I Need People Who Look Like Me

By W. F. Twyman, Jr.

It is Sunday evening and time to question another shibboleth. This time, let’s take up the old chestnut that “I need people who look like me.”

No…you don’t.

Admittedly, my position is seldom expressed in the public square. One is more likely to read sentiments like (1) “There’s no equity in regards to the teaching staff compared to the student population,” said Trishanda Williams, a teacher at Flint Community Schools. “In other words, there’s not enough teachers who look like me.” https://michiganadvance.com/2021/08/19/not-enough-teachers-who-look-like-me-african-americans-want-more-classroom-representation/ , (2) “As an African-American male, I applaud Superintendent Nikolai Vitti's acknowledgment that the Duval County Public Schools need more male teachers who look like me.” https://www.jacksonville.com/story/opinion/columns/mike-clark/2013/11/06/letters-black-males-need-role-models-school/15810132007/ , (3) “We do not have enough teachers who look like me in our schools. Less than one percent of teachers in Connecticut are male teachers of color. That’s terrible.” https://almaexleyscholarship.org/starting-early-to-inspire-students-of-color-to-teach/, (4) “Students need teachers who look like me!” https://www.facebook.com/drcathyo/photos/a.829597407189396/1923602577788868/?paipv=0&eav=AfaXxGVWpB4MP3HjCrof5svWJIgNUgvbTAztOL_3gfcdzVxPN9wj8rkcy0RM7S3sGR8, and (5) “This leaves Black students in predominantly non-Black schools with few or no adults who look like them, forced to navigate microaggressive school environments largely by ourselves.” https://youthcomm.org/story/black-students-deserve-more-black-teachers/

I am uniquely positioned to think about this topic because my public school experience straddled a segregated all-black elementary school in the first and second grades, a never segregated 3.74% black junior high school and a desegregated 8.5% black high school. I know of what I write.

Was it nice to have started my education in an all-black world? Perhaps, but I was unaware of race whatsoever in the first and second grade. My first and second grade teachers were great because they were outstanding teachers, not because of their race per se. Not once did Mrs. Lucille Walker or Mrs. Dorothy Taylor mention our race as black in the classroom.

Not once.

Think about that colorblindness in the classrooms and hallways and assembly sessions. The years were the fall of 1967 to the spring of 1969. We were all ten miles distant from the former White House of the Confederacy. The larger world was embroiled in federal enforcement of the Brown v. Board of Education decision. The all-white school board was stressing inevitable compliance with Brown or loss of federal funding. And yet, and yet through those tender years, Mrs. Walker and Mrs. Taylor made a lasting influence on my character and education because of their high standards, not their race as black women.

Someone once said we should not let others create narratives for us. We should tell our own stories. And so this was my story, the primacy of character and not race within my all-black school.

If we could bring Mrs. Walker and Mrs. Taylor back to life, they would be annoyed by the shibboleth “I need someone who looks like me.” They both would say you need a no non-sense teacher who holds students to high standards.

The last day of second grade in the spring of 1969 was the last day I would ever sit in a classroom where everyone looked like me.

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So, did I stumble and fall apart in the face of white teachers and classmates? Did I wither on the vine during junior and senior high school because no one looked like me? Did I become embittered at the world, at the structural and systemic racism all around me, suffocating me into oppression as if nothing else mattered?

Yeah…..right.

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I was on fire with purpose and meaning during those days. I had a mission to become Student Council President in high school. If you were not supportive of my mission in life, you could pound sand. My ancestors ranging from my Mom to my Grandma’s Grandfather viewed life in the same way. (I do suggest you read my book, Letters in Black and White: A New Correspondence on Race in America (May 23, 2023), for the rich details of my story. Letters in Black and White can be found on Amazon.com and at Barnes and Noble.)

I attended Salem Church Junior High School from the fall of 1972 to the spring of 1976. Salem Church epitomized the New South. Salem opened as a new school and thus had no history compared to other schools in Chesterfield County, Virginia. We were creating a new tradition of integration from day one. You could smell the newness in the fresh carpeting, the youthful zest of the brand new teaching staff, the open door layout of some classrooms, the lack of busing for racial purposes, the identity of a neighborhood school where black and white students ranged from trailer park poor to middle-class subdivision.

It frustrates me that the positive, and good, memories of southern suburban schools are not trumpeted in the public square but it is what it is.

In reviewing my Specter Yearbook for the year 1975, I see that we had 50 teachers. 3 teachers were Black as was our Guidance Counselor James Easter. Six (6) percent of our teachers were black for a 3.74% black student population. So, did I need someone who looked like me? No, the only black teacher I had was Mr. Brown in Band class. Mr. Brown was a solid teacher but he did not launch me on my academic way. The teacher who made the biggest difference for me was Mrs. Hunt. Mrs. Hunt saw my potential and referred me to be tested for the Gifted and Talented program. That referral turbo charged my sense of self and the possible.

It did not matter one whit that Mrs. Hunt was white. What mattered was Mrs. Hunt recognized, and nurtured, my talents and abilities. I did not need a black teacher to do that for me. I needed a foresighted, and talented, teacher regardless of race to do that for me.

None of the black teachers at Salem shaped me as much as Mrs. Hunt. And I am forever grateful for her wisdom.

Let’s move on to senior high school. As best I can tell from my yearbook, we had 84 teachers at Thomas Dale High School. That number might be off a little but let’s use 84 as a baseline. Of the 84 teachers, five (5) or 5.9 percent were black. Our school was 8.5% percent black. Two out of our five black teachers were math instructors, including the infamous Annette Crews. Mathematics was not my thing and Mrs. Crews made this reality plain to me. She did not sugarcoat the matter. There was no “just between us two blacks” teacher/student relationship. I would either sink or swim on my merits which is why I marvel at the shibboleth “I Need People Who Look Like Me.” Really? Mrs. Crews could have been Swedish for all of the good that would have done for my performance in her math class.

It is a delusion to assert black students need black teachers. Be careful for what you wish (as I channel Mrs. Crews).

Of the other four (4) black teachers, I only had Mr. Gene Brown for Minority Groups in America. Mr. Brown was Cuban and part of the forces that tried to storm Cuba by beach and topple Fidel Castro. Didn’t work out so well/smile. I enjoyed Mr. Brown’s class. In fact, Mr. Brown caused me to see that affirmative action really was a boost for the Black Elite, not the Black Underclass so much. That was a good insight I came to in his class. I also remember Mr. Brown entertained any and all questions. There was no dogma in the classroom.

Having said all of this, my history teacher Ann Wilkins left a greater impression on me while I was in high school. She allowed me to teach our history class for a week on Black History. Did race matter? Mrs. Wilkins was white from Longwood College. I never gave her race a second thought. Indeed, I was grateful that she trusted my knowledge to prepare a lesson plan for the week and write up a quiz for the class on Black History.

I am not saying that things were perfect for me in junior and senior high school. The lingering effects of prejudice took time to dissipate like a cloud of dust. I can say this — it was the character of my teachers that made all the difference for me. And that character came in black and white over the bridge between segregated and desegregated schools.

But I’m going to let my high school teachers speak for themselves and their impressions of me —

“Best of luck next year at UVA. I suggest you concentrate on your studies your Freshman year and save the politics for later. I look forward to hearing great things from you. Keep up the involvement in the political process.” — Ernest Woodcock, Government, History

“Best of luck in the future. I really enjoyed teaching you in government, history and sociology. Thanks for your many contributions in class. I hope to hear great things about you in the future.” — Sheppard Smith, Social Studies

“Best wishes for a happy and successful future.” — Sincerely James Schiele, Orchestra

“Wink, I’ve enjoyed knowing you during your time at Thomas Dale. I will follow your career with interest. This year, SCA. Tomorrow the world! Good luck”— Martha Reagan

“Wink, Best wishes and lots of luck in the future. I’ll keep watching your achievements through Laurie.” — Jean Lampley

“Wink — We’ll really miss you — you’ve been such fun to tease and hassle about overdue books, but seriously we love you and respect you. Take care and Be gentle with yourself. With love and hope for Peace” — Mrs. Walsh

“Wink, We will really miss you next year. I’m glad you have used the library so much, and we really appreciate how cheerful and cooperative you have always been. I hope we’ll be hearing great things about you one day.” — Best wishes, Mrs. Clark

None of these teachers were black. They were all southern and suburban and white in the year 1979. I was Student Council President of a school my Dad could not have attended in the 1950s.

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If I did not need people who looked like me to achieve and excel in the New South in the 1970s, why would privileged black teachers and students believe black students need black teachers in the modern era? It is a mystery to me.