I have a confession to make: I went out on a school night a few months ago.
The Carib Biz Network and Little Haiti BK co-hosted Island Icons: A Haitian Heritage Celebration, an event celebrating people of Haitian descent making an impact in their spheres. I witnessed the atmosphere vibrate in Kreyol and English tongues, appetizers and drinks flowing, Black people in multi-colored garb around tightly fit tables. It was great just to be in the room.
As a participant, I still had that nagging feeling from my youth when I couldn’t communicate with the other Vilsons because I never even learned French, much less Kreyol. But the grown-up took over and I said to myself, “Actually, this moment is a gift.”
Little did I know that this event, a personified spectrum of the Haitian diaspora, would be so relevant now. As a presidential candidate and his vice presidential nominee spew hatred about Haitians (again), it matters how we meet the moment. Some have decided to inundate our social media feeds with memes. Others have dodged the question altogether with vague calls for what democracy we have left. Yet, we should consider how building community is about belonging and the credentials, norms, and values to achieve membership within the community.
Really, as so many of our schools demonstrate, polarization looks like pushing more and more people out from a visible mainstream. People of Haitian descent know it too well. America can do better, especially from our classrooms.
On multiple occasions, I’ve advanced the idea of teachers as the vanguard of society. For better or worse, teachers are some of the first adults in a child’s life who transmit a society’s values to present and future citizens. So, when justice organizers advocate for a culturally responsive sustaining curriculum, it isn’t just for a small set of students, but for everyone.
As much as I appreciate groups learning about themselves, we need opportunities for everyone to learn about each other. The ostensibly neutral curriculum still minimizes slavery, colonization, misogyny, ableism, and a litany of injustices that students deserve to know about.
After all, if we keep putting off addressing and redressing these injustices to the future, shouldn’t the future know what we’re putting off?
Of course it makes sense that schools were the first buildings that received bomb threats after Trump’s and Vance’s comments. In a recent article, Roxane Gay argued that the point of these attacks is to make life in Springfield, Ohio, and the United States, unbearable.
Much of the anti-immigrant narrative from people across the political spectrum endeavors to achieve the same goal. Campaign ads come across our screens attaching darker-skinned people to violence. Mayors and governors refer to them as a problem to solve, pointing to other politicians above and below them rather than pivoting toward a humanity-based response. Candidates and pundits drum up crises at the border without naming the numerous benefits corporations and governments receive from unpaid labor to this day. And public schools, one of our country’s most enduring social safety nets, receive immigrants regardless of their status.
This nexus of ideas makes it so immigrants, particularly “undesirable” ones, can rotate in and out of this country without assurances of any sort.
Even now, some schools and districts have opted for strategies that undermine a more inclusive vision for public schools. Some educators have lumped together any students they’ve deemed as “outsider” and diminished their expectations altogether. Some superintendents have tried to limit how many newly arrived students they receive in their schools even as student retention in large, urban districts has dipped. Not coincidentally, the more quickly a school district diversifies, the more likely it is to pass anti-truth laws.
Some of the anti-immigrant smoke is coming from right inside our schools.
But there are educators who, through connection and/or conscience, have decided to step up to the challenge. Within that group, I would include my family. Because I didn’t grow up with my father, I hadn’t learned that three of my father’s brothers were educators until I was well within my tenure. (The fourth was a political activist.) My paternal grandmother prized education, as did the rest of the Haitian side of my family within my grandmother’s perimeter. Juliot Vilson, my father, studied abroad and spoke four languages well. My Haitian classmates at Syracuse University knew more about the history of the Dominican Republic than many of my Dominican classmates.
Recently, my cousin Vanessa said, “I’ve always learned that, if I was ever lost in life and needed guidance, I needed to go back to school.” And I did.
On my late father’s birthday (September 17), I got a note from Columbia University certifying my doctorate in philosophy. While it was cause for celebration among my people, I noted so few of us had achieved this title. I also recognized how my newfound title continues to flabbergast too many others. At the aforementioned event, the hosts (shout-outs to Nicole Grimes and Stephanie Delia!) asked us to introduce ourselves. Each person stood up and only proffered one of their jobs and titles. Yet, after a few cheers and laughs, it was evident that participants couldn’t help themselves. These people who fulfilled important societal roles also happened to be proudly Haitian. They didn’t see themselves as elite or special, but people who were offered opportunities to represent their people.
More than anything, we were grateful for a space where we understood our achievements as only a subset of our possibilities. No one was surprised or suspicious that we could do what we do. We had a space where we didn’t have to explain ourselves for a few hours.
José Luis Vilson is a veteran educator, writer, speaker, and activist in New York City.
