Episode 14 — I. M. Terrell: The School That Carried a Community (Part 2: What)

What was I. M. Terrell High School really?

In this powerful second installment of the I. M. Terrell series, DonTheBarber goes beyond dates and buildings to explore the deeper meaning behind one of Fort Worth’s most historic Black institutions.

This episode examines how I. M. Terrell became far more than a segregated school. It became:
 • A symbol of Black excellence
 • A cultural landmark
 • A leadership incubator
 • A regional educational hub
 • A community anchor during segregation

From its roots in Fort Worth’s first public education efforts for Black children in 1882…
 to the formal naming of I. M. Terrell High School in 1921…
 to its lasting impact on generations of students and leaders…

this episode unpacks the layered history, pride, pain, resilience, and legacy carried inside the walls of Terrell.

DonTheBarber explores:
 • The origins of Black public education in Fort Worth
 • Why I. M. Terrell has “multiple birthdays”
 • The role Black schools played during segregation
 • How Terrell shaped identity, discipline, arts, and leadership
 • The emotional complexity of desegregation and closure
 • Why preserving local Black history matters today

Featuring reflections on the school’s influence on Fort Worth culture, alumni legacy, and the enduring power of Black institutions, this episode reminds listeners that history is not just national — it’s deeply local.

Because I. M. Terrell wasn’t just a school.

It was a promise.

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📍 Topics Covered:
 • I. M. Terrell High School
 • Black education in Fort Worth
 • Segregation and desegregation
 • African-American history
 • Fort Worth Black history
 • Community institutions
 • Black educational excellence
 • Opal Lee
 • Reby Cary
 • Cultural legacy

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Hosted by DonTheBarber
 “Your History. Our Legacy. Our Future.”

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:07

What do you call a school that never was just a school? What do you call a building that held the dreams of a people when the rest of the city said you can learn but only over there? What do you call a place where excellence had to be built inside segregation, where students walked in carrying the weight of racism, but walked out carrying pride, discipline, talent, and purpose. Some schools hand out diplomas, but some schools do more than that. Some schools become a headquarters for hope. Some schools become proof that even when a system is unfair, a people can still produce greatness. Some schools become a symbol, a training ground, a cultural landmark, a community anchor, and in Fort Worth, that school was I am terrible. It's your boy Don the Barber, back with another episode of We Got the Funk. And today, we're going deeper into part two of this I am Terrell story. So part one was the Who. Who was Isaiah Milligan Terrell? Who was the man behind the name? Who helped build black education in Fort Worth from the ground up? But this episode right here, this one is the what. What was I Am Terrell High School really? What did it represent? How did it start? Why did it matter so much? And why all these years later, does that name still mean something in the city? Because when people hear I am Terrell, a lot of times they think it's just the name of a school. Nah, it was way bigger than that. Much bigger. So let's talk about it. Now to understand what I am Terrell High School was, you gotta understand what black education looked like in Fort Worth before the school became what we know it as. Because the truth is, I am Terrell didn't just pop up one day with a sign on the front and a mascot and a graduating class. It came out of struggle. It came out of necessity. It came out of a time when black children in Fort Worth was not being centered, not being prioritized, and definitely not being treated equally. Back in 1882, Fort Worth launches its public school system. Now that sounds clean and official when you say it today, public schools. But let's keep it real though. Even from the beginning, the system was segregated. Separate structures, separate spaces, separate expectations. And for black kids, education started in places that were available, not places that were fully invested in. Churches, that's where it began. That's where the first public education for black students in Fort Worth took root. So before we even get into the school building, before we get to the name, before we get to the legacy, we gotta honor this truth. I am Terrell High School was born out of a community refusing to let its children go without education. And that's significant because sometimes history only celebrates the finished building. But I want us to respect the beginning. The beginning was not luxury. The beginning was not convenience, but the beginning was people making the way. And that's an important distinction because what became IMTarrell High School started as the educational lifeline for black Fort Work. It was the institutional descendant of that first public school for black students. That first effort, that first opening, that first act of building something inside a system that was never designed to treat black people equally. So when folks say the school started in 1882, that's lineage. That's the bloodline, that's the root system, and roots matter. Because a tree can't stand without it. Now this is where it get good though. And to keep it 100, this is where a lot of people get confused. Because when you ask, when did I Am Tarot High School begin? you can get more than one answer. You know what I'm saying? And all of them carry some truth. Sometimes we look at history like everything has to fit in one date, but legacy don't always work like that. Some institutions have stages. Some places are built in layers, and I am terrible as one of them places. So let me break it down, barbershop style. First, 1882. That's the beginning of the school's lineage. That's the opening of the first free public school for black kids in Fort Worth. That's the institutional ancestor, and that's the seed in the ground. Then, 1910, now we're talking about a major shift right here, y'all. A bond-funded, more modern school building opens for black students. This wasn't just another classroom setup. This represented something bigger: investment, visibility, structure, and the emergence of a true secondary school hub for black education and Fort Worth. And then you get to 1921. That's when the school formally takes the name I am Terrell High School. That's when the man and the institution lock together in the public memory. That's when the school becomes attached to the name of an educator who had already poured decades into black education in this city. So, really, depending on what you mean by origin, I am Terrell has three birthdays. And I love that, because honestly, it feels black. Hey, we know how to make something out of stages. We know how to build through process, we know how to survive one era, grow in another, and finally be recognized later. That ain't confusion, that's testimony. Hey, that means this school wasn't just created in one moment either. It was developed, it was formed, it was fought for, it was expanded, it was named, and every one of those stages says something about the people behind it. Hey, now let's get to the heart of the matter though. What was IMTaro High School? Not just on paper, not just in district records, but in real life. Officially, it was a public school for black students in the segregated system. That's the technical truth. But that ain't the whole truth. Because practically speaking, I am Terrell became the central education institution for black secondary students in Fort Worth and beyond. This school wasn't only serving one block. It wasn't just neighborhood business. It was a hub, a flagship, a destination. For a whole lot of black families, this was the place where serious education happened. And not only for students in Fort Worth. It was black students from surrounding communities who needed this school because their own towns didn't even have comparable options. Think about that. When a city or region won't build for your people, your school becomes more than a campus. It becomes a regional answer to a regional problem. That's what Terrell was. It carried a bigger assignment. It had to be academically strong enough to prepare students, culturally rich enough to affirm students, structured enough to discipline students, and hopeful enough to inspire students, all while operating under segregation. That's the part I don't want us to skip past. The school did not arise in freedom, it arose in limitation. And yet it still produced excellence. That's why the story matters so much. Because there's a difference between the school thriving with full support and the school thriving despite unequal conditions. That second story, that's where a lot of black educational history lives. And I am terrible is one of those institutions. It represented access where access was restricted. It represented order where the broader system was unjust. It represented opportunity where the city was drawing racial lines. That means the what part of I am Terrell was never small. It was a black educational stronghold. Hey, now let me say something that might hit deep. A school can teach math, a school can teach science, a school can teach reading and writing, but every now and then, a school starts teaching identity. That's what happened here. I am Tarrell High School became symbolic. It became one of those places that told black students, you matter, your mind matters, your future matters, and your people have built something for you to stand in. That symbolic power is huge, because in the segregated America, schools for black children were often expected to be lesser, lesser funding, lesser buildings, lesser assumptions, lesser challenges. But what communities often did was transform those schools into centers of pride. Not because segregation was good. Let's be clear, segregation was unjust. It was harmful, it was discriminatory, it was unconstitutional. But within that unjust system, black educators and black communities still created spaces of discipline, dignity, and high expectation. Hey, that's a different kind of strength. And I am terrible became a symbol of that strength. It told the city, you may separate us, but you will not define the limits of our brilliance. That's why these historic black schools still live in people's bones. Because people didn't just attend them, they were shaped by them. The school represented standards, it represented presentation, it represented preparation, and it represented the idea that black students were worthy of serious instruction and serious cultivation. That right there is why this episode matters. Because I don't want us to just think of I am Terrell as just an old building with history on it. Nah, I want us to see it as an answer. An answer to inclusion, an answer to neglect, an answer to a city that still needed black excellence, but didn't want to invest in it equally. And yet, the excellence came anyway. Hey, now let's take it a step further. When we talk about what I am terror was, we can't stop at dates and buildings because schools are not defined only by architecture, they're defined by culture. And this school right here had culture. You can see signs of it in old commencement programs, student speeches, music performances, piano selections, choir arrangements, literary themes, and public oratory. This tells us something important. Terrell wasn't just trying to move students through a pipeline, it was shaping presentation, voice, poise, expression, intellect. And hey man, that's pretty lit to me. Because it's something powerful about a school that teaches students not only to pass, but how to carry themselves. I'm talking about how to speak in public, how to perform with excellence, how to think with range, how to stand in front of people and represent something bigger than themselves. That's culture right there. And for black students in that time, that culture was deeply important because the world was already trying to tell them who they was. So this school had to tell them who they could become. That's why music mattered, that's why literature mattered, that's why speech mattered. And let's be honest, that's part of why schools like Tarot leave such a deep impression. They weren't just schools producing workers, they was producing presence. And when the school produced presence, people remembered. You remember the feeling, you remember the standard, you remember the teachers who demanded something from you. You remember the way the institution made you feel connected to something honorable. So when I say I am terrible was a culture, that's what I mean. It was an environment where education, discipline, performance, and pride came together. That's different from just showing up to class. And some of y'all know exactly what I'm talking about. Because every city has one of these schools. You know, that school. That school that means something when you say the name out loud. That school where the stories don't die, and in the funk, Terrell was that school. Now this is another thing that makes I am Terrell so important. It didn't stay frozen in one version of itself. It evolved. The school changed locations, it changed facilities, it changed instructure, it expanded, it adapted, and every change tells us something. Early on, we see the roots in black public education, then the move into a more formal high school identity, then the renaming in 1921, then later, a long-term home in the East 18th Street area near Butler Place as the campus took on an even more historical significance. By the mid-20th century, you see the expansions, more classrooms, gym spaces, cafeteria space, technical shops. That means the school was growing with the needs of its students. That means it wasn't stuck in one era. It was trying to serve a fuller student experience. And I think that's important because sometimes when we look back at black schools under segregation, people assume they was only bare-bone spaces. And yes, they were operating under unequal structures, but schools like Terrell also built rich internal worlds. Academic worlds, athletic worlds, arts worlds, vocational worlds, and social worlds. That's why this institution mattered so much. It was not one-dimensional, it was comprehensive. It had to be because for many students, this was the main launching pad available to them. So the school had to prepare students for different pathways. Some needed academic preparation, some needed cultural confidence, some needed technical skills, some needed exposure to leadership and civic life. Terrell had to carry all that. And in many ways, it did. Now this is where the stories start flexing. Because when you want to know what a school is, one of the best ways to see it is by looking at who came out of it. And I Am Terrell produced people who shaped the city, the state, and the culture. People like Opal Lee, people like Reeby Carey, people like Lenora Butlerola. And beyond civic and educational leadership, the school's legacy also touches arts and music in a big way. This ain't random, this fruit right here. That's what happens when an institution is doing more than surviving. That's what happens when a school becomes a fertile ground. And I need us to catch that, because too many times in our community, we celebrate famous individuals, but don't spend enough time honoring the institutions that formed them. We shout out the person, but do we shout out the school that sharpened them? Do we shout out the teachers that challenged them? Do we shout out the environment that disciplined them? Do we shout out the place that made excellence feel normal? I am Terrell was one of those places. And when school after school failed to offer black students equal opportunities, Terrell became a place where leadership could still be cultivated. This wasn't just a site of attendance, it was a site of production. It produced thinkers, leaders, artists, advocates, educators, professionals, and every one of them, in some way, becomes part of the answer to the question: what was I Am Terril? Hey now, let's not romanticize this thing too much, because the story has pain in it too. And if we ignore that, then we miss the full truth. I am Terrell existed inside a segregated system. That means no matter how strong the school culture was, the larger structure was still unjust. There was still dual districts, dual expectations, dual systems, and that system lasted a long time. Longer than it should have. Way longer than it should have. Federal court action eventually had to step in and say what should have been obvious. This dual system was unconstitutional. That means schools like IMT were respected within the black community, but they were also part of the larger story of enforced separation. That's why this story is layered. Because on one hand, the school stands as a monument to black excellence. On the other hand, it also reminds us of the conditions black people had to endure just to get educated. Both things are true. And that right there, that's mature history, not fake history, not comfortable history, but real history. And then comes another hard turn. As desegregation moves forward, the school eventually closes as a high school in 1973. Now let's pause right there. A. Think about the emotional complexity of that. The same school that had been a flagship for black education, the same school that had produced generations of excellence, the same school that had held community memory for decades, closes as a high school in the era of desegregation. Hey man, it's painful right there. Because even when justice moves forward, communities can still lose something precious in the transition. That's a hard truth in black educational history across America. Integration was necessary, but many beloved black schools, black principals, black teachers, and black institutional traditions also got displaced, diminished, or erased in the process. So with Tarot, we hold both truths. The system needed to change, and the loss was still real. That's part of why the memory of the school is still so powerful. Because people don't just remember the building, they remember what was held inside of it. Sometimes progress comes with grief, and history gets complicated right there. But complicated don't mean unimportant. Hey, we just gotta tell it right. Now, this right here is something I love about the story. Even after all the shifts, the moves, the closure, the repurposing, the site and the name kept finding its ways to live on. Hey, that tell us something right there. It tells us I am terror was too meaningful to disappear. The building continued being used in education, later reopened in new forms, was rehabilitated, was revived, and in more recent years re-emerged as an academy tied to STEM and visual and performing arts. Now I want to say that carefully. Because the modern version is not the exact same thing as the original historic experience. Different era, different education model, different context. But the revival still matters because it shows that memory has power, it shows that names have power, it shows that cities eventually circle back to what they should have treasured all along, and there's something poetic about a school with that kind of afterlife. A school born in the segregation, forged in struggle, remembered through alumni memory, then restored again. That's not just a reality. Why should this matter to us today? Why should somebody in Fort Worth in 2026 care about what high school was? Because when you know what a place was, you understand what a people survived. And when you understand what a people survived, you start respecting what they built. Hey, this school teaches us that black history is not just about famous speeches and major marches. Sometimes black history is a classroom. Sometimes it's a hallway. Sometimes it's a commencement program. Sometimes it's a teacher who stayed. Sometimes it's a school that became a standard. And when we overlook institutions like I am tarot, we don't just lose information, we lose connection. We lose local pride, we lose context, we lose the map. And one thing I'm always pushing on this podcast is this Fort Worth got real black history, deep black history, powerful black history, not side history, not extra credit history. I'm talking about core history. And I am Terrell is core history. It's one of the clearest examples of how Black Fort Worth built institutions in the face of exclusion. Not perfect institutions, not easy institutions, but necessary institutions. It reminds us that our elders and ancestors were not waiting around to be validated. They were organizing, teaching, leading, building, investing in the youth, creating pathways. That's what Tarot was: a pathway, a platform, a proving ground. And for some families, it was also a promise. A promise that your baby could still become something in the world trying to limit it. And that's a powerful thing for a school to represent. We leave this part on y'all. A lot of times we think legacy is only in people. And yeah, people matter, but legacy lives in institutions, in schools, in churches, in barbershops, in neighborhoods, in music halls, and in community centers. Places carry memory. Places carry values. Places carry the repeated footsteps of generations. And when enough people have been shaped in one place, that place becomes sacred in a different kind of way. I think that's part of what I'm terrible became for many people. Not sacred because it was perfect, sacred because it was formative. Sacred because it represented labor and love. Sacred because it stood as evidence that black education in Fort Worth had depth, structure, and brilliance. That's why the name still rings. Because the school was never just saying, come here and learn. It was saying, come here and become. And man, that right there is a word for all of us. Because we still need spaces that help our young people become. Not just consume, not just scroll, not just survive, but to become. Become disciplined, become creative, become aware, become excellent, become connected to history, and become accountable to community. That's why these stories matter. They don't just tell us what used to be, they challenge us about what needs to be built now. So when somebody asks, what was IMTRL High School? Hey, tell them this. It was more than just a school. It was the institutional descendant of Fort Worth's first public education for black kids. It was a major black high school shaped over decades. It was a symbol of pride inside segregation. It was a cultural force. It was a training ground for leadership. It was a home for arts, academics, discipline, and development. It was a place where Black Fort Worth built excellence anyway. And maybe most importantly, it was proof that even when systems are broken, communities can still build something powerful enough to outlive the system. That is what I am terrible was. Hey, so check it out. This is the first thing I need y'all to do. Share this episode. Hey man, send it to somebody from the phone. Post it on your page. I mean, drop it in the group chat or something. Hey, put somebody else up on the history. Because stories like this should not stay hidden. And second, holler at your boy on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, or YouTube and tell me what part stood out to you the most. I want to hear what hit you, what taught you something. Hey, I want to know what made you reflect, what made you proud. But because this podcast ain't just talking at people, it's about building conversation, connection, and culture. And remember, every historic black institution carries a message. If you listen close enough, it'll tell you what your city values, what your people endured, and what your generation is responsible for protecting. Until next time, keep your mind sharp, keep your spirit grounded, and keep honoring the shoulders you stand on. Peace.