Aug 252011
 

This week’s blog post from intern Katie talks about STIs (sexually transmitted infections) and how our society stigmatizes them, which makes it even more difficult to teach about.

“Today we’re learning about sexually transmitted infections!” No matter how enthusiastic my delivery is, that short sentence rarely inspires excitement and curiosity in my students. In fact, the usual response I receive involves a symphony of groans and eye rolls. And really, I can’t blame them: internally, I’m groaning too.

I’m sure there are some superstar sex educators out there who have mastered teaching about STIs, but I’m not one of them. Sure, it can be challenging making transmission statistics and bacterial/viral categorizations “fun” (STI jeopardy only seems to maintain student interest for so long) but the problem is more ingrained than that. For me, the biggest obstacle is tone: how do I convey the necessary information–– about infection types, about barrier methods, about testing availability–– in a way that inspires prudence but not fear? I want to reinforce the reality of STIs and the importance of practicing safer sex behaviors, but I want to do so without (1) scaring them away from sex forever and (2) further stigmatizing STIs and people who have them.

I try to be particularly sensitive to the stigmatizing messages my students receive in and out of the classroom, but these messages aren’t always easy to address in a consistent, coherent manner. If I mention herpes sores and a student loudly gasps “Ewwww,” I have to think carefully about how I proceed. If I respond by insisting, “No, sores are no big deal,” then I run the risk of diminishing the difficulties (social and medical) that people with herpes experience. I would also feel somewhat dishonest: herpes isn’t a big deal in the sense that plenty of people lead happy, healthy lives with herpes, but outbreaks aren’t a walk in the park either. But if I say nothing and let the student feign disgust, I could be sending an even more dangerous message to the other students in the class–– some of whom may have tested positive for STIs or who may have friends, family, or partners who have tested positive–– that people with STIs are worthy of fear or disrespect.

STIs are unpleasant: therefore, people with STIs are unpleasant. It’s a huge logical misstep that society encourages us to make, and that we as educators must vigilantly avoid. And the stakes are high: even if a student does not have any STIs when the lesson takes place, if the takeaway message of the lesson is that STIs are cause for shame, then ze/she/he might be less likely to tell get tested regularly or tell future partners hir/her/his status. My response to the above hypothetical question would then be carefully worded. I might say something along the lines of: “Herpes is like a lot of other chronic medical conditions. Plenty of people live happy lives with herpes, but it’s still an uncomfortable complication that most people would rather avoid. Here’s how you can protect yourself against herpes…”

Again, I still have quite a lot to learn about teaching STI awareness and prevention. Nevertheless, I’ve collected below a few of the important “dos” and “don’ts” I’ve gleaned from my own experience and from the wisdom of other educators. If you have any additional suggestions or comments, I’d love to hear them!

Avoid using the term “clean.” It can be tempting to use popular jargon when teaching a class, but referring to people without STIs as “clean” is highly offensive to folks with STIs. It also sets up a false relationship between STI status and hygiene, wherein students with good daily hygiene are more likely to think of themselves impervious to disease/infection. If students in your class use “clean” in this way, gently but firmly correct them. Someone who gets an ear infection isn’t unclean. Neither is someone with a sexually transmitted infection.

Share the statistics that apply to them. I don’t think fear-mongering is ever a good idea, but it doesn’t hurt to let students in on the information being collected about their demographic. What STIs are most common? How are they being transmitted? If presented without scare tactics, this kind of info can make students feel empowered and less alone.

If possible, act in conjunction with school health services. Obviously, not everyone who works as a sex educator does so via institutions with their own health centers. However, if you are teaching at the high school or college level, try to find out how involved the health center is in student sexual health. If nothing else, it can be incredibly valuable for students to be able to point them towards a known ally in the school.

Make it easy for students to receive testing information. In the past, I’ve written the names, phone numbers, and addresses of clinics that offer STI testing up on the board and asked students to copy them down. In my experience, they’ve become self-conscious, not wanting to look like this is information they need or want, and they’ve refused to write anything down. I’ve started instead to hand each student a printed sheet with test center information; I tell them that they can’t throw the sheets in the trash outside if they absolutely have to, but everyone needs to leave the classroom with that slip of paper.

Acknowledge stigmas. We live in a society that still strongly stigmatizes people with STIs. Don’t be surprised if this message has rubbed off on your students. Listen to their thoughts and concerns, and be patient in letting your perspective sink in.

Jul 012011
 

This post is from one of my fabulous sexuality summer interns, Katie Davis, about some of her experiences learned as a sexuality educator.

-Shanna

I spent the past year volunteering as a sex educator in the public school system
near my college, facilitating discussions on topics ranging from anatomy and physiology
to contraception to healthy communication. One day, while beginning a class on
fertilization with a group of middle school young women, a student raised her hand and
asked my co-facilitators and myself: “Do any of you have kids?”

The question made me pause. At 20, I was one of the older facilitators in our
group of four, but it hardly felt like the sort of question usually directed at me. The
thought of having children had only vaguely entered my consciousness as something I
might one day sort of maybe kind of want to do if I felt emotionally and financially ready
to do so. Furthermore, I’ve always looked young for my age–– it wasn’t until I cut my
hair off last year that I stopped being offered the kids’ menu at restaurants. So the
thought that someone might perceive me as a parent made my head spin.

I apparently wasn’t the only one who was surprised by the question. My co-
facilitators and I looked around at each other for a moment before one began to laugh.
She then replied to the student “No, none of us are parents! None of us are even 21 yet!”
The class stared back at us silently.

And like that we had lost them. We would eventually regain their trust and
respect, but it would take a while, and the rest of that fifty minute period was a wash,
with the students more or less ignoring us. We taught in a district with high teen
pregnancy rates: hence the administration’s desire to run an intensive sex ed workshop
for female students. Likely a significant portion of the young women in our classroom
that day had friends or close relatives who were teen mothers. And instead of responding
in a way that acknowledged their experiences, we made our students feel insulted,
ignored, and misunderstood.

I’m still traveling down the sex education path, and I still sometimes say the
wrong thing, but I’m learning. Above all, I’ve learned the importance of mindfulness, of
self-awareness. Recognizing my own positionality–– as a wealthy, white, cis-gender,
able-bodied queer woman–– has been awkward at times, but it’s undoubtedly made me a
better educator as well as a better student, partner, friend, etc. That’s why the #1 most
important lesson for educators is, for me:

1. Know the limits of your own knowledge.

It would be pretty amazing if everyone adhered to this rule, but it’s one that is
particularly important for educators/mentors to follow. Certainly, when a student asks
me a question to which I don’t know the answer off the top of my head, I’m honest about
my ignorance and I offer a well-researched answer the next time we meet. But it’s much
harder for me to recognize and accept that there are answers I will never know, answers
that are inaccessible to me. The very term “teen pregnancy,” for example, will likely

mean something radically different from what it means for a student whose older sister
dropped out of high school to raise a child. Knowing the limits of my knowledge means
recognizing that I will never fully grasp that latter, personal meaning. I simply don’t
have the same background, life experiences, etc. The best I can do is to challenge and
encourage my students to think critically and define the world for themselves. Which
brings me to lesson #2:

2. People are experts of their own experiences.

Learning is not strictly an in-class activity, and there is no possible way for me to
know what kind of education my students receive in their day to day lives. Great
educators know better than to challenge their students’ experiences of the world.
Rather, they provide students with a new lens through which to examine and understand
experience. Slowly, I am learning to do just this.