After ten years of teaching, which I loved, I became Assistant Principal of a high school. I knew that I had been sent there to be a gatekeeper for Black students. My reputation for being socially conscious and outspoken when necessary preceded me, and that was OK. The school was rural, set apart from the growing cosmopolitan ambiance of the city.  This southern city that was beginning to attract industry from all over was in stark contrast to this rural, very traditional town where there were occasional stories about hate group activity. Out there, things were slow to change. Teachers were used to saying, “Oh honey, I’ve been doing this for 19 years!” Many administrators were equally accustomed to defending them even in their unwillingness to be fair to students. As a result, many black students were left to succeed the best way they could.  Expectations for them were not high. Appreciation for their experiences was not a priority. My work in social justice at this juncture would happen through teacher supervision.

Veteran white teachers resented a young black woman pointing out teaching practices that needed improvement. They were particularly offended by my suggestions that they develop a more culturally relevant approach to teaching. Engaging them in race and culture issues was extremely difficult. Many were teaching black children for the first time. This school had been a white school until the late 70s, and here in 1984, some were still adjusting!  It was clear that many teachers were determined to not change their attitudes or practices. Many believed that black children from certain communities would never produce excellence.

Achieving equity was not highly valued among the teachers. Students whose parents received federal assistance and who already had low grades were not encouraged to prepare for the PSAT or SAT. These students were placed in special courses with ‘special’ names. They were not advised to take Algebra II or a foreign language (neither of which was required for graduation then), which left them deficient when they decided during their senior year that college was in their future.  This was an injustice and apparently not an inadvertent one.  The faculty held only a few good black students in high regard at this school. The teachers thought that they were a credit to their race.

Of the four administrators in the school during my four years there, two were Black. Attempts to address the issues of inequity were seldom collaborative and spirited.  I saw what looked like apathy, and sometimes fear in my Black colleagues, and felt they preferred keeping the peace to working for justice. I later realized that their methods were just different from mine. They would simply maintain a low profile until they had the chance to run a school of their own one day. Often assistant principals have to make such choices.  I began to work closely with students. I met with them frequently on a one to one basis just to talk, to establish relationships, to prevent the kind of conference where disciplinary action is in order.  My friends and business contacts began to come to the school to tutor students who needed extra help.

Parents, who had felt little connection, began to come to school. In- school and out- of- school suspensions went down, because I refused to do as many as had been done before. This of course was not popular with the teachers who wanted unruly students to be punished, regardless of the circumstances. Somehow, this did not ring of justice to me. Between their dissatisfaction with decreased suspensions and my citing improvements needed in their teaching (which often suggested the need for a more culturally relevant approach), complaints made their way to the area supervisor. I would soon know the repercussion.

A family move led me to interview with nearby school systems.  Shortly after a very successful interview, I received a call from the Personnel Director.  He called to offer me the position—a principalship at an elementary school.  In the same breath, however, he told me that they were so impressed with me, and really wanted me to consider a high school principalship, and he named the high school that had a vacancy. We talked a bit and I expressed some trepidation, feeling that elementary would be a bit easier for my first principalship.  He asked me to just think about it.  He would be in touch soon. I did not hear back.  I called. They stalled.  Nothing. I learned from a source, that a particular administrator in my school district had blocked the process—even after the offer to accept a position had been made.  The words she passed along were arrogant and injudicious.  This is not unlike the comments made about most strong Black female leaders, as I would later come to know.

I knew that this was the backlash for carrying out my duties as teacher supervisor and evaluator. I asked teachers to be fair, to take time to know their minority students, to give equal access to positions on sports teams and placements in ‘gifted’ classes.  I had not punished enough black males who lost their cool after a teacher embarrassed them in the classroom. I had not suspended them from school.  For this, I was being punished.  It hurt at first.

I had desperately wanted this principalship. I wanted to lead a school where all children would have the opportunity to soar. I knew though what I was dealing with and that it would probably follow me from one district to another. Sure there were other minority administrators but some of us had to be dealt with –just as a reminder! I thought about my grandmother and my mother and knew that my energies had to remain positive.  I could go to court to fight this or I could focus my sights on higher achievement and widening my circle of influence.  I chose the latter.

I realized that sacrifice is essential to change and progress, and that many times it is a personal sacrifice. Yes, it was alright, especially when I recall speaking up to put an end to this school’s homecoming tradition of holding a Slave Auction. In this event, the girls would buy football players and use them to carry their books, or do whatever tasks they wished throughout the school day.  Most of the athletes were Black and the girls buying them were White, and the rest of the story has already been written.

My next assistant principalship was at an other high school. I felt was sent to take care of those for whom the system did not work. I would try to represent the system in a more positive light. Black parent organizations had called for a more socially just education. Real desegregation did not happen until 1995 with the merger of the city and the county systems. The time and climate for change seemed never to be right for some, so by 1995, the county commissioners led by Mr. Bill Bell, made the decision for the two districts.  Without their leadership, the two school boards may never have come to consensus!

After moving into my office, which was located in the administrative suite of this new school, I was approached one morning by the principal. He walked up to where I was doing hall duty and moving students along to their 1st period classes.  He said, “You know, I’m going to have you move down here, so you’ll be with the freshmen.” I was the ‘freshman class administrator.’ I had taught freshmen for several years and loved that age group. So working primarily with this group was fine. He proceeded to tell me that this had always been in the plan, even before I arrived. (Uh, huh). I said, “Well Dr. B., where will my office be located? I knew there were no available spaces.  This school was filled to the gills. He said that he would probably have the classroom on the corner divided into 2 or 3 offices.  Well that seemed alright.

I did not voice any dissention. Nothing happened for two weeks, nor did I ask any questions about the move, until Dr. B. came to my office with the most demeaning and dehumanizing decision that he could have mustered at the time. He said, “I’m going to have the men take the sink out of that custodial closet down the hall and get some carpet in there, and fix that up so you can move down there in the next day or so.” The rage welled up inside of me. I began to feel hatred and rebellion, and the need to ‘go off on him.’ But a little voice down inside of me said, “ Stay calm, count to ten, always maintain pride and dignity.” This is the response my mother and grandmother would have approved.

I asked him a series of questions to allow myself time to get calm.  I asked, “Why a closet, why not the classroom renovation?  I asked how he would feel if this was done to him? I said, “I suppose you know what this looks like!” I finally said, “Dr. B., I am not going down there.” As his face turned a lighter shade of red, he walked away with defiance and guilt, and I sat there for a few moments, feeling sorry for myself, asking myself if I had come this far in life, trying to look out for others, only to be treated this way. In considering how to move forward, I knew that racial tension in the Durham schools was so high, and ignorance about other cultures so pervasive that telling my story was just going to be one more piece in a fairly ugly puzzle.

Several friends told me to report him. I feared that if I handled this in my usual assertive manner, I would lose, not because he was right but because he was connected in this racist environment. The other Black assistant principal had already been moved out of his front office prior to my coming to the school.  His office was on the ground floor near the cafeteria. He did not protest it because he was just biding his time until retirement.  My move would leave the two White administrators in the office suite at the front of this shiny new building. Ah, impressions!       

This incident caused me to consider what injustice can do to people emotionally, intellectually, and even physically. I understood for a few moments the kind of rage that is born of oppression and bigotry, the kind that robs one of self- esteem and dignity, and often leads to destructive behavior.   I made a very conscious decision to not fight it in the way most would expect.  No, I had not become weak.  Rather, with each battle, we learn better how to choose our strategies. A good offense as my best defense would work, I thought.

My decision was to make a plan that not only would respond to the incident in a constructive way, but would have greater impact. I would let this injustice inspire me to new endeavors for myself and those I serve. I would let this inform my behavior as a leader in my next position. The feelings that resulted from exclusion and marginalization would remain with me to guide my actions with others. No school administrator, nor teacher, nor teacher’s assistant or secretary should have been subjected to such treatment anywhere-- and this was a new 25 million dollar school building with no room in the inn.

Dr. B. had the school custodian take the nameplate off of my door in my front office location, and screw it into the custodial closet door where the name “Custodian” had been.  The buzz started.  Teachers and students alike were asking—no, bombarding me with questions. Despite my newly determined strength and plan of action, it did hurt. I felt embarrassment, inferiority, and pain. I felt like an outsider, very alienated, different from the other administrators. I felt I would lose the respect of the very people I had to supervise and mentor.  I was sure that this was in the plan.  I had all of these bad feelings, and I had done nothing wrong. This is how injustice feels. Black students were angry and empathetic. White students were sympathetic or indifferent. The word got to parents.  I got calls and had to try and explain this injustice.

When the used carpet came in from an old school that had just closed down, and the sink had been ripped from the wall, I was told I needed to move down there.  I still did not. I figured, if he were serious, he would have the men move my things. I certainly was not going to ask them to do it.  That is not the kind of fool I am.  He did. They moved my items, as I discovered one morning, leaving behind all of the furniture (for this new full size office furniture would not fit in a janitorial closet turned Assistant Principal’s office). I proceeded down the hall with conjured up dignity to retrieve those things I needed to work on and walked back up to the front office to do my work. I did not need to see my name on the door.  I continued to do this for 2 weeks as I thought of my next move. I endured the embarrassment of people seeing me in the closet office at times during the day when it was not feasible to go back and forth between offices. The experience became a prayer; it was a time for reflection, for increasing humility and introspection. I learned to get quiet and just listen to my heart and soul. I learned more about finding purpose. I gained an extra measure of resilience.

After two weeks of playing the game, allowing the custodial closet to be my office of record, and working up front where I belonged, I decided the game of charades ends at some point.  One day, very impulsively, I jumped out of my chair, rolled it down the hall, filled it with my things, one trip, another trip, and nine more trips, bringing them back to the office up front. Something just said, " It is time!”

I didn’t say a word to anyone.  I passed by Dr. B. in the hallway as I made the 6th trip. He said nothing. I borrowed a screwdriver from the custodian and took my nameplate off of the closet door and put it back where it belonged. I began to appoint my office the way I liked while deciding that I would stay until I chose to go somewhere else.  I quietly applied for a Principalship. My principal was very upset that I had not told him about my application.  The words in my response to him were all about fairness and respect. I became the principal of an elementary school where my work for ensuring justice would continue.

Gordon (1995) explains resilience as the ability to thrive, mature, and increase in competence in the face of adverse circumstances and says that the adverse circumstances may be chronic and consistent or severe and infrequent. The incident I endured spoke of the sick racial climate throughout the district during those years, a condition that was certainly chronic and consistent.

At this school people of color, custodians, and cafeteria workers were not treated as first class citizens. The suspension rate among Black males reached 60%! The dropout rate was high, and the token Black male teacher upon my arrival was a coach who taught Physical Education. Monday afternoon administrative meetings seemed dedicated to the topic, “How to get more Black students out of school.” I would not participate in the scheming. I was admonished more than once for not suspending more students.  I was told that we were a team and that we needed this consistency or it would cause problems for the teachers and students.

I love teams, especially when they play the game fairly. I was there to help kids make better decisions, to teach them a better way to react to anger, and respond to injustice. I was there to keep them coming to school, whatever it took. My job was to provide as much encouragement and assistance as possible to make graduation a reality.  Dropout really concerns me.  I do not believe that children want to leave school for the streets, but will do so when they perceive an environment of uncaring adults. I wanted our administrative team to focus on reasons for the resistance and rebellion seen in Black youths. Several studies (Taylor, 1970; Kiernan & Daniels, 1967; Hacker, 1992) on student alienation suggest that we consider the effects of forced school choice and Eurocentric focus on Black student alienation. I wanted our team to be more concerned with culture and society and pay more attention to issues of identity, community, and economics.

In her studies on race, class, and power in schools, Lipman (1998) found that the influence of the principal was critical in reculturing a school and trying to move them to a more responsible place on the spectrum of social justice. Lipman’s work cites suspension rates for Black males that look much like those I mentioned earlier. The restructuring efforts that she helped to implement in the participating schools were designed to reduce these suspensions, which would reduce missed work, school failure, and dropout. Lipman reports that when suspensions dropped, teachers sought yet other ways to punish these students, primarily African American males. In one district where Black student made up 64% of the population, they constituted 83% of the suspensions.

At the school where I was serving as AP, Black students made up 30% of the population but nearly 60% of the suspensions. When these students returned to class many would withdraw; they were demoralized, ashamed, and disengaged. They did not see justice working for them. Teachers unabashedly shared their predictions that these kids would not go anywhere in life. After repeated undeserved suspensions, I observed some of these young Black men becoming angry, and why not? I recall the words of Dr. Martin Luther King before he set out for a particular boycott. He declared that patience at some point must yield to protest. He said, “There comes a time when people get tired of being trampled over by the iron feet of oppression.” Our students though, did not know how to protest, nor were they allowed to do so.

Besides my personal experience here with injustice, I had taken it upon myself to improve the school climate for students of color. I continued to push for hiring more Black teachers and reducing the number of Black male suspensions. This effort was consistently met with excuses and procrastination and each reminder only served to increase the principal’s obstinacy. Once more, I would work for justice within the place and space I had found myself—this time working under a principal who had no intention of creating a climate of equity. (The fact that two Black administrators worked there was no indication of his desire to provide equity. We were both sent there by the superintendent.)

 I started Tuesday afternoon lunch chats with students, giving them a safe place to express their feelings about the school climate, about teacher attitudes toward them, and their perceived opportunities for success. On occasion, the time was given to career preparation talks. As assistant principal, I needed to know how the students felt about their school and their achievement.  Spending the lunch period with my students allowed me the opportunity to teach appropriate strategies for dealing with prejudice.  Ninety percent of the students who came to the lunch talks were African American.  Certain teachers were curious.  The principal was uneasy. African American parents were appreciative and supportive. My work was simply that of social justice---taking moral action. My goal was to increase the competence of these young people. 

Across the country, African American students fail to score well on the SAT. The situation was no different during the early 90s when I served as Assistant Principal. One observation was that only a few Black students could afford to take a test preparation course.  I called on my church member to offer test prep sessions after school. Parents helped me to organize the classes. We sold pizza and soft drinks.  The students learned new techniques in test taking and had fun doing it! I smiled when students came to let me know they had scored well, and that they felt more confident in taking the test after having learned the techniques.

I won funding from the Geraldine Dodge Foundation to start a mentoring organization for African American high school boys, which I called Black Men Tomorrow’s Teachers.  Through this project, I was able to reach young Black males in a positive, supportive manner, whether they ultimately became teachers or not.  My  protégés visited college campuses, helped younger children with schoolwork or introducing them to new things like tennis and Japanese food, and spent weekly time with male mentors who were Black and dedicated to the profession of education. The program set a new standard for the Dodge Foundation’s Celebration of Education Grant Program. The Foundation’s marketing materials endorsed my initiative as a model for replication.

As the city and county labored toward better relations in support of a merged, integrated school system, the County Human Relations Department and area churches and synagogues sponsored a series of town meetings designed to open discussions and heal hurts.  I was asked to help plan these meetings and to serve as moderator.

My role in justice was expanding.  I would have to continue on this path of making a difference.  I gleaned an almost inexplicable satisfaction from seeing others grow in their confidence to handle life’s hurdles. I was doing the work of my grandmother and my mother. Now and then, I would reassess the principal’s decision to ‘put me in the closet,’ each time more convinced that this was the narrow- minded attempt to drive me away.  My role at that school had become anything but what he had envisioned and charted out in his head. Something had to be done to keep me in check, so moving me where I would be out of sight, out of mind seemed the only option.

Fighting for justice is about commitment.  It never stops. Sometimes it’s for us, sometimes for others. Regardless, I believe that it is a cumulative process; every battle gets us closer to winning the war.  We can’t ignore injustice and think it will just right itself one day.  It never works that way. We have to take action.  We must be intentional. The students at the high school came to understand a bit more about justice.  They also learned that battles are often fought in ways that are sometimes quiet and unobtrusive, ways that move you to an even more effective position, where your impact is felt in an even greater way.

I now teach those who will be principals of our schools. I have the greatest opportunity possible to impact the minds and hearts of these future school leaders. I teach the graduate course titled “The Principalship,” and on the first day of class I ask each of them, “Why are you here?” I ask, “What do you expect to change in this business of education?”  And again, I ask, “But why you, what makes you suited for this position that requires so much?” While there are no right and wrong answers to these questions, I am looking to see what kind of work I will have to do with them in the realm of justice.  What is their appreciation for social justice? What experiences have they had of being treated unfairly?  What did they do with the experience?

Most of my students are White females, often disturbed by my candor, my asking them to think about white privilege. I force them to consider the things they take for granted –the same things that are not assumed or automatic for people of color. I ask them to think about leading a school in the poorest section of town, where most of the families are Black and or Latino and test scores are woefully low.  I see the unrest in their body language and hear it in their words when all of this gets to be too much for them. Now and then I hear the same thing I heard from my very privileged white students at a nearby private university a few years ago, “Oh, I’m never going to teach in that kind of school.” To that I tell them that if they leave feeling unprepared to teach in “that kind of district” then they should consider themselves less than prepared to lead any school!  An excellent administrator is an excellent administrator anywhere. Of course, some settle for just being good.

My work in promoting justice goes on, in the lessons I teach, the guardianship I continue to provide to students of color, and my daily collaborations with colleagues. I ask myself from time to time, “What have you learned from these experiences of injustice?” After a few moments of reflection, the answer is clear.

I have learned that leadership for social justice is all about resilience, about pressing on in the face of obstacles, about never feeling powerless, and remaining ever aware of the meaning behind the struggle. I know now, only after years of observing such resilient people, that these leaders are not the kind of leaders who constantly, if ever, receive public attention.  They do not get the medals or pages in the history books, but are no less honorable or significant for their endeavors.

I’ve learned that leadership for justice is groomed and good leaders in this arena look for someone to carry on the work in a new place and time. My grandmother and my mother provided that necessary stimulation for me as a child, to chart my own path as a leader for justice. They modeled the characteristics and work ethic I would need to adopt in future years.  They modeled tenacity and perseverance, as they sang, “We shall not be moved.” I can recall though, that as a child, I was onsidered too bold, too daring, a bit ‘bull headed’ as my dad would say. Often, in the course of growing and trying new things, I would not accept a “No!” I believe now, that amidst the constant admonishments to “slow down,” I was encouraged to be a leader.

I have learned that a woman in leadership must possess an intricate package of talents and skills for her own survival and the success of those she leads. She must be ready to address a wider audience than simply working within a specific domain. (In my mother’s case the ‘wider audience’ was appealing to the Governor’s Office.) She must be willing to confront those in authority and always feel equal to those in positions of more authority. She believes in her own thoughts; she sees her insight and vision as meaningful and powerful and as good or better than what currently exists. She does not surrender easily, cognizant of the fallout that can occur and willing to take that chance. She knows that to assume a lesser position leaves her vulnerable to another who is more assertive. Women who lead for justice are moved by an internal system of morality. We know the value of moving beyond our safety zones. We know that in doing so, we may not get that for which we strove, but would ultimately gain something greater—a better opportunity to lead or a better opportunity for the next person. We are competitive people.  We enjoy positions of control but for the right reasons—to attain goals that are humanitarian and socially just.

Women in leadership for justice don’t always work within the confines of rganizations, workplaces, or other specific domains. Often we invent our own environments for change, especially in the latter years of our professional careers.  We learn that it is necessary to take time out to study new venues for effecting change.  We share our stories more readily than when we were, say, twenty- five years old. We now know that telling our stories is powerful and helps others to discern meaning in their own lives.

There are things I dreamed of doing when I was a child and numerous things I have accomplished in my adulthood. Nothing among these however is as great as the difference that I believe I have made by taking a stand when equality was in question or justice denied. I may not have moved mountains or shattered the earth by anything to which I put my hands, head, or heart.  I have however, attempted to seize a few moments where I could change the path or chart a new one. I pray that my son and daughter, in their own place and time, will do the same.

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