Five years ago, I moved to Atlanta to join an innovative semester program that offered a collaborative partnership between public and private schools. As I was entering the world of independent schools, the police killings of African Americans—including Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, Joseph Mann, Abdirahman Abdi, Paul O’Neal, Korryn Gaines, Sylville Smith, Terence Crutcher, and Keith Lamont Scott—were attracting considerable public attention. It was against this backdrop that I attended my first weeklong faculty orientation.During that week, I could count the Black faculty members on one hand. In this predominantly white space where old colleagues made friends with new ones, I felt alone and out of place, aware that my presence was conditional—the unspoken compromise that many of us have to make to move through the white world. As part of the orientation, the director of inclusion and belonging led a diversity workshop. The first day had included a viewing of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s “The Danger of a Single Story” TEDTalk followed by small breakout discussion groups. In the video, which is popular among DEI practitioners as an entry point to conversations around implicit bias, Adiche argues that these stereotypes come from “single stories” about marginalized groups. In my breakout group, members told apolitical stories about feeling like an outsider. They avoided any discussion of oppression, inequality, power, and privilege. They talked about race without talking about race.
For another onboarding session, we were given index cards with questions intended to prompt discussions that delved into our understanding of implicit and racial bias and to promote meaningful conversation. One card asked, “How does your identity impact your pedagogy?” Group members sat in silence looking around the room for an entry point to start this uncomfortable conversation. I grimaced as I watched my colleagues shift in their seats. As a Black, queer woman from the South and a humanities scholar, I had engaged in deep self-examinations around this issue. It irritated me that my colleagues had not. In addition, these conversations completely ignored the school’s history as a segregation academy that had long barred access to Black students, faculty, and staff. Why were they employing euphemisms and talking about racism in the abstract as if it were not here among us? I was acutely aware that racism was not, and could never be, “neutral,” and this colorblind rhetoric was harming Black students and faculty. No one pushed us to move beyond surface answers, and in fact, it became obvious that the colorblind lens helped assuage those who were not people of color of any feeling of discomfort.
Two months later, I attended a professional development workshop focused on diversifying curriculum, and we shared strategies about how to implement anti-racist assignments. A foreign language instructor shared an assignment in which students researched their family backgrounds. As he explained the goal of the assignment, which was to showcase the ethnic diversity in the class, he said he noticed that the only Black student in the class looked uncomfortable. He told the faculty in the workshop that he felt bad, but that it was “above his pay grade.” The diversity consultants who were leading this session could have used this as an entry point for how to open up conversations with students about the history of enslavement, the splitting up of Black families, and how these historical oppressions can make it difficult for Black families to trace their ancestry. Or the faculty member could have conducted his own research and offered additional resources geared toward students of color. But neither of those scenarios unfolded. The root issues went unspoken. And the harm and trauma the Black student may have experienced went unaddressed.
These were the first signs of what I now recognize as the dominant rhetoric surrounding race in independent schools: talking about diversity without naming anti-Blackness. We at independent schools have been silent about race for far too long, finding it easier to pretend that racism doesn’t exist. When we do talk about diversity, school leaders, administrators, faculty, and DEI practitioners often conflate Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC), LGBTQIA+, and international students as one monolithic group. But this conflation erases the experiences of Black students. The harsh reality is that our independent schools are disproportionately harming our Black students.
The World of the White Unseen
Independent schools have been, and remain, the “world of the white unseen.” In my forthcoming book, Black Queer Cartographies, I refer to the “white unseen” as an intentional thought pattern and epistemological thought process where the everyday actions, terrors, ruptures, and tensions that Black people face are ignored. While we call for diversity in our institutions, we rarely question the whiteness that pervades our curriculum, our culture, our traditions, our personal relationships, and our social networks. The white unseen so deeply normalizes the white experience that these erasures are rarely even called out, except in moments of severe disruption, like the current moment in our country’s history.In independent schools, the white unseen can be seen in the lack of cultural competency and cultural sensitivity in our faculty. It can be seen in the Eurocentric canon that still pervades our curriculum. It can be seen in the benign neglect around the socioemotional needs of our Black students and how our schools perpetuate racial trauma. And the white unseen can be seen in our poor record of hiring and retaining Black faculty and administrators. We remain strangely tethered to the past even as our marketing materials boast a brave new world of diversity. But what does this brave new world look like? Is it a post-racial fantasy?
Within the past three years, there has been an explosion of research and discussion of social-emotional differences among learners and LGBTQIA+ issues, and a call for more BIPOC representation within our schools. However, Blackness is frequently obscured by these calls for diversity and equity. Many heads of schools have released statements condemning violence directed toward Black lives but all too often, have taken no direct action to disrupt the patterns of systemic oppression. There is a tendency to focus on admission quotas and the optics of representation, while harmful policies and unequal treatment continue to traumatize, isolate, and alienate our Black students.
Over the summer as I watched news coverage of Black Lives Matter protests, I was overcome by inconsolable grief. While this was news to some, I recognized it as part of a larger history and collective experience of racial trauma. Robert Sellers, chief diversity officer at the University of Michigan, perfectly summed up my emotions in the statement he released on the Friday morning after the death of George Floyd:
This morning, I woke up very tired. Not your normal tired. I woke up with a kind of tired that can only be found on the other side of loss, anger, frustration, sadness, and despair. ... In my bone-weary tired state this morning, before I even got out of bed, I asked myself why should I continue to fight to try to change a system that has proven time and time again that it simply does not regard me and people who look like me as fully human.As I read more statements like this, and our school communities began to release their own, I grew somewhat hopeful. These statements were a step toward reformation. Rebirth. The promise of something new. I wondered what the transformation would look like.
Voices Amplified
Shortly thereafter the Black@ movement started. What began as a social media-based protest after the killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and the many other innocent and unarmed African Americans, is now a collective public archive documenting the experiences of Black students and alumni who have attended independent schools. By bringing these testimonies together, the Black@ movement highlights decades of racial discrimination, xenophobia, and racial trauma. These living archives serve as a thesis placed on the world wide web for the world to behold.These narratives reveal the tension between academic achievement and racial trauma for Black and other marginalized students and independent school alumni. For many people, the experiences and stories shared in these posts were new and shocking. But these stories have not come out of the blue—they are etched in the walls of our institutions. We must not dismiss them as teenage angst. These narratives represent an archive of the experiences of the young people who have walked—and continue to walk—our hallowed halls. There are many Black@ accounts on Instagram, but the stories are sadly interchangeable; you can read any number of school-named accounts and find the same story repeated.
During my first days at [school name], my family came from California. My grandma, a Mexican woman, came to help me unpack for the Fall term and was asked by one of the parents if she was the maid. She said, “No, I work for doctors like you so that they can afford to take their kids to schools like this.” It should be noted that she was a lawyer that represented doctors who were sued for malpractice. —Alumni
A white student used the “N” word within earshot of my son and his friends. When my son confronted him about it, asking him what he said, the kid started laughing. My son and his other friends went and told the teacher and then they were interrogated by the “counselor” and the vice principal. The adults involved in the situation suggested to my son and his friends that the kids didn’t say the “N” word; they said what he heard was a sneeze. My son is currently a middle school student. —Parent of a current studentThese posts illuminate how the white unseen operates—overt racist acts and discriminatory behavior frequently go unchecked. Of course, these experiences are not limited to Black students. The white unseen is also evidenced by our inability to retain Black faculty and staff members.
So many Black and non-Black POC faculty and staff have blessed the lives of so many students and most fought for us too! I can give a list of all these faculty and staff that impacted my time at [school name], but every single one of them has moved on from [school name]! Every single one! Admin need to recognize that they’re the problem when it comes to retaining these faculty and staff members, and they need to offer better support for them too. —Alum
I was the only Black faculty member in my department. When I tried to share my experiences of microaggressions and subtle racism, I was told that I was a liar because no one else had heard or experienced the things I had, and that I should understand that perhaps the people in my department were just “bad at communicating.” —Former teacherIn these posts, we see the harmful impacts of the white unseen on our Black faculty and staff, who often find independent schools so isolating and alienating that they leave. The common assumption is that the schools’ remote locations are unattractive; the reality is that BIPOC staff are actively pushed out.
The Price May Be Too High
After this past summer’s protests and the growing interest in social justice issues, I developed a course on the “History of Racism” for this past fall semester. As the inaugural associate director of diversity, equity, and inclusion at the Interlochen Center for the Arts (MI), it was my mission to create programs and conversations that promoted inclusion and offer courses that spoke to this current political moment. During the fourth week of school, I assigned James Baldwin’s essay “The Price May Be Too High” to unpack the tangible costs of being an artist and living in a world where your presence is often viewed as conditional. Baldwin critiques and calls out the system of white supremacy that is willing to incorporate the optics of diversity but not make real changes to the system. He writes, “White people don’t want to hear what he knows, and the system can’t afford it. What is being attempted is a way of involving, or incorporating, the Black face into the national fantasy in such a way that the fantasy will be left unchanged and the social structure left untouched.”Although these high school students’ entry point into critical race theory only recently began, they immediately saw the parallels to our independent schools. They were insightful and observant. For instance, they talked about the tokenization of BIPOC students in our marketing materials and how they are required to cut off pieces of themselves in order to assimilate. In this class, we didn’t code switch or mince words. We were direct and honest. When reading the article out loud, students wrestled with references to Sambo, Chester Himes’ If He Hollers Let Him Go, Ernest J. Gaines’ Of Love and Dust, and the other analogies that Baldwin so eloquently employs. As we read the essay out loud and journey through the meaning, I glanced at the furrowed brows attempting to move beyond their discomfort. What did Baldwin mean when he wrote “The Price May Be Too High”? What price did you pay to be in this room?
These young scholars and artists did not drop the obligatory “I’m not racist,” or “I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings,” or “I hope this isn’t offensive.” They reflected on being homesick, family memories, and other costs associated with leaving home in search of new opportunities. For the Black students, international students, and first-generation students, the costs are steep—the abandonment of community, traditions, and cultural connections. It’s an unspoken cost of entering this world.
We spoke the truth. We built a culture of vulnerability, transparency, and accountability. These students understood what Baldwin meant when he wrote, “White people don’t want to hear what he knows, and the system can’t afford it,” because they have witnessed it in person. One student asked me if my job felt exploitative. Sometimes their bluntness is shocking. He went on to comment that being one of the only Black faculty and staff on campus must be exhausting. Sometimes the work is exhausting. But it is needed and urgently required. We cannot wait for someone else to solve the problem. We cannot wait for someone else to have the conversation. We cannot wait for someone else to disrupt the systems of oppression.
The Work at Hand
Most school leaders are likely trying to deal with racism on campus in the context of the pandemic. I think we imagined that COVID-19 would be the worst of it. Never did we envision that the twin monsters of the virus and racism would rear their ugly heads at the same time. Yet, we cannot allow the fear, uncertainty, and budgetary constraints to dismantle the work. Investments in DEI leadership, infrastructure, and programming cannot be compromised.In a recent communication to the Interlochen campus community, President Trey Devey elaborated on a call to action that he issued on Juneteenth 2020. In the message, he wrote, “We must each embrace a shared responsibility for ensuring that young people from all backgrounds build their confidence and develop their potential as part of our inclusive, global community. Racism or xenophobia of any kind have no place.”
This work is a shared responsibility. It will require input and action from students, faculty, staff, administrators, senior leadership, trustees, alumni, and parents. This is not the time to be defensive. It is the time to lean into compassion. If the work is motivated by anything, let it be motivated by our compassion and empathy.
Listen to those around you. While it’s en vogue to hire a consultant, there are Black people on your team who can provide insights into the work that needs to be done. And be sure to compensate them. There is a tremendous amount of unpaid labor that BIPOC go through in their everyday roles in our schools and as de facto mentors for students and other employees.
This is difficult and gritty work. It stirs up feelings of shame, sadness, and helplessness. As leaders, this may be unfamiliar territory, but this discomfort is the day-to-day reality many of your Black employees and students experience. It would be ideal if we could solve these issues overnight, but we can scale the work; there are small accommodations that can help heal these open wounds. Whatever you do, don’t let this moment pass you by. We are creating the foundation for tomorrow and should be proactive in addressing the matter at hand. History remembers. Our students remember. Our alumni remember.
Student Voices
This is nothing newThis is nothing new, my body has normalized this pain.
Numbed it so I cannot feel.
This is life.
It’s how I was raised.
I didn’t learn how to ride a bike
I didn’t learn how to climb a tree
I learned to be cautious when a policeman came down the street.
I learned that I must spend my whole life fighting
I learned to never make mistakes, if I did it would hurt
the little brown girl after me, I learned
To survive, I learned how to breathe
in a world that didn’t want me to,
a world whose leader wants to see
my people perish, a world of anger and hate
a world of power, a world of white.
—poem written by a Black female student in Aretina R. Hamilton’s "History of Racism" class