Barry Farms, Anacostia, DC

I saw Ryan. Five now. She had that stank look on her face that she always had, squinting her eyes. And, Loyle, pouting for some reason. These were my girls. A couple grade-levels above the other children and capable of entertaining thoughts beyond the scope of, "if I can touch it, it's noun! I think to myself can I touch "running"? Nooo, Silly Billy! I can't touch running, it's a verb!"

"What is the first thing you think to yourself?" Some girls were miming, "Can I touch it?"

And she responded, "I think to myself, 'Is is it a noun or a verb.'" I smile and nod, "My little homie."

And Jamiana looked at me and said, "I remember you. You are my old teacher." And she gave me a hug. I was her first teacher. That is something I will always be. The new class of teachers who did not know me, saw a few of the girls laughing and smiling to hug me. If there is swag to be had wearing a ponytail and sweater, well, I was dripping swagu. Yes, I said it- drippin', drippin' swagu.

There are always a few people who have memories that date back as far as 2 and half years old. Jamiana's memory was rather insane. She pulled out her lunchbox that had a full bag of chips, a lunchable, and some red drink. I looked at her as her fingers doddled over the oreos. She smiled and went for the cheese instead. She would be crying in another two hours because she wanted me to write the word "music" for her and my response was, "sound it out, do your best." She looked at me, like, "you [insert choice word] . . . you can read all these books and you tell me to, 'sound it out'. She wrote, "mixooic." Nice. And big ups to her Pre-K   and K teacher. The girl's got mad phonics.

Jazzlyn was too, mad smart. She had remembered I'd moved to another country and asked if I live in Chinese. Considering I had read Lon Po Po to them, I am so amazed by her mind.

The moment to moment in a classroom is always a test of patience. Looking out over DC and seeing the monuments, riding the metro with people dressed in fitted suits, carrying briefcases wearing oxford pumps and referring to myself in the third-person time and time again, let me speak truth, is trying. I have certain real fears. The fear of not ever being compensated justly and always working beneath my capacity, fear of wasting time,talent, and purpose, fear of being mundane. I never had the luxury of the fear of being different, it was just always, a fact of life.

But there is no feeling like seeing my girls learn. Seeing little girls that look like me, being brilliant.  I hope oneday they will all know how much I love them and how proud I am. I hope they don't listen to all the forces that in some way front negativity. Forces that tell them however explicit or subtly that there is something wrong with being Black, being a girl, and being different.

I chose to spend my formidable years with my grandfather on his farm instead of in preschool. He watched me write and said that I was so smart. He read to me and fell asleep at the kitchen table while I read to him. He listened as I retold stories of Big Horse of Jake, of Tee-lik and Dee-lik (my imaginary friends that lived in New Jersey, and about whatever things I wanted to talk about. He bought me notebooks because I wrote a lot and taught me to share, he ate an oatmeal cookie a day. Well, half of one, the other half he gave to me. He was my teacher and friend. That I use my mind, this was his expectation. In the South, there are forces strong forces saying in every way, that women, esp. nappy haired, dark-skinned Black women are capable of very little.

But those forces were no match for my grandfather, and I pray these forces in SE, DC or where ever my girls may go, pale in comparison to the light I seek to impart.

via this preschool dropout, via a calling