My Dear White Friend – Letter Eight
What happens when a child who once loved learning begins to believe that being invisible is safer than being noticed? In Letter Eight of My Dear White Friend, a fictionalised account of a Black primary-school pupil explores how racial bias, differential teacher expectations and everyday classroom interactions can shape a child’s confidence, developing identity and sense of belonging.
Author’s Note
The My Dear White Friend letters use fictionalised narratives to explore experiences of racism, bias, power, belonging and psychological safety. Some are entirely fictional, while others draw upon lived experiences, observations and wider patterns of human behaviour. Where real experiences inform these narratives, names and identifying details are changed or anonymised. These letters are not intended to identify particular individuals or institutions, but to invite reflection on the psychological impact of everyday interactions and the opportunities for greater awareness, empathy and accountability.
My dear white teacher,
We had our Year 6 leavers’ assembly today. Everyone was crying and saying how much they would miss this place, but I just sat there looking at the door, thinking about how it was finally time to go. Next month, I start secondary school. Everyone keeps telling us it’s a big fresh start, something exciting to look forward to. I want to believe them. But I’m going into that giant building feeling much smaller than I think I should. I’ve been carrying something since I was in your Year 5 classroom, and I wanted to leave it here with you before I put on my new uniform.
Do you remember when we did the space project? I had read three whole books about Mars at home. I knew about the planets, the astronauts and the robots they sent into space. I was so excited. Every time you asked a question, my hand went straight up. Sometimes I would almost jump out of my seat because I wanted you to choose me. But your eyes always seemed to go past me, down to the front row or over to the other side of the classroom. I kept thinking that maybe you just hadn’t noticed me. So I tried harder. I put my hand up higher. But after a few weeks, I stopped trying.
I remember the first time I decided not to put my hand up, even though I knew the answer. It felt strange because I had always loved answering questions. But I was tired of waiting to be noticed. I started wondering whether my answers weren’t good enough, or whether the other children were cleverer than me. At home, I could talk about space for hours. At school, I began to keep my thoughts to myself. My dear white teacher, you probably didn’t even notice when I stopped putting my hand up or did you?
The worst part wasn’t just being invisible. It was how quickly you noticed me when something went wrong. When I whispered to my friend because I needed to borrow a pencil, your voice would suddenly get very sharp. You would call my name across the classroom so loudly that everyone turned to look. I remember feeling my face getting hot and wishing I could disappear. But when the white boys at the back threw paper aeroplanes, you sometimes laughed and told them to settle down. When they were noisy, it seemed funny. When I laughed too loudly at a joke, you told me I was being disruptive and sent me to stand in the corridor.
I used to stand outside that classroom listening to everyone else getting on with their lessons. Sometimes I could hear them laughing. I would wonder what I had done that was so much worse than everybody else. I didn’t understand why the things other children did were just silly, but when I did them, I was being naughty. I started to feel as though you were always waiting for me to do something wrong. Even when I wasn’t doing anything, I worried that you might think I was.
After a while, I became really good at being quiet. I learned when to look down, when not to laugh and when to pretend I hadn’t heard something funny. I stopped putting my hand up unless I was absolutely certain I knew the answer. Sometimes I knew it but still kept my hand down. I didn’t want everyone looking at me if I got it wrong. I even started watching the other children to see what they could get away with, because I couldn’t understand why the rules seemed different for me.
I don’t think you knew how much all of this was changing me. I used to be the boy who loved science, asked lots of questions and couldn’t wait to tell people what I’d learned. By the end of Year 5, I was the boy who tried not to be noticed. I thought that if I stayed quiet enough, I wouldn’t get into trouble. But sometimes I felt sad because it was like I had to hide parts of myself just to get through the school day.
I know you probably think you are a good teacher. You have posters about kindness and equality on the classroom walls. You tell us that everyone matters and that we should treat each other with respect. I wanted to believe those things were true for me too. Maybe you didn’t realise you were treating me differently. Maybe you really thought I was more disruptive than the other boys. But did you ever stop to wonder why you seemed to notice my mistakes more than the things I did well?
I sometimes wonder what you thought when you looked at me. Did you see a boy who loved learning about space? Did you see someone who was trying really hard to do well? Or did you see someone who was going to cause trouble before I’d even done anything? I wish I knew, because I spent a lot of time trying to work out what was wrong with me.
My mum says I shouldn’t let one teacher make me feel that I’m not clever or that I don’t belong. She tells me that I have lots to offer and that I should never be afraid to use my voice. I know she’s right. But it’s hard sometimes, because when a teacher keeps making you feel as though you’re doing something wrong, you start to believe it. Even when you haven’t done anything. I started not wanting to go to school which was not me.
Now I’m getting ready for secondary school. My new blazer is hanging on my bedroom door, and my mum says I look so smart when I try it on. Everyone keeps asking whether I’m excited. I tell them I am, and part of me really is. But there’s another part of me that’s scared. I’m worried that when I walk into my new classroom, I’ll start looking for the safest place to sit and maybe to hide. Somewhere at the back, where the teacher might not notice me too much. I’m worried that I’ll stop myself from putting my hand up, even if I know the answer. I’m worried that I’ll meet another teacher who sees me as a problem before they get to know me.
I wish I could start secondary school without feeling like this. I wish I could just be excited about the new science labs, the bigger library and all the things I’m going to learn. I wish I didn’t have to think so much about whether my new teachers will like me, whether they’ll believe me when I explain something, or whether I’ll be the one who gets told off when everyone else is doing the same thing. There is a tight knot forming in my stomach and I wish I did not feel this way.
My dear white teacher, I don’t want you to be angry when you read this. I don’t even know whether you’ll remember all the things I’ve written about. Some of them probably seemed very small to you (or maybe not). Just another telling-off, another child standing outside, another hand you didn’t choose. But they didn’t feel small to me. I remember them because they changed how I felt about coming to school. They changed how I felt about myself. They changed how I felt about my teachers.
I only wish you had seen how hard I was trying. I wish you had noticed when I stopped asking questions. I wish you had wondered why the boy who couldn’t stop talking about Mars had become so quiet.
And I wish you had known that sometimes, when a child goes quiet, it doesn’t mean they’ve got nothing to say. Sometimes it means they’ve learned that nobody wants to hear them.
Next year, when another Black boy sits in your classroom and puts his hand up, I hope you’ll notice him. I hope you’ll ask him what he thinks. I hope you’ll laugh when he’s being silly, just like you laugh with the other children. And when he gets something wrong, I really hope you’ll remember that he’s still just a child, learning and making mistakes like everyone else.
Most of all, my dear white teacher, I hope you’ll see him for who he is, before he starts believing he has to become someone else.
Because I don’t think any child should have to make themselves smaller just to feel safe in a classroom. No child should have to shrink their self-esteem and wish they were somewhere else.
I have had lots of time to think and I hope deciding to write this letter will help me move to my new school and start again.
With reflection,
A Year 6 Leaver
Dr Shungu’s Reflection: When Silence Is Mistaken for Compliance
What concerns me most about this child’s experience is not simply that he was overlooked or disciplined differently. It is what he began to learn about himself through those repeated interactions. A child who entered the classroom curious, enthusiastic and confident gradually learned to monitor his behaviour, silence his questions and make himself less visible. What might appear to a teacher as improved behaviour may, in reality, reflect a child withdrawing psychologically from an environment in which he no longer feels safe.
This raises important questions about adultification, racialised expectations and the often-unrecognised ways in which adults interpret children’s behaviour. When the same behaviour is viewed as playful in one child but disruptive in another, we need to examine the assumptions influencing those judgements. The consequences extend beyond classroom discipline. They can shape children’s developing identities, their sense of belonging and their expectations of future relationships with adults in positions of authority.
Through the Six Stages Framework, I invite us to consider not only the behaviours we observe, but the beliefs, assumptions and environments that influence them. A teacher does not have to consciously intend harm for their actions to have harmful consequences. Equally, recognising that impact creates an opportunity for reflection, accountability and change. The question is whether we are willing to examine the gap between how we believe we treat children and how children actually experience us.
Perhaps the most troubling aspect of this letter is that the boy is leaving primary school, but the psychological lessons he has learned may be accompanying him into secondary school. His teacher may have moved on, but the child’s expectation of being overlooked, criticised or misunderstood may remain.
When a child becomes quieter, more compliant or less visible, do we automatically assume they are doing better? Or do we have the curiosity to ask what happened before they became that way?
And perhaps more importantly, are we creating classrooms in which children feel safe enough to be fully themselves, or environments in which some children learn that belonging depends upon making themselves smaller?
Continue Exploring
If this letter has prompted you to reflect on racial bias, teacher expectations and children’s developing identities, you may also want to explore the wider My Dear White Friend series, which examines racism, belonging, relationships and accountability through psychological reflection.
You may also find Letter Seven: What Happens When the Racist Is Someone You Love? particularly relevant. It examines what happens when our relationships, loyalties and beliefs about ourselves make it difficult to recognise or challenge harmful behaviour.
The Six Stages Framework (SSF) provides a psychological lens for examining how our attitudes, assumptions, behaviours and environments can influence others, and how greater awareness, reflection and accountability can support meaningful change.
About My Dear White Friend
My Dear White Friend is a reflective letter series by Dr Shungu Hilda M’gadzah, Chartered Educational Psychologist and founder of the Six Stages Framework. Through fictionalised narratives, psychological understanding and lived experience, the series explores racism, bias, identity, belonging and the choices that shape who we become.
