The current uproar over Critical Race Theory has me thinking about an experience with American History.
As a high school senior, I enrolled in Advanced Placement American History . I sat at the desk upfront, facing the black chalkboard, with Michaela sitting at the desk behind me.
Michaela was interesting, attractive and confounding young woman with sharp eyebrows, a human puzzle who was the main reason why I never skipped a class. However, I was careful around her though, as she was prone to switching moods without much prompting. Michaela enjoyed massaging my head during history class.
One afternoon before we entered the class space, I asked her why she liked touching my head. She smiled and said, “I just like touching it. I feel like I’m creating art. Plus it’s smooth and it helps with my stress too. You don’t mind, do you?”
I considered her question for a few moments. American history was a slog to get through and Michaela’s head rubs were the closest I came to a woman touching me intimately at that age. “I don’t mind,” I said. “You can touch my head all you want.”
“Yay! That makes me so happy!”
Michaela applied these massages as our teacher, Mrs. Carter, proffered lectures on the usual historical topics. She spent about a quarter of the class kneading my head with her supple fingers. Leaning back against the chair, tilting my head in her direction as she concocted magic with those heavenly appendages, gave me sensations. “Ah”, I said as I slid further down the chair, providing Michaela with a full view of my considerable sized crown.
Michaela was whip smart though, able to manage more than two activities at once. She paid attention to Mrs. Carter, raising her free hand to offer opinions and ask questions. On another afternoon, as Mrs. Carter lectured about the civil rights movement, Michaela shot her hand into the air.
“Yes, Michaela?” said Mrs. Carter.
“Do you think racism is still a problem in this country?” said Michaela. “I still think it is.”
A few students leaned forward, anxious to hear what Mrs. Carter had to say.
Mrs. Carter was pensive for a moment, pursing her lips as she formulated an answer to Michaela’s question. “I’m sure there are still some people out there with racist views. But we’ve come a long way.”
“It feels bigger than that though,” Michaela said. “Like I can feel it all around me. It’s in everything.”
“I’m so sorry you feel that way Michaela. Let’s just hope that things will get better for you with the passage of time. Still, a few decades ago, a talented student like yourself would have been excluded from this class because of the color of your skin. And here you are in 1995, being taught history in a class with students of all different races.”
“I know, but a lot still doesn’t seem right. ”
“Okay.”
“Just putting it out there.”
“And we have heard you.”
Michaela sighed, and went back to massaging my head.
I’d eventually leave that class with an “A”, receiving a three out of five score on the Advanced Placement American history exam. A “3” was not enough to receive college credit, but it was a respectable number. At least I wasn’t one of the students who scored a “2” or a “1”.
I graduated high school with a 3.8 GPA, enough of a grade point average to garner recognition as one of the top graduates in my high school class. After earning the respect of my teachers and peers, I was voted as the most likely to succeed. I even scored a few dates with the enigmatic and aesthetically pleasing Michaela. Nothing came from the excursions, although we did have fun together.
By the time I enrolled at Boston University in fall 1995, I was confident in my ability, but unprepared for what the world had in store for me, a young and inexperienced black male. Firstly, a significant portion of my formative years were spent within a multicultural high school environment, where teachers treated me well, and rewarded me for the actual work I put into a project — I thought it was customary for people to be treated fair. Secondly, my history education was somewhat lacking, bereft of any significant discussion of how racism is solidly entrenched in American society.
So, upon reflection of my life experience as a black man in America, after witnessing the harm exacted upon the black bodies of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Trevon Martin, Sandra Bland, and others, I can attest to Michaela being nearly prescient with her assessment of American racism. Despite evidence of measured progress, it continues to pervade our society, polluting hearts and minds, infesting our institutions, and short-circuiting the inherent potential of millions of American citizens of color over multiple generations.
After becoming chairman of the Diversity Council at my place of work, my appetite for more information on racism and America History grew, becoming all consuming in the fall of 2019, about the same time the 1619 Project was published in the New York Times. I downloaded as much of the project as the paywall would allow. It is was very unique of course, a groundbreaking examination of American history from a uncommon perspective; the black journalist. The project was put together at the behest of Nicole Hannah-Jones, a journalist and college professor. Mrs. Jones penned the opening essay for the project, which includes the following lines of text:
The entirety of the essay was beautifully written, an evocative retelling of the American experience over hundreds of years. But it is those two quoted lines that really grabbed my attention. A sense of urgency is bursting through the text. If given access to the 1619 Project when I was a high school senior, I’d have declared myself a history major right then and there.
The 1619 Project, now available for purchase on Amazon, has won wide acclaim and drawn intense criticism. Proponents of the project applaud its inclusion into American classrooms across the country, while conservatives, and some history experts, bemoan its creation and dissemination.
Among conservative circles, there exists a movement to curtail teaching of the 1619 Project and other aspects of Critical Race Theory in schools, culminating with the passage of laws designed to eradicate the teaching of Critical Race Theory in states like New Hampshire, Arizona, Idaho, Oklahoma, and Tennessee.
But for many critics of CRT, banning Critical Race Theory in classrooms is not enough. Petrified conservative parents across the nation are calling for the expulsion of all written materials concerning the black experience from school libraries, stating books written by legends like Maya Angelou and Tony Morrison promulgate racism against white people. After decades of exuding in their privileged lives, conservative white parents are vehemently against their children feeling guilty about enjoying that privilege . Because white privilege is an American tradition, passed down through successive generations, encouraging the subjection of black and brown children. And white conservative parents want their children to reap the reward of their birth rights, codified by laws, written and unwritten. Equality is akin to oppression for many of these privileged parents.
Hence, the descent into fascism by conservative leaning American citizens. That’s right, fascism. It’s my first time including the word “fascism” in anything that I’ve written, and it saddens me, knowing millions of people would gladly support the subjection of black and brown people so their children can thrive. It’s evil, of the banal kind.
I wish I was an expert at Critical Race Theory, so I could be more of an effective proponent for the curriculum. I will be purchasing a copy of the entire 1619 project from Amazon though, preparing for the day when I will be given the opportunity to teach it to my children. The fascists are not going to dissuade me from educating the next generation about the real history of America.
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