Now, I am the last person who thought I’d ever be over here paraphrasing Ms. Taylor Swift. I’d like to think this is a safe space for Swifties, but I certainly don’t count myself among them.
That said, every quote has its time.
And at this point in the school year, I have to remind myself – it’s not me, I’m not the problem.
After speaking with many other Black parents over the past few weeks, I am pretty sure it’s not just me who needs to hear this today:
Dear Black parents, you’re not the problem. It’s not you.
I have come to accept that pushback means I’m doing something right.
With two kids in the education system, I’ve been a parent advocate for a minute. My kids are about to graduate high school. And ever since my daughter’s Grade 2 teacher traumatized her with an infamous Black History lesson on Slave Catchers, I was forced into these streets as a parent advocate.
What advocacy has meant for me has varied. I’ve been asking questions, poking holes in the system, wondering how, why, and why again. And oh—where in the world are the Black teachers? I’ve used my voice in every way I could think of. I’ve advocated to have new Afrocentric courses offered in my school board. I have been the one who questioned policies and demanded change. When the time came, I spearheaded the effort to elect representatives who looked like us as school board trustees.
I’ve spent countless hours volunteering in classrooms. I see the hunger and joy on Black children’s faces when they see someone like them greeting them in the halls. I also know the value of seeing firsthand what’s going on in those classrooms.
I’ve pushed, y’all.
The one thing that has remained consistent is that for all my pushing and questioning, I get a lot of pushback.
Making an effort does not equate to making progress.
As the brilliant Dr. Shanté Holley so eloquently put it – “There is a difference between making an effort and making progress.”
Folks in the system often confuse making an effort with making progress and ask parents to do the same.
People expect me to co-sign band-aid solutions designed to prop up and excuse a flawed system instead of progressing it toward what it should be.
I present well-researched policy demands targeting real change and data-driven accountability—often mirroring the policies of neighbouring school boards—but I face shouting down, lack of support, and inaction.
And then, on those occasions when the system does make a small step forward — it comes after we drag the system, kicking and screaming, towards better. Yet if I don’t fall over backward to compliment the system on its mediocre efforts, they won’t bother repeating the behaviour.
Invisible Black parents – unite!
They tell me that Black parents don’t get involved — and I just laugh and laugh! — I laugh while working with a collective of parents. Parents who, upon seeing a school with about 70% Black and other racialized children and not one single example of Black leadership on its staff, volunteered their time and skills to build a program to teach leadership to Black youth in schools that lack Black representation.
Despite claims that we’re not ‘involved,’ this collective of deeply committed, invisible Black parents continues to leverage our superpowers. We are advocating to offer the B.R.A.V.E. leadership program in our school and aspire to expand it to others in our board. Meanwhile, many in the school system convey—through every means possible except saying it outright—that we are not wanted, not qualified, and barely tolerated.
This level of f*ckery has broken more than a few parents and made us question ourselves.
More than once I’ve wondered if maybe it is me.
I’ll admit to wondering more than once whether maybe it is me. I have struggled to tell niceness from nonsense.
I mean, maybe the teacher did mean well and indeed “doesn’t have a racist bone in their body”.
Maybe my son does look just like the other Black boy in his class who is four shades lighter and wears locs. And that is why the teacher repeatedly confuses them.
Sure it’s the fourth time these four white children picked on my child and called him a n*gger and monkey without consequence but maybe that is because I make everything about race.
Maybe my son would do just fine without a degree. — He does have a great personality and would make a great salesperson so maybe I should let him skip those academic credits altogether!
Maybe I should’ve asked differently, or not asked at all for anything. Maybe we don’t need more Black educators because those who have historically failed, more harshly punished and dimmed the potential of our children don’t even see colour.
Side eye. Slow blink.
Kmt.
It’s not me, I’m not the problem.
Ok I’m only a few weeks into the school year and I’m already all fired up.
Listen. For every Black parent doing the most—whether you have a Malcolm, an Isaiah, or a Michael. Whether your child is picked on, bullied, or streamed. Whether your daughter is “too loud” and talks too much in class, or she’s mastered the art of keeping her head down so well that she’s lost a piece of her peace along the way. Whether you’re “making everything about race” or just being difficult— I’m with you.
I see you.
Every one of us pushing is creating cracks in the system, but we’ve got to make sure we don’t crack along the way. The only thing stronger than doing it alone is doing it collectively—and I never do this alone.
Yes, I continue to use my voice to challenge the system, to push buttons that push back.
But I also use my voice to quietly, passionately assure you, my fellow Black parents: You are not the problem. It’s not you.
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