Teach

Teach

As a child I remember my first super teacher, as a black boy in a world lacking acceptance, I spent my days on the playground laughing, imagining I was smooth like MJ, fast like Usain, but I was joyful, young, black, in a world that was not ready. We had seen black anger, black blood, black loss, but I, didn’t realize how my skin and hair was any different than Justin Biebers. I spent my days on the playground running, running from reality, running from nationality, displaying my personality, through games of basketball, running, running from the truth of my home life.

See, as a boy my father tried, but fear, fear trying to keep me near, fear, knowing we lacked control of our fate, because of years of hate, fear, declarations thats because my traits were rounded, brown and, curly, that my life could be ended early and I’d wound up being another statistic, fear, because the bigotry was clear.

I remember my 2nd grade teacher, as I joyfully basked in the light of innocent play, she always took time to ensure I was okay, and when hate came knocking she barley gave it the light of day, ignorance planted into the minds of children on display, but all I ever did was play. I told my friend “shut up” this was enough to get wrote up, but when it got into the hands of my teacher that day, she ripped it up. I was an outlier in a world where I felt normal like everyone else, but outcasted for being myself, being black, going home with buddy packs, but my teacher that day, stopped the grips of prejudice from wrapping around my 6 year old neck. This lifelong respect to ignore racial haters was directed, by the hands of an educator

I remember participating in a school led fair, and as I sat in the chair, a boy with blond hair said to me “wow, brown on brown, I’ve never seen that before”, I sat there confused, as my brown from my skin protrudes, but I never had a clue, that my skin was any different than you. Insensitivity plagued the hallways of what was my safespace, so when teachers try to educate, there no way to not educate about race.

I remember freshman year sitting in Civics face full of tears, but my 9th grade teacher made sure it was clear that it was okay to cry, but it prompted me to lie, because I was a man, we aren’t supposed to cry like a girl. I thought to myself, men don't cry, so little boy wipe those tears out your eyes, because what you lack in masculinity you don't make up for in size, you act like a sissy in disguise. so young man, young man young man, wipe those tears out your eyes see as a man you should know better, because you need to be strong dispite the weather, whether or not you feel strong, and stand tall and firmly say that "i'm a real man on today". But these tears in my eyes, cast a fear deep inside that, when they flow like stream water down a waterfall, I can't help but bawl. But she supported me, even putting her job at risk, a fellow students attempt, to try to get her fired, only ignited my fire, the light within. I found myself through allowing emotion to show, allowing my light to glow. So that day, I realized, that crying is my body’s response to overwhelming emotion, a build up of everyday commotion, and I realized, that teaching is vulnerable, but connections that are built are more than just honorable through awards, and promotions, but are rewarding, going home realizing that despite how rowdy my freshmen were today, even if they didn’t grasp the nuances of a bicameral legislature, that their lives were touched by the hands of an educator.

I remember my sophomore year, sitting in a public speaking class that I took for the English credit, and a teacher who was overly zealous, and I remember the feeling of speaking, the feeling of being heard, as my words spurred, for the first time in my life I recognized my passion. Reaching others, connecting with brothers, speaking for the lost souls that came before me, to my late mother who bore me, speaking up, loud and free, molding to be, what Micah really means, a better version of me. That same semester that public speaking teacher asked me to join speech and debate, I was weary because I worried that my voice would cease to be heard, but I I’ve learned speaking and reaching, reading and teaching, were my reasons for life, and my Junior year I knew what I was going to do: follow my passion, which would’ve never happened, unless I was placed in a space that would take my poetry from paper and give it life, my ideas and mind transformed from just being on paper, because my lives torch was lit by the hands of an educator.

To my sister who is an educator, I see the passion, and to the various CPS teachers who fill the hallways, offices, and school buildings with passion and help guide students lives, thank you, for your unwavering support. Teachers constantly put their occupation and employment at risk to ensure that their students are supported. So, as I enter my senior year concluding my K-12 educational journey, along the way I bring with me the memories of inclusion, the knowledge that my voice matters, and the forever effect of education on my young life. Thank you for sharing your light with the world, and never letting that light dim, through accusations of CRT, sparking “white guilt” I will forever be grateful. To the teachers and administrators of Columbia Public Schools, thank you.