“Mr. Malone, do you know what education means in Spanish?”
One of my students asked me this question after reading my copies of Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow, and Idelisse Malavé and Esti Giordani’s Latino Stats: American Hispanics by the Numbers. As was our tradition when he’d read one of my books, we were ready to talk about his experience. He was already an outspoken, even rebellious student, but something in these titles in particular resonated with his disdain for school and his search to find his purpose.
“Educación means to bring out from within, or to help bring out what’s inside… something like that,” he said. “And to be honest, most of y’all teachers don’t do that. Y’all don’t care about what’s inside. Y’all just pour and pour, and we forget and forget, and y’all never seem to wonder what we wanna do, or be, and then help us achieve that. Y’all just get us ready for the test. That’s why we hate it here.”
The proverbial Strong Black Man had arrived to become the much-needed pillar of stability for children who had been educated mostly by women, either in a single-parent setting or a formal school setting.
I felt his point, and at that moment, we bonded. I don’t regret becoming a teacher, but the current nature of the education system has driven a wedge between my passions and my purpose.
Statistically speaking, Black men only make up 2% of teachers for students in the prekindergarten to 12th-grade range. For nine years, I was among the significantly underrepresented few. I’d see teachers leaving in droves after such long stints in the classroom. I ultimately chose to leave myself for a laundry list of reasons: being underpaid, overworked, overlooked, under-appreciated, dismissed, and used; paradigm shifts; and a lack of diversity and culturally relevant curricula.
But as a “2%-er,” I found that decision more challenging than others might — and certainly more challenging than I expected. I often felt a sense of relief from my peers and my students’ parents when they met me: The proverbial Strong Black Man had arrived to become the much-needed pillar of stability for children who had been educated mostly by women, either in a single-parent setting or a formal school setting.
On any given day, I’d hear things like:
“Mr. Malone, you’re my first Black male teacher.”
“Mr. Malone, can I call you sometime?”
“Mr. Malone, if ever I need some help with [Student], can I reach out to you?”
“Mr. Malone, I’m so happy my son now has a role model in his life.”
“Mr. Malone, these kids need you.”
That list keeps going. And going.
Being a teacher is one thing, but being a Black male teacher is something completely different. And being a Black teacher for Black students is somehow another phenomenon altogether.
Teachers understand what’s expected of us: to serve not only as educators but as counselors, nurses, psychologists, mothers, fathers, friends, advisers, and, at times, babysitters. But as a Black male teacher, those expectations come with some cookie-cutter perceptions of what a Black man should be like, and what he should be for his students. I accepted that because I believed in the necessity of the work; I knew the need to provide children from underserved communities with equitable access to high-quality education.
And for the longest time, I thought teaching was what I loved to do. To “fight the good fight,” I thought, it had to be from the classroom. Many of my supervisors, most of whom were White, agreed with me. The more I saw a need for me to step out of the classroom, the more reasons I got for staying — primarily the fact that there were only 2% of us at schools in the first place, that there’s a need to provide the community with culturally relevant curricula.
Granted, a few of us show up, collect a check, and go home. But a very small select few, understand the reality of the system and recognize the real power and purpose of education. Despite the pressures to conform to an obsolete pedagogy, they work tirelessly to ensure they’ve touched the lives of every single child who enters their rooms. These are the real “dream keepers.”
That need for Black men in the classroom kept me there over the years, even as I grew complacent in the role. I felt that by leaving the students, I’d possibly hand them over to less caring educators, perhaps even indirectly contributing to the school-to-prison pipeline. That somehow by leaving, I didn’t love them like I said I did. I’ve heard the slurs and insults about educators who “abandon children.”
I was plagued by insecurities; like so many others, the fear that I couldn’t meet my own lofty goals kept me aboard a ship I should have departed long ago. I believed that running a school and planning for a community on my own was too big a task for me to shoulder. So I silently watched others who were a detriment to the children they served fulfill their dreams and professional aspirations because my place was in the classroom where the children “needed me.”
Could children in general, and Black and Brown children specifically, benefit from more diverse educational institutions? Absolutely. But, the children I’ve encountered over the last nine years didn’t need me in the classroom. My supervisors, deans, and co-workers might have, but I soon discovered that my time in the classroom was merely an introduction to how I could continue to make an impact.
My students needed to see me in their lives everywhere. And by me, I don’t mean Arssante Malone, but educated Black men as a whole. They need to see Black men who counter the stereotypical and toxic representations that permeate their social media accounts, TV screens, and music playlists. They need Black men who allow them to be Black and Brown children while also using a set of skills to help them better understand their environment, and how they can potentially navigate their advancement and that of their families and communities. They need a village, and Black men to be part of that village — but not only as teachers.
Until we address these issues and provide more balanced representation for our children, the 2% are fighting a losing battle. I know what’s truly possible for them — but just as life extends beyond the classroom, so do the needs of students.
Black male teachers must be able to follow their passion and pursuits. That’s the only way to teach children how to do the same.
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