Microaggressive Education
(6:00am sprint)
This place seemed bigger as a child. Maybe were my borders of safety had not extended for miles rather than a city block and always in sight, I would have seen the limitations sooner.
I arrived eager to please. Many rules were explicitly clear. For how to dress becomingly there was a written code to follow. For how to behave on a rickety yellow school bus, the rules of the road applied no matter who was the passenger. But the rules of pleasing school authority figures was another thing.
Should I raise my hand, risk enthusiastically calling attention to my curious mind or would my teacher perceive me as hyperactive and incapable of restraint?
I learned to be quiet instead of trusting my instincts to speak up if something or someone was wrong because girls don’t tattletale, girls don’t dig deep, girls don’t right wrongs, they are only done wrong.
i learned to be agreeable because that was what school was for. It was not prepared to validate freethinking and long meandering quests for truth, only to confirm with icy matter-of-fact answer books that there was only one way to arrive at correctness.
I learned that I was a target. I was one of six Black students across first through fourth grade and our behavior was monitored if only to surveil the inconsistencies compared to small, always presumed innocent, and “promising” white children.
“You can be anything you desire children,” except you dear Black girl. Your choices will be limited to the scope of our imaginations, lived experiences, and the firm grip of poverty. We’ll take you to Carnegie Science Center but never teach you about astronaut Mae Jemison or mathematician Katherine Johnson.
We’ll expect perfection from your underdeveloped faculties. Sit up straight, stand still, walk quietly, keep your five senses to yourself. Don’t explore your world without permission. This world is ours.
And your body is ours. Come here let me feel your hair. It’s so bizarrely different. Weave, braids, beads, barrettes. Oh my, how novel. Let’s trot you around like a show puppy. You’re so special. Who’s a good little girl? You are.