An interview with Michelle Molitor
This interview was initially published in the February 2020 issue of the AppleTree Audience newsletter.
What were your beginnings — family, education, career?
I grew up in metro Detroit, outside of the city, as one of six kids. My parents were in a biracial relationship (my dad is White; my mother is Black), and I was growing up as a mixed child in the ’70s. It made me acutely aware of race from an early age — I remember older siblings and family members talking about how I would ask questions about race and differences from the time I was very young. I didn't have any teachers of color growing up. At one point, I remember latching onto this Black woman — she did not teach my grade level or any of my classes, but I didn't know anybody else who was Black and leading schools in our area. I was interested in her, and anyone who knew me back then could probably vouch for the fact that I made her be my friend. I looked up to her, and she made me want to be an educator and teacher. I had this belief that students deserved to see people who looked like them leading the classroom. I went into undergraduate school knowing I was going to be a teacher.
After graduating, I moved to metro DC and became an elementary and middle school teacher for Fairfax County Public Schools for a while, then taught on the Amistad Educational Schooner for six months. I taught about the Amistad revolt, post-slavery, reparations, and how those issues continue to show up today. Since I grew up in a multiethnic and multicultural family, even if I didn't see us represented everywhere, I still saw Black people and Black excellence — in particular, my mother and grandmother. My grandmother didn't finish high school, and my mother didn't finish college, but they both instilled in me at an early age that education was the way for us as Black people. Education was essential, and the importance of family, and understanding there were going to be aspects of my identity that were not going to be accepted or considered “right” — whether it was being Black, being a girl who was turning into a woman, or as I got older, being queer. But all these things were my identity.
Describe who Michelle Molitor is using one word and explain how that fits you as a Black professional who contributes to diversity, equity, and inclusion?
Love. I think that is the driving force for everything I do. I think my choice to be a teacher was out of love for students who looked like me and deserved to see themselves represented. They deserved to see love come through for them in a real way. At The Equity Lab, we talk every day about combating white supremacy culture and systems of oppression, and when I do that work I do it from a place of love. I am not inadvertently replicating systems of oppression by trying to come in with a narrative of dominance, scarcity, or a tale of (intentionally or unintentionally) perpetuating oppression. I'm coming from a place of love, growth, and openness. I am willing to be taught by people around me and receive those gifts as much as I am trying to share my gifts. It's about how I am showing up for myself and other people. I constantly ask myself, “What is my level of curiosity to be in openness? Can I have a loving heart and lead with a love for humanity even if people don't necessarily see or have that same level of openness or humanity for me?”
What lessons or recommendations would you share with institutions that could maximize diversity in their organization?
I think an in-depth analysis is really important. That’s also part of why we are in the conundrum nationally, though — because people want a quick fix. In reality, answers are so nuanced and specific to understanding history, places, and communities. If you’re doing this work, you have to know about the past systems a school or organization has spent years working within. You have to understand the nuances of how things have operated for those institutions over time. This knowledge is instrumental in discovering what levers you should be pulling to do things like increase diversity.
Equity work is also really an equity journey. You’re looking at three to five years to get a real equity journey started and have it take hold, and five to ten years until it is deeply embedded in the culture you look for the long game. Once it has been made clear across the organization that this is long- term, that this is for generations to come, I think people can have the opportunity to be far more thoughtful about what they do, when they do it, why they do it, how they do it, and who is involved. Who is most marginalized right now in our community, and how do we make experiences that work the best for them? It's a different framing for how we show up for each other.
What advice would you offer other minority educators whose career trajectory is to be in an executive position?
For folks who are coming up, I think my advice is to take up space and work to know your worth. I believe there are so many messages saying that we are not enough, or by contrast, we are over the top or are too much. We are not worthy historically or currently. I know those things we think about ourselves are not true. We need a new narrative, and we need to love ourselves. A lot of us, myself included, have suffered from imposter syndrome, where we think we don't belong; we think the best is not for us; we think we don't have something to say I think it is truly an act of liberation to love and trust yourself — to lean into and learn to use your voice and to advocate for yourself and those around you.