I became a math instructional coach, went back to the classroom a few years later, graduated hundreds of students, achieved National Board certification, received the Math for America Master Teacher Fellowship, spoke at over 100 venues, was the first current classroom teacher to keynote the American Education Research Association annual meeting and the National Council of Teachers in Mathematics conference, wrote a best-selling book This Is Not A Test: A New Narrative on Race, Class, and Education, was the “first” or “only” in a bunch of other places, jumpstarted #EduColor (the name of the movement and the organization), went to the White House and Gracie Mansion on multiple occasions and the United Nations as an invited guest, helped finalize and invested in a Syracuse University scholarship for Latinx students, and either wrote or appeared in most major news publications including The New York Times, ESSENCE, CNN, and The Atlantic. I became a father and husband, got my driver’s license, and a new apartment, too.
I did some things.
At the end of the last decade, I wanted more teachers, especially of color, to sit squarely within their power and visibility without having to leave the profession. In the last ten years, I wrote the blueprint.
In various presentations, when people asked me if I’m a Teacher of the Year for New York or the United States, I’ve quipped to crowds that I’m aiming for Teacher of the Century, a swipe at a process that wouldn’t otherwise want a rebel raconteur to get any institutional praise. (No diss to past and present teachers of the year. In fact, I’m donating to one on a regular basis). Such a disposition often made me one of the more infamous teachers in the country. During an NYC Department of Education function, I was offered the opportunity to speak to every superintendent and network leader in the city. After my message of servant leadership, a central official remarked: “Yeah, everyone here reads your blog, but some people love to read it and others love to hate-read your blog!”
I would have to wait another four years – a total of 12 – to have my blog unbanned from all NYC Department of Education school computers. This colossus – all so splendorous and grandiose – prefers a school system where people only shine when administrators say so.
Boston. Atlantic City. Washington, D.C. Raleigh. Chicago. Baltimore. Minneapolis. Austin. Los Angeles. San Diego. Las Vegas. San Francisco. Philadelphia. Providence. So many places welcomed me with open minds and hearts. I was granted so many opportunities to spread the knowledge and the message of the beautiful, wonderful, and challenging work we as educators do. Like the time I used my keynote speech at the New Jersey Education Association – yes, another first – to speak directly about Marylin Zuniga and how we can find justice with and for our educators of color and conscience. Like the time I sat in then-Vice President Joe Biden’s chair at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building (White House) and asked then-Secretary of Education about teacher leadership and teachers of color. Like the times I went to places with vociferous support for our current president and still asked everyone to be culturally responsive or we’d have more racist, sexist, xenophobic, bigoted, and repulsive leaders like the one that sits at the White House.
Or the time I sat on a panel at the US Department of Education and relayed how many male educators of color feel like overseers back when such a line incurred a gasp and a strongly-worded letter asking you to never come back. Equity talk and looking woke is in vogue now. I created a blueprint and let the work speak for itself more than I did. We’re good.
The world seemed to take sharp, dark turns, but these were just more opportunities to cleanse the underbelly of experiences we’ve known to be true for so long. Many of us were literally made for and from this.
None of this comes without serious loss. I lost my father who I only saw once a year for my entire life. My closure was a funeral with six of my siblings on his side of the family. I lost people I considered friends at the time, too. Some held their animus for days, some for months, others for years. They’re forgiven, not for them but for me. I didn’t get a proper goodbye in most of those cases, either. I stopped caring whether I should be the instructional math coach in such a precarious school environment, and, after I was reassigned back into the classroom, vowed to do better than whatever title I’d be assigned from another. Also, I lost an arbitration case against the city over whether a set of formative computerized test scores should count against my teacher rating and ended up with a Teacher Improvement Plan the year after I added “NBCT” to the end of my professional name through no fault of mine.
In time, the very law that secured my individual defeat would get struck down the year after that. I can take solo Ls for the collective W.
In some instances, those losses threatened to ruin everything I’d built. But when I learned to recenter my efforts to Luz and Alejandro – my home – I became more fearless, more honest, and more vocal. Luz taught me to speak with conviction and never let the risk of loss impede my mission. Alejandro taught me that I can only love as much as I love myself. I took their love and multiplied that exponentially. I consulted with my ancestors near and far. They fed me with the love and strength necessary to keep moving. In those moments of delusion and discontent, they put the fire in my belly to show that love, take that train, teach that lesson, not give up on that student, and smile through the foolish animosity.
Oh, and I had so many of my friends and colleagues who saw the worth in my work. The ones who saw an administrator make copies of my book in a private instructional meeting and asked me to write another one. The ones who help shift organizations to anti-racist and pro-justice work with me. The ones who sat me next to governors, chancellors, and secretaries of education so I can build this work. The ones who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me in the private moments when I needed it. Every individual blessing we receive is transcendent, collective work. Grace taught me so.
I don’t have to do anything alone, and prefer not to.
I’m blessed to have two feet so I can stand on them.
I gained this weight because I can handle so much more now.
I believe in myself and my principles.
I can’t change who I am because someone who’s not in my center doesn’t like it.
I won’t stop seeing the light in others even when others extinguish themselves.
I’m not done with what I’ve set out to do, though I don’t know how much longer I have doing what I love.
I won’t apologize for being myself.
I’ve earned the “the” and any other titles I’ve assumed.
In the 2010s, I changed not for the better, but for the best. An indisputable vanguard for this work.
I taught a lot. I learned a lot more. With a blueprint dedicated to education, love, and justice, I can’t fail.
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