Throughout Black History Month, I have been sharing pictures and brief stories of Black men and women who are rarely mentioned in K–12 history textbooks. When I post them, I often note that these individuals have largely been left out of America’s historical narrative. Almost every time, these posts are met with resistance. I have been told they are “dangerous” and that they promote “victimhood.”
After reflecting on these conversations, I believe it is important to clarify what I mean—and do not mean—by victimhood. Perhaps if we define it more carefully, we will also use the word more responsibly.
To determine whether “victimhood” is an accurate label, we must examine the posture and purpose of the person speaking. There are moments when narratives of injustice are used to manipulate, to inflame, or to gain attention. Stories of racism can, in some cases, become tools for personal satisfaction, revenge, or self-advancement. The public deception of Jussie Smollett—who fabricated a racially motivated attack for attention—is an example of exploiting racial pain for selfish ends. There are also instances when history is recounted in ways that destroy hope rather than cultivate understanding—where the goal is vengeance or the imposition of guilt rather than growth. Teaching children history in a way that burdens them with inherited shame instead of equipping them with wisdom and responsibility is neither educational nor biblical.
That is what I would call victimhood: the manipulation of pain for selfish results.
But that is not what motivates many of us who share Black history or speak honestly about racism. When we tell these stories, it is not to divide the country, but to strengthen it. James Baldwin once wrote, “I love America more than any other country in the world and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.” Love and critique are not opposites. They are often companions.
As an educator, I believe students deserve the fullness of the story. When we erase the contributions and experiences of entire communities, we create gaps in their understanding. Teaching children to see all people within the American story cultivates humility, empathy, and responsibility. They learn that history does not revolve around their own ancestry. Every child needs that formation.
My conviction is that education should not center ethnicity; it should center humanity. As a Black woman, I teach my children their history and affirm Afrocentric programs. But I pair that with a global vision in which no one is erased—not Africa, not Europe, not the Middle East, not Asia, not Indigenous peoples. No one.
When people become upset that I point out how history books and schools leave out important stories—like the Black man who first cracked Watergate—it makes me wonder whether some would prefer America to remain in a place where curriculum continues to silence diverse narratives in our national story. My concerns are not emotional reactions; they come from intense research into the curriculum used across much of the United States. What I have found is that America’s K–12 curriculum often contains glaring holes, and those holes frequently shift depending on the political leanings of a state.
In some more progressive states, curriculum may do a stronger job of including Black stories, yet other diverse narratives are still routinely left out. In some more conservative states, curriculum may prioritize Eurocentric narratives, and Black history is often reduced to a narrow, carefully selected set of stories—sometimes presented as though that limited inclusion is sufficient. When Native peoples are discussed, it is frequently through the lens of being “in the way” of American progress, rather than as fully realized communities with rich cultures, art, governance systems, intellectual traditions, and ways of life.
What results is a tug of war over whether the Black or White narrative will dominate, while countless other narratives remain overlooked. In truth, we all have this wrong. It is a struggle shaped by the very chains of racism that have entangled us. Cutting those chains requires openness to how all narratives intersect—here in America and across the world—to tell a fuller, more beautiful human story.
Advocating for the inclusion of Black stories—and the stories of others who have been marginalized—is not an act of victimhood. It is an act of wholeness. Yet I have even encountered resistance from Black communities when I share stories of White individuals who have fought for justice and equality. When I taught at Howard, some students told me they did not want to hear those stories, believing that such figures always seek recognition as “saviors.” But resisting these stories can unintentionally reveal a desire to preserve permanent enemies rather than pursue shared humanity.
To insist that all stories be told and understood is to take part in the work of healing. It breaks down division and teaches the next generation to love their country—not through myth, nostalgia, or erasure, but through an honest reckoning with the many ancestors and communities who have shaped it and influenced the world. This kind of truth-telling pushes back against hopelessness and bitterness and instead draws us closer together.
Those who resist a broader telling of history must pause and ask: What, ultimately, are we trying to preserve? A narrative that elevates one ethnic group while diminishing others? A perpetual White-versus-Black framework? A worldview that requires one group to remain the permanent enemy of another? Or should our aim be something greater—a fuller history that honors the complexity, struggle, courage, and contributions of us all?
K–12 history book—despite reviewing countless curricula—that meaningfully explains how the Great Law of Peace of the Iroquois Confederacy influenced the U.S. Constitution. Nor do these books teach that Benjamin Franklin engaged Indigenous leaders in early political conversations shaping colonial unity. I have yet to see a textbook identify the Black man who rode in the boat with George Washington as he crossed the Delaware River. Rarely do textbooks explore the depth of suffering experienced in Japanese American internment camps in ways that cultivate empathy and understanding. And movements like the Brown Berets—who organized for justice in Latino communities and modeled aspects of their activism after the Black Panthers—are often dismissed with labels such as “radical,” “militant,” or “communist,” rather than examined as part of the broader American effort to expand democracy and human dignity.
America has long erased the stories of diverse populations who fought—often at great cost—to be included in the democratic culture of this country. And this erasure is even more visible within Christian curriculum, particularly in classical Christian materials.
As an advocate for classical education, this grieves me deeply. There are few classical curricula that intentionally address these gaps, and meaningful change has been slow. As an educational consultant, I do not write curricula; instead, I equip teachers to infuse diverse narratives into whatever curriculum they are already using. Given the vastness of human history, it would be nearly impossible for one curriculum to tell every story. But teachers can learn to ask a simple question when preparing lessons: “Who else is here?” That question alone fosters research, curiosity, and inclusion.
For this work, I have sometimes been labeled “woke” or even dangerous to classical and Christian education. Yet if God is truth, then leaving out critical truths—or softening them to make ourselves comfortable—is not faithfulness. I once reviewed curriculum that described Booker T. Washington working as a child to support his family, without honestly stating that he was enslaved. As Christians, we cannot claim to value truth while distorting it.
When Jesus walked through Samaria and spoke with the woman at the well, He honored her story. He crossed boundaries to hear her and to reveal truth. If we reflect His love, we must also be willing to “walk through Samaria” to listen to the full stories of humanity.
Victimhood does exist. It appears when pain is used to manipulate, to gain advantage, or to impose guilt without offering hope. In The Autobiography of Malcolm X, he recounts an early moment when a white woman, moved by his speech, asked what she could do to help. He coldly told her, “Nothing,” leaving her in tears. Later in life, after his pilgrimage to Mecca and fellowship with Muslims of many ethnicities, he reflected on that moment with regret. His tone had changed. He still told the truth about America, but he also offered a path forward. The difference was hope.
When stories of injustice are shared without hope or wisdom for change, they can become expressions of victimhood. But when they point toward transformation, reconciliation, and growth, they become invitations.
When I am accused of promoting victimhood, I often sense that the reaction stems from fear—fear of change, fear of losing control over a dominant narrative, fear of shifting demographics and influence. But history is not a competition. Our national motto, e pluribus unum—out of many, one—invites unity without erasure. Protecting the narrative of one ethnicity is not unity; it is exclusion.
From a Christian perspective, the call is even clearer. “For God so loved the world.” The birth of the Church at Pentecost demonstrated radical inclusivity: people from many nations heard the gospel in their own languages at the same time. No single ethnicity could claim ownership of Christianity. It was born into the world for all humanity. The Church was not established to defend a nation or a culture, but to welcome the nations.
Sharing Black history and diverse narratives is not victimhood or manipulation. It is a call to maturity—a call to make America more truthful, more just, and more reflective of the God who loves the world. If we blur the distinction between manipulation and truth-telling, we risk silencing every voice that calls us higher. As a church community especially, we must discern the difference. We will be accountable for how faithfully we reflected Christ—who drew all kinds of people to Himself, who sent His Spirit so the gospel could reach every nation, and who established a Church meant to welcome the whole of humanity.
Dr. Anika T. Prather 