A Black History Month fail at my daughter’s school served as a wake-up call for this naïve optimist.
Before this incident, I had been the kind of parent with naïve hopes that the education system had evolved since my time in it.
But the incident – and the school’s response to it – dashed my hopes, making it clear not much had changed. The more I learned about issues in the system, parents’ frustrations and student suffering, the more I knew I could no longer remain a hopeful observer.
I soon evolved into an unwilling education advocate.
Unwilling in so far as I do this work while simultaneously fuming that this work still needs to be done.
And as another emotionally taxing Black History Month comes to an end, I recognize that the weight of this work just lands differently for me during February.
And I look to my left and right at other Black parents on this journey and I have to take a minute to give you all a virtual hug and express my gratitude.
The unwilling advocate.
I can’t lie, not only am I an unwilling advocate, but I also don’t love labelling myself as an “advocate”. It sounds lofty and foreign. Like what I do doesn’t deserve the same title as the work done by the advocates I admire.
My version of advocacy isn’t fancy. It often amounts to me emailing, calling, and basically showing up everywhere, all the time, all at once. I stay ready to call, email, act and ask. I make sure folks in the system know that I stay ready.
Mainly I ask who, what, where, when and why questions more than I can count.
Who decides which books get taught in our classrooms? What is so difficult about having a curriculum that ensures more children see themselves reflected in it? Why is a book allowed to be taught when it was written in the 1800s, and features a singular Black character – and that character is the deckhand?
Seriously, there have been no better, more inclusive stories written in the last 200 years?
Where are improvements being made that positively impact Black student experience and outcomes?
When will seeing a Black teacher in the hall no longer be a rarity?
No for real.
When?
But I digress…
I engage with educators; I fiercely champion the good teachers we have and work to build better connections between us. I volunteer my expertise and keep my eyes open within the system. I keep watch of not only my childrens’ experiences but those of their friends and classmates.
While being annoyed af that this work is necessary, I do as many of the things as I can. But I never feel like it’s enough.
The weight of Black History Month
If I’m honest, I probably hesitate to identify as an advocate in part because I so often feel overwhelmed by the work.
I feel this most acutely during February. It is during that month I often get invited to events where I can meet others. And I don’t know what it is about me, but parents drowning in the system seek me out. Parents who were where I was when I started this journey – alone and overwhelmed – find me.
As I widen my circle and embrace more folks leaning into this work, I realize the work left to be done. I stay humble and open my mind to their teachings. Sometimes I can share what I’ve learned. Like how to stand tall in the face of edu-speak and overcome pushback when your concerns are brushed off. Cuz – spoiler alert – our concerns are often initially brushed off.
In meetings, I keep watch of other Black parents. I keep my ears and heart open to their stories and the pain that is at the centre of this work. This is where it gets overwhelming when I connect with folks whose suffering within the system is heavy.
Many are like me, unwilling advocates. Forced into action knowing they cannot undo the harm their child experienced but compelled to seek justice, change, or both. Working to ensure harm doesn’t go unchecked, or worse, happen again to their child or someone else’s.
While unwilling folks can be particularly effective advocates, there is a price to be paid.
The price parents pay for their advocacy is steep.
After a particularly challenging meeting with our school board, a frustrated parent’s voice breaks as they admit they don’t know whether can continue this work.
Following weeks of an intense period of advocacy requiring meetings and taxing debates with school officials, a parent rightfully acknowledges that doing the work to make things equitable for all children has come at the price of feeling present with their own.
After a parent council meeting, a parent tearfully admits that constantly begging for their child’s humanity to be seen is wreaking havoc on their mental health.
A mother remains stoic as she explains all she has faced seeking justice for her son. How she is being gaslit and feels the walls of institutional racism closing around her. How she has gone to every level within the school board and even to her elected representatives for help and doesn’t feel heard or know what to do next.
Black parents are often invisible warriors.
There is a lot of time and energy spent during February to honour people, moments and movements throughout history. These folks shaped the world. Many of them seem larger than life. They are Black writers, artists, legislators, activists and thought leaders made famous for their unrelenting passion.
There is no doubt they are heroes.
It is also true that in my tiny corner of the school board, folks perform everyday acts of heroic badassery that no one will ever write about.
Fighting front-line battles, these virtually invisible warriors put themselves on the line for our kids. These parents ask questions, demand answers and do so with little to no reward or recognition and certainly no compensation.
They do so when no one is looking and even as they might sacrifice their mental health and personal well-being.
A pervasive myth about Black parents paints us as uninvolved, especially when it comes to our children’s education. This myth would have us believe that we don’t show up, that we don’t raise concerns, and that we aren’t present.
I’m thankful that this is just a myth. Because I am not alone and doing this work without community would be impossible.
I am grateful to be surrounded by unwilling yet unrelenting Black parents. The more I learn, the more I appreciate that unwilling, yet unrelenting parents have driven history’s greatest movements. And although many of these folks probably wish they didn’t have to push for equity, they did it all the same.
February honours those whose names we know. But after a month of such intensity, I can’t help but gratefully reflect on those folks whose names most of us will likely never know.
I see you.
For what it’s worth and for those quietly plugging along to demand change, I see you.
I see you who came before me to this struggle, many of whom are still here -and I revere your strength. I am rarely in conversation with Black parents who don’t commiserate that they are fighting the same battles their parents fought for them. I don’t take for granted that my children are benefiting from the work of past generations who had bold conversations before they were on trend. I know that decades of research, policy recommendations and lobbying the government didn’t come easy. These folks inspire me and help me believe that we can build an education system that meets the needs of all children.
For the folks who join me at many smaller tables, I see you.
Boy, do I ever see you.
At parent council and equity circles, trustee meetings and school board rooms. I appreciated it when you caught my eye during these meetings. Our exchange of glances and synchronized head shake after being asked to “explain the significance” of cultural headwraps gave me life.
I am grateful that when someone asked why white folks can’t say the N-word, your guffaw grounded me before I forgot myself and challenged them to go ahead and see how saying it worked out for them.
When you leaned back in your chair, nodded and centred another parent as they shared their concerns, my heart smiled. You seemed to effortlessly send waves of strength when it was most needed.
I hope you know that every time you lean forward to call out a school official who has made a parent feel small, I lean back ready to throw my support behind you.
I’ve evolved past optimism; solidarity is my new hope.4
Week after week, month after month, meeting after meeting, I am in solidarity with parents who keep showing up.
I have evolved long past the naïve optimism that clouded my children’s early time in the system. I also do not rely on kindness, or folks’ desire to “do the right thing”, when it comes to equity.
The right thing is labour-intensive. I don’t know anyone in their right mind who would engage in this heavy lifting just to be “nice”.
Conversations suck and drain every ounce of our restraint, pepper us with microaggressions and invalidations and test our resolve. I look to my left and look to my right and too often meet the gaze of parents whose expressions mirror my frustration and incredulity and share my exhaustion.
Niceness won’t get it done. Only solidarity will.
Even if we had the choice to stay silent, most of us wouldn’t. Many of us engage not just for Black children but for all marginalized by their racial identity, religion, disability or sexual identity.
When I’m dumbfounded or miss a beat, other folks stand up, raise their hands, use their voice and bring up issues that some in the room would rather have go unmentioned.
A Black History Month fail drew me to this path of advocacy. Back then, I didn’t know what to do, who to turn to or that I wasn’t alone. I thank the creator to have fallen into the arms of a community to work with in this befuddling journey.
I know, this wasn’t a “real” post.
No, this isn’t a “real” post, I guess. But crawling out of February left me depleted. Black History Month made me uniquely aware of my reliance on community and I couldn’t help but express my gratitude.
To folks I crossed paths with during February, and those that I’ve never met but I know are out there, you give me strength.
And for any parents who are struggling or feeling alone, I encourage you to reach out to find community. Drop a comment, or email me. I’m here. I’m happy to stand with you and hold space for your experience.
So many of our institutions in this country are being challenged, shaped, and made more equitable each day. Folks are working in small rooms, courtrooms, classrooms and boardrooms, folks whose names we will likely never know. But no doubt these folks are shaping education, reforming justice, fighting for equitable health care, ensuring financial and wealth equity and more.
To all the invisible warriors, champions, and regular folks making waves and causing good trouble, I see your work, I see you. I thank you.
In solidarity.
