B.R.I.G.H.T (Be.Radiant.Ignite.Growth.Heroic.Teaching) Scholarship

When I first stepped into the ESL department at Glenbard North High School as a teacher’s aide, I didn’t expect to walk out months later with a clearer purpose for my life. I was there to help translate, organize, and support students whose first language wasn’t English—something I understood deeply as someone who once sat in that same seat. What I didn’t realize was just how powerful something as simple as showing up, listening, and encouraging could be. There was one student in particular who left a lasting impact on me. He had just moved from Ukraine and barely spoke a word of English. In the beginning, he stayed quiet, avoided eye contact, and clearly felt out of place. He was a freshman, new to the country and the school, and visibly overwhelmed by everything—new people, a new system, a new language. I saw the frustration in his eyes, not because he didn’t understand the lessons, but because he didn’t feel seen. He reminded me of myself, arriving in the U.S. years ago from Colombia with limited English, unsure of where I fit in. I didn’t speak Ukrainian, and he didn’t speak Spanish or much English, so we had to get creative. I started using simple tools—Google Translate, printed vocabulary sheets, visuals, even just drawing on paper when necessary. I made it a point every day to check in with him, to say hello, to offer help with homework, and to give him a space where he didn’t feel like he had to prove himself just to be acknowledged. I didn’t realize it then, but what I was really doing was helping him feel visible. Slowly, things began to shift. He started participating in class, saying a few English words with more confidence, and eventually even cracked a joke during lunch. One day, as we were reviewing a short assignment together, he paused and said, “Thank you for helping me feel like I belong.” That sentence hit me hard. It reminded me why I want to teach—not just to help students pass tests or write better essays, but to help them feel like they matter. That’s something no textbook teaches, but it’s one of the most powerful parts of being in education. That moment, and others like it, showed me how important representation, patience, and connection are in a classroom. Students—especially those from immigrant or low-income backgrounds—are often carrying more than just a backpack. They carry fear, uncertainty, language gaps, and pressure. They also carry hope—but sometimes they need someone to remind them that it’s okay to let that hope grow. As a future history teacher, I want my students to see themselves in the stories we tell. I want them to feel heard in the questions they ask. I want them to know that their voice matters, that their story is part of a larger narrative, and that their background is not a limitation but a strength. Coming from a low-income household myself and being the first in my family to attend college, I understand how difficult the journey can be. There were times when I wasn’t sure if college was an option, or whether my voice belonged in academic spaces. But I also know the power of education to transform lives. I don’t just want to teach history—I want to help students create their own. I want to teach with empathy, to lead with understanding, and to remind my students—especially the quiet ones sitting in the back—that they are capable of more than they think. I believe kindness, like Sierra Argumedo’s, has a ripple effect. Her dream to make every student feel seen, heard, and loved is not just inspirational—it’s necessary. In a world where too many students feel invisible or unheard, we need more teachers who lead with heart. Sierra’s story, though heartbreaking, reminds me that compassion in education is not a small thing—it can save lives. Her legacy is one I hope to carry forward, not just in words, but in action—every day I walk into a classroom. The time I spent helping that Ukrainian student reminded me that teaching isn’t just about content—it’s about connection. It’s about building trust, creating safe spaces, and showing up for students when they need it most. It’s about more than just words.

The first time I saw Amir, he was crying under a desk. It was a typical Monday morning in my pre-K classroom at Cleveland Avenue Elementary School in Atlanta, Georgia, and while most of the students were singing the alphabet song, Amir was curled in a ball, hands pressed tightly over his ears, tears rolling down his cheeks. He had just turned four, and like many children in our neighborhood, he was carrying a weight too heavy for someone so small. His father had been incarcerated two weeks earlier, and since then, he had barely spoken in class. That day, I learned that sometimes the most important thing an educator can do is simply show up, every single day, with love. As a Literacy Development Fellow through the Leading Men Fellowship, I was tasked with delivering daily, research-backed literacy interventions to pre-K students. But from the moment I met Amir, I knew that phonemic awareness and print knowledge couldn’t come before safety and trust. Education is not only about learning letters and numbers; it is about cultivating a sense of belonging and self-worth—especially for Black boys like Amir, who are so often misread, mislabeled, or overlooked. I started by just sitting beside him during story time, not forcing interaction, just being present. I’d bring two books—one for him, one for me—and quietly model how to turn the pages, follow along with the words, and make silly voices for characters. Some days he would scoot a little closer. Other days he wouldn’t move at all. But I stayed consistent. After a week, he reached out and tapped my book, asking softly, “What’s his name?” referring to a character on the page. That was the beginning. Over time, I built a one-on-one routine for Amir. We’d start each day with a sensory activity to help him feel calm—Play-Doh, water beads, or tracing letters in kinetic sand. Then I’d introduce a literacy skill using games and songs tailored to his interests—especially dinosaurs and superheroes. When we practiced rhyming words, I turned it into a game where “Spider-Man had to find the right rhyme to save the city.” When we worked on letter recognition, I turned each letter into a superhero symbol. He wasn’t just learning—he was leading. Slowly, Amir began to change. He started participating in group story time. He began raising his hand during our “letter of the day” circle. And most memorably, during one of our weekly assessments, he proudly pointed to the word “dog” and read it aloud. He looked up at me with eyes wide and said, “Mr. DaQuan, I did it!” I smiled and replied, “You did. Because you can.” His response is one I’ll never forget: “You believe in me, so I believe in me.” That was the moment I knew I was living my purpose. It would be easy to talk about literacy gains and data points—Amir went from recognizing 4 uppercase letters to 20, from knowing no letter sounds to identifying 18 out of 26. But the real growth was internal. He began to walk taller. He smiled more. His meltdowns became rare, and his curiosity flourished. And perhaps most telling of all—he began helping other students with their letters, saying things like, “You just gotta try. That’s what Mr. DaQuan says.” I didn’t just help Amir learn to read. I helped him see himself as a reader, a thinker, and a capable learner. This experience deeply affirmed my belief that when children—especially Black boys—are met with patience, joy, and high expectations, they rise. So often, boys like Amir are punished for their pain rather than supported through it. They are suspended for crying instead of counseled. They are written off as behavior problems before they are even given a chance to show their brilliance. That’s why I center my work on affirming, healing, and challenging my students to see themselves as scholars. Amir is one of many children I’ve worked with who have changed me. Each of them reminds me that impact doesn’t come from standing in front of a classroom—it comes from standing beside a child, day after day, even when it's hard. It comes from knowing that the smallest moments—a shared book, a silly song, a high five—can ripple into something powerful. It comes from knowing that literacy is liberation. My work with Amir also inspired me to write and publish Just Like You!: ABC Edition, a book that affirms the identities and possibilities of Black boys through joyful imagery and empowering language. I’ve distributed it to classrooms across Atlanta and hope to expand it further. Because every child deserves to see themselves reflected in stories that say, “You matter. You are brilliant. You belong.” As I prepare to enter the classroom full-time after completing my master’s in Urban Education Policy at Brown University, I carry Amir’s story with me. It reminds me that the work is urgent and personal. That every child I meet might be one caring adult away from believing in their own potential. And that while we may not be able to change everything overnight, we can change the world one child at a time. Sometimes, all it takes is one person saying, “I see you.” I was that person for Amir—and because of him, I’m more determined than ever to be that person for many more.