📝 The Curriculum We Were Never Given

One kid. One cracked desk. And a world bigger than the classroom around him.
Not everything worth learning fits in a lesson plan.

I used to want to be a teacher.

Not for the title. Not for the paycheck.
But because I wanted to be the kind of adult I needed when I was a kid.

Someone who noticed me.
Someone who gave a damn.
Someone who understood that the system couldn’t teach you everything you needed to survive—but still showed up anyway.

But somewhere along the way, I realized something:

The system isn’t broken.
It was built this way.

And it’s not just the classrooms—it’s the whole damn foundation.

I still wanted to teach. But once you see how the system treats the people inside it—especially the kids who need the most—you realize the problem isn’t bad people.
It’s a bad blueprint.

The ones who care too much burn out.
The ones who follow the rules rise up.
And the kids? They’re taught how to survive the system… not how to outgrow it.

You can help—but not too much.
You can care—but only within the lines.

Because if you push too hard, the system pushes back.

So I didn’t stop caring.
I just stopped believing the solution was buried inside the same building that trained us to stay small.

And it’s not just in schools—you feel it everywhere.

Earlier today, I was at the grocery store.
A Black family was shopping. Just existing.
No one said anything. But I felt it.

That quiet tension. That unspoken question some people carry in their eyes:
“Do they belong here?”

That kind of racism doesn’t scream.
It whispers.

It reminded me of something that happened back during COVID—
A Black woman working as a cashier.
Someone made her cry just because of her skin.

I don’t remember every detail, but I remember the way it felt.
The kind of ache that lingers in your bones.
The kind of moment that reminds you: we’re still fighting for a place to exist.

This town has changed since then.
I’ve seen it.

But growth doesn’t mean forgetting what happened.
Growth means remembering—and choosing not to repeat it.

Because here’s the truth:
People don’t move to “better neighborhoods” to take something away.
They move to give their kids a chance.
A chance to breathe.
To rest.

But if the people already living there don’t make room for them…
Then even rest becomes a fight.

The school system taught me this.
Not just through curriculum, but through lived reality.

I grew up in a district where the building was falling apart.
We needed a full renovation—or a brand-new school altogether.

The first time the vote came up, it failed.
Some didn’t want to lose the nostalgia of where they graduated.
Others didn’t want to pay more in taxes.
Most people were just trying to survive.

But what happens when a school doesn’t get the funding it needs?
What happens when test scores and population numbers decide whether a school lives or dies?

Eventually, the district laid it out:
“If this next vote doesn’t pass, the school might shut down. Your kids will be split between other districts.”

Looking back, I don’t know how much of that was truth—and how much was fear.
But it worked.

The second vote passed.
Not because people were inspired…
But because the alternative would’ve made their lives harder.

Pay a little more now… or lose a lot later.

That’s when it hit me:
They weren’t just closing schools.
They were closing doors.

On kids.
On families.
On possibility.

We grew up in buildings that were falling apart.
And somehow, some of us still made it out.

But now?
Now we’re building something new.

Not for the system.
But for the kids who needed more than it ever offered.

This is my classroom now.
These are my lesson plans.
And these words?
They’re the curriculum we were never given.

Welcome to Raccoon Radio.
And if you’ve ever seen the cracks and decided to grow through them—
This one’s for you.