The Systems That Failed Me, The Ecosystems That Lifted Me Up

My name is Deztinee Geiger and I am a Facing History and Whitney Young High School alum, born and raised in the Pilsen neighborhood of Chicago with strong roots in Guerrero, Mexico.

I spoke at a Facing History benefit as a 17-year-old. At the time, I was a force to be reckoned with—my parents can definitely vouch for that.

Born to teen parents, a granddaughter of undocumented grandparents on my mother’s side, and a granddaughter of South Carolina and Texas natives on my father’s side, I witnessed early on the disadvantages of our identity. That identity is the premise of my passion for justice.

My parents grew up in Pilsen in the 1990s when its reputation wasn’t for the awesome restaurants, parks, and Mexican culture it’s known for now; back then it was an area that should be avoided at all costs due to constant gang violence. When Pilsen was in its early stages of gentrification, my dad was often profiled as a gang member, even if he was just taking me to the grocery store. I remember the anger I felt toward police officers for their hostility while grabbing his clothes and checking his pockets for drugs or a gun. They didn’t see a 23-year-old dad who woke up early to braid his daughter’s hair and take her to school on the bus—a daughter he wouldn’t see until the next morning because he worked two jobs and was a full-time student at City Colleges. The policing system had failed us.

My maternal grandparents had crossed the river and survived unlike other family members. They were looking for a better life, which they found, but with the condition of living in fear of being deported at any given point in time. I remember the anger and mixture of sadness and fear when my grandmother was facing deportation. I felt the weight of the world at 9 years old as I wrote a letter to the government, begging for her to stay and telling them how much I love her. The immigration and legal system had failed us.

My paternal grandparents were some of the happiest people you’ve ever met; my grandfather has always been one of the most skilled and knowledgeable people I know, he could fix almost anything including cars and refrigerators—but he never learned to read. I remember the anger I felt when he told me stories about his upbringing in South Carolina as a Black man born in 1936. I blamed the segregation and violent discrimination he faced for why, despite all of his talent, he was anchored in poverty that didn’t give him the opportunity to learn to read. The education system had failed us.

These core memories of anger and frustration for the people I loved were the pieces of fire that lit my rage. These were the reasons why as a 17-year-old I believed:

• in the immediate abolishment of policing systems
• that voting was a scam because our systems had failed us
• that everyone and anyone that didn’t agree with me on various issues were bad people—each person would be categorized as I deemed fit: “They are racist.” “They are elitist.” “They are misogynists.” My consistent thought was, “I REFUSE to engage with them.”

At 17 I. Was. Angry.

I channeled that anger into action and resistance. I protested against police brutality, severed many relationships with family members and friends, stood in demonstrations to support undocumented immigrants, and nearly got expelled from high school for tearing apart an art model depicting Trump's hypothetical wall to keep "Mexican criminals" out. 

I surrounded myself with like-minded peers, engaged with content online that only reaffirmed what I believed, and used the rest of my time to argue on Facebook with teachers or other students about how their beliefs demonstrated their bigotry and ignorance. 

For me, this anger against these systems and anyone who disagreed with me was a form of protection for the people I loved and others who were marginalized. I continued down this path for a while; it felt lonely at times. I felt I had to push everyone away—even the people I loved—because to me being a true activist meant refusing to compromise or negotiate my values to empathize with others. 

Some adults reduced what I was going through as the phase of a rebellious teen. Others, though, saw that in the fierceness of a young person who was loud, obnoxious, and stubborn was someone desperately seeking justice. The adults who could recognize this in me were part of the most transformative points of my life. They formed what I call "My Ecosystem of Co-Creation."

Programs such as She Crew, Chicago Freedom School (CFS), Increase the Peace, and Facing History each played a pivotal role in shaping my journey of activism and civic engagement. They all sought social justice through different methods:

• She Crew was about social justice through artistic expression
• CFS’s Project Heal Us focused on mental and physical wellness
• Increase the Peace used community-building campouts to create a violence prevention movement. 

These programs showed me that civic engagement can be fun! And while these programs were transformative—they all occurred outside of the classroom, in spaces I had to actively seek out.

Then came Facing History. It heralded in a pivotal change where my anger was not dismissed, but welcomed, thanks to Ms. Washington, my ethnic studies teacher, who introduced me to Facing History, and Sarah Shields, my after-school Facing History instructor. For the first time ever I was discussing social injustice in the classroom. It was revolutionary.

“You mean I can really sit here and talk about why I am angry at our government and leaders?”

“You’re asking me to share how my family was directly affected by social injustice due to systemic failures, and my classmates and teacher will actually listen?”

We watched documentaries, we read texts about the concept of intersectionality by Kimberlé Crenshaw, we connected our learnings to personal experiences, we made history come to life.

It was also through Facing History that I met a classmate—let’s call him Joe—who often dressed in khaki shorts, a white polo, and loafers—to me, symbols of his white privilege. Initially, I assumed he would challenge discussions on topics like affirmative action and systemic racism, defensively undermining everyone's experiences. And trust me—I was prepared to engage. However, over the semester Joe surprised me by becoming a respectful listener to the experiences of students of color. He engaged genuinely with our perspectives and demonstrated empathy toward historical figures and movements we studied. As Joe and I interacted more, we developed a mutual respect and friendship.

Joe’s openness to learn and evolve challenged my assumptions about privilege and allyship. It also made me reflect on my own privilege and realize that viewing my life solely as a byproduct of oppression hindered my ability to see my own strengths. It was through interactions like these that I began to see the potential for understanding and growth. Even across perceived divides.

As others embraced my approach, I became more receptive to their approaches, leading me to actively participate as an engaged voter and become more collaborative with others—including my mom. I helped organize monthly clean-ups and created a bilingual resource website for our neighborhood.

Through these programs, I was experiencing ecosystems of co-creation—supportive environments where people were willing to hear me out, help me understand my power, and guide me thoughtfully. Most importantly, the adults in these spaces supported my growth as a youth and instilled tools that would guide me as a future instructor. I soon became a leader within this ecosystem of love and dedication that once nurtured me. 

_______

As a 17-year-old I was angry and overwhelmed with information, trying to make sense of the world. Now, at 24, I am the result of these experiences and reminded that every young person who is bold, stubborn, and determined in their fight for justice has a story waiting to be heard.

As a society, we often criticize youth for being disengaged in the voting process. Instead of imposing our version of civic engagement, let us encourage youth to find relevant and meaningful ways to be civically involved that also brings them joy.

My call to action is simple: get involved with Facing History. Engage one-on-one with youth. Even a brief conversation can make a difference. Be curious and ask questions to understand them. When we offer youth empathy and understanding, we create an exchange where we are open to each other's perspectives, fostering collaboration, and building a society rooted in intergenerational connection. 

Within these ecosystems of co-creation, when our collective efforts transcend debate on how we participate, focusing instead on a shared desire for justice, we embody the strength of American values:

• Diverse perspectives
• The freedom to be civically involved
• Collaboration to make progress

This collective strength has historically shaped our nation and propelled us forward. It remains our pathway to protect our democracy.