Solutions for Sticky floors & Drowning waters: Abolitionist strategies for educators

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Dear Reader, 

I share because I don’t want to forget. I am an introvert who projects as an extrovert, but people who know me, know better. I am a life-long lover of learning—not school. But schools are the structural place where many people acquiesce and assign the task of learning/teaching…so I think of myself as a pedagogue—a critical one (in multiple ways). I also share in the #31DaysIBPOC space with the hope that other brave and wondering people who lead others as educators see something in my piece that brings them comfort…knowing that what they are experiencing, others experience. Shout out to Angela Bae: I felt every line with a special familiarity that helped me finish this piece even though the cover art for our stories is probably very different.

My writings usually flow between poem and essay, choreographed with rhythms and visuals implied in the background. I prefer to write in quiet places with hints of sunshine lighting the room. This piece is no different. How do I structure my writing? I am a divergent thinker—with no tolerance for game-playing and untruths. I have always been artistic, a little [melo-] dramatic and plain old, regular shmegular. Like Lisa, Angela, Pamela and Renee, I’m from around the way…the girl in the pack of people turning “it” on when I feel like it and speaking for my crew when dictionary language is needed. Some call it code switching but I have come to understand it as “speaking to be heard”—for me and for us—when necessary, however frequent, perhaps too much sometimes but neither silence nor façade is for me.

This piece has a little poetry, a little reflection and a splash of history dropped in a few key places. This is who I am, unapologetically. 

Thank you Damaris for sharing #STICKYNOTES yesterday (I have shards of yellow, green, blue and pink everywhere too)! Thank you to all the authors whose writings have come before and will follow this one: you keep me inspired and I love reading your posts every morning.

To Tricia who speaks with a love language like mine—quality time and fond memory making—I appreciate the way you live so openly and share so freely for us online. Meeting you in DC is still one of the coolest things I never imagined I would do. To Kim, oh man…what can I say? From NY to Boston to wherever we get to share space again, the gratitude I have for your work will never fit adequately into words I know, nevertheless I will start by saying thank you…for all you are and do for us. 

“To Burghardt and Yolande, The lost and the found…

The Forethought

HEREIN lie buried many things which if read with patience may show the strange meaning of being Black here at the dawning of the Twentieth Century. This meaning is not without interest to you, Gentle Reader; for the problem of the Twentieth Century is the problem of the color-line.”

—W.E.B. DuBois, 1903, The Souls of Black Folk: Essays and Sketches

“The Negroes’ real problem is that they have seldom had adequate choices…they avoided victimization…by withholding a significant commitment to any organization or individual.”

—Martin Luther King, 1963, “The days to come” in Why We Can’t Wait

Verses in S: Using Time and History as my Guide

Why iS the color line Still our problem? One hundred twenty yearS of Struggle trying to Solve thiS problem. How do we Shift from Saving Souls to Soul Stirring to keep them? Six generationS removed we Still Suffer under the weight of itS limitS, like calculuS…the area under the curve of thiS arc iS Slight yet Significant.





The sound of S as it escapes between clenched teeth…


Like a snake, hidden in high grass




Psychological strategies of

Separation & sabotage

Reminding myself that

Success may trigger in-Security and



Is the stance of a sell out

I choose to focus on the S at the beginning and end of solutions…

Using time and history as my guide

Why this topic on this day?

  • I watched my mother (and by partnership in her marriage) my stepfather, the man I call Daddy, pressed by glass ceilings and concrete jungle walls…suffer on sticky floors that trapped them like urban mice when poison was too common, obvious and embarrassing to leave out in the open and the mechanics of a trap were too messy. My parents became parents early and the twin spirits of revolution and rebellion were swirling all around them. Their parents were passengers on trains and in cars from Alabama and Florida and Virginia heading UpSouth and MidSouth from Chocolate Cities during the Great Migration. They wouldn’t stand for such defiance and divergence from their conservative moral suasion. Today would have been his 74th birthday. This is a reflection and thank you note to them.
  • I almost drowned three times: literally and figuratively. Twice when I jumped into deep waters because ‘if they could do it, so could I…right?…not’! Once because I fell over the edge of a boat as I leaned in to see what lived beneath the surface of my clear sight.

I almost drowned literally. After the first time, I thanked God for guards at the Y who knew that most of the kids who show up for ‘learn to swim for free’ (L2S4F) sessions, really don’t know how to swim or hold their breath. When I fell out of that canoe at camp (Nope…I wasn’t supposed to be out there by myself ) I thanked God for L2S4F classes that taught me how to float. I must have been out there for about 15-minutes before they found me…but I was calm and relaxed as the little lake fish tickled my not-so-nervous body. The third time, I jumped willingly into deep and storm troubled waters in a gulf of natural waters. What was I thinking? I really don’t know…the rest of my team was in the water, I wasn’t the same 10 year old little girl, at least I knew how to swim and tread water in a pool…right? L2S4F certificates DO NOT prepare you for the reality and difference between a chlorinated tub and the ocean. The brain of a fear-filled person is not the same as that of an animal whose instincts are simple: trust God in a Matthew 6:26 and Psalm 37:25 kind of way. When you almost drown, the freeze, fight and flee instincts of our human condition overtake all forms of joyful engagement. I respect water now in ways that I did not in my youth. Like Aang learned to respect fire, I have learned to trust waters’ powers to calm and to invoke fear: it is energy and life.

Figuratively, every major job I took I found myself at the edge of deep water. My first Ph.D. program (in chemistry), my first teaching job where racist parents wanted their daughter removed from the Black teacher’s class. I walked into that meeting as if it were a diving board. I didn’t understand the expected performance. I bounced with uncertainty and flopped upon entry into the water. My first supervisory job this year. The eerie similarities between the first and the last time in each case is astounding…somehow I should know better, but something about time and space between them and the learning that happens along the way makes you forget. 

What have you learned that qualifies you to facilitate learning?

(After all, learning is supposed to make finding solutions more natural and easy to do…right?) I learned that you will surely have to depend on others to save you when you jump into something because someone else did it first—that is EGO functioning all day! I jumped into danger following others as I compared myself to them. When I fell out of the boat, it was because my curiosity was driving me to explore—my mistake was going by myself. Others were close enough to “find” me and now that I think about it, the water was probably not that deep—I could have made it back to the dock paddling if I tried but instead, I was actually comforted (and proud of myself) that I stayed calm enough to hear my own breath, sensitive enough to feel the pecking of the fish beneath me, and unafraid enough to test myself.

Why these points in history: 1947, 1963 and now?

  • 1947 was championed (like 1863 and 1865 and 1884) as a critical year in the multicultural through line of American history.
  • 1963 was when MLK wrote Why We Can’t Wait. The March on Washington for jobs and freedom happened. The Atlantic captured it beautifully in their 50-year retrospective.
  • 2023 is the year that I will remember as the year I decided to remove the mask I have worn for so many years in public. Thoughts swirl of Maya Angelou who wrote “The Mask”, a variation on Paul Lawrence Dunbar’s 1895  poem. 2023 is an anchor point for all the people who wear and have worn masks in order to survive.
Maya Angelou ” The Mask” (ca., 1988) Read more about how a ‘laugh can be used as a tool of survival’


Sticky floors

Aspirations keep us reaching upward. But some of us are just stuck.

1947: Integration of major league baseball and the disruption of color lines that never went away. Two years after WWII, the world cheered as Jackie Robinson integrated the major leagues. How many people asked questions about where/how he traveled with the team? Was he safe?

1963: Myth of mobilization “The Germans, Irish, Italians, and Jews, after a period of acclimatization, moved inside political formations and exercised influence. Negroes partly by choice but substantially by exclusion, have operated outside of the political structures, functioning instead essentially as a pressure group with limited effect.” (Why We Can’t Wait, p. 184). Every time I think about ethnic enclaves like Chavez Ravine I wonder what IBPOC unity could mean if we really saw each other and resisted the myth of merit by mobilization.

2023: Truth telling beyond reckoning. The years between 2019 and 2022 will go down in history as a major period of social reckoning in the United States. Sanctioned violence against individuals and collective calls for justice crossed racial, ethnic, class and gender lines at state and interpersonal levels; somehow people have forgotten how NOT to be socially distant (or rather to be socially close without a populist false knowing or perverted intimacy created by invasive social media). The unintended consequence of all the messaging to ‘fend for yourself’ has produced a pathology on the scale of crisis and disaster.

Drowning waters

Danger is everywhere.

Princeton Plan: 50 Years Later

Drowning waters is a metaphor for the environment where we are. All of us are vulnerable to hurt and harm—the dangers of being together. Drowning waters can be contrived like a pool or natural like the ocean but they are always risk-heavy, even for the skilled. Learn from the stories these waters hold. I point out three different media examples of drowning waters.

Using time and history as my guide

1947: The Princeton Plan is an example of legislated school integration. Combining schools and resources, ethnic White and IBPOC children came together in schools with their White peers. Watch this history and hear the water

Resources about the Children’s March of 1963 (Learning for Justice teaching resource 

1963: The Children’s March  was called D-day back then. Juggling the complexity of compliance (to their parents) and resistance (to the system), youth organized with adult help and supports—from within and outside of their community—to change the course of their experience. How could they have known the evils lurking beyond the obvious horizon but they took a chance on their agency. What do the elders, alive as children back then want us to know?

  • They woke up with their mind stayed on freedom
  • They heard adults use coded language that they fully understood. Adjacent in purpose though slightly older in years, they trusted that adults cared about them and wanted to secure for them a future that they did not have.
  • Revolution in 2023 exists in the long-cast shadow of the past…know these histories. There is much to be learned.

2023: Emerging from quarant-eaching (Teaching in Quarantine film by Lydia Cornett ​​ do we really want people to “mute themselves” as they enter conversations? How do we preserve the liberties and freedoms we all experienced  when we were set at home, socially/structurally distant, from others while acknowledging the comedy and tragedy in those same arrangements? Background noises we can’t control. Gadgets and distractions that allow us to stay interested and families or caregivers that made sure we stayed motivated. In those moments, some of us thrived in solitude while others of us, turned it all off and became like adults (or like children).


Every now and then, teachers need to be talked to. James Baldwin paused in 1963 to do it at a conference. We needed that. ‘Yoli’ did it again in 2022. Centering your SELF without being a self-serving sellout is an archaeological process (Sealey-Ruiz, Y. (2022). An archaeology of self for our times: Another talk to teachers. English Journal111(5), 21-26.).

Call it my work (or maybe my journey), at the conclusion of this piece, I offer solutions for sticky floors and drowning waters

  1. Sort through the catalog of your personal interests as an exercise in soul keeping and self-care. This will allow you to walk in your own truth. 
  2. Identify your needs for full human joy without comparing yourself (or your needs) to others’. Observe others but don’t compare yourself to them.
  3. Pay attention to your VIVID dreams—the ones you remember, are designed to speak to you. The ones that are scary and the ones that inspire you are pointing you in specific directions to keep you safe, challenge you to stay disciplined or inspire you to be. There is a reason why you remember them, if only to laugh about it later.
  4. Evaluate your “reasons why” without sacrificing any part of yourself or ascribing someone else’s reasons why to your own
  5. Think more about harm reduction and elimination than the trauma that harm produces. Sustainable change requires different thinking.  Imagine eliminating harm rather than simply responding to it…
  6. Lead as a member of a collective (know who is with you): find your people, embrace community and share responsibility. The Kwanzaa principles are alive and well. We don’t only need charismatic individual leaders; we need collective agency and efficacy. Live the principles all day, every day.
  7. Step away from stuff and folx…no phone, no computer, no pressure for a few minutes every day, at least three times a day—in the morning, in the evening and somewhere in between, so you can keep your soul. Teaching yourself to retreat is different from learning how to rest. Take baby steps toward the latter by prioritizing the former. Guard your heart, your life and your work by adding distance between you and the stuff around you. This is stewardship.
Nguzo Saba (Seven Symbols/Principles) of Kwanzaa

Don’t be afraid to make a commitment to individuals and organizations whose ceilings, floors and drowning waters you feel. Using time and history as our guide, we have seen that we can make it…now believe it.

This blog post is part of the #31DaysIBPOC Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of indigenous and teachers of color as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by  Damaris Guitierrez (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog series).

If I perish, let me perish

…and so will I go in unto the king, which is not according to the law: and if I perish, I perish… (Esther 4:16)

What is it about bad situations that make them usually go from bad to worse and worse to unbearable?

One day after another senseless mass shooting, the semblance of a mob that endorses rudeness is making me feel sick.

Ready to resign,

I wonder where is the thinking that is supposed to parallel the critical in public discourse.

I feel like Esther standing before her judge and in protest. As an educator and colleague of people who are being demonized for promoting change, this school year feels like I have suffered a personal assault. 

Change makers have the awesomely terrible task of thinking different. A 5-year ad campaign for Apple, challenged us to see diversity as strength even as it corralled us into accepting a new definition and standard of meritocracy. On the surface, it convinced us of individual genius but deeply embedded in the shallow message of anti-social distance created by an MP3 player and headsets was a unique thread of interdependence and community. 

Whether we elicit the school histories of Mamie Tape in 1885 or Sylvia Mendez in 1946 or the immigrant, Black and brown children of Witherspoon-Jackson in 1947, we are all made better when we grow to value difference. Every person and group of people who comes into this community bears witness to greatness…making profound sacrifices to be a part of it in wildly hostile environments and in pursuit of equality, equity, and excellence.

These early battles for Civil Rights are now a fight to simply be civil…to see each other’s humanity and consider that beneath the tip of every iceberg is a mountain or maybe a volcano of other stories that may never be told. We are experiencing divisiveness and shamefully deceptive storytelling that ignores our history, dismisses the need for process and leaves all of us vulnerable to destruction.

How do we heal from years of harm when we remain enamored by political rhetoric, where violence is ignored and self preservation is normalized as common uplift? We teach about fallacies (ahistorical, legalistic, individualistic, fixed and tokenistic) in the classes where I have led and somehow we are in a moment where all five are colliding to form one giant fallacious iceberg. It is the worst kind and the children are watching.

How do we move forward when we allow ourselves to be stuck in an emotional and intellectual space that breeds contempt instead of community? Is this what we have become? The canopy created by tree-lined streets filled with people and organizations that welcome innovation and divergent thinking for the fruitful outcome of sanctuary and protected growth is not here anymore. I miss that and know that I am not alone.

This tree is Paul Robeson

Coming from a place where a little girl who thought she would be a dancer, or an actress, or a poet, not knowing that actors could be activists or that all art is political, became a teacher. Staged in a gallery like a choreopoem and an experiment in four parts in tribute to the legacy of Black art and aesthetics that move and shape–though molded by pain crafts joy like a river or a dance and a song, these thoughts are about a tree, planted in dirt that tells his/story. Classified and constructed, analyzed and named, this talk is about a tree.

Close your eyes and imagine the tallest tree in our forest

Our tree

This tree

This tree whose feet are planted firmly in dark rich soil like roots that find water deep below the surface

This tree whose body is like an aged and weathered trunk that has passed the test of time

This tree whose shoulders, broad and dense, carry arms like branches that move with the wind

This tree whose hands extend in service with cupped fingers to concentrate sound in spite of all the noise

This tree whose fruit is borne high, almost unreachable unless you are willing to ascend to experience the gift of its sweetness…

Can you see it?

This tree

That stands as the tallest tree in the forest…

Our forest

Of Black 

And Brown

And Red

And White

And Blue

Blue Black blues

Black and Blue blues

Bruised and blistered

Weathered and tried

Like Miles Davis, and Coltrane 

Sultry like Lena and 

Light like Hazel

Deep like voice

This tree is 

Paul Robeson.


Monique Matters: Two books in conversation

I am reading two books—gifts—slowly

Sipping them like a 

Strong drink or a hot beverage

That has the power to wound or to heal…

I am reading two books—challenges—slowly

With sorrow for the here and now

Of this moment

With sadness and loss close and distant…



Exposes the truths and hurts of being vulnerable

Reminding me

You are your best thing.

In conversation with each other I understand this message of grief that is good…

The list, perhaps a checklist of reminders, keep me…

  1. We are not alone in our grief; those in authority and those in association with us are also grieving
  2. Grief is a choice and a key to a growth mindset
  3. Grief is a healthy response to loss and disappointment; denying loss causes many to get stuck (or sick and tired)
  4. Grief helps us make transitions in life
  5. Grief is healed in community
  6. Grief takes time
  7. Grief is a key to spiritual growth

Balanced with reminders about all the things, I wish I could have done

Arms thought weak are always strong enough to hold

Dear ones close and distant…

Regret, an emotional response to the revelation that I just got in my own way

Regret is neither good nor bad

Regret is a thinking pattern of revisiting things that cannot be revised

And yet it is…

I dedicate these morning thoughts to Monique Corbin in the spirit of #SayHerName.

Though here for only a season

Like seeds blown prematurely

Her impact is significant.

She loved students

Guided them lovingly

As she lifted her chin and tilted her wrapped head to wonder…

What do you need?

How can I help you?

Forsaking some rules to protect the most vulnerable…

She cared.

I am reading two books:

Viral Justice and You are Your Best Thing.

Their subtexts are as important as the title banners under which they fall…

How [do] we grow the world we want and

[How can we use] Vulnerability, shame resilience and the Black experience

As a source for our health, wealth, healing, recovery and repair…

In conversation with each other, the answer rests therein…herein…in these books, on these pages…in concert and as a collection. In solidarity and digested with intention.

This thought, these lines from BB:

“When you say, ‘I don’t trust any antiracism work that doesn’t embrace and see our humanity,’ I can feel the call for love. I get it so fully right now. It’s like you’re telling us that if you don’t see the heart and the love and the humanity and the joy of the Black experience–of Black humanity–then the antiracism work is bankrupt.” (p. xx) and the response of TB:

“I don’t want to talk about how this thing really bothers me–but I need to and I can only do that with some semblance of safety. I want this book to be a soft place to land. ‘Give our humanity breathing room.'” (p. xxi).

Burke, T., & Brown, B. (Eds.). (2021). You Are Your Best Thing: Vulnerability, Shame Resilience, and the Black Experience. Random House.

The reminders that our ‘bodies tell stories that our mouths will never speak. A paraphrase of a subtitle on the chapter titled WEATHER…I feel this. (Benjamin, R. (2022). Viral Justice: How We Grow the World We Want. Princeton University Press).

The key to our health and wellness is our stories and our truths…

Purging ourselves of these pains and these hurts…

In solidarity, collection and cooperation with our selves…

We are human and want to do more than survive.

We deserve this.

Rest in peace Monique.

Reflections of Imperfect Communication

I have been thinking a lot about what I say, and how I say it, why I think it important to say anything…

Somehow, what we have learned during the last few years in isolation has not meant silence…the speeches we have heard have been loud and public in our mind, on our televisions, in our ears…the noise is deafening.

So I thought today about Rhetoric…Aristotelian varieties where ethos, logos and pathos converge…maybe answers exist there to understand this whole thing.

Ethos is the thing that gives the speaker credibility to an audience and is based on character, good will and intelligence (emotional, spiritual, multiple)

Logos has always meant “the Word” and applies to the language that establishes what is true and “good” as in logic–readable and discernible–as proof of truths

Pathos like in pathology is about the hearer…the audience…filtered through another’s life and experience

There is no way I could know what that has been…what their nature has been…what baggage they carry or how my choices of words and actions could trigger the storm that would unsettle their life…especially if I, the speaker, fall short…except my motives be pure.

Keep growing…

Brokenness: An artifact

Like this dollar left on the table

We are broken

Crumpled and torn

Battered and bitter

The singleness of a single

Standing alone

Needing and wanting but resolute in its significance

Up close you imagine the history

That from afar leaves little clue

Of the trauma and the pain

That tape and bandaids will never heal.

Stranger Danger

Being called a N*igg#!

In a strange [and strangely familiar] place

While walking on the street

Or playing on a court

Will never be okay

And is nearly impossible to forget.

While I appreciate the academics of an intervention and a strategy,

Racial trauma IS racial stress–labor, abuse, predation–and changes your life forever.

I was 21 walking on a street in Colorado by myself as a college student in a new place, by myself…on assignment to write stories about science and enjoy the freedoms my school-imbued pedigree released to me.

I was so scared in that moment, in the first week, on the second day that I could do nothing but be afraid of being by myself…on assignment…

Being my self…on assignment.

I did not have the terms or language, nor did I think or imagine ideas that were coded as:

Just fear and anxiety.

Was it my Blackness, my womanness, the boldness of my youth or some combination of all the things outside of my control, encoded in the social DNA and historical fabric of that moment only days after the uprisings that defined the 90s? Would they come for me? Who were they anyway? I could not see them, I only heard them…I do not know them. They are strangers and this is strange. How did I get here? Why am I here?

It was so terrifyingly ironic…the combined sounds of anthems from NWA and Sir Mix-a-lot swirling in the air accosted by unfamiliar voices with very familiar tones.

So many questions. No answers.

Fast forward thirty years, another girl on assignment, to play a game bearing letters and numbers of a team surrounded by people suffered the same experience…

Stranger danger

Strange fruit

Legacy lingering

Father’s & Freedom Day

On a recent trip to Harlem and to the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, an exhibit called Been Seen stirred up so many emotions in me. The gallery was filled with images of us, in the past and in this moment, projecting into our future about Black Futures made stronger by our past. This picture by Ricky Day is a visual poem, a love song, from a father to a child. It reminded me of this precious relationship…a parent-child tie crafted by God.

Chase and Kendahl by Ricky Day

Fathers: grand and simple…complicated, complex, common and conceptual. They lift us–at least mine did. Not perfectly, not always steady or for a long time but for whatever moments, gazing into their eyes in joy, fear and love, fathers matter. My life was changed by this scene when I was a child lying on the floor at my grandfather’s house…watching. Watching her be born, he made a commitment, he sacrificed his freedom to secure the feeling of her (and her mother’s safety). Can you imagine that?! I can.

Kunta Kente lifting Kizzy (Stay put): Behold the only thing greater than yourself

On mother’s day, I enjoy the freedom of deciding what I do (and with whom I do it)…the choice by itself is so wonderful even if slightly scripted by the cards and text messages all day…

Nevertheless, my reason for celebrating has always prioritized making me feel loved in grand and simple ways. Prompted by adult others early on, he now happily obliges all the traditions to my gleeful and humble delight.

When I was young and naive, I used to want a man like my father who would sing to me, teach me like MusiqSoulChild and then I realized those too deny freedom. They are boxes made by fairy tales.

On father’s day, I lament the loss of my own fathers–grand, simple and complicated. They loved music and parks and playing games with us and watching us eat (treats, sweet and melty) and grow up. They enjoyed taking us on vacation and taught us how to rest.

On father’s day, I slow and steady my heart to clap for the men in my life who are fathers and father figures to me, the children we serve as teachers and loved ones in our lives. I wish you freedom of choices to spend the day enjoying with glee and delight all things big and small that keep you humble and working to be…



On the last day: I A.I.M.

What do teachers do on the last day of school?


What is?

What did?

Who is?

Who did?

Why this? Why that?

What does this mean?

In my typical fashion, I summarize my thoughts–my why–in this way:

I aim to do better and co-operate with others as they strive to do the same.

I hope to create space for us to aim and reach our goals. But what does it mean to aim in a year when direction has felt denied…like when a global positioning signal is dropped?

I am thinking

A + I = M

Achievement plus integrity equals merit

(A-I) = M

Achievement without integrity (or artificial intelligence) is meaningless

Void of human vive, it, like a machine programmed by someone seeking truths outside of real things, suffers realities that are not real…

How do we make it better next time, this time next year?

Aim higher than achievement…

Reach for actualization instead…

Okay…for now..celebrate freedom and seek rest.

Start again when you can.

Secret Cup of Gladness

Ossie Davis, 1917 – 2005

I have loved Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis forever…

Their voices, speaking and thinking

Their presence, on stage and in life

Have always been a guide for my agency.

What does it mean to hold a secret cup of gladness?

What does it mean to drink from a secret cup of gladness?

What does it mean to imagine those words…that idea?

What a gift.

Interview on Paul Robeson