It's the weekend before my students arrive for the new school year. I am in my classroom listening to the rhythms of Lofi, reflecting on what has been and what is to come. Around my room are reminders of my identity as a 6'2, 280-pound black and Puerto Rican man, husband, father, math teacher, and basketball coach. I have come to find comfort here; Yes, they are a part of my identity, which I hold dear to my heart, but as I grew older, I learned that few people see beyond them, including those I call colleagues and peers in this educational system.
“At these times, I often return to my favorite book,”amazon.com/Invisible-Man-Ralph-Ellison/dp/0679732764″ target=”_blank” rel=”noopener nofollow”>invisible man”by Ralph Ellison. The novel's exploration of invisibility, identity, and the struggle for recognition has deep resonance with my experiences in education. Like Ellison's protagonist, I feel like I've only been seen as other people's definition of who I'm supposed to be. When my students arrive, I feel like I am expected to perform certain tasks outside of my job description simply because of my identity. My ability as a leader is barely recognized. The struggles of being a husband and father are ignored. My existence as a person seems like an afterthought. These are the challenges I have faced. I want to feel seen for the many contributions I make in my classroom, school, and community. This work is not easy and feeling invisible at the same time is exhausting.
Ellison’s “Invisible Man” resonates deeply with my experiences and those of many teachers of color struggling in education. The novel's themes, invisibility and identity crisis, reflect the struggles I have faced in a system that often fails to adequately recognize my presence and contributions. I hope that making my story of invisibility visible to those who can understand my struggle helps fellow educators of color feel seen, heard, valued, and most importantly, retained in the classroom.
Who am I in education?
My teaching career began in the fall of 2017, just after completing the first summer semester of my graduate program. Shortly after, I began my first summer professional development at a school in the neighborhood where I grew up. One of the first things I noticed was that all students had to adhere to a strict uniform policy, including shoes, belts, and school colors. and middle school-aged children walked in straight lines down silent hallways. I don't remember high school being like this, and the fact that it was mostly students of color made me wonder.
After my first three months as a resident teacher, the teacher I shadowed went on maternity leave and never returned. Our principal also left a couple of months into the year, prompting central office leaders to take over, all of them unfamiliar white faces in a school full of black and brown kids. Before I knew it, I was teaching a seventh grade math class with little support, minimal pay, and barely any teaching experience.
Needless to say, I was not prepared for the unrealized stress. I quickly learned that teachers had to wear many different hats, perform numerous functions, and perform too many extra tasks. I would be pulled out of teaching almost routinely to address students who the building leadership couldn't reach; That's when I earned the nickname “baby whisperer.” Instead of a badge of honor, it looked like another invisible tax associated with being a black teacher. I felt that my worth depended on my ability to maintain order. From fist fights to classroom fights, I felt limited and trapped within a box of preconceived notions about my role as an enforcer of the system's rules—the same things I despise about school systems that prioritize discipline. It was like I was a puppet and Geppetto at the same time. I felt like I was defending a lie, making my students believe that this is how things should be. I questioned my place within the school, wondering what role I really played in the students' lives.
I moved forward, hoping to unlock the brilliance of our children. Still, the beginning of my teaching career indicated that sometimes it takes more than hope to succeed in this profession as a person of color and an educational leader.
The journey to inspire change
In the last five years of my career, the pandemic highlighted the needs of our schools, teachers, and students as conversations about what and how our children deserve to learn turned to divisive, critical race theory, and DEI became became the debates of the time. . Motivated to change this conversation and influence politics in the state and locally, I ran for the school board in 2021. It seemed like a great opportunity to try to create real change for our kids while also creating an identity for myself in education that wasn't just focused on how I enforce school policy for kids who look like me.
Before deciding to run, I spoke to a few close advisors and the amount of immediate support was validating; However, I quickly learned that politics is not for the faint of heart. Everyone else was establishing narratives about my values and who I was. They accused me of becoming Puerto Rican for the sake of the campaign, completely ignoring my education and family ties. The feeling I had when my wife was removed from an ad outside of my campaign was infuriating. The lies about my loyalties and intentions were exhausting. It didn't take me long to feel like I was just a name and a face, and everyone created their idea of who I was behind it.
The campaign was exhausting for my family and tested the values I chose to defend and follow. Still, I hoped that being the only teacher on the ballot and having a commitment to my community through service would lead me to victory, anyway. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough and he would lose the race by a very narrow margin.
A crushing defeat in many ways that made me feel like a failure. Seeing others (white men, in particular) have the same opportunity after achieving less than me not only made me question my ability, but also further reinforced the role the system wants me to uphold. At that moment everything made sense. People see me how they want to see me. They prefer to keep me in a box. So, I choose to stay in the place I feel most comfortable: my classroom.
Make peace with reality
It is here in my classroom that I contemplate how to fight a system that upholds injustice, a system that fights against the brilliance of diversity. This system does not allow everyone to sit at the table.
Almost a decade in education and I still wonder if I have really existed. Does anyone see beyond my physical appearance? Do my titles as a husband, father, teacher or coach even matter? Have I left an impact on someone or something? Am I invisible? Perhaps, and over the years, I have adapted to that feeling of invisibility.
Like the protagonist of The Invisible Man, I may have been “searching for myself and asking everyone but myself questions that I, and only I, could answer.” It took me a long time and a painful adjustment of my expectations to realize that I am no one but myself.
I don't need your eyes to be seen, and I don't need your validation to keep fighting for what I believe in. I am everything and nothing of what you think I am, and I will move as I see fit.
