I went to a Catholic high school in the 1990s that was only slightly less white than Covington Catholic. I had one black teacher in my four years there; I never had a person of color teach me math, or science, or my favorite subject, English. And while I know my teachers didn’t want me to grow up racist—we read Huck Finn and To Kill a Mockingbird, didn’t we?—as an adult, I keep coming back to this damning statistic: In all four years of high school, my English teachers asked me to read exactly one long text by a person of color: Richard Wright’s Native Son.
Native Son is a great book. But what message does it send that it was the only novel by a black author my school saw fit to assign?
…“No road whatever will lead Americans back to the simplicity of this European village where white men still have the luxury of looking on me as a stranger.” The world is white no longer, Baldwin tells us. In America, it never was. Our reading lists and our faculty lounges should reflect that by now.