A to B: Kali Thorne Ladd, Ed.M.’06

When my parents made the choice to move to an all-white community 45 minutes north of Boston, they did so with one thing in mind: education. As a black child growing up in the ‘80s, my parents knew how important this choice was; and how tenuous. My dad, from the South Bronx, and my mother, from Teaneck, New Jersey, understood that education was pivotal to the world that I’d inhabit after. They knew that this was a tenuous choice that weighed the balance of being in a diverse environment with less rigorous academic options, or being in a white homogenous environment with strong schools.

They chose the latter.

The impact of this is both meaningful and complicated. The invisibility of being “the only” is both emotionally taxing and psychologically degrading. It’s like literally being an alien in your own home. People can see that you’re different, are curious about that difference, and constantly remind you of that difference even though “they don’t see color.” There is also no representation of people that look like you, which is staggering when you know they’re out there.

I was in third grade when I saw in the classroom setting my first image of a person that reflects the skin I’m in. It was a unit on slavery and the images were of people who were dark brown, in chains, tethered to one another around the ankles like cattle. They were wearing nothing but rags. I remember how my classmates all turned to look at me — the only black person in my class — and the feeling of shame that overwhelmed me. It was in that time that I began to understand the power of image to destroy, not only my own image of self, but the image others held of me and members of my race. It reinforced this idea that I — we — were less than.

Conversely, I had a strong academic experience that prepared me for college and graduate school at a place like Harvard. I had teachers that were “highly qualified,” small class sizes, and a well-resourced environment for me to learn in. We had a consumer unit in seventh grade, a school-wide camping trip in eighth grade, and teachers that held children to high expectations. College wasn’t an option for me. Everyone went.

But the dichotomy of rigorous learning and personal toll stayed with me for years. By the end of college I was “learn-ed,” emotionally exhausted, and psychologically frail. School had done this to me.
 
The choice my family made, a first-generation middle class family, is the choice many families of color are forced to make. But it’s a false choice — at least it should be. It’s a choice that still causes me to doubt myself despite others looking to me as a leader. It’s a choice that made me feel “dirty” in my brown skin because that’s what kids would tell me and I believed them.

I entered the field of education because I believe that children can gain academic success and cultural enrichment within the same walls. This was the dream of Brown v. Board and the civil rights leaders that championed it. Sadly, few institutions exist that couple high academic rigor with the illumination of African American culture. But that’s not what it has to be. Fast forward 23 years from my high school graduation and you’ll see I started a school in Portland, Oregon, called Kairos Learning Academy to challenge this false choice. Starting the school was my attempt to offer another way. We have created an environment where a student of color is a commonality rather than a rarity. Kairos — Greek for a special moment in time — is built on the neuroscience of love, inclusivity, and mindfulness, welcoming students of all ethnicities and backgrounds, and emphasizing black excellence.

So why did I go into education and why did I start this school? Knowing how important “belonging” is to learning, the real question is: How not?

— Kali Ladd, Ed.M.’06, cofounded the Kairos Learning Academy

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