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 Anna Kate—my “Action Baby”—is a true wonder. She has been magical from the very beginning of her time with me. I saw her fresh from the oven, and she has amazed me ever since.

AK is a fiercely loyal friend. She does not let people mistreat the ones she loves.

She is tuned to notice injustice, and she will call out hypocrisy—even mine.

AK loves to shop, and her mathy mind can track exactly what she has spent against her budget down to the cent.

She loves animals. She has fostered and rehomed multiple batches of kittens, even though it is hard, because that is the kind of heart she has.

AK has always been a dancer, a singer, and an actor. Her “Scout Finch” honestly surprised me, and I love that when she chooses to do something, she takes it seriously.

When she was younger, she used to fill time in the car by telling me about places she had visited in her sleep or daydreams. They were detailed, colorful worlds, often delightfully different from the “real” one. I did not record those stories because I foolishly could not imagine a day when she would stop telling them. I thought I would have more time.

AK has always been a talented visual artist. Even in pre-K, her art was special. She has things to say, and she can actually make the canvas look the way she wants it to look, which still amazes me.

She has always loved adventure. We used to gear up in rubber boots and head down to the creek by our house. She would always fill those boots with water, but she was the most fun person to explore with. She could catch tadpoles and fishies, and for a long time we had an aquarium in our house filled with creek sand, rocks, and water, where tadpoles became frogs and fish somehow just kept on living.

AK was cripplingly shy as a child, but she has shown that she can absolutely overcome that when it is time to do a job. She loves volunteering with me at Tyler Civic Theater, and she is especially good at concessions.

She has a great sense of humor and makes me laugh out loud.

She also challenges me and makes me think. Some of my favorite conversations are the one-on-one ones I get to have with her.

AK likes to read, and it makes me so happy to know that she loves reading.

She is a very good big sister. When it comes down to it, she loves her sisters deeply and takes good care of Bells. It delights me to catch them enjoying each other, usually while doing makeup.

AK is generous. She loves to make what I call “collection gifts” for her friends, slowly gathering small things over time. She puts so much thought, care, and love into them.

And one of my favorite things of all: she actually likes spending time with me and Stacy. She especially likes one-on-one time, but she chooses us pretty regularly, and I do not take that for granted.

I could keep going.

AK is smart, sensitive, discerning, and always paying attention. I want to know what she thinks about whatever is going on. She has a way of making everything feel okay—even the hard things.

I love you, Anna Kathryn. I am so glad you are in the world with me.

Happy birthday—and break a leg today!

What Happened to Me at the College I Loved

For over five full-time years, I taught English at the community college I once attended—my dream job. Before that, I had taught part-time for nearly five years. I loved the mission, loved the students, and felt at home there.

It wasn’t perfect. There were politics—people got sidelined from classes or committees if they ended up on someone’s "naughty list." But I stayed focused on teaching well and supporting my students. I wasn’t perfect, but I was good at the work that mattered.

Then, one Thursday evening, I got an email from HR: a student had filed a complaint, and I needed to attend a meeting the next day. I texted my Department Chair—no reply until 12 hours later. I didn’t panic. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I went in for the meeting, upbeat but nervous. The HR rep was also the Title IX coordinator, and she was joined by the head of HR, a former attorney. What followed was a brutal 45-minute interrogation. They asked if I used “foul language” in class. I admitted that I occasionally used “mild” curse words to connect with students, never anything crude or directed at anyone.

Then came the trap: “What if I told you we have recordings of you saying the F-word?” I didn’t know that was a hypothetical tactic—used to rattle me. I said something like, “That’s possible, but not common.” That was twisted into an accusation of dishonesty. They had no recording. They just wanted to see how I’d respond under pressure.

But the complaint wasn’t really about language.

A student alleged that I struck her on the bottom with a rolled-up rug and said, “Sorry, I have to obey the voices.” This supposedly happened in a crowded hallway during a student art auction. No witnesses ever came forward, and I never saw these students that day. The rug in question was a wall hanging I was donating to the auction. I showed it to a few Art Professors and left. That’s it.

Yet the following Tuesday, just days later, I was asked to resign.

HR offered me a deal: resign, and nothing would go on my record. I’d be paid through the semester. Or I could fight—go through a public hearing with no legal representation, against an HR department that had already decided I was guilty. I felt utterly alone, without support from my Chair or Dean, so I signed the paper, packed up my office, and left.

I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had fought. Leaving made me look guilty. Rumors spread. One colleague called to tell me that others had heard I had raped a student. The truth—absurd and heartbreaking as it is—was twisted and swallowed by the machine.

I had no goodbye, had no recognition, and no defense. I packed up my office in the rain.

Since then, I’ve been trying to find my way. I worked for a friend’s roofing company. A woman sang to me at a birthday party, calling me “David, the shepherd boy,” reminding me my purpose might be bigger than teaching. Strange? Maybe. But kind. And kind things stick.

Today, I still feel like a teacher in disguise. I am working as an HR Trainer for a local grocery corporation. I work with wonderful people, but I still struggle with not prepping to teach for the coming semester. I’m learning that I am more than just my job. I’m a husband, a father, a son, a friend. And I'm still someone who believes people can change, grow, and find beauty in hard places.

To anyone else who's lost something central to their identity: don’t forget that you are many things. When one part of your story gets cut short, the rest of you is still very much alive—and worth fighting for.

A Letter Regarding Changing the Name of REL High (From June 2018)

Dear Ladies and Gentlemen of the Tyler ISD Board: My name is David Dickerson; I am a life-long resident of Tyler, a parent of students here, and the product of a TISD education, myself. Like just about everyone else in our city, I have an opinion regarding the potential renaming of Robert E. Lee High School. Let me begin by disclosing that I am a white male, and a graduate of Lee from 1990. Demographically, that puts me in the company of many influential Tylerites who are no doubt filling your email inboxes with messages urging you to “protect our history,” etc. For some reason, many of my colleagues—especially those who share my culture and tint of skin—are vehement that we continue to honor General Lee with the name of one of our large schools. I note that very few of my vocal classmates from the 1990s were the least bit interested in history when it was being taught AT Lee high, nor are they particular students of that field, now, aside from being in their mid 40s, and picking up a bit of history from being alive. It does not bother them in the slightest that the Lee name was historically chosen as a thumb-in-the-eye to the Black community in East Texas, and to the Federal Government, both of whom were forcing changes to how we set about educating young people in the South back when the school was named. Of course, nothing about the Lee name is alarming to them—nor was it to me when I attended the school. I never gave a second of critical thought as to why we went to a school named after a Confederate General who had no ties to our community. Lee was Lee to me—the Confederate flag was a symbol of rebellious fun for me and my white classmates, and we knew little-to-nothing about the war between the states. We also never asked a single black person what any of that might have meant to them. What can I say? We were oblivious to that chapter of our collective past, as well as to the benefits we all enjoyed because of that past. We were not educated, nor informed, and certainly not wise or loving. I thank God that we are not frozen at age 18 in our knowledge, understanding, our wisdom, or our love. Thankfully, we can grow and become better versions of ourselves. I say all of that because, in the 28 years I have lived since leaving REL, I have learned about our history, and I have become more wise, and loving, towards my fellow men and women. I have learned the benefits that come with asking critical questions instead of merely accepting things as they are, and asking how my preferences might be understood by people who do not share my culture and perspectives, nor the benefits I enjoy because of those birthrights. Now, it falls to each of you to ask critical questions, and to make a hard stand to do what is best for all of the students you are charged with caring for. I firmly believe that, were we naming our high school today rather than during the tumultuous times when the Lee name was first chosen, we would certainly not consider honoring a Confederate General with no ties to our community. There is simply no justifiable reason to honor him. Doing so is divisive in this community made up of so many families with such a variety of cultures and experiences. And now is the time to change the name—the new building will have new signs, anyway, and putting off making the change will be nothing but a waste of money. You, ladies and gentlemen of the board, are more knowledgeable than our grandfathers were about the role race and culture play in individual experiences of our community. You are more understanding than they were about your role as stewards of the educational experience of our children. You have the chance to show that you (we) are more wise and—most importantly—more loving than our grandfathers in our care for the experiences of the myriad of students who will walk the halls of the new high school, even those long after we are but faint memories to those students (as the board members who first named the school are to us, today). By the way, the name of the school is not a matter of majority rules—all the white-skinned people I know can have no problem with the Lee name, and can want to protect their personal history (“I went to Lee, and that is good enough for my kids!”), but those attitudes completely ignore the complex cultural environment we share with our fellow citizens, and ignored this moment of history that we occupy, today. Fortunately, I believe that you all enjoy a higher perspective than many of my former classmates on the whole issue. I am thankful to each of you for your service to our community, and for you taking the time to read this lengthy email. Know that there are many of us in this community who understand the difficult position you are in, and who will stand up and defend you once the name is changed. Sincerely yours, David Dickerson