“A Rose By Any Other Name”: Doing the Work When You Can’t Say the Work

By Crystal Martin, PhD

Let’s play a quick game.

What do the following words have in common: equity, bias, inclusion, gender, diversity, racism, trauma, and “people + uterus”?

If you guessed they’ve somehow become the new Beetlejuice, you're not wrong.

These once-standard words in schools, healthcare, and youth-serving professions are now whispered like we’re plotting a rebellion in a dystopian YA novel. Thanks to shifting political climates, we’ve found ourselves in a strange moment where we can do the work—but not always name the work.

So, what’s a dedicated educator, youth advocate, or artist of the people to do? Do we fold? Do we start calling things “banana bread” and hope the kids understand? Do we tattoo “DEI” in invisible ink on the inside of our wrists like secret agents?

Or… do we adapt like we always have?

In the immortal words of Shakespeare: “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Translation? Just because they say you can’t call it “equity” doesn’t mean you stop creating it.Just because you can’t say “trauma-informed” doesn’t mean you stop caring for students’ nervous systems.And just because “diversity” is now under review doesn’t mean your classroom, your curriculum, and your community don’t still reflect a beautifully complex human mosaic.

When the Words Are Banned, Let the Work Speak Louder

Here’s the good news: our work was never just in the buzzwords. It’s in the spirit, the heart, and the intention behind them.

Let’s say the policy now prohibits “affirming care.” Okay, fine. But are you still looking a young person in the eye and letting them know they matter? Still making space for their identities, dreams, fears, and brilliance to be seen and held? That’s affirming.

Can’t say “racial justice”? Okay. But are you still dismantling the policies and practices that disproportionately harm some kids more than others? Still inviting stories from every background into your classroom? Still diversifying your curriculum, checking your own bias, and holding space for honest, nuanced conversations? Then guess what—you’re still doing justice work.

This kind of quiet resistance isn’t just subversion—it’s resilience. And it has a long lineage. Think of freedom schools during the Civil Rights Movement. Think of “underground railroads” of care formed by Black midwives, Indigenous healers, and immigrant aunties who passed knowledge through kitchens, gardens, and song. Our people have always done this—spoken in code, healed in plain sight, and built new worlds in the cracks of the old.

Dr. Shawn Ginwright reminds us that healing-centered engagement is not just trauma-informed—it’s asset-driven, culture-rooted, and future-focused. Even when we can’t use those exact words, the framework lives on in how we build relationships, design learning environments, and hold space for joy. Joy, by the way, is its own form of resistance.

And as Dr. Bettina Love says, freedom dreaming is not about escaping reality—it’s about reimagining it. So when we dream with our students about futures where they feel safe, brilliant, and powerful? When we co-create spaces that reflect possibility, not punishment? That’s freedom dreaming. 

That’s the work.

So yes, they can ban the words. They can try to erase the labels. But they can’t ban imagination. They can’t ban care. They can’t ban showing up with love.

And that’s where the power lives.

Let's not sanitize the truth. Yes, It's Oppression. Call That What It Is, Too.

Let’s be clear: the banning of words like “equity,” “inclusion,” “affirming care,” and “racism” is not just a semantic decision. It’s not about keeping things “neutral” or “less political.” It’s a calculated move—a silencing tactic. It's censorship.

It’s oppression in action, dressed up in bureaucratic language.

And for some of us, it feels wrong to speak in code or reframe our language. It feels like a betrayal of the communities we serve and a betrayal of the ancestors who fought to name injustice for what it is. And that discomfort? That righteous fire? It’s valid. It's necessary.

There’s immense power in calling a thing what it is.

Some will continue to name racism, white supremacy, colonialism, and state violence explicitly—and we need them. We need the loud voices, the protest signs, the mic drops at school board meetings, the students who refuse to back down. That’s frontline work. That’s prophetic work.

But here’s the other truth: resistance is not one-size-fits-all.

Some of us are embedded in systems where saying the quiet part out loud can cost us our jobs, our programs, our access to students. So we pivot—not out of fear, but out of strategy. We shape-shift like our elders did. We use metaphor, art, health, culture, and care as our carriers. We refuse to let them write us out.

And when we reframe the language, we’re not erasing the struggle. We’re preserving our presence inside the room, where the kids still are. We’re planting truth in fertile soil, waiting for the day when it can be spoken fully again.

So whether you whisper it, teach around it, reimagine it, or shout it from the rooftop—stay in the work. Keep building the world we dream of!

Because the revolution doesn’t always look like protest.

Sometimes it looks like presence.

We Are the Storytellers, the Word Shapeshifters

Black and Brown communities have always found a way to say the unsayable. We speak in metaphor, in music, in image, in movement. We write poems when the facts are too painful. We choreograph resistance when marching is not allowed. We paint truths that can't pass through legislative gates.

So now, we just flex that muscle again. We get creative. We say “thriving communities” instead of “underserved populations.”We say “relational ecosystems” instead of “inclusion. ”We say “whole-child wellness” instead of “trauma-informed support. ”We say “a rose,” knowing full well what we mean.

You’re Not Crazy. This Is Crazy. And We Keep Going Anyway.

Let’s be real: it is absurd that the language of healing, dignity, and representation is under surveillance. But let that ridiculousness strengthen our resolve, not weaken it.

You’re not alone in this coded dance. Across the country, classrooms, clinics, community centers, and arts collectives are still doing the work—quietly, subversively, creatively, and powerfully.

The mission hasn’t changed.

The language might.

But a rose by any other name?

Still smells like justice.