Appreciation: An Ode To My First Black Teacher

Photo by Barry Zhou on Unsplash

This is the first teacher appreciation week of my adult life that I am not being lavished with coffee, mugs, and free Bibibop. Having been an instructional assistant or a teacher for the past 16 years of my life, it’s strange to not participate. It’s odd to not be in the classroom. I owe so much of who I am as a person to being an educator. I wouldn’t have been an educator without the guidance of some incredible human beings.

A couple years ago I noticed a Tweet that had gone viral. It posed the question of when people had their first Black teacher. It was disheartening to see so many people respond in high school, college, or never.

Most of my career was spent in early childhood education. So, for a few hundred children in that time, I have had the honor of being their first Black teacher. Being a mirror to some and a window to others. Having children hold your hand and connect with your soul is an experience that will always be one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. Even though many of my students won’t remember me, they all have a special place in my heart.

Fifth grade was one of my all time favorite years in my school experience. So many of the lessons I’ve learned in that year remain with me to this day. The social emotional lessons I got a world class education in. It never dawned on me until a few years ago that one of the main reasons for my latching on so deeply to this year was because it was my first year with a Black teacher.

Not just a Black teacher, the teacher I needed. A powerhouse that was decisive and measured. Such an influence was she, that the school eventually changed the mascot from Tigers to Eagles in her honor. This is my ode to my first Black teacher Ms. Peoples.

Photo by Eye for Ebony on Unsplash

My red pen taps as I watch her sashay across the room. The cowrie shells in her braids and her bracelets clink. We have been instructed to switch papers. Most of the other kids aren’t paying attention when she reads the sentence back, but I’m all ears. Listening for where the commas went and what types of words needed to be capitalized.

Fifth grade was the year that I realized that I could do something with the eccentricity that I was made of. I was a weird kid. I only really interacted with kids at school and they were nothing like me. As the sheltered youngest daughter of a blended family, most of my siblings were grown and moved on, I imagined myself as being locked away in a tower. I would read, and write my feelings, not really talking much to other people, so in the 2nd grade I could read at a 6th grade level. I read so much English literature that at one point I developed a ‘British’ English accent…just a weird kid.

The authors cousin and the author at a birthday party in the late 90s.

When I was nine my fourteen year old brother was killed. I withdrew more and more into myself, becoming that much more strange. When I sat in Ms. Peoples class for the first time, my little heart was yearning to be seen.

Obsessive was probably what my mom would have called it. It was always Ms. Peoples this, Ms. Peoples that. I hung on to every single word she said. One day she rearranged our desks in a circle so we could all see each other and she could see us.

“You all are going to get a new name in this class. You are going to sign your new name on every paper you turn in. When an eagle is raised by chickens, it thinks it is a chicken. It doesn’t realize that it can fly. You all can fly. You will fly. You have to believe you will fly.” Ms. Peoples said as she paced around in the circle.

Now, one of the biggest inspirational songs of that year was written by now disgraced RnB superstar R. Kelly. I know that when she gave us our new names that she didn’t cue I Believe I Can Fly, but if you want to imagine it in this little scene, go right ahead.

Aside from my ‘new name’ I remember the names Terrific Tyrel, Amazing Amanda, and Vivacious Victor. The names were alliterations of our first name and whatever attribute she saw in us. To me, it felt like the sorting hat from Harry Potter. What good thing was she going to call me?

Clink, clink, clink, her cowrie shell anklets were finally making their way to my side of the circle.

“Tracy.” She looked at me and took a deep breath.

“Teachable Tracy.” She nodded and clink clinked her way to whoever was sitting next to me.

Pictures of the author in elementary school

Teachable is an adjective. It means able to learn by being taught or able to be taught. I was insatiable. I needed to know as much as I could about everything. Being teachable isn’t just about being able to be taught though. Having been a teacher now, I know that some people are more receptive to new ideas and new concepts and how it makes an educator feel when they can see a child “get it”.

All of the other new names were solely about who the child was. What made them a special human or who they had the potential of being. The name that was given to me was about me being a teachable student but also about how it made her feel teaching me. I am just now processing the mechanics of all of that now, but as a child, the feeling that that gave me was intrinsic.

I could go on and on about this teacher and this school year. I could talk about the talent show where we danced to Heard It Through The Grapevine as the California Raisins and then segwayed into running across the stage as eagles and singing I Believe I Can Fly. I could talk about D.A.R.E, the Arnett Howard Band, and my dad “helping me” make a Saturn so big for our science project he had to carry it in for me. I could talk about the shared connection I felt with Ms. Peoples because she lost her son to gun violence as I had lost my brother.

All I’m going to say though is, thank you. Thank you Stephanie Jo Peoples. Thank you for loving on me in a way that still feels like home almost thirty years later. Thank you for suggesting that I focus on one career instead of letting me think being a marine biologist that was also a concert pianist on the weekends was ever something that was viable. Thank you for walking around the classroom barefoot at every chance you got. Thank you for teaching me how to write and not thinking I was weird for carrying around my little black writing manual EVERYWHERE. You have shaped me and every student that walked through your doorway. Although you went on to join the ancestors back when I was in high school, I know you are in heaven still receiving your flowers and keeping the angels in line.

Love Always,

Teachable Tracy