WE COULD ALL USE A REMINDER THAT REPRESENTATION MATTERS
We hear “representation matters” a lot, but sometimes I think we could use a reminder about why.
I love speaking to young Black students. When I stand in front of their class, we have an immediate rapport. They remind me of myself, and I remind them they can be anything they put their minds to. But far too often I hear back, “I can’t.”
Sometimes, they see barriers: not feeling smart enough, where they grew up, what they look like or who they are related to. I’ve heard this feedback often from children in cities where I’ve lived and worked. It’s difficult to hear, but it also inspires me to share my story.
Like a lot of these kids, I’m from humble beginnings. My family is from Arkansas — a state where, funny enough, some of the kids don’t believe Black people live. Now they’re looking at this Black woman whom they’ve seen on their local TV news, and I can tell they’re intrigued; they see themselves in me. But I haven’t completely won them over yet, especially the middle and high schoolers. But I like challenges, so I go deeper. I tell them how I grew up in a singleparent household, how my father had a stroke when I was young and was severely disabled. I tell them my mother worked as a security guard overnight and a school aide at my elementary school during the day. She had no other choice — we were poor and she wanted to be involved in our education and earn money. I can usually tell at this point that I’ve gained some attention in the classroom, but I like to ensure I make an impact. So I tell them about my days as a student. I think as adults we forget the pressures of growing up, especially if you’re a kid who doesn’t have much.
I ask kids what they wear on the first day of school. Some students get excited and talk about outfits they’ve planned; others are quiet. I tell them on my first day of seventh grade, I wore a D.A.R.E. T-shirt and hand-me-down Dickies shorts that were too big. That usually gets a big laugh. But they also know I was “that” girl. Being “that” girl means I would probably struggle finding new friends to sit with at lunch.
How does “that” girl from school grow to be the woman on TV, is the question I believe they’re asking at this point.
I tell them I was — and still am — a huge Whitney Houston fan. They usually know how Whitney’s life ended, but they rarely know the glorious start she had. (R.I.P., Whitney.) Whitney was like Beyoncé to little girls. But eventually she served as a cautionary tale for me because people in my own family have struggled with drug use, too.
Now that they’re listening, I bring it home. I tell them about my brother who is incarcerated. By now, the kids understand my point: Yes, there may be roadblocks, but if you work hard and make good choices, you can manage your way around them to be anything you want to be. I decided on, and my mom reinforced, “going to college and getting an education.” She said this so much, I was the first person in my family to go to college. All because she told me I can.
I don’t mind being honest about my life’s story.
My willingness to be vulnerable with students, I hope, leads to emboldening them to live out their wildest dreams. I may not reach all of them, but if I can say or do something that helps one of them reach for the stars, I want to do it. That’s the importance of representation. That’s why it matters.
Pamela Smith was a weekend TV news anchor when I was growing up in Little Rock, Ark. She was the only Black woman on local TV that I remember at that time. And then there was Oprah. Simply seeing both of those women in those roles let me know that I might have a shot at doing the same.
Like Beyoncé said, “If my country ass can do it, they can do it.” Because representation matters.
I hope my willingness to be vulnerable with students emboldens them to live out their wildest dreams.