Academic Pressure Leading Stressor for Black Students

The light was always too bright in Room B214. Heaven’Le James, a freshman at John F. Kennedy High School, sat in the second row, clutching a mechanical pencil with a snapped eraser and staring at a worksheet filled with numbers she couldn’t trust. Every 3 looked like an 8. Sixes flipped into nines. Math had always been a battle—one she began losing in elementary school—and now the battlefield felt like quicksand.

She raised her hand again, slowly. The teacher scanned the room, called on someone else. Heaven’le put her hand back down.

Home wasn’t a refuge from struggle either. In high school she lost her grandmother and great-grandfather in close succession. Her family moved in to care for her great-grandfather while he was on life support. Every day was a balancing act between mourning and survival.

By the time she asked for help with her academic struggles, her freshman year, it was already late. When Sacramento City Unified School District finally began evaluating her for an individualized education plan, nearly three years had passed.

“I continuously tried advocating for myself (to counselors) numerous times,” she said. “They really don’t care. They showed zero interest in me.”

According to James, the only time her cries for help were acknowledged was when her mother intervened. A guidance counselor told her that an online credit recovery program was full. Online credit recovery programs allow students to retake a missed or failed course to earn the credits needed to graduate

Her mother made a call and found out that wasn’t true. Heaven’Le was let in—but by then, the damage had already begun to calcify.

Meanwhile, she was being bullied—physically and emotionally. The harassment had followed her from elementary school. She remembers high school boys putting their hands on her, and no one stepping in to stop them.

“I never really had any friends in school,” Heaven’Le, now 19, said. “I’ve always been bullied—from elementary into high school. And it only got worse.”

Through all of this—her losses, her learning struggles, the weight of caregiving—no one from the school ever offered mental health support. At one point, a principal told her mother she would never graduate on time, insinuating that Williams didn’t care about her own future.

Racism at West Campus High

The message was loud, ugly, and spelled out in capital letters: the N-word spray-painted across the parking spot of Vice Principal Elysse Versher at West Campus High School, another Sac City Unified high school.

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Azizia Williams now studies social work at Sacramento State while also advocating for change in her community. Russell Stiger II, OBSERVER

Aziza Williams saw it during her senior year, just after third period. At first, she thought it couldn’t be real—until it was all anyone could talk about. The Black students knew what it meant. Versher had just implemented a new dress code banning ripped jeans, short shorts, cleavage, and bare shoulders. Some students pushed back. But what started as frustration exploded into outright racism. And then it turned dangerous.

Soon after, an anonymous Instagram account surfaced. The posts mocked Black students with monkey imagery and racial slurs. Then things got even darker: someone posted Vice Principal Versher’s family with a monkey on it.

For Aziza, who had already lost her grandmother and great-grandmother that year, it was another kind of grief. Not just because of the cruelty, but because of what didn’t happen next. The school said nothing. No assembly. No apology. No acknowledgment of harm.

“We were scared,” she said. “What if our addresses were leaked next? Nobody even asked how we were doing.”

For years, West Campus had celebrated its academic rigor and success stories of alumni who went on to Stanford and UCLA. But Aziza and other Black students were invisible in those narratives. “It’s not a place that felt safe for Black students,” she said. “There were very few people who looked like me.”

Even discipline was uneven. “I had friends who were suspended for doing the same things white or Asian students got away with,” she said. “It was obvious.”

When Versher finally resigned—after revealing that the harassment had driven her to suicidal thoughts—there was still no real reckoning, according to Aziza. The culprit was never caught.

A lawsuit filed by Versher against the district was unsuccessful as the District was not found to have committed any wrongdoing and issued no financial payment directly to Versher

The Mental Health of Our Black Students

James’ and Williams’ struggles with mental health at school echo the challenges that young Black people face going to school throughout the region and the country.

The OBSERVER surveyed roughly 35 Black Sacramento teenagers about their mental health and over half of respondents said that the pressure to succeed academically caused them the most stress. 

The surveys were conducted over the course of two months with students aged 12 to 18 and from several different school districts in the Sacramento area. The students were allowed to take the survey anonymously.

Students were asked to rank their top three stressors from a list of 16 possible stressors and roughly 57% of the students indicated that academic pressure was one of their sources of stress.

Students were also asked to write specifically what caused them stress. Students were prompted to identify specific sources of their stress. While many expressed concerns about school, a few young men uniquely mentioned social interactions, such as fears of getting into a fight, as a cause of their stress.

“School has been causing me the most stress. I feel like I am always thinking about school and it’s affecting my sleep and personality,” one youth responded. “I always feel nervous before and after school because I’m stressed out.”

Another student wrote, “Having to keep up with my school work and worrying about high expectations at school and home.” 

The other leading stressors students indicated were violence, family issues and racism.

“The pressure of being one of the only Black students and keeping up academically,” one student wrote.

As student mental health concerns rise, local education leaders in Sacramento are urgently working to expand support systems, despite barriers.

According to the Sacramento County Office of Education (SCOE), nearly 40% of all students reported chronic sadness or hopelessness in 2022—a number even higher among youth facing challenges related to race, gender identity, sexual orientation, and housing instability.

In response, SCUSD and SCOE are prioritizing mental health services, but progress is slow. A nationwide shortage of mental health professionals has delayed SCOE’s goal of placing a clinician in every school until at least 2050. Funding limits also push schools to seek support through programs like the Children and Youth Behavioral Health Initiative.

Disparities in access remain a concern, especially in underserved communities. SCUSD runs Student Support Centers staffed with social workers, family advocates, and community partners. The district also works to reduce stigma through campaigns like #MindOutLoud and offers telehealth and digital tools like the GRACE app to connect students to care.

Recognizing early intervention as key, SCUSD has introduced behavioral health screenings in select schools and aims to expand them despite limited resources. Central to all efforts is collaboration—between schools, families, community groups, and county agencies—to build a more connected support network.

Heaven’le James said what she needed most was simply “one person there to help me”—someone who would make her feel “seen and heard and welcome.” She said the support didn’t have to come from someone who looked like her, but from anyone willing to help. “Man, you don’t even gotta look like me. Just be there to help me,” she said. Having someone reassure her that “it’s okay if you don’t go to college right away” could have made a difference. Ultimately, she said, “sometimes it just takes one person to kind of brighten somebody’s day.” James is now planning to attend Consumnes River College.

Both students believe Sacramento schools can do better—not just academically, but in ensuring equity, representation, and safety for Black youth. “We just want the same care and opportunity,” James said. “Not pity, not excuses—just a chance.”

Williams is enrolling at Sacramento State University, continuing her education while advocating for change in her community.

Both James and Williams say the systems meant to support them failed—and that school officials need to take their concerns seriously. Williams said schools should hire more Black and Brown educators who are not just diverse in background but committed to equity and long-term student growth. She said schools should create programs that build community among Black students—not only in crisis, but as part of school culture. Williams also said it’s important to invite role models from Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) and the broader Black professional community to help students see what’s possible.

Williams said training staff to engage meaningfully with Black students by checking in, validating their presence, and treating them with respect is critical. When racist incidents happen, schools must take safety concerns seriously. Williams noted that after public threats and online attacks targeting Black students and administrators, no formal safety measures were put in place.

“We didn’t feel safe. We didn’t feel seen,” she said. “They should’ve at least asked how we were doing. They didn’t.”

This project was supported by the USC Annenberg Center for Health Journalism, and is part of “Healing California”, a yearlong reporting Ethnic Media Collaborative venture with print, online and broadcast outlets across California.