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Like many, if not most, I had a rough first year as a teacher. I was 21 years old and full of passion and desire but little else. I had survived student teaching on the Navajo Reservation for six months, but arrived on the other side of that experience with much to learn. I was teaching two-hour blocks of seventh-grade history and English. I was struggling on almost every level in almost every area.

One of my fondest and most salient memories from the past school year happened toward the beginning of the year. Joe had just turned 5. He was making his own book about pirates.

By the 171st day of school, even a dedicated and enthusiastic teacher like me is pretty sure I am immune to being moved or motivated in any sort of way. I am mechanically and somewhat maniacally moving toward the soul nurturing, patience restoring and creativity refueling station we know as “summer vacation.” My fuse is short. I have an overwhelming need for order, structure and control in the classroom. Final exams, deadlines for grades and year-end papers are due.

A teacher notes that a student looks uncharacteristically pale and avoids eye contact with her classmates. When asked privately if she’s OK, the girl bursts into tears, sharing a weekend-long saga of harsh criticism delivered via emails, chats and texts.

Every now and again, a student will say something that leaves me speechless and desperate for the correct response. I can feel in my bones that the moment is about to become pivotal. One of these moments came while we were reading Katherine Paterson’s novel The Great Gilly Hopkins, in which the main character deals with her racism. We were in the process of analyzing her character, her motivations and her racist attitudes, and I could tell that my sixth-graders didn’t really understand the theme of racism, so I needed to step away from the novel for a moment and put the history in context for them.

"She's just trying to act white." I remember those piercing but confusing words cutting me like a knife. I clinched my Super Reader certificate. My puzzled expression was taken as bravado by the African-American girls, who responded with a threatening question, "Do you want us to fix your face?"

Our history is sometimes painful; focusing on the “best version” of that history to make it more palatable to young readers denies them the education they deserve.

Teaching Tolerance’s director reflects on what to tell children about the most recent wave of bomb threats against Jewish spaces.