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. 

As a bIack boy I had seen: 

black anger, black blood, black loss, 

but I never realized 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 that because my traits were

rounded, 

brown,

and, curly, 

that my life may be ended early, and I’d wound up being another statistic.

Fear—

because the bigotry was clear.

The reality that no matter the size—

We are seen with beards, 

and crazed eyes.

—

I remember my 2nd grade teacher—

As I joyfully basked in the beauty of innocent play, 

she always took time to ensure I was okay, 

and when hate came knocking she hardly gave it the light of day.

I told my friend to “shut up”; this was enough to get written up, but when it got into the hands of my teacher that day; 

It ended up in the trash; ripped up it stayed.

I was an outlier in a world where I felt normal like everyone else, 

but outcasted for being myself, 

being brown, 

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 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.

It prompted me to lie, because I was a man, 

“We aren't supposed to cry like girls”. 

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 despite the weather, 

whether or not you feel strong, and stand tall and say:

"I'm a real man today". 

But she supported me; even putting her job at risk, 

I found myself allowing emotion to show, allowing my light to glow. 

That day I realized that 

crying is my body’s response to overwhelming emotion, 

a build up of everyday commotion.

I realized, that teaching is vulnerable, 

and connections that are built are more than just honorable through

awards, 

promotions, 

but rewarding, because going home realizing; 

that despite how rowdy my freshmen were today, 

even if they didn’t grasp the nuances of a bicameral legislature: 

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. 

I remember the feeling of speaking; 

the feeling of being

Heard,

seen,

as my words spurred.

For the first time in my life I recognized my passion. 

Reaching others, 

speaking for the lost souls that came before me,

to my late mother who bore me, 

speaking up, 

loud and free,

molding what Micah really means to me. 

That I could be more than

Black anger,

Black blood,

Black loss.

But Black leader,

Black speaker,

Black reader.

—

That semester that same public speaking teacher asked me to join speech and debate.

I was weary because I worried that my voice would cease to be heard,

From what learned; 

black stories live in the margin.

Black boys who fail to bite their tongue end up strange fruit.

That our voices don’t carry enough weight.

—

But I I’ve learned;

speaking 

and reaching, 

reading 

and teaching, 

were 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 words on paper, 

To power, 

and glory,

amplifying my story. 

The reminder that super teachers don’t exist--they simply facilitate the journey towards finding our voice.

—

To my sister who is an educator; I see the passion. 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 employment, and as a result; their jobs 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.