“Am I the Problem?”: A Black Dad and Educator in Suburban School Spaces
I’ve been in education for several decades—as a teacher, professor, policy advisor—but nothing prepared me for the challenge of being a Black father in a mostly White, upper-middle-class school district in Arizona. I wasn’t new to education, nor to White spaces having grown up in and around the University of Chicago, but I was new to navigating spaces where my presence alone seemed to unsettle the room. I grew up in spaces where intellectual curiosity, regardless of race, and in some instances even income, was welcomed and encouraged. Coming into this new space in 2013, I naively assumed things would be the same.
From the moment I began attending PTO/PTA meetings and school board sessions —even before my son started kindergarten—I could feel the tension. I wasn’t sure what it was, but after a while I came to the conclusion I wasn’t what they expected. I wasn’t a White mom. Wasn’t deferential, was not silent. And most definitely wasn’t made to feel welcome.
I was a Black man. An parent and an educator. And that combination made many in the community uncomfortable.
The Unspoken Rules of Parent Involvement
We say we want diversity. Even in the current climate schools and districts still somewhat profess to espouse “equity” in their mission statements - although you may have to search for synonyms, the intent is still there. But what happens when a parent like me shows up—not just in their physical space, but vocally, as not just a parent but an experienced educator?
In many high socioeconomic status urban neighborhood schools, and in suburban schools there are unwritten rules about who gets to lead, who gets valued, and who gets quietly shunned and put on the sidelines. In spaces such as I am describing, sociologist Annette Laureu and others have concluded White moms with time, connections, and traditionally unchallenged power often dominate the conversation. When someone who doesn’t fit that mold speaks up—especially a Black man—we’re seen as aggressive, not passionate; as disruptive, not invested.
When I entered the space, I wasn’t advocating for my own child. I was trying to make things better for all students, especially those who didn’t have a voice in these spaces. But every step forward came with resistance.
“What Do You Do Again?”
In these spaces, expertise doesn’t always translate to respect. I tried to come in simply as “Stuart, the parent.” But when I offered ideas, I was met with suspicion. Eventually, I mentioned I was a professor at the University with years of teaching and policy experience centered around not just one city, but many, not just higher education, but K-12 as well.
That didn’t open many doors or make many friends —in fact, it made some people more defensive. Suddenly, I was “credential dropping,” or “intimidating.” It was a lose-lose proposition: say nothing and get ignored, speak up and be accused of intellectual arrogance.
It reminded me of what scholar Tyrone Howard described as the “disenfranchisement” of Black male educators. We’re often expected to lead discipline or coach sports—but when we bring to the table research, empathy, equity and critical thinking, our credibility is challenged.
What’s Said—and What Isn’t
The silence around race. The discomfort when equity is discussed. The performative DEI efforts, and then community efforts to dismantle such efforts, lead to schools and school boards making statements without substance, and creating committees without enacting meaningful change.
Sometimes, the biggest barrier isn’t policy—it’s culture. Who gets to speak? Who is listened to? And who gets labeled a “problem” for even asking those questions?
What Can Schools Do Differently?
If we really want inclusive schools and communities, here’s where we can start:
Rethink what “involvement” looks like. Stop assuming parents have to show up a certain way to be taken seriously.
Challenge racialized ideas of who gets to lead. A Black dad, or anyone outside the neighborhood, cultural “norm” should be welcomed—not scrutinized—when offering to help.
Back up equity work with real resources. No more empty statements. Make meaningful and impactful equity aims. It’s one thing for the school board to affirm such efforts, it is another for the school climate to be authentically equitable and create a sense of belonging for all students.
Make space for hard truths. If the room gets uncomfortable when someone challenges the status quo, that might be exactly what’s needed. Listening for understanding is critical. It is possible to disagree without being disagreeable.
Support the people doing the work. Especially when they’re taking on the emotional and political labor others avoid.
Final Thought: Inclusion Shouldn’t Hurt
If your presence alone feels like a challenge to others, the problem isn’t you—it’s the system, and the culture and climate in which change is not encouraged. Real equity work means being okay with leaning into the discomfort, being open to change, and letting go of the need to control every narrative.
I have never professed to be all knowing, nor am I seeking to be the “exceptional” Black parent. I’m here because I care. Because I have expertise. And because all our kids deserve schools that value every voice—not just the traditional, frequent and familiar ones. Care should be encouraged, not viewed as a problem.