In case no one ever told you this, you should be a teacher

This message is for Black men, mothers of Black men, friends of Black men, colleagues of Black men, and anyone else who claims to care about Black men. It’s a message we rarely hear, but desperately need to hear: In case no one ever told you this, you should be a teacher.

A year and some change ago, I was on my usual morning commute. I live on the East Side of St. Paul and work downtown. I was headed down Payne Avenue, music up (probably LaRussell), window down, mentally preparing for the day ahead.

I got stopped at a red light and started to zone out. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man crossing behind my car. He was pushing a small shopping cart, wearing clothes that were torn and inappropriate for the weather. As he turned his head to check for traffic, I saw the profile of his face, and it caught me off guard.

He looked just like me.

Similar age. Similar build. Similar skin tone. Similar signature beard.

I was stunned. I snapped out of it when the car behind me honked. I kept driving, but I couldn’t shake the image. The rest of my day was filled with questions: What happened in his life? What separated us? What decisions, systems or circumstances landed me in the car and him on the street?

It reminded me of “The Other Wes Moore,” where two men with the same name end up with dramatically different lives. And I wondered: If I weren’t in the car and instead walking past him, would I have said anything? And if I did, what could I possibly say that would be meaningful?

I thought about the most meaningful decision in my life and boiled it down to one simple message: In case no one ever told you this, you should be a teacher.

Too many Black boys enter school whole and emerge broken, not because of a lack of ability, but because of systemic indifference born from a collective lack of belief in our babies.

In St. Paul Public Schools, less than 20% of Black students were proficient in reading last school year. Fewer than 12% were proficient in math. We have lost, and are actively losing, a generation of Black boys.

Lost because, on the way to school, they’re more likely to see themselves in the person sleeping on the street than in the person leading the classroom.

Lost because, when they arrive, they’re more likely to be seen for sitting silently than for their brilliance.

Lost because their Blackness and maleness come preloaded with the assumption that they will be a disruption, and their experience is shaped accordingly.

Lost because, at this point, being lost has become normalized.

That’s why I would tell him to teach. Because who better to show others the way back than those who have been lost themselves?

At Black Men Teach, one of the central messages we live by is: Be who you needed.

So many Black men have never seen themselves in their teachers. In Minnesota, less than half of 1% of all teachers are Black men. Of the roughly 60,000 teachers in the state, fewer than 50 Black men are teaching in elementary schools.

When Black men teach, everyone benefits.

Non-Black students see improved academic and social-emotional outcomes and experience Black men in ways that challenge the narratives they’ve inherited.

Novice non-Black teachers see improvements in their Black students’ math scores and disciplinary incidents when teaching alongside a veteran Black educator.

And Black male students? They gain a mirror. A mentor. A message that they belong.

Black boys with Black male teachers are more likely to be identified for gifted and talented programs, less likely to be suspended or expelled, have better school attendance, are held to higher expectations, are more likely to graduate from high school, aspire to college more, and attend college at higher rates.

For Black boys, no program, policy or practice is more effective in improving outcomes than having a Black male teacher. And yet, so few of them get that opportunity.

So if you’re a Black man reading this, I need you to hear me clearly: The stakes are high. We cannot continue to lose our boys at this rate.

What will happen to a community that cannot read?

Our boys need you. Our community needs you.

And in case no one ever told you this, you should be a teacher. Reach out to info@blackmenteach.org when you’re ready to answer the call.

Markus Flynn, a former classroom teacher, is executive director of Black Men Teach, a Minnesota-based nonprofit headquartered in St. Paul.

Community Voices is a series created to amplify the voices of local organizations committed to dismantling disparities in Minnesota