Black Boys' Lived and Everyday Experiences in STEM

KiMi Wilson

• Publisher: Emerald Publishing Limited
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781800439986
• Topic: Education
• Subtopic: Education Theory & Practice

Real and meaningful educational ethnography requires researchers to grapple with how they come to know what they know. In Black Boys' Lived and Everyday Experiences in STEM, KiMi Wilson invites us to understand the experiences of four Black boys attempting to learn mathematics and science in K-12 spaces. How do mitigating circumstances and fraught relationships impede on their journey to sharpening their mathematical and scientific skills?

Taking us on a sociocultural trek of the best and worst elements of public education, Wilson provides access to a bird's eye view of how Black boys experience schooling on a day-to-day basis. Through phenomenological interview, readers are let into the minds of students Carter, Malik, Darius, and Thomas, and given the opportunity to understand how they identify themselves. Showcasing a mixture of revelations, we learn how some of their perceptions come from an authentic place, while others were out of their own control, and decided by individuals blind to their potential. Imagining a world where Black boys are encouraged to work on STEM goals rather than abandon them, this important book is for educators, researchers, teachers, administrators, and superintendents who want to create school cultures that value Black boys, and want to reimagine teaching spaces for them.

1

Summoned

Right away, I knew this was a Black person's home. Yes, I judged. I own it. Pusha T's, If You Know You Know immediately came to mind. Thoughts synchronous with mom's confirmation; this is an old, Black person's home – like Mother, like son.

Researcher.

I tremble at the thought.

Excited, nervous, and scared simultaneously. Same emotions surfaced six years prior after dragging my realtor and mom all over Los Angeles and its surrounding areas for months, purchasing a home at the height of a seller's market, feeling dejected after being outbid for move-in ready homes. I was suffering defeat from investors and married couples with two incomes. Deeper pockets prevailed, and I couldn't break the bank. It was only me. I had to ensure the sustainability and maintenance of my future. Whether the times were good or bad, mom, of course, would help out, but pride would probably encourage refusal. She was defying stereotypical bullshit ascribed to single Black mothers. Donna worked extremely hard bankrolling private education from preschool to 12th grade. Undergraduate and graduate expenses, car notes, insurances, apartments, summer camps, a hungry stomach, an endless list. A humble, giving spirit owing me nothing. An eternal debt I am never able to settle. Reminiscent of the Cosby Show episode where Clair Huxtable effortlessly rattled off the amount spent to secure Sondra's law school pursuit. So, I love her. The bare minimum to honor sacrificed material representations of success to prioritize her children's quality of life – encompassing becoming good people, loving God, honoring humanity, and traveling the world. Adamant in defying destructive narratives of Black babies growing up in South Central Los Angeles.

After mom and I parted ways after touring yet another house, my cell rang. With hesitation yet excitement in her voice, mom said, KiMi, guess what! I'm driving home, and I just saw a for sale sign. In my head, I thought, mom, we've seen a million for sale signs, and I've yet to win a bid. But I let her continue after the long pause. Guess where it is? Where mom? Six blocks from me!

As the words traveled across the 4G network, I sensed smiling vibrations. We laughed, and I told her to get the number and schedule a visit. A task already fulfilled. Watch, this is going to be the house I get.

I can't deny Mom wants me close. Secretly I want the same thing.

Disgusting green walls.

70s style green furniture draped in plastic.

Right away, I knew this was a Black person's home. Yes, I judged. I own it. In the words of Pusha T, if you know, you know. Thoughts synchronous with mom's confirmation; this is an old, Black person's home – like Mother, like son.

The realtor revealed the previous owner died, and the children were selling. Reluctantly removing home and garden television designs from memory, trying to reimagine the potential of this 3-bedroom, one bath Spanish style home. Built-in 1930 outfitted with a solid foundation and great bones. I knew I could work magic, but the task wouldn't be easy.

The same approach is needed to do this work.

Historic bungalows.

Concrete steps.

Tall blue doors.

And just like my Spanish style home inherited from a cadre of children who no longer wanted their childhood home and instead split the proceeds, renovations were necessary.

Brand spanking new homeownership forced the desire to fix everything before placing a stitch of clothing inside.

But shady contractors halted the dream.

Consolation when fellow homeowners told me, it's yours – no need to fix everything at once.

Words are haunting – then, and now.

Hard to silence the inner Virgo voice demanding perfection.

Because these boys would never be mine. My show is on a limited run.

And even though I could add more dates, I would eventually get shut down by upper management.

No prepackaged rules. Research serving Black boys ushering deep thought. Reflections about childhood, South Central Los Angeles, public education, and institutional racism. Methodology acknowledging limitations while simultaneously breaking them.

Think deeply about what I wanted to know.

Theories swim in my head.

Identity rises to the top.

I want to know who my boys are.

Not surface shit, intimate.

I was reminded of the blue book I ordered. I thought it would be just one, but it turned out to be a series. I had to know more about this integrative identity approach. Shout out to Vignoles, Schwartz, and Luyckx for expanding identity horizons. One that wrapped its arms around the personal, relational, collective, and material pieces of an identity world rarely discussed in tandem with Black boys.

Crafting intentional conversation starters probing into beliefs, values, and self-esteem, unearthing how Black boys envision themselves and their futures. Answers as evidence to harmonize how folks in and out of public schooling positioned them. Solidifying possibilities or sealing one's demise. Further advancing what it means to be Black, male, and breathing in America. Inquisitions allowing insider knowledge of how possessions, geographical space, and community offerings shape one's existence. Rapid-fire questions proving identity doesn't create itself. Identity is a product. And depending on the bodies working the assembly line, the result can be a masterpiece or never seeing the light of day.

I want to know who Black boys are.

Not surface shit, intimate.

Storytelling matters. Pulling racism's veil off of everyday schooling and one-size-fits-all instructional mantra. Advanced placement courses, gifted, magnet, and charter schools used as props to pluck out, track and re-segregate. Standardized tests used to crush Black intelligence by measuring knowledge never given. Allowing narration to describe experiences never acknowledged showcasing racism's grip – techniques inspired by Gloria Ladson Billings, William Tate, and a host of Black scholars.

Open-ended questions are a prime reflection on how values, beliefs, and self-esteem reflecting knowledge taught in school: people, places, and things readily available to them in the school environment. And whether or not class projects allowed them to think bigger about themselves and their world. Beautifully blending identity, race, and distant yet pertinent memories. Memories were opening the door to the soul, understanding interrelationships. School prominently centered between home, friends, and community – one's ecosystem.

Think deeply about obtained knowledge and conduct a process of elimination, discarding things of no interest.

I care about relationships. Because at the end of the day, it is the crux of what my Black boys will experience on any given school day. I want to know the impact of human hands. I want to know who does the helping? Who does the harming? Schooling practices were enacted long before my boys were here and will be here long after they leave unless I speak up, building an intersection between their world and mines. Conversations grounded in human experience. Ever-changing from one moment to the next, one month to the next, one grade level to the next. Changes problematic if not rooted in love. And love for Black boys gets me one step closer to understanding existential feelings. The interior design work necessary to fix this house. Hard questions. Questions were requiring one to step out of current reality and time travel. A journey was informing life's decisions. Stepping out of existence gives voice to vulnerability, transparency, and embracing individual responsibility. Sensitive terrain as I never want to press my emotions, feelings, or interpretations on them, but allowing their feelings and thoughts to emerge in rare form. I don't want to interview; I want to have conversations. Our conversations were organic and personal. I don't want to drive the car. I want to hand them the keys, ride on the passenger side with the window down, feeling nature's elements.

I want them to drive.

And I also want to switch cars and allow grown-ups to get behind the wheel too.

Whoever surrounds themselves in the school landscape with my boys, I need to know who they are.

I want to bridge the gap between what adults think they are doing in schools and how Black boys receive it.

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

Early on in my teaching career, my identity was a blind spot. Thinking I could outfit my classroom as a beach – arranging space with sand, beach balls, plastic beach pails, and shovels. Puzzled faces entering my classroom, saying, what is this? Not the reaction I was expecting. I wanted excitement. A natural response as my kids had never left their community and had no concept of what a beach was. Enraged because at their age, not only had I been to beaches in Los Angeles, but I had run the sands of Waikiki. Forcing my experiences instead of creating new moments with them leveraging their knowledge, neighborhood, and way of being. I never intended to harm, but I did. I had to shift, refocus, and think about how I could coordinate a beach trip, so they could run free. I wondered how many of the people I happened to meet who impacted Black boys' lives had adjusted their teaching practices and philosophies to meet their kids' needs or did they privilege their way of knowing and experiences. My teaching had to seamlessly blend conducting math lessons in the local market and coordinating a beach trip, never privileging one over the other. I wanted to know if educators I encountered called a tow service or remained stuck at the beach.

Tailored made questions had to be constructed, taking months to build.

Forsaking jargon dressed in validity and credibility that for decades has strangled Black boy voices.

If the conversations don't help Black boys, I want no part of it.

Vividly remembering the portrait James Anderson painted representing enslaved Blacks pooling money to start their own schools to educate the babies creating a cadre of Black teachers and administrators.

And Vanessa Siddle-Walker taught me that in a quest for integration, we sacrificed those same Black teachers and administrators in hopes of sitting next to a white kid. Instead, the focus should have been fighting for more money and increased resources in our already winning schools.

And that seat cost us, in more ways than one.

And even as we tout Brown v. Board of Education, Black bodies lay waste in classrooms across this country because white kids keep moving their seats. Black folks have yet to be able to sit next to them genuinely. A fantasy world unless folks take up the abolishment cross.

Tug and pull in the development process as I somehow have to learn these gatekeepers on their terms. But theories, Black scholars, my experience, childhood, adulthood, university life all get in the way. And honestly, I'm not stopping it.

An iterative process essential to stay true to the work, more importantly to myself and the truth I seek.

Would people believe in their storytelling?

Audio that still gives me chills and takes me back to the sanctuary. Journal book full of notes on questions I wanted to probe deeper. Conversations in and out of the refuge, leaving footprints in my mind, body, and soul.

Artifacts were challenging to organize. Yet, full disclosure if anyone attempts to question an iota of what my Black boys expressed.

There are many moving parts in truly observing Blackness that one must use all the tools readily available. I have audio. Interesting because I thought audio would be problematic for my boys. I know I would have been hesitant to say a lot of things on tape. But once they interrogated my being, they sensed purity and genuineness. I watched trepidation fall and relaxation take flight.

Organizing content in an expansive notion of identity requi...