Picture it. A five-year-old little girl neatly places an assortment of stuffed animals, baby dolls and her most cherished Barbie on the floor, grabs a chair that’s taller than her from her grandma’s kitchen table and sits with her favorite picture book to read her “students” a story. This was the first time I imagined myself as a teacher.
Growing up, I loved school and reading and learning. Perhaps it was instilled in me by my college-educated grandmother who always reminded me of how hard her daddy worked to get her to college. I understood early on education was not just important, but necessary.
My love for school extended to many of my teachers. Most notably, my 7th grade writing teacher. She was my first ever Black teacher, young and maybe only a few years into her teaching career. She nurtured my love of reading and writing. And she held our class, which was all Black, to high standards. She believed in us. After my experience with her, I knew I wanted to follow in her footsteps. And I did in my own ways.
In education, representation matters but it is certainly not enough. It was not just that I saw myself reflected in my teacher, it was also that I knew my teacher saw herself in me. I knew that in that class of all Black students, she saw herself in all of us. That is the type of love and dedication that all students, especially Black students, deserve.
A schoolteacher stands with an open book in his hand as his students sit at their desks while one student stands to read in an all-Black one-room school in Pleasanton, Texas, 1957.
In the early 20th century, Black educators were pillars in the Black community. And many of them opened their own schools to remedy the fact that Black schools were not granted the same resources as white schools. Honoring that legacy that persists today, Black Joy spoke with educators about why they chose the field, how they resist the current attacks on Black History curriculum and advice they have for future educators.
What…
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