The Magic You Don’t See

“But why were you talking about race in Math class two days in a row? That’s what the parent wanted to know”, my principal asked, following up with me about a parent phone call.  

I pursed my lips and replayed the last couple of days in my classroom with students at high speed, a blur of impassioned questions, personal experiences, and opinions of a seventh grade class. These had been my two most powerful days ever in the classroom, in my seventeen years of teaching. 

“I wish that parent could have seen the magic that happened in here”, I began to respond. My principal has to field these concerns from parents, and is expected to follow up on them.

Knowing I had just spent two days having some of the most cathartic discussions with my students about racism, I wasn’t surprised there might be some backlash. By this point, I’d gotten dozens of appreciative emails from parents, telling me how they’d talked with their child that night about racism in new, constructive ways; how they wished other teachers would have the courage to do the same. 

All it takes is those one or two complaints, however, to nearly dismiss all the other accolades. 

I went on to explain to my principal what had happened in my classroom over the last couple of days; how the seemingly innocent naming of a Halloween decoration sparked so much stir. 

It started with naming the witch decoration “Shaniquah”. Many kids suggested the name, and wanted to call the ghost decoration “Jose”. 

I wondered why so many were suggesting “Shaniquah”, so I did a google search for the name. Surprisingly, articles about recent racist incidents in a nearby school district appeared. Apparently, there had been a group of students who got a baby doll, black in color, and made TikTok videos of themselves putting a noose around its neck, punching and stomping on it. They’d named this doll “Shaniquah”. The students were ultimately disciplined for these racist offenses, but I couldn’t help wonder how much my students had been influenced by this event. 

I started with a general question to the class: why had they all been so excited about the name Shaniquah? Where had they gotten the idea for it? 

I then shared a slideshow I put together about the incidents at Salinas High School. After they were given some background, I asked them to consider how it might look that a group of predominantly white students were trying to name a witch Shaniqua. There was no implication of guilt, simply an inquiry into what had happened, and how it might look to an outsider looking in. 

I gave my students some time to talk as table-groups about the slideshow and incident, and like popcorn, hands started going up. 

What about Land O’ Lakes? Didn’t they use a native as their image? Is that not cultural appropriation?

Who was Rosa Parks? 

What about the fact that I am a Latina, and people always assume I just like burritos?
What about the fact that I am, like, one of three black students on campus here?

Immediately there was a shift in the classroom. As students started opening up about their own personal experiences with racism and stereotypes, I realized I’d open a productive, honest can of worms. We talked about history; brave students volunteered to explain as best they could the Civil Rights Movement. One of the only Black students in the classroom courageously spoke about feeling like it wasn’t her “job” to educate everyone on racism, despite constantly being expected to do so.  

What’s the best way to root out ugly racism? Expose it to the light of truth. 

What followed was an organic, student-led discussion about racism – in the world, in the USA, in our wealthy enclave of Scotts Valley, California. Questions arose as quickly as the previous one was answered. Tears welled up in the eyes of a few students as we dug deeply into the heart of the matter. 

Then, the bell rang. It was only first period, and I already felt like I’d had my most powerful day in the classroom in nearly twenty years of teaching. 

As any good teacher knows, consistency is key. Thus, when my second period class entered the room, I repeated the same sequence: asking them about the naming of the witch, and then showing them the slideshow I’d put together. 

A similar scene unfolded: even more questions, shared stories, and openness to listening to each other. Though we were discussing difficult issues, the magic was palpable. 

When break came and my students had filed out of the classroom, I cried. I was so moved by students’ willingness to share, to speak openly about such a challenging, global topic with curiosity and acceptance. No one was being accused of being racist; no one was accused of wanting to name the witch Shaniqua to further some racist agenda. I was careful not to assign blame or guilt to them, but I wanted to open up the conversation. 

As the day went on, each of my five periods had different questions and comments to share. Students shared their experiences with microaggressions on campus; comments they hear at break, lunch, and after school. It was a difficult, beautiful, natural, productive, rich sharing of ideas and learning from each other. I was astounded by their inquisitiveness and compassion. I carefully navigated their questions and comments, leaving my opinions out, and letting the conversation organically unfold. 

That day, I went home feeling proud. Yes, I love teaching a lesson when students glean the key concepts and synthesize information in meaningful ways. This felt better, however. More satisfying; more powerful. I truly felt it was my best day teaching, ever. 

The next day, I tried to begin the lesson as usual, but of course there were follow up questions and comments from the day before. I’d received at least a dozen emails from parents, thanking me for being brave enough to have this discussion at all with their students; how they’d had a powerful conversation about race with their child. Many students thanked me for talking about racism, saying they wished we teachers would talk about it more. So many of them commented how we don’t talk about racism enough in our public schools, and they wish we would more often. 

When I heard the complaint from that one parent, however, it reminded me why we teachers don’t talk about race more often: uninformed parents who accuse us of teaching CRT, clearly not having any understanding of what that is. Critical Race Theory, as most people would know, is a university level discourse for law students. No public school teacher I know has ever taken that class, let alone could speak to the depths of its rigor. 

More importantly, I could tell the students were hungry to talk more about race. They wanted to have these conversations. It was evident we needed to talk more about it. 

We public school teachers are often told to shut up and teach, however. We are not entrusted with these conversations. I see the Letters to the Editor in my local newspaper, criticizing us for daring to highlight minority groups in our thematic months, such as Black History Month, or Hispanic Heritage Month. I had a parent complain that I’d shown a video featuring Amy Schneider, badass Jeopardy! extraordinaire; apparently, this was too much for one parent. Watch the clip for yourself and find what was so offensive aside from a trans woman existing on this planet.

I realized we are in one of the most politically divisive times in American history. People won’t even talk to each other. We just shout expletives on social media sites, so-called armchair warriors, with keyboard courage to boot. We latch on to soundbytes we connect to, and ostracize those who don’t agree. 

But there are issues that permeate beyond politics, that simply are, based upon truth and facts. History doesn’t lie. Thus, when someone says the USA has a deep-rooted history of racism, the facts don’t lie. It is true, regardless of political leaning. 

We are doing a disservice to our students when we deny our history, when we deny that racism still exists in our country. 

I don’t think we teachers ought to force our political opinions onto students. We ought to remain at least somewhat neutral. However, it is our job to inform, to educate. When we present our students with facts, we are simply conveying information to them, like a news anchor. 

When we are told to shut up and teach, it quashes any chance for productive, necessary conversations like this. Why don’t we talk about race more in public schools? Because of the one or two parents who complain, causing a stir over nothing. If we were more respected and esteemed in our society, perhaps confidence would be given to us to have these conversations. I would love to have some more professional development on this topic from trained professionals so that we could be better prepared for these kinds of topics, of what to say and not to say. I don’t consider myself an expert on the topic of racism, elitism, any kind of ism, really. I am an educator by training, but my job doesn’t stop at content. We are often told in our teacher training that we must educate the whole child. The world in which we live, our societal norms and history, are all crucial components to educating the whole child. It starts with conversations: authentic, genuine, honest conversations. If people had faith in their public servants – educators – perhaps we could make some progress in helping our students feel safe, accepted, and appreciated in this world. 

What would I say to the parent who complains out of context? That there is so much more happening in a classroom, whether or not it’s clear to them. That’s the magic you don’t see. That’s the magic that can only happen inside the classroom, with a caring, dedicated teacher committed to fostering healthy, well-rounded future citizens. I recently wrote about high levels of absenteeism in our public schools, the exodus taking place. Although much of the curriculum these days is available online, the magic that happens inside the classroom is virtually irreproducible.