A Letter To Ella

Dear Ella J. Rice,

I don’t know you personally, but today I had the sudden urge to write to you. I sit now at my scarred wooden desk, at my school full of memories and history. I’ve spent a large portion of my morning staring blankly at the empty chairs in front of me, and wondering what to do next.

“Schools are beginning to integrate after the Supreme Court has ruled segregation as unconstitutional.”

I keep repeating that headline from the paper and refusing to believe that it’s real because it hasn’t been for so long. What did we do to make 1954 different?

Me. A Black man. I am allowed now to teach at a school where the students do not look like me? A man who has been beat, chased, and yelled at for his skin color can stand in front of white children and look them in the eyes? It’d be more believable that this is actually a plot to capture all Black intellectuals attempting to educate the youth in their communities than a sudden change of heart.

But, though I am and have been skeptical about the future of integration, I am still writing to you now. And I believe it’s because I have a glimmer of hope that this may be real. Hope that this letter will go to a real Black woman named Ella J. Rice. A courageous woman who truly is the only Black teacher in her non-segregated school. And that you are the person smiling while surrounded by white students in a classroom picture under the headline, “Schools are beginning to integrate after the Supreme Court has ruled segregation as unconstitutional.” I’ve been led astray so much in my career and life, but it’s gratifying to know that I still haven’t lost hope.

My students will walk into my classroom soon. They will loudly stomp in smiling, conversing about their plans, teasing each other for how they’re dressed, and then shuffle around till they’ve found their seats. They’ll tell me their dreams in the essays they write, and ask me questions about how to change the world. They’ll share stories about the struggles of their families, and we’ll all look to each other as we bond over the trauma we’ve experienced at home. They’ll quickly grow right in front of me day after day, and they’ll trust in me because I’ve gradually shaped shifted and became family. Because I listen to their words and I hear brilliance. Because I see their smiles and see perseverance. Because I acknowledged their pain and passions.

So, I guess what I honestly want to ask you is how did you do it? How did you walk into the doors of your school, knowing that the students that would rush in won’t share your story? They won’t look like you. They won’t talk like you. And they may come from a home that won’t want you anywhere in that building. Especially not the teacher.

I’m asking because after I finish writing my letter to you, I have to respond to a letter that was sent to me this morning. A letter that was neatly folded in an envelope placed on my scarred wooden desk. It excitedly asks me to leave everyone and everything I know, for a promise and a change. It was almost completely dismissed. Until I saw the newspaper clipping that includes your picture tucked inside the envelope. Now, anything feels possible.

I hope this letter gets to you, and I hope that you are safe. If we don’t cross paths as teachers, maybe we’ll meet when we retire in the 2000’s! Thank you for your dedication, your heart, and your time. And have a beautiful school year…

Sincerely,

Mr. Dean

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To Learn More About Ella J. Price:

https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/washingtonpost/name/ella-rice-obituary?id=6173904