Super Teacher
Super Teacher
Too often do we equate education with perfections–
Expectations of calculated steps,
Formulaic magical lessons.
*
As a child I remember my first “super teacher”,
how lessons seemed magic,
how her knowledge seemed endless.
See as a black boy in a world lacking acceptance, I spent my days on the playground laughing, imagining I was tenacious like Jordan–
fast like Usain,
but I was joyful,
young,
Black, in a world that wasn’t ready.
As a Black boy, I had seen:
Steady, black anger, black blood, black loss—
So I spent my days on the playground running,
Because that was what life had taught me
running from reality—
running from nationality—
displaying my personality,
But often considered: at risk.
Too often do we equate education with perfections–
Expectations of metered syntax,
Guaranteed linear progressions.
*
As a child I remember my first “super teacher”,
2nd grade, when my only friend told me I was too immature,
She spoke up, expressing how I was an excellent student
Teacher says,
that my life wasn’t summed up to 5 o’clock feature,
Written in the margins of my funerals preacher
Instead,
I was a scholar,
Educated,
Excellent,
Extended a level of kindness novel to me.
Because all I was ever expected to be,
An at-risk student trying to flee,
Another clique, dead fruit hanging from the tree.
Too often told that Black kids are born from barren land,
don’t have no potential to bloom,
That outbursts in class,
were foreshadowing to an inevitable doom,
Not knowing gardens devastated by drought
Are healed by pouring care, extending knowledge
Condensing a safespace into a room,
That the last time Black kids got rest doesn’t have to be way back to the womb
Instead,
The only time we are seen doesn’t have to be in magical scenarios in our head
But through priceless experiences guided by teachers,
The only place where my skin felt less of a creature, more of a feature.
Too often do we equate education with perfections–
Expectations of structured syllabus,
Transformative classroom sessions.
*
Fast forward to 9th grade year,
I remember my second super teacher,
Teaching me that words mean rhetoric,
And that rhetoric was like armor in a world ready to clash.
Where uncomfortable conversations became a part of the class,
Speaking–
We are so often expected to be the loudest in the room,
That the only way to silence when dead in the tomb,
Instead,
Civics taught me that loudness doesn’t always equate to ghetto,
That perfection is an optical illusion that confuses
Storytale endings with a
cliffhanger,
somber conclusions.
Ethos,
Pathos,
Logos.
Appealing to more than just a jury,
Breaking the curse that says Black men must become fury.
Teacher says,
that I have poise,
That I’ll go far,
That my story doesn’t have to live vicariously through
guiltys and at-risks
But be told first-person, saying that Black voices matter.
Educators are akin to superheroes,
How the villain sometimes gets their way,
But inevitably, the hero always saves the day,
Through attempted teardowns of public education,
Stripping of literature in schools,
Supposed indoctrination,
Instead,
Teachers are the fire that won’t be put out,
That burn into the minds of students who are told they aren’t good enough,
Told at-risk,
Told suspicious,
Told too masculine.
Too often do we equate education with indoctrination,
Expectations of one-sided domination,
Exploiting the minds of our generation.
*
I remember my sophomore year.
I entered a class I took for the credit,
Where I was greeted by an overzealous teacher,
Telling me that feelings are meant for feeling.
Feeling–
My third super teacher.
Teacher says,
my voice has power,
My poems mean more than just words on a page,
That they leap out like a trapped bird inside its cage.
She tells me that I should join debate.
That the at-risk kid,
Torn from foster care,
Possessed a talent so rare,
That he could take command of a room from his very first stare.
She reminded me–
Reaching others,
speaking up,
loud and free,
molding what scholar truly means to be.
That I could be more than
Black anger,
Black blood,
Black loss.
But Black leader,
Black speaker,
Black reader.
*
I was weary because I worried that my voice would cease to be heard,
From what I learned;
Black stories live in the margin.
That Black boys who fail to bite their tongue end up as strange fruit.
That our voices don’t carry enough weight.
But 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,
To power,
and glory,
amplifying my story.
*
The reminder that super teachers don’t really exist–because heroes wear capes, but the real ones–they wear cardigans
—
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.
