1 Why does representation matter?

‘When you are accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.’ Oscar Auliq-Ice (2019)

For me, the response to this question is that it depends. The answer you get is only as good as the context of the question. Representation can sometimes be used as a tool to mask and shy away from the real work that needs to be done. Therefore, it is important to understand the way in which the term ‘representation’ is being used. I could suggest that a room of children is representative, without giving due care and attention to whose voices are being heard, the impact of any silences and what this means for those in the space. It is important that all children can see themselves. We need to challenge the representation we see and integrate the circumstances surrounding it. Overrepresentation can be as damaging as underrepresentation.

But before we embark on this work, we must first consider what it is that we are trying to achieve and why. So, why does representation matter to you? The only way you can begin to answer this question is to look within and to think about yourself as an educator.

My own relationship with education is a strange one. Being a teacher herself, my mum was fiercely passionate about education. I remember spending days sitting in her classroom in awe of the knowledge that she was imparting to the children in front of her. I also wondered why she was so rare. She mainly taught in inner-city schools. Here were classrooms full of Black and Brown faces, yet for these children, seeing a teacher whose face matched theirs was a novelty. Of course, when a behavioural concern arose, out came an army of Black- and Brown-faced support in the roles of teaching assistant, dinner person, caretaker, cleaner. I wonder what this did to my young mind. Did I ever envisage that a person who looked like me could be in a position of authority? Or were people like me merely there to support and reinforce the status quo?

Activity: How diverse is your workforce?

Take a moment to think about your current school or academy. What does the ethnic diversity look like in your workforce? Note down your thoughts in the table below. You could include numbers or statistics if these are available to you or simply your own reflections.

Leadership (CEO, senior leaders, middle leaders, heads of faculty) Teachers Associate staff (including catering staff, estate teams, cleaners) Governors or board

My lived experience

I only had one Black teacher in my entire educational experience. I realise now how damaging that was for my development. I attended a multicultural primary school, before attending a secondary school which was predominately White and middle class. For the first time in my life, I realised I was Black – and I realised it was an issue. There were many comments that made it clear I was different. One particular moment that still haunts me today is when a friend of mine said to me, ‘You cannot come to my house because you are Black.’ I think back now to the microaggressions and overt racism I experienced, completely unaware of what it was doing to my psyche.

‘Here comes trouble’ on seeing me simply walking down the corridor.

‘Where do you come from?’ ‘Easton.’ ‘No… really, where do you come from?’

‘Why is your hair so coarse?’

‘Why do you moisturise your skin?’

‘Rough where you live… people get stabbed.’

‘You can’t come to my house… my mum said we can be friends at school, but you can’t come to my house.’

Little did I know, this experience was training me to navigate my way through institutional racism. The same system that still exists today. What hurts more than the racism I experienced at school is that my children are having these same experiences in their own education.

As I mentioned, I had one Black teacher while I was at school, but I did not have a great relationship with her. Looking back now, it was clear she didn’t want the weight of my Blackness on her shoulders. A burden that I understand as an educator today.

As an educator, my personal experiences of racism and bias have been varied:

● A colleague called me her ‘coffee-coloured friend’ then decided that perhaps I was a ‘latte’. I challenged her and stated that I identify as Black, only to be told,

‘I don’t care what you say. You are not Black.’ She then referred to a student and said, ‘Now he’s Black, so Black he’s scary.’ ● A super head told me that I was one of the ‘good EAL’ and congratulated me on understanding English and settling so well into British culture. I speak no other language and was born here.

These lived experiences demonstrate the impact of overt racism, but what we mustn’t do is neglect to discuss the subtle, the unconscious, the ‘I do not see colour’ type of racism. The microaggressions that lead to othering. When I complete an equality form, for example, I can only select Black African or Black Caribbean. I do not have the option of choosing Black British. Yet my parents were born here, and I was born here. How many generations of my family need to live here before I can select Black – Black British?

I often ask myself why it took me so long to wake up, to see it. To answer that I need to take a step back to assess my funds of knowledge.

It’s hard not to be emotional when I write this, as my commitment to education is not just professional, it’s personal too. Integral to my world view is my experience of motherhood. My various roles as granddaughter, daughter and mother have all affected the way I view the world and my relationship with representation. It carries with it the physical weight of my ancestors. A weight laden with toxicity. A weight which has been inherited and passed on, generation after generation.

For me, the word representation is so intrinsically linked with the words strong, female and Black that I cannot look at the word in isolation. It is the intersectionality of all three that compounds my experience.

So, what do I mean? Let us cast our minds back to ‘Mammy Two Shoes’, the fictional character from MGM’s cartoon Tom and Jerry. She presents as a heavy-set, middle-aged

African American who has the responsibility of caring for the home. Interestingly, but unsurprisingly, this is the image I see when I think of both of my grandmothers leading their households and raising their children. In the character of Mammy Two Shoes, we see the ‘representation’ of motherhood in the mainstream. This was my first example of leadership and command. The idea that the woman must demonstrate and exude strength and stability, ensuring, above all else, that she keeps everything together. In other words: the Black matriarch. She needs to cook, clean, tidy and work all the hours God sends to make ends meet. She needs to sit and scrub clothes until her hands are sore. She needs to miss meals to ensure that we all eat.

She exists only to serve.

She exists to sacrifice herself.

Servitude is a quality that I have carried with me into my role as an assistant principal: I am there to make sacrifices and serve the community I work within. I seek validation from those around me to ensure that my work is good enough to meet the standards – standards set by them. This might sound innocuous but in fact it is dangerous. I can lose sight of my value as an individual. ‘Aisha’ seems to exist somewhere between assistant principal and Miss Thomas; lost, perhaps.

So, what role does my Blackness play in this? I was frequently told that I had to work five times harder to succeed, as my Blackness would come with a weight that my White counterparts would never have to carry. So, I developed a double consciousness: the version of me at work and the version of me at home. I would be the first to arrive and the last to leave, just to prove my worth, to justify my position. Getting the job done could never be enough – I had to demonstrate my hard work.

However, the most confusing element to me was the absence of the man. What was his role? On one hand, all the women in my family were fierce feminists: ‘Be strong’, ‘Don’t rely on any man’, ‘Make your own money’, ‘You can do whatever a man can do’, ‘You don’t need a man’, ‘As a Black woman, you’ll always need to work harder.’ But on the other hand, we were being raised to serve men, to be at their beck and call. The boys would sit there while women washed their clothes, cooked their food and catered to their every whim.

How much has this learnt behaviour transferred into my professional practice? How much has it become a subconscious need to serve the male seniors above me? I must meet their needs and demands. But where does this stem from?

Only a few generations ago, my family members would have been slaves. Whilst men and women had an equally devastating experience of slavery (they both suffered the most severe torture and pain; they were both torn away from their homelands; they both suffered physical, spiritual and mental torture), the roles and experiences of women were different. While men were owned for their strength, colonies turned purchased females into field-hands; not only were they readily available, but crucially

they were cheaper. Eventually female slaves outnumbered the men. Forcing them to work meant they lost their predetermined role. In Africa, a woman’s primary role was that of mother. In slavery, this role was debased. In Africa, childbirth was a rite of passage. For enslaved women within the American plantation system, it signified something else. It earned them increased respect – or value. Being able to produce their own slaves gave a slave owner an economic advantage.

The psychological damage suffered by these women was irreparable. Women were expected to put the needs of the master and his family before their own children. The slave mother returning to the plantation after childbirth had to leave her children to be raised by others. Her role as mother became another task, in addition to her position as a slave.

The psychological need to serve has, I believe, been transferred at a cellular level. As Resmaa Menakem (2021) says in his book My Grandmother’s Hands, ‘Our bodies exist in the present. To your thinking brain, there is past, present, and future, but to a traumatised body there is only now. That now is the home of intense survival energy.’ I recognise many of these traits in my leadership style and behaviour today. As a single mother, in particular, my children pay the price for this leadership style. They attend school, they go to breakfast club and after-school club, whilst I meet the needs of others, letting others raise my children. These were necessary sacrifices that I felt compelled to make: missing important events, cancelling birthday parties, skipping homework, just to ensure that I showed up. It’s what I needed to do, right? Work five times as hard, always show up – even at a cost to my own family.

Some history accounts state that while their male counterparts tried to escape, slave mothers often stayed in bondage. This also seems to be replicated in society today. Why is it that we have made so much sacrifice, yet we continue to be underrepresented?

I would not be the mother I am today, the activist, the assistant principal or educational consultant, if it were not for standing on the shoulders of my ancestors. Whilst this leadership journey has not been easy – and there is much more work and reflection to do – I am proud of the amazing Black woman that I am today. However, I cannot help but ask the question: would my experiences have been different if there was more representation?

Lived experience: Samara Cameron, SEN class teacher

Allow me to set the scene. A little girl from Zaire has to move with her family to France. She asks her dad about the football final she will miss, and her dad fills her with the hope that she could play for France if she is any good. Her immediate