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February 17, 2026
Raphael Bonhomme challenges teachers to move beyond seasonal lessons and embed Black history into the full American narrative. Through personal reflection and practical classroom examples—from Harlem Renaissance projects to lessons on Black Wall Street—this blog invites educators to rethink what students learn about history, identity and possibility.
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This blog is part of our 2026 Black History Month series. Read more from Natalie Dean and Dr. Lisa Thomas.
This year feels like one of those moments that asks us to pause.
Black History Month is celebrating its 100th anniversary, first established in 1926 by historian Carter G. Woodson. At the same time, the United States is inching closer to its 250th birthday, marking the signing of the Declaration of Independence in 1776. These milestones exist in different timelines, almost alternative universes, but they meet at the same moment—2026.
Those dates matter. Not because of the numbers themselves, but because of what they force us to face.
They ask us to reflect on whose stories we have valued, whose stories we have centered, and what versions of America we continue to pass on to our students. If Black history is American history, are we teaching it that way?
Black History Month did not begin as a celebration or a themed unit. It began as a correction.
Carter G. Woodson created Negro History Week because he recognized how thoroughly Black people had been excluded from the historical narratives taught in American schools. That exclusion was not accidental—it reflected whose lives were considered worthy of record and whose contributions were pushed to the margins. Learn more from The Man Behind Black History Month.
Woodson’s work was never about separating Black history from American history. His goal was to strengthen America’s understanding of itself by telling the full story. He believed that when students learn a more complete history, they develop a more honest relationship with their country.
A century later, that purpose still matters.
Yet in many schools, Black history is still treated as optional or seasonal. It shows up briefly in February, disconnected from the larger narrative. When that happens, students learn—whether we intend it or not—that Black history is something separate from “real” American history.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, partly because of my students and partly because of my own journey.
I grew up loving to learn. I genuinely enjoyed school. I liked reading, asking questions, and discovering new ideas. Learning felt exciting and meaningful to me.
But as a Black American student, I rarely saw myself reflected in the curriculum in ways that felt whole or affirming.
And when young people don’t see many possibilities modeled, it quietly shapes what they imagine is possible for themselves.
When Black people appeared in lessons, it was usually through a narrow lens—slavery, segregation, the Civil Rights Movement. Important history, yes, but often taught without continuity. Struggle without complexity. Pain without joy. Resistance without humanity. Over time, I felt disconnected and felt many of the topics were foreign. I became a case study of social proof and the similar-to-me effect without even knowing.
Outside school, the media didn’t offer much more. The stories I encountered shaped a limited view of what being Black in America meant. There were few examples of Black intellectuals, innovators, educators or leaders presented as central to the American story.
And when young people don’t see many possibilities modeled, it quietly shapes what they imagine is possible for themselves.
Things began to change when I fell in love with history—not memorizing dates, but uncovering stories.
I started asking questions. Who built this country in visible and invisible ways? Who organized communities when systems failed them? Who created ideas, businesses and movements that still shape our lives today?
The more I learned, the more my understanding of America expanded. I discovered Black Americans whose contributions were foundational, not peripheral. These stories weren’t side notes. They were central to the nation’s development. I grew to understand my double-consciousness as W.E.B Du Bois would put it.
Learning this reshaped how I saw myself. It also reshaped how I would understood my responsibility as an educator.
Then I arrived at Howard University aka the “Mecca.”
For the first time in my life, I was immersed in an environment filled with Black people from all walks of life, united by a shared pursuit of higher education and self-advancement. That experience was powerful. It was affirming. It was transformative.
Howard—often called “the Mecca”—carries a deep intellectual and cultural legacy. It is also the institution where Carter G. Woodson once served as a professor and dean of the College of Arts and Sciences.
As I walked on those grounds, Black excellence felt present and expected. It wasn’t theoretical. It was lived.
Then I arrived at Howard University aka the “Mecca.”
That experience shaped who I am today—not just personally, but professionally. It reinforced that representation doesn’t just inspire students. It expands what they believe is normal, achievable and worthy.
When I first began teaching, I didn’t arrive with all this clarity.
Like many new educators, I focused on survival—classroom management, pacing guides and curriculum demands. I taught what was provided and followed existing structures and followed what the veteran teachers were doing.
Over time, though, I noticed familiar patterns. Black history appeared, but often briefly and in isolation. I started asking myself whether my students were leaving my classroom with a full understanding of America—or just fragments.
Inspired by Carter G. Woodson’s legacy, I became more intentional. I began embedding Black history into instruction—during morning meetings, within math story problems, through reading selections, and in social studies discussions.
I wanted students to see Black people not only as subjects of struggle but also as creators, thinkers, business owners and leaders.
Early in my teaching career, I gravitated toward topics that felt safe and familiar.
I taught about celebrated Black musicians and explored the Harlem Renaissance, highlighting artists like Aaron Douglas, whose work helped visually define Black identity during that era.
I began embedding Black history into instruction—during morning meetings, within math story problems, through reading selections, and in social studies discussions.
These projects were joyful. Students connected deeply with the art and cultural pride of the period. They learned that Black creativity has always shaped American culture.
And still, something felt incomplete.
Those lessons mattered—but they represented only part of the story. My students deserved more. They were capable of more.
As my confidence grew, so did my willingness to teach more complex topics.
We studied the Benin Bronzes—how they were taken, where they exist today, and why their return matters. Students recreated artifacts and wrote letters advocating for repatriation.
We explored Harriet Tubman beyond familiar narratives, focusing on her leadership, strategy and persistence. Students learned how federal holidays are created and used writing, art and persuasion to advocate for honoring her legacy.
These lessons weren’t about overwhelming students. They were about trusting them.
In my classroom hangs a quote by Frederick Douglass: “If there is no progress, there is no struggle.”
I reference it often—when students wrestle with challenging math concepts, multistep problems, or difficult moments in American history. Struggle is not something to avoid. It’s part of growth.
That applies to learning history, too.
Teaching the full story of America requires honesty. Sometimes honesty is uncomfortable—but avoiding it doesn’t serve our students nor project them into being great adults.
Educators today are teaching in a deeply complicated moment.
Across the country, some schools promote alternate or incomplete versions of history. Others discourage teachers from naming injustice directly or providing context.
This reality makes teaching Black history more urgent, not less.
If Black history is American history, our classrooms should reflect that truth consistently.
Black History Month at 100 cannot be reduced to assemblies or posters. It requires intention—especially in elementary classrooms, where students are forming their earliest understandings of identity and belonging.
This year, our Black History Month focus is Black Wall Street, specifically the Greenwood District of Tulsa, Okla.
Students will learn about Greenwood as a thriving Black business community built on entrepreneurship, cooperation, and economic independence.
We also will study how that community was destroyed during the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre—and what was lost as a result. Years ago, like many teachers, I would have ended it right there.
Instead, students will role-play as business owners, create advertisements and build models using math concepts like area, multiplication and distributive property. They will learn about the achievements and devastation, innovation and injustice, but most importantly how we can learn from the past and make positive changes for the future.
This work allows students to see Black history as layered, human—and an undeniable American experience.
If Black history is American history, our classrooms should reflect that truth consistently.
Educators can:
For educators seeking support, organizations like Teaching for Change offer curriculum and resources grounded in social justice and historical accuracy: Teaching for Change; Teaching People's History | The Zinn Education Project; and BlackPast.org | The Largest Online Encyclopedia of Black History.
As Black History Month approaches its 100th year and the U.S. nears its 250th, educators have an opportunity—and a responsibility—to reflect.
Black history, like other heritage months should not be confined to a fraction of the year.
If Black history is American history, what are we teaching our students to believe about this country—and about themselves?
Explore this growing collection of classroom-ready lessons that center voices too often left out—Indigenous leaders, LGBTQ+ activists, immigrant communities, and more.
This collection traces the nation’s journey from colonial life and growing resistance to British rule, through the Revolutionary War, the Declaration of Independence, and the creation of a new constitutional government. Organized thematically, the resources support instruction in U.S. history, civics, and ELA while encouraging inquiry, discussion, and critical thinking.
