I was in the Fifth grade. My teacher refused to call me Farrakhan. She was a middle Class Caucasian, Jewish teacher working at an all black school in the inner city. She would chop up my name and call me variations of it like FarraCan. My grades were always lower than my classmates although my work was equal. I would be put in isolation a lot because she claimed I was Disruptive. There were other young black men in my class who were also penalized often for not being quiet enough. When brought to the attention of the principle by my mother, they told her to put me in Special education class for children with learning disability issues, even though all my testing was at the very top of my class. We got a Thanksgiving assignment to do an art project showing the pilgrims offering food to the Native Americans. My mother helped me to depict a massacre in which the pilgrims slaughtered innocent men women and children and stole their land. I hid it from the teacher until it came time to present it before the class. When I pulled it out her entire face turned red and she wanted to cry at the pain of seeing her once Slaves being brought to the truth. She tried to stop me but the parents said they wanted to hear my presentation. She became so upset that although she was teaching there for 15 years, after that Christmas break, she Retired. When I came back and heard she quit her job abruptly, although only a child, I knew that there was something very very powerful about the truth of the history of the world and something very significant about the Man whose name I carried. Our educational systems of America are lacking for those who seek truth, and I hope someone finds value in my story. Thank you for reading.
Posted on: Mon, 10 Nov 2014 17:34:42 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015