The Rebirth of Cool

We were sitting in the living room. I had been intentional about interviewing her for quite some time—I wanted her story on record, for the record. Up until then, I had mostly captured humorous clips of her, hoping to catch a one-liner or a pearl of wisdom I could replay over and over. But this was different. 

As I sat across from her, I could tell she wouldn’t be with me much longer. She was still alert, still sharp—but her body was tired. She was slowing down. She had run her race. She had endured.

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Next to her sat several old photo albums. I knew what that meant. She had been looking back—remembering, revisiting, longing to be with those who had “gone on home.” 

On January 5, 1943, she told me, she could recall a single, vivid moment. Just a snapshot. A brief interaction between students and their teacher. 

As I recorded, she began: 

“This is the day George Washington Carver died. I remember it because my teacher wrote the date on the board in the loveliest penmanship.” 

She lifted her finger and traced the date in the air as she spoke. 

“The teacher asked us if we knew who he was. Then she told us about this brilliant man—his extraordinary contributions to American society—and that he was a Black man.” 

There they were: a classroom of Black children, taught by a Black woman, gathered around a blackboard—learning about Black excellence in real time. 

She grew up in Carr Square Village, a low-rise housing project built in 1942 for poor, largely migrant Black families in St. Louis, Missouri. Segregation was not abstract—it was lived, daily, structurally. It was real. 

And yet, because of that reality, she experienced something many of us never will. 

Yes, the schools lacked resources. Yes, they were without the amenities white schools had long enjoyed. But what she described to me shifted my understanding entirely—and still leaves me in awe. 

From kindergarten through high school, every teacher she had was Black. 

Black men. Black women. Black educators who taught, disciplined, affirmed, and expected excellence. 

She spoke especially about the Black male teachers—their presence, their firmness, their no-nonsense approach. Not because the women were lacking—they weren’t—but because the men left a particular imprint. She began listing names of her favorites, though some escaped her. What remained were descriptions, impressions, and the weight of their influence. 

And then came college.

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Born in 1934, raised in segregation, her entire educational experience was steeped in Black thought and Black excellence. When she arrived at Stowe Teacher’s College, she encountered even more of it—what Leslie Fenwick describes in Jim Crow’s Pink Slip as a concentration of Black intellectual powerhouses. 

The students, the faculty, the surrounding community—it was all connected. An extension of the schools she knew. An extension of Carr Square Village. An extension of family. 

She spoke about the professors—their expertise, their unity, their presence. Many of them were multi-degreed, polished, and exceptional. They carried themselves with purpose and with an unrelenting commitment to making segregated Black schools spaces of intellectual rigor and academic weight. 

To me—and I know to her—that richness surpassed anything funding alone could provide. 

“Mom, what was it like to have all-Black educators your entire life—from elementary school through college?” I asked. 

She leaned back, folded her arms, and looked past the ceiling—as if searching the heavens for the right words. 

“It was wonderful,” she said. “An extension of home and family at every turn. Black people had a genuine love and care for each other… because we all we got.” 

And with that, the interview ended. 

By the time she graduated from college, the legal foundation of segregation had been dismantled. The doctrine of “separate but equal” had been declared unconstitutional. In 1954, Brown v. Board of Education affirmed that segregation violated the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. 

Integration, at least on paper, became the law of the land. 

But in practice, it was slow. Painfully slow. 

In some places, it took years—sometimes six or more—to even begin meaningful implementation. In the South, where segregation had been codified into law, federal courts played a direct role in enforcing change. In other regions, where segregation was more de facto than de jure, enforcement proved far more difficult.

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The courts had limits. And those limits showed. 

As my father once told me, “It’s all done by design, son. You were never meant to fully belong in the whiteness of America. Only when it benefits them do concessions get made.” 

My own research echoes that truth. 

From the years following Brown into the 21st century, the slow pace of integration has been shaped by resistance—both overt and subtle. School districts ignored orders. Systems stalled. Access was restricted. Acceptance was denied. 

Black schools were closed. Black educators—teachers, principals, superintendents—were displaced, demoted, or shut out entirely from white institutions. Communities lost not only schools, but anchors. 

What remained was a workforce often overqualified, underpaid, underrepresented—and largely unsupported. For Black men in particular, this displacement contributed to their declining presence in education. 

And even beyond resistance, there was another issue: ambiguity. 

The Brown decision, while historic, lacked detailed guidance for implementation. It declared segregation unconstitutional—but did not fully outline how to dismantle it. That absence allowed delay to become a strategy. 

Justice, deferred. 

Some say justice delayed is not justice denied. But I have to ask—why the delay at all? 

If we claim to be a nation rooted in law, in equity, in opportunity, then who is truly bound by that law? Who fears its consequences—and who doesn’t? 

Real progress did come. Federal court orders in 1969 and busing efforts in the 1970s moved the needle. But even then, desegregation remained contested—battled over for decades. 

So here we are, still asking: Why didn’t school segregation end in 1954? 

America’s student population is more diverse than ever. And yet, schools remain deeply segregated—especially along racial and socioeconomic lines.

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There have been efforts. During the Obama administration, initiatives like Opening Doors, Expanding Opportunities aimed to increase school diversity through federal grants. But in 2020, those efforts were rolled back. 

Progress, once again, stalled. 

Meanwhile, the forces that sustained segregation decades ago remain active today—embedded in housing, funding, policy, and practice. 

Funding, especially, continues to drive inequality. 

As far back as 1980, studies from the University of Illinois Press documented disparities in Southern California: predominantly Black and Brown schools received significantly less funding per student than white schools. Teacher salaries were lower. Experience levels were lower. Turnover was higher. 

And today, many of those patterns persist. 

Resources are still distributed unevenly. Opportunity is still uneven. 

And yet, across demographics, many parents say they want integrated schools. The desire is there. The structure to achieve it often is not. 

We know integration benefits everyone. Students gain not only academically, but also socially and emotionally. Exposure to difference builds capacity—for empathy, for collaboration, for leadership in a diverse world. 

But here’s the challenge as I see it: 

If the system is committed to slowing justice—to starving equity through delayed action and diminished funding—then perhaps we need to reconsider how we measure success. 

Because if students before Brown could thrive under constraint—if my mother’s generation could rise, achieve, and excel despite limitation—then there is still something there worth examining. 

They were not just surviving. They were producing excellence. 

Overqualified. Overeducated. Multiskilled. Disciplined. Rooted. 

That kind of formation doesn’t come from resources alone. It comes from culture. From expectation. From community. From belief.

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So when I look at what some call resegregation in the 21st century, I don’t only see loss. I see possibility. 

I see the potential for what I call the rebirth of the cool. 

It was cool to have all-Black educators pouring into classrooms. 

It was cool to learn about George Washington Carver and know that brilliance looked like you. It was—and still is—cool to attend an HBCU and be shaped by Black professors. 

It would be cool to see more Black medical schools. 

More Black law schools. 

More Black seminaries. 

More Black business institutions. 

It would be cool to be recruited, cultivated, and valued by Black organizations that recognize the power of young Black energy and intellect. 

The rebirth of the cool wouldn’t just be nostalgic. 

It would be intentional. 

And yes—it would be cool.