My freedom is nigh.
With the last of my children on the verge of graduating high school, I am close to liberation from the shackles of Ontario’s education system — a system that has spent more than a decade reminding me, in ways both glaring and insidious, how little it values Black students.
I don’t say this lightly.
For years, I was willfully naive about how deeply anti-Black racism shaped my children’s experiences in school.
Telling our own stories.
Creating community-powered journalism that centres and celebrates Black, Indigenous and communities of colour in Canada.
And yes, I was naive even though I grew up in this system.
I never had a Black educator. Not once, from kindergarten through Grade 13. In Grade 1, I was accused of cheating and made to stand in the corner because I read aloud from a chapter book my teacher believed was “too advanced” for me. A solid A and B student, I only narrowly avoided being streamed by a Grade 8 teacher who believed “people like me did better with hands-on work.”
Despite these and many other indignities, I convinced myself that surely things had changed.
I swallowed the lie that if we worked twice as hard, we’d be fine.
I heard the statistics — the higher dropout rates, the disproportionate suspensions — and still found myself thinking: some kids just don’t care, or where are their parents? I’d wonder, if some Black kids succeed, why can’t all of them?
A decade of raising two Black children in Ontario’s schools erased that thinking entirely.
Early Traumas and Dismissals
When my daughter was in Grade 2, she called me in tears after a history lesson on slave catchers. Her white teacher had shown a graphic, disturbing film about the brutalities inflicted on runaway slaves to a class of seven-year-olds. The only Black child in the room, she was surrounded by boys who taunted her, saying they would “catch her” after class.
She was terrified. I raised my concerns with the principal, who dismissed me outright: “You’re the only parent who raised any issue,” he said. “This teacher doesn’t have a racist bone in her body.”
Not long after, my son began enduring relentless harassment from one of his teachers. She called me constantly, often pulling me out of work meetings to complain about his behaviour — behaviour that neither I nor any other teacher or coach had ever observed. One day, she called to complain about something he had done that very day — while he lay at home, sick in bed.
Only then did I begin to wonder how many times she had mistaken him for the other Black boy in class.
Still, I ignored my instincts and tried to carry on.
A False Hope for Change
Believing a smaller, more community-focused school might be different, I moved my kids to a new school under a different school board. I thought smaller class sizes and a tight-knit community might improve our chances of working collaboratively with educators.
Silly rabbit.
At first, I was hopeful. Then a white parent pulled me aside. Her 12-year-old son had noticed that their teacher was unusually harsh toward my son. The boy’s words — “unfairly targeted” — stayed with me.
And yet, I still internalized the problem. I told my son to straighten up and not give the teacher any reason to single him out.
Later that year, in a conversation about course selection, this same teacher smiled and suggested that my son’s “great personality” made him perfect for a job in sales — a career, she pointed out, that wouldn’t require a university degree. She urged me to be “open” to his taking applied-level courses in high school.
She was later promoted to vice principal.
Denied Encouragement, Denied Potential
Meanwhile, my daughter — a consistent high achiever in math and science — was never encouraged to pursue STEM. When she expressed interest in studying computer science, her guidance counsellor responded, “Well, that’s a shift.”
A shift from what? From the low expectations imposed on her?
This is the same child who, at 11, designed a logo for her future engineering company. She didn’t just dream, she planned. And still, no one at school thought to nurture or encourage those ambitions.
The Absence of Representation
And then there’s the broader issue of representation — or the glaring lack of it.
When my daughter was in Grade 8, we attended an information night at her future high school. Among a student body of over 1,000 — the majority of them racialized — there wasn’t a single teacher or school leader of colour.
When I brought this up to the superintendent, I was told, “Hopefully, your child will have a Black teacher by Grade 11.”
In her final semester of Grade 12, she finally had her first — and only — Black teacher.
A Pattern, Not an Exception
After all this time, I know these aren’t just our stories — they reflect the pattern of almost every Black family I’ve spoken with.
Racism. Invalidation. Rinse. Repeat.
Sometimes I almost wish the racism were more overt, like being called the N-word. At least then it would at least likely be condemned. Instead, what Black students face is far more insidious: a persistent lack of safety, and the slow erosion of their confidence and their potential, not through blatant exclusion but through the quiet absence of leadership that reflects them, representation that validates them, and affirmations that recognize their worth.
Most of these types of incidents don’t get formally reported. The racism Black students face is so normalized, so routine, that many parents see no point. The system is structured to absorb and deflect complaints, framing them as isolated “bad actors” rather than symptoms of deep, systemic rot.
The Toll on Parents
I’ve been the squeaky wheel. I’ve raised my voice, written letters, and spoken publicly at board meetings.
And I know this: it takes immense resilience to challenge the system. It takes time, emotional labour, and clarity of mind — even when your child is hurting.
You have to not only support your child but also become an expert: understand the issue, suggest solutions, and anticipate the resistance that will almost certainly follow.
Even with decades of data confirming our concerns, meaningful action remains elusive.
A Map to Success — and a Rigged Mountain
My family’s experiences offer a glimpse into what happens when Black students are hyper-surveilled, streamed, and denied the support they need to succeed. And what it costs their parents: I have never relaxed. I have stayed alert, always ready to respond to the next indignity.
This system shattered my naivety. It forced me to confront a harsh reality: if being engaged, supportive, and proactive isn’t enough — what is?
For Black students, the promise of education is like being handed a map to Success Mountain. But the climb is steep. The supplies are limited. And the obstacles — systemic racism, underfunding, biased assumptions — are built into the terrain.
Telling Black students to “climb harder” ignores the fact that the mountain was designed to keep them from reaching the top.
Moving Forward
This series isn’t about revisiting the statistics. It’s about the lived realities behind those numbers — realities that haven’t changed for generations.
It’s about connecting the day-to-day indignities Black families experience to the broader systems that allow those patterns to persist.
As my children and I leave this system behind, I reflect on where we are — stuck in a cycle of harm and inertia, where even the most dedicated efforts often yield little progress.
Why are some school boards allowed to fall so far behind in addressing anti-Black racism?
And more importantly: What will it take to break free? What does a truly transformed, equitable education system look like?
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