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What does it mean to teach when the truth itself is being outlawed?
For generations, Black educators have answered that question not by retreating—but by resisting. Not by complying—but by creating what Jarvis R. Givens calls fugitive pedagogy: forms of teaching that slip past the watchful eyes of power, that nurture critical consciousness even when the state demands silence. We know about this tradition not only through memory, but through the records educators left behind. The Black Teacher Archive, a collection of lesson plans, letters, and classroom materials from Black educators, reveals how teachers challenged the limits placed on what could be taught. These documents show that even when constrained by racist curricula, Black teachers found ways to expand their students’ understanding of history, identity, and possibility. This tradition begins in the most dangerous of places: the plantation. Under slavery, teaching Black people to read was illegal across the South. Education was seen as a direct threat to the U.S. system of white supremacy. And yet, enslaved people learned anyway—often in secret, often at great risk. One of the most powerful examples comes from Lilly Ann Granderson, who was born into slavery in Virginia in 1812 and later taken to Mississippi. Under a system that criminalized Black literacy, Granderson did not simply resist—she organized. Her school did not meet during the day. It could not. Instead, classes began at midnight, tucked away in a hidden room off a back alley, far from the eyes of enslavers who understood that literacy was a threat to their power. The school was small by necessity—never more than a dozen students at a time—but it was constantly in motion. Students entered quietly and left with something far more dangerous: the ability to read and write. When they had learned enough, they made way for others. In this way, Granderson’s classroom functioned as a rotating underground network of learning. Over time, she taught hundreds. And what her students did with that knowledge reveals why her work was so subversive. Some used their literacy to forge travel passes—documents that could mean the difference between bondage and freedom. In a society built on controlling knowledge, her classroom was an act of organized defiance. After the Civil War, that struggle did not end—it transformed. Black educators built schools across the South during Reconstruction, often in the face of white supremacist violence. These classrooms became spaces where newly freed people could claim knowledge that had long been denied to them. Education was central to the broader struggle for political and economic rights, and Black teachers stood at the heart of that movement. By the early 20th century, the terrain of struggle had shifted again—from access to schooling to the content of what was being taught. In Washington, D.C., educator and activist Mary Church Terrell helped lead celebrations of Frederick Douglass’s birthday—moments that teachers used to introduce students to Black history absent from official textbooks. Building on this tradition, Carter G. Woodson expanded the idea into a national movement. Recognizing that Black history had been systematically erased or distorted, Woodson launched Negro History Week in 1926 through the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History. What had been localized efforts like Douglass Day became a coordinated intervention across schools. Woodson provided teachers with materials, texts, and guidance—and educators across the country took it up. In classrooms nationwide, they carved out time to teach histories that had been denied, turning Negro History Week into a collective act of reclaiming memory. By the mid-20th century, this tradition took on new forms in the fight against Jim Crow. Consider Septima Clark, often called the “Mother of the Movement.” Clark understood that literacy was not neutral—it was power. When South Carolina banned NAACP membership for public employees, she refused to renounce her beliefs and was fired from her teaching job. But losing her position did not stop her teaching—it transformed it. Clark helped build the Citizenship Schools, where Black adults learned to read, write, and pass literacy tests—not just to vote, but to understand and challenge the world around them. These were not just schools; they were incubators of democracy. In those classrooms, education became a tool of liberation, not compliance. That vision would expand even further during the Civil Rights Movement. In 1964, during Freedom Summer, activists in Mississippi reimagined what schooling itself could be. At the center of that vision was Charlie Cobb of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), who first proposed the idea of Freedom Schools. Cobb believed that young people needed more than access to segregated and underfunded institutions—they needed an education that helped them understand their history, question injustice, and see themselves as agents of change. The Freedom Schools did exactly that. Students studied Black history, debated political questions, wrote about their own experiences, and imagined new futures. Education was no longer about fitting into the world as it was—it was about transforming it. Across each of these eras, we see the same pattern: when official systems of education are designed to maintain inequality, Black educators create alternative spaces that tell the truth. This is the essence of fugitive pedagogy. It insists that education is not about memorizing what power deems acceptable, but about developing the capacity to question, to analyze, and to imagine a different world. And that tradition is alive. Today, educators face a new wave of repression: laws banning the teaching of systemic racism, attacks on ethnic studies, and efforts to erase the histories of Black, Indigenous, and LGBTQ+ people. These are what Jesse Hagopian has called “truthcrime laws”—policies that attempt to criminalize the act of teaching honestly. But just as in earlier eras, these efforts are being met with resistance. Teachers are finding ways to bring in primary sources, to ask critical questions, to create classrooms where students can grapple with the contradictions of this country. They are organizing teach-ins, building networks of solidarity, and refusing to let fear dictate their practice. In other words, they are carrying forward the tradition of radical Black educators. This tradition teaches us something essential: the struggle over education is not just about curriculum—it is about power. Who gets to define knowledge? Whose stories are told? And what kind of society are we preparing young people to build? Radical Black educators have always answered these questions with clarity. They have insisted that education must be rooted in truth, oriented toward justice, and committed to collective liberation. And they have shown us that even under the most repressive conditions, teaching the truth is still possible. As Septima Clark reminded us, “We need to be taught to study rather than to believe, to inquire rather than to affirm.” Jesse Hagopian
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Black villages have always been deeply rooted in Black culture. For generations, we have taken difficult circumstances and transformed them into spaces of warmth, care, and belonging—places we could truly call home. In the face of adversity, we built strong communities and chosen families, passing down knowledge, values, and traditions that taught each new generation how to continue building and sustaining these villages.
The power of Black community has never gone unnoticed. In fact, it has often been seen as a threat. This is reflected in the destruction of thriving Black communities throughout history—from the Tulsa Race Massacre in Oklahoma to the devastation of the Rosewood Massacre. These events sought to dismantle not just physical spaces but also the spirit of unity and self-sufficiency that defined them. And yet, despite this history of harm, Black communities continue to rise. Today, we still see powerful examples of Black excellence and connection in places like Ladera Heights—often called “Black Beverly Hills”—as well as Bowie and Woodmore. These communities represent more than affluence; they reflect a legacy of resilience, pride, and intentional community-building. At its core, the concept of the Black village is about more than geography—it lives in people. It’s in how we show up for one another, how we create safe and affirming spaces, and how we continue to invest in each other’s growth and success. That sense of community cannot be destroyed by hate. It is carried in our hearts, passed through generations, and rebuilt time and time again. As we bring Black Lives Matter principles into our schools, we are reminded that fostering community, uplifting one another, and honoring our shared humanity are essential. The legacy of Black villages teaches us that when we center care, connection, and collective strength, we create environments where everyone has the opportunity to thrive. No matter the challenges, the Black community has always found a way—not just to rebuild, but to grow stronger, more unified, and even more resilient than before. Klay Akeredolu-Weaver This year, as we prepare for the Black Lives Matter at School Week of Action, we honor a truth: education for Black freedom has never existed without a backlash. From enslaved people risking their lives to teach children letters in secret, to Reconstruction teachers facing arson, to Jim Crow educators nurturing Black intellectual life despite surveillance and threats—Black education has always required courage, creativity, and strategy. Historian Jarvis Givens calls this “fugitive pedagogy”—teaching that refuses domination and insists Black children deserve truth and dignity. Today, educators again face gag orders, book bans, intimidation, and what we call truth crime laws designed to punish honest teaching. We recognize the fear and the real risk. And still, we teach. But we do so with strategy and imagination, knowing there is not one way to participate in Black Lives Matter at School. There are many righteous ways to take part
In places where the law criminalizes honesty, participation may look different—but no less powerful. For some that could mean moving learning beyond school walls—organizing Freedom School programs, community teach-ins, and public education spaces outside of the school day. What matters is that we stay in motion together. Whether loudly or quietly, inside classrooms or beyond them, we are part of a long lineage of educators, students, families, and communities who refuse to surrender truth, memory, love, or the right of Black children to learn fully and freely. There is room for everyone in this movement.
Choose the path that keeps you safe, honors your community, and keeps the work alive. Black lives still matter. Black truth still matters. Black education will continue no matter what the lawbook says. ~ Jesse Assata Shakur is the blueprint of what the power of a Black woman looks like. She refused to allow the never-ending misogyny of this world to keep her from living life and fighting in a world that looks down on our Black women. She escaped from prison and was able to die a free woman in Havana, Cuba, among people who knew protecting this queen was the mission the universe had for them. She was, and always will be, a revolutionary to spark the fire in those of us who are ready to walk in the footsteps she left behind.
"I am about life. I'm going to live as hard as I can and as full as I can until I die, and I'm not letting these parasites, these oppressors, these greedy racist swine, make me kill my children in my mind before they are even born." Her words are so bold and powerful, and needed right now, given how society talks about our children, their future, and even our lives, as if they have no meaning. It is up to us to let our children know that we write our stories without the edits of others. We can’t allow them to write our stories without our voices, and she is the example that no matter what, you fight for your people, your future, your legacy, because we do it all for our future generations. She is now the ancestor I aspire to be when I pass on, knowing that when people speak my name, there is power and inspiration behind it. She will truly be missed. ~ Klay “Capitalism meant that rich businessmen owned the wealth, while socialism meant that the people who made the wealth owned it." Assata came to that understanding through lived experience. As a young girl moving from segregated North Carolina to New York, she was promised a “better” education—only to face daily humiliation from white teachers who refused to see her. She wrote about one formative moment at P.S. 154 in Queens, when her teacher called her to the chalkboard to write the letter “L”. “I wrote my pitiful little second grade L on the blackboard. After looking at me and nodding, she made a big, fancy L next to mine. ‘Is this what you’re trying to make, JoAnne?’ Her expression was smug and the whole class broke out laughing. I wanted to go somewhere and hide… After that, it seemed that every time I mentioned something I had learned down South she got mad. She never saw my raised hand.” This was Northern “integration”: the same racist hierarchy in a new geography. As Assata reflected: “I’m not saying that segregation was a good system… But Black children encountered support and understanding and encouragement instead of the hostile indifference they often met in the ‘integrated’ schools.” Assata’s life reminds us that the fight for just schools is inseparable from the fight against the economic systems that exploit Black labor and suppress Black potential. Her passing is a profound loss, but her lessons—about dignity, truth, and collective struggle —remain a guiding force for our work. May she rest in power, and may we honor her by continuing the fight she helped define. ~ Jesse Restorative Justice Practices are connected to the world we strive to achieve when it comes to creating liberatory spaces. But what do we truly know about liberation? The concept of restorative justice comes from social justice and its connection to incarceration. Incarceration, or imprisonment, is basically the opposite of liberation. I have participated in all the different trainings and led teams and workshops on Restorative Justice Practices. But, I also know that it is a way of life that completely goes against our human nature and systemic structures. This is why so many schools are not successful in their full implementation. Recently, I have been questioning and pondering on if it truly works. And the answer is yes, and. Anything that provides space for us to simply pause and think, pause and be still, or simply be is a good habit to learn.
This is not simply a way to deal with problems and make sure everyone is heard. It is also a good time to recognize harm to determine if that harm should continue. It is not simply a blanket apology wrapped up in a holistic bow. It is now a box to be checked off when you make your new DEI goals. It is the time to have actual conversations with active listening, and not simply waiting to speak. It is the time to face your ignorance and your wisdom. It is the time to step up and step back. It is time to sit with someone in silence. To simply observe what is not being said, and when words fail you. It should be proactive and not reactive. It is not the time for someone to be right and someone to be wrong, but rather a space for honesty and kindness. But, never kindness for the sake of being kind, or even worse, simply because one is fearful to share their truth. Or even worse, using the space to have a trauma-induced response. There are other and better spaces for that work. Restorative Practices are not it. THIS is liberation. THIS is being free. THIS is rare because many of us have been taught to simply exist and seldom taught to thrive and breathe freely. If you are in a space that feels wrong or toxic, then know that you are not in a restorative justice space. Leave immediately. |
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