Ali: Más Grande de Todos los Tiempos

Friday night I sat at the foot of my bed, cellphone in hand, staring at Twitter, crying like a child over the death of one of my heroes. My wife repeatedly checked in with me, but I couldn’t explain why I was so upset. I get it now: the death of Muhammad Ali represents the end of an era for much of black America.

To black men of certain age, the age of my father and my uncles, Ali was the pinnacle: he was elegant and eloquent; he floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee; he was unapologetically pro-black; he was the best in the ring (back when boxing mattered); he was unafraid to speak his mind to condescending, incredulous TV personalities and audiences; and he was willing to sacrifice personal fame and fortune for his anti-war and anti-racist principles.

I am not old enough to have watched Ali in his prime, but I was raised on his legend. My father, born in Laurel, Mississippi, in 1930 and my uncles born in the mid-30s in Arkansas, loved Ali, and they taught me to, as well. I, like many brothers of my vintage, was raised on a healthy diet of Ali, Jim Brown, Kareem and Maya Angelou. Sadly, only two of them remain with us. 2016 has been a hard year of deaths. It seems that everyone I knew when I was young is old. Everyone who was old, is now dead.

Ali’s death is especially poignant because we need truth-tellers right now. In the era of $100 million endorsement deals and social media consultants, athletes have become PR trained automatons. No athlete today would or could take the stands he did. If they dared, they’d be crucified by the alleged journalists, like the clowns on First Take. Watching YouTube interviews of Ali (as I have much of today) I am reminded of Orwell: “In times of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” Muhammad Ali’s truths about the Vietnam War, about racial injustice in America, about the colonization of Africa, were revolutionary, for his time and for ours.

I believe if you have a platform, dammit use it. In this moment, when a nativist, dog-whistle blowing, reactionary right, is ascendant in American politics, we need Alis in sports and in the black community.

I think it’s why I love Michael Bennett from the Seahawks so much.

I think it’s why I have grown to love Bey; we need more “Formation.”

I know it’s why I love Kendrick, but can’t mess with Kanye. Kendrick Lamar uses his platform to talk about police brutality, critique consumerism and to discuss economic inequality. Kanye usually uses his platform to talk about Kanye.

It's why I have zero time for apolitical figures like MJ. Michael Jordan is a counter-revolutionary. I have never owned and will never buy a pair of Jordans. Kareem nailed it in 2015, in an interview with NPR: Jordan has consistently chosen “commerce over conscience” and refused speak out on matters of justice, racial or otherwise, because “Republicans buy sneakers too.”

Ali used his platform. Few ever spoke so much truth to so much entrenched power.

It kills me, my oldest students were born in 1997. They were born a year after Ali lit the Olympic Torch in the Atlanta Summer Games. By that time, Ali had battled Parkinson’s for twelve years. I may have missed Ali’s prime, but they have only seen him in a diminished state. I imagine it’d be like only knowing MJ as a sneaker-pimp or from the Crying Jordan memes, or only knowing Curtis Mayfield after the accident that paralyzed him. You know of, but you don't really know.

At some point God just stopped making men like Muhammad Ali. Today I mourn the Greatest, but I also mourn for anyone who has grown up only knowing him as a shell of his former self.

Bomaye Ali.

State Teacher of the Year Washington Week or the Life and Times of a Gov Nerd in “the other Washington.”

Last week I joined my fellow State Teachers of the Year in DC for Washington Week: we met the leader of the free world, 44th President of the United States, and pretty darn handsome man, Barack Obama. We also met six-term senator, one of my favorite living rhetoricians, Vice President of the United States, “Uncle” Joe Biden and his (possibly more impressive) wife Dr. Jill Biden. We also met the Human Reset Button, the walking embodiment of bureaucratic tone change, Secretary of Education, Dr. John King.

Secret Service check heading into the Biden Residence.

On side trips, my wife and I visited the Ford Theater, where the namesake of my school, Abraham Lincoln, was shot by treasonous Confederate (those terms are admittedly redundant), John Wilkes Booth and Arlington National Cemetery. And last week at the invitation of CCSSO, I gave a policy talk on recruiting and retaining effective teachers of color, to members of the Whitehouse Staff and employees from the Department of Education.

In short fam, we had a helluva week in DC.

Policy Briefing to Whitehouse staff and employees of the Department of Education.

A Bit of a Whirlwind: Each year the 56... 55 (North Dakota just had a baby) State and territorial (DOD, Guam, Marianas Islands, Virgin Islands American Samoa and DC) teachers of the year gather in DC for Washington Week. It is intended to be a celebration of the profession. But recently, it has morphed into something more. The event is turning into a forum, where policymakers and ed groups seek input from practitioners from around the nation (and its territories).

This year we were provided an opportunity to give (often very frank) feedback to several ed organizations (NWEA, Pearson, ETS, Microsoft Education) on their policy platforms and upcoming initiatives in sessions called “Educator Perspective Breakouts.” I often talk about the need to include effective teacher voice in education policy formulation, I applaud those orgs specifically for listening to our collective points-of-view around PD, evaluation and assessment and seeking to create an ongoing dialogue around their work and ours. I don’t think we shifted the trajectory of their already laid plans, but we were invited to a conversation (a start) and we will see where that leads in the longterm.

In the East Room with 2016 Alaska Teacher of the Year, Amy Jo Meiners.

While we were in DC some of the SToYs talked about how they’ve received pushback from colleagues when they’ve raised issues of teacher quality and effectiveness. But, I think Shawn Sheehan, fellow NToY Finalist, and candidate for Oklahoma State Senate, nailed it, and for the sake of my kids I unapologetically co-sign: “those who can’t, definitely shouldn’t teach.” It really is that simple. The work is too important to believe otherwise.

Back to Home and My Reality: Upon returning to the real Washington, I felt physically exhausted, but pedagogically inspired. Within 12 hours of landing, I was back at Lincoln leading our final AP Exam review session to a standing-room crowd of Abes, in preparation for today’s AP Government & Politics exam.

Somewhere over flyover country, masquerading as Jupiter.

Within 24 hour hours, Audrey, Massachusetts Teacher of the Year, was proposing a collaborative story telling project to the SToYs. In the same timeframe, Talya from Maine was writing about her experiences in DC. Within 36 hours, I had started house hunting on Redfin, looking to recruit frustrated SToYs from states where they don’t feel as supported to work, teach and live in Tacoma.

DC was surreal at times, but it reminded me of the immediacy of the work we do here at Lincoln and in the South Sound with Teachers United. This work matters: Teachers are loved. Teachers aren’t appreciated. This work is draining. This work is energizing. This work often seems impossible. This work is always essential.

These are the contradictions we live with. 

A Strong Sense of Peace and a Bit of Relief

Today my friend Jahana Hayes of Connecticut was named the 2016 National Teacher of the Year. If you’re disappointed on my behalf, you shouldn’t be. I am happy for her and think she will be an ideal ambassador for the profession. From the moment I met her and the other two finalists in San Antonio, Daniel, and Shawn, I’ve had peace about the process. I knew that no matter who was selected, the profession would be well represented. They’re amazing pedagogues and even better people.

I have been so blessed this past year. I’ve had at least ten once-in-a-lifetime opportunities and my amazingly supportive wife has been side-by-side with me, every step along the way. I mean come on….

Went to the Women’s World Cup in Vancouver

Took my dad to the US Open

Traveled in Hong Kong and taught in Chengdu, China

Hosted the President of China in my classroom

Named 2016 Washington State Teacher of the Year

Addressed the Washington State House and State Board of Education on teacher quality and the impact of chronic under-funding

Traveled to Oakland, Denver, New Orleans, and Washington DC to speak and advocate about ed policy issues

Wrote a blog post, discussing the cruel reality of education inequity, that earned 1,000,000 clicks and was republished in several major news outlets

Threw out the first pitch at a Mariner's game

Invited to speak at Harvard Graduate School of Education

….And next week I will shake hands with the first black President of the United States, in the Oval Office, in the final year of his presidency

I feel guilty even typing all that. I am not sad; I am not disappointed and you shouldn’t be sad for me either. I am reminded of an old gospel song, called I Won’t Complain. When I was young, Reverend Banks would belt it out whenever the opportunity arose. It is permanently in my head. When I close my eyes, I can see him getting choked up and reaching for his handkerchief to wipe his brow and tears:

God's been so good to me,

The Lord has been so good to me,

More than this old world,

Or you could ever be.

The Lord has been so good to me,

And He dried my tears away,

And He turn all my midnights into days,

So I'll say thank you Lord,

I just say thank you Lord,

I'll just say thank you Lord,

I won't complain.

Next year I am going to be right where I belong and I couldn't be happier. I love standing in front of a class and seeing them start to drift and then switching up the lesson with an anecdote or a provocative question that sets the room ablaze. I love everything about the job (except the pay, meetings and grading) and will continue to be a blunt advocate for my students and the profession, in Washington State and beyond.

The National Teacher of the Year is released from their classroom for a full year and tours the country, speaking at various events to "stakeholders." Honestly, that idea has made me queasy from the moment it was explained to me.

I am good where I am at.

My place is on the Eastside of Tacoma. My place is at Lincoln High School. My place is in room #306. My place is wearing a cardigan, rapping with my kids about Iron Triangles, federalism and the enumerated powers of Congress. My place is helping kids fill out FAFSAs and challenging them to be better people and work harder. 

Onward.