How I became invisible as a teacher of color in the classroom
8 mins read

How I became invisible as a teacher of color in the classroom

Kaneb0

It’s the weekend before my students start the new school year. I am in my classroom listening to Lofi beats, thinking about 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, these are part of my identity, which I hold dear to my heart – but as I’ve grown older, I’ve learned that few people ever see beyond them, including those I call colleagues and peers in this education system.

In these moments, I often return to my favorite book, “Invisible man” by Ralph Ellison. The novel’s exploration of invisibility, identity and the struggle for recognition resonates deeply with my experiences in education. Much like Ellison’s protagonist, I feel like I’ve only been seen as other people’s definition of who I should be. When my students arrive, I feel that I am expected to perform certain tasks outside of my job description simply because of my identity. My ability as a leader is hardly recognized. The struggle to be a man and a father is ignored. My existence as a person feels like an afterthought. These are the challenges I have faced. I want to feel seen for the many contributions I make in the 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 in education. The novel’s themes of invisibility and identity crisis reflect the struggles I have faced in a system that often fails to properly acknowledge my presence and contribution. I hope that making my story of invisibility visible to those who might understand my struggle will help other educators of color feel seen, heard, valued, and, more importantly, retained in the classroom.

Who am I in education?

My career in teaching began in the fall of 2017, right after I finished the first summer semester of my graduate program. Soon after, I began my first summer professional development at a school in the neighborhood I grew up in. One of the first things I noticed was that all students had to follow a strict uniform policy, including shoes, belts, and school colors, and middle school kids wore straight lines through quiet corridors. I don’t remember middle school ever being like this, and the fact that it was mostly students of color gave me pause.

After my first three months as a resident teacher, the teacher I was shadowing went on maternity leave and never came back. Our principal also left a couple of months into the year, prompting a takeover of central office management – all of whom were unfamiliar white faces in a school full of black and Latino kids. Before I knew it, I was teaching a seventh grade math class with little support on a small salary and hardly any teaching experience.

Needless to say, I was not prepared for the unrealized stress. I quickly learned that teachers had to play many different roles, wear many hats, and perform far too many additional tasks. I would be pulled from teaching almost routinely to appeal to students that the leadership in the building could not reach; that’s when I got the nickname child whisperer. Instead of a badge of honor, it felt like another invisible treasure associated with being a black teacher. It felt like my worth depended on my ability to maintain order. From fistfights to classroom fights, I felt confined and boxed in by preconceived notions about my role as enforcer of system norms, the very things I despise about school systems with discipline in the first place. It was like I was a doll and Geppetto at the same time. I felt that I was perpetuating a lie, that my students believed that this is how things should be. I questioned my place in the school and wondered what role I really played in the students’ lives.

I continued, hoping to still unlock our children’s brilliance. Yet the beginning of my teaching career indicated that sometimes you need more than hope to make it in this profession as a person of color and educational leader.

The journey to inspire change

In the past five years of my career, the pandemic brought into focus the needs of our schools, teachers, and students as conversations around what and how our children deserve to learn became divisive and critical race theory, and DEI became the debate of the moment. Motivated to change this conversation and make an impact policy of the state and local level I ran to the school board in 2021. It seemed like a great opportunity to try to create real change for our kids while 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 I decided to run, I spoke to a few close advisors and the amount of immediate support validated; but I quickly learned that politics is not for the faint of heart. Stories about my values ​​and who I was were established by everyone else. I was accused of becoming Puerto Rican for the sake of the campaign, completely ignoring my upbringing and family ties. The feeling I had when my wife was cut from an ad outside of my campaign was upsetting. The lies about my loyalty and intentions were deflated. It didn’t take very long for me to feel like I was just a name and face – and everyone made up their own idea of ​​who I was behind that.

The campaign was draining on my family and tested the values ​​I chose to uphold and pursue. Still, I hoped being the only teacher on the ballot and having a commitment to my community through service would propel me to victory, regardless. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough, and I would lose the race by a very small margin.

A crushing defeat in many ways that made me feel like a failure. Seeing others—especially white men—get the same opportunity after achieving less than me made me not only question my ability, but also reinforced the role the system wants me to play. In that moment, everything made sense. People see me how they want to see me. They prefer to have me in a box. So I choose to stay in the box I’m most comfortable in — my classroom.

Make peace with reality

It is here in my classroom that I think about how to fight against a system that perpetuates injustice, a system that fights against the brilliance of diversity. This system does not allow everyone a seat at the table.

Almost a decade in education, and I still wonder if I really existed. Does anyone see past my physical appearance? Do my titles of husband, father, teacher or coach even matter? Have I left an impact on someone or something? Am I invisible? Maybe I just, and over the years I’ve become okay with that feeling of invisibility.

Like the protagonist of 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. I am everything and nothing of what you think I am, and I will move as I please.

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