Since elementary school, words have always turned me on -
the affectionate sound of
"move one more again, and I'm gonna pop you,"
while getting my hair braided;
the sultry way that "ladies love cool jams"
rolls off the tongue when his music is introduced on the radio;
the inspirational lessons detailing the literary devices of onomatopoeia
and synecdoche in high school.
For 29 years, words have been my very best friend.
Since elementary school, words have always ostracized me -
the envious eyes of my non-black friends as my black friends and I used jeers
and culturally insensitive slurs to express our love for one another;
the covert corners I found a home in
as I chose poetry writing over lunch room gossip
for most of my educational career;
the demanding obligation I felt to withhold my feelings and questions
out of fear that my white colleagues and white teachers
would misinterpret my intention;
the inevitable nature of hearing the "N" word
in almost every single space I've ever encountered,
regardless of the race of its occupants.
For 29 years, words have been my most archenemy.
The problem is clear.
As a society, we take language for granted.
The reason why this problem persists is even more crystal.
People are really stupid.
(Laughter)
We assume, naively, that wealth is best measured by bills and coins,
also assuming that any other form of currency is inferior,
and thus, secondary.
Kofi Annan, a great Guinean diplomat,
once said that education is the great equalizer of our time.
Now, again, Kofi is brilliant.
He's amazing, so no shade to him.
But with this one, Kofi was wrong.
Words are more of a lever than education will ever be.
We just don't give words a chance to do their thing often enough.
Travel with me on a three-anecdote journey through my adulthood,
and you'll soon agree.
I've been discovering, rediscovering,
and re-rediscovering myself for as long as I can possibly remember.
One of the most powerful moments on my journey to self discovery
dates back to 2016 when I was forced to reconnect with language.
I remember the first half of my 20s
being characterized by a very fast-paced lifestyle.
I had just recently moved to Boston from my hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio.
And I was very proud of the way
that I fearlessly and brazenly navigated the world,
until I found out I was two months pregnant.
Life had a very funny way of telling me to slow down.
I was distraught.
I remember announcing my pregnancy to everybody I cared about
with a text message that said, "I have bad news."
And that was that.
My ex-boyfriend at the time, my child's father,
responded very graciously.
He was very supportive.
So my bad news turned into just news.
And then when my grandma offered some positive words,
I was like, OK, now, we have good news.
So I was excited.
I now had good news.
It was a good thing that I was having a baby.
I remember when we found out the birth of Amir, my son -
I'm sorry, the gender of Amir, my son,
and we were so excited that we immediately went shopping.
We sifted through so many sale and clearance racks,
as many as the green line could take us to.
At six months, Amir stopped kicking.
He didn't live beyond his six months in my womb.
I cried.
For days, I cried.
For days that turned into weeks, I cried.
For weeks that turned into months, I cried.
For months that have now turned into three years,
I still find myself crying sometimes.
Of course, all of the very loving people in my life
use their words to try to dry my tears and soothe me.
So I got a lot of "I'm so sorry, Ashley,"
and some well-meaning, "He's in a better place now, Ashley."
You know, the kind of words we use to soothe people
because we don't know what else to say,
even though we know that our words probably aren't working.
It wasn't until I met my therapist that recovery actually felt possible.
My therapist said, "It's OK to cry.
It's OK to grieve.
It's even OK to criticize the way
that other people give you permission to do those things."
And so within weeks, I suddenly stopped crying.
I don't know why.
Fast forward to 2017.
So as was stated, I'm an educator, something I'm very proud of.
And I started my educational identity, if you will,
with the Charlie Sposato Graduate School of Education,
which is a teacher residency program
that's housed through Match, a charter network.
Specifically, I worked at Match High School in Brighton for five years.
I often give back to the graduate program
because I feel like they did so much for me.
And one notable way that I give back is by speaking on their panels every year.
At my most recent talk, I remember being asked a question
about the way that my identity informs my practice as an educator.
Now, anybody who knows me
knows that I was very excited about that question
because anything related to race, identity, affirmation, culture,
that's my jam.
That's my topic.
So my excitement came clear in my answers.
I started by reflecting on the tension
that I often feel as a black woman educating black kids.
Ironic, right?
I talked about how I'm often conflicted
because even though I share the identity with a lot of my students,
I work in a space - or at that time, especially, I worked in a space -
that was very white-dominated.
So I felt like I had to constrict who I really was.
I talked about how my hoop earrings are a statement.
I talked about how my then-much more intricate nail designs are a statement.
And I even talked about the fact that people's typical reaction
to my tattooed aesthetic is a statement too,
just of a different kind.
I talked about a lot.
And I culminated my talking by saying something like,
"It's a black woman thing, though," with a sort of dismissive pride.
In response, an eager white resident raised her hand.
And she said, "It's actually not just a black girl thing.
I've experienced that too."
And she proceeded to project her privilege and her story
onto my narrative.
Now, although I didn't appreciate that,
I responded in a way that I don't think was rude.
And I said, "So sure, yes.
Womanhood in patriarchal America is one thing, indeed.
However, black womanhood in white patriarchal America
is an entirely different thing."
And it's something that, namely, she had no right to speak on.
In response to the words that I offered to the white woman's words,
I got a lot of praise from people.
My most favorite praise was from one of my students
who accompanied me on the panel.
Let's call her Maya.
And Maya said, "Yes, Davis," and she hugged me, very tightly.
Maya hugged me tighter than anybody had ever hugged me before.
I still don't fully understand why.
Fast forward to October 2018.
So I am a principle fellow this year,
which is fancy verbiage for saying
that I'm an underpaid assistant principal studying to be a principal.
I work at a beautifully intimate elementary school.
It's a kindergarten through third grade school, the Shaw, in Mattapan.
And we serve a school full of beautiful students of color.
30% of our student body, about, identifies as Latinx.
Notice that I chose to use the word Latinx as opposed to Hispanic.
One of the things that I'm most proud of about my school
and about Boston alike,
and one of the things
that is actually convincing me to continue to endure the cold,
is the fact that Boston is so linguistically diverse.
Many of my students speak English, of course,
but they don't speak English as their primary language.
And they're multilingual in ways that I wish that I were.
So that's something that I am incredibly proud of.
However, on the day that this story revolves around,
I was very unproud.
So one of my students, who identifies as Latinx, a girl -
let's call her Taj - is a second grader.
And she's amazing.
Now, all of my students are amazing; I don't have any favorites.
But the thing that makes Taj most amazing
is that no matter who's around, she's the same.
And she's in second grade.
So I wanted to share that with her mother.
And I sort of practiced in my head what I was going to say
because as you guys know, I really like words.
So I would say something like, in class, Taj answers questions like this.
And then when we're in cheerleading, Taj shows leadership like this.
And when she thinks nobody's watching and she's by herself,
Taj does this -
because I really wanted to capture for Ms. Garcia, Taj's mother,
the full beauty of Taj's personality.
So when my rehearsing in my head sort of ended,
I went on to playground dismissal duty.
Of course, I was paying attention to everybody
and making sure that everybody went home with the right person.
But I was really just looking for Ms. Garcia, Taj's mom.
When I saw her approaching, I waved very frantically,
like a kid in a candy store almost.
And I sort of rushed over to her.
I just started talking.
We didn't even greet each other, I just started talking.
And then in the middle of my talking,
she interrupted me, and said, "Hola, Ms. Davis."
And I froze.
It wasn't until then that I realized
that my "perfectly rehearsed" English speech
wouldn't resonate with Taj's mom.
I was embarrassed.
Taj, in her brilliant innocence, jumped in and began translating.
She would turn to me and ask me a question in English,
and then she'd resort back to her mother and answer that question in Spanish
with grace and immediacy.
Ms. Garcia, Taj's mom, said, "Gracias, Miss Davis," and began crying.
And all I could do was smile.
In reflection, I realized that another thing that makes Taj special
is not the fact that she speaks English.
It's also not the fact that she speaks Spanish.
But it's that, in that moment, she knew very astutely
which language she needed to unite us all - the language of love.
I now understand why.
I chose these three stories
because each of them highlights the theme that semantics matter.
The way you say things, the why behind your saying of things,
and the impact of those said things carry weight.
You are your you-est you because of the words you choose
and because of the words you don't.
Your words are your power and your words make you resilient.
The question, then, is not about whether or not you have access
to the resiliency of words.
The question instead should be about your relationship with words.
Are you like the members of team Amir,
simply repeating words and phrases over and over,
because you don't know what else to say regardless of how they make people feel,
just because somebody repeated them to you?
Or are you like the naive resident,
negating the words in other people's words
out of a selfish desire to project your own words onto them?
Or perhaps, maybe you're like Taj,
affirming the word currency in others
regardless of race, status, bias, or creed?
Since birth, our words have defined and fed us:
the shady way we say "Good morning!"
with more cheer to our boss in promotion meetings
than we do to the people
who serve us coffee at Dunkin' Donuts every morning;
the flirtatious way we lead a new friend into our lives
by detailing certain traits about ourself and omitting others
because it's only the first date;
the fact that, as a child, I read a dictionary religiously -
I studied it;
and the fact that now, as an adult,
I have a protected list of words
that I'm collecting in the back of my planner;
the fact that most people of color have to rehearse and rewrite
what they want to say in their head at least three times
before raising their hand to offer those words aloud
in a setting that white America would consider "professional."
Our entire lives, words have equalized us and made us resilient.
Words matter.
Let them.
If you take nothing else away from this talk,
I urge you to reflect -
word work is deeply personal.
It's very private.
So find a way to ask yourself: What is my relationship like with words?
Use that answer to coach yourself into improvement
and ultimately into resilience.
You got this.
And if you don't, you'll always have words.
Thank you.
(Applause)