As a child, the phrase “You’ve been here before!” echoed in my ears far too often. Initially, its meaning eluded me, but with time, clarity emerged. I simply possessed knowledge and curiosity that many of my peers, even older ones, didn’t share. My questions often bewildered and irritated the adults around me. At the age of seven, I was using the word “emaciated” correctly, not for show, but because I aspired to be a veterinarian. I programmed televisions for relatives, trained dogs, and spent my free time diving into Black history encyclopedias. To me, learning was pure joy.
My passion for knowledge placed me slightly ahead academically, yet it also made me prone to boredom. At home, my curiosity was nurtured by books and endless questions to my mom and grandparents. However, the school environment was starkly different.
Classrooms focused heavily on maintaining order and discipline. For Black and brown children, the message was clear: creative freedom would not be tolerated, as the world outside would likely strip it away. Rigid schedules, limited breaks, and the expectation to conform stifled any sense of exploration.
My intelligence and inquisitiveness didn’t help matters. Being “smart” was acceptable only within the confines of expected behavior. I quickly learned that my curiosity was perceived as a threat to the established order, often leading to disapproving glances from teachers when my questions veered off topic. “Why must we stand in alphabetical order?” I would ask, only to be met with annoyance and the blunt response, “Because I said so.” It seemed my inquisitiveness marked me as a statistic to be managed, and I was treated accordingly.
In Texas during the late nineties, corporal punishment was commonplace, especially in underfunded schools. For an entire academic year, I found myself in the principal’s office nearly every morning for simply being too talkative. The paddle—a tool of punishment—was an intimidating presence in my young mind; I can’t remember its color, but I recall the holes designed to inflict pain. The principal delivered the swats without emotion, reinforcing the notion that I was an inconvenience that needed managing. By the end of the year, I was numb to it all.
To the education system, I was just another Black child destined for failure. In truth, I was merely an under-stimulated kid. My kindergarten experiences set a disheartening tone for my educational journey. My eagerness to engage in discussions was often overwhelming for my teachers, leading to further punishments for challenging the norms.
By the second grade, I spent countless hours at the front of the class, “placing my nose in a circle” on the chalkboard. One particular day stands out—I stood there while my classmates were instructed to ignore me as if I weren’t even present. I felt isolated and like a burden. Other times, I endured 15 to 20 minutes in a punishment position, holding books aloft. The goal was to humiliate me into submission, and in many ways, they succeeded.
Elementary school was marked by paddles, time-outs, and behavior plans. I absorbed the message that my background made success impossible. Low expectations from educators, combined with harassment from peers due to my awkwardness, led me to feel invisible. I lacked the support that gifted students received and ultimately missed out on special programs.
Desiring to avoid being a distraction, I began to withdraw from classroom participation. This urge to disappear intensified as I faced relentless bullying from fifth to eighth grade. In seventh grade history class, I became afraid to speak out after two girls constantly mocked me for my short hair, branding me as “N.H.” instead of by my name. Social anxiety took root, and I often found myself nauseous before school.
In high school, I sought solace through relationships, but my grades plummeted as I disengaged from my studies. Each morning brought panic attacks as I mentally prepared to enter the building.
I am not the first child to learn from the education system that their uniqueness is unwelcome. Now, at twenty-five, I read stories of other children facing similar challenges. I wish I could say my situation improved as the school recognized my potential, but it did not. I was expelled after a confrontation with an ex-boyfriend, an event that ultimately turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
The judge I encountered after my expulsion looked at my record and grades and assured me for the first time that I was indeed intelligent. He required me to attend a community course for young women and urged me to do better. And I did. I completed my senior year in a more affluent district that treated me with respect. I regained control over my education and even found the courage to pursue college, where I thrived.
Now, as a mother, I find myself filled with apprehension. My two-year-old son shows signs of the same curiosity that society once punished me for. He immerses himself in what fascinates him, running and singing with abandon. I refuse to let him experience the same educational injustices that I faced.
Watching him joyfully sing Moana, I feel a wave of emotion. I’ll fight to ensure he retains that vibrant spirit. As he grows, I plan to emphasize the importance of individuality and creativity. I’m already searching for schools that foster such differences, particularly those willing to embrace innovative teaching methods. If I can’t find a suitable environment, I’m ready to consider homeschooling.
My son is fortunate to have a mother who understands the challenges posed by an education system that often fails children of color. I grapple with feelings of inadequacy despite my achievements. I am determined that my son will never feel the sting of punishment for his eagerness to learn. My experiences have driven me to advocate for awareness around the importance of diversity and the factors contributing to achievement gaps. If I succeed, countless other children may benefit as well.
In conclusion, the education system can be a harsh place for many students, especially those of color. However, through resilience and advocacy, we can work toward a more equitable system that nurtures and celebrates every child’s unique potential.
Keyphrase: Institutional Racism in Education
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