I didn’t learn how to read until I was in second grade. Growing up in a large Black family in Birmingham, Alabama, in the early 90s, I learned to survive by blending in. I was one of a bunch (a Southern measurement term) of grandchildren and didn’t, at first glance, offer any unique qualities to the world or family. I wasn’t overly athletic and was, to use a term that I hate, sickly. I had severe asthma that would leave me hospital-bound for weeks at a time. I wasn’t athletic and would often be teased mercilessly by my cousins and called names like soft, punk, and other derogatory slurs.
To anyone who stopped and paid attention, I didn’t seem to fit in my family, and that’s probably how I made it all the way to second grade without the ability to read. By the time I stepped into Ms. Anderson’s class, I had already garnered quite a reputation. While I was smart and had a stellar memory, I covered up my inability to read with the games and gimmicks children play when they mask their insecurities. I hid behind jokes and outlandish behavior to distract attention from my lack of reading skills.
This was until I was seen by a teacher who knew what to look for. She noticed how I was a well-behaved student until it came time to read out loud in class, and then I would become the biggest distraction. And then one day, she called me out on it.
“Danny, you can’t read, but it’s okay! I’m going to teach you,” my teacher told me. And she did. She gave me one of the greatest gifts you can give a Black boy growing up in the American South; she taught me to read.
I’ve written an article about the challenges regarding education and race in America. A friend who read the article shared how she wished I would have infused more of my story into the piece. Her feedback caused me to reflect on why I used experiential stories and not personal experiences, and I don’t know if I was ready for the answer. What I came away with was I wasn’t sure that I could trust an unknown audience with my story. I’ve found speaking about history and facts easier than sharing lived experiences and personal truth.
Why?
I’m a Black man writing for an unfamiliar audience, and I never want my story to be performative. But my friend challenged me to write authentically in every space.
As believers, this self-editing is one reason that keeps us from experiencing unity. We share history and facts but not life. We are called to share life in fellowship and community. That means that we have to become truer tellers of our stories and better stewards of the stories of others. It’s the only way to survive the political and ideological forces seeking to rip us apart. To share our stories and listen to the stories of others. To be moved with compassion and, “above all, put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity” (Colossians 3:14).
Back to my story.
Ms. Anderson taught at God’s Church Christian Academy, a private Christian school in Bessemer, Alabama. She saw me as a person created in the image of God, and she loved me enough to invest in my life. She stayed late with me at school, invited my sister and me over to her house for additional lessons, and took us to church. She instilled such joy in me for learning that I became a second teacher in her classroom when I entered third grade.
That’s why it crushed me when we moved from our Black community of East Thomas to Hoover, a suburb of Birmingham. My mother hoped to provide better opportunities and a safer environment.
This move and my experience in a new school deeply shaped me. I remember my sixth-grade year, and a story still stands out in my mind.
I was sitting in class when the overhead speaker came on, and I heard, “Teachers, pardon the interruption, but can I have Danny Brister and Johnny Wilson come to the office?” I was surprised when I heard my name, but I thought we didn’t have much to worry about since it was Johnny and I. What I thought was a celebratory meeting quickly turned into an all-out interrogation. My science teacher had convinced our principal that Johnny and I had cheated on our latest test. Though she never produced any evidence, I don’t think anything could have convinced her otherwise.
The principal wanted to know why we had cheated and would not allow us to leave her office until we confessed. We both looked at each other, wondering what they were talking about, and they just kept saying, “We know you cheated; just tell us how.” It was a disorienting experience, and all I could do was cry. I wish I could tell you I stood strong and defended myself, but I didn’t. I was angry and embarrassed. All I could do was weep. Which was interpreted as an admission of guilt, not the response of an innocent and fragile child in a strange environment.
Too many students endure similar experiences. Instead of being seen, loved, and equipped, they are accused, labeled, and discarded.
So, what do we do? We need more Ms. Andersons. We need people inside schools, communities, and churches to see the needs of those they serve, listen to their stories, and find ways to love them the way I was loved – wholly. The challenges young people face in their communities, families, and schools can seem insurmountable, but we are called to lean into the broken lives and systems so that every person bearing God’s image can thrive.
Ways To Pray:
- Pray for more laborers to go out into the harvest fields of our communities and schools.
- Pray for students and families who feel hopeless and dreamless because they are unseen, unheard, and forgotten.
- Pray for opportunities to enter into friendship with those who are different from you and slowly but deliberately begin sharing your story and inviting them to share theirs.
