TechGuruindia
Member
It is the weekend before my students arrive for the new school year. I am in my classroom listening to Lofi beats, pondering what has been and what is to come. All 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 solace here; yes, these are part of my identity, which I hold dear to my heart — but as I have grown older, I have learned that few people ever see beyond them, including those who I call colleagues and peers in this education system.
In these moments, I frequently return to my favorite book, “ ” 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 I have only been viewed as other people's definition of who I am supposed to be. When my students arrive, I feel I am expected to perform certain duties outside my job description simply because of my identity. My ability as a leader is hardly recognized. The struggles of being a husband and father are ignored. My existence as a person feels like an afterthought. These are the challenges I’ve faced. I want to feel seen for the many contributions I make in my 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 face in education. The novel’s themes of invisibility and identity crisis mirror the struggles I have faced in a system that frequently fails to properly acknowledge my presence and contributions. I hope that making my story of invisibility visible to those who may understand my struggle will help fellow educators of color feel seen, heard, valued, and, more importantly, retained in the classroom.
My career in teaching began in the fall of 2017, right after I completed 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 the students had to abide by a strict uniform policy, including shoes, belts and school colors, and middle school-aged children were walking in straight lines through silent hallways. 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 teaching resident, the master teacher I shadowed went on maternity leave and never returned. Our principal also left a couple of months into the year, which prompted a takeover by central office leadership — all of whom were unfamiliar white faces in a school full of Black and Latino children. Before I knew it, I was teaching a seventh grade math class with little support on a tiny salary and barely any teaching experience.
Needless to say, I was not prepared for the unrealized stress. I quickly learned that teachers needed to play many different roles, wear numerous hats and complete far too many additional duties. I would be pulled from teaching almost routinely to address students with whom leadership in the building could not reach; that is when I earned the nickname child whisperer. Instead of a badge of honor, it felt like another associated with being a Black teacher. It felt like my value was dependent on my ability to maintain order. From fist fights to classroom struggles, I felt limited and held within a box of preconceived notions about my role as the enforcer of system norms, the very things I despise about discipline-first school systems. It was as though I was a puppet and Geppetto at the same time. I felt like I was upholding a lie, having my students believe this is how things should be. I questioned my place inside the school, wondering what role I was really playing in students' lives.
I pressed on, hoping to still unlock our children's brilliance. Still, 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 education leader.
In the last five years of my career, the pandemic put a spotlight on 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 debates of the time. Motivated to change this conversation and influence and local levels, I ran It seemed like a great opportunity to try and create true change for our children while also creating an identity for myself in education that didn’t just center on how I enforce school policy for children who look like me.
Before I decided to run, I spoke with a few close advisors and the amount of immediate support was validating; however, I quickly learned that politics are not for the faint of heart. Narratives about my values and who I was were being established by everyone else. I was being accused of becoming Puerto Rican for the sake of the campaign, completely ignoring my upbringing and familial ties. The feeling I had when my wife was cropped out of an advertisement outside my campaign was infuriating. The lies about my allegiances and intentions were draining. It did not take very long for me to feel like I was just a name and face — and everyone created their idea of who I was behind it.
The campaign became draining for my family and tested the values that I chose to uphold and run on. Still, I hoped that being the only teacher on the ballot and having a commitment to my community through service would push me to victory, regardless. Unfortunately, it was not enough, and I would lose the race by a very slim margin.
A crushing defeat in many ways that made me feel like a failure. Watching others — white men, in particular — get the same opportunity after achieving less than me made me not only question my ability but also further reinforced the role the system wants me to uphold. At that moment, it all made sense. People see me how they want to see me. They prefer to keep me in a box. So, I choose to stay in the box that I’m most comfortable in —my classroom.
It is here in my classroom that I contemplate how to fight against a system that upholds injustice, a system that fights against the brilliance of diversity. This system does not allow everyone a seat at the table.
Nearly a decade in education, and I still wonder if I’ve truly 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 anyone or anything? Am I invisible? I just maybe, and over the years, I’ve become ok with that feeling of invisibility.
Like the protagonist in Invisible Man, I may have been “looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer.” It took me a long time and a painful adjustment of my expectations to realize that I am nobody but myself.
I do not need your eyes in order to be seen, and I do not need your validation to continue fighting for what I believe. I am everything and nothing of what you think I am, and I will move as I see fit.
In these moments, I frequently return to my favorite book, “ ” 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 I have only been viewed as other people's definition of who I am supposed to be. When my students arrive, I feel I am expected to perform certain duties outside my job description simply because of my identity. My ability as a leader is hardly recognized. The struggles of being a husband and father are ignored. My existence as a person feels like an afterthought. These are the challenges I’ve faced. I want to feel seen for the many contributions I make in my 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 face in education. The novel’s themes of invisibility and identity crisis mirror the struggles I have faced in a system that frequently fails to properly acknowledge my presence and contributions. I hope that making my story of invisibility visible to those who may understand my struggle will help fellow 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 completed 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 the students had to abide by a strict uniform policy, including shoes, belts and school colors, and middle school-aged children were walking in straight lines through silent hallways. 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 teaching resident, the master teacher I shadowed went on maternity leave and never returned. Our principal also left a couple of months into the year, which prompted a takeover by central office leadership — all of whom were unfamiliar white faces in a school full of Black and Latino children. Before I knew it, I was teaching a seventh grade math class with little support on a tiny salary and barely any teaching experience.
Needless to say, I was not prepared for the unrealized stress. I quickly learned that teachers needed to play many different roles, wear numerous hats and complete far too many additional duties. I would be pulled from teaching almost routinely to address students with whom leadership in the building could not reach; that is when I earned the nickname child whisperer. Instead of a badge of honor, it felt like another associated with being a Black teacher. It felt like my value was dependent on my ability to maintain order. From fist fights to classroom struggles, I felt limited and held within a box of preconceived notions about my role as the enforcer of system norms, the very things I despise about discipline-first school systems. It was as though I was a puppet and Geppetto at the same time. I felt like I was upholding a lie, having my students believe this is how things should be. I questioned my place inside the school, wondering what role I was really playing in students' lives.
I pressed on, hoping to still unlock our children's brilliance. Still, 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 education leader.
The Journey to Inspire Change
In the last five years of my career, the pandemic put a spotlight on 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 debates of the time. Motivated to change this conversation and influence and local levels, I ran It seemed like a great opportunity to try and create true change for our children while also creating an identity for myself in education that didn’t just center on how I enforce school policy for children who look like me.
Before I decided to run, I spoke with a few close advisors and the amount of immediate support was validating; however, I quickly learned that politics are not for the faint of heart. Narratives about my values and who I was were being established by everyone else. I was being accused of becoming Puerto Rican for the sake of the campaign, completely ignoring my upbringing and familial ties. The feeling I had when my wife was cropped out of an advertisement outside my campaign was infuriating. The lies about my allegiances and intentions were draining. It did not take very long for me to feel like I was just a name and face — and everyone created their idea of who I was behind it.
The campaign became draining for my family and tested the values that I chose to uphold and run on. Still, I hoped that being the only teacher on the ballot and having a commitment to my community through service would push me to victory, regardless. Unfortunately, it was not enough, and I would lose the race by a very slim margin.
A crushing defeat in many ways that made me feel like a failure. Watching others — white men, in particular — get the same opportunity after achieving less than me made me not only question my ability but also further reinforced the role the system wants me to uphold. At that moment, it all made sense. People see me how they want to see me. They prefer to keep me in a box. So, I choose to stay in the box that I’m most comfortable in —my classroom.
Making Peace with Reality
It is here in my classroom that I contemplate how to fight against a system that upholds injustice, a system that fights against the brilliance of diversity. This system does not allow everyone a seat at the table.
Nearly a decade in education, and I still wonder if I’ve truly 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 anyone or anything? Am I invisible? I just maybe, and over the years, I’ve become ok with that feeling of invisibility.
Like the protagonist in Invisible Man, I may have been “looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer.” It took me a long time and a painful adjustment of my expectations to realize that I am nobody but myself.
I do not need your eyes in order to be seen, and I do not need your validation to continue fighting for what I believe. I am everything and nothing of what you think I am, and I will move as I see fit.