Why Are Black Women Leaving K-12 School Leadership? Inside “Extractive Oppression”

Short answer: Black women are leaving K-12 leadership because the system takes more from them than it gives back — labor, emotional regulation, and intellectual property, handed out alongside limited authority and almost no protection. Researchers Tamra Simpson and Valery Dragon call that pattern extractive oppression, and their point is that it is a condition of the system, not a flaw in the woman.

The numbers don’t line up, and that’s the whole story

Women make up roughly three out of four adults working in America’s K-12 schools. Black women are about 7.5% of the teaching workforce. And yet Black women hold somewhere around 1.4% of the nation’s superintendencies.

Sit with that gap. The building runs on women. The district office does not. Principal, assistant principal, dean, director, assistant superintendent, superintendent — the further up the ladder you climb, the whiter and more male the room gets. That isn’t a pipeline problem. Pipelines that leak this consistently were built to leak.

What “extractive oppression” actually means

Simpson coined the term while running empathy interviews with Black women leaders across the country, and she chose the word deliberately. You extract minerals from the earth. You extract riches. What she kept hearing was that same verb applied to people — labor extracted, emotional regulation extracted, intellectual property extracted. Women building frameworks and turnaround plans and getting neither credit nor authority nor cover when the work drew fire.

Her framing is the part that matters most: it has evolved from a feeling into a systems condition. As she put it, the system is designed to improve off her harm. The outcomes go up. The cost lands on one person. And that person ends up working directly against her own agency, which is exactly how you get turnover, burnout, and declining physical and mental health.

If you have ever asked yourself am I the only one running into this, or am I just not good enough — that question is the trap. Simpson asked it too, early in her career, until enough other Black women told her there were silent norms on the field she had never been handed.

“Would you consider yourself more instructional or more cultural?”

Dragon was asked exactly that in a principal interview for an all-Black school. She recognized it immediately for what it was: a coded question, and a trap with two exits.

Say cultural and you have accepted the assignment — love these kids, don’t push them, don’t make them rigorous, don’t let them ask questions. Say instructional and you are suddenly not “of the community.” Her answer was to refuse the split: she believes in the culture of instruction.

The same trap catches Black men in schools from the other direction. Credentialed educators get reduced — her word, chosen on purpose — to disciplinarian, hallway enforcer, stand-in father figure. Big El has lived exactly that in Philadelphia. You arrive with a degree and a subject you love, and the building decides your real job is behavior management.

The findings that surprised even the authors

Two things landed hard in the research. The first was the sheer volume of maternity discrimination documented in the interviews: women told they couldn’t take leave because who will keep the kids under control if you’re gone, women called back before they had healed, women made to understand the job was conditional.

The second cut a different way. When Black women in their polling were asked which manager they’d want, not all of them picked the Black manager — and the reason wasn’t self-hatred. It was arithmetic. A white manager gets the lighter assignment, and a lighter assignment means a shot at balance. Meanwhile every white woman surveyed named a Black woman as the mentor who moved her career. We are still, reliably, everyone’s ladder.

“Are you built for change?”

The hardest moment in the conversation is Dragon’s challenge, and it isn’t aimed at the system. Being a change leader, she argues, is not the same as being a hero — and plenty of people who want things to change have never changed anything about themselves. Real systems change is never done alone, never self-serving, and always costs the person doing it something.

Her tell for who’s real: people leading for change start with vision-setting, not with a product. If you need a specific outcome you can hold up, the system will make a tool out of you. If you’re after hearts and minds, that’s a different job.

It’s the same question this show keeps circling — see Why Do Black Men Struggle to Say What They Need — and it connects straight to why the fight over Critical Race Theory got so loud. The system would rather you not ask questions of it, and it would prefer to raise students who don’t know there are questions to ask. Follow the money and the design intent gets clearer still — the same logic runs through how the US tax system quietly disadvantages Black Americans.

How to fight back: Justice by Design

Their framework asks leaders to merge continuous improvement with intersectionality and be contextually responsive — not “culturally responsive,” which has been generalized into meaninglessness. In practice: start with empathy interviews with the people closest to the problem, build your data from what they tell you, map which parts of the system need redesigning and what that will cost, then move 1% at a time and be willing to sit in the discomfort.

On where K-12 is headed, Dragon is clear-eyed rather than hopeful: more privatization, and new versions of redlining dressed up as school choice. The hope she does have is in Black-led micro schools pursuing accreditation so public dollars can follow the children they actually serve.

Tamra Simpson and Valery Dragon are the co-authors of Black Women, Leadership, and Change in K-12 Education: Beyond the Status Quo (Springer, November 2025).

Watch the full conversation

Press play on the full episode above, and if this is the kind of work you want more of, become family. Informed. Intelligent. In The Black.

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