As an education speaker, I speak to a wide array of
audiences regularly. Because I have spoken to such a variety of audiences all
over the U.S. and different parts of the world, I am very comfortable speaking
to all audience compositions, which include when I am the only African American
in the room (which is often). As a speaker, I would argue that one must strive
to feel comfortable with all audiences if one is going to experience longevity in
the world of speaking.
Countless times in my capacity of speaker, I have been the
only African American not only in the auditorium, gym, library, cafeteria, classroom,
ballroom or meeting room, but I have been the only African American in the
entire building when you consider the support staff who are in the building who
are not a part of my presentation. In this context, there is this one engagement
that will always stand out for me that has probably crossed my mind at least once
per day over the past year since it occurred. I was in a state that shall
remain nameless where the African American population is rather small with a
rather large white majority. I was invited to speak to the entire school
district staff at their day long professional development conference via a
morning opening keynote and an afternoon closing keynote.
When my contact person invited me, he informed me that the
district had no African American educators but that they did have a small percentage
of African American students. Since this was not going to be an uncommon experience,
my response to him was a simple, “no problem at all…I’ll be ready.” On many occasions
when I am the only African American in the room, it is quite normal for me to address
the “elephant in the room” early on by making a light joke of the fact that “I
guess I’m the only African American in sight,” because the “elephant” is so
obvious and blatant in those situations, though not uncomfortable for me at all.
After all, I’m a speaker and speakers speak to people…all people.
As I walked into that gym that morning full of educators, I
felt a different vibe from my norm. I am accustomed to being spoken to by
somebody…anybody. I was alone that morning. No one acknowledged my presence.
People walked past me as if I wasn’t in the room. I knew I stood out not only
because I am an African American but because I was that one unfamiliar face in
the building. I truly felt alone, isolated and invisible in that moment…and I
was the keynote speaker. That meant I had some “heavy lifting” to do that day
for sure. Consequently, due to the "vibe" in the room, I even refrained from resorting to my normal joke about being the only African American in sight. I didn't think it would fly in this setting.
The morning keynote went well. I don’t mean it produced “amens” throughout my presentation…lol…but I thought
it was productive. As I engaged in my normal self-reflection and
self-assessment during my down time, I concluded that the presentation went
over well. But it’s that afternoon keynote that motivated me to write this blog
post a year later. I walked back into that gym while everyone else was filing
in and thought that now that everyone heard me in the morning and was now familiar
with me, they would open up to me….not hardly! Again, it was like I wasn’t even
in the room. It was as if I hadn’t spoken to this same audience just a few
short hours ago. I was invisible! When I was being introduced to come up and
deliver my final presentation, I said to myself, “Here we go again….you got
this…let’s do this!” As I took the microphone from the introducer, I stood on
the half court line of the gym directly in front of a little over 500 faces,
all white, with mine as the lone African American face in the room and the
first words that came out of my mouth were, “Are there any questions, comments,
feedback or concerns about anything I said during this morning’s keynote
address?” Whenever there is a break in my presentations with the same audience,
I will ask this question 100% of the time before we resume the discussion. Immediately,
a woman enthusiastically raised her hand which relieved me. Her hand going up
so quickly made me feel that on the one hand, she was engaged in the morning session,
and on the other hand, I anticipated that there were probably many more
questions to come from others. My thinking in that moment was, “Great…this is
going to be an awesome afternoon!” But then she proceeded to ask me a question
that literally blew me away. She said, “Have you ever spoken to an audience as
white as this one?” Immediately, many in the room began to laugh. I just stood
there and looked at my audience. I didn’t say anything…not a word. I just took
it all in. I wondered though was the organizer of the event (or the person who
introduced me) going to take the mic from me and address this awkward turn of
events….it didn’t happen. I wondered if maybe one of the educators in the
audience was going to stand up and condemn what just occurred….it didn’t
happen.
Time froze for me momentarily. I was deep into my own
thoughts in front of a live audience of educators as an African American man…an
African American speaker…who now felt completely detached and disconnected from
his audience. All sorts of history popped into my head regarding the Black male
experience in America. The recurring theme in my thinking though was this feeling
of isolation. I thought to myself, “So what you are an internationally renowned
and respected speaker, author and educator…that’s not what you are in THIS room
in THIS moment.” More importantly though, I thought about that small percentage
of African American children who are enrolled in the schools where the members
of this audience teach and undoubtedly have their own testimonies of isolation
and invisibility (my high school story for another time). Or those African
Americans who work in the lonely world of Corporate America for example, and the
ongoing feelings of isolation and invisibility that many of them endure (my story
too for another time). Time was truly frozen in that moment. The reality though
was that I felt compelled…obligated to address what had just occurred on behalf
of the African American children that they service.
As I made my way out of my momentary silence and back to my
present reality with 500+ educators awaiting my response, the first words out
of my mouth were, “Yes, I speak to audiences as white as this one regularly. White
teachers across America comprise over 80% of the total teaching force while African
American teachers are about 6 to 7%. Since I do about 200 presentations per
year, I talk to a whole lot of all white audiences regularly.” I proceeded to
ask her why she felt so comfortable asking me this question in this forum,
particularly when I was seeking questions and feedback related to my morning presentation.
Instead of answering the question, she apologized to me repeatedly. I decided
that I would not spend my hour addressing my topic of student and staff
attitudes but instead, I would turn my presentation into a teachable moment and
talk about the repercussions for African American children when they feel
isolated and invisible in white majority classrooms and schools, which would
include a discussion on cultural responsiveness, cultural relevance, equity and
some of the realities of being an African American male / African American man
in America for the next hour. Ironically, this experience was one of those realities.
Between this teacher and the many who found her question
funny, I truly believe they didn’t see the wrong and the hurt in their behavior…a
clear example of “unconscious bias.” To them, it was probably quite normal and
business as usual. In other words, my feelings weren’t considered until I opened
my mouth and addressed them to an extremely captive audience. When the day
finally ended, many in that audience, led by the woman who raised the question marched
right over to me to apologize. Several were crying including the woman in
question. Many had long explanations with their apologies and expressed feeling
badly about the situation.
As I close, this essay is actually not about me nor my
presentation. I’m a “big boy” and I will be fine. This essay is all about African
American children. As educators, we must all and we must always “check ourselves”
toward ensuring that we leave whatever biases that we may possess at home. Our
children cannot and must not be subjected to them. When they are, we run the
risk undermining their efforts toward truly maximizing their own potential to
be amazing young people and eventually amazing adults.
For further writings
by Principal Kafele, visit PrincipalKafele.com