My mother raised me to raise my voice. She raised me to believe that my voice mattered. That speaking up when I saw injustice was a part of my civic duty. To not take my position of power within my white privilege for granted but to recognize it and share it with others.
My teachers taught me I was different.
That I was too loud. Too opinionated. Too much.
That I was the bad child to be avoided.
That I needed to learn how to tone it down.
Lower my voice.
Let others speak before I added my voice.
If it wasn’t for my mother’s insistence that my voice mattered, I would have been a silent child.
A silent adult.
As I see students speak up in the aftermath of yet another horrific school shooting, I cannot help but be proud. This is why I teach the way…
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