Photo by Dave Adamson via Unsplash
Five months. Five glorious incredible months with my 21-year-old son home. This gregarious social butterfly was summoned home at the end of his Miami Spring Break. Hunkered down to resume virtual school work. With few distractions, he earned the best grades of his college career so far.
I couldn't have been happier. I got to see my son months earlier than I had thought, and without an internship that would take him out of the state. We spent a summer together, as he did not socialize nearly as much as normal. No job (UberEats was not worth the risk), but lots of video games, and of course faithful workouts.
We talked about so many things - social issues, education, politics, finance, religion, sex. He schooled me on the new spirits and we experimented with mixed libations. Mother and son, but also friends with deep history. We talked of risking your life for those you love, death, joy, advocating for yourself and others. And, I made sure he knew that his life has worth far more than a football player, that he had choices. He can walk away from anything. No judgment, no questions asked. And still, he chose to return to school.
He is an adult. I cannot dictate his moves. He must make his own decisions. As his mother, all I can do is love him enough to give him the best knowledge and wisdom I have. And I did. It is his life.
I can rest easy knowing that I left it all on the field.
Photo by Hannah Wei via Upslash.
The phone rings. It is late. The voice on the other end immediately apologizes for the hour, but there is something else. I hear the pain. Then silence. Then, the news that my friend has lost her mother. That like mine, succumbed to a long bout in the hospital. With her sister now also gone, I was the first call. She knew I would understand.
I did the only thing I knew to do. I cried, too. I helped with logistics, took care of whatever details she would entrust to me. And I did it happily. And wished I could do more. I loved her in ways that I did not know I could - because that is what you do when your friend loses their mother. The feeling of aloneness is vast and easy to get lost in. She would not be lost on my watch.
That was years ago, and I figured that this is simply what adulthood is now like. But then, my 21-year-old son got that call last week. In a pandemic. A college friend had lost his cousin unexpectedly. Someone who was as close to him as a brother. Sam described to me the wails of pain that came from his friend. He still remembers.
Tomorrow, Sam heads back to his college campus. In a pandemic. Although it is not my choice, what my daughter has taught me (from refusing to move from NYC in a pandemic) is that his childhood home is not his real home anymore. He is an adult, who was on loan to me for a time. He has done everything he needs to do to be healthy, and he needs to finish this last chapter of his life - finishing his senior year of college and two degrees. Right now, his home is in another state. After graduation it will likely be a different state. This is parenting. This is life.
I respect his need to care for his friend. I get it. He is me, just a better version. The way he loves is forever. A loyalty that seems more mature than his years. His bond to his friend was already deep, and now it is deepening. Soon it will be in person, despite my misgivings. After all, I think about him maintaining his health constantly.
But I also am reminded of every testimony I have. Every one that he has. We have been blessed and delivered from some dire circumstances. I will trust Him now, also.
Photo by Nick Fewings via Unsplash.
In four more weeks I will be in a building
That will not be disinfected with regularity
Not because of staff
My colleagues, families, and students will be in our building
No masks required
The collection of droplets in the air may be lethal for us
Especially when you consider how people have been living
But there is no consideration
We are teachers
We serve the children
We will just have to fill in the gaps, as usual
Buy thermometers to take temperatures
Buy cleaning products to disinfect classrooms
Wash hands frequently
Only one staff bathroom
Kids bathrooms run out of soap
And paper towels
Be a team player
But don't make colleagues social distance
Be a team player
Teach extra kids when colleagues are absent
Because there will be no subs
And my increased risk is not a concern
But we must have school!
Because babysitters are a must
Not because education is a must
No school is bad
I say: Why can't we do all virtual school?
They say: What about the businesses?
To which I respond:
Who will be left to patronize them?
Photo by Robin Benzrihem via Unsplash
You came into my space with no mask
Knowing you could infect me
Knowing that if I get sick I would die faster
Knowing that so many of us have lost loved ones
Because someone decided
That wearing a mask was
How nice it must be
To treat people as replaceable
You have no idea
What humans know
How humans behave
Photo Credit: Anshu A via Unsplash
Remember when this question was but an extension of a greeting - something said out of habit? We didn't always really want to know how someone was doing. We were quite content with the expected "Fine."
I've asked this question a lot since March 13. Actually, I have asked it constantly. Part of my coping strategy. Friends and family (and even not-friends) ask me all the time. It's nice to be asked. But you know what? It is taking me longer and longer to answer it.
Why? Because first of all, I am not fine. And even if I lied and said I was, it would be obvious that I was lying.
"How are you" alternatives:
Are you physically safe?
Are you healthy?
Are you in a space for a conversation?
Would you like me to just listen?
Did you sleep last night?
Do you have enough food?
Are you going to the protest?
Will you social distance?
Do you promise to be careful?
What time is your curfew?
Are you sure you can trust them?
Did you pack an emergency travel kit?
Can you stay on the phone with me and not talk?
Can you send bail money?
Will you use your body to protect mine?
Will you care for my loved ones if I don't survive?
What a difference a day makes.
Photo Credit: Mike Von via Unsplash
Beginning on September 3, Tyrone Martinez-Black, Kelly Wickham Hurst, and I will be moderating a Twitter chat on the book, Ghosts in the Schoolyard written by Eve Ewing. The story of its conception follows, as well as other thoughts on my mind. It all starts with a math conference.
The National Council of Teachers of Mathematics (NCTM) is having their annual meeting in Chicago in 2020. In fact, this gathering is special, commemorating its centennial. As I attended my first annual meeting in 2019, I kept thinking about the next year's conference and its connections to history. I wondered about the organization's stories and anecdotes of the past. Specifically, I wondered if I would even be welcomed as a member a hundred years ago. I could not imagine I would.
Although I had this discussion with other members back in April, these wonderings still populate my thoughts. The concepts of equity, social justice and cultural responsiveness have made it to the fore of our American math world, yet the definitions are far from universal. Also not widely understood is how best to implement culturally responsive pedagogy or teach mathematics with social justice in mind. Yet, these pedagogical moves are not new. How did we get here? Or, how is it that we are still here?
Land acknowledgments now occur with more frequency in math spaces than they once did. These are acknowledgments that the lands we inhabit in these gatherings are stolen from indigenous peoples. Sometimes, it is a mere mention of this fact, other times, it is a more elaborate tribute, involving naming the nations in question and/or asking for their blessing. And yet, what seems to occur without much thought is the lack of deliberate place-based consideration that goes beyond a list of tourist attractions.
The more history I learn of my own people, and others from groups still marginalized, I am curious about stories of resistance. Did Black mathematicians have to fight to gain membership? How did they do this? What methods were effective? How hard has it been for marginalized mathematicians to make their way? How hard is it still? What I was yearning for is the place history, or as Tyrone has aptly named it, place value.
Chicago Place Value
With the NCTM centennial event being in Chicago, I couldn't help to be drawn to Ewing's 1919, a book of poetry, written about Red Summer. While researching her book, she stumbled upon a 1922 report that followed the hundreds of deaths during white supremacist attacks in several cities, including Chicago. Red Summer. A hundred years prior. A haunting coincidence. Again I wondered about how my identity as a mathematician would have been realized in that environment.
Eventually, I found myself tweeting about 1919 and wanting to read her other book to learn all I could about Chicago. If we were to inhabit this place, it made sense to me that we honor it by being as knowledgeable as possible about its history, especially its recent history, as it related to education. Tyrone, a Chicagoan tweeted back and offered to read along with me. Kelly, another Chicagoan, chimed in as well, and we found ourselves talking and planning. In no time, we had decided to create a Twitter chat so that all of us, not just those in math education, could benefit from the history that surely we hadn't before known.
To truly acknowledge a place, we must value its history, beauty, and struggles. What is it that still hides? Where are the ghosts? I am honored to learn from Tyrone and Kelly, who are making Chicago history. We live in a time when it is difficult to discuss racism openly, let alone its effects. Yet, the history must be faced, and the hard work of change must be done together, in community. We invite you on the journey with us.
The following blog post is part of the Virtual Conference on Humanizing Mathematics, hosted by Hema Khodai and Sam Shah. It appears as a conversation with my friend, Hema Khodai.
How do you highlight that the doing of mathematics is a human endeavor?
How do you express your identity as a doer of mathematics to, and share your “why” for doing mathematics with, kids?
H: We can’t remember how we first “met” and we certainly didn’t take the time to get to know one another. From the very start, we dove heart-first, with little preamble, into intense conversations about mathematics, the human experience, and the lack of humanity in mathematics education. We were committed to redefining mathematics as a human endeavour for every one of our students before we even met in real life.
Our blogpost is a glimpse into a typical Marian-Hema conversation.
M: Thank you for these thoughtful questions. I think I would like to begin with the second question about the “why”: specifically why we do math with kids. The most powerful mathematics I have been a part of began with my father. We would “do math” at the kitchen table for hours. Math was magic, math was the best puzzle to solve. But math was (and is) also love. The love that came from him through the math was palpable - not figurative, but material. I could feel it, name it, touch it. So, my why when I first began teaching was to recreate this for children, wanting them to experience what I had.
H: My why for the learning and teaching of mathematics hinges on safety, stability, and belonging. At fourteen months, I was a refugee fleeing a war-torn motherland. By the time I was five years old, I was a displaced child seeking a common language to enter and belong in new places and spaces. Math then became something that gave me comfort, I was good at it, I could do it alone, on my own, while my parents worked to ensure our survival and safety, and eventually led to acceptance from teachers and admiration from peers. I built my identity around my ability to do math.
M: This really moves me. You speak of math almost as your companion and confidante. I wonder how many students see it that way. I think I want them to see it as relational, but I had not considered that the relationship between themselves and math may not include me at all. You now have me wondering if I have ever given space for that possibility: math as refuge.
H: Math as refuge. As a graduate student, completing courses toward a Masters of Mathematics for Teachers, I continue to immerse myself in new learning and find solace in understanding modular arithmetic, resolution in solving Diophantine Equations, and productivity working with Gaussian integers to solve familiar problems. This spring, my professor urged me to continue on, despite the extenuating circumstances of excruciatingly painful losses in my life. It was a reminder of a whole wide mathematical world out there that is unknown to me and awaits my arrival.
M: That unknown world. What worries me a lot is that the mathematics of my ancestors, like the languages they may have spoken, is unknown to me, and unknown to the world. How will I ever really know the math that has been denied me? How will my children and students ever know?
H: If I truly believe mathematics to be a human endeavour, then I accept that the mathematics of our ancestors is not lost to us. It is there to be reclaimed.
M: But how will I know it is mine? I want to know. Need to know.
And yet...your mention of belonging has me in my feelings, too...we have talked so much about how some math spaces don’t make us feel as though we belong. What a paradox that the inanimate mathematics signals belonging and community, yet when some humans are added, that same safety can disappear.
H: Ooooh. So it is not mathematics in itself that closes doors. It is the self-appointed keepers of the gates that create exclusionary climates in spaces of learning and dictate terms in places of doing. The systems of oppression that are enacted in institutions to dehumanize the experience of mathematics for some.
M: Well, are they self-appointed or do we, all of us, give that permission away - to those who think themselves good stewards of knowledge, but who lack the larger body of what truly is mathematics?
H: I don’t know if we ever truly gave it away as much as it was wrested away from us and colonized. Like our lands, our bodies, our minds, and our cultures.
M: It’s the not-questioning, though. There was a time where I just took the information as given, never questioning its source, and whether or not it was valid. I am on a journey to know...
H: I think that’s the journey. That awakening of the critical self that peels away layers of oppression and reveals the network that confirms we each belong with mathematics. Thus also belonging with one another.
M: Which brings me to another question: How will we all come to that understanding? You and I have these talks often, but do others? I know we are in conversations with others all the time, and I try to have faith that if there are enough of us, we can make a difference, but sometimes, it’s just hard to imagine.
I like to think that all of us “do” mathematics already. Math seems so natural to me, like breathing. Adults and children, in expressing their disdain for mathematics, sometimes don’t see their mathematical actions and thoughts as such. I want to help bring those endeavors to the fore.
H: For my students, I want to highlight that there are a myriad of ways to “do” math. If you are thinking, you are a doer of mathematics. If you are discerning, you are a doer of mathematics. If you are making decisions, you are a doer of mathematics.
I want to highlight that the Eurocentric curriculum that informed my mathematics education is ONE way of thinking about and exploring mathematics and not the only way.
M: Absolutely! When I think of Jazz, soul food, hip hop, the sky hook...the contributions, the inventions of Black people in the face of an oppressed reality are ingenious. And mathematics lives in every one. Yet, what is recognized as mathematical is often Eurocentric, mainstream, and considered the mathematical canon.
H: This has me wondering about indigenous ways of knowing; the fisherfolk in Jaffna, Sri Lanka who feed entire villages and know to sustain marine life, the agriculturalists who worked the land for generations and built homes (without engineers) to raise their families. These ways were lost to Tamil folx as they migrated from the NorthEast to the capital city for a formal education that would allow them to participate in the politics of the nation and ensure representation in government. A national politics that was residual of colonization. Rochelle Gutierrez writes about the need for mathematics teachers to have knowledge; content knowledge, pedagogical knowledge, knowledge of diverse students, but also POLITICAL knowledge. Math is not neutral and math teachers are not apolitical.
M: I wish you could see me finger-snapping right now! Chills...this is the conversation of our day. When has it not been, really? We seem to be in a moment, and these moments have occurred in history, but if we get it right, we could really restore mathematics and its pursuit to what I believe it was meant to be - done in community, as natural as breathing, not a distinct endeavor of its own. Computational and instinctive, written and verbal, visible and not yet manifested. All happening simultaneously, harmonically. For all to partake as needed.
I know you well enough to know that you enter into things with great intention, so I would like to ask your “why” about why you agreed to embark on this virtual conference project. What drove that decision and what are your hopes?
H: Sam and I met for the first time at OAME 2019 in Ottawa, Canada. There was an instant connection; we share a true love of mathematics and vulnerability in allowing ourselves to be seen. My "awakening" a few summers ago was quite rude (and not at all gradual). I realized that I had not been seeing myself as an Educator of Colour and as a result was permitting a TON of self-harm but also doing a grave injustice to my students. How can a fractured educator teach a whole student?
When Sam approached me with the idea of this Virtual Conference and we agreed on the theme of mathematics as a human endeavour, I knew this was my opportunity to co-create a space of learning and model equity and inclusion in a visible way. We need to do this self work and ironically require a community to do it well.
The post above is the first keynote blog of the Virtual Conference on Humanizing Mathematics . You can visit the rest of the posts there.
Days ago, I was talking to a friend whose mother is visiting for Mothers Day weekend. She told me that her mother looked at her with “adoration and fearfulness”, and these words sent me deep into tales of family history. My friend, like many women of color, is facing the predictable repercussions of speaking truth at work and disrupting inequitable systems. But those words – adoration and fearfulness – seem to be at the heart of so much my family’s story. Here is a small part.
My Mother’s Story
My mother was an only child who grew up in a small town in Mississippi. Her mother ran a country store. People from all over the community, Black and white, would come to buy from my grandmother. She gave them a fair price, and, when they could not afford their purchases, she made sure they got what they needed, paying when they were able. Beloved and trusted, she offered advice, love and compassion. And, she knew everything that happened in that small town.
My mother, her only child, was outspoken and strong-willed. She excelled in school, entering Jackson State University at sixteen. While there, she was active in student life, which often meant political pursuits. She was a Freedom Rider, among a group of college students who rode buses with Black passengers seated in front, and white ones in the back. She was fearless as she moved through the world. (She also dove into the deep end of a pool while on her honeymoon with my father, knowing full well she could not swim, but also confident that if swimming didn’t come naturally, my father would save her.) When my grandmother found out, she warned my mother of the danger of her actions. Undaunted, my mother continued.
It wasn’t long until my grandmother received word that my mother was on “a list” of “disruptors”, which meant she was targeted and in danger. Southern trees bore strange fruit all the time. I believe she looked at my mother both with adoration and fearfulness. She couldn’t help but be proud of her resistance, but the mother in her also sought to protect. As soon as she graduated college, my grandmother put her on a train with a choice of two destinations: Chicago or Los Angeles. They said their goodbyes, both knowing that my mother would never take residence in Mississippi again.
She found herself on UCLA’s campus at nineteen and enrolled in a teaching credential program. UCLA was recruiting graduate students of color at the time, so the timing was convenient. She would eventually finish the program, begin work as an elementary educator, and meet and marry my father.
Her activism continued in California as she entered a segregated school system, fighting for equitable conditions for students and colleagues. Once I was born, her only child, she tempered that activism. Much like my grandmother, my safety was now her primary concern. She made sure that we were never in the same school system for fear that her actions would punish me. Her activism didn’t cease, but it did go underground, as she carefully chose her battles.
I remember her picking me up early from school one day, to take me to “the Board”. I didn’t know what that meant, but it involved me taking a test. I would later find out that after she repeatedly petitioned the school for gifted testing for me, she continued that fight at the district level. When they finally relented and gave me a special test administration all by myself, the superintendent himself gave it. The next week, I began receiving gifted services.
That is how my mother rolled. She got things done through becoming a policy expert, and learned how to advocate for me and so many others while keeping us out of harm’s way. She was that teacher – the one so many students of color could call "Mom" – the one who looks out for you even when you are not their student.
We visited Mississippi every summer, and, coming from California, it was like travelling back in time. The dirt roads were replete with rocks that made car trips long and dusty. Not having indoor plumbing was humbling, and no street lights made it scary. But for my mother, being home was like breathing again. Her Southern code-switching was confusing at first, especially since the educator in her demanded and expected perfect grammar from me. My grandparents lit up around my mother, and all my relatives looked upon her with a certain esteem that made me proud.
When my grandmother died, a bit of my mother died with her. I don’t think there was regret between them; they talked by phone daily, left nothing unsaid. But, as my father would often tell me, there is no love like that between a mother and child. My mother was different – permanently altered, just as I was when my own mother died.
The difference was, that I did have regrets. I was newly married and had no idea what I was doing. So many questions I had not asked. How would I be a good wife, let alone a good mother? How would I raise fearless children when I was so full of fear about not doing it right?
I wonder now, how much time apart did racism cost my mother and grandmother? How much time will be stolen from my children and I?
- - - - - - -
Fast forward to present day. Both my children were raised in the South. My first-born is a daughter, who has proven to be fearless. After receiving her graduate degree in a few weeks, she will embark on her career in a different state. Yesterday, we spoke of the recent passage of the heartbeat law in our state. Those familiar feelings passed down from my grandmother – adoration and fearfulness – came into consciousness.
She is such a better version of myself in that she is driven, ambitious, and knows exactly what she wants. Her courage and strength are admirable. Yet I fear that this country is still not a safe place for her as she begins her career. The more things change…
I heard myself explain that because of this I do not want her to move back home. For her to maintain agency over her own body, her dignity and self-respect, she must move away and not return. We both agreed. Chills.
As for my younger son, also in college, he knows the routine. Since he was able to drive, I required check-in phone calls to report location changes. As a Black man, his very existence is not guaranteed. Every trip home from college means I hold my breath for six plus hours. Until he is home. Until he is safe. But even the safety of home is an illusion. At age 20, he has stories of racial profiling.
As I write this, the gospel song No Greater Love is playing in my head in the background. I have heard these lines so many times in church:
Jesus went to Calvary
To save a wretch
Like you and me
That’s love, that’s love
And for me, that’s motherhood. It is sacrifice. And activism. And protection. Because we are raising warriors who faithfully will bring liberation for us all.
I am thinking quite a bit about motherhood and what that means for women of color, especially Black women. When we are young, home is where mother resides. It is the place of safety and protection. For both my mother and I, the passing of our mothers meant the absence of safety. What kind of love does it take to send your child away from you? What kind of strength does it take to continue to carry the torch after she is gone?
But there is also hope and unwavering faith in the struggle, as I have been taught to believe. In the end, love prevails. Love is the answer. Fierce love that demands change. Active love in which silence against injustice does not exist. I must believe that my ancestors walked with this undying faith that their descendants would inherit a world they deserve. That they would be respected, revered and cherished. For after all,
But that’s not how the story ends
Three days later He rose again
That’s love, that’s love
This blog post is part of the #31DaysIBPOC Blog Challenge, a month-long movement to feature the voices of indigenous and teachers of color as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Sara Ahmed (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog circle).
In a blog post I wrote last year, I talked about knowing. Because I referenced the pain of losing my mother, I think what got lost is the underlying meaning of knowing the pain of racism.
In the clip above, the Black teammates, Petey and Blue, tell the white one, Sunshine, that they will be met with racism if they attempt to eat in the segregated restaurant. Undeterred, Sunshine announces confidently that because of his presence, they are safe. They enter. And inevitably, they are thrown out. While Sunshine is stunned, Petey is incensed.
Sunshine: I didn’t know, man.
Petey: I told you. Whachu mean you didn’t know?...
Blue, he don’t want to know.
On Being Welcoming
It has been over a year since I attended my first Twitter Math Camp, commonly known as TMC, and over a year when I first began thinking about what I wanted in a math conference here . I remember distinctly being among a crowd of so many who felt so affirmed in that space – the same space that I just did not. My revelation was honest, but it was widely met with surprise. It’s not that I didn’t think the conference was valuable. To be clear, I did get a lot from it, but it was different than the life-changing human experience that others felt. And that was ok. I hadn’t expected otherwise.
Yet, some very well-meaning humans really wanted TMC to be welcoming to those who did not feel welcome. Conversations about diversity were held that weekend at TMC17, and I was a part of some of them. I had one simple question: Why does TMC want to be (racially) diverse? And as many times as I ask it, the answers remain scant and not quite satisfying. (Although my initial thinking was of TMC, it extends to other math conferences and gatherings.)
My sense of belonging goes far beyond being welcomed. When you welcome someone into your home for a weekend visit, you are excited that they are coming. You prepare their sparkling clean guest room with scented soaps, reading materials, and fluffy towels. You may even prepare special delicacies to impress their palettes. And yet, it is still possible to get it wrong. Maybe they are allergic to scented soap, they don’t share your taste in reading material, or need a special diet that you have not considered.
Being a decent human being, you admonish yourself for not thinking of asking what your guest would like beforehand. Of course, this makes sense to you. To make someone comfortable, we should ask what it is that they need to feel comfortable. But as these conversations continued that TMC weekend, there was still something missing.
The answers to why we should be racially diverse often hover most around “because I know it’s the right thing to do”, which just doesn’t cut it. I wanted to ask:
Why is it the right thing to do?
Why do you want me here?
What do you miss by my absence?
All met with silence.
TMC was trying to welcome me, and other educators of color, into their space much like the person in the above example would welcome a guest into their home. As comfortable as you make the guest, it is still your house. And that is the problem.
Instead of asking what type of flowers the guest likes, how about inviting them to co-create the visit with you? Plan the activities, meals, and décor? This is easy if the imagined space always included educators of color, much more difficult if it never did. This is the renewed thinking that I crave. I don’t want to feel welcome in your conference; I want to feel that I belong in ours. I want to feel that I am creating it along with you. Why did you never think to ask me? Why didn’t it feel hollow with my absence?
If you have diversity in your life – among your friends, your neighbors - then it would feel awkward when you don’t have it. You would notice the absence and you would seek it naturally at work, around town, and yes, even at a math conference. Is there diversity in your life? Do you feel my absence in your organization? Our organization?
To co-create is to be on equal footing, to have equal power. Does math belong to all of us or just some of us? Because if it does indeed belong to all of us, then why do some of us get to decide for all of us? If math belongs to all of us, then so do math conferences and math organizations. We should all be there. And if we are not, the absences of those not represented should be felt. Painfully.
Yet, are we in pain? We are not. Pain would demand willingly relinquishing power and privilege because the loss from not experiencing the beauty and knowledge from all voices is too much to bear. Instead, we are content with temporary pain relief through actions that welcome others to our teams and conferences, but stop just short of empowering them to make real decisions. And mathematics continues to suffer.
Returning to the movie clip above, how often do we take the word of people of color when it is in direct conflict with what we know to be true? Let us move beyond saying that we don’t know what to do and move toward truly shared power, equal footing, and concrete plans to get us there. No more studying the problem and experimentation. Let us just commit to sincerely act until we reach the goal.
A space for me to be valued, seen, appreciated, yes, this is what I want. And eventually I’d like that without a special initiative, push, or intention. I want it to be natural, because if I am truly wanted, it would be. I want a space where I don’t have to explain, justify, or convince. This is what I want. It is what I deserve. In the service of children.
Recently, I was honored to give a keynote address at Twitter Math Camp (TMC). Because some have asked for the speech in written form, I am providing it below, along with some of the slides. Images are either original or licensed under Creative Commons.
Let me first begin by thanking Lisa for the introduction, the TMC organizing committee, and our larger Math Twitter Blogosphere (MTBoS) community, for this opportunity to address you. I have received blessings from many who are here, and those who could not be. Second, I would also like to acknowledge that the land we are standing on today once belonged to the indigenous Potawatomi and Haudenosauneega Peoples. I give honor to them and ask their blessing for our time together today.
I am not a very familiar name to many, and I would very much like to explain how it is that I ended up here.
I begin my twentieth year teaching elementary students, and I have always centered mathematics. I was fortunate enough to have a father who passed on his love for the subject to me. Throughout my teaching career, I have centered mathematics in my students’ lives. Although I teach all the core subjects, I am most commonly known as their math teacher.
Although I didn’t have a blog of my own, I followed blogs of math educators, learning from them, and trying out new things with students. Reading Graham Fletcher’s blog led me to so many others, and led me to the concept of MTBoS. Talking to him by phone, he answered my questions and encouraged me to join Twitter and to blog. But, I did not. I felt I had little to say or contribute, and was quite happy watching from the sidelines.
Late 2016 was when things changed. I joined Twitter, seeking answers for why the world was the way it was. I mostly lurked in the beginning, occasionally retweeting. I really wanted to know how to do school better for kids who looked like my own kids. As long as I had been teaching, things really hadn’t gotten better for kids of color, and specifically Black kids. I wanted, I needed, answers. And I looked for them on Twitter.
Yet, I didn’t see as much as I wanted. I thought it was me: Maybe I didn’t know who to follow, or maybe I just wasn’t on their radar, because surely, those people existed. So when I saw a tweet advertising TMC, it made sense to apply, to seek those answers from the very math community Graham had introduced me to years ago. It was held locally, so I could attend each day and go home each night. I got on the wait list, was selected, and was all set.
What I found was interesting. I managed to match faces to Twitter profiles, and many gave me friendly hellos (Hi, Hedge!) but I really knew no one. I admit I was surprised that there were not more educators of color, specifically Black educators in the space. I came during a time when people were talking about diversity, and the lack thereof, and confronting it. It was obvious that this conversation had been brewing for a while.
I’d come to TMC with a mission – to find out everything I could about teaching mathematics in a way that honors students of color, in a way that leads to liberation for us all. I thought, surely, TMC would have my answer. In short, I came to learn about combining mathematics with social justice.
I am still seeking those answers. From last year until now, I’ve done things I never thought I would do: writing blogs and collaborating with strangers. I am thankful for the examples of Grace Chen and José Vilson, to name a few, who have been centering the discussion of equity in mathematics for years. They each delivered a keynote here in the last two years, and I am here to continue what they, and others, have started.
So let’s get started. Measures of Center (or measures of central tendency) have a particular mathematical interpretation. The analysis of a data set, reducing it into one “typical” value, is useful to make judgments about that data and how it is used. As an elementary mathematics teacher, I’ll center the definitions as mean, median and mode. Of course, data sets are often asymmetrical and contain extreme values, which affect its center. Distributions of this sort can sometimes be described as skewed or even biased.
But I am advancing that our mathematical definitions are metaphors for many societal realities. The center is often what or who is valued, since it represents the entire data set. Often, by framing this measure of center, much of what is truly important disappears. In our discussion today we will encounter different frames of center.
Let’s look at the Sports Center. From a young age, my husband and I felt it was important to expose our children to sports. Teamwork, discipline, a sense of belonging to something bigger than yourself, and physical activity were very important to us, and we wanted this for our kids. They tried everything: ballet, gymnastics, soccer, tennis, basketball, baseball, softball, and swimming, but finally landing on football and volleyball, playing these throughout high school.
They each began at age 3, often following each other into said sports.
My daughter began volleyball in 6th grade in a recreation league. She decided to get fairly serious about it in 8th grade, and talked us into a travel club team. Once we moved back to our home state, she made the Freshman Team of her high school.
Now in volleyball, there are six main positions, and she was a pretty good hitter. The hitter is offense - a front row position, and is the last touch of the ball before going over the net. Optimally, the hitter should be tall and able to clear the net so that the ball is angled downward as it descends. As it turned out, she had a killer serve, and was a powerful hitter by freshman standards. They won their championship pretty easily.
In the high school off season, she wanted to again play for a club team. She set a goal for herself to make the Varsity Team the following year, and knew she would have to raise her competitive level. She worked hard, and she made Varsity as a sophomore, which was pretty unheard of, but eventually switched to a defense specialist or libero position, once she realized that she had reached her maximum height of 5’4”.
Here is her Varsity Team. Now, I’m going to ask you to notice and wonder here. Although her high school was diverse, volleyball was not. There were 3 Black girls on the team of 14. I was the Team Mom for her 3 years on the team. Do you think that mattered? I suppose I did what I had always done with my children. Because they were my center, I sensed that I would be needed to help navigate the microaggressions that may arise. I received some myself through those years, so I was able to model some strategies and foresee challenges.
As a libero, she was now a back row player, tasked with the first touch. In fact, it was her sole responsibility to “dig” balls, preventing them from hitting the floor, no matter how hard or how angled those balls were, often sacrificing her body to keep the ball in play, and get it to the setter. She enjoyed it. It’s often called the toughest position, but it is not one that receives glory. She would never be the one to score a kill or make a block, and would be blamed if the ball ever hit the floor.
Here is her Club Team. Again, I ask you to notice and wonder. Yes, I believe that she was far closer to these teammates than those on her school team because her racial identity was affirmed. They entered tournaments in which they were the only Black team, and won. They faced microaggressions here, but they faced them together, and with their families.
The “norm” for volleyball in our region was white players. This team would also have 3 years together, winning tournaments, going to Nationals, and playing in the Junior Olympics.
My son played as both an offensive and defensive lineman from a young age, but when he got older, he switched to offense as a center. So, similar to my daughter, he had the first touch of the ball. It was his responsibility to snap the ball to the quarterback, enabling others to make plays. Again, the center, although also often called the most important offensive position, is not one of glory. But he was my center. I would watch him first, then the ball later.
And the same with my daughter. For me, I was in awe of the precision they both had to have to do their jobs as they watched their teammates score. What a responsibility – and a lesson in humility.
As their mom, I centered them in sports. Yes, I paid attention to the game and to the other players, but if I am honest, I always had my kids as the center. My focus wasn’t on the score, the running backs, the hitters. I still saw them, but they weren’t my focus. Why is that important? If I hadn’t centered them, then who would? If I didn’t look for their moments of greatness, who would? If I wasn’t their biggest cheerleader, fan, coach, then who would be?
Like his sister, my son made Varsity as a sophomore. Their state championships came before he got there, but they reached the playoffs each year. Many of his teammates went on to Division I scholarships, as did my daughter’s club teammates. My daughter decided not to continue volleyball in college, but my son did decide to become a college athlete.
For us, his choice is a practical one. He still gets to continue a sport he loves, and is in an excellent college that offers what he needs and wants: a small campus, small class sizes, and a coaching staff who recognizes his talent, commitment and intelligence. I look forward to another season, and I will be at every game.
My husband and I consciously chose to center our children in their Blackness. I know what it feels like to be the only one in a classroom, the only one in the high group. You are torn because you are proud of your accomplishment, but sad to be treated as the exception. After some years, you find the words to match your feelings and you are determined that your children will not experience that. You do everything in your power to give them a firm internal center that can be leaned upon when the teacher doubts their ability.
We wanted positive Black role models for them, and sought out a primarily Black professional neighborhood in which everyone knew their neighbors. And for 11 years, we had just that. It was often the case that on any given Saturday morning, we would find our son playing next door with his “best friend” who was like a grandfather to him. Indeed, he and his wife served as surrogate grandparents to them, watching each of them during school hours from birth to school age. Weekends and holidays were often spent with them and other neighbors. We celebrated in each others’ successes. We even vacationed with them.
Their preschool and elementary years were spent with primarily Black teachers and among Black children. My daughter played with Black dolls. At the mall, grocery, pediatrician, and everywhere in our community, they were around Black people. This was their center. This was their normal. We never thought about it much, but our children had little in-person involvement with non-Black people. Yet, they were socialized just the same. Every checkout aisle contained magazines with white faces. The television and movies they consumed rarely featured Black children as main characters. Our decision was therefore necessary to counter those influences. It was this immersion that set their foundation for years to come and would steel them from the hurdles I had faced, I hoped.
This was fine until work relocated us to another state, and we were faced with attempting to recreate this “normal” in our nation’s capital. It was a challenge, but we settled upon an Eastern suburbia. We ended up in a place that offered the best we could find of both worlds: a track record of demonstrated academic achievement (yes, through test scores, because that was the only measure of which I could go on), among a diversity of students and faculty.
My son came to school with me, and we were both in third grade, but in different classes. Watching him navigate among students of different races was hard at times. Finding friends when he was among the few Black kids in the high group was difficult. And, this gregarious child who had never had trouble finding friends before seemed to be floundering. This was his first white teacher as well, my teammate, who never really made a connection with him.
The next year, I became the gifted teacher, teaching mathematics to students who qualified through testing. Sam had not been recommended for testing by his previous teacher, but the fourth grade teacher did. He qualified, and in fifth grade, he was my student. I wish I could say he loved being in my class. I know I loved having him. But, there was a certain pressure for him to prove he earned his spot that he never got over. He had made friends through sports, but not school. I hoped for a better middle school experience.
My daughter began middle school on her own, and had to prove herself academically as well. Underestimated at first, she was taught by Black and white teachers who genuinely loved her. She formed tight friendships that continue today.
Another job change brought us back to the original state. Our once ideal neighborhood had drastically changed in the 3 years we were gone. The recession proved devastating. We chose a different community similar to the one we had just left.
But, they discovered that things would not be the same and their choices were no longer ideal. My daughter continued to excel in high school, but would not have any more Black teachers. She kept to herself mostly at school, and found her community among her club volleyball team. Microaggressions from teachers, classmates and school teammates were the new normal.
Middle school was tough for my son. Known for academics, it was a particularly harsh place for students of color. His seventh year was the worst. By second semester, his grades had plummeted and he seemed to always be in trouble at school. He was on “that” team known for harming students of color, especially Black males. Being new parents, we did not know this. Our son tried to handle things himself, but nothing worked. For fear of not being believed, he did not tell us when it first happened. Two team meetings later, we came to an agreement. The teachers most responsible for the abuse backed off. But the damage had been done.
In high school, my son became a social butterfly, fully embracing his underachiever jock role. Although the school was diverse, the football team was overwhelmingly Black. He had found social comfort again, and was tired of playing the school game. He did just enough to appease his father and I.
Both are in college now, out of state, and doing well academically. They survived. I wonder what would it have taken so that they had a good experience throughout.
Shortly after I joined the world of Twitter, the movie, Hidden Figures was released. How many of you have seen the movie? Anxiously awaiting it, I viewed it early, in December, shortly after Christmas. Like so many, I was struck by this important mathematical and cultural history that was new to me. I went to Twitter to read all the tweets about how wonderful the movie was, yet there were few. I told myself that this must be because I had viewed the movie in one of the cities that released the film earlier. I wanted to process it with a mathematical lens. I told myself that I would have to wait until the movie was released more widely across the country. Surely then, the MTBoS would weigh in.
I have alluded to this a few times on Twitter, and I don’t mean to reduce anyone’s contribution. Please hear me. This is my perception as a person new to MTBoS who was specifically looking for something I felt missing from my teaching.
The reaction, in my interpretation, was indeed a reaction to this hidden history. It was a joyous one: we now had proof of the labor of Black women in mathematics and engineering, occurring during the Civil Rights Movement no less. The focus seemed to be on the importance of representation, which, I agree is essential. There were field trips to movie theaters, research projects, and even living museums. Yet, I was looking for something more. What I wanted was for someone to say, “Ah! Math is political!” But that never came. I will try to explain.
Hidden Figures is based on the work of Margot Lee Shetterly, who has chronicled a nonfiction account of the stories of Black female mathematicians of the Langley Research Center in Virginia, which would later become NASA. They were called computers, who performed calculations largely by hand. There were 2 groups of computers, of course, since segregation was the law of the land. When the call goes out to recruit a computer specifically for the Space Task Group, an all White, all male group, Katherine Goble Johnson, depicted here as played by Taraji P Henson, is assigned.
Here we have the intersection of mathematics and politics. Computing is seen as menial work and is therefore relegated to women. And, there are separate classes of women, which necessitates their segregation. Many of the characters in the movie are composites of others, but there is a significant attention to authenticity I find compelling. I found myself asking: How many other Katherine Johnsons are there that I don’t know about?
As Johnson impresses her supervisor, despite the daily micro- and macroaggressions on the job, composite character Al Harrison gives her an insight into his thinking. He says:
“Look beyond the numbers. Look around and through them. Answer questions we don’t even know to ask. The math that doesn’t exist. Because without it we’re not going anywhere. And then we’re staying on the ground. We’re not flying into space. We’re not circling the earth and we’re certainly not touching the moon. And in my mind, I’m already there. Are you?”
This is such a rich bit of dialogue that begs to be unpacked.
Look beyond the numbers. Look around and through them. Answer questions we don’t even know to ask. The math that doesn’t exist.
Isn’t this what we want for our students? To not just regurgitate an algorithm, but to imagine, to innovate?
Because without it, we’re not going anywhere.
An acknowledgement that this innovation is our future.
In my mind, I’m already there. Are you?
The ultimate challenge is presented. We want our students to see beyond – to visualize in order for this to happen.
Yet, there is another layer here that exists, if you choose to decenter systems:
To look beyond is to look past our current oppressive systems in school.
To look around and through them. To find the math, or the ways to rehumanize education, that doesn’t yet exist. To find a way for students of color to see themselves in our curriculum. To see themselves as capable and innovative.
This line really hit me. This is the imagining, isn’t it?
In my mind, I am already there.
My kids and their kids are receiving a humanizing education that liberates and affirms their racial identity in all its ways.
Of what oppressive systems do I speak, you ask?
Reading the book Black Stats this year with the MTBoS book club that Annie Perkins started, we became keenly aware that from many viewpoints, Black citizens in this country fare nearly the worst on any measure. Our public schools are mostly Black, Indigenous and Students of Color (BISOC), yet it is those students whose scores are lowest, who are retained at higher rates, who are the least likely to be enrolled in gifted or enrichment classes, and are the most likely to be suspended.
I know we have all heard the reasons for this, but, unless you believe that BISOC are inherently less gifted, less capable, and more behaviorally challenged than White students, then you must admit that there is something wrong with this picture. Putting it another way, if you are okay with these statistics, then you are accepting this as your normal, your center. No, it is not a matter of poverty and economics. Study after study show that when compared at equivalent levels of family income, the same patterns exist. The same sad statistics are found in health, the environment, sports, entertainment, justice, lifestyle, the military, money, jobs, politics, and science and technology. It is eye-opening. I encourage to read this text if you have not already.
Last year, Grace gave an excellent keynote about the question of mathematics being political. In analyzing this movie, I find a curious juxtaposition of the themes of patriotism vs. oppression. The patriotism is expressed through the seeking of new mathematics, and it is in the backdrop of the oppression of some of those tapped to seek it. The irony is astounding, if you allow yourself to decenter the white norm enough to see it.
“We can’t get anywhere without the numbers.” To be more clear, they couldn’t seem to get anywhere without the numbers of Black women.
The scene on the left is when the John Glenn and the astronauts are paraded among the NASA employees in a great moment of patriotism. On the right, the very next scene shows Johnson discovering a new coffee pot just for her, reminiscent of separate but equal.
Time and time again, we see that Johnson is expected to perform her patriotic duty by doing the math, while that very task is increasingly made difficult - literally hiding some of the information from the calculations she is to check, segregated bathrooms, etc. Did this discussion go into the Hidden Figures units put forth by the mathematics educators community? Was this part not important to discuss with students – how the racist acts of yesterday were overcome, but exist in new forms today? Did you ask any of your students if they could relate?
Maybe this does exist in the curriculum. Maybe I missed those conversations. But it’s what I wanted to discuss then, and now. I think our students can handle critical analysis. Don’t they need to be prepared? Our children deserve the truth, and the truth includes our racist past and present.
As Dr. Erika Bullock has written, this lack of discussion amounts to figure-hiding. Johnson had to fight to be seen and not hidden. Are you hiding your own students? Or, if you do not teach students of color, are you assuming their absence in mathematics?
The movie next goes to the story of Dorothy Vaughn, as portrayed by Octavia Spencer. Vaughn sees that human calculators are being phased out, and notices the IBM coming. Her supervisor, composite character Mrs. Mitchell replies, “You all should be thankful you have jobs at all.”
That response also seems familiar: Black people hear often we should be thankful segregation is no longer the law of the land. If we are in private school, we should be thankful, or we should be thankful that we aren’t in “that” class. No regard to the system of inequality that exists, or that segregation still exists. Or isolation, dehumanization, or microaggressions exist.
In the next scene, we see Vaughn and her 2 sons walking to the library. They pass protest marchers fighting against their segregated city. Once inside, she is approached by the librarian who quickly asks her to leave because she is in the white section. We should note that she is in the white section to read a book that is not in hers - one on Fortran, which she will need to say ahead of the computer layoffs. Vaughn refuses at first, then is “helped” out by a police officer, but not before she hides the book under her coat.
We then see her reading the book, on the back of the segregated bus with her sons, when one asks if she has stolen it. Her reply is classic resistance: she says that as a taxpayer, she pays for the use of the book. The camera then goes to a picture of a colored vs a white fountain. She says, “Separate and equal are two different things. Just ‘cause it’s the way doesn’t make it right.”
So much to teach here:
Vaughn goes on to teach herself Fortran, and the Black women she works with, finally earning the supervisor role she has been fighting for.
Some quotes that are heard in the background. JFK speaks of the moon. Is racism harder to tackle than travelling to the moon?
A poignant quote from MLK. I think we as educators need to really ponder this to see if we believe it. If not, what are we doing?
At this point, we learn of the story of Mary Jackson, as played by Janelle Monae. When asked by her supervisor if she would want to be an engineer if she were a white male, she answers with the famous line, “I wouldn’t have to. I’d already be one.” She ends up petitioning the court for permission to attend an extension class only offered at a segregated white high school. She does attend the class, and continues the road to becoming an engineer.
She does so by also demonstrating strategic thinking in her exchange with the judge, and resisting the current state of affairs becoming the first Black female engineer at NASA.
As Katherine is depended upon more and more, she is frustrated that her calculations are obsolete soon after she submits them. She requests a seat at the table as changes occur to improve her accuracy. Her demands eventually are met, since her work is impeccable.
Upon proving her mathematical prowess, she compiles reports of her work, only for a man’s name to be listed as the solo author. She resists by typing both names, and each time is reprimanded for doing so. Toward the movie’s end, she is allowed to list her name along with her supervisor’s. We could speak to students about authorship and the right to original ideas. Is this not important in math class?
All 3 of these women were firsts in mathematics, computer science, and engineering. And they didn’t get there by being passive. Each was able to assert themselves to disrupt in ways that they could, although not without consequences. This is the history that must be acknowledged to our students – that even in mathematics, all is not equal.
So here’s the thing. It is amazing to me that we can look at the same movie yet see very different things. The reaction and message I interpreted from mtbos was this: There are many mathematicians of color we don’t yet know about. How can we help students discover them so that they see themselves in the mathematics?
My response was that PLUS:
What would’ve happened if more Black mathematicians were in the Space Task Group? How many brilliant mathematicians were missed? Could we have gotten to the moon faster? Do we hide budding mathematicians today?
It’s everywhere in the movie. If you decenter yourself, can you see?
Why aren’t we embracing those that look different than ourselves? Isn’t it in our collective best interest? Why can’t we see the gift – the necessity – of sharing the power?
If you are standing by while students of color continually lack access to great teaching, then you are modelling compliance for all of your students. Our kids need us to speak up and disrupt or at least interrogate what is going on. Are you waiting for permission?
If you are in a school with no students of color, are you interrogating that? Why do you have none? If you teach with no teachers of color, are you interrogating that? You either believe that our education needs all voices or you don’t. You either believe that if some of those voices were no longer hidden figures, we would all benefit, or you don’t. Can we really reach the figurative moon without all of our voices? Or are you teaching your students, your colleagues, your children, that only some of us are smart enough to get there?
Representation is important. I was talking to a friend about this talk last week and I mentioned that I saw a connection between Hidden Figures and mathematics education. She got quiet. She admitted being emotional as she pondered her school experience and her family history. She asked me to show you this, because it matters. This is her Nana, who was the first Black female math education student at the University of South Florida. This one is for Val.
I know much of this history is new. It is definitely new to me. It is new because it has been hidden. That’s what makes the MTBoS book club so powerful. We chip at these books one by one, so that we can decenter the lies we have been told in our schooling.
We need to improve our racial fluency. We are good with the numbers, just not good with each other yet. Lean into your discomfort. Ask yourself what you are feeling. Decenter yourself and listen to those who find themselves at the margins. Imagine their point of view.
Decentering self is a lifelong journey, but it must be done for our students and for all of us. To revisit the Harrison quote, like Jackson, we have got to look beyond. Like Vaughn, we have to ask the questions we don’t even know to ask. Like Johnson, we must invent the math that doesn’t exist. Because without it we’re not going anywhere.
I don’t want any more dehumanizing mathematics. I reject teaching this way. I imagine all my students seeing themselves without limit in the mathematics.
In my mind, I’m already there.