Derek W. Black - Schoolhouse Burning

M Y PATH TO THIS BOOK WAS AN UNLIKELY ONE. A LL TOLD, MY family accumulated more GEDs than college diplomas, which is to say we had a few of the former and none of the latter before me. The only thing pointing my way to college was the general, undefined idea that I should go. Knowing what I know now about education, I would not have bet on me making it.

My parents marriage was so short that I dont have a single memory of them together. My moms long hours as a waitress were just enough to make the rent when I was little. My father worked the night shift and lived an hour away for several years. My few comforts in life came from my grandparents, rides to school and elsewhere from my aunt.

Instability was familiar enough to be normal. I made my bed in so many different apartments, houses, and trailers that I never had a sense of belonging anywhere other than my grandparents house. The cigar box filled with my mothers tips is my most vivid memory from childhood. The box moved with us from one place to another. She kept the silver. The pennies were mine.

I switched schools four times by the seventh grade. Losing friends and the anxiety of making new ones made each new school more intimidating than the last. Low grades here and there coupled with a referral for speech therapy made my progress far from sure. I can still see myself sitting next to the window as my turn to read aloud in the second grade approached. Other students seemed to ease through their parts. But the fear inside me took hold as my turn neared. I think I managed the words correctly, but my only goal was to survive. A similar swirling of thoughts and emotions remains with me to this day when I wait to speak among a group of people.

Even less pointed my way toward the study of race and equality. I grew up in a staunchly religious, white, and conservative community. The three categories were so intertwined that I never thought to distinguish them. My family rarely jostled a counter-idea. Literature was the only possibility of a different perspective, though I wouldnt broach a rich booklist until I was in my twenties. For most of my life, I was a white student surrounded by white teachers, white students, and white ideas, including most of college.

So how was it that I made it to college, took up African American Studies as a major, excelled in law school, interned at the Office for Civil Rights at the US Department of Education, litigated school desegregation cases at the Lawyers Committee for Civil Rights, became a law professor and founded the Education Rights Center at Howard University, worked on civil rights issues for President Obamas transition team, and eventually became one of the nations leading experts on education law and policy, particularly as it pertains to disadvantaged students?

No doubt, my parents were hardworking, and my grandparents overwhelming love, support, and stability doubled my relatively low chances at college. But much of everything else hinged on the opportunity that public education afforded mesometimes when I did not even want it for myself. I cant count how many decisions teachers and administrators made to keep me on track and clear the path of opportunity. I cant count them because they made them without me or my parents knowing. Judged against todays calls for more transparency and autonomy, that sounds terrible. But schools cant run every detail by parents. We have to trust them to make some well-informed judgments themselves. In theory, their judgment can make all the difference in the world for a kid. At the very least, it did for me.

But my schooling, like everyone elses, wasnt defined by singularly large decisions or tests. Ongoing relationships and experiencesones strong enough to carry me through events that otherwise could have led to downward spiralsdefined my education. For instance, I was lucky enough to have a tough but caring eighth-grade teacher who counseled me through the emotionally devastating grade I earned in his class. He helped me pick myself up and learn how to make some real effort. I was lucky enough to have a ninth-grade teacher excited about geometry and committed to us learning it. She let me and others spend our free time after lunch in her classroom until we figured it out. Later, in Algebra II, a seasoned teacher let me retake a test. I had scored a zero on it the first time because I was not sleeping enough at home and was making up for it every day in math class.

Then there were all the moments of generosity in between. Some of these teachers sent me into the hallway for the remainder of class because I couldnt keep my mouth shut. Even more made me write I will not talk in class a few hundred times an evening. But never once did those teachers send me to the office as a disobedient or disruptive kid in need of more serious punishment, let alone suspend me. Most often, they talked with me about my behavior, and I listenedwell enough to course-correct for as long as you can expect of a young person.