Imagine its September 1906 in Charleston, South Carolina.

You're the only black teacher at a segregated, all black school.

It's the end of the first day of the fall semester and you're standing in the doorway

to your classroom, ushering your sixth graders out the door.

As the last student leaves, your body sags with exhaustion.

You walk to the blackboard, pick up a rag to start erasing the afternoon's lesson.

You turn around to see your boss, Principal Davis, Andrew.

He's a stern, middle-aged white man.

You wipe the chalk off your hands and fix a smile to your face.

Good afternoon, Mr. Davis. Is there something I can help you with?

Afternoon, I just wanted to make sure everything's in order.

I know it's your first year teaching the sixth grade.

Thank you. The students are settling in well.

But there is something I wanted to talk to you about.

It's these new textbooks.

You walk to your desk and pick up a brown cloth-bound book.

Mr. Davis raises a night-brown.

What about them?

You turn the book over in your hands, choosing your words carefully.

I've been looking forward to teaching the students about the history of our people.

But, sir, this textbook has got it all wrong.

It blames the North for starting the Civil War.

...