Teaching in the Time of Corona
It has been almost two weeks since educators across America were told we would have to take our classes online. Standardized tests have been cancelled and questions of equity arise as - for my student population - there is uncertainty in how many students actually have internet access and stable enough home environments to complete their work.
As an English teacher and artist - who often feels confined by what I am mandated to teach - a virtual classroom comes as a bit of a relief; I am able to introduce my students to literature and writing in a way that was previously frowned upon. I am able to create lessons that introduce the intellect of Black literature, and art, and history in a way the school system does not allow.
I am interested to see what the educational sector looks like after things “return to normal.” I do not believe things will ever return to how they were and we will all be charged with adapting to these new times. Virtual classrooms are an opportunity for this generation to guide their learning and expose them to working technology in a capacity outside of Twitter and TikTok. It is also an opportunity for those who want to learn and practice writing to be involved in their own education.
This pandemic forces us to look deeper into issues urban educators have known for years - the vast inequity and problematic foundation of how we educated poor, Black, and Brown students.
These are strange times indeed! Are you a parent with a high school aged student and don’t know where to turn for the English classes? Check out my self paced virtual classes.
Thirty - five years ago today, my father arrived in America. My mother would join him the following January.He came on a scholarship to obtain his Masters from Denver University. He came to escape what would become the First Liberian Civil War - a twenty year conflict that would claim the lives of millions. I have never taken for granted the sacrifice and isolation of my parents' immigrant experience; the abuse from both white and Black America. As Africans, they were thrust into the strange dynamic that is race relations in this country. They endured to ensure my sister and I were given opportunities to thrive.The story of my parents is not unlike many immigrants who traveled great distance to give privilege to their children. They experienced the American Dream in its most convoluted definition.The United States of America has long has conversations surrounding its migrant and immigrant population - and as we move towards nationalist policies, the sacrifices my parents made are now in jeopardy, more than ever before. My own citizenship is in danger (though a huge constitutional fight must first be won).As the world focuses on the sweeping caravan of migrants coming from Central and South America - the story of Black immigrants is often lost amongst the clutter. Black immigrants often face higher rates of incarceration and deportation - America's inherent racism not lost in its immigration practices.As we wait to see what comes of Trump's newest nationalist suggestion - let us not forget Black immigrants and their children.
Becoming a teacher saved my life.I began my teaching career one month after the passing of my father. I'd spent the summer grieving - laying in bed sad and lost - navigating the path of who I was now that he was gone.On the first day of school, I sat nervously behind my desk - and watched as a gaggle of bright faced Black students walked into my classroom. Ahmad, Caleb, and Dalyn shook hands and found pleasure in having class together. Taryn entered, long legged with a mouth full of braces. Then Shaheem, loud and prepared for a fight. And Calvin, who ended most of his sentences with the colloquial "you heard me?" This was my introduction to the children of New Orleans.There were days when I thought I would lose my mind - as is normal for any first year teacher. Some days the grief of losing my father was so heavy - that I would walk out of class and weep in the bathroom. Some days, I could not leave fast enough and would weep in front of my students. And they would sit in silence - or rush to me and hug me; telling me stories of a grandmother who they lost to cancer, or a friend they watched bleeding in the middle of the street.But most days, I spend my time laughing and learning from young people who are searching for themselves in a city that makes it easy to be lost. New Orleans, if you let it, will eat you alive and not even have the decency to spit you back up. My students have seen death and glory; know what it means to be literally and theoretically hungry.They are surviving and survivors.The relationship between myself and my students is a mutually beneficial one; they often tell me how much they love and need me.For some, I am mother, sister, aunt, nurse, therapist, and friend. And as daunting as that responsibility may seem - it is not one I take lightly or for granted.That is why I've created Black Women Are Teachers, a movement that celebrates all the guidance Black women give to students - in and outside of the classroom. A part of this movement is funding the artistic, entrepreneurial, and scholastic efforts of students of the African Diaspora.