I keep what I call an obituary list.

It’s where I send people who are no longer worth my time, my energy, or my peace. No drama. No theatrical exits. Just quiet removal.

Please note: nobody ends up on that list by accident. I watch. I observe. I build a whole RICO case—patterns, inconsistencies, choices, and harm. Never mistake my silence as weakness. I’m usually taking mental notes. And when the evidence is clear that someone costs me more than they contribute to my well-bring or others, I’m done. That’s when they get added.

The hardest names to write down are teachers, especially when they look like me.
Far too often, we are our own worst enemies.

I recently watched a teacher—working in one of the most segregated school systems in the country (not Pennsylvania)—make the sweeping claim that “most” teachers are mediocre. In the same breath, they blamed unions for “forcing” teachers to comply with administration.
That’s not oppression. That’s a contract you signed to lead, to be better, to do better in service of others.

You get to benefit from collective bargaining while publicly sneering at the very profession that protects your paycheck, your due process, and your classroom autonomy. You don’t get to generalize educators as mediocre while doing nothing to uplift, mentor, organize, protest, or defend them.

Especially not now.

Not during record teacher shortages.

Not while the profession is under coordinated attack.

Not while educators are being legislated, surveilled, silenced, and burned out.

You do not build the profession by tearing it down from within. You do not protect students by demeaning their teachers—your co-workers. And you do not get access to my time if your platform is rooted in contempt instead of care, while hidden in the guise of “being human”.

So yes—some names end up on the obituary list.

Not out of spite.

Out of self-preservation.

Including friends. 

I often tell my kids, friends are like clothes…some you will always be able to wear. They are your refuge and comfort. Some you outgrow. Light a candle, mourn them, leave them at the curb, then move on. Never sacrifice your peace.
​
Peace is non-negotiable. Protect your borders.

    There is a quiet skill that does not get enough attention in our public conversations: the emotional intelligence to know when you have overstepped—and the wisdom to step back without needing to win.
    We talk a lot about calling people out. Less so about calling people in. The difference matters.
    Being called in assumes there is space for reflection, growth, and repair. It assumes the person has the emotional maturity to listen, self-assess, and recalibrate. Being called out, on the other hand, often happens when someone refuses to pause—when the need to be right overrides the responsibility to do no harm.
    Some years ago, I found myself in a space that illustrated this distinction painfully well.
A white teacher shared a story about a squirrel nesting in her classroom window. She described it as a “livable lesson” for her students—an organic moment of curiosity, observation, and learning. In her telling, she referred to the squirrel as her spirit animal.
    An Indigenous woman in the group took offense and stated that spirit animals were part of her culture, and that the white teacher had no right to claim that language.
    Here’s where emotional intelligence—and discernment—should have entered the conversation.
    Spirit animals are not exclusive to one culture. Variations of animal symbolism, guides, and spiritual metaphors exist across many indigenous cultures globally, as well as in non-indigenous traditions. While specific practices are culturally rooted and deserve respect, the idea itself cannot be singularly claimed.
    And more critically—how did anyone in that space know the cultural identity of the woman telling the story? Appearance is not ancestry. Passing is real. Mixed identities are real. Adoption is real. Diaspora is real. Assuming someone’s cultural legitimacy—or illegitimacy—based on how they look is itself a form of harm.
    This was a moment ripe for a call in.
    A call in might have sounded like curiosity instead of accusation.
    It might have invited clarification instead of correction.
    It might have acknowledged discomfort without assigning malice.
    But that requires restraint. It requires recognizing that not every moment of discomfort is an act of violence—and that not every perceived misstep demands public discipline.
    Calling someone in means trusting that growth is possible. Calling someone out often happens when trust has already been abandoned.
    What derails so many of these moments is the refusal to pause. The insistence on being right. The doubling down that turns a potential learning moment into a power struggle.
    Overstepping doesn’t become the real problem until someone refuses to notice they’ve done it.
    As educators, writers, and people who claim to care about community, we have to ask ourselves: Am I protecting understanding—or am I protecting my ego?
    Emotional intelligence is not about silence. It’s about discernment. It’s about knowing when correction educates and when it simply performs. It’s about recognizing when the goal should be connection, not conquest.
    If we want spaces that are truly inclusive, we have to build them with humility. That means leaving room for nuance, resisting the urge to assume, and remembering that calling someone in is often the braver—and harder—choice.
    Because growth doesn’t come from being publicly right.
    It comes from being willing to listen, learn, and step back when needed.

No one knows the love-hate relationship with their hair better than a Black woman. I spent the better part of my childhood and teens in pigtails and twists, endured perms and straightening, all in an effort to tame my tresses. I’ve gone through the Jheri curl phase and even submitted to the BIG chop. It was not until I went natural and committed to dreadlocks that I learned to love my hair (and myself). But some folks just don’t get it.

I’m reminded of a time when a Black woman’s hair humbled a man who should have known better. I was a high school teacher, working at a predominately Black school in the heart of the city. While on the-much-dreaded lunch duty roster, I was talking with a group of girls in the cafeteria.

An assistant principal, an African-American man, came over to the table and casually reprimanded me. One of the girls was wearing a colorful head scarf, and he wanted her to remove it. I knew why she was wearing it. I had done my due diligence, asked her about it, and decided (in the best interest of the child) that it was not my place. For the last few months, she had been wearing her hair in a protective style—micro braids—and then spent the better part of the previous night taking them out in preparation for getting the style redone. It literally takes hours. Her hair was…out of sorts. I was not about to ask her to remove the scarf.

When the administrator directed me to make the request, I refused. So, he directed her to remove it.

The child obediently complied and revealed an unruly mane that was uneven, flaking, knotted togther, and in need of care. My heart dropped, and so did the administrator’s. But the girl smiled proudly, looking us both in the eyes. He promptly told her to tie her headwrap back in place, patted me on the back, and left us.

Marcus Garvey once said, “Take the kinks out of your mind, not your hair.” He is right. The next day, I was commended for my disobedience, and the rule was promptly amended. Love me, love my hair.
  

My mare’s nickname is Double Stuffffff. The extra letters are not a typo. Maya’s gotten so fat, it’s now a medical concern. She is one of those thrifty types (like her mother). A good deep breath results in gaining 3-5 additional pounds. (Yes, social justice warriors, she is now wearing a muzzle. But she has chafed her face so badly, she’s now in solitary confinement in a dirt lot for an hour a day. And yes, the vet is involved. Back off. Unsolicited advice will be ignored.)

I got my beloved mare a size 60 girth from the plus-size store for horses, but it still took two people to get it on her. So I broke down and bought a girth extender. Having never used one, I didn’t think to use a smaller girth...I’m a science fiction/fantasy writer (emphasis on fantasy), I do words not numbers. I didn’t have the slightest worry that maybe the girth just wasn’t tight enough as I walked down to the ring to ride. 🙄

When I went to get on her from the grace of the mounting block, the goddamn saddle slid and I’m hanging off of her side like a decrepit Spider-Man. I’m 52 years old. Not at all fit or agile. My knees are shit, and if I were a horse, someone would have put me down for health reasons. And here I am hanging off my mare’s side like a trick rider.

The first and last time this happened to me, I was getting on a fit and mischievous, off-the-track Thoroughbred. I got planted hard enough to earn a 5.2 on the Richter Scale. I still have the bruise on my leg, and that was six years! A tattoo the doctor called it. I’d rather get the real thing. Far less painful!

Anyway! My magnificent mare is a sensible sort. Her favorite speeds are stop and slow. A stick-and-kick ride in every sense of the phrase. This is in the interest of preserving precious calories. She took one step away from the mounting block, and I thought, “Let the rodeo begin. This is one way to avoid going back to work.” Again, my mare took ONE step, stopped, and turned to look at me with an expression of “WTF are you doing? Is this the new protocol? This is too many calories.”

Bracing my old, cranky knees, I slid off and promptly gave Maya every cookie and peppermint in my pocket. Rules dictate that if you fall off, you have to get back on. Holding my breath, I tightened the girth, best I could, and climbed back on. Saddle still not quite tight enough, I walked and trotted a circle in both directions and went back to the barn—my bravery meter shattered. “All hail Queen Maya, may your tiara gleam for all eternity!”

Dear Editor:

I recently read Hannah Giorgis’ article (https://www.theatlantic.com/culture/archive/2020/08/lovecraft-country/615259/) on What Lovecraft Country Gets Wrong About Racial Horror. The sub-title goes along the lines that the show “...fails to make its Black heroes compelling”. Ms. Giorgis is quite mistaken. 

While her article was extremely well written and entertaining, she clearly missed something in her search for lofty ideals of what it means to be a hero. It’s like saying that Alighieri failed to make the character of Dante (himself) compelling because of his flaws. In this instance, she failed to see the forest for the trees, literally.

We have come to a place in time where the ideal hero, to be properly identified, must have an enormous ‘S’ printed across their chest, wield a magical hammer that only the worthy can pick up, or display superhuman powers. What a sad time! Real heroes do not need these things because they exemplify qualities that seem to be in low demand: integrity, natural intelligence, authenticity.

Lovecraft Country’s magic is subtle, subtle enough that Ms. Giorgis missed it in the depiction of Black heroes owning respectable businesses. Black heroes keeping their chins up in the face of systemically sanctioned cruelty. Black heroes even caring about (Heaven forbid!) literature and the distinctions between what is pulp and what is respectable reading, and making a subtle, but poignant distinction between the white racist H.P. Lovecraft’s poem: On The Creation of Niggers and The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, a timeless classic written by a Black man.

There were heroes of all sizes, not just a size 0. Heroes with natural, lovely nappy hair.  Perhaps, Ms. Giorgis should go back to the beginning of the first episode and listen with the intent to hear the message imparted to young Atticus when he excused the flaws of a protagonist, who was an ex-Confederate soldier. He is reprimanded and reminded that this officer “...fought for slavery. You don’t get to put an ex in front of that.” Yes, Ms. Giorgis would benefit from a redefinition of what it means to be a hero, a definition that should not come from a Marvel lunchbox.

​Again, splendid article, but misses the mark. B-