IN MY second year of teaching, parent/teacher conferences still made me quite nervous. Despite the inevitable trepidation, I had brought this one upon myself--and with a particular sense of urgency. After I phoned the mother and explained my concerns, she willingly agreed to meet with me and her son. Now, here I was, on a warm October afternoon, sitting in my emptied classroom across from Travis (not his real name) and his mother, Ms. A. Travis was a 10th-grader in my pre-algebra class and had ostentatiously displayed his lack of interest in mathematics since the first days of the class. But his natural curiosity soon betrayed him. opened up, participating enthusiastically in class discussions, showing tremendous insight and capacity for exploring the ideas we were studying. While the introductions to his presentations were often brusque (Yo! This is so easy! Here's how it goes ... ), what followed was so lucid that his classmates looked forward to his explanations. could even withstand the questioning of his peers and represent his thinking in several ways, thereby demonstrating a deep understanding of the material. Because he was in 10th grade, I realized that Travis would not meet our state's entrance requirements for four-year colleges by the end of high school if he stayed in my pre-algebra class. I knew the statistics about African American males and college readiness, and I saw an opportunity to make a positive contribution against a negative trend. I had called Ms. A to discuss Travis' situation, letting her know that I had tremendous confidence in his ability to keep up with the college-prep algebra class. I even offered some after-school tutoring sessions to support his transition into the new class and help him with any content he had missed. What was more, there was a counselor-friendly way to make the switch, even at this late date: my colleague Mr. Z had an opening in an algebra class offered during the same period. Ms. A was enthusiastic and grateful, and we scheduled a conference to work through the details of our plan. But the next day in class, Travis let me know in no uncertain terms, I'm not going to algebra. So these events had led up to our moment of truth. Ms. A and I on one side, Travis on the other. We laid out for him the reasons why switching to algebra was important for his future. We emphasized what it would mean for his very likely prospects for a football scholarship. Travis sat back the while, frowning, studying the carvings on the Formica[R] desktop with his arms across his chest, grunting responses to our relentless prodding. Eventually, I resorted to pleading. Ms. A took a tougher stance, invoking pride, self-respect and, the ultimate maternal trump card, all that I've ever done for you. We got nowhere that day. As the school year continued, I would gently razz Travis in class after another one of his sparkling explanations, saying quietly, You really need to be in algebra. Each time, he frowned and walked away, leaving me perplexed. Travis' friend Dustin had watched this saga unfold from the sidelines, and I often felt his eyes on us during these interactions. One day after class, I asked Dustin what was going on with Travis. With a little coaxing, Dustin reluctantly confessed: He didn't want to go to Mr. Z's class because Mr. Z is a racist. To this day, I do not know what evidence Travis or Dustin had of Mr. Z's racism. He, like me and about two-thirds of our department, was European American. I had never been in his classroom and only knew him superficially from lunch conversations in the faculty room and our very infrequent, distribute-the-supplies-and-schedules department meetings. Mr. Z wasn't somebody I consulted or confided in. I wouldn't go to him for advice on a particularly challenging student or turn to him for ideas for a captivating lesson. Even in the case of moving Travis up in the curriculum, I had simply confirmed the opening in Mr. …