srelationship with "race, class, gender, sexual orientation, age, geography, history, poli-tics, and economic interests" (Sheared & Sissel, p. 327). Within these shifting relations,one has multiple, often contradictory, identities; a woman can be both powerful andpowerless, for example (Flannery & Hayes, 2001). According to Tisdell, "The more weare aware of how structural systems of privilege and oppression inform our identity andbehavior, the more we have the capacity to act to change our behavior on behalf ofourselves or others" (2001a, p. 275). One of the primary means of bringing the stmc-tural formation of identity to consciousness is through the telling of personal stories(Tisdell, 2001a). However, these stories must not be purely rational recitations. Theymust also contain an affective component. Additionally, "for a story to have emancipa-tory potential, it has to raise consciousness and/or challenge stmctured power relationsin society in some way—and have the potential to move people to action" (Tisdell,2001a, p. 276).

Nash, LaSha Bradley, and Chickering (2008), in their promotion of moraleonversation—conversations wherein dangerous and volatile ideas are openly dis-cussed and one's taken-for-granted assumptions are explored—also relied on stories.Leaming to live with the other in compassion begins with the "mutual sharing of allthose wonderful stories that give meaning to people's lives . . . because if you findthe story, you find the person" (Nash et al., pp. 8, 29). Finding the story of anotherobligates each participant to "listen actively and respectfully to the stories of others,both to understand and affirm them as well as to discover whatever 'narrative over-lap' might exist among them" (p. 8). Welton (2002) also advocated listening becauseit is through listening that "we can leam what the world is like from a position notour own" (p. 199). Both Nash et al. and Welton wrote of listening to speech, butothers argued for the necessity of listening to silence because, whereas silence of theother is often interpreted by the dominant as a lack of voice or social identity, thisquiet may be a sign of "intelligence, flexibility, managing face, cooperativeness,power, and maturity" (Kim & Markus, 2005, p. 186). Therefore, those in powermust listen to silence rather than force others to tell their stories, for forcing othersto speak is silencing silence (Li Li, 2004). For these authors, telling and listening topersonal stories, including stories told in silence, facilitates critical dialogue.

In relation to the second theme, dialogue is an engagement of situated participants.It is not an abstract, neutral practice; instead it constmcted "according to (amongother things) race, class, and gender of its participants, the institutional and cul-tural location of the speech acts that compose discussion, and the ways in which the

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facilitators' behavior is interpreted" (Brookfleld, 2001, p 212). Therefore, any pre-scriptive conception of dialogue must "acknowledge the enormous multiplicity offorms in which people from different culttxres . . . enact pedagogical communicativerelations" (Burbules, 2000, p. 262). This is extremely important because dialogue isa cultural practice, which, within the North American classroom, revolves aroundEurocentric rules of speech (hooks, 1994; Kim & Markus, 2005). Because these rule-governed practices of speech center some voices and marginalize others, studentsmust learn to question critically the languages and discourses used in dialogue(Hemphill, 2001). It needs to be understood that minority students are frequentlyexpected to alter their speech to conform to the Eurocentric cultural ideal:

This expectation of assimilation often exists without the recognition that whatthese students have to do is not as simple as "just talking more" but aetuallychanging a dense network of cultural values and beliefs about how to be a goodperson. (Kim & Markus, 2005, p. 190)

Jones (2004) argued that because of the need of the other to translate his or her concerns,desires, and experiences into a common language dialogue in heterogeneous groupssubjects the marginalized to judgment and rejection. This rejection is further exacerbatedby the fact that as the dominant may be verbally challenged their status remainsunchanged (Jones, 2004). Consequently, Bohler (2004) argued for an affirmative actionpedagogy wherein the instructor challenges dominant discourses and ensures thatmarginalized voices are represented fairly, even if this means silencing privilegedvoices. Mayo (2004), however, is concerned that silencing any voices further reifresstructures of oppression, for silencing funetions as a regulatory act, reducing structuralproblems to the level of the individual while oppressive policies remain in place.

From Freiré to Mayo, the above literature forms the theoretical framework for thisstudy. Below I discuss the design of the study.

Method

Spurred by my experiences of dialogue in the classroom, I return to an ethnographicstudy I conducted in 1996 examining the practice of critical pedagogy. This articlepresents a re-examination of this data, specifically those relating to dialogue. The siteselected for this study was a flve-credit undergraduate Ethnic Studies course, titledChicano/a Autobiography, taught by a Chicano assistant professor in his mid- to late40s at a Research 1 university in the northwestern United States. I chose this sitebeeause the instructor planned to address explicitly the texts and issues that arose in thecourse from a critical perspective. There were 26 students enrolled in the course, 62%of whom were students of color and 38% of whom were White. (Within the universityat large, approximately 25.1% of the student body was designated as minority status—Asian American, African American, Hispanic, and Native American—^whereas 69.7%of the population was classifled as White.) Ranging in age from 18 through mid-40sand in educational status from freshman to pregraduate student, these 16 female and

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10 male students self-identified as working-class through upper-middle-class. Dr. Gonza-les, the instmctor of Chicano/a Autobiography, self-identified as a Chieano within theframework of the university. As a Chieano, "literally bom in a labor camp," his ownautobiography directly related to the eontent as well as significantly contributed to thecontext of this course. Often teaehing out of his personal history, he grounded his teach-ing in Freirean pedagogy and aligned with feminist critiques of the practice. Classroomactivities consisted of teacher lecture, teacher-led class discussion, membership in anon-going small study group that met throughout the term, and student presentations.

The primary means of data collection was participant observation of the class andone on-going, small study group who was assigned to meet periodieally during classand once a week outside of elass. I observed 13 of the 15 one-hour classes. When theclass met as a whole group, 1 remained primarily an observer; I was seen but did notspeak. These observations and accompanying field notes focused on the pedagogiealstrategies employed by the instructor as well as the dialogical interactions that occurredbetween the instructor and the students and between the students. I also observed onestudy group that had been given the task of presenting the text Borderlands: La Fron-tiera (Anzaldua, 1987) to the class at the end of the semester. From here on out, thisgroup will be referred to as the Borderlands group. Within this context, I continued tobe more of an observer than a participant. In the Borderlands group, I never offeredinformation or supplied answers to questions posed, but I did periodically ask ques-tions of the members to clarify the meaning of a statement they had made. The studentsin this group self-identified as Josey, a 26-year-old Chieana from a working-elassbackground; Martin, a 32-year-old Chieano ft̂ om a working-class background; Elizabeth,a 19-year-old Chieana from a middle-class background; Melinda, a 22-year-oldFilipina from a middle-class background; and Riehard, a 19-year-old Anglo/Chicanofrom a working-class transitioned to a middle-class background. I observed the Bor-derlands group for 5 hours in elass and 9 hours outside of class. The outside meetingswere held in a conference room in the university's main library. There were four out-side meetings, each of which ranged from 1 to 3 hours. I tape reeorded the Borderlandsmeetings and took jot notes (DeWalt & DeWalt, 2002). Expanded field notes werewritten immediately following the observations. I transcribed the audio tapes using thesummary method. I conducted semistmctured interviews (Kvale, 1996) with theinstmetor, once before the commencement of the course and once at its conclusion;the five members of the Borderlands group; and four other students chosen for thedisparate localities: Sandra, a 26-year-old loquacious White female from a working-elass background; Mary-Lou, a middle-aged White female from a lower classbackground; Stephan, a 37-year-old quiet Chieano from a lower-middle-class back-ground; and Meuy, a 22-year-old quiet Laotian immigrant from an unknown classbackground. Each interview was approximately 1 hour in length. I transcribed allinterviews verbatim. I also examined the elass syllabi, class handouts, and an unpub-lished document by the instmctor. I analyzed data thematieally throughout the study(Merriam, 1998) and often counted oecurrences to facilitate establishing pattems(Dey, 1993). This study was infiueneed by my positionality—White, middle-class, and

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female. Not only did this locality separate me from many of the participants in thiscourse and limit, at times, the data to whieh I was given access, it also framed myquestions, observations, and interpretations. This study was also limited in its seope ofinquiry: one undergraduate class. However, qualitative research is not designed toproduce universal findings. To the contrary, it is the intention of this design to probedeeply into the culture of a singular group.

Findings and Discussion

The findings of the study relevant to this discussion can best be considered in light oftwo primary areas: (a) the cultural aspeets of speech and silence and (b) the relation-ship of dialogue to critical democracy.

Speaking (or Not) as a Cultural Practice

Dialogue was often centered in Chicano/a Autobiography. Within this practice, sev-eral students could be identified as dominant speakers in terms of the number ofufterances made during discussions. The two speakers who took up the most floortime were Sandra, a working-class. White female, and Miguel, a light-skinned, upper-middle-class Chicano "who could pass" (Josey, field notes) and lived in the mostaffluent part of the eity. These students appeared dominant in every context—whole-class, teacher-led discussions; on-going small study groups; and student presentations.However, within altemate contexts of the class, others also emerged as dominantspeakers. For example, although Luis, a 37-year-old working-class Chicano, andMary Lou, an older, lower class. White female, spoke rarely during whole-class dis-cussions, both were documented as being dominant speakers in small-groupdiscussions. Additionally, Martin, a 32-year-old, working-class Chicano, rarely spokein the whole-class discussions; however, I noted him as a dominant speaker in theBorderlands group, and he did speak frequently during the student presentations. Itthus appears who spoke and in what eontext were influenced by the interconnectingfactors of race, class, and gender (Bohler, 2004; Brookfield, 2001; Jones, 2004; Kim& Marcus, 2005; Tisdell, 1993). The two dominant speakers, disparate in class affili-ation, shared the appearance of Whiteness. Those who were silent in whole-classdiscussions but felt free to speak in small groups self-identified as White or Chicanoand as being lower-class or working-class. In other words, speakers who weredominant in whole-class discussions held the privilege of Whiteness or perceivedWhiteness. Speakers who emerged as dominant in small-group discussions, allcoming from a lower-elass or working-elass baekground, held either the privilege ofWhite skin and/or culture or male gender.

This tendeney for the conversations to be dominated by a few was commented onby Richard, a 19-year-old Anglo/Chicano: "There are some people who sit and talkthrough the whole time and yap, yap, yap. And you just want to tell them to shut up."Martin also spoke of this facet of the class:

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I guess the thing was that I had things to share and I didn't. And I talked to [Maryand Meuy] and they had a lot to say, and they weren't allowed. And the sametwo people are the ones who get their opinions out there all the time, so we onlyget one perspective. So, I think that is where you are losing it. You are only get-ting one point, and if there is someone in the class who just listens, that is allthey are going to take away is just these two people's opinions.

Several students spoke about cultural factors that inhibited their participation indialogical sessions. According to Melinda, a 22-year-old Filipina, "Sometimes it is toopersonal, and because of my culture you were taught, in a way, not to talk about personalthings. I was taught not to." The style of one's communication was also mentioned.Martin noted, "They [White students] are used to cutting in, overlapping, and talkingover people from their up-bringing, where I was taught to be kinda quiet and allow aperson to finish." Being silenced by a White member of the class and/or a member ofthe class who could pass as White was also noted as a facet that constricted dialogicalparticipation by several students of color. According to Josey, a 26-year-old Chicana,

Some of the students have been attacked by Lizzy, and she right away attacks.People are so into the topics that they stopped the dialogue. And now people areafraid to talk because they are going to be challenged. I think it's really easier tobe questioned by a Chicana than by a White girl, and when the Whites challengeit really silences the Chicana.

Several means of silencing were employed by White female students in this context.Along with blatantly dismissing a student of color's dialogical contribution, many Whitefemale students were observed immediately accepting a student of color's personalexperience with, "Oh yeah, me, too," followed by an elaboration of their own story. Thisstrategy, although superficially acknowledging the other's experience, in reality centeredthe White student's story while pushing the student of color's experience to the margins.In attempting to resist these silencing techniques, several students of color spoke of eitherbecoming "aggressive and pushy" and/or "just giving up." Silencing was often observedin this context but neither of the White female students interviewed in this study viewedsilence as component of this course. According to Mary Lou, a middle-aged. Whitefemale, "Everyone felt really supported in this class, as far as speaking. Probably the kidswho didn't speak wouldn't speak under any circumstances." Sandra, the White, verbosefemale student, also spoke about silence:

I was always told to shut-up for being poor... . Now I say, "No way." . . . Howcan a middle-class Chicano have more to say than me? . . . If you [the instructor]want to ask someone in particular, then ask them. . . . I feel that a lot of times Iprovoke others to answer. And the people who are quiet and shy, I can't help it.The facilitator has to take responsibility to make them talk, or they have to takeresponsibility to talk, because I am not going to get them to talk by shutting up.

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These views were juxtaposed by all of the students of color interviewed. Studentsof color from both middle-class and working-class backgrounds articulated theirperception that silencing was a factor in this course. However, only those students ofcolor who self identified as coming from a working-class background voiced theirconcem that they may have silenced others. Additionally, some of these studentsarticulated an understanding of positionality in relation to voice and silence. This wasevident in Josey's comment:

In my other class [dealing with African American issues] I'm an outsider, and Iam giving my opinions, and I felt that the African Americans in the class aregoing to look at me like, "What the hell, you don't know." . . . I can't help itI feel like I am imposing myself on their problems, and I feel that I am really ata point that I need to question what I say In this class, I hope that none of mycomments have silenced any of the members of the class.

Cultural factors also appeared to influence the depth of interrogation desired. Manystudents of color mentioned a desire to interrogate issues at more in-depth levels. In hisinterview, Richard noted, "It seemed like we talked about racism and feminism, but theconversations never went anywhere. I think it was kind of fmstrating—'What do youthink about racism?' 'What do you think about feminism?'" This fmstration, however,was not noted by either of the White female students interviewed.

As the above indicates, there appeared to be cultural factors in relation to thephenomena and perceptions of speech and silence. Not only did race, class, and genderinfluence who spoke, what was spoken, how it was spoken, and in what contexts, itappeared the fewer privileged positions one held the more aware one was of the poli-tics of speech. White women, (conveniently) blind to silence, silenced students ofcolor through (White) socially acceptable means of constructing a surface unity(Oh, yeah, me, too!) and then centering their own story. Yet at the other end of theprivilege spectmm, those students without race or class privilege were reflective oftheir role in the constmction of speech and silence in the classroom. This is tellingbecause it illustrates how dialogue, as a Eurocentric practice (hooks, 1994; Marcus &Kim, 2005), centers its own power and allows those subject positions most in need ofreflecting on the politics of speech to remain oblivious to dialogue's workings throughfollowing the socially acceptable mies of its practice. In other words, dialogue func-tioned here as a means for power to continue to center itself through the mies of itsown practice while operating under the guise of an emancipatory endeavor.

Speaking (or not) within this context was influenced by interconnecting factors ofrace, class, and/or gender. Not surprisingly, students with various intersecting posi-tions of power appeared to take most of the speaking space. This was problematic forsome students of color, "who had things to share." These students, it seems to me,were calling for teacher intervention or what Bohler (2004) called "affirmative actionpedagogy." Additionally, the students who were silenced also seemed to be asking for

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a critical dialogue on language and discourse (Hemphill, 2001). Which discourseswere centered and why was never discussed in this class. This allowed hegemonicsystems of power to be reproduced in the classroom. Also, in line with Jones's(2004) observations on the parasitic appetites of White students. White female stu-dents were able to maintain the appearances of a politically correct dialogue whilein actuality centering their own stories and pushing the stories of women of color tothe margins.

Translating Dialogue Into Critical Detnocracy

Dialogue was the central practice of three activities in this course—teacher-led diseus-sions, student presentations, and on-going small groups. The flrst two activities weredifferent from the latter in that they consisted of whole-class dialogue. These two dia-logical contexts, whole class and small group, seemed to function differently in termsof the possibility of promoting critical democracy—ideologically demystifying oppres-sive discourses or materially altering oppressive relations.

In whole-class dialogical sessions, what constituted dialogue (personal experience,theoretical knowledge, intratextual comments, statements of truth, opinion) and howcritical democracy was to be constructed through this process were not discussed. Amajority of dialogues consisted of three types of prompts and responses—intratextual,opinion, and statement of truth. With intratextual prompts, participants tended to reiter-ate textual facts and/or flip through the text to find particular references. As studentssearched for a reference, gazes were down, the sound of pages flipping could be heard,and voices were mute. The dialogue in this pattern remained grounded in the text anddid not move to encompass personal, political, or ideological issues of social justice.Opinion prompts predominately took the form of "What do you think about. . ." andwere primarily answered with an opinion of personal experience, "I think . . ." or"When I . . . " . This pattern usually remained on the level of the personal. And as Jessiestated one day in her small group, "I felt like we didn't talk about the issues.... It gotkinda boring after awhile I think we should just tell them not to talk about their ownpersonal experiences, but to talk about the topics." Prompts of "truth" tended to focusthe discussion on causal relationships. An example of this was illusfrated when theleader of the group presenting the autobiography Hunger of Memory (Rodriguez, 1982)opened the discussion with the following statement of truth: "Do you see how beingCatholic shaped his life? How it was the connection factor with the Whites? This is howassimilation began." This prompt elicited from the class participants responses thatfocused on cause or answers that focused on why this phenomenon was in fact true.This is seen in the following responses to the above group leader:

Richard: He was an outcast, a nerd. And the church gave him something to havein common with the Whites.

George: It was because he never had the opportunity to question the authority ofthe church.

Richard: He wanted the security; he . . .

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Prompts of truth, similar to intratextual comments, did not extend to the realms of thepolitical or ideological. The responses remained caught in a loop of cause and effect.As dialogue moved back and forth between these three types of prompts and responses,it stayed safe. None of the statements, for example, integrated the theory of the textwith life experience or the experienee represented in an autobiography with the theoriesdiscussed or read. All types of prompts and responses—intratextual, opinion, statementof "tmth"—were left to stand on their own. None were used to push against the otherto interrogate the repressive conditions of the lifeworld. Dialogue, keeping in this calland response pattem, did not have the propensity to alter oppressive relationships ofpower, ideologically or materially.

Dialogue in the context of the on-going small study group offered different pos-sibilities. Consciously formed by the instmctor to represent diversity, each groupwas composed of four to six members. The task of these groups was teaching, througha presentation, their assigned autobiography to the elass. To complete this assign-ment, the students were required to meet periodically in elass and four times out ofclass, for a minimum of 8 hours. Observing the Borderlands group, I saw that theon-going small group provided a space for these students to develop a sense of soli-darity with each other as well as an opportunity to engage, at least on two oecasions,in critical dialogue.

Noticed on many different occasions and expressed in several different fashions,the Borderlands group began to develop a sense of group solidarity. After severalmeetings, these students began to sit together in class, talk during breaks, and gatherbefore and after elass. Several members also mentioned speaking to each other on thephone. This sense of solidarity was also noticed in the group dynamics. The memberswould occasionally and spontaneously recite in unison Anzaldua's line, "Thisland was Mexiean once, was Indian always and is. And will be again" (1987, p. 3).They would conclude this recitation with, "Amen!" Another example of this eohesive-ness was observed one day in class while the group met. It began as Martin sharedwith the group that one class member, a woman with some Mexican heritage (buteould "pass"), had made some comments about the laek of oppression experienced bythe Chicano/a community. On hearing this, the group became incensed. As the tensionrose, Martin said, "group hug," and they all put their arms around eaeh other, forminga huddle.

On two occasions, the Borderland group provided space for its members to decon-struct ideological stmctures that have the propensity to oppressive lives. The firstinstance occurred one evening when Riehard asked if there was any background onAnzaldua's religious affiliations. The dialogue proeeeded as follows:

Martin: She is Catholic. But Catholicism in Mexico is different than it is here.Elizabeth: How do they worship differently?Martin: The Aztecs originally exhibited enough of the imposed rituals to get the

Spaniards off their backs. They originally talked to the trees, and then the treebeeame the cross. The Aztecs had their Gods thrown down in front of themso eventually, they said, "I guess your God is better."

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Richard: [releases a huge exhale, erosses his arms over his chest, slumps downin his chair and shifts from left to right]

Melinda: [to Richard] Is this too much for you?Richard: I don't understand; my Grandma is so religious—the rosary and every-

thing. I want to know is it the same thing we came from? How, if the Spanishbrought Catholicism, how can I take it for my religion? I feel like somethinghas been taken away. I was baptized Catholie.

The seeond occasion happened the third evening the group meet. It was a cold, rainynight and the group seemed especially relaxed, sitting back in their chairs and speakingslowly. Talking for more than 2 hours, these five students discussed their idendty, gender,eulture, skin color, language, and views on interracial marriage. Although space doesnot permit an extensive recording of these conversations, one example from this dialogueis as follows:

Elizabeth: What do you think of interracial marriage?Martin: If race is socially constmcted, like he [Dr. Gonzales] was saying, what

matter does it make?Richard: But is it?Melinda: I don't know; my father would kill m e . . . .Josey: But would it create just like more borderland.... I mean, if the kids could

pass, would White be bigger and the borderland harder?

From the standpoint of analysis, on this night in partieular, these students seem tointegrate personal and textual responses to question cultural practices. The knowledgecreated during both the above-mendoned discussions, however, was commensuratewith the knowledge and experience of the group's members. In other words, it appearedthat the group eould go only where at least one of the members had been before. Thus,a participant possessing rational knowledge and/or personal experience was often ableto faeilitate the deconstmction of ideologies held by other group members. However,when no participant possessed this loeation, resistance and/or conftision emerged. Thiswas evident as the group stmggled with the poststmctural aspects of Anzaldua'sautobiography. A segment of one of these discussions proceeded as follows:

Martin: She needs psychoanalysis therapy.Melinda: Yeah, she does.Josey: Does that mean that I need therapy because I like her writing?Richard: I gotta read this again.Melinda: She jumps all over the place, sunny, then cloudy.Martin: What state is she in? Messed-up, crazy or having an orgasm?

Additionally, those issues that were ignored or only reeeived superficial mention bythe instmctor continued to be resisted in the group. This was most obvious conceming

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sexual orientation. Although Anzaldua was a lesbian and much of her experience of theborderland dealt with this position, the instructor never mentioned sexual orientation.It also remained absent as a topic in all small-group meetings. This silence, as it offeredno means of engagement or disruption, had the propensity to maintain heteronormativity(Mayo, 2004).

Participating in an on-going small group appeared to provide these students theopportunity to develop a sense of solidarity. This solidarity, at first glance, appearedempowering. It seemed to give these students ground on which to relate and on whichto stand. But I would argue it was not a step toward critical democracy, if criticaldemocracy is understood as demystifying oppressive ideologies and altering materialrelations. If solidarity is read as a necessary ground for dialogue to translate intoaction, not only does this reading rely on a humanistic call for unity that allows Whitestudents the right to demand to know (and thus consume) the other (Jones, 1999;Roman, 1997), it in fact reifies power through constituting an us/them binary—usminority/them privileged—^without interrogating how these positions are possible. Inother words, not only was no language of critique developed (Giroux, 1994; Hemphill,2001), current structures of power were reified through the constitution of a binaryrelationship that appeared on the surface to function as a strategy of empowerment.However, on two occasions the on-going small group did allow its members space toengage in dialogue that exhibited the potential to translate into critical democracy.This was seen when the group critiqued ideologies of the church and interracial marriage.Yet it appeared that the group's ability to make this translation was commensurate toand limited by the knowledge and/or experience of individual group members and thetopics addressed by the instructor. Additionally, this translation remained within therealm of the discursive and did not, at least within the bounds of this study, extend toany action to change material relations. Thus the translation of dialogue into criticaldemocracy was severely restricted.

Discussion and Conclusion

What does a review of this analysis of research findings from 13 years ago suggestabout the practice of dialogue in relation to my classroom in 2009? There were anumber of intersections between the findings of this research and the literaturereviewed that east insight into both the theory of critical pedagogy and my ownpractice. First, action is paramount in a critical pedagogy because it facilitates theending of oppression (Freiré, 1971). Shor (1992), however, lamented the inability ofcritical pedagogy, as it is practiced in the North American higher education class-room, to promote action aimed toward ending oppression. If one defines action, as Ibelieve Shor did, as physical movement or engagement, then action was not a docu-mented finding in any of the classes discussed in this article. If, however, thedefinition of action is expanded to include critical reflection, as a close reading ofFreiré (1971) reveals, then action was documented in both the original study and myclassroom last semester. In the original study, for example, critical reflection was

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documented when the students in the Borderlands group discussed Catholicism andinterracial marriage. It was also evident in my class last semester. After Dawn'soutburst, Carla, a White, female student in the class, calmly asked Dawn who shethought was calling her a racist. This question opened the space not only for Dawnto reflect on her response but for other students to query Dawn about her feelingsand outburst. I believe one needs to note these moments, however small, becausecollectively they represent a form of action that has the power to transform the world(Freiré, 1971). Second, through dialogue, as practiced in these classrooms, someaspects of critical consciousness (Shor, 1992) emerged. Within the original study,several students exhibited an awareness of power relations and were able to chal-lenge discursive and ideological formations in the on-going small-group sessions. Inmy class last semester, the experience between Eric and Jason was never discussedin class. However, a religiously conservative. White male who had been readingFoucault came to talk privately with me about the discourses of power that made theconflict possible. Each instance of critical consciousness documented occurred incontexts other than a whole-class setting and was facilitated by outside knowledgebeing shared by a member of the group. Thus, providing multiple contexts—wholeclass, small group, office hours—in which students can dialogue and share knowl-edge seems valuable. Additionally, critical consciousness is often invisible, hiddenoutside the purview of the instmctor. I think, therefore, one needs to have faith thatcritical seeds have been planted because one does not know when, where, and howcritical consciousness will manifest.

I am also drawn to the fiip side of this insight that critical refiection often occurs asa result of outside knowledge. Tuming this understanding inside out leads me to querywhat knowledge I brought (or did not bring) to the dialogue in my classes last semes-ter. As I reflect, I find two instances of knowledge not brought. In the first experience,I allowed myself to listen without question to the story Eric, the White male teacherwho was the target of Jason's anger, told of himself. I felt a twinge of discomfort, afeeling I have when one is too calmly confident and portrays themselves a little toowell, but I swallowed this feeling and did not stop and refieet: What made it possiblefor Eric to constmct himself as a superior teacher of African American children? Howdid he center his own story and what was the cost of this centering to the stories ofstudents of color? And what made me accept his story without question while I inter-nally questioned—with judgment—Jason's story of conspiracy? Additionally, whatmade it possible for Eric to literally extend and center his body in the classroom,slouching in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, and extending his legs into thespace in front of him? In the second instance, when I suggested I was racist and alwayswould be as a White person bom and raised in the United States, it did not enter mythoughts that I was facilitating racism and possibly the outburst in my class by deny-ing the possibility of change and by refusing to be actively antiracist. bell hooks spokeclearly on this: "Anyone who denies . . . that one ean move from being raeist to beingactively anti-racist is acting in collusion with the existing forces of racial domination"(2003, p. 57). Thus, I think it is vitally important that instmctors critically reflect on

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the knowledge they bring (or do not bring) to the dialogue in their classrooms and theircomplicity in the racial tensions that emerge.

Third, dialogue, in the original study, was not a neutral practice (hooks, 1994;Jones, 2004), but it varied according to one's positionality (Brookfleld, 2001).Eurocentric patterns of dialogue—patterns of speech practiced in the West includingshort wait times, fast pace, interruptions, and (as documented above) the centeringof one's own story—made it unsafe for many students of eolor to speak (Ellsworth,1992; hooks, 1994; Omer, 1992). Aligning with Kim and Markus's (2005) findingthat minority students often have to "change a dense network of cultural values andbeliefs" to participate in dialogue, students of color in the Chicano/a Autobiographycourse mentioned having to change their normal dialogic patterns and becomepushy, aggressive, and silent. Currently, in my own teaching, these insights encour-age me to be more conscious about the strategies dominant students use to centertheir voices. Yet I am trepid to call attention to specific instances. One of the firstlessons in my teacher training was about the ripple effect: When a teacher chastisesa student in front of the group, the negative feelings ripple throughout the class-room. It does not matter if the students feel the reprimand was warranted; theprimary response is hurt feelings, discomfort, and anger toward the teacher. This isnot the classroom I want nor do I feel it is the context in which a critical dialoguewill develop. Freiré (1971) told us that dialogue cannot exist without love, hope, andfaith. Each instance of critical reflection and critical consciousness documentedabove occurred when there was a feeling of camaraderie and/or connection betweenthe participants. Additionally, when Dawn became enraged, it was not me but thestudents who instigated a critical dialogue. Therefore, I believe not only do I need tocontinue to research the patterns of speech which center the voices of the dominantbut I need to share these patterns with my students. Also, if I explicitly deconstructmy own dialogical practices in the classroom, I might illustrate a critical practicewithout creating any ripple effect. Together, the theoretical discussion of dialogicalpatterns and the instructor's application of these strategies in his or her own practicemay plant seeds of critical reflection and give the students tools to deconstruct theirown and each other's dialogue.

Fourth, it is important to bear in mind the limitations of personal stories. Althoughsome students of color in the original study desired more interrogation into personalstories, no one's story was critiqued; no story was pushed beyond the personal as sug-gested in the literature (Macedo, 1994; Tisdell, 2001b). In my own practice, I believeit is important to move beyond the possibility that personal stories left on their owncan increase the possibility of living together with compassion (Nash et al., 2008) andrequire a deeper interrogation into what makes a particular telling possible. Althoughstories offer a wonderful starting place, they are always partial (Bal, 1997; Cohan &Shire, 1988; hooks, 2003).

Messy, complex, and rife with relationships of power, the possibilities of dia-logue in the critical pedagogy classroom often seem bleak. This analysis was oneattempt to shed light on its possibilities. Much more examination is needed. I hope

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others continue to research the pattems and dynamics of dialogue in the North Americanhigher education classroom because I believe a critical dialogue has the potential totransform the world.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interests with respect to the authorship and/orpublication of this article.

Financial Disclosure/Funding

The authors received no financial support for their research and/or authorship of this article.

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Bio

Jodi Jan Kaufmann is an assistant professor of educational policy studies at the University ofGeorgia.