“Mike, we need to have a talk. While the children love your presence and energetic nature, I’m worried that your style of play, might be… well… giving off the wrong perception.”

And just like that, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulder. “Uh-oh” I thought to myself. Not this “talk” again.

“Mike you’re too rough.”
“Mike, you’re too loud.”
“Mike, can you explain to me a time in which you
were gentle with the children?”

Codified language I’ve heard again and again over my 10+ year career in early childhood education. Language that says my culturally affirming ways of teaching, expressing, and setting boundaries are too different from dominant early childhood norms. As if my presence itself is incompatible with what they deem as “developmentally appropriate” for children. That me and my identities are simply “too much” for this space.

As I braced myself for what my director would say next, a rush of thoughts came to my head. I thought of my colleague and podcast co-host, Nick Terrones (he/him). In his Nov/Dec 2017 Exchange article titled, “Rough-and-Tumble Play: A Way to Tackle Socially Constructed Norms,” he wonders: what supports are needed to activate capacities to welcome and participate in rough-and-tumble play in educators?

I thought about some of the conversations I had with my fellow colleagues when I was on the road working with Head Start programs on an initiative called “Supporting the School Readiness and Success of Young African American Boys” during the Biden Administration. I thought about other articles and documentation I’ve read from Black and Brown men in which they stated how they felt that their joy, movement, and relational presence with young children were treated like liabilities rather than assets.

As I came back to focus, letting my director’s words wash over me, I felt the familiar fork in the road that I have become accustomed to. Four choices. Four ways I could respond.

Option 1: To Shrink

To pull back. Not because I agreed with what was essentially being asked of me, but because I knew my “risky play” activities with young children, like climbing to great heights, running at full speed, wrestling in the grass, and roaring through the yard, was putting my job, ironically, at risk. And so I could recalibrate. I could shrink down and be a shell of who I was always taught to be – bold, rhythmic, playful, as my mom would tell me to be. I could soften my tone, my posture, my presence. Not for the children, who I believed were thriving, but for the comfort of the adults who misunderstand the very thing that makes me effective at what I do.

Option 2: To Push Back

Stand on business. Rebut, refuse, remind. Share that every time I walk into that room, 10 pairs of feet come running up to me with joy. Every time I crouch down for a bear crawl or initiate a rhythm game, the children’s faces light up. They see me because I see them. They trust me because I hold space so that their roots can grow deep and their spirits learn to trust. I offer relational safety through presence, tone, structure, and play. My eye contact, my memory of their name, a sharing of a movement or sound to help them feel grounded, my silence when they need it… it all says: “You are not alone.”

Option 3: Lean in and Wonder Out Loud To Deconstruct the Codified Language Together

“Mike, can you explain a time when you were gentle?” A statement I find irritating. As if I don’t braid hair. As if I haven’t wiped tears or crouched down beside a child and helped them co-regulate when they are having a big emotion. As if gentle only looks like softness and quiet and doesn’t include protection, presence, and joy. What they said was “can you be gentle” but what I heard was
“Can you act more like this educator instead?”

Option 4: Be a Visionary Leader and Lead with Liberation

Put the children back as the focus of the conversation. Be fearless and ask… What if we let children teach us what care feels like, instead of letting our fears define it? What if we stopped mistaking structure for control, or voice for volatility? What if, like Nick Terrones would suggest, we understood that our job isn’t to mold children, or educators, into sameness, but to expand what care can look and feel like in order to support children’s individual needs or interest?

So, what did I do next? I pushed back. But the truth is, I’ve faced this and similar moments so many times, that I’ve actually tried all four responses over time. And though most times we have found a way to stay in the work and push through it together, I’m always left reflecting on why, in my experience, risky play and more specifically, rough-and-tumble care, seems to get called into question when they come from men of color, like myself. Is this a deeper cultural issue we need to confront as an industry? Is it just the small sample size of Black and Brown men in early care and education that is creating an echo chamber of this thought of mine? Or is it just me?

Even if it is just me, then why is my expression of care often seen as promoting violence, as if joy and movement are inherently dangerous when they come from Black and Brown men. Even if it turns out that it’s just a small sample size of males of color, then what if, instead of fearing that difference, we recognized it as brilliance? Wouldn’t our classrooms, our learning environments, our world stand to gain so much rhythm, joy, connection, and a deepened sense of relational safety when we honor the genius that Black and Brown men bring into early childhood spaces and the risky play (as well as the gentle ones) some of us enjoy to engage in?

Theme #1: Reclaiming Roughness

Playing Division 1 football has taught me a lot of things. Being physically tough and assertive is part of the game. Being strong, resilient, and having grit is another. But in the moments in between plays, when you’re standing in a huddle with 10 other players, you learn to read their needs, to be present in their pain and celebration, you learn what it means to hold space for others.

And so what if rough isn’t seen as the opposite of care? What if rough is seen as communal? Rhythmic? Intentional? Healing?

Reclaiming roughness, touch, movement, and sounds, means refusing to label that expression as harmful. It means naming it for what it often is. A culturally rooted form of connection and joy! This is the “roughness” I bring into my work with children. Where those messy interactions where we must communicate, advocate for one self, see each other’s needs, be tender with one another etc. are rooted in the children’s and mine unwavering commitment to care, safety, and relational depth.

As we work to reclaim roughness in our environments, I encourage you to consider some reflection questions such as these:

• Who gets to decide what kind of play is “safe,” and what kind of play is “aggressive”?
• Have I ever mistaken confidence, volume, or “rough” movement for a lack of care? Why?
• What do the children teach us about what trust, joy, and care feel like in motion?

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Theme #2: Expanding the Definition of Gentle

When we think of being “gentle” we might think of it as being slow-moving, of having a soft voice, of being non-threatening. But how I view gentleness in the context of risky play looks like being emotionally and energetically attuned. Whether we are hanging upside down on a tree, or playing monsters in the yard, being consistent, being present, being attuned are all ways we can be gentle with one another even through the chaos of it all.

And while gentleness in roughness can hold many shapes and forms, for me it looks like:

• Stopping on a dime: when a child says “too much” or gives me that look or subtle cue and honoring it. Because my ancestors taught me to listen with more than just my ears.
• Reading the room: understanding each child’s rhythm and boundaries. Knowing the difference between their playful resistance and their genuine distress, and then adjusting accordingly. It’s all about respecting their autonomy and humanity.
• Making eye contact: mid-sprint, mid-roar, min-spin. It doesn’t take a lot of words from me to let a child know that “I see you.” “I got you.” “You’re safe.”
• Match my energy with intention: co and self regulation can be relational. Whether I’m slowing down or ramping the play up, my gentleness in these moments doesn’t always have to be a whisper, it can sway, it can have swag, it can be powerful.
• Power on, not power over: letting the child lead, set the terms, create the boundaries of their play. That is cultural trust-building. That’s how many of us learn how to find our own voices.
• Tending to the after-care: love in my community may show up loud, but it is always grounded in tenderness. That dap, that hug, that soft laugh, that sitting quietly afterwards as we reflect on the experience we just had, is what we live for.

Reflection question: When have I seen gentleness expressed in ways that challenged my expectations? In my role as a parent, educator, coach, supervisor, or adult, how do I assess “gentleness” in others? Am I unconsciously rewarding silence and stillness, while mislabeling someone’s expressive play and high energy as a disruption to the “norm”?

Theme #3: Trusting Children’s Instincts and Responses

We often say we are child centered but how many of us are actually listening to the voices of children? Not just in their words, but in their movements. In their silence. In their stories. In their choices.

With how busy life gets, even we as adults forget to eat, to breathe, to pause. We forget to savor the moment. But our rushed realities don’t necessarily have to become our children’s. So how many of us are slowing down just enough, in the hustle and bustle of the day, to truly see what’s unfolding right in front of us?

Because when we do, we begin to notice: children aren’t just moving, they’re communicating. They’re not just “acting out,” they’re acting on instinct. They’re showing us what they need, what they’re capable of, who they currently are and who they’re becoming. To trust children means we must first be still enough to recognize when they are trusting themselves. And perhaps if we do slow down enough, we might come to understand that, that child climbing on the couch and jumping into a pile of pillows they put together on the floor isn’t because they are “wild” but because they’re replaying a scene from Go, Diego, Go! where they are on a wild jungle adventure to rescue an animal from poachers. Or that child climbing into your lap unprompted isn’t because they need redirection but because they need a safe place to land. Or a child who interrupts a game and says “I don’t want to be monster food and be chased, I want to be the monster this time!” not because they are tired of being caught, but because they are learning to shift power and advocate for themselves in real time.

It doesn’t take studying Jean Piaget or Mary Ainsworth to recognize what these moments reveal about children:

• They are understanding their bodies.
• They are becoming masters at setting firm boundaries.
• They are brilliant and capable.

So I invite you to reflect: When it comes to their play, their choices, their worlds, are we actually trusting their instincts? Do we actually believe that they know themselves best? That they know their own strength, needs, and capacity for risk, rest, and relationship?

To be truly child-centered, we must move beyond theory. We must respond to the wisdom they show us every single day, but only if we’re brave enough to listen.

From Me Mouth to You Ear (Final Reflection)

I don’t share these themes because I’ve figured it all out; I mean, I can barely figure out how to get my coffee machine to work in the morning. I only share them because like you, I’m still practicing. I’m still learning. I’m still negotiating the weight of perception against the freedom of presence. I’m still choosing, day after day, to lead with love because this work isn’t head work, it’s heart work.

And so my friends, the invitation is there. As you think about risky play, reflect back on Nick’s article on rough-n-tumble play, as you think about Black and Brown males in early childhood education, as you think about the power you hold to make space for children and adults to bring all of who they are into your program, make sure you also think about:

• What becomes possible when we stop trying to control difference and instead choose to honor it.
• The healing that can happen when we create environments where everyone’s rhythm, joy, and tenderness are welcome.
• The child who is watching you, wondering if their full self belongs here and what your response will teach them.
• What’s lost when we ask Black and Brown men to shrink their play, their energy, their ways of caring.
• What children lose when risky, energetic, and joyful play is labeled “too much” instead of recognized as connection and growth.
• What becomes possible when we embrace roughness as a language of care, and honor Black and Brown men’s full humanity in the spaces we create.

Early childhood education shines brightest when it embraces the full circle of care, the laughter that shakes the soul, the rhythm that moves the body, the structure that holds us steady, and the love woven deep in culture and spirit.

And to the directors, colleagues, parents who have asked themselves: Can Mike be gentle?

Maybe the better question is: Do I have the courage to see the intention and the tenderness, to hear the joy and the rhythm, and to make room for all the ways Black and Brown men play, love, and lead, so that every child and every educator feels truly held, truly free, and truly home?