JONATHAN BARNES — Alongside the basics of math, reading, science, and writing, the lesson that my elementary school teachers taught above all was that anyone had the power to “make a change.” To a six-year-old child, such a message meant the world.
My perception of what constituted a “hero” had then been shaped by what I had been taught. Stories of White American idols came to mind–the Alongside the basics of math, reading, science, and writing, the lesson that legendary ride of Paul Revere, the honorable service of Clara Barton, the abolitionist defiance of Abraham Lincoln — with the occasional mention of a black figure too significant to snub, such as MLK or Harriett Tubman. Nevertheless, a mention was a mention, a pit stop, something to be rushed through for the sake of getting back on track. Thus, my perception of heroism was warped. Whether intentional or not, the picture of the world that had been painted for me had little space for Black people. Yet, I was told that “anyone can change the world.”
Despite all, I had a curious mind. As Atticus Finch remarked in To Kill a Mockingbird, “[c]hildren are children, but they can spot an evasion quicker than adults.” For the next six years, I sought to independently understand my place in history and answer the questions that the Texas school system had failed to answer for me. As I grew, so did my desire to know more about my identity and the Black experience. Come middle school, the curricula that I learned from were virtually no different from those that I had already seen in that they were marked by Black history pit stops, which were never evenly integrated into the story of America that was taught.
The COVID-19 pandemic stopped the world when I was in 8th grade. That same year, Breonna Taylor and George Floyd were murdered, and I watched as the subsequent tidal wave of public outcry spread across America. For once, I felt genuine fear of my condition — living in a country where I could be killed for nothing but living while Black, exhibiting the same rights as protected by my constitution. At the young age of fourteen I realized that a simple encounter could be the end of my life.
I had always been aware of the uncomfortable reality that my Blackness would denote me as being “lesser” to some. The discussions of police brutality and institutional racism that the killing of George Floyd had prompted forced me to confront that uncomfortable reality further. Thus, my personal project of self-education was catalyzed. The country “made for you and me” was not made for me, and I wanted to know why.
I learned about my people and their contributions in the time that I had to myself. With relent, I scoured the internet for interviews, documentaries, TED Talks, debates, speeches, and music about the historical and ongoing African-American struggle. As the only Black male in my class, it brought me comfort to be able to relate to the stories that I watched, read, and listened to–ranging from discussions of hair to those of hate and those of hope.
In retrospect, I find it both curious and concerning that slavery was never addressed head-on in school until my 10th-grade world history class or that the Texas history that I learned in 7th grade omitted mention of the state’s membership in the Confederacy. The bulk of my knowledge about the contributions of African-Americans — let alone people of color — to American history came from my own informal research. Many others do not share that knowledge, and that is the cause of my worry.
The youth are the future, but what happens now is responsible for what their future looks like. I am now 17 and it has been three years since George Floyd’s passing. The Supreme Court has struck down affirmative action and, a year before, retracted protections on female bodily autonomy; there have been over 200 mass shootings in the U.S. this year, and climate change is irreversible in six years. However discomfiting, this is the future that Generation Z and Gen Alpha face.
In Texas, that future appears no brighter. This year, Texas House Bill 3979 turns two. Under the guise of an offense against the infamous Critical Race Theory, the bill declares that teachers “may not be compelled to discuss a particular current event or widely debated and currently controversial issue of public policy or social affairs.” In essence, the education system, purposed with molding Texas and America’s future workers, creators, and leaders, is forced to paint a picture of history far more diluted than that which I was taught.
The United States has massively changed over the past 247 years, but however compelling the story of its growth from a mere British possession to a global superpower may be, it would be irreverent to ignore the exploitation and abuses that are irrefutably also a part of that story. The value of history is that those with a strong understanding of the past can contribute to creating a better future. Recognizing that the past is not unblemished is a prerequisite to having such a strong understanding.
Simply, the risk of repeating historical missteps is amplified when those in positions of power have a poor grasp of those past failures. When thinking of the future that lies ahead for my generation and those to come, I cannot help but think back to my own experience — spoonfed stories of “American history” that I did not know my place in.
“Controversial” discussions of slavery and the Civil Rights Movement are essential because they demonstrate the resilience of the African-American community, just as lessons about the Revolutionary War convey the fortitude of the young United States. Words have an incontestable power, but when children are encouraged that they can “change the world” but learn a history that suggests otherwise, the meaning is significantly diminished.
Every child deserves to know where they came from and what part their community played in shaping their country. No child is undeserving of a hero.
