Black educators are often expected to lead without ever being allowed the full protection of leadership. We are called on to steady schools, mentor children, decode culture, manage crises, and stand in the gap—yet when we speak plainly about racism, inequity, or harm, we are too often punished for the very leadership we are asked to provide. That contradiction sits at the center of the erasure of Black educators and the broader crisis facing Black leadership in schools.
When we think of leadership in education, we often reduce it to position—principal, supervisor, superintendent. But leadership is not a title. It is the standard you set and the risks you are willing to take to uphold it.
Anyone in a school can lead, and these school leaders must include those without formal titles. Leadership shows up in integrity, compassion, deep knowledge of one’s craft, and a commitment to serve others. These qualities shape the culture of a school long before a title ever does.
But there is one characteristic that distinguishes true leadership: the willingness to speak truth to power. And that willingness comes at a cost. And, power isn’t always the administration. Some times, it is group think, veterans who wield their time like a weapon, or people simply resistant to change and innovation. Yes, power comes in multiple forms and all need dosages of truth.
Not every conversation will be comfortable. Not every idea will be welcomed. In fact, the moments that most require leadership are often the ones where speaking up invites resistance, rejection, or erasure. Strong leaders recognize those moments and step in anyway—on behalf of students, schools, and communities.
For Black educators, that risk is not theoretical. It is lived.
Being dismissed. Being labeled. Being overlooked. Being remembered only when discipline is needed or diversity must be performed—these are not isolated experiences. They are patterned realities. They are tied to a long history in which Black educators have been constrained, undervalued, and pushed to the margins, even as Black communities have long built liberatory educational traditions of their own through institutions like Freedom Schools.
Recently, I came across a social media thread where Black educators shared why speaking up in professional spaces can feel so difficult. The reasons were familiar: being raised to be seen and not heard, the need to protect one’s job, the fear of rejection, the understanding that rules are not applied equally, and the memory of what happens to those who challenge injustice too directly.
None of this is imagined. All of it is rational.
But beneath it all is something deeper: the invisible tax.
The invisible tax is the unspoken expectation that Black educators must contort themselves to meet white comfort while carrying disproportionate responsibility. It shows up in being cast as disciplinarians rather than intellectuals, in being expected to manage Black students while others teach them, in translating Black culture for white colleagues, and in navigating pressure to code switch at the expense of authenticity.
It is a constant negotiation between survival and self.
And it makes speaking up feel costly.
Still, we cannot ignore what is at stake.
Black educators often enter this work because of a commitment to Black children—to be the support they needed, to provide what they did not receive, to stand in the gap within systems that were not designed with them in mind. That commitment is not abstract. It is a responsibility. It is also part of a larger fight to build and sustain a stronger Black teacher pipeline, one rooted in community, purpose, and racial justice.
And that responsibility requires advocacy.
There are moments in schools when silence allows harm to continue—when policies go unchallenged, when biases shape decisions, when Black students are misunderstood, over-disciplined, or underserved. In those moments, leadership is not optional.
It is required.
Yes, there are strategies for navigating these spaces. Yes, there are ways to read the room, to be strategic, to protect oneself while pushing forward. But strategy cannot become an excuse for silence.
At some point, leadership demands that we speak.
Many of us were taught to code switch, to let our work speak for itself, to remain humble and respectful in all settings. These lessons were often rooted in protection—ways to survive in environments shaped by white surveillance and judgment.
But survival is not the same as freedom.
And when those lessons require us to shrink—to be less vocal, less visible, less ourselves—they come at a cost. Not just to us, but to the students who are watching.
Because students are always watching.
As new principals, I remember some veteran principals told me and a couple of my peers that we were making too many changes in our schools, we were pushing too hard and they were hearing about it. They said, keep your head down and don’t make noise. We found that impossible at the time because the students in our turnaround schools were in deep peril and anguish. Our school communities had to fight for our collective future. But, I understood where these veteran principals were coming from. I could imagine the pain they endured and the professional trauma they may have experienced. I was grateful to have others in my life who saw what we were doing and supported us, because a school might as well be a glass bowl – decisions are seen and felt.
When Black students see Black educators advocate for them, challenge injustice, and refuse to diminish themselves, they learn what is possible. They learn that they do not have to choose between excellence and authenticity. They learn that their voices matter. As I argued in a previous post titled “Malcolm X and the Black Panthers Empowered Teachers. We Can Too,” Black educators must claim our agency and fight to preserve it for our students.
But when they see silence—especially in moments that call for courage—they learn that, too.
This is the tension at the heart of the crisis for Black leadership.
It is not a lack of capacity. It is not a lack of knowledge. It is the cost of exercising leadership while Black—the constant calculation of when to speak, how to speak, and what it might cost when you do.
That cost is real. Racism is real. The consequences are real.
But so is the impact of silence.
If we are to move Black students forward—if we are to build schools that truly serve them—then we must confront not only external systems of inequity, but also the internalized fear those systems produce. That work may require healing. It may require unlearning. It may require support and community.
But it also requires action.
Leadership has never been just about position or even personal virtue. It has always required sacrifice. The leaders we honor are remembered not because they were comfortable, but because they were courageous. They recognized the moment in front of them and chose to meet it.
We are in such a moment now.
Every time we choose silence, someone else defines what Black children deserve. Every time we speak, we interrupt that narrative and create the possibility for something different.
The question is not whether the risk exists.
The question is whether we are willing to lead anyway.
