Disclaimer: I’m not the best teacher. I’ve seen people do work a lot better than me. I’m not the most effective, nor the most organized, nor the most cutting edge. I have so many flaws. But I am good at a few things. And one is detecting racism. And making sure that it’s called out when it happens.

That gets difficult when I become the target of racism. 

[Reader, I am going to walk you through this one, okay? Starting with the title, “Target on my Black,” which I think you’ll find is an astute metaphor for the fuckery that I experienced on this day.]

I heard from three former students, on separate occasions, about their excitement for the upcoming volleyball season and their anxiety around their very first home game of the year. They were now in high school and had made their junior team. I looked at my calendar and fortunately had some time on the day of their game. So I mentioned to each of them that I’d try to come support. Support, you know–the thing that propels youth and community forward? Yeah, that thing.

I arrived at the school maybe forty minutes after the school had let out for the day. Coincidentally running into these students in the hallway less than a minute after entering the building. We laughed at how nearly their entire team was comprised of students from our old school. 

I wished them good luck as they left to warm up.

Who knew I’d be the one needing it? 

Less than a minute later, I ran into some more former students. We talked, I asked them about their grades, they lied, I told them to make sure they were going to class. They nodded. We dapped. I left.

By the time I made it to the gym doors, two adults––a white lady and a south asian female––were peeking through the glass, trying to get in. “Y’all here to watch the game too?” I asked.

“Yup, the guy…he’s on the other side of the gym. He doesn’t see us.” The white lady responded. She was referring to a hall monitor inside. 

“Are you here for the Home team kids or the Away team?” I continued, confident enough that at some point all three of us adults standing here would eventually get into the gym.

“Away,” the white lady said. “My daughter is playing right now.”

“How about you?” I asked the other woman standing there, quietly watching.

“The Home team,” she said. “I’m here to watch my sister…I actually came to this school.” 

“Me too,” I said. “Yeah, I teach at the middle school down the road. A few of my former students are on this team.”

“Oh, wow, I went there too,” she said. She looked at me like she wanted to ask me more questions but before she could the gym door swung open.

“Mr. Morris! How you doing?” another former student said as she exited the gym. “Angel! What’s good? Where are you going? Aren’t you on the team?” I said. 

“Yeah, I am. But I have work. Gotta’ make that bread, juhknow?” 

I laughed as she skirted past all three of us and down the hall. The three of us walked in and went our separate ways, but not too far from each other. Maybe fifteen feet. That’s probably because the bleachers were yellow-taped off so there wasn’t anywhere to sit. There were less than a handful of adults in the gym who weren’t the teacher-coaches from the two schools. Me being one of them. 

The senior teams of the two schools were going into the third set. A few more students who I had taught turned around on their team bench to nod hello. 

[I know, I know. Trust me, I’m getting to the point. But a part of the point is the amount of students in this space whom I clearly had a relationship of familiarity with…]

While they were huddled up preparing for the tie-breaker I walked over to the junior team to chat. You know. That whole support thing. After two minutes or so, I was back holding the same spot where I had been standing for the previous fifteen minutes. Right beside the doors we came in, out of everyone’s way. 

[Right here is where the only objective defense that I will acknowledge. You could argue that by walking over I had made myself known. Hence why what was about to happen, happened. I would argue, doesn’t going over there and talking to the entire team indicate that clearly I had some form of relationship with them?] 

Ten minutes after that was when the bullshit started. A coach from the home school walked up to me. “Hi, ugh..” he stuttered, unsure of exactly what to ask me. “Ugh, who are you?” He finally spit out.

“Hi,” I said with a smile, “I’m Matthew Morris.” I mean, he asked me who I was. And even though I knew what he insinuated I still wanted to make him be as direct as possible with the racism he was about to project. 

“Uh, yeah. Um, but but how come, why are you here?” He asked, even more unsure of how to precisely frame my estrangement from every other person in that space. He didn’t know how exactly to tell me that I looked like someone who didn’t belong. How to tell me that I ought to prove myself. How to let me know that I needed to defend my presence in a high school gym at a high school game even after demonstrating a clear relationship with a bunch of high school students. 

“So, I taught at the school down the road and a few of my former students told me about their first game. They asked me to come. That’s why I’m here.” I said, flashing a brief smile again. Thinking that this would aid him in forming a rational, logical, contextual, and sound conclusion that answered any of his future questions. “Yeah, so we’re colleagues.” I said, just to add a little extra seasoning and reasoning.

Unfortunately, you and I know that racism somehow always bends around reason. Slips through cognition. Get passed sound judgment. 

He walked back over to his team bench. To where his other coaches were sitting. To speak to his colleagues. He bent over to speak with a white guy sitting at the end. He walked back to me. Instead of just sitting his bitch-ass on the bench, he walked back over to me. I laughed to myself. Knowing that the bullshit clearly wasn’t over. 

“Yeah, so there are no spectators for this game.” He said, this time with an iota of added surety. “I can see that.” I said, now intent on making this guy stand in his not-so-subtle racism. 

[I hope that you can see how this interaction is completely racist without me having to explicitly explain why. But if not, this next part should make it clear as day.]

He stood there, too timid to actually make eye contact with the person he was telling to leave. Maybe, as public discourse would tell you, because I am Black I am threatening by default. I find it interesting how Black men can be simultaneously threatening yet feeble enough to be approached for no ostensible reason.

“But, I’m not really a spectator. Like I said, I’m a teacher. Who taught these students…literally your entire junior team. I’m just here to support them.” I said. “And…we’re colleagues.” I let my facial expression say, do you get it now?

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry,” he said. He was lying. We both knew he wasn’t sorry at all.

“So what about them?” I pointed to the two females I came in with. “Are you also going to ask them to leave?” I asked.

“No, parents can stay.” He said.

He told me this without having once spoken with either of these other adults. No clue who they were or where they came from. It was simply unspoken, I guess, that they were allowed and I was not. It was simply unspoken that the other adults, by disposition and appearance were validated while I was not. It was simply understood that these other visitors were verified in the space; they belonged and it somehow made sense for them to be in the gym. They naturally fit in. I was unnatural to the environment. 

Even after telling him that I was there to support former students. For students who asked me to be there. There because I am an employee of the Board that school belongs to. Belonging even more so because I was also once a high school student at that school.  

I didn’t even bother to mention that. That I could show them my photo on the wall made no difference. They already could not see the racist intent behind their actions from the very beginning of the encounter. Yet another example of having a target on my Black. 

[The worst part about anti-Black racist acts is that they are typically so overtly racist that it almost, counterintuitively, becomes easier to shrug them off by simply saying, “that wasn’t racist.” 

In education, racism is often couched in student safety, a position those non-Black folk would have undoubtedly stood on that day if I pointed out their racism.

What’s worse is that the man who came up to me doesn’t even realize the racism he was subjected to by being asked to validate my existence in that space. Him being a marginalized man; he didn’t even take in the subliminal racism he was subjected to by being told by a white man to go see why that Black man is here… Or maybe he did, which is just as disgusting.]

I should let you know…I did end up watching that game. And supporting my students.

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Black masculinity is a fickle thing. I’ve had the opportunity to speak with close people who are doing lots of time and from what I can surmise, almost every pen timer can explain the phenomenon of searching for identity while still being compelled to a prescribed being – the way they articulate their identity, psychology, and existence, is remarkable. Sitting on the phone with men who are doing, or have done, decades, provides me with an incredible insight on how, despite of immaturity, we were merely on the path to figuring out what “becoming” means. And I cherish the opportunities I get to talk to them. Because those are my typa niggas.

What becomes ironic is our overwhelming understanding that, as humans, we all do learn. Learning, when sutured within the constructs of liberal, western thinking, education, is indeed confined. That is why theories, books, and simple talks about the “school to prison pipeline” make complete sense, however saturated in academic jargon or sautéed out to basic simplicities. 

I idolized the same people you did.  Not the exact same people. But the same people. Do you follow me?

I followed them. So did you. And they were the same yet different. 

So besides the fact that I learned more from TLC’s Waterfalls or Snoop’s first album, Doggystyle, while you were watching familiar faces of safety and authority on TV screens and in movies, I learned my context, identity and performance. I also learned that from the shows you watched and the actors and entertainers and politicians you craved over. I learned this, unfortunately, in a perverse way. Because I learned from you without being a part of it all. Needless to say, I didn’t have the same connection. While you could learn from everything, I had to learn from from the scant bank or identity production and reproduction we were afforded. The athletes. The entertainers. The criminals. I took what I saw from people who were introduced to me via the media and configured my identity. Lucky for you, you had a variety of options. For me, well… I quit working on my jump shot after 9th grade and soon after realized that, despite a self-acclaimed proliferation for gab, a proliferation for wordplay and wandering into  both through a rhythmic sequence, still seemed like a last ditch resort for my plight to becoming successful. But that was no cross to die on. That realization was okay because although I did idolize “my typa niggas”, I also idolized other ones. Like my dad, a truck driver who paid for and took my to baseball practice as a kid. And other black men in my community who, despite their inability to inspire through economic upheaval, did so in other ways. 

As a child, I deep down had an appreciate for a lot of niggas. The ones who had flashy cars and expensive jewellery and could do what they wanted despite what they had been dealt with. And I also aspired for those men behind the veil of a “boot strap” ethos that did the same while driving used beater cars and struggled to make ends meat. Looking for a role model between Jay-Z and my uncle Dale was a perilous road solely built on optimism. I have a many family and friends who tried to navigate it but “failed. Now that I am older, I realize it is more accurately a navigation built on an understanding of complexity. But to be a black male and understand what “success” may look like inevitably lies on that pathway right now. Even in 2019. The question becomes, how do we show our young black male youth “what typa nigga” they ought to strive for?

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When I was in high school in Toronto’s east end there were rules that impacted school culture but didn’t necessarily influence student success. One of those rules was a no hat policy. Students were not permitted to wear hats inside the school. Naturally, I wore my hat all the time. I consciously kept it on and waited for a teacher to tell me to take it off. I felt even better if I was “caught” wearing my hat in class – more people to witness me challenging authority. At the time, I defied the rule because I had come to the subconscious conclusion that the system was silencing me. I felt that wearing my hat was part of my identity and when I looked around, this rule – like other aspects of school culture – seemed to mainly target black students. As a black teenager, I felt this over two decades ago. As a black teacher, it seems that little has changed in the way black boys experience schooling.

My resistance to school culture in general was in response to a feeling that long suggested that I did not belong. I had been told that the times I answered questions or commented during whole class discussions without putting my hand up, times in school that I was actually engaged and excited about a topic, indicated a lack of self-regulation. On many occasions, when I would earn a stellar grade on a test or assignment, I was told by my teacher that they were pleasantly surprised that I actually did well and knew the content. A few educators would question a good test score, implying that it had not been honestly earned. I undoubtedly picked up on the undercurrents of these comments but was not articulate or bold enough to name or confront them. So I wore my hat. I came late. I reflected hip-hop culture, which I identified with. Unfortunately, like other non-mainstream, non-Eurocentric forms of expressions, my identity was viewed as contrary to the implicit culture of my school.

If we take a look at aspects of school culture like dress code policies, ineffective teaching strategies like assuming a lesson taught is a lesson learned or failing to establish cultural relevance, and procedures that facilitate pathways into special education, it would not take long to notice that our revisions to curriculum and improvements to teaching practices fail to address the specific needs of black students. As educators, while we have made efforts to address issues of sexuality, diversity or ability in our school system, making changes to how and what we teach as well as removing physical barriers, we have not sufficiently dealt with the issue of race. We have not sufficiently addressed extensive research that says that black students and specifically back boys consistently deal with microaggressions, stereotypes, lowered expectations, culturally biased IQ testing, over-representation in non-academic strands, ignorance about black culture, and a lack of black role models as teachers.

In the 1980’s, the Toronto Board of Education’s study, Post Secondary Plans of Grade Eight Students, reported that 50% of black students indicated their intention of going to

university, but 35% of these same students eventually found themselves in special education classes (Toronto Board of Education, 1983). The trend continues well into today, as shown in a 2013 study conducted by the Toronto District School Board shows. Looking at just students who are enrolled in special education programs, 14% of black students are on Individual Education Plans for sub-par academic performance compared to just 0.4% of black students who are in gifted. (Toronto District School Board, 2017)

When we step away from academics and look at regulation, studies indicate that black students are suspended at over twice the rate of their white counterparts. In fact, nearly half (42%) of all black students have been suspended at least once, compared to only 18% of white students, by the time they leave high school. Is it any wonder that the push out rate amongst black students is double that of white students? Juxtapose all the changes we have made to address other segments of our school communities with the lack thereof for black students and ask yourself this question: What is going on?

Recently, Grant Linton and John Rietl of CBC News Toronto did a series of interviews with four Grade 12 students at Fletcher’s Meadow Secondary School in Peel board, highlighting many of the challenges black kids faced simply because they are black. “To be honest,” says student Rayshawn Ross, “to be black in a Peel school, just feels like, there may be a little bit of a difference. There’s kind of that stereotype that is pushed more towards you, that’s different than everybody else.”

Over the last two years, the Toronto Star has published several accounts on the experiences of black male students. Perhaps most prominent is coverage of York University professor Carl James’ study, Towards Race Equity in Education (2017), which speaks to the fact that school boards around the Greater Toronto Area are not doing enough to collect race based data. His common-sense theme is emphasized when he suggests that, “If you want to be able to work with particular groups of students, you should know who they are, otherwise you might be putting (resources) where they’re not addressing the issues directly, and that doesn’t help.” Seems obvious. A census every five years is not enough. Actually, a census is not enough. Dr. George Dei’s study, titled “Anti-Racism Education: Theory and Practice,” has also indicated that black students experience an “othering” that results in a fractured view of schooling and the way it operates, leading to their disproportionally high push out rate (Dei, 1996).

What is “othering?” student Jace Smith from the CBC documentary explains it in this way: “I don’t really think of it as being different from anybody else, but I guess people look at you kind of differently. People see me and they kind of think automatically that I might be, maybe trouble or in a gang or something like that. But that’s the opposite of me.” Because Jace, as he describes himself, is “bigger” and “darker skinned,” he experiences his world from two separate views. He understands how he feels about himself while simultaneously feeling or perceiving how others view him, simply based

on the skin he is in. Statistics and experiential evidence show that this experience happens long before high school. Take the example of a black 6-year-old who was recently handcuffed for having a “violent” temper tantrum at her school in Mississauga. An advocate for the child’s mother reminded us all that, “handcuffs are used for violent criminals [and offenders]…I don’t know what a child could have done that would require them to use that level of restraint” (Hudes, 2017). She was six. How would she have had to been viewed by those intervening that someone decided that handcuffs were a appropriate solution?

Extensive research indicates that many black students share similar challenges. Data clearly points to some of the root issues out there; issues such as the overrepresentation of black students in non-academic schools, lower expectations, culturally based standardized testing, lack of culturally relevant sources within the curriculum, and lack of black teachers all contribute to enduring stereotyped perceptions of black students. Undoubtedly, many boards are attempting to figure out ways to reflect our ever-evolving contemporary culture by finally asking the question, what is happening in our schools that negatively impacts black students and their educational outcomes and what can we do about it?

Many board and school dress code policies are outdated, sexist, and racist. Dress code policies like no headgear and no sagging pants implicitly suggest to particular students that their bodies are to be scrutinized and their culture is not valued. For many black students, whose point of aesthetic reference often stems from the culture that most directly represents them, hip-hop culture, this denial of their culture in the school relays a message to them that they are not important. Devaluing our students and damaging their self-perceptions is not an aim of education. So why impose rules that do just that?

When we revise our paradigms for education to reflect more inclusive practices through strategies like differential assessments of learning, dissolving narrow school policies like dress codes, and re-creating teaching strategies and methods that put student’s realities, cultures and experiences at the centre, we will see an altered and more practically-improved landscape for public education. I have no doubt that we will see improvements to both the quantitative data on student academic success and the qualitative data on student school experience, as it relates to our black students.

My approach to student learning, as a teacher has changed from my first year to my seventh. As a young black male some seven years ago, I naively thought that my mere presence would serve as enough to connect with and inspire my black students to learn. For some it did. But for others, I quickly learned that I had more work to do. Simply being a black male teacher doesn’t mean you are going to get black male students to “learn.” But black male students not demonstrating learning doesn’t mean that those same kids are not incredibly smart. We must fully take responsibility for the disparaging

achievement gaps that exist for some racialized groups and come back to the drawing board with proposed changes, based on student voices and statistics. We must devote ourselves to finally plugging the gap that leaves many black students feeling like school “is not for them.” We have been on the same train for decades now, hoping that it will take all of us, even our most marginalized, to the destination of academic and social well-roundedness. But that train has never really left the platform for many students.

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In teaching, this action would never be tolerated. But the source of this topic isn’t necessarily stitched solely to teaching. It is more so attuned to how the culture of black masculinity has, justly so, espoused the idea that old-fashioned discipline tactics are the only viable option for keeping our future generation in line. We see it on shows like Scared Straight and in college sports, especially football, where coaches are revered for their “tough love” approach to the game. It seems to work as much as it doesn’t so we keep on perpetuating this style of leadership. But where in the lexicon of black masculinity is the framework for vulnerability?

When I was a child growing up in the 90s, my friends and I would come to school and joke about who got it worse the night before. We compared the “tools” of discipline our parents would use: Oh, you just got the belt? Son, I got the switch…and I had to fetch it myself! I heard stories of extension cords, brooms, and even flying slippers. And then I saw these same kids (and myself) carry on with exhibiting the same demeanor and making the same decisions that got us into trouble in the first place. Until about twenty, I never saw my father cry or express sincere disappointment in my actions. My dumb mistakes were met with violence. Half the time, I would actually “wise up”. I wonder what may have changed in my adolescent decision-making processes if he had sat me down, looked me in my eyes, and tried to reason with me. Perhaps that wouldn’t have worked, but I have no evidence to go on.

Perhaps vulnerability is too big a price to bear for the adult black male. We are supposed to take up the position of authoritative figure in a way that usually, or always, takes the form of intimidation tactics. I do this in class all the time: a long stare at a student who is out of line, raising my deep voice in order to holster in the group. In my conscience, after seeing a video like this, a video that demonstrates such obvious pain, mentally, from both child and adult, I think that opening up and becoming more vulnerable may do our future more good than “going off” on a child. Perhaps emotional pain should be met with emotional anguish and not physical. In 2017, we really don’t have another option.

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Josh starts first grade and when he thinks about what he wants to be when he grows up he says that he wants to be a scientist. He is really excited about school and is looking forward to meeting new friends and doing well. In class, after a month or so, Ms. Hanley starts to get somewhat frustrated with Josh. Not because he lacks the intellect to maintain well standing in her basic first grade class, but he just may be a little bit “too rambunctious” for her liking. His eagerness for engaging in class is taking a toll as he needs to be reminded to put his hand up when he has an answer or would like to speak. He sometimes speaks with his friends in class and Ms. Hanley notices. Not that the other students do not speak out of turn, but see, Josh is a young black boy, and compared to Adam and Carl and Susan, Josh is noticed just a little bit more. The word is spread from one teacher to the next, nothing malicious, just a casual, “keep an eye on him…” Whatever that means.

So the next year, in second grade, Ms. Peters does keep an eye on him. “Ahem, Josh sweetie, where are you going?” she asks him as he innocently walks to the back of the class to get a drink from the fountain. He explains to her that getting a sip was indeed his plan and she simply reminds him that he must ask or he will be in trouble. Twenty minutes later, he looks over and notices Adam and Carl at the fountain getting a drink. He glances at Ms. Peters seemingly doing nothing at her desk. He wonders if they both asked her to get a drink. I mean, she does have the rule of one person at the fountain at a time…right? Who knows, Josh is only in grade two. One thing he does know is that he doesn’t feel exactly how he felt about school before he entered into it.

Grade three rolls around and Josh is still eager about school, for the most part. I mean, he hasn’t ever gotten an A in any class even though he reads as well as the other kids and does his adding and subtracting just fine. Maybe those “personality traits” of his slid a little bit into the psyche of his teachers when it was report card time. I mean, he thought he was smart but I guess school, the “true test,” is showing him that he is just okay, but not the greatest. So skip to fifth grade and Josh has this reputation of being the slightly “above average” but not “excellent” kid that has to be “monitored”. This target has been on his back since first grade and he cant understand why, especially since Adam and Carl do the exact same things. And yes, since he is always called out, he does act out a bit now. If you’re going to get blamed all the time for stuff, might as well earn it…

Eighth grade rolls around and Josh sees himself as an average student who occasionally gets in trouble because he “acts out”. He is used to it though, that is just how he is, he rationalizes. He finally has a teacher who believes in him, Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith has a great relationship with Josh and they have many one-on-one talks. Josh finally musters up enough courage to tell him that he, “always dreamed of being a scientist”. Mr. Smith listens sympathetically and offers Josh the most thoughtful response he can offer. He says something to the tune of, “Listen Josh, I am not saying you aren’t smart. You are a helluva smart guy. B’s are great. But to be a scientist, I just don’t think that is your lane. Buddy, you love basketball! You are 5’11’’ already and you have a gift. God-given skill, Josh. You keep playing and practicing and I promise you, you will thank me later.”

Josh graduates eighth grade and heads to high school feeling more lost than the day he entered first grade.

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Our current school system leaves Black boys set up in a way that is meant to deceive and ultimately fail them in the long run. If you look close enough you will see that schooling slowly breaks down the self-concept and self-esteem of many Black boys. Whether it is low teacher expectations, labelling, or the absence of supporting structures, everyday Black boys walk away from school questioning their identity and how they ought to represent themselves in our society. The sad part is – little is being done to change the status quo. Black boys continue to drop out despite educational initiatives. In classrooms across the country, Black males settle with D’s and C’s, struggle to attain B’s, and battle both internal and external frictions when they actually do succeed with A’s. All the while our Black sons and brothers are internalizing what the institution of education foreshadows about society in general. So when authorities accost Michael Brown and Eric Garner, it’s not anything new to them. Unfortunately, the authorities “surveilling” our schools are not much different than those policing the real world.

Black males are meant to fit into specific molds and are held to specifically lower standards. When Black males meet these standards, everyone accepts it. In my experience as an elementary teacher and as a Black male educated by the public school system, it is unusual to see Black boys encouraged or affirmed in the domain of academics. This is a volatile subject amongst teachers but it is the ugly truth. Despite the “forced” acceptance of multiculturalism, our notions about the “universal student” have not changed. Unfortunately we are not all welcomed to the table when deciding what this “universal student” looks, talks, walks, and acts like. What happens then is that school teaches us the “right” ways to define ourselves but never allow us to question whether what’s right for Adam is also right for Treyvon. What’s worse is that most Black boys don’t even come close to fitting this ideal and are marginalized because of it. So where does that place them? What exactly are they suppose to do? Black boys are stuck trying to be validated and affirmed by school, but scripted social identities leave them in no-man’s land. So some Black males seek affirmation in other ways; some arrive at validation by expressing passive or aggressive resistance to the social structures that have a history of scarring them. Unfortunately, these approaches have come with far too many deadly consequences lately.

Many things need to change in how we “school” children. Pop culture teaches us that Black men can only be athletes, entertainers, or the criminals. And schools foster this acknowledging consent. So who was Michael Brown? How about Eric Garner? More importantly, what did the police assume about these men? Our schools offer very little for the Black boy in terms of the flexibility of his identity. They have a heavy hand in internalizing the conflict of representation that plagues our Black boys. Thus they have the responsibility (and the power) to open up the narratives of the Black male. Our schools must work to challenge how Black boys are read in society. If schools do not counter the current narratives regarding Black males and create alternative ways of knowing our Black men, then Eric Garner, Michael Brown, and Trayvon Martin will be simply names in a long list of causalities that our schools system teaches us to accept.

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That all changed in one instance during my senior year of high school.

I was in my senior year. The students who made the honor roll the previous year were celebrated in an after-school ceremony in which they were to receive awards. I was never one for needing pieces of paper to validate my worth. And I was too far into the popularity game to be waiting around on a random weekday so that I could receive some certificate for academics. Suffice it to say, I didn’t go to the honor roll ceremony. Instead, I spent after-school as I usually did; hanging out at the local corner store with the other “cool kids”. That popularity contest existed before, during and after school – as a black male in the inner city, I couldn’t afford to lose an inch.

The next day, the morning announcements echoed through classrooms as students prepared for their first period lesson. “For any students who missed yesterday’s Honor Roll ceremony, please come down to the office at 3 o’clock to pick up your certificates”. Might as well, I thought. A quick trip to the office to pick up a certificate, I could do that. I had earned it and the least I could do was take a quick look at my name in calligraphy before shoving it in my backpack and forgetting all about it.

Before the school day ended, I proceeded to the office to collect my certificate. The line was rather long – I guess I wasn’t the only one who missed the prior day’s occasion. I thought to myself, “I bet I was the only one who missed it for no reason whatsoever”. As I waited in line amidst the collection of students dressed in Abercrombie and Fitch attire, I realized I stuck out like a sore thumb. My fresh braids dangled off of my shoulders, a gaudy chain and big cubic zirconia earrings accented my “hood look” perfectly. I kept my hat on despite knowing that the moment I stepped inside the office a secretary would tell me to take it off. I was at school accepting an award for academic excellence, but I was more preoccupied with upholding my status of “cool” at any given moment – this one was no different.

I finally got into the office and immediately upon entering the secretary said to me, “Matthew, if the teacher sent you down here, just take a seat on the bench”. I was in shock. Despite my frequent occasions to the office for “disagreements” with teachers, I did not understand why she assumed that I was not waiting patiently in line like every other student who was there to collect an award for academic excellence. Not knowing what to say, not knowing where to move, I just stood there. I had been disrespected by teachers before but this time it seemed unwarranted. I was ill-prepared to react. As I came back to my senses, I decided not to answer her and just stay in line.

A few minutes passed and I was finally two or three students from the front desk. At this point, my vice-principal, a man who I had numerous conversations with (about sports and my plight to get a football scholarship – he would actually let me use his phone to call college coaches), passed by the back of the administrative office. This time, I was prepared for any assault. As he walked by, he glanced over at the line of students. He knew these students were there to pick up their honor roll certificates. Then, his eyes fixed on me and he stopped in his tracks. It may have only been for a split second, I guess he may have been stunned. Having a little more discretion than the secretary, he kept silent. He just stared. At that point I said to him, with a smirk, “Don’t judge a book by its cover, Sir.” He smiled and walked off. I have to say that after that situation, my relationship with him grew exponentially.

Don’t judge a book by its cover

How I navigated school as a teenager was unintentional. I made my best effort to be one of the “cool kids” but I also wanted to excel in academics based on my competitive character and an understanding that if I was going to get a scholarship, I would have to have good grades. That day in the office, when I simply went to receive my academic award, changed my perspective on education. But it wasn’t until years later, upon reflecting on my experiences in high school, that I realized that many in education predict that we will fail. More assume this fact. As young students, we play into this game by allowing the perceptions of us to dictate our identity. Was I to blame for presenting myself as an urban black male and being preoccupied with the popularity contests of high school? After that moment, I should have done better for myself by countering the systemic suppression that I faced and experienced. I should have been more focal in letting them know that I now see the game that they were playing. I should have demonstrated that, even though I am a pawn in the game of education, I would use my role to positively resist. But I didn’t. As a teacher, I am trying to do that now.

This is just one experience. It is an example of the micro-racisms that black males experience as they navigate through education. Unfortunately, there are not enough supports to help them deal with the process. I had no one to help me. As a teacher now, I know what my youths are and will be going through. Having been through it myself, the task of alleviating some of the internal stresses that urban black males face becomes just a little bit easier for me. I only hope that I can reach them before they become too far gone.

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Since it’s Super Sunday, I thought I’d share a few of my thoughts on football, race, and life. And especially my thoughts on this idea of the American Dream myth. Last year at this time, the Richard Sherman story was one of the most heralded narratives in the mass media. Here we have this kid from Compton who ended up at Stanford and is now living out his childhood dream. Sounds great right? We naively look at this and tell our youth, “see all you have to do is work hard and you will get what you want.” Not so fast. This story is not about how hard work is the key to success for all. This story, if you boil it down, is about the ways in which Black men are allowed to succeed in a system of perpetual hegemonic rule. If you do work hard in sports you will be afforded the opportunities to succeed as a Black male. This hard work pays off ethic is not true for all endeavors. What about those Black males who are not athletically inclined nor particularly interested in sports? Does this same hard-working “American Dream” hold true? Unfortunately, I would say no.

The Richard Sherman story is a great one indeed but we also have to keep in mind how some of these narratives extend our ideas of popular knowledge. The Black male as “the brute” is one that has detrimental psychological consequences on many of our Black youth. Pushing Black males into sports because they are “naturals” does nothing for the majority of Black boys. On the contrary, it simply maintains the status quo by implying that if you are Black and a male you should pursue sports, because if you work hard there you will be rewarded. That same meritocratic paradigm does not lend itself to other avenues of life. I rarely see Black boys being pushed into academics like science, math, politics and so on. This Sherman story lends itself to the theme that “to succeed in the United States, an individual only has to work hard” and also that “one can realize their dreams in the United States if they are willing to work hard and pull themselves up by the bootstrap”. While this might be true for some people, it is not true for all. For Black people, especially Black males, there are only marginalized contexts in which this is true – sports being one of them. So while you continuously hear these broadcasters and journalist talk about how Richard Sherman is such a great example for kids, keep in mind how closed the context really is and what these people are really saying (or not saying) about Black masculinity and culture.

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As I started to work my first year as a junior high school teacher, making a little over 50 thousand a year (much less after taxes!), my mother would issue daily advice on things I should, and shouldn’t be doing with my money. “Matthew, you have to save your money, you need to think about the future,” she would warn as I walked in with a bag or two from the mall. At first, I wasn’t bothered by her advice. She was simply looking out for my best interests. But as time went on, I came to a realization of sorts. I thought, how could my mother, who had no savings and was living on government assistance as she neared towards sixty, advise me financially? What disturbed me even more was that at age 25 my measly beginning salary was more than both my parents had ever made. I was now making more money than both my parents combined. I grew frustrated, lashing back at her when the advice came. “How can you tell me what to do with my money when you have nothing to show for yours after a lifetime?” I would simply ask. They were harsh words for a son to say to his parents but it truthfully spoke more about my potential inadequacies.

I wanted to believe her advice. But how could I? I started to look around my neighborhood to see if there was a financial blueprint for me to follow. I couldn’t find any. Most of the people around worked blue-collar jobs and there was really no one that I knew that I could say, “this is where I want to be in ten, fifteen years.” I felt defeated. I had no direction.

This is the challenge many Black males face that live in lower class communities. You hear about the rich helping the rich, but what about the people orbiting the middle? The lack of role models for Black males is so limited that of course many turn to things that align with this “dollar and a dream” mentality. Even here, in the middle of the pack so to speak, I had no one who I could lean on for advice about GICs, savings plans, RRSPs, and other ways to increase my wealth. Even making a decent living, it seems as though Black males “from the ‘hood’” are destined to remain financially illiterate.

This reality is something that education must address. Learning about history and science is great, but we need some curriculum that addresses that growing economic disparity gap. Perhaps then we will see Black males make alternative choices (career wise, in school, etc.) that will forecast an upward turn for the marginalized communities that we come from. In my opinion the systemic “cure” to these ailments is simple. In this day and age, financial literacy should be as mandatory as Math classes. Perhaps even integrated with our Math curriculum. Somehow some way, we need to fix our system so that it helps people who have no role models. “A dollar and a dream” is great, but what we really need is a few bucks and a clear vision.

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