It’s the weekend before students arrive for the new school year. As I listen to Lofi’s beats in my classroom, I think about what has happened so far and what will happen next. All around my room are reminders of my identity as a 6-foot-2, 280-pound black Puerto Rican husband, father, math teacher, and basketball coach. I came here seeking solace. Yes, these are part of my identity and I cherish them dearly. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that very few people see beyond them, including the people I call colleagues and peers in this education system.
At times like this, I often return to my favorite books.invisible man” by Ralph Ellison. This novel’s exploration of invisibility, identity, and the struggle for recognition resonates deeply with my experiences in education. Like Ellison’s protagonist, I feel like others only see me as a definition of who I should be. When students arrive, I feel that they are expected to perform certain duties that are beyond the job description simply because of my identity. My leadership abilities are rarely recognized. His struggles as a husband and father are ignored. My existence as a person feels like an afterthought. These are the challenges I faced. I want to feel recognized for the many contributions I make in the classroom, school, and community. This work is not easy, but at the same time it is exhausting to feel invisible.
Ellison’s “The Invisible Man” resonates deeply with my experience and the experiences of many teachers of color in education. The novel’s themes of invisibility and identity crisis reflect the struggles I have faced within a system that often fails to properly recognize my presence and contributions. By sharing my story of invisibility with people who understand my struggle, I can help my fellow educators of color feel seen, heard, and valued. I hope that they will be able to feel and, more importantly, feel included in the classroom.
Who am I in education?
My teaching career began in the fall of 2017, just after completing my first summer semester in my graduate program. Shortly thereafter, I began my first summer of 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 follow a strict uniform policy that included shoes, belts, and school colors. And the middle school kids were walking in a straight line down the quiet hallway. I don’t remember my middle school being like this, but the fact that it had mostly students of color gave me pause.
After my first three months as a resident, my master teacher went on maternity leave and never returned. Our principal also retired a few months into the year, which prompted a takeover by central office leadership. They were all unfamiliar white faces in a school full of black and Latino kids. I found myself teaching a 7th grade math class with little support, on a meager salary and with little teaching experience.
Needless to say, I was unprepared for the invisible stress. It quickly became apparent that teachers had to wear many different hats, wear many different hats, and perform too many additional duties. I was removed from class on a near-regular basis to address students in the building who I could not reach. That’s when I got the nickname Child Whisper. Instead of a badge of honor, it felt like something else invisible tax It’s related to being a Black teacher. I felt like my worth depended on my ability to maintain order. From fist fights to classroom fights, I have felt limited and preconceived in my role as an enforcer of system norms, what I despise about a discipline-first school system. I was trapped. It was as if I were both a doll and Geppetto at the same time. I felt like I was lying to my students when I was making them believe things were supposed to be this way. I questioned my place within the school and wondered what role I actually played in the lives of my students.
I continued my journey with the hope of further unleashing the brilliance of children. Yet, the beginning of my teaching career showed me that sometimes it takes more than hope to succeed in this profession as a person of color and an educational leader.
A journey that drives change
Over the past five years of my career, the pandemic has put a spotlight on the needs of schools, teachers, and students. Conversations about what and how children should learn became divisive and critical race theory, and DEI became the debate of the day. . Motivation to change this conversation and influence national policy At local level, I ran For the 2021 Board of Education. This is about making a real difference for kids while also trying to create their own identity in education, rather than just focusing on how to force school policies on kids who look like me. It seemed like a great opportunity to do that.
Before deciding to run, I spoke with several of my aides and the amount of support I received right away was solid. But I quickly learned that politics is not for the faint of heart. My values and stories about who I was were being established by others. I was being accused of becoming Puerto Rican for the sake of campaigning, with complete disregard for my background and family ties. I felt angry when my wife was cut out of an ad outside of my campaign. The lies about my loyalties and intentions were exhausting. It didn’t take long for me to feel like I was just a name and a face. And everyone made up the idea that I was behind it.
This campaign has been draining for my family and tested the values I choose to uphold and practice. Still, I was hopeful that being the only teacher on the ballot and contributing to the community through service would propel me to victory no matter what. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough and they ended up losing the race by a narrow margin.
It was a crushing defeat in many ways, and I felt like a failure. When I see others, especially white men, having the same opportunities despite being less accomplished than me, it not only makes me question my own abilities, but it also makes me question the role the system expects me to play. I started to feel it even more strongly. At that moment, everything made sense. People see me the way I want to see them. They like to keep me in a box. Therefore, I decided to stay in the box I was most comfortable in: the classroom.
make peace with reality
Here in the classroom, I’m thinking about how to fight systems that uphold injustice, systems that fight against the brilliance of diversity. This system does not allow everyone to have a seat at the table.
Almost 10 years into my education, I still wonder if I really existed. Does anyone see beyond my appearance? Does my title (husband, father, teacher, coach, etc.) matter? Did I influence someone or something? Am I invisible? I’ve probably learned to be okay with that feeling of invisibility over the years.
Like the main character in The Invisible Man, I may have been searching for myself and asking everyone but myself questions that only I could answer. It took me a long time and a hard time adjusting my expectations to realize that I was nothing but myself.
I don’t need your eyes to see me, and I don’t need your approval to keep fighting for what I believe. I am not what you think I am, I am everything and move as I see fit.
