BURSTIn my application to the Voices of Change Fellowship, I quoted musician Olu Dara’s words to his son, the rapper Nas:
Quit school if you want to save your own life.
These words stunned me as an educator and student who understands the stakes confronting Black youth in education. Nas’ conversation with his father did not feel unfamiliar, nor did it feel cavalier; it carried the audacity Black folks have had to nurture and maintain to survive.
Before I began writing for the fellowship, I reflected on the roots of my educational lineage. What led my father to leave school before graduating? What pushed my mother out of the schoolhouse? What was the quality of education for my grandparents and great-grandparents, and who said it was fit for their learning needs? I wondered if, maybe for them, quitting school was saving their own lives, too, so that future generations would not have to endure the challenges they faced.
I’ve had similar questions that have followed me throughout my education journey. I’ve climbed through the tacks and splinters of multiple presidencies that mocked the humanity of anyone not born white, able-bodied, heterosexual, male, wealthy or a citizen. I’ve climbed through the torn-up boards of heart-wrenching grief after laying every elder in my immediate lineage to rest. I’ve climbed through the dark of a global pandemic that exposed the violent systems Black and Brown folks have been screaming about for centuries — systems engulfed in flames.
As a Voices of Change fellow, I sought to present the classroom as a radical space of possibility. In August 2023, I published my first essay, which explored the freedom-dreaming power of Black literature. In my second essay, I reflected on the emancipatory power of radical Black joy. For my third essay, I tackled the impact of discriminatory school policies targeting natural hair textures on Black students. And last, for my fourth and final essay, I settled into my role as director of diversity, equity, inclusion and belonging at a preK-8 Catholic Montessori school in Cincinnati. I shared the collaborative goals that outlined my school's strategic plan to embrace DEI and the work taking place to meet those goals.
But there is a price to be paid for bringing radical possibility to life. All too often, Black women in education and leadership ignore the signs of burnout until it is too late. I am in community with these women: I coach these women; I am one of these women.
One day, I woke up and realized I hadn't taken a full week off from work in three years. I woke up mourning the deep misalignment I felt in my attempt to transform systems designed to resist me at every turn. I woke up wishing that I could remain asleep, unhappy and unfulfilled with my life. Though I was celebrated for my accomplishments with awards, I was tired. I am tired.
I was paying the price for radical possibility with my mental health and my life.
Nas once said, “I didn’t care about America. I didn’t believe that [America] believed in me.”
In a radical act of self-preservation, Nas crossed the threshold of his liminal space and walked into the promise of his own freedom dreams. He did not wait for the permission of a society that did not believe in him.
As I navigate my own liminal space, I am granting myself the permission to set myself free and save my own life.
With a pocket full of freedom dreams, healing-centered entrepreneurship and the audacity to claim rest and renewal as an enduring freedom practice, I am trusting myself to boldly claim ownership of my life.