First Person

Cut from the same cloth: Why it matters that black male teachers like me aren’t alone in our schools

PHOTO: Melanie Asmar
Allen Smith of Denver Public Schools’ Culture, Equity and Leadership Team and the author's former principal.

The professional journey of a black male teacher can be completely isolating: Without colleagues of the same gender and cultural and ethnic background, having supportive and fulfilling professional relationships is much harder.

Do not get me wrong — there are amazing teachers and leaders of all backgrounds in schools across Colorado and the country. But there is so much power in being able to see someone and work with someone like you.

I know because I am one of few black male teachers in Denver, and I’ve taught in schools where I was alone, and in schools where I worked with people who looked like me.

Across the country, only 2 percent of teachers are black men. In Colorado, that proportion is even smaller: Just 4 percent of the state’s teachers are black, men and women. (Colorado’s black population is just under 4 percent.)

For the first two years of my career, while I was in graduate school, I worked as a paraprofessional in a Jefferson County school with an amazing staff that embraced me and showed me nothing but love, but I could not help but feel alone. There was not one teacher of color at that school while I was there.

Being the only person of color at the school meant that I received a great deal of attention while still feeling alone — and under a great deal of pressure. I felt like I was always on stage, always “representing,” because I knew for many of the people that I worked with, including students, their interaction with me might be their only meaningful connection or communication to a black person. Even with people that I felt had true love for me, it was a lot to shoulder day in and day out.

Have you had the experience of being the only person like yourself in your school? Take this survey to share your story.

So when I was 27 and looking for my first full-time social studies teaching job, I set out to look for a school where I would not be alone. At a Denver Public Schools hiring fair, I met Allen Smith, a black man who was then the principal of Martin Luther King Jr. Early College. He invited me to his school but first connected me with an assistant principal, Nick Dawkins — another black man. I left the fair without talking to anybody else, and a month later, I got an offer to teach at MLK.

Teachers’ first years are tough, but having two black men available to support me made all the difference in the world. I knew they were cut from the same cloth as me — and because of that I was able to share my experience with them without fear of judgment.

Mr. Dawkins was the assistant principal directly over me as well as my mentor, and his support was invaluable. He allowed me to sit and talk with him about the troubles and successes I was experiencing in and outside of the classroom. His insight into building curriculum as well as the advice he gave me as a young black man in my first career changed my life. He shared his stories of teaching and how he was able to be successful, and where he struggled. He let me know places I should go out and relax and have a good time after a hard week.

We laughed, we cried, we grew, and it was all rooted in us being able to recognize one another as black men in this world and all that came with that.

Principal Smith showed a confidence in me that I had never had anyone outside of family show me before. In my first year at his school he was already grooming me and asking me questions about what I wanted to do next in education. He began encouraging me to look into administration programs and ways that I could continue to grow as a professional. He never told me explicitly but he made me feel like he was an older “brotha,” who wanted me to know I could do anything I wanted to, and that he would support me all the way.

When he announced that he was leaving for Oakland, California, I was nervous. But his replacement, Tony Smith (no relation), was also a black man, and his leadership was even more familiar. While he was a little rougher around the edges and a little more in your face than his predecessor, my father was the same way and the transition for me was seamless.

The next time the school hired a principal, I got someone who was just like the black women that I had grown up with my entire life. Kimberly Greyson pushed me the same way those black women did. She never told me that she had a special place in her heart for me because I was a black male — like her son, like her father, her uncles, and her friends — but she didn’t have to. I could feel it in our interactions.

As black people, we are so hard-pressed for self- and communal preservation that we find ourselves treating each other like family, because that is the best way to survive and thrive. That is the kind of the feeling I got working under Kimberly, who guided me to become a teacher-leader and trainer not only for our school but nationwide.

When Nick Dawkins became principal of Manual High School, he invited me to join him there, and that’s where I teach today. It could sound like I was given some special treatment in the way that my supervisors looked after me and helped me grow. But the privilege that I received is just everyday life for most teachers in a profession dominated by white women.

Now, Allen Smith has returned to Denver, where he is on the school district’s culture, leadership, and equity team. As he always has, he is is pushing me into spaces and work that are new to me because he believes in me and wants to give me a shot. He asked me to join the steering committee for the district’s African-American Equity Task Force, which is working to find out ways for more teachers to share my experience, and for more students to benefit from having teachers who look like them.

For the last nine months, we have been working with over 100 volunteers to develop ways to improve outcomes for black students in Denver. We’re looking at all aspects of education, from curriculum and instruction, to discipline practices and interventions, to teacher training and mentoring, to the persistent challenge of hiring and retaining teachers of color. We know that our black students are an underserved population in our district and our job as a task force is to develop a comprehensive solution to the problems we face.

I know that my story is not the story of the healthy majority of black males in education. As a matter of fact, when I tell other black males my story, I have to help them get their jaws off the ground because they cannot even fathom a situation like mine exists. They tell me that because they do not work with anyone who shares their demographic profile, they find it hard to see who and how they want to be professionally.

And that is the problem. I found the colleagues who changed my life through sheer luck. But teachers’ ability to have colleagues who share their experiences should not be left to kismet.

William Anderson is a teacher at Manual High School in Denver.

First Person

I’ve spent years fighting for integrated schools in New York City. I’m also Asian-American. Mayor de Blasio, let’s talk.

PHOTO: Christina Veiga
Parents weigh in on a proposal to integrate District 2 middle schools by making them enroll students with a range of academic abilities earlier this year.

Dear Mayor de Blasio and Chancellor Carranza,

I write as a school integration advocate, racial justice activist, public school mother, and a first-generation Japanese-American.

I have spent years working with other parents to make New York City’s public school system more equitable, facilitating conversations on school integration as a means to dismantle racism in our society. I believe it is past time we address the segregation in New York City public schools, and I agree that something must be done with the specialized high schools — which currently admit few black and Latinx students — as part of this work.

However, I am concerned about how you’ve rolled out this proposal without including the people it will affect.

As opposition mounts and the Asian communities across the city mobilize against your plan, I wanted to share some thoughts so that you are better prepared to create a meaningful dialogue on perhaps the most complex part of the school integration work.

I would like to ask three things from you. One is to please see us Asian New Yorkers for who we are.

There is no question that Asians have been (and many still are) marginalized and disempowered. If one learns the history of Asians in the U.S., she understands that our past is filled with violence and struggles. Our history is steeped in discriminatory policies at federal and local levels, including the Chinese Exclusion Act and Japanese internment. We were only given the “model minority” status because doing so was convenient for domestic and international politics.

We are also a very diverse group of people, representing more than four dozen countries. This fact alone makes it very difficult to make any general statements about us.

That doesn’t mean, though, that we should be ignored in this conversation or inaccurately lumped in with whites. High average test scores do not automatically equal privilege, and they are certainly no match for white supremacy — a concept many self-proclaimed “non-racists” are unable to recognize. This lack of understanding makes it nearly impossible to identify Asians as oppressed people of color.

The second thing I ask is to bring all of us – whites, blacks, Latinx, and Asians (East, South, and Southeast Asians) – together to develop solutions to integrate our schools.

The unfortunate fact is that our city is not typically equipped to have productive conversations about race and racism. And if racism of white against black/Latinx is difficult to grasp for some, understanding how Asians fit into this discourse is even harder.

Our position is so complicated, even racial justice activists – including Asians themselves – often do not know how to talk about us. When we are not ignored, we are perceived as “outsiders,” even if this is the only country some of us know.

But there is no reason we can’t work together. History tells us that Asians have been fighting for civil rights alongside black and Latinx people for decades, even after the white system began using us as pawns. Even in the highly contentious affirmative action arena, in which some Asians have been co-opted by white anti-affirmative action groups, many Asians remain in favor of affirmative action and are continuing to fight for equity for all people of color.

Finally, to make that work, I ask that you adopt a “bottom up and top down” approach, in which community conversations and shared decision-making happen under your leadership. Such a framework has been proposed by a group of advocates, including students.

The Department of Education has already hosted a series of town halls to solicit ideas on diversifying our schools, and has done a good job of getting people to come out. However, on this proposal for the specialized high schools, there was no consultation with affected communities, including students.

Let’s practice what we preach and have an inclusive, participatory process. Let’s not ignore the Asian community when we talk about school integration, and let’s specifically include Asian voices — parents and students — in this discussion about specialized schools and all schools. Let’s have real conversations aimed at uniting those who have been marginalized, not dividing them. And let’s explain how these decisions will be made and why.

This is an opportunity to start a conversation that should have happened when Brown v. Board of Education was decided 64 years ago, and to create more equitable, integrated schools. Let’s make sure we do it right.

Shino Tanikawa is the vice president of District 2’s Community Education Council and a school integration advocate.

First Person

If teachers aren’t equipped to help trauma victims, students suffer. Learn from my story.

PHOTO: Anthony Lanzilote

It took one of my kindergarten students, Andrew, to help me figure out how to handle my toughest teaching challenge.

My classroom wall was full of pictures that Andrew had drawn for me. He often greeted me at the door with a smile. But Andrew would also scream, act out, and even hurt himself in my class.

For quite some time, I thought that if I could find a different way to ask him to get back on task, maybe he would not become so aggressive, not bang his head on the floor. But regardless of how tactfully I approached keeping him engaged or redirected his behavior, Andrew would implode. And with little to no support, I quickly grew weary and helpless.

Eventually, I did learn how to help students like Andrew. I also eventually realized that when you teach students who have been impacted by trauma, you have to balance ownership and the reality that you cannot solve every problem. But the trial and error that it took to reach that point as a teacher was exhausting.

I hope we, as a profession, can do better for new Memphis teachers. In the meantime, maybe you can learn from my story.

I grew up in a trauma-filled household, where I learned to mask my hurt and behave like a “good girl” to not bring attention to myself. It wasn’t until a high school teacher noticed how hard I flinched at being touched and privately expressed concerns that I got help. After extensive investigations and professional support, I was on the road to recovery.

When I became a teacher myself, and met Andrew and many students like him, I began to see myself within these children. But that didn’t mean I knew how to reach them or best help them learn. All I knew to do when a child was misbehaving was to separate them from the rest of the classroom. I didn’t have the training to see past a student’s bad behavior and help them cope with their feelings.

It took a while to learn not to internalize Andrew’s attacks, even when they became physical. No matter what Andrew did, each day we started over. Each day was a new opportunity to do something better, learn from a mistake, or work on developing a stronger bond.

I learned to never discipline when I am upset and found success charting “trigger behaviors,” using them to anticipate outbursts and cut down on negative behaviors.

Over time, I learned that almost all students are more receptive when they feel they have a real relationship with the teacher. Still, each case must be treated differently. One student may benefit from gentle reminders, private conversations, or “social stories” that underscore the moral of a situation. Another student may respond to firm consequences, consistent routines, or reflection journals.

Still other students sit in our classrooms each and every day and are overlooked due to their mild-mannered demeanor or their “cooperativeness.” My childhood experiences made me aware of how students mask trauma in ways very unlike Andrew. They also made me realize how imperative it is for teachers to know that overachieving students can need just as much help as a child that physically acts out.

I keep a watchful eye on students that are chronically fatigued or overly sensitive to noise or touch, jumping for minor reasons. I encourage teachers to pay close attention to students that have intense hygiene issues, as their incontinence could be acting as a defense mechanism, and I never ignore a child who is chronically withdrawn from their peers or acting out of character.

All of this took time in the classroom and effort processing my own experiences as a student with trauma. However, many teachers in Memphis aren’t coming from a similar background and haven’t been trained to see past a student’s disruptive behavior.

It’s time to change the way we support teachers and give educators intense trauma training. Often, compassionate teachers want to help students but don’t know how. Good training would help educators develop the skills they need to reach students and to take care of themselves, since working with students that have been impacted by trauma can be incredibly taxing.

Trial and error aren’t enough: If teachers are not equipped to help trauma victims, the quality of students’ education will suffer.

Candace Hines teaches kindergarten for the Achievement School District, and previously taught kindergarten for six years with Shelby County Schools. She also is an EdReports content reviewer and a coach and facilitator for Teach Plus Memphis. Hines serves as a fellow for Collaborative for Student Success and a Hope Street Group Tennessee Teacher Fellow.