Dear Educator Letter

As part of this year's Black Student Forum, I introduced an activity from the past - The Dear Ottawa Project. When the BeMore Academy team created this event, it was a tool for them to express what it was like to be black and young while living in Ottawa. It had two parts - a Dear Ottawa Letter and a series of pictures that captured something they loved, who they are and their communities (result of several "photography walks"). We rented an art gallery and then invited people to come hear and see what Ottawa was like through the " lens" of Black youth.

For the Black Student Forum, the letter became "Dear Educator" and students were given a template to follow in creating their letters. This became the opening of this year's gathering. Eight students read their letters and had a series of three slides of their pictures. The letters were raw, direct, and truth telling. There were several common themes about their experiences and many of them resonated as I reflected about my own time as a high school student. Some of it rang like nothing has changed. A lot has though because when I was in high school, there was never an opportunity like this, to safely and authentically express the experience. 

We had a second opportunity to use our Dear Educator letters as a tool for transformation at the Equity PD Day. This time, I thought it would be important for my colleagues to hear from me, my Dear Educator Letter. Here's my letter - my career, captured in a letter, speaking a lived experience and what it's been like to stand in Room 216 for 20 years.  

Dear Educator,

In your commitment to continue to create an equitable and inclusive learning space by identifying and addressing systemic barriers, and honouring your commitment to the International Decade for People of African Descent, I want to share with you my experience as a Black educator in the OCDSB.

My name is Adrienne Coddett

I have been an educator with the OCDSB for 20 years. I teach Law, History, Social Justice/Equity and Civics.  Prior to that I was an Educational Assistant with the OCCDSB for 7 years. Prior to that I taught for two years as a student teacher in the District of Columbia public school system - Anacostia HS and Cardozo HS

As a black educator in the OCDSB, my experience has been a highlight reel of  moments when I've felt truly fulfilled and other moments when I've felt so isolated and marginalized, I was paralyzed and incapable of even saving myself.

I want you to know, the moments I've most enjoyed have come when I can bring all of who I am into the classroom and be my most authentic self in pursuit of and in partnership for learning with my students.  

And, the moments I've least enjoyed are when the conscious and unconscious nature of racial bias means what impacts the learning experience for students does the same thing to me as a black educator. Throughout my career in Room 216, I have most often found kinship of the school experience with black students.  I have as teacher the same experience I had as student of this school district. Not only have I observed death by low expectations in black students, I have died several times by those same low expectations held for me. I'm called on for my experience when there is a racial problem in the school but never acknowledged for the contributions made inside and outside of the school given in hope of avoiding such moments.

I want you to know the moments I have felt welcomed, safe and a sense of belonging in my school:

1. I have felt welcomed in my school when my training and community connections have created space for something other than a eurocentric perspective to be held as important.

2. I have not felt welcomed when the diversity of world views I'm required to hold doesn't seem to the be the same standard required for others and is not included in any curriculum delivered.

3. I have felt most safe in my interactions with black students because they are the closest thing in my work day to the realities of being black in Ottawa

 

4. I have not felt safe when the navigating of the sometimes daily microaggressions leaves me isolated and alone to figure them out so my errors have come with severe repercussions to my career and mental wellbeing.

5. I feel the greatest  sense of belonging right now because of the number of persons of colour who are now on staff. We have created a way to support each other as we each navigate our careers. I consider them my friends and along with them, allies and other co-conspirators who have noticed, the healing of my upsets has for the first time seemed possible.  

6. I have not felt a sense of belonging when who I am in the school is invisible but who I am outside of school is highly visible in the community.

As I approach my final five years in the OCDSB, I want you to know I am taking away the blessings that have come from being my best student of Room 216. I am still the first black educator most of my students have ever had.  I am leaving a legacy of being my vision fulfilled, that a little black girl from Beaverpond Dr, a late bloomer academically, came back to this community because it's my home and I wanted to be the one to make a difference. I did it.

As I get ready for this last phase of my teaching career I am looking forward to new challenges that get created out of this generation's push against the status quo providing and creating educational opportunities for all children and specifically black children.

I am not looking forward to some of the ways people will push back on any attempts to resolve anti-black racism. I'm over 50 years old now and I don't have time to waste on fragility and broken egos unable and unwilling to see that diversity makes us all smarter.

Sent with Love from my AfuaBerry

"When ya find a Mango under a Coconut tree, somebody put it there."

The Chase

Could a lover of Graduation season really have a problem with Back to School? 

There are several truths to tell first. When the school year ends, I look forward to that first day. You know the first one after all the year end hustle. The first one I didn't have a time I needed to get out of bed. I didn't have someone who was expecting me to be somewhere and I could ease into my day like I dream retired people do - hot coffee in hand, step onto the deck and feel light breeze blowing, warmth of the day hitting your face. Like you're a boss of the universe.

OK well, snap outta that shit because it's good for about a week, two tops. Bed sores start kicking in after 14 days. And the Summer Honey Do list doesn't get shorter.

My truth is this, my life needs structure even as a personality that hates structure. The reason I need two months off is because you gave me two months off. For 10 months you got me in a groove . Yeah Yeah, I know so please don't forget, it's a job like most. There are days when I can straight say out loud, "WTF do I do here?" There are days I feel how connected I am with my greatness in that classroom. And there are days that blend into each other, just steps along the journey of a career. And that's it right there. The school year has a rhyme and rythme to it. It has its own algorithm, it's own swag. When we said "see you next year", in June we didn't even mean next year.  

I will begin year 20 with the same thought for how many days it takes to establish good habits versus how many days it takes to mash up that good habit. 

I know the answer, one day. I fell in love with that one day. I got high from the felling of that one day. I chase it all dayam school year, that one blissful day. 

It will take me to about Thanksgiving weekend to get right. Start flowing again. To catch the vibe and move with it with no resistance. By then, there's no turning back and only the school year to guide my movements. 

That first day back is also the crack. Through all the madness of filling a building with almost 900 people in less than 30minutes, you'll notice it. EXCITEMENT. 

We don't want to break up with summer even though we know the school year is better for us. You have to treat Summer like a Rent-a-Dred, fun while it lasted. 

Days running out like crushed ice and it's time for me and summer to break up. I'm not mad. We part on good terms ready to greet whatever challenges come my way. I can't wait for the excitement, new faces, older faces, and for the opportunity to be the best student of my life. So let's dance school year. Let the chase begin! 

@3dreads
#StayWoke
#BeMoreCommUNITY
"A Smile-a-day keeps the zombies away."
Sent with Love from  my AfuaBerry 

I miss Fridays

I'm having a very different summer than I thought I'd be having.  I had a plan of writing, reading, podcast listening, sun soaking, and chillin' with my dad.  My dad died on Tuesday, June 26th after a long year of dealing with Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.  Since that day, I've found it very challenging to write anything and haven't until today.  Today my dad would have been 77 years old (August 8th, 1941). When we first found out he was sick, I called our routine "our new normal".  Over the past few weeks, I've had a chance to reflect on a lot of things in the days and weeks since that terrible Tuesday.  One of the things I will miss for sure will be our Fridays.  What I claimed was our "new normal" was really an old normal.

Growing up, it seemed like being a person of Caribbean descent always started on a Friday.  I mean, for real, this is the Great White North.  Ottawa back in the day was really a place where all the black people did know each other and you could go the week and see none of them.  Come Friday though, BOOM! Weekend West Indians come alive. The world got blacker, spicer, filled with characters and was very different than any of the white kids I went to school with.  As a "First Generationer", weekends were my connection to Caribbean culture. The connection to a community was essential.  A Friday would sometimes start with coming home from school to find my father in the kitchen getting ready "fi de limin'" to start. Press cooker ready for 'cookup' rice, cutters for the drinkers and of course, drinks. The fellas would begin showing up after 6pm and depending, you might wake up Saturday and find them still there.  It drove my mother crazy.  By the time I was a teenager, I was sometimes called into duty as the designated driver.  No matter what, I observed quietly like an obedient Caribbean child, seen and not heard, The whole time plotting for my turn to be part of the lime one day.

Life can be funny when it's true. The things that get in the way and pull us in different directions can cloud how we see childhood once we become adults.  The relationship between an adult child and a parent can be complicated.  Or, the past can just be what it is....in the past.  Easier written and said for sure.

When I was coaching, Fridays changed and sometimes included my dad jumping in the van with the basketball team to hit the road.   The trip he was most likely to come on was when we went to Washington DC for the Charlie Webber Tournament.  Big Berbice Reunion Fete that weekend in the DVM and he would take advantage, connecting with his sister, some old school chums and friends from back home.

Nothing can beat two very special trips to DC.  In 2009, my dad, my sister and I were part of a group of Ottawans who drove to DC for Obama's first Inauguration.  One of the things I've been thinking about since he died is that he lived long enough to see a black man be President of the United States and we were there together to see it.

We were both interviewed that day and thanks to my friends at CBC Radio, here's the clip of his interview about the impact of that moment on his life.

and what it felt like after the first 100 days....


I didn't listen to this again until today and I got goosebumps hearing my father's voice.  I heard him speak that he still had more to give in the time he had left. In doing so, he returned to the Guyanese community and the association he helped start so many years ago.  So leading up to 50th anniversary of Guyana's independence in 2016, he came full circle, back to the grassroots.  And that meant that I was involved too.

The planning included him returning to Guyana for the official celebration.  I was so happy he was able to go. It would be his last trip to Guyana.  I still remember my sister and I helping him pack.  I can hear my sister telling him, "No, you're not taking that shirt.  It screams you don't have daughters." Or, "Dad, socks? What do you need socks for?  It's about to be a bazillion degrees."  Even though we took great measures, he still managed to sneak the items into his suitcase.

Here he is, wearing everything we took out of the suitcase  SMH! I kept the shirt! It will always remind me of him.

He also got to see the Kaieteur Falls, He was able to hike to the different viewing points.  It's a trip I'd do that summer.  I stood in this same spot and sent him my picture.  He would lime with his brother and they visited their childhood home. Three amazing weeks at a great time to be nostalgic about growing up in Guyana.  After my trip, our Friday's included the stories of my adventures in Guyana, places I now know, joke about trying to finish the wash basin-sized bowl of Germans soup, the characters of my uncle's law office, and every nature of Guyanese foolishness.  That trip and hanging out with my uncle gave me a different understanding of my father.  It helped me overstand a lot of things that made these past two years memorable.











He turned 75 that summer and the same community that would be so helpful to me over the last year, helped pull off a surprise birthday party. I told him that I was going to be in Guyana still but my sister and I rolled up just in time for the surprise.

We presented him with this picture, the first time all of his grandchildren were together.

Marissa, my brother Steven, Marc-Anthony Thompson, Rachel Thompson, my sister Angela, and Marcus

Our second important trip to DC was for the 150th Homecoming at Howard University, October 2017.  We hit the road so we could spend Friday at the National Museum of African American History and Culture.  Did we have a plan? Nope.  Did we have tickets? Nope. What is the sense in being a sexy black man and not use it? So, after waiting outside for an hour and a half, I sent my dad to sweet talk the older lady at the security checkpoint.  Considering I was about to weaponise some tears to get in, pimping my pops didn't seem too bad.  Whips, Waps Boom! We were in.  We each picked a section and then decided together for a third. If I tell the truth, there is only one thing I wanted to do that day.  Anything else was gravy.  My dad and I have always been big fans of track and field.  I ran.  He ran.  I feel in love with the Olympics after going to 1976 Montreal games with him. This was a proud moment that could only be topped by standing with John Carlos or Tommie Smith or Peter Newman themselves.  

Like many of the days since June 26th, my head gets it.  It's my heart that needs some more time.  I've cried with laughter.  I've cried with tears. I've sat aimlessly. I've laughed hilariously. I've had nightmares. While watching Avengers: Infinity Wars, the quote I tweeted was "We all think that at first. We are all wrong." Prepared that is. Many of us know loss. Fridays don't change. They merely transform. Leaving work on a Friday and heading over to his place I will miss for sure. I will miss our Friday routine, new and old. I will miss him.  I miss this guy. My simple and complicated pops is still the spirit from which I lime, one Friday at a time.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Online Guestbook for Randolph "Archie" Coddett

In the Face of 50.

Diary of a Mad Black Teacher - entry, Jan 2017

LET ME OFF THIS PLANTATION ALREADY! I want to scream it down the hallway.  I think the pressure of how bad 2016 has been, is taking a toll on me now.  A fresh new perspective is something I'm craving and 2017 has some possibilities for awesome. But I don't want to put any additional pressure on the year for delivering wonderful.  50 years old in 6 months. Wow! 50 years on this planet.  Not bad. I never really had any thoughts, when I was younger, that would shape what getting older would look like for me. I never imagined myself 50 when I was younger:

20s - The Bulletproof Years - I felt I could do anything, no consequences, naive and shortsighted, adventurous and bold, in the moment, impulsive, no plan, seat of my pants, reactions, impressed by minimalism, socially influenced, parrot, follower, voiceless.

30s - DISCOVERY / WHO AM I - I felt lost, I had no identity, a changing identity, no professional goals or profession, Battled depression because the life I had was not the life I planned in my head or on paper,  Reinventing what had not been invented, Faking it. FINDING my own voice and a facility for the transformation of my world even undistinguished as such.

40s - PURPOSE, FILLED - I am 3Dreads and a Baldhead. Discovery of my sexy, Public me and Private me, Profession and Professional, Vision and Living it - I am empowerment through Laughter, Leader sought by others, Visit to the Motherland, the roots of Wisdom, Opportunities Broker, BYCD, BeMore Academy, Facilitator of the International Black Summit, I am somebody to other somebodies, a small mini-series of highlights, Human Library, broader than Black community, A Black President, Living Life Like It's Golden, comfort greeted by discomfort, losses and gains, awesome and awful, Hurt, Upset, Surgery, Disconnect, Withdrawal, HIDE, Womancave, Homeownership, good things come from shit, the practice for the 'Don't Give a Shit Years'.

50s - 'Don't Give a Shit Years' Officially start June 30th, 9:30pm, 2017 - DGASY is code for a refusal to rent any space in my head for what others think about me. A rejection of my Looking Glass Self. A freedom to try new things and have new experiences. Reinvent myself for the version of me I am now. I'm the me I wished I could be when I figured out the me was in Me.

June 30th, 2017
The truth is, I don't know what my 50s will bring.  I am clearer than ever that I am simple but complicated.  There are simple things that make me happy and complicated things that make me sad. I have had 50 years of blessings, brought to me by a life that has been touched in so many ways, with lessons I can stand on and move forward from.  I've left it all on the floor and now I'm ready for this version of my life.  There are so many parts that are different while so much is the same about who I am.  At my core, I am a true child of the moon with colonial training and a rebellious spirit. I've gotten it wrong so many times just so I can have that incredible moment when I've gotten it right for me and my communities.  Curiosity hasn't killed my nine lives yet so I'll continue to trust in its guidance.  Inside of the chaos, I've always found laughter or laughter has found me. And knowing that, makes me really happy because as long as I have that, I have everything I need.

Why? Why? Why?

Last Monday morning, while lying in bed, I heard this noise that sounded like scratching - outside, just on the corner of the house. The next day,  I heard it again while I was getting dressed for work. I banged on the wall and that didn't seem to stop it. When I went outside, I found the culprit - a squirrel is scratching away at something way up where the phone line strings across from the pole to the house. And s/he is perched up there looking at my le like, "What?" It took 5 snowballs pelt at his/her ass. Hit square in the noggin with the 5th. Repeat that process every day since. This morning, guerrilla warfare start with me and this fucker. Went to the kitchen, got a handful of ice cubes, spare bedroom window. Pelt some ice cubes at his/her rass while hanging out the window. WTF is going on? The animal kingdom gwan mad. This squirrel doh know it got Guyanese people living here? We ain't frighten fi curry rassoul! It's freak'n 10:30 in the morning. Why am I at war with a fuck'n squirrel?

"I am my ancestors' wildest dreams" and I'm Black every month! 


Sent with Love and Hugs from my CrackBerry 10 device.

The Mystery of the Lost 2nd Pair of Black Pants - a short story

For what seems like more than a year now, we've had a mystery at my home - the mystery of the lost 2nd pair of Black pants. 

I am aware there were actually two pairs of pants. That's not fake news. I remember distinctly when the owner of the first pair came home claiming to love them so much she bought two. Life was good and then, just like that, the pants disappeared. 

We're they abducted? Kidnapped? Squirrel nation was my #1 suspect, in revenge for trying to poison them? 

Time and resources spent looking for these pants stopped short of putting an ad in the local newspaper. The search was called off and like Air Malaysia, the pants were assumed lost forever. 

Until last night. I found the pants and sports fans, I can tell you with confidence, we was never finding those things on our own. Martin Luther King Jr helped find the pants! 

The pants are at home resting comfortably. They declined interview requests and asked for some privacy. The pants have no intention of visiting the white house, in protest of Tangerine in Chief!  

"Part of Privilege is the ability to ignore Truths you do not want to face." - Deborah Peterson Small 

Sent with Love  from my CrackBerry 10 device.

Black on Black, Jul 9

With each click of the remote, I felt the trauma of the news telling me we've lost another. My mind drifts to all the other things lost in the same moment. I cry in the space of invisible, the pain of my past, my present and my future blur into the reminder this might just be a terrible nightmare. And it's not. It's the sharp pain of how really sick we are getting, our mental states compromised and the echo of our double standard for living is too loud to bare.

"Are all humans human or are some more human then others" 

I hear Romeo Dallaire declare. 

Things seem dark and there is darker still to come. Love's heartbeat is soft, quiet and steady, a pulse that sets us on a new course, a listening for righteousness to set us free. Heard by few it seems at first. Based on the text msgs emails and shout outs, heard by more. It's our time to agitate for this push against Babylon because we shall be free. All of us. The zombies don't get to win. We shall be free. We can Be More then this. We are more then this. My declaration to the World remains the same:

BeMore passionate to DO

BeMore empowered to ACT

BeMore inspired to SEE

BeMore willing to TRANSFORM

BeMore committed to SUPPORT

BeMore open to ACCEPT

BeMore free to GIVE

BeMore ready to RECEIVE

BeMore resourceful to ACHIEVE

BE the STAND to BE MORE……

#BeMoreCommUNITY

Condolences to ALL Who have lost. That's all of us. All power to all people. Peace and Freedom to the World.

"The opposite of Poverty is not Wealth. It's Justice! - Bryan Stevenson 
Sent with Love from my CrackBerry 10 device!