How a Rosenwald-era school, a historical landmark campaign, and one Texas town shaped my most personal documentary yet. |
 | Some stories don’t let you go. This is one of them. Calvert Colored High School was built in 1929 under the Rosenwald School Fund—an initiative that transformed Black education across the rural South. My grandmother, Charlie Mae Babers, was one of its graduates. And in 2020, after she passed, I felt called to do more than grieve. I felt called to remember—and to make that memory public. What followed was a four-year effort to get the school designated as a Texas Historical Landmark. That success became the spine of Beyond the Schoolyard, a feature-length documentary on Black education, cultural memory, and community resilience. |
Why This School Still Matters
| The Rosenwald Fund built nearly 5,000 schools for Black students in the Jim Crow South. These weren’t just buildings—they were launchpads. Calvert’s school helped Black students compete for jobs once reserved for white workers. It reshaped trajectories. When we got the state designation in 2024, it wasn’t just a win for history—it was a stand against forgetting. Especially now, in an era where legislation like Texas Senate Bill 17 aims to erase DEI from public education. |  |
Documenting the Fight for Memory
| | Beyond the Schoolyard opens with the casting of the school’s historical marker—an act of remembrance in direct contrast to state-level erasure. The film weaves archival footage, interviews, and present-day reflection to explore:
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What We've Done—and What’s Next
✅ Full coverage of the 2024 dedication ceremony
✅ Preliminary interviews and archival research complete
🎞 Trailer and pitch deck ready
📝 Production timeline and post-production plan in place for Summer 2025
Now, we’re in Phase II: Interviews with as many alumni from the earliest to last students of the Calvert Colored, W.D. Spigner, Calvert High School
✅ Preliminary interviews and archival research complete
🎞 Trailer and pitch deck ready
📝 Production timeline and post-production plan in place for Summer 2025
Now, we’re in Phase II: Interviews with as many alumni from the earliest to last students of the Calvert Colored, W.D. Spigner, Calvert High School
Call to Action
🎬 Funders: We’re raising $20,000 to complete Phase II of production. Want to support Black-led storytelling that fights erasure? Let’s talk.
🏛 Educators, curators, and community leaders: Interested in hosting a screening and discussion? Book a showing or speaker event today.
📲 Follow @drbabers for production updates, behind-the-scenes clips, and opportunities to get involved.
🏛 Educators, curators, and community leaders: Interested in hosting a screening and discussion? Book a showing or speaker event today.
📲 Follow @drbabers for production updates, behind-the-scenes clips, and opportunities to get involved.
This isn’t just a film about a school. It’s about the people who built futures from it—and the legacy we owe them.
The fight for Black education didn’t end with integration. It didn’t begin with segregation.
It continues--beyond the schoolyard.
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Why I stopped waiting for permission, turned my research into films, and chose to build something bigger than myself.
In academic spaces, I was often told to pick a lane: publish or perish, theory or practice, research or real-world impact. But I was never built for boxes. I was raised in a Black Southern tradition where stories were how we made sense of the world. My grandmother's lessons, my family's legacy, and my years of ethnographic research have all led me to one truth:
There’s more than one way to tell a story.
This blog is the landing ground for that truth.
It’s where I document what it means to protect cultural memory, fight erasure, and turn oral history into visual legacy. It’s also where I share the behind-the-scenes of filmmaking, what I’m learning from building a doc from the ground up, and how a short film I wrote in a few hours became a finalist in multiple festivals.
You’ll find stories from the field, reflections from the edit bay, dispatches from rural Texas towns, and insights from screenings and speaking engagements. You’ll also find invitations—to collaborate, to fund, to host, to remember.
If you're an educator, archivist, funder, festival programmer, or someone who's ever asked, "Where do we begin when the archives are incomplete?" —this space is for you.
This blog is the landing ground for that truth.
It’s where I document what it means to protect cultural memory, fight erasure, and turn oral history into visual legacy. It’s also where I share the behind-the-scenes of filmmaking, what I’m learning from building a doc from the ground up, and how a short film I wrote in a few hours became a finalist in multiple festivals.
You’ll find stories from the field, reflections from the edit bay, dispatches from rural Texas towns, and insights from screenings and speaking engagements. You’ll also find invitations—to collaborate, to fund, to host, to remember.
If you're an educator, archivist, funder, festival programmer, or someone who's ever asked, "Where do we begin when the archives are incomplete?" —this space is for you.
What to Expect:
- Blog rewrites that connect cultural preservation with community power
- Behind-the-scenes posts from Beyond the Schoolyard, Quieted, and Fowl Play
- Thought leadership on Black education, memory, and storytelling ethics
- Opportunities to support, book, or screen my work
Legacy doesn’t just live in the past.
It lives in what we choose to build right now.
Let’s get to work.
— Dr. Myeshia Babers
Family Story Consultant | Filmmaker | Cultural Anthropologist
Family Story Consultant | Filmmaker | Cultural Anthropologist
What oral history, ethnography, and classroom practice taught me about the kind of listening that builds legacy.
The answer is never just a date. It’s not always found in a book. Sometimes, the story lives in someone’s memory. Sometimes the source is the person. And sometimes, the moment already happened—and you were in the room but didn’t know what was unfolding.
Worse yet: You were central to it.
Worse yet: You were central to it.
Listening Is a Skill
That’s why I designed a 4-part ethnography assignment for my students. Not just to teach them how to take notes—but how to observe with intention, how to listen with care, and how to track meaning through layers of voice, silence, and context.
Because listening, real listening, takes practice. Every single day.
In a world of hot takes and performative commentary, learning how to pause and pay attention to lived experience is a radical act.
Because listening, real listening, takes practice. Every single day.
In a world of hot takes and performative commentary, learning how to pause and pay attention to lived experience is a radical act.
What We Miss When We Don’t Listen
When we fail to hear the past, we risk rewriting it through assumptions. But when we listen closely, we uncover:
- Unarchived wisdom
- Living memory
- Context behind community action
Call to Action
🎤 Need help designing culturally responsive curriculum or oral history workshops? Let’s build something rooted in listening: [email protected]
🎬 Want to explore how these themes show up in my films? Book a screening + talkback session.
📲 Follow @drbabers for updates on public humanities projects and field notes from the archive.
🎬 Want to explore how these themes show up in my films? Book a screening + talkback session.
📲 Follow @drbabers for updates on public humanities projects and field notes from the archive.
Because the past doesn’t whisper to everyone. You have to know how to listen. And if we train ourselves to hear it—it will speak volumes.
How a call for enchantment became a blueprint for systemic change at the 84th Annual Meeting of the Society for Applied Anthropology (SfAA).
| At this year’s SfAA conference, the theme was Enchantment and Transformation. I took that as both a challenge and an opportunity: to tell the truth about anthropology’s past—and to demand something radically different for its future. My presentation was more than a paper. It was a clarion call. The Problem We’re Still Avoiding | |
Anthropology is still reckoning with its colonial legacies: exploitative research methods, extractive relationships with marginalized communities, and a tendency to write about people instead of with them. Too often, those most impacted by systemic harm are treated as subjects, not co-creators.
We have to do better.
We have to do better.
The Vision I Offered
Drawing from critical race theory, Indigenous studies, and queer anthropology, I mapped a framework for what I call radical inclusion. It starts with dismantling rigid categories of identity. It requires intersectional awareness, ethical rigor, and long-term relationships rooted in trust.
But theory isn’t enough.
So I shared concrete practices for collaborative transformation:
But theory isn’t enough.
So I shared concrete practices for collaborative transformation:
- Community-led research design
- Accountability protocols
- Shared authorship and storytelling sovereignty
Anthropology as Tool and Tactic
When done well, anthropology can be:
- A mirror for the discipline’s contradictions
- A megaphone for community demands
- A method for truth-telling in contested spaces
Call to Action
Reimagining anthropology isn’t just an idea—it’s a responsibility. Let’s build something worthy of the communities we claim to serve.
I thought I was writing a dissertation. Turns out, I was building a creative blueprint—one that would take me from field notes to film festivals.
2017 was supposed to be the academic finish line. I earned a Ph.D. in Cultural Anthropology with a dissertation on Black cowboys and masculinity in Texas. The plan? Turn it into a book. Follow the track. Stay in line.
But my spirit wasn’t aligned with the track. It was tuned to the stage.
Specifically, the stage at Mo’ Betta Mondays, Chocolate Sundaes, and The J Spot—comedy clubs where Black men told stories that were sharp, moving, and deeply self-aware. I wasn’t there to study. I was there to breathe. To witness.
And eventually—to shift.
But my spirit wasn’t aligned with the track. It was tuned to the stage.
Specifically, the stage at Mo’ Betta Mondays, Chocolate Sundaes, and The J Spot—comedy clubs where Black men told stories that were sharp, moving, and deeply self-aware. I wasn’t there to study. I was there to breathe. To witness.
And eventually—to shift.
When the Book Wouldn’t Come
Every academic around me expected a manuscript. But something inside me said: not yet.
Instead, I kept returning to comedy clubs. I watched how performers shaped narrative, played with silence, and rewrote their pain with punchlines. It wasn’t procrastination—it was reorientation.
That’s when I started writing my first screenplay.
Instead, I kept returning to comedy clubs. I watched how performers shaped narrative, played with silence, and rewrote their pain with punchlines. It wasn’t procrastination—it was reorientation.
That’s when I started writing my first screenplay.
The Creative Breakthrough
What began as a movie based on my fieldwork evolved into something larger. I didn’t just want to write about Black men’s self-expression—I wanted to join it. To participate in the storytelling tradition that shaped the very communities I studied.
So, I taught myself screenwriting. Built characters from composites of real people. Reworked dialogue from old field notes. What didn’t fit the academic mold found a home in a script.
So, I taught myself screenwriting. Built characters from composites of real people. Reworked dialogue from old field notes. What didn’t fit the academic mold found a home in a script.
The Results
🎬 Fowl Play became my first short film and directing experience.
🎞 Quieted won awards and opened conversations about silence in academic spaces.
📚 The book I resisted? It’s now in second-draft form—and stronger for the detour.
The lesson? Sometimes storytelling needs to live outside the syllabus before it can change the canon.
🎞 Quieted won awards and opened conversations about silence in academic spaces.
📚 The book I resisted? It’s now in second-draft form—and stronger for the detour.
The lesson? Sometimes storytelling needs to live outside the syllabus before it can change the canon.
I didn’t abandon research. I translated it.
And that’s how I found my creative purpose.
What started as a late-night writing sprint turned into a surrealist script about silence, bias, and survival in higher education—and now it's making noise in film circles.
Talking about delayed gratification is like telling a horror story—the suspense is real. But this story? This one has momentum.
At the end of 2023, I made myself a promise: finish a feature film script by December 31st. Done. But in the process, I felt the urge to experiment. To write something that didn’t answer to the academy or follow film school formulas. I wrote Quieted in a few hours.
Turns out, that experiment hit a nerve.
At the end of 2023, I made myself a promise: finish a feature film script by December 31st. Done. But in the process, I felt the urge to experiment. To write something that didn’t answer to the academy or follow film school formulas. I wrote Quieted in a few hours.
Turns out, that experiment hit a nerve.
The Premise
Quieted is a surrealist short film that explores what it feels like to be Black, brilliant, and barely tolerated in academic spaces.
It follows Dr. Zora Johnson as she navigates microaggressions, imposter syndrome, and institutional erasure—with moments that bend time and perception. Inspired by real conversations, field notes, and years of cultural observation, this script wasn’t just a creative exercise—it was a spiritual purge.
It follows Dr. Zora Johnson as she navigates microaggressions, imposter syndrome, and institutional erasure—with moments that bend time and perception. Inspired by real conversations, field notes, and years of cultural observation, this script wasn’t just a creative exercise—it was a spiritual purge.
Recognition & Festivals
Despite being drafted quickly, Quieted found its audience: 🏆 Winner – Best Drama Script – Hollywood Just4Shorts (2025)
🥈 Finalist – Urban Mediamakers Film Festival (2024)
🎬 Nominee – Best Script – Cannes Independent Shorts (2024)
⭐ Official Selection – ETHOS Film Awards (2024)
It’s proof that stories about power, bias, and resilience in the ivory tower resonate far beyond the quad.
🥈 Finalist – Urban Mediamakers Film Festival (2024)
🎬 Nominee – Best Script – Cannes Independent Shorts (2024)
⭐ Official Selection – ETHOS Film Awards (2024)
It’s proof that stories about power, bias, and resilience in the ivory tower resonate far beyond the quad.
Behind the Script
My films often blur the line between documentary and fiction. With Quieted, I chose magical realism to make the invisible visible—to show how silencing works, how memory distorts, how truth gets trapped.
This is not just a concept piece. It’s a reflection of lived experience—mine, and many others’. It’s the weight of trying to belong in spaces never built for us.
This is not just a concept piece. It’s a reflection of lived experience—mine, and many others’. It’s the weight of trying to belong in spaces never built for us.
The version that won awards? It’s not even the final one. Because growth is iterative. So is healing. And Quieted still has more to say.
What started as a writing challenge turned into a playful, cinematic love letter—and launched a new chapter in my storytelling journey.
In late 2023, I gave myself a deadline: finish a feature film script before the year ended. And I did. But finishing a script is only Act One. What comes next? Rewrites, real-world logistics, and the leap from page to production.
To get my reps in, I wrote two short scripts--Fowl Play and Quieted—and threw myself into the deep end.
Spoiler: Fowl Play became more than practice. It became my first produced film.
To get my reps in, I wrote two short scripts--Fowl Play and Quieted—and threw myself into the deep end.
Spoiler: Fowl Play became more than practice. It became my first produced film.
From Research to Romance
As a cultural anthropologist, I’ve always been fascinated by how Black couples navigate attention and affection. With Fowl Play, I wanted to capture those dynamics through the lens of game day—where sneakers, fried chicken, and competitive affection all take center court.
This wasn’t just a story about sports or love. It was about ritual. Humor. Timing. Communication. All the unspoken rules that define modern Black relationships.
This wasn’t just a story about sports or love. It was about ritual. Humor. Timing. Communication. All the unspoken rules that define modern Black relationships.
Directing the Vision
Writing the script taught me the beats. Directing the film taught me the rhythm.
We used direct address, sports commentary, and a single-location shoot to highlight how love becomes its own kind of performance. The set design reflected intentional intimacy: rose-pink vanity, framed sneaker walls, and all.
Every detail mattered—because Black love deserves to be rendered with specificity, care, and joy.
We used direct address, sports commentary, and a single-location shoot to highlight how love becomes its own kind of performance. The set design reflected intentional intimacy: rose-pink vanity, framed sneaker walls, and all.
Every detail mattered—because Black love deserves to be rendered with specificity, care, and joy.
Recognition & What’s Next
Fowl Play has already been recognized: 🏆 Semi-Finalist – 29th Annual Fade In Awards (2025)
🎥 Official Selection – Best Shorts Competition (2025)
And this is just the beginning. I’m submitting it to more festivals, planning community screenings, and exploring panel discussions on Black love and cultural storytelling.
🎥 Official Selection – Best Shorts Competition (2025)
And this is just the beginning. I’m submitting it to more festivals, planning community screenings, and exploring panel discussions on Black love and cultural storytelling.
Some stories teach you how to write. Others teach you how to listen. Fowl Play did both. And we’re just getting started.
How one student’s reflection reminded me that what we teach doesn’t end at the final exam—it echoes into movements, media, and memory.
Every now and then, a message stops you in your tracks.
Recently, I received a note from a former student who took my African Masculinity course. What she shared wasn’t just gratitude—it was proof. Proof that the space we created together for critical thinking, vulnerability, and cultural memory stayed with her long after the semester ended.
She now writes for The Battalion and Her Campus. And in her own words, our classroom dialogue shaped the lens through which she sees the world.
That’s Africana Studies in action.
It’s not just theory. It’s transformation.
Recently, I received a note from a former student who took my African Masculinity course. What she shared wasn’t just gratitude—it was proof. Proof that the space we created together for critical thinking, vulnerability, and cultural memory stayed with her long after the semester ended.
She now writes for The Battalion and Her Campus. And in her own words, our classroom dialogue shaped the lens through which she sees the world.
That’s Africana Studies in action.
It’s not just theory. It’s transformation.
From the Classroom to the Front Page
What started as an interview about my work to preserve the Calvert Colored High School site became something more. Her piece, published in Her Campus, didn’t just summarize my words—it reflected on our shared intellectual journey. That’s what Africana Studies makes possible: a space where students are empowered to ask deeper questions, challenge dominant narratives, and carry those insights into their creative and professional lives.
For educators, this is the goal. Not just a grade. Not just attendance. But activation.
For educators, this is the goal. Not just a grade. Not just attendance. But activation.
What It Means for the Work Ahead
As a Black woman teaching in this field, I know the weight and responsibility of this work. But I also know the joy. When students go on to write, organize, document, and lead, they’re extending the life of the lessons.
Their pens become archival tools. Their voices become oral history. Their questions become a curriculum for the future.
Their pens become archival tools. Their voices become oral history. Their questions become a curriculum for the future.
Because the truth is this: Education doesn’t end in the classroom. It grows. It travels. And if we do it right—it transforms everything it touches.
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Author
I am Dr. Myeshia Babers.
I tell the stories my ancestors planted — bridging first-generation dreams and generations-deep roots through research and cultural preservation.
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