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.

The Purpose of Teaching: Guiding Special Needs Students to Their Own Presence Professor Harold Bloom’s statement, “I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence,” speaks to the heart of education—helping students recognize their own existence, value, and agency in the world. For special education, this idea is even more profound. Many students with special needs are often defined by their diagnoses rather than their identities. My role as a special education teacher would be to help them step into their own presence—to see themselves not as limited by their challenges but as individuals with unique strengths, voices, and potential. A sense of presence means that a student feels seen, heard, and empowered. It is the ability to recognize oneself as an active participant in the world rather than a passive recipient of instruction. In special education, this is especially important because many students have been told, explicitly or implicitly, that they are "different" in a way that limits them. But I believe difference is a source of power. My mission is to create a classroom environment where my students feel confident in their abilities, celebrated for their progress, and equipped with the skills they need to express themselves fully. My Mission in Special Education To accomplish this, I will focus on three core principles: individualized instruction, self-advocacy, and emotional resilience. 1. Individualized Instruction : Every student learns differently, and in special education, differentiation is key. I will ensure that my students have multiple ways to access knowledge—whether through visual aids, hands-on activities, or adaptive technology—so that they can learn in ways that make sense to them. 2. Self-Advocacy: Many students with special needs struggle to communicate their needs and desires. I will incorporate self-advocacy skills into my lessons, teaching my students how to articulate their thoughts, seek help when needed, and recognize their own strengths. 3. Emotional Resilience: I want my students to understand that setbacks are not failures but opportunities for growth. By fostering a supportive and encouraging environment, I will help them build confidence in their abilities, even when they face difficulties. By implementing these principles, I will help my students recognize that they are not defined by their disabilities but by their potential. They will leave my classroom not just with knowledge but with a sense of ownership over their own lives. The Tale of the Teacher and the Hidden Lights Once upon a time, in a village nestled between the mountains of Understanding and the river of Possibility, there lived a teacher named DaQuan. This was no ordinary village—it was a place where young stars were born, but some shone differently. These children were special, yet many in the village could not see their light. Some believed their glow was too dim; others thought it was hidden altogether. One day, the village elder, a wise woman named Truth, called DaQuan to her cottage. "There is a great mystery in our land," she said. "The stars of our special children are not seen, but I believe they shine in ways we do not yet understand. You must go on a journey to help them find their own light." DaQuan, honored and determined, set out on his quest. He gathered his tools—a book of wisdom, a lantern of patience, and a mirror of self-belief. He ventured into the Forest of Labels, where voices whispered, “You can’t,”You’re different,” and “You will never.” But instead of listening to the voices, DaQuan held up the mirror, showing the children their own reflections. “Look,” he said, “you are not the words they place upon you. You are something greater.” And slowly, their lights began to flicker. Next, he traveled to the Cave of Challenges, where each child faced an obstacle—some could not speak their thoughts, others struggled to read the scrolls of knowledge, and some feared they would never be understood. DaQuan did not remove their obstacles; instead, he taught them how to climb, how to navigate, and how to ask for help when needed. With each step they took, their light grew brighter. Finally, he led them to the Mountain of Presence. Here, the stars that had once been unseen now burned brightly, illuminating the village below. The people, once skeptical, stood in awe. "We never knew they could shine like this," they whispered. Truth, the wise elder, smiled. "They could always shine," she said. "They just needed someone to remind them of their own presence." And so, DaQuan continued his work, guiding more and more children to their own light, until the entire village was no longer a place of doubt but a land of brilliance. Conclusion Teaching is about helping students recognize their own power, and in special education, this mission is even more crucial. By fostering self-awareness, confidence, and resilience, I will help my students step into their own presence, proving that their light—though sometimes hidden—has always been there, waiting to shine.

Growing up in East Atlanta, I witnessed firsthand the disparities in education that often limited the potential of young Black boys like myself. I saw peers fall through the cracks, not because they lacked intelligence or drive, but because they lacked guidance, encouragement, and access to quality education. From a young age, I recognized that education could be a powerful tool for change, not just in my life but in the lives of those around me. My journey toward becoming a teacher was not just a career choice—it was a calling shaped by my experiences, the mentors who believed in me, and my desire to uplift the next generation. One of the defining moments of my life happened in second grade when I visited Morehouse College. I remember standing on that historic campus, hearing the words, *"This is where great Black men come from."* Those words ignited something in me. Even at that young age, I knew I wanted to be one of those great men. But I also understood that getting there wouldn’t be easy. I was raised in a household of strong Black women—my great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother—all of whom shaped my understanding of resilience, sacrifice, and perseverance. However, growing up without male role models in my immediate household meant I had to define manhood for myself. This journey of self-discovery lasted well into high school, where I realized that my experiences could be used to help others. Many of my peers struggled to see the greatness within themselves, often succumbing to the pressures of their environment. I wanted to change that narrative. That’s why I wrote *Just Like You!*—a book designed to empower young Black boys and help them see their potential. The book, which highlights successful Black men across various fields, serves as both a mirror and a window: a mirror for young boys to see themselves reflected in greatness and a window to the possibilities that lie ahead. Beyond writing, I have dedicated much of my life to education and community service. My internships with organizations like Voices for Georgia’s Children and Georgia’s Statewide Afterschool Network allowed me to see how policies impact children’s education. These experiences reinforced my belief that the fight for educational equity must take place both inside and outside the classroom. However, I knew that real change begins with direct engagement, which is why I pursued hands-on roles in education. Currently, as a Literacy Development Intern through the Leading Men Fellowship, I work at Cleveland Avenue Elementary, helping pre-K students develop foundational literacy skills. This experience has been transformative, solidifying my commitment to teaching and showing me firsthand how early literacy interventions can change the trajectory of a child’s academic journey. Every day, I witness the joy on my students’ faces when they recognize a new word or confidently express themselves. These small victories remind me why I chose this path. But my aspirations don’t stop at the classroom. I plan to use my experiences as a teacher to fuel my long-term goal of becoming a superintendent for DeKalb County, the community that shaped me. Before reaching that position, I want to spend 3-7 years in the classroom, ensuring that I fully understand the challenges teachers and students face on a daily basis. From there, I plan to transition into leadership roles that will allow me to influence policies, ensuring that all students—regardless of their zip code—receive a high-quality education. One of the key issues I aim to address is the disproportionate suspension rates among Black students, particularly Black boys. Through my research and experiences, I’ve come to understand that many of these suspensions stem from a lack of social-emotional learning (SEL) support and culturally responsive teaching. By implementing best practices in SEL and literacy instruction, I hope to create an educational environment where students feel seen, heard, and valued, rather than criminalized for behaviors that stem from unmet emotional and academic needs. Moreover, I want to ensure that children in underserved communities have access to high-quality literacy materials. That’s why I plan to distribute *Just Like You!: ABC Edition* to students in DeKalb County, reinforcing positive self-images and literacy development from an early age. I also hope to expand the book into a series, further providing representation and motivation for young Black boys. At the heart of all my work—whether in teaching, writing, or policy—is the desire to inspire others. I want my students to see in me what I wished I had seen more of growing up: a Black male educator who believes in their potential and is committed to their success. I want them to know that no matter where they come from, they are capable of greatness. Education changed my life, and I want to use it to change the lives of others. By investing in students, advocating for policies that prioritize equity, and ensuring that young Black boys have the representation they deserve, I hope to create a lasting impact. Because at the end of the day, my success is not just about me—it’s about the generations that come after me.