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PHOTO BY STEFAN LEGACY
I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I’VE BEEN CALLED to the office to attend this morning meeting. My last interaction with these parents was months ago, when we exchanged emails about their child’s grades. This will be the first time we’ve ever met face to face.
The school is quiet as I enter. Absent of students, the furnace is all I hear running through the halls. I want to arrive early so I can welcome the family.
Through the office door I see the parents already waiting. The mother spots me and looks at her watch. As I approach she leans into her husband’s ear and whispers. He turns his head sharply to look at me.
I hesitate before politely wishing them “good morning.” I’m trying to correct whatever offence it seems I’ve caused. The father mumbles a half-hearted hello. His wife looks down at the designer handbag in her lap. She draws it closer to her body as I pass by.
I look the other way and draw a deep calming breath. The smell of the morning coffee is mixing with the tension that’s brewing.
We all move to a room with a long narrow table. My chair is directly across from the couple. Avoiding their gaze, I notice the striking resemblance they share with their child. Each of them is tall with a fair complexion and blond hair. His tailored sport coat and collared white shirt highlight his grey sideburns. Her manicured nails match the blouse she has styled with a dark coloured suit. Each of them wears a stoic look.
The silence amplifies while we wait for the administrator to arrive. They cover their mouths as they whisper to each other. Shifting in my chair, I try to settle my discomfort by looking down at the screensaver on my phone. It reads: “Don’t take anything personally.” I wring my hands.
The administrator enters and kindly welcomes everyone. The door closes slowly. The latch echoes as it seals the room. The corner of the mother’s mouth curls in a smile. The father gestures at the administrator with a nod. I am the only person of colour in the room. The parents reach out and offer a handshake, but only to the administrator.
The father wrinkles his brows and flicks his chin toward me saying, “We asked for an executive meeting.”
He questions why I am seated at the table. The administrator calmly replies that I’m there to speak to their concerns. The mother crosses her hands while emphasizing that it would be better to dismiss me now and deal with me later.
The administrator refuses to have me leave. The father retaliates by stating that I’m not suited to teach his child. He asserts that our “values” don’t match and that his family is not “comfortable” with me.
“Being a Black female teacher in Alberta has led to many racially abusive experiences that have made me want to stop teaching.”
The administrator disagrees, unfazed by his escalation.
The father’s frown grows fierce. His wife covers her mouth and makes incendiary remarks. He rises from his seat as his voice rises. The temperature in the room rises. His ranting is incoherent to me. I’m focused on the finger he points at me as he stabs at the air between us. The father squares his shoulders and leans in towards me.
“I do not want that Black woman teaching my child,” he snaps.
I freeze. I can’t draw the air to breathe. My eyes focus on the door. The unsettling reality is that he is blocking me from it.
Afraid to move, I become submissive. I’m intimidated by his chilling stare. I’m shivering, realizing that my racialized body is on display like a trophy kill.
I’m aware of the stillness in the room. I hear my pulse rapidly beating in my ears. My fingers are digging into the sides of my legs determined to hold me down. Tears of rage fill my eyes but I push them back. I numb my emotions. I quiet my anger enough to choose how to fight. I sit silently as the meeting continues.
The parents exaggerate their opinions of my inferiority as a teacher. I am forced to rely on my inner strength to minimize the impact. In my estimation, defending myself in this setting would put my professional reputation at risk. It is the stereotype designated to Black female teachers — that we are angry, aggressive and impatient.
I am seething with self-criticism for refusing to defend myself. I choose to forfeit my self-worth because preservation of my reputation now becomes my ultimate priority. My confidence is sabotaged as I downplay and question my own actions. I genuinely mistrust my judgment as a human being. I believe that I have no choice but to straddle a line of compliance and remain in this meeting or fall prey to their prejudiced beliefs of all Black people.
The bell disrupts the meeting. The parents push their chairs back and abruptly leave. I find myself staring past the door they flung open. It dawns on me that I’ll have to teach their child as soon as I return to class.
The administrator offers a tissue while delicately asking if I’m “OK.” My emotions are raw and visceral. I have no choice but to say that I’m OK. I’m too fragile for consoling words or sympathy. I look down at my phone and mouth the words: “Don’t take anything personally.” I draw a deep breath before deleting the message.
Being a Black female teacher in Alberta has led to many racially abusive experiences that have made me want to stop teaching. Racism, especially at school, feels like an assault that leaves me humiliated and afraid.
Over my 20-year career, I’ve felt isolated and frustrated because racist behaviour directed at me has been ongoing. When I’ve reported racial aggression, I was often doubted; speaking up was not enough proof that racism was occurring. Instead, my experiences were seen as exaggerations or defensiveness and even a complaint on the basis of being the only Black woman on staff.
I feared the death of my career if I took any further action. I live in a constant state of anxiety and racial fatigue as a Black teacher. I am exhausted by downplaying the racism that exists in schools, especially when I’m the target of racially motivated hatred and hostility by students, parents and colleagues.