Texanna Edwards, a senior at Gibson County High School in Dyer, Tennessee, took “inappropriate prom dress” to the next level when she showed up at her prom wearing a prom dress with a Confederate flag design along with a rebel flag necklace.

I don’t really agree with censoring people’s clothing, as it’s an extension of their freedom of speech. (Thank God we live in a country where they have choices). But should teen girls be dressing provocatively, especially on a night when teen hormones are known for being heightened?

And now, it appears, we have to worry not only about our girls being dressed too provocatively but whether or not their prom dress is making some kind of political statement -- one that they might  be not old enough to understand.

Brooke Harris is out of a job as a Michigan teacher. But she’s not exactly sure why. All she knows is that her dismissal stems from encouraging her middle school students to raise money for the family of slain teenager Trayvon Martin. Lots of organizations are rallying not only for the arrest and prosecution of George Zimmerman, but to fundraise and defray the legal expenses Martin’s parents have accumulated just trying to bring their son’s alleged murderer to justice. This is where good teaching came back to bite her in the hindparts: Harris initially gave her journalism students at Pontiac Academy for Excellence an editorial-writing assignment on the shooting. But the kids felt led to do more, and Harris says she asked the school's administrators if the eighth graders could pay $1 for a dress-down day, a popular fundraising tactic at schools that require uniforms.

Picture this: you're walking down the street, and you spot a middle-aged white man strolling down the sidewalk. Beside him is a black girl, about 5 years old, bouncing and chattering on as 5-year-olds do. Now for the pop quiz portion of our day: would you A) smile and keep walking, or B) call the cops?

Unfortunately for Scott Henson, a blogger from Austin, Texas, people in his 'hood believe "B" is the proper response. For the second time in five years, the grandpa was recently detained by police for doing what grandfathers do: hanging out with his granddaughter Ty. So much for progress, huh, America?

There’s been a lot of talk in our house about the “I Have a Dream” speech. In honor of Dr. King’s birthday, Girl Child’s social studies teacher assigned students to copy the text — all 17 minutes worth — but no one was feeling spirited about it. I, of course, was thrilled because not only is MLK one of the greatest intellectuals and humanitarians, but that is one of the most rousing speeches ever delivered.

But unless you have a conscientious social prodigy on your hands, it’s mission impossible to get kids to even pretend to be interested in it. Quiet as its kept until Monday morning, we’re going on over to the brand new King memorial here in D.C. to hear the reading of the speech. Maybe if I wow her with these fun facts about “I Have a Dream” beforehand, she’ll be more into it. But she’s 13, so I doubt it. Still, I’ll share, in case you have better luck with your children. 

Think quick: If a tree has 56 oranges and eight slaves pick them equally, how many would each slave pick? I couldn’t tell you. I’m more focused on the absurdity of the question. But I betcha the third grade students at Beaver Ridge Elementary School in Norcross, Ga. might be able to fire off the answer. After all, it was one of the word problems they had to do for homework last week.

Ah, nothing says repressed racism like a little revisit to the good ol’ days when slaves did their manual labor like they were supposed to.

The school says the teacher was taking a stab at a cross-instructional lesson by infusing social studies into the math questioning. Great idea! Let me give it a go: How many doofuses does it take to create one math worksheet? Apparently just one. 

I’ll never forget my mother’s face the first year I decided to celebrate Kwanzaa with my daughter, who was probably about 5 or 6 at the time. She looked like I just told her I’d learned how to hula hoop with my tongue. “So you’re not celebrating Christmas anymore?” she asked, her forehead all ramped up in concern that I, the child she’d raised, had called it quits on Jesus. “No Mommy,” I assured her, “you can celebrate Christmas and Kwanzaa and New Year’s. One doesn’t negate the other.” She still wasn’t sold and told me fine if I wanted to do it, but because I was still living at home at the time, I had to do it in my room. I can’t figure out why Kwanzaa is a threat, a burden, or a bore to so many black folks.

A few months ago, I mentioned that my friend Michelle, who’s white, was planning to adopt and, because she’s been open to getting a baby of any race and the system is gorged with black children, particularly in the D.C. area, the chances of her having an interracial adoption were pretty high. Fast forward to the week before last. She was beaming when I saw her. “Guess what?” she grinned. “We got a baby!” We hugged. We cried. We squealed. We threw together a list of necessities and started a registry for the rest. Even though I used to be completely opposed to interracial adoption, I was thrilled for my pal. After I gave her a little time to bask in her new mommyhood, we chatted about the transition for her and her hubby. “Dave’s a little disappointed. He was expecting the baby to have an Afro,” she joked, “but his hair is really fine and straight.”

Making the "O" at inaugurationIt was a monumental event to vote back in 2008. Girl Child and I made the two-hour trek from D.C. to the Philly area on a weeknight just so we could share the historic experience with my mom. At the poll, I hoisted her up — “her” as in my daughter, not my mama, just to be clear — and let her pull the lever to cast our ballot for the Obama/Biden ticket. It was a symbolic gesture that I hoped she’d remember for the rest of her life. So much for that. Three years later, she gave me a long, blank stare when I relived the moment. Our neighborhood was electrified as it waited for official word to come down. We were in the car, driving home after staying in Pennsylvania as late as possible so we could watch the results there. But as time wore on, we had to peel ourselves away and head back to D.C. We were about three blocks away from our apartment when the radio cut to the breaking news: Barack Obama won the election.