I have a vivid memory from my college freshman year of my 8:00 a.m. lecture class on the other side of campus. Most mornings found me sprinting through buildings and across wide lawns to arrive on time. The lecture hall itself was intimidating—a massive theater-style room with high ceilings and seats sloping down to the lectern. Unlike other halls with discrete rear entrances perfect for late arrivals, this one had a single door at the front of the class.
One morning, running behind schedule, I arrived to find the door already closed. Peering through the window, I saw a classroom full of students. My hand hesitated on the doorknob. I attended a predominantly white institution (PWI), and I was the only Black student in this course. I imagined dozens of eyes turning to judge: There's the lazy Black kid who can't even show up on time. He doesn't belong here. It didn't matter whether the threat was real or imagined; in that moment, the weight of perception was crushing. I opted not to go in. I walked away, missing critical lecture material, because the cost of confirming their potential stereotypes felt too high to bear.
Naming the Invisible Burden
It would take nearly 15 years after that moment for me to finally find language to describe my experience. In his book Whistling Vivaldi: And Other Clues to How Stereotypes Affect Us (W. W. Norton & Company, 2011), social psychologist Claude Steele explains the notion of “stereotype threat”—the anxiety experienced when someone fears their performance might confirm a negative stereotype about their identity group. During my time at that college, I encountered numerous problematic interactions, being told “you don't sound like a Black guy from Brooklyn” or getting stopped repeatedly by public safety officers demanding my identification.
Long after my college years, I would hear stories from other former students who also experienced pressure to disprove stereotypes. They shared reflections about navigating everything from roommate microaggressions to incidents of overt racism from professors in the classroom, and how mentally taxing it all was. These experiences may not leave visible scars, but they contribute to an invisible trauma that's often overlooked.
I was overlooking a hidden syllabus of survival skills and cultural wisdom—critical for students of color.
In spite of my deep and personal understanding of stereotype threat, I never shared any of these experiences with my high school students. I failed to make the connections to their own upcoming transitions. Instead, I recycled the same sterile advice to join clubs, use office hours, and experience new things. I missed opportunities to create space for students to explore their identities and share authentic stories of navigating unfamiliar environments. My silence contributed to the notion that preparedness for life after high school was simply about assimilation, with no conversation about racialized experiences. I was overlooking a hidden syllabus of survival skills and cultural wisdom—critical for students of color.
When the Safety Nets Disappear
This reality hit hardest when a former student, let’s call her Marisol, visited me after her first semester at an elite liberal arts college. A Dominican girl from the Bronx, Marisol was a leader, gifted academically, socially popular, and beloved by teachers. Despite earning a prestigious full-ride scholarship, Marisol was told by white peers that it was “welfare”—a handout she didn’t deserve. Marisol said the experience was jarring and a far cry from the affirming community she was used to.
Marisol’s story isn’t rare. Students of color face these battles daily, and the stakes are rising. As universities dismantle diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs, they strip away critical support systems, affinity groups, and bias training—leaving students to navigate hostile terrain alone. Research shows the detrimental impact of eliminating DEI initiatives, particularly for students of color. As a result of these shifts, many students of color experience a decrease in a sense of belonging. In addition, the cumulative psychological burden of persistent racial stressors creates unsustainable conditions that can ultimately push students toward discontinuing their education.
The Call for Human-Centered Preparation
High school educators serve as a critical bridge between students’ K-12 experiences and the uncharted terrain of postsecondary life. For students of color who often navigate PWIs, racial microaggressions, and systemic barriers, this transition is especially fraught. Yet even amid these challenges, educators can reframe this transition as one of resilience and belonging if they lead with radical intentionality.
Educators can reframe this transition as one of resilience and belonging if they lead with radical intentionality.
Carlos Moreno’s Love, Care, and Vulnerability (LCV) framework from his book, Finding Your Leadership Soul (ASCD, 2023), offers the tools to do exactly that. This approach—rooted in unconditional belief (love), commitment to wellbeing (care), and authentic human connection (vulnerability)—directly counters the challenges students of color face. In an era of vanishing institutional support, the LCV framework doesn't just equip students to survive postsecondary systems; it empowers them to reclaim their place within these spaces by offering a human-centered approach to preparing students academically, emotionally, and culturally. Here's how high school educators can implement it:
LOVE: Affirm Identity and Cultivate Belonging
Why it matters: High school students of color often navigate racialized experiences without the language or tools to process them.
Strategies for educators:
- Integrate racial literacy. Embed identity-affirming lessons and literacy into advisory or homeroom (consider incorporating material from Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, Kendrick Lamar, and other writers of color).
- Facilitate college prep with cultural context. Host panels with alumni students of color to discuss code-switching, finding community, and resisting assimilation pressure.
- Create culturally relevant college exposure. During campus visits, meet with cultural clubs (Black Student Unions, Latinx orgs, fraternities, sororities, and others) to center those lived experiences.
CARE: Provide Intentional and Sustained Support
Why it matters: Care is action. It’s not enough to say, "You’ll do great!"—students need tools to navigate racism, isolation, and prioritize their wellness.
Strategies for educators:
- Promote wellness-centered practices. Explore and normalize mental health strategies including therapy, mindfulness, and meditation. Encourage help-seeking practices.
- Integrate opportunities for peer mentorship. Create spaces for students to check in and support each other (e.g. advisory, restorative circles).
VULNERABILITY: Model Resilience and Authenticity
Why it matters: When educators are vulnerable, it gives students permission to be their whole selves.
Strategies for educators:
- Share your own stories. Teachers can share their own college struggles: "When I was in college, I almost dropped out because I felt invisible. Here’s what helped me."
- Promote self-awareness. Incorporate reflective journaling into classrooms and advisory spaces.
- Teach self-advocacy as resistance. Explore real-world scenarios with students to discuss or role-play how they might respond to microagressions, stereotyping, or other challenging situations.
From Transition to Transformation
Preparing students of color for postsecondary success requires moving beyond transactional readiness to transformative support. The Love, Care, and Vulnerability framework offers a critical lens for this work. While systemic barriers persist, the daily practice of these principles in classrooms and advisory can create environments where students are equipped to excel—where no one has to choose between their dignity and their education, as I did that morning outside of the lecture hall. Let's move beyond preparing our students to survive—let's equip them to thrive, lead with purpose, and radically belong.
Timeless Lessons from Civil Rights Teachers
Tarsha I. Herelle & Andrene J. Castro et al.4 months ago
