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“We had a responsibility as a board to do something.”įor more of NBC News' in-depth reporting, download the NBC News app “I left that meeting saying, ‘This is unacceptable, and this is not going to be the way it is under my watch,’” said Moore, the Hispanic daughter of Cuban immigrants, who has since been appointed by the school board to serve as its president. How could she have been so oblivious? Carroll ISD school board president Michelle Moore said the district had a responsibility to create an inclusive learning environment. She had no idea so many children felt like they’d been bullied at Carroll based on their race. Michelle Moore, a school board trustee, remembered feeling a mix of anger and shame as she listened. More parents followed, each sharing stories of racist bullying that traumatized their children, with little or no consequences for the offending students. The audience of mostly white parents clapped as Cornish stepped away from the lectern. You’ve got to change the tone in this town.” “The scars are there, the wounds are permanent,” she told the board, as some in the audience wiped away tears, according to people who attended. “At the time, I knew it was not the best environment for the kids,” she said.
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Although it would be a struggle to cover the high cost of living on a nurse's salary, she had a support system in Southlake, and Cornish didn’t want to add to her children’s trauma by taking them from their friends. But little thought seemed to go into what that meant for Black children, Cornish said, an oversight that became all too clear when a classmate told one of her daughters that she couldn’t dress up like a nurse she would have been a slave.īut after her husband’s funeral, Cornish decided to stick it out. One example: Every year when Cornish’s children were small, Carroll fifth graders were required to participate in Colonial Day, an educational celebration in which students dress up like characters from the 1600s. Despite Southlake’s many accolades, she’d grown troubled by the steady drumbeat of racially insensitive remarks - some subtle, some overt - that Black people often endure in affluent communities where the vast majority of residents don’t look like them. She thought seriously about moving her five children to Chicago, where she'd grown up. And with their first son soon on the way, Robin Cornish liked the prospect of sending their children to top-notch public schools.īut when Frank died of a heart attack in 2008 at the age of 40, Robin Cornish faced a difficult decision. There weren’t many other Black folks when the Cornishes arrived, but Frank fell in love with the wide open space. Frank Cornish in his Dallas Cowboys jersey in 1994. Back then, the city was more rural than suburban - little more “than a two-lane dirt road,” Robin liked to joke. Robin and Frank Cornish moved to Southlake in 1993, shortly after Frank was signed as an offensive lineman by the Dallas Cowboys. She started to wonder: What was the tradition her neighbors were fighting to protect? ‘Everyone smiles in Southlake’ One mother sued the district, successfully putting the diversity plan on hold.Īs the fight intensified, Cornish, whose youngest child graduated in 2018, began to think differently about Carroll’s official motto, stamped on T-shirts and yard signs across Southlake. The dispute grew so heated that parents on both sides pulled children out of the school system, while others made plans to move out of town. Afterward, the school board created a diversity council of more than 60 parents, teachers and students to come up with a plan to make Carroll more welcoming and inclusive. The district hosted listening sessions with parents and students, gathering numerous accounts of racist, xenophobic and anti-gay comments like those described by Cornish’s children. Within days, it attracted millions of views on social media and seemed to trigger genuine soul-searching by school leaders. It’s where a sixth grade boy once joked with her son: “How do you get a Black out of a tree? You cut the rope.” It’s where, weeks after her husband died suddenly in 2008, a white boy on the football team told her son, “Your mom is only voting for Obama because your dad is dead and she's going to need welfare.”Įver since Cornish moved to Southlake more than two decades earlier, these were the types of stories that were discussed among a small group of Black parents and otherwise swept under the rug.
This was the city where, on the day after Rosa Parks died in 2005, elementary school children told Cornish’s four oldest kids “now you have to sit in the back of the bus,” she said.