What we can learn from bats and Black kids: Challenging misunderstood narratives

In the mid-1980s, I was a curious, energetic child living in the urban sprawl of northeast Baltimore. The kind of place where the idea of connecting inner-city kids to nature seemed both urgent and almost farcical.

Our lives were populated by concrete and pollution, not woods, trails, or wildlife. But one brilliant morning, a man came into my elementary school to shatter that assumption. He was a white, slender man with lanky arms and small, tight-framed glasses, moving with an energy that was as infectious as it was exuberant.

His area of expertise? Bats.

He stood in front of his bat cage with his arms motioning in sweeping arcs. He proceeded to explain to us the very gentle nature of the gray bat, or as he told us using their scientific name, Myotis grisescens.

Standing before a packed auditorium of young Black children, he revealed a world from which we had been largely disconnected. With arms outstretched, he spoke of bats — not as the sinister, bloodsucking fiends Hollywood and folklore often depict, but as gentle, misunderstood creatures with vital ecological roles.

He held one of them up from a cage, its wings folded like delicate origami, and invited us to see the beauty in something we were conditioned to fear. Would it bite him? Would it flinch or hiss in his grasp? Would it — like so many things in our lives — confirm the narratives of danger and wrongness that had been perpetuated by both myth and media?

It didn’t. And for a fleeting moment, I felt something I hadn’t often experienced: wonder. Not just for the bat itself, but for the sheer joy of encountering a creature often villainized, much like myself and my peers, in a society so eager to define what it could not understand.

The myths surrounding bats are nearly as persistent as those surrounding Black children.

To many, bats are synonymous with darkness, disease, and evil. Similarly, Black children are often subjected to caricatures that box them into oversimplified categories — either victims or perpetrators, misunderstood by a culture that insists on seeing them through a monolithic lens.

The truth, however, is far more complex. In the same way bats are crucial to our ecosystems — pollinating plants, controlling insect populations, and helping regenerate forests — Black children hold an inherent value and promise often overlooked by those who only know how to fear or belittle them.

Growing up in a city that could be as unforgiving as it was inspiring, I found solace in the small things that connected me to the natural world. My mother, a single Black woman raising two sons, was an anomaly. She made time to show us the beauty of life beyond our urban landscape — pulling us from school to visit the zoo, taking us to trails within driving distance, and even ferrying us out to Loch Raven Reservoir just to see the water.

Yet, even in those serene moments, I knew the world didn’t always view my brother and me the same way it viewed other boys. Like bats, we were often misunderstood, our full worth hidden behind preconceived notions.

The misrepresentation of both bats and Black children stems from the same root: fear of the unfamiliar. A bat, flying in the dark, is an easy target for myth. Its nocturnal habits, its appearance, and its silence have made it a perfect vessel for all sorts of superstitions.

In much the same way, the media and popular culture have continually misrepresented Black children — whether through the portrayal of Black youth as “thugs,” or the persistent victimization narratives that suggest their only role in society is to endure oppression. Oversimplification robs Black kids of their individuality, much as it denies bats their ecological importance.

At the heart of this issue is the power of narrative. How we tell stories — about bats, Black kids, or any marginalized group — shapes how we see the world.

When we frame bats as creatures of the night that must be feared, we ignore their contributions to nature. Similarly, when we frame Black children as lost causes or perpetual victims, we overlook their potential to shape the future. The problem isn’t with the individuals in question, but with the stories that are told about them.

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It was this very realization that led to an exciting shift in my thinking. After learning about bats’ role in the environment, I began to understand the transformative power of changing narratives. Conservation efforts, particularly in recent decades, have taken off, in part, because of a concerted push to reframe bats as the misunderstood environmental heroes they are.

Similarly, as awareness and education about the complexities of race deepen, there is growing momentum to reframe the narrative surrounding Black children — not as burdens or symbols of despair, but as individuals with agency, creativity, and strength.

Education is where these narratives can change.

Just as the growing body of research about bats has helped us understand their importance to our planet, so, too, can initiatives in schools, communities, and families help rewrite the story of Black children.

By introducing students to the multifaceted identities of Black youth — through literature, history, and personal testimony — we move beyond the simplistic categories that plague both our conversations about race and our understanding of the natural world.

We must move away from a culture of fear and misunderstanding. We must not shy away from the discomfort of confronting harmful stereotypes and ingrained myths.

And if we can learn to change how we see the bat — so, too, perhaps, we can learn to change how we see each other.

When we educate, when we cultivate empathy, and when we honor the complexity of the narratives surrounding both bats and Black kids, we open ourselves to a more just and inclusive world. A world where we no longer fear what we don’t understand, but instead learn to embrace the richness and beauty of what lies before us.

In a way, the story of the bat in that Baltimore auditorium is the story of a child, growing up in an often hostile world, who suddenly finds that things are not as they seem.

And if we can learn to change how we see the bat — so, too, perhaps, we can learn to change how we see each other. The key to that transformation is simple: narrative, education, and the willingness to confront what has long been overlooked.

Jack Hill is a contributor to the book, “The Guide for White Women Who Teach Black Boys.” He is a diversity consultant, child advocate, journalist, and writer.