Resisting Hatred, Teaching Truth

I teach African American history at Miami Norland Senior High, a Title I school in Miami Gardens. My students are brilliant, thoughtful and deeply aware of the world around them. They also know what it feels like to be erased. They know what it’s like to grow up in a state where teaching their history is under attack.

And yet, they want to know the truth. They ask the hard questions. They refuse to look away.

That day in class, after regaining my voice, I didn’t try to offer an easy answer. Instead, I turned the question back to them: “What do you think?”

Slowly, hands went up. “They wanted to keep us afraid.” “They needed us to be at the bottom.” “They were scared of us fighting back.” And then, another voice: “But we’re still here.”

Yes. We’re still here.

That’s why I teach. That’s why I fight for my students to have access to the full, unfiltered truth — because their stories, their history, their lives matter. And that’s exactly what some people fear the most.

I’ve always believed that storytelling is a form of resistance. That’s why, this year, my students are working on a project called The Danger of a Single Story — Miami Gardens Edition. They’re using photography to push back against the narrow, damaging narratives about their community. Miami Gardens is often dismissed as “Murder Gardens” because of the crime rate here, but my students know better. They’re capturing the joy, the culture, the resilience of their city — things that don’t make the headlines. Each student will present four to five photos alongside an artist’s statement, reclaiming their own narrative.

This is what teaching the truth looks like. It’s not just about history — it’s about agency. It’s about making sure students see themselves as part of the story.

Florida’s political climate has made it clear: Some people want this work to stop. The Department of Education is under threat. Federal funding for programs like Title I, which supports schools like mine, is on the chopping block.

If we lose federal funding, we lose a lot of support for the teachers and students at my school. And if the attacks on inclusive education continue, we risk something even greater: the erasure of our students’ histories and futures.

When students don’t see themselves in the curriculum, they disengage. They start to believe that their stories don’t matter. And that is exactly the outcome some lawmakers want.

I refuse to let that happen. I’ve been told that teaching African American history is “too political.” That creating space for honest conversations about race and power is “divisive.” That making students feel seen is somehow a threat.

I don’t buy it. Education has always been political. Deciding whose stories get told and whose don’t is political. Restricting books, banning lessons, silencing teachers — it’s all part of the same fight.

That’s why, in October 2023, I flew to Geneva, Switzerland, to testify before the United Nations Human Rights Committee. I told them what’s happening in Florida. I told them how new laws are making it harder to teach the truth. I told them how my students — who deserve an honest, empowering education — are being denied that right.

And I will keep speaking out. I will keep teaching. Because my students deserve more than watered-down history. They deserve the truth.

That day in fourth period, after my students talked through their own answers to the question — “Why do they hate us so much?” — we kept going. We talked about resilience. About the strength of Black communities. About the fact that our history is not just one of oppression, but one of power, resistance and survival.

And then, just before the bell rang, that same student who had asked the impossible question said, “We need this class.”

Yes. We need this class. And no matter what laws are passed, no matter how much they try to silence the truth, I will keep teaching it. Because if we don’t, who will?

Republished with permission from AFT Voices.