Centering Marginalized Students in White Teaching

It is no surprise that public education has been saturated with white female educators since the mid-to-late nineteenth century. This shift was driven by several converging forces: the rise of common schools, the demand for cheaper labor, and the widespread belief that women were naturally nurturing and therefore well-suited for teaching. At the same time, white men increasingly exited the profession. Teaching was viewed as a temporary, low-paying occupation—something to do before moving on to more “respectable” careers in law, medicine, or industry. As education became more formalized and professionalized, it also became feminized.

Before Brown v. Board of Education, segregation in schooling was the norm rather than the exception. Black educators—both men and women—taught Black children, while white women overwhelmingly taught white children in suburban and rural schools. In effect, white women became the primary educators of white children within a segregated system. This arrangement remained largely intact until Brown challenged the legal foundation of separate schooling and forced the nation to confront inequities that had long been normalized.

Since the Brown decision, however, the number of Black educators has steadily declined. Today, Black teachers make up less than 7 percent of the U.S. public-school teaching force (Ferlazzo, 2015), with Black males experiencing the sharpest decline. The evidence is overwhelming: Black educators are disappearing before our very eyes. This is not a new concern, nor is it a quiet one—it has been recognized as a national crisis for some time. Meanwhile, white female educators now comprise roughly 82 percent of the teaching workforce, and there is little indication that this imbalance will shift in the near future.

Research consistently shows that Black educators positively impact students of color. They mentor, advocate, and serve as cultural anchors. Their presence increases high school graduation rates, college enrollment, and reduces suspensions, expulsions, and referrals to special education. Yet if simply having Black educators guaranteed academic success for Black students, districts like Detroit, Atlanta, and Washington, D.C.—all with historically significant Black teaching forces—would rank among the highest-performing systems in the nation. Clearly, representation alone is not a panacea. Increasing the number of Black teachers matters, but it does not resolve every structural or instructional challenge facing Black students.

One study suggests there are no significant differences in standardized test scores between students taught by Black teachers versus white teachers. What Black educators bring, however, is something less easily measured: what has been termed the “Black teacher effect” (Ferlazzo, 2015). This effect defies quantification. It is found in the nurturing, the persistent nudging and goading, and the unwavering insistence on preparation for what awaits students of color beyond classroom walls. As articulated by Gloria Ladson-Billings, the Black teacher effect extends beyond curriculum and pedagogy. It reaches into the lived realities of navigating a world shaped by whiteness—of learning how to function, survive, and thrive within it.

Reflecting on my own K–12 experience, I can clearly see how educators shaped who I became. I was fortunate to have a mother who was an educator. Her primary concern was always the quality of teaching and the level of advocacy her children received, regardless of an instructor’s race. Years later, after she retired and I entered the profession myself, she would often remind me, “Good teaching is good teaching, son.”

During my elementary years, I had all Black teachers—one of them male. From Mrs. Burke in kindergarten to Ms. Washington in fifth grade, the Black teacher effect was alive and well. Those educators saw me, pushed me, and prepared me.

Middle and high school introduced me to a kaleidoscope of educators. I quickly learned that not all of my teachers would be Black—and that some white female teachers were exceptionally good. I knew this not only from my own experiences but because my mother regularly spoke with her former colleagues about our schooling. She would sometimes say, “Ms. So-and-So is excellent. She’s firm and fair.”

One of those teachers was Mrs. Linville, my eighth-grade English literature instructor. While she did not possess the Black teacher effect in the way I had come to know it, she demonstrated something equally powerful: intentional care. That year, we began the semester reading John Steinbeck’s The Pearl. Steinbeck’s work is layered with symbolism, imagery, and meaning—elements that did not come easily to me at the time. I struggled to grasp the deeper messages, performed poorly on chapter quizzes, and grew increasingly frustrated.

Mrs. Linville noticed. She pulled me aside after class and asked about my reading habits and preparation. She could tell I was trying, even though things weren’t clicking. She told me she would be calling my mother.

That phone call lasted nearly thirty minutes. The next day, my mother told me she had purchased her own copy of The Pearl based on Mrs. Linville’s recommendation. Together, we read each chapter, discussed the imagery, unpacked the symbolism, and anticipated possible quiz questions. What had once been invisible to me suddenly came into focus. I felt more confident—not just in my answers, but in my ability to think and articulate meaning.

When Mrs. Linville handed back our next quiz, she smiled as she passed my desk. Later, she stopped me after class and encouraged me to continue reading and discussing literature with my mother whenever I encountered difficulty. She told me she expected my grades to continue improving and that she looked forward to updating my mom on my progress.

She didn’t have to do any of that. She chose to.

That choice made all the difference. Her willingness to go beyond the classroom—to involve my family and share strategies—signaled that among the 82 percent of white female educators in the profession, there are those who are deeply committed to the success of marginalized students. Mrs. Linville became a favorite of my mother’s, so much so that the following year, one of my younger brothers found himself in her class—by my mother’s design.

After more than thirty years as an educator myself, I have seen this commitment firsthand. I worked closely with white female teachers who traveled past dozens of schools each day to teach in the inner city. Their interactions with students were genuine. They offered different perspectives, balanced firmness with fairness, and earned the trust of parents and students alike. Many stayed for a decade or more—not for combat pay, but because they believed in the work. Parents knew these teachers were invested, and that instructional integrity—not convenience—was their priority.

While these educators did not possess the Black teacher effect as I experienced it, they had an effect nonetheless. I saw it. I lived it. Across every stage of my educational journey, the fingerprints of white female educators are evident in my growth—as a student and as an educator. Their influence reminds us that while race matters in education, commitment, care, and intentionality matter just as much. And when those qualities intersect, students are the ones who benefit most. So, yes, they can teach and have taught us all.

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References

Ferlazzo, L. (2015). Where are all the Black male teachers? Education Week, Teacher Leaders Network.