By Dr. Christine Spear, Retired Educator
The story you are about to read is about an ordinary seven-year-old girl who loved riding her bike, playing with her dolls, and racing her friends down the neighborhood streets. She smiled so easily and so often that a boy nearby nicknamed her “Cheshire Cat.” Life was simple, joyful, and predictable.
Summer vacation had ended, and it was time to start a new school year. Little did she know that this school year would change the course of her childhood in ways she could never have imagined.
In October 2025, the Early Childhood Funders Collaborative held its Fall Member Meeting and Alabama Learning Tour. One of the stops was Selma, Alabama, where members visited the McRae-Gaines Learning Center. The center was founded in 1978 by the “Mothers of Many,” a group of women who believed deeply in the power of education and community. For decades, it has faithfully served the Selma community, growing and evolving to welcome children of all ethnicities.
Its current home is the former Cedar Park Elementary School, a building that opened in 1968. It was originally intended to serve an all-white population, but it was forced to integrate during a time of deep resistance and social tension. What once stood as a symbol of exclusion now houses a center devoted to opportunity and inclusion.
I know that building well.
This was eight years after Ruby Bridges became the first African American child to attend a formerly all-white elementary school in Louisiana.
History recorded her name, but there were many of us, in many places, quietly stepping into similar storms. Our names were not printed in newspapers, but our experiences were just as real.
I, along with a handful of other African American students, integrated that brand-new, state-of-the-art school built from the ground up. The families in the surrounding white community had no intention of welcoming us. That became painfully clear on the first day of school when an angry crowd gathered outside, shouting as we arrived. Their voices were loud, but their message was louder.
Each of us was placed alone in separate classrooms, without a buddy, without a familiar face, without comfort. This was an intentional strategy designed by the principal. It ensured we would not even have one another for support. That choice shaped how I experienced identity, safety, and belonging in the classroom.
It was a lesson in isolation long before I had the language to describe it.
I was picked on almost daily. I was called terrible names, my hair was pulled, and sometimes I was even spat on. If I tried to defend myself, I was the one sent to the principal’s office.
My parents came often, insisting the principal ensure my safety and dignity. They refused to allow silence to become acceptance.
Eventually, my teacher began sending me to the library instead. That library became my refuge. I was there so often that I taught myself to read fluently. Books became companions, teachers, and protectors. The librarian became my quiet hero, gently allowing me to read any book I wanted. She offered no speeches, only kindness. What was meant to isolate me became the very place that strengthened me. Words opened worlds that prejudice could not close.
The tension lasted throughout my second-grade year. By third grade, things slowly began to shift. Children, unlike adults, sometimes outgrow the biases they inherit. By fourth grade, it was as if my classmates realized I was not going anywhere. Familiarity softened resistance. By junior high, many of us had learned to coexist, and some had even become friends.
Time did what policy alone could not. It allowed humanity to surface.
When I walked back into that building in 2025, now filled with children laughing and learning together, I did not just see classrooms. I saw progress. I saw resilience. I saw the long arc of change bending slowly and imperfectly toward something better.
The walls that once echoed with hostility now hold hope.
Sometimes buildings hold more than bricks. They hold stories, courage, heartbreak, and quiet victories. They remind us that spaces can be redeemed, that pain can produce purpose, and that what was once divided can become whole.
May we continue building spaces where every child feels safe, seen, and valued. May we remember that progress often comes through perseverance. And may we never forget that even in the hardest seasons, growth is quietly taking root.