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So, my journey began
in the Bronx, New York,
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in a one-bedroom apartment,
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with my two sisters and immigrant mother.
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I loved our neighborhood.
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It was lively.
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There was all this merengue blasting,
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neighbors socializing on building stoops
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and animated conversations
over domino playing.
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It was home,
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and it was sweet.
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But it wasn't simple.
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In fact, everyone at school
knew the block where we lived,
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because it was where people came
to buy weed and other drugs.
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And with drug-dealing comes conflict,
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so we often went to sleep
to the sound of gunshots.
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I spent much of my childhood worried,
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worried about our safety.
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And so did our mother.
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She worried that the violence we witnessed
would overtake our lives;
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that our poverty meant
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that the neighbors with whom
we lived and shared space
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would harm us.
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Our entire life was in the Bronx,
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but my mother's anxiety
spurred her into action,
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and soon we were driving
so fast to Connecticut --
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(Laughter)
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To boarding school campuses,
with full scholarships in tow.
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Man, don't underestimate
the power of a mother
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determined to keep her children safe.
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(Cheers)
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(Applause)
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At boarding school,
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for the first time,
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I was able to sleep without worry.
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I could leave my dorm room unlocked,
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walk barefoot in the grass,
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and look up to see
a night sky full of stars.
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Happy novelties.
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But there were other novelties as well.
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Very quickly, I felt like I didn't belong.
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I learned that I didn't speak
the right way,
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and to demonstrate
the proper ways of speaking,
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my teachers gave me
frequent lessons, in public,
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on the appropriate way
to enunciate certain words.
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A teacher once instructed me
in the hallway:
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"Aaaaaas-king."
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She said this loudly.
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"Dena, it's not 'axing,'
like you're running around with an axe.
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That's silly."
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Now at this point, you can imagine
the snickers of my classmates,
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but she continued:
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"Think about breaking the word
into 'ass' and 'king, '
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and then put the two together
to say it correctly --
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'Asking.'"
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There were some other moments
that reminded me that I didn't belong.
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Once, I walked into
a classmate's dorm room,
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and I watched her watch
her valuables around me.
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Like, why would she do that?
I thought to myself.
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And then there was the time
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when another classmate
walked into my dorm room,
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and yelled, "Ew!" as I was applying
hair grease to my scalp.
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There is emotional damage done
when young people can't be themselves,
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when they are forced to edit who they are
in order to be acceptable.
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It's a kind of violence.
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Ultimately, I'm a quintessential
success story.
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I attended boarding school
and college in New England,
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studied abroad in Chile
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and returned to the Bronx
to be a middle school teacher.
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I received a Truman Scholarship,
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a Fulbright and a Soros Fellowship.
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And I could list more.
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(Laughter)
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But I won't.
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(Laughter)
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I earned my doctorate
at Columbia University.
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(Cheers)
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(Applause)
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And then I landed a job at Yale.
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(Applause)
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I am proud of everything
that I've been able to accomplish
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on my journey thus far.
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I have eternal imposter syndrome.
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Either I've been invited
because I'm a token,
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which really isn't about me,
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but rather, about a box
someone needed to check off.
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Or, I am exceptional,
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which means I've had to leave
the people I love behind.
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It's the price that I and so many others
pay for learning while black.
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(Applause)
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I police myself all the time.
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Are my pants too tight?
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Should I wear my hair up or in a fro?
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Should I speak up for myself,
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or will the power of my words
be reduced to "She's angry"?
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Why did I have to leave the Bronx
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to gain access to a better education?
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And why, in the process
of getting that better education,
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did I have to endure the trauma
of erasing what made me me --
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a black girl from the Bronx,
raised by an Antiguan mother?
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So when I think about our current
education reform initiatives,
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I can't help asking:
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What are our students of color
learning about themselves?
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Three -- three decades of research reveal
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that students of color
are suspended and expelled
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at a rate three times greater
than white students,
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and are punished in harsher ways
for the same infractions.
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They also learn this through the absence
of their lives and narratives
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in the curricula.
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The Cooperative Children's Book Center
did a review of nearly 4,000 books,
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and found that only three percent
were about African-Americans.
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And they further learn this
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through the lack of teachers
that look like them.
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An analysis of data
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from the National Center
for Education Statistics
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found that 45 percent of our nation's
pre-K to high school students
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were people of color,
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while only 17 percent of our teachers are.
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Our youth of color pay a profound price
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when their schooling
sends them the message
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that they must be controlled,
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that they must leave
their identities at home
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in order to be successful.
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Every child deserves an education
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that guarantees the safety to learn
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in the comfort of one's own skin.
-
(Applause)
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It is possible to create emotionally
and physically safe classrooms
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where students also thrive academically.
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I know, because I did it in my classroom
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when I returned to teach in the Bronx.
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So what did that look like?
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I centered my instruction
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on the lives, histories
and identities of my students.
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And I did all of this
because I wanted my students to know
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that everyone around them
was supporting them
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to be their best self.
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So while I could not control
the instability of their homes,
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the uncertainty of their next meal,
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or the loud neighbors
that kept them from sleep,
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I provided them with a loving classroom
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that made them feel proud of who they are,
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that made them know that they mattered.
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You know,
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every time I hear
or say the word "asking,"
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I am in high school again.
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I am thinking about "ass" and "king,"
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and putting the two together
so that I speak in a way
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where someone in power
will want to listen.
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There is a better way,
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one that doesn't force kids of color
into a double bind;
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a way for them to preserve their ties
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to their families, homes, and communities;
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a way that teaches them
to trust their instincts
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and to have faith
in their own creative genius.
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Thank you.
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(Applause)