Narrator: Imagine a six-year-old girl in her kindergarten classroom. She has a tantrum—a moment of overwhelming emotion common for a child her age. But instead of being sent to a quiet corner or the principal's office, she is met with police officers. She is handcuffed, placed in a police car, and arrested. This isn't a hypothetical scenario. It happened to Salecia Johnson in Georgia and to Desre'e Watson in Florida. These events are not isolated anomalies; they are symptoms of a deep and disturbing pattern. In her groundbreaking book, Pushout: The Criminalization of Black Girls in Schools, author and social justice scholar Monique W. Morris exposes a hidden crisis. She argues that while much attention has been paid to the "school-to-prison pipeline" for Black boys, Black girls are being systematically funneled out of the education system and into the justice system through a unique combination of racial bias, gender stereotypes, and punitive school policies.

Narrator: The national conversation about the school-to-prison pipeline has a significant blind spot: Black girls. Morris reveals that while Black girls make up only 16 percent of the female student population, they account for nearly a third of all girls referred to law enforcement and over a third of all female school-based arrests. This criminalization begins early and is often rooted in what Morris calls "adultification bias," where adults view Black girls as older, less innocent, and more responsible for their actions than their white peers.

This phenomenon was starkly illustrated in the summer of 2015 in McKinney, Texas. A video went viral showing a white police officer, Eric Casebolt, violently throwing a 14-year-old Black girl named Dejerria Becton to the ground at a pool party. He ground his knee into her back as she cried out for her mother. The incident was a visceral display of how Black girls' presence in public spaces can be perceived as a threat, their behavior policed with excessive force. Morris argues that this same dynamic plays out daily in school hallways, where normal adolescent behavior is misinterpreted as insubordination, leading to suspensions, expulsions, and arrests that push them out of the classroom and into a cycle of marginalization.

Narrator: One of the most insidious tools used to justify the punishment of Black girls is the subjective label of a "bad attitude." Morris finds that assertiveness, curiosity, or even a reaction to being disrespected is often misconstrued as defiance or aggression. This perception gap creates a toxic environment where girls are punished not for what they do, but for how their actions are interpreted through a biased lens.

Consider the story of Gina, an 18-year-old in New Orleans. When she raised her hand in the computer lab and asked to use the restroom, her teacher responded with a dismissive and insulting comment: "Yeah, go 'head. You’re gonna get your education in the hallway anyway." Feeling deeply disrespected, Gina cursed in response and was immediately disciplined. Her reaction was a direct result of the teacher's provocation, yet she was the one who was punished. Morris highlights the words of another student, 14-year-old Latisha, who perfectly captures this dilemma: "A lot of people say I got an attitude, but I don’t really see it. The only reason people be saying I have attitude is because I stand my own ground." In schools, standing their ground is precisely what gets Black girls in trouble.

Narrator: The criminalization of Black girls extends to their physical appearance. In a chapter titled "Jezebel in the Classroom," Morris explores how school dress codes and grooming policies are disproportionately used to police and shame Black girls. These policies are often rooted in historical stereotypes that hypersexualize Black women and girls, viewing their bodies as inherently provocative and in need of regulation.

In 2013, seven-year-old Tiana Parker was sent home from her charter school in Tulsa, Oklahoma, because her dreadlocks violated a policy that banned "faddish hairstyles." The school's message was clear: a natural expression of her Black identity was unacceptable. Similarly, a student named Deja was sent to the office for wearing shorts on a hot day, while she watched a white classmate in shorter shorts receive a pass to class without issue. When Deja questioned the principal, she was given a pass but also a warning: "don't let the boys feel all on you." The responsibility for preventing sexual harassment was placed on her, not on the boys or the school culture. These incidents show how schools focus on controlling Black girls' bodies rather than creating a safe and respectful environment for everyone.

Narrator: Many of the behaviors that lead to Black girls being pushed out of school are not signs of defiance but symptoms of trauma. Morris finds that a high percentage of girls in the juvenile justice system have histories of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. Yet, schools are often ill-equipped to recognize or respond to this trauma. Instead of providing support, they punish the resulting actions, such as truancy, disengagement, or lashing out.

The story of Diamond, a 14-year-old victim of sex trafficking, is a devastating example. After being relentlessly teased at school for being "on the track," she scrawled "I hate the bitches at this school" on a wall. The school's response was not to investigate the bullying or her chronic absence, but to expel her immediately. This single act pushed her further away from the one institution that could have been a lifeline. Without the structure of school, Diamond was arrested for truancy and confined to a detention facility, deepening her involvement in the very system she needed protection from. Her story reveals a catastrophic failure of the education system to see a child in crisis, instead treating her as a criminal.

Narrator: For girls who are successfully pushed out of mainstream schools, the path often leads to the juvenile justice system, where the education they receive is described as "learning on lockdown." Morris's research inside these facilities reveals a system that fails to rehabilitate or educate. The curriculum is often uninspired, consisting of repetitive worksheets that are far below grade level.

Students like Portia and Mia expressed deep frustration with this reality. They felt the work was too easy and that the teachers were either unqualified or indifferent. Mia recounted a teacher who didn't know how to teach math and would kick students out of class for not understanding the material. Another student, Mecca, who had a learning disability, was called "retarded" by a teacher in front of the class for asking for a calculator. Rather than repairing a girl's broken relationship with education, these carceral schools often reinforce feelings of failure and alienation, making a successful return to a traditional school environment nearly impossible.

Narrator: Pushout is not just a diagnosis of a problem; it is also a call to action. Morris argues that the solution lies in a fundamental shift away from punishment and toward transformation. This requires creating what she calls "healing-centered" learning environments that are culturally competent, gender-responsive, and trauma-informed.

This means moving beyond zero-tolerance policies and embracing restorative practices. Morris profiles professionals like Yejide Ankobia, who works with Black girls in the Bay Area using restorative justice circles. Instead of simply suspending girls for fighting, Yejide brings them together to talk through the harm and repair their relationships. Her success comes from first building trust—by showing respect, learning their names, and demonstrating genuine care. It is about "teaching more than the curriculum." It is about creating schools where Black girls are not seen as problems to be managed, but as students to be nurtured, protected, and empowered.

Narrator: The single most important takeaway from Pushout is that the high rates of discipline and dropout among Black girls are not the result of individual failings. They are the product of a systemic "pushout," an institutional failure rooted in centuries of racial and gender bias that views Black girls as disposable. The book dismantles the myth that these girls don't care about their education and reveals, through their own voices, a deep desire to learn in environments where they feel safe and valued.

Ultimately, Pushout leaves us with a profound challenge. At the end of her research, the author asked a young woman in detention named Jennifer what she should do with all the stories she had collected. Jennifer's response was simple and powerful: "Just tell the truth." The book fulfills that request, but the challenge it passes on is for educators, policymakers, and all of us to not only hear that truth but to act on it, and to finally create a world where Black girls are free to learn, to thrive, and to be seen.