Black Kids Don’t Need Saviors—They Need Systems That Care

It wasn’t so long ago that countless Black women were tasked with caring for white children. 

Nannies, maids, caretakers, these were the jobs available primarily to Black women. Black men, meanwhile, were consigned by and large to roles as drivers, janitors, and laborers, often tending to the needs of white families. 

Despite these restrictive occupational options being deeply rooted in oppressive socio-economic conditions, there was an undeniable ethic of care in how these Black adults treated the children in their charge.

They nurtured and took seriously the responsibility of caring for the children in their charge. And, yes, in a way, many often loved these children. 

And those children often loved them back, until they were taught not to. Until the societal messages kicked in: “They’re less than you. They don’t matter as much.” 

Children’s natural affection was gradually replaced with disdain, fear, or superiority. Love was unlearned, distance was created, and otherness was projected.

Today, we’ve gone through the looking glass, the relationships inverted. White women now dominate the ranks of public school teachers. And the children in their classrooms are increasingly Black and brown.  

The persistent and staggering achievement and opportunity gaps we see across the country raise a relevant question about whether that same ethic of care, which Black folks brought with them amidst even the most unjust and exploitative conditions, can be found in today’s public schools. Because if that ethic of care were present at the level our children deserve, we wouldn’t be seeing the outcomes we do now.

As a thought experiment, imagine if the majority of teachers were Black women and the majority of students were white.  

Imagine if white students then struggled at the same rates as their Black, brown, and low-income peers do in reality. And what if those white students not only were the ones falling behind academically, but were suspended at disproportionate rates, policed like brazen criminals, were pushed out of school and held to the lowest of expectations, and went on to earn less across their careers?

There would be a national outcry. The public would demand answers. Teachers would be put under the microscope. Education leaders and elected officials would be run out of town. There would be an explosive and fierce urgency to address the system and its failures.

But when it’s Black and brown children, low-income kids, the urgency evaporates. There is no small degree of intractability of these disparities that is widely understood, accepted, and very much expected. The entire field of education is collectively absolved of responsibility for the outcomes of the “system.” This, of course, ignores the plain fact that we are the system–us educators, us leaders, us members of the community who tolerate its disparate impact on Black and brown children. 

And at times, this toleration of inequity tips over into justification, validation, and outright embrace. We saw it clearly just a few years ago, amidst a funding lawsuit in my home state of Pennsylvania. 

“What use would someone on the McDonald’s career track have for Algebra 1?” John Krill, the attorney for the Republican Senate president pro tempore, said. “There’s a need for retail workers, for people who know how to flip a pizza crust.”

That condescension is a death sentence to possibility for millions of children. It’s how low expectations are baked into the system for poor kids, immigrant kids, Black and brown kids. It is the social gravity that keeps too many of them from reaching escape velocity from diminished futures. 

It all comes down to care and who we believe is worthy of it.

Black and brown caregivers, teachers included, across history lived a key aspect of Black teaching traditions and techniques that sees brilliance and worth in every child.  Even amid segregation and massive resource disparity, Black educators held high expectations. Even in employment relationships that were often exploitative and undervalued the work of Black hands, they saw all children as deserving of genuine care. 

If we are serious about transforming education, we must start by reclaiming that ethic of care, not as nostalgia, but as a mandate.

The kind of care that sees every child’s brilliance, that refuses to lower the bar, that treats the success of Black, brown, and poor children as a non-negotiable. Because care is not neutral, and it’s not passive. It is reflected in policies, classroom practices, expectations, and ultimately in outcomes. 

And when it’s absent or conditional, it tells children exactly where they stand.