February is Black History Month, the perfect time to add to your kids’ knowledge about the contributions and experiences of Black Americans through some great children’s books. You might even learn a few things in the process.

Here are some recommendations for those with pre-schoolers to tweens:

Henry’s Freedom Box: A True Story from the Underground Railroad may have only been published in 2007, but it is already considered a classic. The tale, about a young slave boy who gains freedom by mailing himself in a crate to Philadelphia, has won numerous awards and praise. Its words, by Elaine Levine, and illustrations, by Coretta Scott King Award-winning artist Kadir Nelson, pack an emotional punch. It introduces young children to the cruelty and hardships of slavery without causing bedtime nightmares. (For ages 4 through 9.)

We’ve been big fans of prolific best-selling author Brad Metzler for years. His “Ordinary People Change The World” series of inspiring and fun biographies, while not focused on Black History Month subjects, offers several children’s books that are perfect to share this February or any time of the year. These are I Am Jackie Robinson, I Am Rosa Parks, I Am Martin Luther King Jr., I Am Harriet Tubman, I Am Oprah Winfrey, I Am Muhammad Ali and I Am John Lewis. (For ages 5 through 8.)

Like Metzler’s books, the “A Biography Book for New Readers” series aims to introduce children to inspiring people. Several volumes in this 40-plus book series focus on Black Americans. Yes, you’ll find long-revered civil rights figures such as King, Underground Railroad “conductor” Harriett Tubman and school integration pioneer Ruby Bridges. However, you’ll also find more contemporary heroes such as gymnast Simone Biles, ballerina Misty Copeland, singer Ella Fitzgerald and NASA scientist Katherine Johnson. (For ages 6 through 9.)

So Tall Within: Sojourner Truth’s Long Walk Toward Freedom may be classified as a “picture book” but its beautiful art by painter/illustrator Daniel Minter and lyrical words by Newbery-winning author Gary D. Schmidt will inspire you and your child. It tells the story of Truth, born into slavery to later be freed and become an important fighter not only for abolition and the rights of Black Americans but also for women’s rights. (For ages 4 through 8.)

The 1619 Project: Born on the Water uses the framing of a school assignment about tracing one’s family roots to go back in time to show African life before enslavers robbed people of their freedom. Co-authors Nikole Hannah-Jones, the journalist who wrote the Pulitzer Prize-winning Black history articles for The New York Times Magazine that inform this tale, and Newbery honor-winning author Renée Watson take readers through the generational struggles against slavery, for civil rights and finally, for respect and justice. (For ages 7 through 10)

A two-day massacre in Tulsa, Okla., in 1921 destroyed one of the wealthiest Black communities in the United States. But this horrific episode garnered little notice in history until the late 20th century.

Unspeakable: The Tulsa Race Massacre may be a short picture book but it is powerful. Using verse, authors Carole Boston Weatherford and Floyd Cooper expose readers to a Black community filled with pride taken down in terrifying tragedy. Their 2021 work won many accolades and honors including the 2022 Coretta Scott King Book Awards for Author and Illustrator. (Ages 8 through 12.)

My journey into the world of AI-generated art began two weeks before Thanksgiving. I sat down in front of my computer to experiment with Midjourney, an artificial intelligence program that creates images from text descriptions. I entered the command “/imagine” and a message from the Midjourney bot appeared: “There are endless possibilities …”

Excited, I typed out the image in my mind:

A young african american man wearing a white t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, is flying through the clouds and space as if in a dream.

Midjourney generated four versions that the beloved painter and art instructor Bob Ross might have called “happy little accidents.” In each, the clouds look like unruly cotton balls. The man has no discernible face. He also does everything but fly through the clouds: he walks on them, sits on them, or has his head lost in them. The images were garbage.

After a few days of studying the text-to-image prompts of other users, I refined my descriptions. Finally, through trial and error, I learned how to guide AI to generate images closer to my vision. I’ve turned my daughter into Princess Leia, myself into a guardian angel, and reimagined Santa Claus as Batman.

AI-Generated art and Black fatherhood

As a Black dad who blogs, I was curious to see how AI imagines fatherhood. One day I typed: young african american father holding sleeping baby, illustration. Midjourney produced four touching images that evoked my early, sleep-deprived days of dadhood when I cradled my daughter in my arms to help her fall asleep. I posted one of the images to Instagram and titled it “The Whole World in His Hands.”

The comments from other Black dads were positive. I imagine they felt seen.

That inspired me to create more AI-generated art drawing from my own experiences or those of fathers I know. I made images of Black dads teaching their sons how to tie a necktie. Reading books with their children. On date nights with their spouses. Spending time with their daughters. Essentially, Black dads being present in the lives of their loved ones. Images that are all contrary to the “absentee father” myth prevalent in news media, politics, and pop culture.

I would occasionally forget to use the descriptor “African American” before “father” in my image prompts and Midjourney would, predictably, generate images with white fathers. It didn’t bother me at first. But after the second and third time, I started thinking, “Why aren’t Black fathers included in AI’s default definition of fatherhood?”

So I did an experiment. I typed “fatherhood” into Midjourney 10 times. The bot generated four images each time creating 40 images of what it was programmed to associate with fatherhood.

Only one image was of a Black father. One out of 40.

And none appeared to be people of color.

According to AI, the default image of “fatherhood” is a white father holding or hugging a child.

“I am invisible”

The issue of bias in image generation systems shouldn’t be surprising. As digital artist and academic Nettrice Gaskins noted in a recent Instagram post: “The processes by which machines learn to recognize images is like how humans see things. Neural nets are fed millions of images from databases; they use input from humans to classify and sort image data and come up with probabilities of what the final images will be. Artists can change the parameters for how a network or system identifies, recognizes, and processes these images, which gives them a certain amount of power to influence or make decisions about which images are generated.”

Still, it felt like the kind of distortion Ralph Ellison famously described in his 1952 novel Invisible Man: “I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination — indeed, everything and anything except me.”

Representation matters. It matters because it validates experiences and lifts aspirations.

That’s the reminder I’m taking with me into February — Black History Month — as I continue my artistic adventure with Midjourney. As Gaskins encouraged, I have the power to influence the images generated by AI. I have the power to widen the visual representation of Black fatherhood.

“There are endless possibilities …”

Some 20-odd years ago, I first read the play Fences by August Wilson.

I was a high schooler – a senior, I think. One of four black students in a graduating class of about 100 at an all-boys prep school. There were many reasons why I was different. There were many reasons why I felt I didn’t belong. There were many reasons why I didn’t want to be there.

Yet, there I was.

I don’t remember all of those days vividly, but certain ones stand out – one is the day I noticed a copy of that play sitting on a stack of textbooks for the school year. It had the ghost-like outline of James Earl Jones in a batter’s stance (later I would come to realize this was Troy Maxson, the central figure of the saga).

And so I read it. I was entranced.

I remember being drawn in not so much by the plot of Fences but by the characters.

I remember reading the story and sympathizing with the teenage children, Cory and Lyons, as their dreams conflicted with their father’s will and ambitions for them and his rather simplistic view of life. I remember seeing their father, Troy, as a flawed yet likable character who, even though you disagreed with his actions and many of his words, you still rooted for him. You recognized that his life was a potent cocktail of misfortune, oppression, bad decisions and tortured memories. He was a tormented and scorned Willy Loman, whose dream was deferred and he just couldn’t let that vision of what he could have been go. Instead of being a salesman like Loman, Troy was a former baseball star from the Negro Leagues, barred from playing in the Major Leagues because of his skin color. In his later life, he finds himself as a sanitation worker fighting to become the first black driver of one of the garbage trucks.

My father by no means carries the negative characteristics of Troy Maxson. However, knowing that my father worked the grounds of the school I attended when he was a  kid with a dream that he would one day send his son there – I understood and appreciated not only the plight of Troy to provide for his family but also the pressure that Cory felt because of it.

All these years later, now a father myself, I understand Troy’s desire to provide for his family and to demand a basic level of respect from the world around him. A desire to make sure people do “right by him” and, consequently, his family as well. I still don’t agree with all of his actions or decisions, but I understand him more.

Throughout the story, Troy makes multiple baseball analogies. One of his favorites is that you have to “take the crookeds with the straights.” Life doesn’t always throw you fastballs down the heart of the plate; you also have to learn to deal with the curves.

Recently I watched the movie version of Fences with Denzel Washington bringing Troy to life on the big screen. It is an amazing performance, equaled by Viola Davis’ portrayal of Troy’s wife, Rose. The strength, vulnerability, and hope displayed on the screen is exactly what I think August Wilson intended when he penned the play. Every character contains layers that seem to peel away with each scene until the core of the story reveals itself at the end.

I’m not gonna tell you what happens, but I am going to encourage you to see it if you like complex characters and good writing. Wilson’s writing is top-notch and worthy of every award Fences received a nomination for and won, as a play and as a film. Wilson paints a world that is full of laughter, tears, love, regret, sorrow, happiness, and hope. But through it all, like Troy says, “you have to take the crookeds with the straights.”

This story is personal, though. Fences is what propelled me into writing, into drama, into studying the Negro Leagues and eventually into teaching. Teaching led to coaching and directing. So, I guess I have Troy, Cory, Rose, and August to thank for helping me find my passions in life.

A version of this first appeared on Tales from the Poop Deck.

Black History Month still means something to me after all these years.

When I was a child, February was one of the few times I would see a multitude of black heroes on television or displayed prominently in the library.

I fondly remember receiving in school Black History Month textbook covers and comic books focusing on the likes of Benjamin Banneker and Rosa Parks.

I saw Roots for the first time during Black History Month, and its impact is still with me today. It made me cry and wonder why I was born black until my mother, in her special way, made it clear to me that black is beautiful. From that point forward, this month has been a source of pride.

So, to my family, celebrating black culture is important — period. So what are we doing this month?

1) Literature

I am adding some new books to my daughter’s library. Addressing civil rights through children’s literature has been quite effective with my daughter. She is curious and has posed thought provoking questions and made insightful observations. Speaking of her class, my wife and I will be visiting to read a book about Rosa Parks.

2) Keeping it real

Our family does not shy away from the truth. There is a long, unfortunate history in this country of blacks being enslaved, lynched, Jim Crow’ed, and generally mistreated. When I share pictures of Jacob Lawrence’s “Migration Series” with Camilla, I have to discuss why blacks were migrating north in such huge numbers during in the early parts of the 20th century.

3) New York City landmarks

African Americans have truly impacted the history of New York City, so it is easy to find opportunities to celebrate Black History Month here, especially in Harlem. My wife recently re-introduced the beautiful Harriet Tubman statue to our daughter. We rode the bus past the Duke Ellington statue and the Frederick Douglass memorial last week and discussed why they had monuments created in their honor.

4) Watch a few things

In addition to spending time discussing how lucky she has been to meet prominent blacks like Spike Lee, Swin Cash, Cari Champion and Yvette Campbell, we will also watch some clips/highlights of some of our favorite people such as Misty Copeland and Skylar Diggins.

5) Music

Whether it is the sheer brilliance of Stevie Wonder, the vocal stylings of Mahalia Jackson, or the majesty of Aretha Franklin, the impact of blacks in music is undeniable. There are genres, such as gospel, blues and hip hop that would not exist if it were not for the black experience. So, we will certainly be cranking the MJ, the MJB, and the JB.

There are many debates about whether Black History Month is needed or has been watered down or is too corporate. But, I fear if we stop celebrating it during February, we might lose the month. For example, years ago I was teaching American history to eighth graders. I was doing a unit on slavery that coincided with a PBS documentary on the same topic on TV. The parent of one of my white students asked me a question I promised I would never forget, “When are we going to go back to teaching real American history?”

So celebrating, honoring, and remembering black history will remain something of great importance to our family throughout the year, but especially during this month.

A version of this first ran on The Brown Gothamite.

When was the last time you celebrated one of your children’s moral milestones? If you’re like me, the answer is probably not nearly as often as you have marked their physical milestones.

In her recent book, Unselfie: Why Empathetic Kids Succeed in our All-About-Me World, Michele Borba laments this phenomenon. “Empathy is widely underestimated by moms and dads, as well as the general public … in trying to make our children feel good, we tend to focus on their cognitive, social, and physical feats,” she writes. “Overlooked are their moral accomplishments like compassion, generosity, thoughtfulness, and concern for others.”

She explains that one way a child’s empathy, or “moral imagination,” can grow is via reading. I can attest to this claim, for when I was 16 years old, my father strongly suggested I read John Howard Griffin’s Black Like Me. Though my family is white, my father helped fight discriminatory housing during the civil rights movement, so we regularly talked about social issues like racism as I was growing up in the 1970s and ’80s.

John Howard Griffin was a white man who had his skin medically tinted so he could “pass” for black as part of an experiment in the late 1950s. Published in 1961, Black Like Me recounts Griffin’s six-week journey as a black man on a Greyhound bus traveling through the racially segregated South. The indignities he detailed had a striking impact on readers of all ethnicities, causing a surge of empathy and adding fuel to the civil rights movement.

Reading Black Like Me had a large impact on me just as it does most readers. I did not realize at the time that people could still be treated so unjustly and that literature could have such a moral component. From that point on I gravitated to African-American literature as an English major in college, culminating in a dissertation in graduate school that focused on traumatic novels about American slavery and its aftermath.

Like my father decades ago, I recently encouraged my own 16-year-old daughter to read Black Like Me. I wanted to raise her awareness of racial issues that continue today. As she explained to me, “It made some things come to life for me that I didn’t realize.” It has also informed her reading of Toni Morrison’s 1987 novel Beloved, which she is now studying in school and which I used to teach as a college professor. The combination of these powerful books has enabled our family to experience a generational cycle of awareness of black history, at least in part.

For my daughter, the most poignant line from Beloved is on the last page, when the narrator paradoxically states: “This is not a story to pass on.” We talked about how that statement has several meanings, one of which is that the horrible injustices of slavery should never happen again. But another meaning is that the story of slavery is not one to “pass” on, as in “I’ll pass on listening — or decline to listen — to that story.”

Black History Month reading for younger children

Black Like Me and Beloved are more appropriate for teen readers, especially during Black History Month. For younger children, other empathy-expanding recommendations might include Henry’s Freedom Box by Ellen Levine (ages 6 and up), Heart and Soul: The Story of America and African Americans by Kadir Nelson (ages 8 and up), and Nightjohn by Gary Paulsen (ages 12 and up). Parents could also check their local libraries for additional age-appropriate suggestions.

Of course, while reading about racism helps build empathy, it is not the same as doing something more concrete to fight it. That’s why my wife and I were proud of our daughter when she recently became one of her high school’s Diversity Fellows, a group that explores ways to achieve a more just and respectful society. We made sure to celebrate her moral milestone, and quickly shared the news with her grandfather.