The kids who skip class or blow up at their teachers are just like me. The ones who sit in the back with their hoods up and headphones blaring or get kicked out of class every day are the ones I identify with. Those students who have a genius inside them, which they are unable or afraid to show at school, are my people. When I skipped class or refused to work, I was often met with ultimatums from the school: do what I was told or suffer a consequence. When I challenged my teachers, either “appropriately” or otherwise I was more often than not removed from class. I always resented school and the opportunities I did not have because my life didn’t fit the standard story of what a student should be.

What was missing was an adult who would take the first step and look past the front I put up, who could ask me how I was rather than tell me what to do, who could help me solve problems instead of making new ones. Now I am a teacher and know how hard it is to manage a classroom with “bad kids” in the room. It’s no secret that we don’t always have the resources to connect with the kids who need it the most; however, I slipped through the cracks with only two adults in my memory making any sort of effort—and even then it was too little, too late. This is why I ultimately became a teacher myself, something I had not always planned to do with my life. I knew there were kids who were more than the “difficult” ones with the “homelives.” I didn’t want those kids to go without support and knew that I was the right person to offer it because I had a unique frame of reference to understand them.

Becoming The Teacher I Never Had

But if it’s all for one, and one for all
Then maybe one day, we all can ball
Do it one time for the underdogs
Sincerely yours, from one of y’all
(B.o.B & Taylor Swift, 2011)

I entered education knowing large, under-resourced, urban schools were the place I was passionate about working in. I became a teacher to support all students, but have a special fondness for the ones who are often the hardest to connect with—and I am very good at connecting with them. This is because I was—and in some ways still am—one of them. We speak the same language, we share the same frustrations about the school system, and we dare to imagine a better place for kids by letting go of what has been and thinking about what could be. As a new teacher I lacked a lot of the internal dialogue that tells us “what school is,” because I frankly did not have much first hand experience of high school. Now that I have more exposure to school, I recognize that I am not interested in traditional teaching methods, unless they work to uplift my students. Instead, I constantly ask myself “What could school be?” My classes are dope: we write raps, perform dances modeling atoms, and sometimes our scientific posters are graffiti.

It started in my first year of teaching when I asked my classes what they care about in the world. For most kids it definitely was not physics. A passion for equity and social justice emerged. These kids are growing up in a time where social media reaches folks who have had enough with the oppression they face. So we dug into hard questions about gender, race, and equity in science—even though it’s outside of “the curriculum.” Instead of calculating velocity and acceleration, we explored how yellow traffic lights don’t have standard durations and how cities make huge amounts of money from issuing citations to drivers for running red lights. Using the hard facts of physics, we calculated how long a yellow light should last so as to not disproportionately affect people who live in lower income neighborhoods—like the ones my students live in.

Students also told me that they often felt like class was transactional—the teacher was going to do whatever they were going to do and students would engage just enough to get the points and pass. So I flipped it, pulling a small group of students out of class to be my oversight committee. I handed them control over the class and they took me for a wild ride with their honest observations about my teaching. Through our conversations, students outlined practices they felt did not work for the class such as asking for volunteers to answer questions or publicly calling out inappropriate phone use. When they said they didn’t feel like leaders, I got out of the way and let them run the show, which while frightening showed me how much more they brought to the table than I thought. These students offered me solutions on how to make the class better and when I enacted them, I saw a light in their eyes that showed me they felt respected, seen, and valued in a way they weren’t used to. This light was one I never had as a kid and seeing it in my students evoked an unexplainable emotion.

For All The Times No One Ever Spoke For Us

I can feel your pain, I can feel your struggle
You just wanna live, but everything so low
That you could drown in a puddle
That’s why I gotta hold us up, yeah hold us up
For all the times no one ever spoke for us
(B.o.B & Taylor Swift, 2011)

The way I run my classes is nothing revolutionary if one knows where to look and in fact many of my ideas about what class should be are reflected in research that is slowly gaining traction in education at-large. I am not the only teacher with a traumatic background and due to parts of my identity, like being White, the things I experienced were not as bad as they could have been. What my background does give me is the motivation to fight for kids, even when the system we are a part of doesn’t allow the time or space to do so. When students walk into our classrooms, we don’t always know what they’re bringing with them. Sometimes homelessness is hidden behind clean clothes, sometimes shyness masks turbulence outside of school, and other times explosiveness overshadows the more subtle need for connection.

No one ever spoke for me. No one ever pushed against other adults or the rigid structures of school on my behalf. While there is only so much impact a single teacher can have on a student, I can’t help but think how my life would have been different if I had a teacher like the one I try to be. That is why I make a promise to all of my students each year—no matter what they’re going through or how they act, I will always try to engage them as a person before a “student.” I promise this because I know what it is like for life outside of school to make it hard to engage. I also make this promise to students because I know far too many of them need an advocate, especially when they don’t fit the student mold. All the things I do as a teacher come from all the times no one ever spoke for me, like a form of healing for the harms done to me.

A School For Both Of Us

And even though we always against the odds
These are the things that have molded us
And if life hadn’t chosen us
Sometimes I wonder where I would’ve wound up
‘Cause if it was up to me, I’d make a new blueprint
Then build it from the ground up, hey
(B.o.B & Taylor Swift, 2011)

I serve both students who have overcome great obstacles to just be inside the school building, as well as others who have not had as many challenges. So what does it mean to have a school that uplifts not one, but both of us? How do we as educators bridge the gap between what education has been and the education our students need? How do we create a space for kids like I was to feel just as important and worthy of our time as the ones who find it easier to engage in school? More importantly, how do we bring all these students and the staff together, all while honoring our differences?

I believe that a strong relationship between the student and teacher is the first condition for true learning, especially when the teacher affirms the complex lives students live and recognizes their shared values. My students get to know where I come from in a way that might not be appropriate or interesting for all teachers to share, but the story itself is just the first step. Those relationships, spurred by my openness, are continuously cultivated and the promises I make to students are backed up by how I act day to day.

The second condition I see to make a school for both of us is that students must be allowed to breathe and express themselves and in turn we as educators need to work through our fears of losing control or our concerns about the timing of curriculum. Authentic student expression and learning does not always happen on our time table or in the ways we deem appropriate, yet the best thing I have ever done is shut up and let it happen.

Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, we need to be willing to fight for our students—challenging ourselves as well as other educators about what we think we know in education. There’s no better evidence of our beliefs about student worth than looking past how a student is acting and instead fighting for who we know they are. Sometimes this means challenging the kids as well, particularly when we know they are better than how they are showing up at this moment.

Creating this type of school won’t happen overnight and it is not something all teachers are trained or supported in doing, but the outcome can be magical. This is why I leverage my story and strange relationship to education. I have firsthand experience seeing the joy and incredible leadership of young people when they are allowed to breathe and unapologetically be themselves.

So as Taylor Swift sings in Both Of Us:

I wish I was strong enough to lift not one but both of us
Someday I will be strong enough to lift not one but both of us
(B.o.B & Taylor Swift, 2011)