8 — Wednesday, December 8, 2021 
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

The lack of diversity in public schools: A reflection of my time with Black Men Read

When I take the time to reflect on my child-

hood, I cannot help but appreciate the parts of 
my upbringing that nurtured a love for who 
I am and the cultural community that I come 
from. Growing up in a Black household in a 
largely Black area, I obtained ample exposure 
to my culture, especially through literature and 
the arts. As a young child, the sound of Stevie 
Wonder’s “Sir Duke” or Chaka Khan’s “One for 
All Time” would be the first thing that I would 
hear on weekend mornings, invigorating me as 
I started my day. When I woke up to this music, 
I instantly knew that someone in my household 
was downstairs cleaning. Sure enough, I would 
walk downstairs to find one of my parents 
scrubbing the counters in the kitchen, one of 
the many rooms in our home whose walls were 
covered with the work of Black artists. Wheth-
er it be a depiction of a man playing the blues on 
his saxophone for a live audience or a painting 
that simply shows a family praying over their 
meal, it was important to my parents that my 
siblings and I were constantly surrounded by 
positive and meaningful visual depictions of 
people who looked like us. 

The commitment that my family embraced 

to showcasing our culture extended outside 
the four walls of our home. When driving us 
to school, my mom often played a CD that my 
dad made for her with all her favorite songs, 
which quickly became some of our favorites 
too. In fact, I often refused to get out of the car 
until I could finish belting the last note of Mary 
J. Blige’s “Be Without You.” When I eventu-
ally did leave my mother’s car, I entered class-
rooms that similarly incorporated aspects of 
African-American culture into our education. 
Throughout my secondary education, it was 
normal for me to have English curricula that 
were mostly, if not completely, centered around 
the works of Black authors and the actions of 
Black revolutionaries. Whether it was writ-
ing papers about the Harlem Renaissance and 
watching “A Raisin in the Sun” in my seventh 
grade English class or reading Toni Morrison’s 
“Song of Solomon” in my AP Literature class, I 
could always count on being able to see myself 
and my people in many of my English classes’ 
curricula. Not only did I feel represented in 
the curriculum, but also felt seen by those who 
were teaching it to me. A majority of my teach-
ers during K–12 were Black, and not only did 
they make it a point to teach us our culture and 
history, but to affirm our ability to succeed in 
this world as Black people. I was also able to 
see Black people in positions of power, with my 
principals and administrators as leading exam-
ples. This benefit also extended to outside the 
school grounds. I was also fortunate enough 
in that I lived in a community filled with Black 
people who had gone far in their respective 
careers. All of these actions made by my family 
and school district were done with the inten-
tion of cultivating a sense of pride in our racial 
identity. I can say for myself that it worked.

As beneficial as this environment was for 

me, I soon realized that it created a blind spot 

in me. I thought that embedding positive Black 
representations into a child’s experience was 
how communities typically operated, because 
that was how my community operated. I did 
not know anything beyond my community 
until I had the opportunity to have conversa-
tions with Black peers in different places. It was 
through these conversations that I realized we 
didn’t all have a common experience. Many of 
them told stories of feeling disconnected from 
our culture and ignorant to our history, a direct 
consequence of curricula that did not serve 
them or honor their culture and history. I was 
saddened to hear about their experiences living 
in predominantly non-Black spaces without 
role models who looked like them beyond the 
walls of their household. Hearing these stories 
created a feeling of discontentment inside of 
me. When I think about the pride that I take in 
where I came from and the passion I have for 
advocating for my community, it all stems from 
my culturally-affirming upbringing. I can also 
say that my love for reading came from being 
able to read books that I felt represented me. 
Knowing that others weren’t privy to these 
benefits didn’t sit right with me. Originally, I 
thought this was a phenomenon that I would 
be forced to accept. Fortunately, I was wrong. 
An opportunity to fuel my discontentment into 
meaningful change came when I was selected 
for a fellowship through the Ginsberg Center.

For the 2020-21 school year, I got chosen to 

be a Community Leadership Fellow through 
the Edward Ginsberg Center at the Univer-
sity of Michigan. Through this opportunity, 
I was paired with a community organization 
in the southeastern Michigan area and was 
paid to act as their intern for the year. Based on 
the interest form that I filled out, I was paired 
with Black Men Read. An organization based 
in Ypsilanti, their mission is to “uplift Black 
men, all children, and all communities through 
stories of the African diaspora.” I instantly 
felt connected to the organization’s initiatives 
because of how they aligned with the cultural 
exposure and pride that was interwoven into 
my childhood experience. Turns out, creating 
environments similar to the one I was privy to 
as a child was the inspiration for the organiza-
tion’s creation. 

During my first weekly meeting with my 

supervisor, Tamara Tucker-Ibarisha, she told 
me the story of how Black Men came to be. In 
2016, her daughter went to school with the son of 
Yodit Mesfin-Johnson, who would go on to co-
create Black Men Read with her. One thing that 
was undeniable about the school’s atmosphere 
was the lack of Black male teachers — there were 
none. The absence of Black male influences in 
this academic environment became so apparent 
to one of the school’s teachers that she took the 
time to ask Mesfin-Johnson if she knew of any 
Black men who would be willing to come to the 
school to read to their students. After approach-
ing Tucker-Ibarisha with the proposition, the 
two decided to invite some of the Black men 
from their communities to the school to read 
a story to the children, specifically a story that 
centers a Black child. This initiative was well 
received by the students, resulting in these sto-
rytimes becoming a somewhat regular occasion 

at the school. Seeing the success of this initiative 
and realizing that so few students in the Washt-
enaw County area get to experience having a 
Black male teacher, they decided to start invit-
ing Black men to read at Blackstone Bookstore 
in order to reach a larger audience. Similar to 
the storytimes they hosted at their children’s 
school, the events at Blackstone consisted of the 
kids enjoying a story being read by a Black man. 
However, since Blackstone acted as a less formal 
space compared to a classroom, the kids were 
also able to interact freely with each other. The 
atmosphere of these events was so relaxed that 
the storytimes at the bookstore were affection-
ately referred to as “book parties,” bringing an 
air of joy and celebration to the idea of reading.

The book parties became just as much of a 

success as the classroom storytimes, with par-
ents commenting on how these events have 
cultivated a love of confidence in reading in 
their children. As a result, the parents request-
ed for more parties to be hosted. Mesfin-John-
son and Tucker-Ibarisha, happily obliged and 
started making events at Blackstone an occur-
rence that happened at least once a month. The 
willingness of these two women to fulfill this 
need expressed by the community is how Black 
Men Read was officially created.

Before the start of the pandemic, in-person 

storytimes and book parties comprised the 
foundation of the offerings that Black Men 
Read provided the Washtenaw County com-
munity. Unfortunately, as the first few months 
of 2020 saw the increasing spread and severity 
of the coronavirus, gathering children in one 
small space became less and less feasible. The 
progressing state of COVID-19 and the way 
it was altering the nation’s social landscape 
meant that Black Men Read needed an alter-
native strategy for connecting with children in 
the community. This is where I came in.

Since my internship started just six months 

after the virus put a pause on the organization’s 
in-person events, it was my job to help them 
replicate the sense of community they had cre-
ated in public spaces and transfer it to digital 
platforms. This meant that I spent a lot of my 
time helping to develop their visual program-
ming, mainly their YouTube channel, which 
would consist of videos of Black men reading 
children’s books, asking comprehension ques-
tions and answering questions about their lives 
in order to create a connection with the audi-
ence. To be more specific, my role was to pick 
out the books and create a script for each video, 
which includes transcribing the words of the 
book, writing the comprehension questions 
and coming up with personal questions for the 

men to answer.

As I started choosing books to be read, I 

began to realize how much intention goes into 
crafting a curriculum that centers Black culture 
while also telling the stories of Black people. 
Each book that I chose reflected the specific 
theme that Tucker-Ibarisha, who served as 
my supervisor, chose for the given season. The 
theme for fall was confidence, which led to us 
choosing “I Am Every Good Thing” by Der-
rick Barnes to be read. With the winter season 
encompassing Black History Month, the story 
“Wind Flyers” by Angela Johnson, which tells 
the story of a Tuskegee Airman, was a perfect 
choice. Lastly, we chose “Over and Under the 
Pond” by Kate Messner in order to celebrate 
the coming of spring and the desire that comes 
with it. The different themes, along with the 
very different stories that were told in each one, 
were nothing short of a result of a calculated 
strategy. My supervisor and I chose the themes 
and the resulting books as a way to provide a 
holistic depiction of Black life. With these three 
books, we highlighted milestone achievements 
in the Black community while also showcasing 
Black people enjoying the everyday wonders of 
life. We aimed to convey the message that yes, 
Black people are exceptional, but we don’t have 
to be doing something monumental in order to 
be worthy of being seen.

After we chose the books, I shifted gears 

to creating the script. Not only did the scripts 
include the words of the book that would be 
read and the comprehension questions that 
would be asked, but they also detailed instruc-
tions for how words would be presented on 
the screen. Because Black Men Read aimed to 
improve literacy through these videos, it was 
essential that the words were presented in a 
way that was conducive to kids’ understand-
ing and retention of basic vocabulary and 
phonetic skills. With the help of Nuola Akinde, 
Black Men Read’s Director of Culture and Cur-
riculum and the founder of Kekere Freedom 
School, I developed techniques to ensure that 
our literacy-improving goal would be met. The 
main strategy I utilized was highlighting dolch 
words, which are frequently-used English 
vocabulary words that are often used to teach 
kids to read. Dolch words include basic words 
such as “the” and “for.” For every book that we 
were recording a reading of, I wrote down the 
words of the book and highlighted all the Dolch 
words in them, as a way to signal to the design 
team that those words needed to be empha-
sized on the screen. Once the Dolch words 
were highlighted, I moved onto the compre-
hension questions. In creating the questions, 
I was tasked with ensuring the questions 
required the children to practice their critical 
thinking skills in a way that challenged them 
without being too difficult which was tedious. 
Yet, from performing these two tasks, I gained 
an appreciation for both the organization I was 
working for and the teachers in my childhood 
that worked hard to provide the same benefits 
to me and my peers.

Whenever I finished creating a script for 

the YouTube videos based on a given book, it 
was then time for me to correspond with the 
volunteers who committed to being the ones to 

actually star in the video. While instructing me 
on how to communicate with the readers, my 
supervisor casually mentioned that their deci-
sion to center the organization around Black 
men was about more than just filling the void 
of Black male figures in secondary education. 
The creation of Black Men Read also stemmed 
from a desire to dispel the stereotype that Black 
men are not involved in their communities, a 
stereotype that Tucker-Ibarisha says — and 
I can confirm — is very untrue. Because the 
organization was serving as a form of correc-
tive representation for Black men, she told me 
that she was intentional about choosing men 
who she knew were active in their communi-
ties and who were passionate about leaving a 
lasting impact on the lives of children.

After spending time emailing instructions 

back-and-forth between myself and the read-
ers, I finally obtained the video footage that 
would be used to create the YouTube videos. 
When I pressed play, I was met with the enthu-
siastic tone of a man reading the book “I Am 
Every Good Thing” in a way that made the 
story come to life. Once he finished reading the 
book and asking the comprehension question, 
he went on to talk about his life. Here, he includ-
ed a description of his career and expressed 
how much he enjoyed being a husband and 
father. Reviewing this video made it clear why 
he — and all the other men who would read — 
were chosen to represent the mission of Black 
Men Read. The passion that these men had for 
connecting with children and improving their 
literacy reminded me of the dedication exhib-
ited by the men in my own community, who 
were always very hands-on. The ideas that 
these videos, and the men, would contribute to 
Black children being able to see themselves in 
educational spaces warmed my heart.

While providing uplifting representations 

to Black kids is an integral part of the organiza-
tion’s purpose, their mission statement explic-
itly states that their overall goal is to empower 
“all children.” My supervisor would sometimes 
reiterate this during our Monday afternoon 
meetings. One day, I asked her if there was any 
intention behind aiming to serve all children 
instead of tailoring the program to Black chil-
dren. Her answer surprised me. She told me 
that, oftentimes, when a police officer shoots 
an unarmed Black man, they defend them-
selves by saying they felt threatened. Her view 
was that, in some cases, the officer is telling the 
truth when they say that line, because whether 
the subject is actually presenting a threat or not, 
the social narrative of Black men is that they 
are to be feared. Because of this, she wanted to 
make the Black Men Read’s initiative available 
to all children in order to prevent and combat 
the development and progression of these irra-
tional fears of Black men. 

This was in no way said as a justification for 

police brutality — in fact, it’s the exact oppo-
site. She explained that there not being enough 
positive representations of Black people in the 
media and in academic settings causes people 
to develop damaging biases against Black 
people that continuously go unchallenged. 

KAYLA THOMAS

MiC Columnist

Design by Melia Kenney

I’m startled awake as my 30th alarm drones 

monotonously in my ear. 

I’m drenched in a cold sweat, cursing as I 

realize it’s 12:50 and my class starts at 1:00 p.m. 
I swing my legs over the edge of my bed and 
scurry through my room, grasping for my final 
clean pair of jeans and a sweater that’s been 
worn three other times this week. I can’t see the 
floor of my room, but I’ve learned to navigate 
the war zone, memorized the clearings that I 
can step on without tripping over landmines of 
laundry or discarded Amazon boxes or takeout 
containers. I sprint down the stairs and clamber 
into my car, equally as messy, and speed down 
to class; I make it at 12:59 on the dot. 

All of this to say, I’m the messiest person I 

know. 

It’s an unexpected idiosyncrasy of mine, 

and I’m shocked when people tell me that I 
seem sooo put together. When they tell me 
this, I manage a strangled laugh, because I’m 
about as composed as a four-car collision or 
an oil spill or a blazing forest being put out by 
water guns. But I’ve become well-trained in 
the art of deception, and I revel in my expert 
ability to keep the uncontrolled chaos just 
below the surface. 

When the messiness seeps through the 

cracks, begging to be seen and heard and felt, I 
do not panic; instead, I turn it into a punchline. 
I wear it shamelessly on my sleeve, roll my eyes 
and say, “I know, I’m such a mess!” I internalize 
it, trying to make it an endearing personality 
trait, like when a doe-eyed child talks too much 
or when a clumsy pet scampers into a wall one-
too-many times. I think if I brandish it like a 
comedic weapon, take this ghastly flaw and 
furiously shine it, the carefully curated lacquer 
will make it sparkle, make it lovable somehow.

But my ownership of the mess doesn’t make 

it any more sexy or captivating. Up close, it is 
grotesque and all-encompassing, permeating 
every corner of my life. My speech is messy, 
punctuated by stammers and sloppily-strung-
together tangents. My writing is messy, 
wrought with technical errors and screaming-
red truths that border on unprovoked 
oversharing. My room is messy, as is my car 
and closet and mind. If it’s possible to be a hot 
mess, then I am on fire, always half-heartedly 
snuffing out the flames but never really putting 
out the blaze. Living like this demands a bizarre 
form of introspection, and lately, I’ve spent a lot 
of time trying to decipher what the mess means.

I tell you without really saying it, because I 

lack the courage, and I think the mess likes to 
speak for me anyway. When I say, “I’m sorry 
about my room,” what I mean is that I’m tired. 

That the days bleed into weeks and months 
and a task as simple as laundry would drain 
every iota of my energy. That my living space 
has become a battleground and I’ve settled for 
a truce. That I’ve opted for subordinate forms 
of self-punishment, that I don’t deserve a clean 
room or a safe space, that it’d be just another 
thing for me to inevitably destroy. That I’m 
fraught with failures: I forgot to eat today, I 
forgot to text you back, I forgot how to put out 
the million little fires, how to be anything other 
than this. 

Maybe I don’t tell you any of this because 

sorry is easier, anyway. It fits like a well-loved 
sweater, a default word rolling off of my tongue 
with miraculous ease as if it’s not leaving 
bruises in the back of my throat. All the sorries 
buzz around like gnats, trapped behind heavy, 
chapped lips. They scream, “I’m sorry I’m such 
a mess and I’m sorry that all I have to show for it 
is this bloody, mangled sorry I’m biting down on.” 
I’m sorry that sorry doesn’t clean up messes.

When I set aside the time to clean up my 

room, or my car, or my inbox, I hate myself for 
it, wondering when I let it get like this. I sift 
through the clothes on my floor, aging them 
with principles of superposition like deeply 
embedded fossils. I become an accidental 
archaeologist, realizing the shirt at the bottom 
of the pile is stained with September’s sadness 
and the jeans draped over the back of my desk 

chair are perfumed with the exhaustion of 
exams. The coffee cup marks on my desk 
culminate like rings in a tree trunk, and I realize 
this mess is old. I realize it might’ve been here 
before me, roots planted too stubbornly in the 
ground for me to ever move.

I give myself cheap cop-outs, blaming it 

on school or stress or grief. Because what is 
grief if not a mess you can never quite quell? A 
coffee cup cemented to your nightstand, a pile 
of laundry slowly towering on the floor despite 
you never adding to it, something you can’t 
bring yourself to confront or clean up. In those 
moments, I decide the easiest thing to do is let 
the mess win and lay in it instead, let it swallow 
me whole because it’s earned its rightful place 
there and has grown too prideful to ever go 
away. Most nights, I do.

Other nights, I clean up. It takes two cups 

of coffee, three loads of laundry, four garbage 
bags and countless breaks strewn in between. 
I curl up atop half-folded clothes and let the 
ache wash over me, cruel and demanding, and 
it takes everything in me to continue. But I 
do. I laboriously chip away at the mess until it 
disappears entirely until the bed gets made and 
the room smells of Febreze and fresh starts. I 
resent myself the entire time, like a beguiled 
mother cleaning up after a reckless toddler. I 
pretend it isn’t my mess, that the girl who let 
it spiral is just a lazy liability I’m forced to take 

care of. But the satisfaction of it all is tinged 
with shame, because I remember that I am her 
and that means the mess hasn’t gone away, not 
really. Maybe it never will, and maybe it’s less 
about the mess and more about the resolve 
required to clean it up. 

These days, I’ve been trying to redefine 

the relationship I have with cleaning. I mold 
it into something that’s more meditative than 
miserable, something I do for myself rather 
than to spite myself. I do it because I love 
the girl who let it get this bad. I was there 
on the sleepless nights, felt the dull ache in 
her chest that persisted for weeks on end, 
and I understand why a mess was easier to 
maintain. She deserves compassion, too, even 
on her worst days. Even when she can’t muster 
the will to see the world through anything 
other than jaded, glassy eyes, even when she 
destroys everything she touches. Even then, 
she deserves to rest her debilitated bones 
on warm linens, to have a space that is rid of 
the reminders of her failures. When I say I’m 
cleaning my room tonight, what I mean is, 
I’m extending her the same tenderness she’s 
always extended me. I’m thanking her for 
trying. 

In the same breath, I thank my friends for 

being brave enough to love the mess. 

What the mess means

YASMINE SLIMANI

MiC Columnist

Design by Camille Andrew

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Read more at MichiganDaily.com