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“We don’t participate in class because we’re not as smart as the white kids.” See how this Latina educator responded when Latina students expressed this negative self-perception.

The whine of the projector subsides. Someone clicks on the lights. As the professor asks for commentary, the rapid raising of hands signifies an eagerness to respond. I remain still. Listening to my peer’s criticism of the Appalachian people featured in the made-for-TV special, I am humiliated.

My third-period students rushed in at the start of class, wide-eyed and excited. Something had happened. “Quentin hit Ms. Combs!” Helen Combs was my friend. She taught language arts. “He knocked her down,” one student reported. “They took her to the hospital, and the police took him away in handcuffs!”

A couple of years ago a student approached me after history class. Avoiding eye contact, he trembled a bit before speaking. His voice was shaking. “I am sorry, teacher,” Armando began. “I could not finish my project. My parents were killed a couple days ago.”

Years ago I worked with a child named Justin. A bright, happy child, Justin was a wonderful artist. He loved to create, exploring shapes and colors with crayons and markers and paints. One day, when he was 4 years old, we were coloring together in his big notebook. We had been at it for some time when I picked up a purple crayon and began to add purple to the dazzling array of colors on our page. Almost as soon as I’d begun, Justin dropped his crayon and stared at me.

Policies and practices that favor incarceration over education do us all a grave injustice.

Many of my third-graders are very angry. They have good reason. Growing up in the most violent area in Oakland, many have lost family members to violence or experienced racial injustice. They distrust the people who are supposed to protect them. Anthony was one of my angriest students. His father was in prison. Anthony told me that he wanted to kill his father because fathers aren’t supposed to leave their families. He was 6 years old at the time.

When I was growing up, most of my friends were a lot like me. We looked a lot alike, lived in similar neighborhoods and rarely questioned the racial and cultural uniformity that was the fabric of our lives. This isn’t to say that my high school lacked all diversity. Like many high schools, our student population was fairly segregated, and I stuck with the group where I felt most comfortable. It wasn’t until college that I experienced some authentic diversity, developed friendships with people who were different from me, and began to recognize how isolated I had been in high school.

My ninth-grade Spanish students resisted my assignment to write about their cultures. “My family doesn’t have any cultural traditions,” one said. “My culture is that I’m just normal,” added another. “I don’t have a culture,” said another.

This English teacher picked up a few tips for connecting with students. It’s all about how you speak.