Black Women and Their Love
February 20, 2024
I have had the awesome privilege of having many supervisors of color—sixty percent as of 2024. I feel honored that this has been my experience from being a teacher through being an assistant superintendent.
At the outset of my tenure as an administrator, I was prepared well by the Danforth Leadership Program at the University of Washington (Seattle). It provided a solid foundation that I held onto, leading with my core values in the face of a few disgruntled teachers who believed that I was too young, too “ethnic,” and too focused on improving learning environments for students. Those few were loud, but my resolve was louder as my ancestors whispered in my ears reminding me from where I came. These whispers made space for me to see, hear, and feel the goodness that existed. My relationships with students and more open-minded teachers and support staff helped me to stay focused.
Due to being supervised by someone with a different set of values and views of the students and families we served, I became both weary and frustrated. I felt as if my head was barely above water as my legs pumped quickly to keep me from drowning—from being swallowed whole—by others’ needs, wants, and sometimes misplaced anger. I kept that smile on my face, swallowing tears and suppressing screams of discontent. Nevertheless, it was time to move along. To drive farther from home so I could find my way. I needed to grow and learn under a principal who saw my value and potential.
So, as I was set to begin my third year as an assistant principal, I left the familiarity of a district where I had been a teacher for five years and an administrator for two. There was an opening for an assistant principal at a racially, culturally, and socio-economically diverse school in the second largest school district in the state. I applied with my hopes tied to this opportunity. When I interviewed with the principal of that school—a deeply-hued, beautiful, humorous, and intelligent Black woman—I knew that I found my place to learn differently, while bringing my whole self to work.
Thankfully, that Black female principal believed in me, and a new leg of my journey began. Though I went from driving twenty minutes a day to/from work to anywhere between three to four hours in a car with a manual transmission, it was worth it. I reminded myself of this on early mornings and when my calf was burning from shifting peddles in heavy traffic.
I had a goal. I knew my end-goal—to be a better leader who would become more adept in instructional leadership.
What I noticed almost immediately was that she called our students “babies.” I had never heard this word bestowed upon students. My principal would make statements such as “Our babies deserve…,” Our babies are down the road cutting up,” and “The community is showing up for the babies.” Whenever she mentioned our students—our babies—it was endearing, loving. She had lofty expectations for them and expected her administrators, teachers, and support staff to come to work every day to provide high support and a warm-demander mindset to ensure that every child knew they mattered and that we saw them whole and beautifully endowed.
Over the years since, I noticed that many Black women leaders called their students “babies” as a term of endearment. Typically, it was done in conversations about them while advocating, fighting for, and praising them to others. It was not unusual for these Black women to work in schools with high populations of students of color, particularly Black students. I have also noticed this in books, articles, and videos that chronicle this data.
I then began to think back to my grandmother, Essie Bell. She would gather us around her housecoat—cuddle us and sometimes take us to task in her southern way. No matter what we did, she would call us—her grandchildren and neighborhood children—her babies. Essie Bell would say, “Leave that baby alone” or “Come here, baby, give your grandmama a hug.” The word “baby” was like a verbal hug. That word embodied warmth, soulfulness, love, care, protection, and being seen.
In short, being one’s baby meant that you belonged to someone; that someone would look out for you and all the while, hold you accountable with “the look,” that particular slant of the head, that abundant hug, those pursed lips, and that dose of reality with a sprinkling of dreams.
As my brain reached back to my meetings with those principals I’ve supervised and then back to my childhood memories, I remember the stories and the drawings of Black women having their babies pried out of their arms, ripped from their nipples, and at times, cut out of their wombs as a justification for their disobedience. I thought back to what I know of Black women jumping off of slave ships with their babies in their arms to protect them from both the known and unknown horror that had forced them across the ocean and would then force them to work to exhaustion and bear babies that were legally not their own, while they cared for babies that would later grow up to own them as property. History also paints a painful reality of Black women forming families of stolen, brown-skinned babies with the aim to support them in a world where their value was measured in dollars instead of their intrinsic value being beautifully endowed by a Creator or the universe.
Now it makes so much sense regarding why many Black women call their students “their babies” or “our babies.” Though Black women are the most educated demographic in the United States, they are woefully underpaid or passed over for promotions irrespective of their experiences, work ethic, and education, yet still show up and show out for all kids. It is as if this tenacity has been expressed from their weathered telomeres, imbued with the history and the memories of when they had less legal and economic power. Though things are not what they should be and Black women are over-policed and under-valued, they continue to make their babies (their students) visible, advocating and acting for change as they stand on the shoulders of the Black women who came before them.
So, what do Black women leaders need from society and in their workplace systems? Here is my Top Ten list to start:
Listen to them.
Learn from them.
Be aware of your own biases, working to interrupt these biases and repair harm.
Realize that their work may seem like magic—Black girl magic—but it is hard work.
Make space for their rest. (They cannot always be “on.”)
Give them the space to lead.
Recognize that they have a range of personalities and ways of being just like every other group of people.
Provide support and resources in an equitable manner. (Historically, they are told to do more with less.)
Recognize their humanity.
See them. Really see them.
