I don’t remember much else that happened during that round. I heard the voices of Jordan and his opponent, but they were distant. I was looking at them, but I wasn’t. My mind was a kaleidoscope of images and moments from the past year.
Struggling with a decision in Harvard Yard the previous summer.
Having that scary conversation with my boss.
Confetti raining down at the surprise acceptance ceremony.
Our very first class.
The skeptics who called me crazy.
The parents who called me a tyrant, thinking I was too hard on their children.
The capital campaign that left me feeling like the Maze Runner.
The board member who petitioned for my removal, suggesting Harvard should hire someone with more experience.
It all played through my mind. The highs. The lows. In that moment, it was all worth it. Because a group of Black kids from Atlanta came to one of the world’s most elite institutions and shattered the myth of Black inferiority.
“Congratulations to both teams,” the lead judge said after the final arguments concluded, snapping me back to the present. The waiting was nearly unbearable as the five judges huddled to make a decision. Jordan remained on the stage, staring down at his clasped hands resting on the table as if he was too anxious to look at anyone. My scholars were on the edge of their seats, locking arms and holding each other close. I stepped out into the lobby because the tension and suspense were asphyxiating. I tried to convince myself that the outcome was less momentous than it actually was. But no Black team had ever won the public forum debate competition in the history of this residential program.
I looked through the door just in time to see the judges break the huddle. I slipped into my seat in the back of the auditorium. “We have a decision,” the spokesman for the panelists said. My heart beat percussively. My scholars clutched their brothers and sisters tighter and dipped their heads as if in prayer. Jordan looked heavenward. I broke out in a cold sweat as the judge rose to his feet.
“The decision is unanimous,” he said. “With a perfect 5–0 ballot—congratulations to the negative team.”
Jordan’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened as thunderous applause filled the room. I was frozen in place as Jordan’s twenty-four teammates leaped over chairs, rushed the stage, and piled on him, screaming and shouting and crying, “We did it!” Every student and faculty member and even Jordan’s opponent stood and grinned as the historic moment unfolded. The next day, news broke fast in national media. Headline News, Huffington Post, Black Enterprise, and many others told the story: twenty-five Black Atlanta teens made history at Harvard.
Osazi was one of three graduating seniors on our team. Our victory in Cambridge gave our scholars a powerful story to tell about starting a revolution, and he wrote about it in his application essay for Harvard. He talked about what it meant for him growing up in poverty with siblings and a single mother who struggled to support her family while grappling with her own mental health wellness. When Osazi had first come home talking about applying to a Harvard pipeline program, she dismissed the idea. “You’re not doing it,” she’d said. “I ain’t got no Harvard money.” But he’d secretly applied behind her back.
Though Osazi had applied to the Harvard Diversity Project, he had no intentions of applying to Harvard College for undergrad. One day, during class, I told him and his peers to aim higher and dream bigger. He did not take it kindly. I later learned of a rant that he went on when we broke for lunch.
“I’m not listening to that crazy man,” Osazi said to his peers. Other students agreed, saying that my advice contradicted what their school counselors were telling them.
“Uh-uh,” Maya interjected. “What y’all not gon’ do is talk bad about Mr. Fleming. Not in front of me.”
“I’m just saying,” Osazi added. “I’m the one applying to these schools. Not Mr. Fleming. I’m gonna apply to schools that I know I can actually get into.”
That was long before Osazi had become my right hand. Now he was always at my side, studying my words and body language—just as I once had as a college student aspiring to be the next Cornel West. After our historic win, we were invited to appear on national television and at conferences. The kids playfully teased Osazi and called him professor because he mimicked my gestures and appropriated my favorite sayings when he gave speeches. Invitations poured in for us to speak at events and conferences throughout the city. One of these was for the Democratic Party of Georgia, the same group that had once invited my RCA students to appear. But this time, they did not invite us to sing and dance. This time, my scholars were the keynote. And they set the room ablaze.
At the end of that year, in December, I was on my couch at home, waiting for my phone to ring. It was decision day, and at 7 p.m. Harvard would announce its early action acceptances for the Class of 2023. The probability of being accepted fell in what the university later called “likely the most competitive early admissions cycle in Harvard history.”
We had been waiting for this moment for months. The email notification was scheduled to come through any moment now. It was about 6:30 p.m. when I called Osazi. “Listen,” I said. “This admissions decision does not define you. Regardless of what happens, I am prouder of you than you will ever know. I love you, my boy.” He said, “I love you, too, Mr. Fleming,” and he promised to call me the moment the email hit his inbox.
Seven o’clock came and went. He still had not called at a quarter past the hour. I paced my living room, grabbing the phone and setting it back down, running various scenarios in my head. Was the email delayed? Was he too devastated by bad news to call? Was he cursing me for getting his hopes up?
Moments later, my phone rang. I dashed across the living room and scooped it off the couch. Osazi’s name was backlit on the screen. My heart wanted to know but was afraid to hear. But the answer was waiting for me. So I slid my thumb across the screen and raised the phone to my ear.
It was Osazi’s mom. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” she shrieked so loudly that I nearly dropped the phone. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” she repeated between jagged breaths.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she wheezed. Then she began sobbing uncontrollably.
“Ms. Wu, calm down for me. I need you to tell me what happened,” I begged.
She tried to speak, but she could not quite catch her breath.
“You cha…
“You cha…
“You cha…
“You changed my family’s life forever.”
EPILOGUE
My dear scholars, it’s hard to believe that so many of you have gone away. You’re now off at Ivy Leagues, HBCUs, and the most elite colleges and boarding schools in the world, where your indelible signatures will remain in perpetuity. No place will ever be the same after you’ve stepped into it. No person’s life will ever be the same after you’ve entered it—especially my own. How privileged I am to have shared a brief moment in time with you. And how beautiful it is that the Grand Weaver saw fit to thread our lives into a tapestry of Black excellence. One that our community can raise high and wave wildly like a banner of pride.
Nothing brings me joy like the times when you come home. We break bread and laugh and fight back tears as we relive those moments that will live in our hearts forever. Each year brought new challenges that seemed insuperable. But those challenges were no match for your magic. When the inaugural class of 2018 shocked the world, many cheered but skeptics questioned. Black dominance in many sports is not surprising. But Black dominance in academic debate is not to be expected, and the prospect of its longevity was not easily believed. So it raised the question: Could they do it again?
Then along came the rolling class of 2019—with all of your grit and wit… and drama. This was the first year that your training became yearlong. The stakes were even higher. We had something to prove. And the spotlight seemed to singe. All year, you fretted—wondering if you coul
d walk in the legacy of our alumni. But you did not. Because you created a legacy of your own. By the time the Harvard debate tournament came around, your dominance was so overwhelming that our team crowded the final rounds. We were forced to face and eliminate our own pairs. By the semifinals, four of our students had gone eight consecutive rounds with a perfect winning record. It was unheard of. Especially because two of those students were the youngest debaters on campus: the mighty force of Keanen and Isaac. They lost only to our pair of seniors, DJ and Keith, who brought home the championship for our team with a unanimous ballot—and the first undefeated record in Harvard Debate Council history.
Then came the vivacious class of 2020. My heart was so broken when COVID-19 struck us in the middle of your year. It was my responsibility to give you the most unimaginable and unforgettable experience. But you were shortchanged when we could no longer have classes in person. And you were robbed when you learned that you would likely be the only cohort to not step foot on Harvard’s campus. But when the residency switched to virtual, you saw this as an opportunity to make history in a new way. And you did it. Madison and Christian brought home the three-peat with another unanimous ballot in the final round—Christian as the youngest Black male and Madison as the first Black female to win the tournament in Harvard Debate Council history.
But none of that is what matters most. Because it was never about debate. It was never about Harvard. It was never about winning. It was always about teaching you about your responsibility. In Langston Hughes’s iconic poem, he said today I will eat in the kitchen when company comes, but tomorrow—tomorrow, I will eat at the table. I need you to understand that Langston’s tomorrow is your right now.
Now that you’ve found your voice, what will you do with it? Now that you have access to networks and resources, what will you do with it? There’s nothing wrong with privilege. But it is in vain lest you remember that with privilege comes the responsibility to serve. This is how we break the back of poverty. This is how we rip the seam of injustice. This is how we shift the balance of power. By building as we climb. By shattering every glass ceiling. By breaking down every barrier of opportunity. By bringing your own seat. By building your own table. By having the courage to blaze trails in the places where we belong. And by having the audacity to be intrusive in spaces that are not inclusive.
Across all industries, professionals use metrics to define how well we’ve done our jobs. There is only one way that I’ll know I have done mine. It won’t be an award. It won’t be any recognition. It will be determined in about another decade when we reunite. You will boast of incredible feats. I will listen. I will smile. Then I will ask, “How did you make someone else’s life better?”
In this book, I tell these stories and pen uncomfortable truths because it took me far too long to learn that where a man has no voice, he does not exist. He can even be present and not exist, because inferiority is an induced consciousness whose physical manifestation begins with silence. He is seen, but he is not heard. He is not understood. Because he does not matter. His humanity is debased, his identity is usurped, and he is subject to abuse—because he does not matter. But when he discovers his voice, he determines that he can sing and summon the sound of hope. A hope in resistance, a hope in resilience, a hope in revolution: this song.
It is not without pain but because of pain that he sings. And it was long before his discovery that he mattered. But it is because of his song that he cannot be ignored. He was invisible. But he is invisible no longer. Because his voice pierces the veil that makes his identity opaque, and his song commands others to see him the way he has learned to see himself: educated. It is then, and only then, that he sings, “I am here.” Everyone has a voice. But no one has your song. Sing, in a room of conversations; their heads will turn, their hearts will open, and they will want to know your name.
I heard the song of Frederick Douglass, and I was freed. I heard the song of Brother Malcolm, and I was freed. I heard the song of Socrates and Confucius, Langston and Zora, Ella and Billie, Baldwin and Toni, Alice and Maya, and I was freed. They sang—so I, too, sing. I sing so you, too, will sing. And others will be freed, but if—and only if—you decide to sing.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I interviewed my mother for this book, she was not the least bit concerned about her depiction. She simply asked, “Will it help somebody?” I said yes. She said, “Then I want them to know the truth.” My brothers and sister shared the same sentiment. And for this, I want to first acknowledge my family’s courage. Recounting the events of our childhood required me to spend hours on the phone with my mother and siblings, revisiting our past, reliving painful experiences, and removing bandages from old wounds. For us, I pray it brings healing. For others, I pray it brings hope.
Miseducated was my thesis during the MFA program at University of Georgia. I am immensely grateful for the director of that program, Professor Valerie Boyd, who recruited me. A memoir is not what I intended to write. I wanted to write essays about philosophies of education—something so smart it might make the scholarly seraphim sing. It would have been filled with academic jargon and lofty language. It did not have plot. It did not have characters. It did not rise or fall. It sat still and stiff, with one leg crossed over the other. It did not move. It did not dance. I had big ideas and wanted to show the world that I had solved the troubles of our educational system—arguably one of society’s most vexing problems. I had already started writing that book, and I entered the MFA program at UGA determined to finish it. Then I met Professor Pat Thomas, who convinced me to throw it away. Professor Thomas was my instructor and the first editor to embark upon this journey with me. She helped me understand that great books are not about problems; great books are about people. And if I wanted to impact people through literature, I needed to understand that stories change people more than data ever will.
Trustworthy people are to be treasured. I am so lucky to be represented by Jessica Papin, my phenomenal literary agent. I feel the same about my acquiring editor, Lauren Marino, and the entire team at Hachette Book Group.
Most importantly, I extend my fondest regards to the Harvard community. None of this would have been possible without the confidence of Tripp Rebrovick, Sherry Hall, and Dallas Perkins at the Harvard Debate Council. Thank you for taking a chance on me.
In the first year of the Harvard Diversity Project, we were just trying to survive as a startup. But the following year, we were given the greatest gift in a brilliant business-minded Black woman named Kellye Britton. She is truly the backbone of our organization and the reason that I was able to step away for some time to write this book. Thank you for being a partner, a teacher, a confidante, and a mother to our beloved scholars.
To the parents in our organization, thank you for trusting me with your children. Thank you for believing in my unconventional methods, and for trusting me to love your children—no matter how hard that love can be.
And finally, my dear scholars: the reason for my second chance. You have taught me far more than I could ever teach you. Thank you for trusting me. I will always be of service to you, because it is for you I live. Miseducated is our story. But it is only the beginning. It is what you choose to do with your voice and your power and your privilege that will ultimately tell the rest.
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Miseducated Page 28