“José Luis, I’m writing your foreword.”
That’s how it went. My publisher and I were brainstorming names for who would best introduce my first solo project This Is Not A Test: A New Narrative on Race, Class, and Education to the world. For what it’s worth, Haymarket Books let me have my vision for the book, but they nudged me in ways I didn’t know I needed. As we approached the editing phase of the book, the publisher saw how the book needed to meet the moment. So one thing lead to another and President Lewis and “Coach” John Lewis sat in [an undisclosed location] with my family (Luz and Alejandro). We made the usual introductions between family, then she stated matter-of-factly that she would have the first word in my book. I looked at Luz, then Alejandro, then Coach, then back to Karen.
I must have giggled a bit and said “Sounds like a done deal.”
By then, I had gotten used to her directness, the warm demander so lauded by Black women education scholars past and present. There I was, an up-and-coming national voice in the movement against the corporatization of public schools facing the local legend turned national hero. Our main order of business took about 30 seconds without much fanfare. Because she said so.
Of course, she also pushed me to do the work of making the book meet her expectations for greatness. I didn’t have plans to let her down even before her provocation, but now I felt the duty not just of the movement at the time, but of ancestors from centuries before. She shared some of her reasoning for taking on this book in her foreword:
I became aware of “JLV” late one night after someone provided a link to his blog. I was taken by the truth, the vulnerability, and the clarity of his writing. It was clear that this man (and there are so few men in the profession, let alone men of color) had a passion for educating children of color. This passion fuels a constant search to make education relevant no matter what …
From our first meeting on, I had to earn that foreword. She made corrections on a number of facts in the manuscript and asked for a rewrite of the last few chapters, too. She was asking to be my most present and authentic self, the prodding from someone who knew I could do better.
Looking back through those e-mail exchanges, I was reminded of the person who insisted in front of my family that she preferred not leaving the classroom, but sometimes, when you’re called, you must answer. People who remember 2012 may recall that, before 2012, there were several pro-public school protests across the country in small and large ways. I participated and spoke in the Save Our Schools March in Washington, D.C., the largest (at that point) gathering of educators from across the country. While the SOS deserves its proper place in the resistance against the corporatization of public schools, the Chicago Teachers Strike manifested visions of a truly unified front. Communities across the country had felt the ripples of No Child Left Behind and Race to the Top in the form of austerity measures, including ramped-up privatization, elevating high-stakes standardized testing, inappropriate teacher measures, and the continual dissolution of Black and brown teachers across cities that venture philanthropists used as their ed reform playgrounds.
The mighty CTU reframed it by speaking plainly, pulling in parents and students for the collective win.
The president always acknowledged that she had plenty of help, with many of the people we saw in red and white knocking on doors, creating signs, and making phone calls across the Windy City. But the person who Chicago media loved to hate seemed so effervescent, laughing directly at those who insisted on derailing the CTU’s efforts to create great schools. She was one of the most potent speakers of the moment, at once riling onlookers and fellow activists up while slipping in punchlines that made us both laugh and “oh snap!” at once. She could smile wider than the sun one minute and cut your chest with her eyes the next with little effort.
Saying her imprimatur for my work was a blessing is insufficient. When I received her foreword, I almost felt like quitting writing books altogether because I couldn’t beat that.
But if we met with our families at this undisclosed location to just talk business, then I would have lost out on the person. Contrary to the caricatures and the vitriol from elites in Chi-town, Karen was also one of the warmest people I’d ever met. This was ostensibly a meeting about This Is Not A Test. It was actually a meeting about Alejandro. How big he was. How smart he was. How he looked like he had a bright future with his wisdom at such a young age (not two years old yet), and a mother who, like her, also presented as a warm demander. When I told Karen I was the least popular person in my house, she said, “I know, but that’s how it goes” and we all laughed.
The last time I got to see her face-to-face was in 2015. She was well on her way to stripping former Chicago mayor Rahm Emanuel of his mayoralty, scaring any number of education deformers along the way. But she had surgery. She had to bow out. I went to see her (thanks, Xian and Erin). She got to tell me directly that she was fine. She knew she needed to tell me directly that she would be. Same laugh. Same questions about children. Same wit. Same emphasis about improving education in Chicago.
One can always wish they had more time with the people they loved, even from afar. To this day, her pictures don’t sit still. CTU Vice President Stacy David Gates asked us to not wish that she rest in power but rest in peace, because she lived in power.
Facts.
What people come to realize is that, at our best, good teaching is activist teaching. To contrarians who suggest that we idealists stay neutral in the classrooms, they’d be surprised how Karen and so many others gained strength from the students they served daily. What good is teaching if it’s not teaching justly with communities in mind? To wit, what good is pretending neutrality when your kids are suffering from that neutrality? Teaching justly is teaching excellently. Karen believed in Chicago’s kids so much that she – however reluctantly – stepped out of the classroom to tell policymakers, politicians, and other corporate elites about themselves. At the end of her foreword, she writes:
“What José really advocates for is a ‘fundamental redistribution of power: from a top-down approach to one in which teachers, collectively and individually, take ownership of their roles in reforming education, something our current set of reformers don’t all believe is necessary.’ There it is again, that insistence upon ‘teacher voice.’ It’s neither whine nor bellow, but a steady trumpeting that resonates with us all. Those of us who do the work, have compassion for our students, and know the strengths and limitations of our institutions must have a voice.”
She wrote this about my book. She was an inspiration for what she expressed here. She inspires me to speak boldly and directly to power and justice wherever I go, with the students I serve in mind. She got her roses on multiple occasions while she could still smell them. She was blessed, but also a blessing.
She sits among the ancestors watching us now, teaching us to embrace joy and youth in our resistance.