How does someone make history? Are they born special — in the right place or the right time or with the right combination of character traits and talent? Do they have access to the sheer will and grit not available to the rest of us?

Or, is the answer that someone never does make history. It’s always some we.

That was true for Quinta Brunson, creator of the award-winning TV series, Abbott Elementary. And it was true for the show's namesake, Joyce Abbott, and for every life that influenced hers and those she in turn influenced.

Stories like Ms. Abbott’s remind us that community transformation rarely begins with a single superhuman hero. It begins with people who show up again and again, in easy times and hard, to build each other up.

Joyce Abbott’s journey is, in part, a continuation of the journey of HBCUs — historically Black colleges and universities whose mission was and is to provide access, empowerment and leadership opportunities to Black students who had been historically denied these things.

In fact, Abbott earned her degrees from two of the country’s first HBCUs—her bachelor’s from the University of Maryland Eastern Shore, established in 1886, and her masters from the nation’s first HBCU, Pennsylvania’s Cheyney University, founded in 1837.

For Abbott, these institutions were more than campuses. “The concern for students to achieve was just strong,” she reflected. Professors “went above and beyond,” and the camaraderie—among peers, faculty, and even Greek organizations—created an ecosystem of expectation and support. Many of Philadelphia’s strongest educators, she noted, were products of Cheyney’s graduate program.

Historically Black colleges and universities have long functioned as mentorship engines—spaces where Black students are not only taught but seen. Where excellence is assumed. Where community love is an operating principle.

Abbott experienced that principle long before she stood at the front of her own classroom.

 

 

 

 

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Growing up in West Philadelphia, she was surrounded by powerful community, many of them educators. This included her mother, a teacher’s aide, and her sister, a teacher. She also found support in Officer Davis, the school police officer who also coached track and basketball. “He was not only the school police officer—he was our coach. He was like a father figure, a big brother,” she said. He noticed when students were down. He listened. He pushed them beyond what they thought possible.

“He brought out the best in me,” Abbott explained. “Sometimes those mentors placed in your life can make you achieve things you didn’t even believe you could.”

That philosophy would become the backbone of her teaching.

A veteran of the U.S. army,  when Abbott entered the classroom, she carried with her the discipline and structure of her time in the military, but also something softer and just as powerful: an understanding that relationships come first. “You have to build a relationship with the student prior to instilling anything in them,” she said. Without trust, instruction falters. With it, transformation becomes possible.

Every Friday, her classroom formed a reflection circle. Students celebrated one another, calling out the big and small wins and naming their growth. When necessary, they apologized to one another, too. Because she created this space for togetherness and reflection, she explained, “When we left on Friday, regardless of what happened that week, Monday is a new week.” Her students knew they were encouraged to try, and that their wins would be celebrated and their misses would be OK.

For many students, that ritual was revolutionary. Students who experienced hardships during the week were given space to speak. Children who struggled academically were publicly affirmed when they stretched themselves. Confidence, Abbott believed, changes trajectories. “With confidence, they’ll win anything—even before they start.”

Her mentorship extended beyond academics. She hosted “cheesesteak conferences”—one-on-one lunches with students, especially those others might have labeled difficult. Over Philly cheesesteaks, barriers came down. She learned about their home lives, their challenges, their hobbies, and their dreams. “You have to understand their story,” she said. “Once you understand their story and build the relationship, you can be so impactful.”

This is what community love looks like in practice.

But mentorship is never solitary work. Abbott herself leaned on mentors like Donna Saunders, the teacher down the hall who supported her during her first year. “She gave me a lot of support she didn’t even recognize,” Abbott said. That quiet investment — before school, after school, answering questions — helped anchor her during those difficult early years.

When Abbott later stepped into leadership as dean of students and then school climate manager, she did so because her school principal lifted her up, called on her to step into a new role, and supported her to be successful.  She left the safety of her well-run classroom into the uncertainty of a school-wide culture. Within a year, the school earned recognition for strides in climate improvement.

Abbott’s advice to aspiring leaders is direct: be effective in the classroom first. Mentorship requires experience and credibility.

And Abbott is clear about the need for more Black teachers and leaders. Research shows that all students perform better and are more likely to attend college when they have teachers from many backgrounds and experiences, including those who understand their lived experiences.

They need teachers who care for them as humans and hold them to high standards. Kids — and the families and communities that surround them — need servant leaders to build, grow, love, mentor and be mentored in community with one another.  

This is how whole communities change: not through policy alone, but through people who lift each other up. Through schools and colleges that cultivate excellence. Through coaches who see potential. Through teachers who bring love, joy, reflection circles and cheesesteaks.

In Philadelphia, families still reach out to Abbott years after their children have left her classroom.

Mentorship, in the end, is an act of faith. And as Abbott’s life demonstrates, when that faith is practiced consistently, it does more than shape students.

It shapes generations. It makes history.