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Envisioning schools that affirm and protect Black students means reckoning with a long history of racist punishment.

Like many, if not most, I had a rough first year as a teacher. I was 21 years old and full of passion and desire but little else. I had survived student teaching on the Navajo Reservation for six months, but arrived on the other side of that experience with much to learn. I was teaching two-hour blocks of seventh-grade history and English. I was struggling on almost every level in almost every area.

Sherise was beautiful, outgoing and athletic. But at the age of 10, she was also pushed to the brink. “They call me names all day and make me feel like I don’t belong. It never stops.” Her pretty face dissolved in sobs. Then, the words I feared the most. “I can’t face another day. Those kids who committed suicide ... that’s what I’m ready to do.”

When I was in elementary school, it was common to overhear adults say that children were from “broken homes” if they lived with a single mom or dad or sometimes with grandparents. One of those families belonged to my friend Ellie, who lived with her mom. So I asked my father, a Congregational minister, why some people thought Ellie’s family was broken? Dad gently explained that strong families, Ellie’s included, have three characteristics: love, connectedness and commitment.

"I'm done," I could have said. "Finished." I felt I had potential as a teacher during my master’s degree coursework. "You have the building blocks to make a difference in the lives of children," one of my professors wrote on an assignment. For two years, I have used the building blocks of compassion, courage and creativity to build my classroom.

TT answers your tough questions! This time, how to talk about Black Lives Matter in your classroom and how to protect LGBT students.

Recently, I was in a public place with a friend when I saw a woman wearing a very creative, flamboyant outfit. Knowing that my friend would be interested, I discreetly whispered to her to look at the woman in the

I don’t remember exactly what instigated it, but something had made Cashanda mad. She positioned herself—and her desk—right smack in front of the board. She was defiant. Her physical placement made it impossible to continue my lesson.