LIKE ALWAYS

          I waited by the tree in the afternoon sun, like always. 
          My daughter’s class walked out in a straight line behind their teacher, like always. 
          I wove between kids looking for their parents looking on their phones, my hand raised. My daughter’s teacher scanned the crowd, acknowledged my hand with a nod, pointed to my daughter, then returned to scanning. Like always. 
          My daughter strode up to me, arms pumping, backpack jingling, like—
          She had tears in her eyes. 
          I wanted to kneel amid the hugging, tugging, high fiving parent-child reunions, but I knew she would need a quiet, safe place to open her heart. 
          We passed kids waiting to board the school bus. We passed kids lingering by the low front wall. 
          Her hand so small in mine. 
         “Sweetie pie. What’s wrong?” 
          She scrunched her eyebrows. “I thought we would be safe here.” 
          My heart thudded. “What do you mean?” 
          She looked up at me, her glistening eyes wide. “I can’t learn about Misty Copeland anymore!” 
         “What? I don’t…” 
          And then I understood. 
          Even though my youngest daughter loved ballet just like her older sisters, even though her older sisters had also chosen to do school projects on Misty Copeland, this past year we had moved and were enrolled in a different school where projects like these were prohibited. This school had as many kids in first grade as the old school had in all of kindergarten through grade eight. This school’s official communication always evoked the Privacy Act of 1974 and the acronym, FOUO (For Official Use Only). And it was February. And this year, especially in this month, all projects involving Misty Copeland, Principal Dancer of American Ballet Theater, violated a piece of paper that one white man signed. 
          We walked home side by side, in silence, not like always. 
          Kids passed us. Bicycles, tricycles, strollers, scooters. We crossed the street. We passed the tennis courts. We were alone again. 
          I looked at my strong-willed daughter. I promised she could still learn about Misty Copeland. 
         “But won’t I get in trouble?” 
          I took her hand again. “No one can control what is in books.” But even as I said that I knew I was wrong, so I clarified, “In our house.” 
         “But what about other kids’ houses?” 
          A very complicated question. “Well, we cannot control what other people read.” 
          She nodded and looked at me with eyes so wide so I continued, “But we can talk with each other. We can share what we read about. We may not agree with everyone…” 
         “How do you know who is right?” 
         “That’s a hard question.” I squeezed her hand and took a deep breath, “Knowledge shouldn’t be hidden. It should be allowed to…” 
         “Can I have a snack?” 
          I smiled. “Yes, sweetie.” I knew our conversation would eventually continue where we had left it, most likely after I had read to her and kissed her goodnight and she would not let my hug go until we had finished talking about knowledge needing to be available for knowledge’s sake, not for someone’s ego or agenda. 
          But for now, an after-school snack. As I put a pot of water on the stove for ramen, my hand shakes. I am angry. My daughter cannot share with her classmates the incredible story of someone who worked hard for something she loved, and against all odds, succeeded. I am angry that children at her school are denied the stories of Misty Copeland. And Carter G. Woodson, a professor and a Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at Harvard University, whose contributions to Black history led to the creation of Black History month. And Mae C. Jemison, a physician and the first Black woman in space. And particularly fitting for my daughters’ current school, Carl Brashear, the first Black master diver in the U.S. Navy who continued on active duty despite a leg amputation. And many, many more. 
          But the worst part, like always, is not that our children will be robbed of learning about these notable American’s lives during Black History Month. The worst part is that our children will be robbed of our great history – all of it, the good, the messy, and yes, the horrible. We owe them that knowledge, all of it, so that they will remember, and not go backwards, and not make the same mistakes we have. So that they will keep us moving forward. 
          The next day, we walk to school, like always. 
          I see black hair, blonde, brown, red, blue, straight, curly, and brand new. 
          I hear English, Italian, Spanish, Japanese, French, Ukrainian, and the baby sounds attempting to make words that are so cute, so sweet. 
          Like always, I see our country’s future in the children going to school. Some are excited, some apprehensive. But all have curiosity radiating from their quick steps, have curiosity in their tilt of an ear to a friend, have curiosity in their wide, open eyes. 
          And that curiosity takes away my anger. Like always. I hope they keep asking us the difficult questions. 

 ###

Sources

Misty Copeland, American Ballet Theater, https://www.abt.org/misty-copeland-to-retire-from-abt/, accessed 21 JAN 2026. 

Carter G. Woodson, NAACP, https://naacp.org/find-resources/history-explained/civil-rights-leaders/carter-g-woodson, accessed 21 JAN 2026. 

Mae Jemison, National Women’s History Museum, https://www.womenshistory.org/education-resources/biographies/mae-jemison, accessed 21 JAN 2026. 

Brashear, Carl M., Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate, USN (Ret.), U.S. Naval Institute, https://www.usni.org/press/oral-histories/brashear-carl, accessed 21 JAN 2026. 

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Krista Puttler has called many places home including the Philippines, Guam, Hawaii, Japan, and a stateroom on an aircraft carrier. Her writing has appeared in Under the Gum Tree, Cagibi, and Cleaver Magazine, among others. A medium-roast coffee gal at heart, she is pleasantly surprised by how much she loves Italian espresso. She lives outside Naples, Italy with her husband and three daughters. You can read more at kristaputtler.com.