In the spring of 2017, our four-year-old woke up one morning for school and said, “Mommy, Ms. Garcia told me to shut up.” I was shocked; I didn’t want to believe another teacher, especially a coworker of mine, could speak to a child that way. I asked him to tell me more. He put one of his stuffed animals on his bed, then pretended to be Ms. Garcia. He whispered: “Cobe, I need you to shut up.” As I rubbed his back and thanked him for reporting it to me, I knew there would need to be radical change.

This kind of “everyday” educational aggression isn’t uncommon for Black children, or even the worst kind of aggression they face. Black children have experienced far worse educational racism, resulting in Black learners being suspended at four times the rate of white learners nationally.¹ Indigenous, Black, and brown children continue to experience curricular violence and appropriation in textbooks, theatrical plays, class read-alouds, and holiday celebrations. This is what our children are up against, and it’s called the school-prison nexus.

Families of the global majority still have to push for their schools to address racism, even when their students and teachers experience it daily. Racism is a part of everyday life here in the United States. Critical Race Theory is an academic and legal theory that’s been around since the 1990s. This theory (which we agree with) states that racism doesn’t happen only on an interpersonal level but also on a systemic level. It challenges the notion that racist attacks are unfortunate and rare, that they happen only to a few people, and that the attackers will always make it clear they’re perpetrating a hate crime. Instead, critical race theory gives legal students, lawyers, and academic scholars a framework to analyze how racism is baked into policies, laws, and the legal and punishment system. CRT is not being taught in K–12 classrooms; it’s an academic and theoretical framework specifically for those in the legal field.

However, the very idea of critical race theory—and antiracism—is under attack. This attack is part of a larger historical pattern of white rage and white backlash. Currently, it’s against the Black Lives Matter movement’s progress. Antiracism—not to be confused with CRT—offers people the chance to analyze racism on a deeper, more accessible, and systemic level.

We now have more people who understand that success occurs not simply because of personal responsibility and hard work but also because of power, immunity, and oppression. There are more educators equipped with the tools, resources, training, and desire to teach a more truthful and accurate history. But what happens when you have educators who are not only resistant but emboldened in their ignorance by state-sponsored policies to not address racism in the classroom, even when it’s occurring right in front of them?

After school, the four of us—Ms. Garcia; the two lead teachers, Ms. Lacey and Ms. Jess; and I—stumbled through a critical conversation. Ms. Garcia admitted to telling Cobe to shut up after trying and failing to get him to be quiet during nap time multiple times. Apparently, her frustration got the best of her. Ms. Lacey, Ms. Jess, and I all made it crystal clear that educators never tell a student to shut up—no matter how frustrated we get—and that it’s perfectly normal for a four-year-old to talk a lot. It was something that should’ve been a given. When Ms. Jess offered possible solutions like bringing Cobe to the kindergarten reading group, taking him to another classroom to work, walking the hallways, or letting him quietly color on his nap map, we learned that Ms. Garcia had in fact used these solutions for other talkative children, just not for Cobe in this situation. As an anti-bias and antiracist guide, my mind always buzzes with the “characters” in the story and the role we all play, so I asked, “If Cobe was talking, who was he talking to?”

“Noah,” she replied. Noah was Cobe’s best friend at the time: a blond-haired boy from France who was a year older than him.

“Did you also tell Noah to shut up?” I asked. Ms. Garcia looked me straight in the eyes and said, “No.”

When we allow ourselves to think about how young children develop bias, learn prejudice, and treat others unfairly, we must think about the bias and prejudice they experience and witness. What example did Ms. Garcia set when she treated these children differently? How do young children begin to inaccurately rationalize these experiences, and how does this make them feel about their own identities?

My experience as a Black-Biracial mother, teacher, and justice educator was too exhausted to overanalyze this situation. This was not the first time my children faced prejudice in the classroom, and I knew that it unfortunately wouldn’t be the last. How many more times would I have to tell educators to treat my children with dignity and respect? How many times would I wonder if my children are being treated unfairly? Would I continue to watch them normalize these experiences?

That moment with Ms. Garcia was the last straw. I decided then to make a radical choice for our family: we’d remove our children from the classroom and homeschool them. In 2017, I joined thousands of Black homeschoolers who also chose to resist the anti-Blackness deeply embedded in schools.² It’s one thing to intellectualize white supremacy; it’s another to experience what supremacy takes and takes and takes. This change took Cobe and his brother, Carter, out of their beloved school and away from their friends and community. It also took my classroom from me and took me away from my cherished learners and their families. It was hard for us all, but necessary for our well-being.

White supremacy isn’t some abstract idea; it has real life-affecting consequences. Because of white supremacy, Indigenous, Black, brown, trans, queer, and disabled children of color are receiving unfair treatment. Because of white supremacy, white children are missing out on loving friendship, joyous experiences, and fully connecting to their humanity due to their developing pre-prejudice. As adults, we have to reckon with our own biases and irrational fears in order to raise a new generation of conscious, inclusive children. We have to agree to help children embrace human differences, accurately identify unfairness, receive accountability as a gift, interrupt the harmful discriminatory practices they witness, imagine a future where Black lives matter, and practice infinite hope. I’m guessing that’s exactly why you picked up this book. You’ve participated in conversations about race and racism and you’re ready to take action as a family.

While you engage with this book, my goal is for you and your children to experience a balance of effort and ease. At times, your breath will flow effortlessly and the activities will be affirming. Other times, you’ll feel challenged, uncomfortable, and downright resistant. Remember that every time you feel challenged, it’s a place to grow.

Our ABAR parenting journey will be rooted in seven chosen values: authenticity, curiosity, collaboration, accountability, becoming, empowerment, and candor. (A breakdown of these terms can be found on pages 123–24.) We chose values that would directly disrupt harmful dominant beliefs, support critical thinking, and allow our children to live out values of justice. We’ll be going into the values in depth later in the book.

This book will structure ABAR parenting into five sections about your children and their world: deepening our understandings, healthy bodies, radical minds, conscious consumption, and thriving communities. Each section is filled with key takeaways, common misconceptions, and terms. Each section will also contain practical age-appropriate activities to do with your children to help reinforce justice and accountability in your home. Some will be specifically for children of color, some will be for white children, and some will be for both.

Watch out for discussion questions and reflective prompts along the way. Some of the prompts are for you and your parenting partners, designed for the adults in your life to discuss and process big topics before discussing them with your children. It’s not enough to do this work with just our children; we have to do this work ourselves. We have to be aware of when we’re using our children to avoid this work with our own peers. So use these discussion topics to think about the moments in your life that you want to re-create for your children, both the inevitable moments and the preventable ones.

There will be discussion questions and reflective prompts for you and your children to do together, as well. If anyone is struggling with the words, allow silence to be welcomed in the conversation. No one needs to have all the words or answers. Feel empowered to say, “It’s perfectly healthy to have processing time.” Processing time allows folks to engage in rather than avoid a conversation. In our home, if our children need to process, we can do that in silence by utilizing trauma-informed movements, playing board games, writing notes back and forth, and doing art. If your children catch you off guard with a question and you need to process, model processing time by responding with one of my go-to phrases:

1. 1. “We’ll talk on Friday when I have more information,” or
2. 2. “What three questions do you have for me? I’ll go research them,” or
3. 3. “Can you tell me what you already know?”

Just remember, as an anti-bias and antiracist caregiver, we never avoid a conversation because of our own discomfort.

All of the activities in this book are by invitation only; some will be applicable right away, while others are for you to recommend to your friends and family. Thank you for choosing us to guide you on this ABAR parenting journey.