Has Joe Biden appointed more Black women as federal appeals court judges than all previous presidents combined?

When my son, Jonathan, was born, one of the first children’s books I bought was "So Much" by Trish Cooke. I was captivated by its joyful depiction of a Black family loving their baby boy. I read it to him often, wanting him to know that he was deeply loved, seen, and valued. In an era when politicians are banning books, sanitizing curricula, and policing the teaching of Black history, the idea of affirming Black children’s identities is miscast as divisive and wrong. Forty-two states have proposed or passed legislation restricting how race and history can be taught, including Black history. PEN America reported that nearly 16,000 books (many featuring Black stories) were banned from schools within the last three years across 43 states. These prohibitive policies and bans are presented as protecting the ‘feelings’ of White children, while at the same time ignoring and invalidating the feelings of Black children who live daily with the pain of erasure, distortion, and disregard in schools.

When I hear and see the ongoing devaluation of Black children in schools and public life, I, and other Black parents, recognize this pain firsthand. For instance, recently, my teenage granddaughter, Jaliyah, texted me, asking to visit the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, D.C., because she had heard that the President planned to close it. For what felt like the millionth time, my heart broke with the understanding that too many people fail to rally on behalf of Black children. Jaliyah’s question revealed what so many Black children intuitively understand—that their histories, their feelings, and their futures are often treated as expendable.