He notices a few things along the way, but mostly he is thinking about what’s on the agenda for the day, about that slice of pie he snuck in at breakfast, and about how he really needs to work out more. Along the way he passes neighbors (“When did they get a dog?”), a few shops (“How are they still in business?”) and the occasional police officer (“They really need to do more about speeders.”). He crosses the street and pretty soon ends up at his office. And that’s it. He goes about his day. 

A Black guy walks down the street. He notices everything along the way, but mostly he is thinking about yet another messed up situation where someone who looks like him has been killed. He couldn’t eat breakfast because when you feel unsafe 24/7 it’s hard to have an appetite. Working out isn’t an option since it’s increasingly likely that someone will call 911 because a black man is in the gym. It literally just happened at a WeWork building the day before. Along the way he passes neighbors (“Why did they get a dog - are they afraid?”), a few shops (“I’m tired of being followed in there.”), and the occasional police officer (“How do I not get fucking killed today.”). A white pedestrian coming his way crosses the street. In context of all the other risks that come from being black, it’s almost not worth noticing anymore. That kind of thing is just part of his day. 

The white guy in the above scenario has no idea the luxury with which he goes about his life. The freedom from innate stress and fear that a person of color feels every day. 

If you’re in education in any way, you need to start paying attention and you need to start speaking out. That holds true for all educators and equally true for the providers that serve them. That’s the industry I work in, so I want to speak out in my role as advisor, observer, mentor, colleague, and friend to many in this space. I have a solid reputation but am not a grand self-promoter and don’t aspire to a huge following. Consequently, my bullhorn is quiet compared to some. 

However, we are a multi-billion dollar industry with hundreds of thousands of people. We work to support 54 million young people and the millions of educators who care for them. If we aren’t speaking up, we are not doing our job. If we don’t use some form of collective voice to articulate our care, concern, and outrage about how our brethren are treated, that we are doing an incomplete job. That includes how we shape our products and services, the way we market them to schools, and how we work inside our organizations. 

Today an industry colleague called out a number of people on a private discussion board today when sharing her pain about the news of George Floyd. She said, “I’m waiting on my white colleagues in this “woke” group to say something. Do something. Anything. Your silence is hurtful. WE are in pain.” 

A simple word of concern. A acknowledgment of grief experienced by her and others. Quite literally, anything is better than silence. I should have known better than to remain silent and I need to do a better job of speaking up. I’m in education and I use words like equity and equality pretty regularly. Yet, when it really mattered today….I was silent. I should have known better. More on that later. 

Earlier this school year I was the wing-man for one of my clients, an exceptionally talented African-American sales executive. He invited me to join him at the annual conference for NABSE - National Association of Black School Educators. During 20+ years in the education industry, and despite having attended hundreds of conferences, this was my first NABSE. I could go on about the energy and the passion that educators from around the country used to fuel thoughtful discussions about learning, equity, and race. But I want to share a highlight that has stayed with me and resurfaced today in reflecting on being called out for being silent.  

While at NABSE, I was part of a small group of black superintendents who met up for a casual lunch. Just nine of us, me being the only white member of the group. It so happened we were all men for this particular meal. Much of the conversation was about the dynamics of sexual identity and how district leaders have to adapt depending on the community, state requirements, and a range of factors. North Carolina was grappling with restroom equity in schools and it was top of mind for leaders. I listened and occasionally contributed to a conversation where people shared their own experiences, including the influence of upbringing. One thing I noted observed silently to myself was comfort with which race was woven into the discussion. It was effortless for these leaders in part, I think, because consciousness about race and racism is so present in the lives of black educators that it’s hard to compartmentalize it. 

We had some laughs and as we prepared to go our separate ways, one of the supers shook my hand (and yes, I delivered a clean dap). He smiled and said, “You’re pretty cool. For a white dude.” I like to think it was a small acknowledgment that my effort to listen with humility and respect was well received. 

Looking back, I also interpret the “for a white dude” as a small acknowledgement that I know nothing of what it really means to be a person of color, particularly a leader of color responsible for the well-being of thousands of young people. This isn’t news to me, by the way. I never will. But in context of the racial violence that embeds fear in the hearts of people of color...it’s a good reminder. 

Sure, I fear for the well-being of my children in a world that is increasingly fraught with tension, divisiveness, and violence. But mine - like so many - is the fear of a traveler. We occasionally experience discomfort, but that’s like visiting a country where you don’t know the language or the customs. It’s disquieting at times, but we’re comforted by the fact that we can go home again. 

My friends and colleagues? They are already home. They are disquieted and upset and they have every right to be. There’s no return ticket that will give them a reprieve from dirty looks, people crossing the street, and the intrinsic fear that anyone just might kill them on any given day. I mean, what the actual fuck. 

When my aforementioned colleague called us out, she wasn't asking her white colleagues to experience racism, but I think she was asking me to stop being complicit in it by remaining silent. You can’t be “woke” if you’re going to pretend to be asleep, eyes closed, while others do the talking. 

So this is me giving voice to the deep concern I have for the state of our nation, the genuine care I have for my friends and colleagues, and the fear that our industry isn’t doing enough. We all bear a responsibility and if we are as committed to doing right by education as we say we are, then we should be flooding the airwaves with support. Companies should be posting blogs. Sales reps should be checking in with customers. Company leaders should ask their teams: “How are you doing and what can I do for you?” 

By remaining silent, I unwittingly crossed the street when I should have walked right toward my friend with open arms and a word of support. Maybe I didn’t know what to say. I’m not as practiced talking about race as the superintendents who so kindly welcomed me into their fold, even if it was only for a moment. But I’m not a stone either, and I know how to express myself. This issue isn’t going away. So it’s time we all stop standing silently by while others do the talking.