Chapter 46
Mrs. Baptiste offered him Head of English at the end of his fourth year. He accepted, because the work required it and because he was ready.
The role changed things. He was still teaching he had insisted on keeping two classes, which was non-negotiable for him, the classroom being where the work was but he was also now responsible for the department: for Miss Chen and David and Mr. Phillips, for curriculum, for the department's relationship with the wider school, for mentoring the teacher who replaced David when David left to teach abroad.
He was good at the administrative elements in the way he was good at most things he took seriously: methodically, thoroughly, with the knowledge of his own limitations. He was less comfortable with the parts of leadership that required him to manage institutional conflict the politics of a staffroom, the careful negotiation required when a colleague's practice was failing their students. He worked at this. He got better.
He introduced two things in the English department that became embedded in the school's practice over the years that followed: a student writing showcase at the end of each year, where students read their own work publicly to an audience of family and community members; and a mentorship programme pairing Year 12 students who had strong writing skills with Year 7 students who needed support.
The writing showcase came from Aaliyah's reading the moment he had watched twenty-eight students recognize themselves in her words. He had been trying to replicate that moment, at scale, ever since.
The first showcase was attended by sixty people. The second, by ninety. By the fourth year, the school hall was full and Pemberton Secondary had acquired a reputation in Kingston as a school that took student voice seriously, which was the kind of reputation that attracted teachers who shared that value and students who needed that environment.
Mrs. Baptiste called him into her office after the fourth showcase.
'You know what you've built here,' she said.
'We've built,' he said. 'The whole department. The students.'
She gave him the look she reserved for people who were being modest in ways that, while admirable, missed the point.
'Yes,' she said. 'But you were the first. Someone has to be first.'
He wrote in his journal that evening: 'The first. Someone has to be first. I keep thinking about Mr. Okafor being first for me. And Miss Morrison. And Mama, always, in every room she walked into. Being first is not glory. It is an obligation. A gift you keep giving forward.