When teachers would post class rankings, Amie Fornah Sankoh would find herself in the same dreaded position year after year: dead last.

Grades were shared publicly in Sierra Leone, where Sankoh grew up during a civil war fueled by blood diamonds. The humiliation and pity she received made her believe she was unable to learn; broken.

In fact, Sankoh's poor academic standing had nothing to do with her intelligence or abilities.

When she was 3 years old, she contracted malaria and spiked a high fever. She recovered from the infection but lost hearing in both ears. In Freetown, where she lived, there was no deaf culture, no one to teach her sign language. Sankoh was essentially cut off from communication.

In 2003, when she was 12, her parents sent her to America to live with relatives, hoping that a medical procedure might restore her hearing. She did not qualify for the procedure, but what she learned in school over the next years changed what she imagined was possible and altered the course of her life.

Sankoh learned American Sign Language.

Finally, at age 15, she had a way to communicate.

"That's when I first realized I could learn," she said. "I was shocked."

Her high school provided a sign language interpreter for her classes. Sankoh took multiple English classes to catch up. She excelled in math and science, and became fascinated by chemistry.

"I could only learn math growing up because it was a very visual subject," she said. After graduating from high school, she chose to attend the National Technical Institute for the Deaf at the Rochester Institute for Technology.

"RIT is where I was really able to learn the most and expand my research," she said. Just as important, she learned how to advocate for herself. Those skills proved vital when she was accepted into a doctoral program at the University of Tennessee -- the only deaf student in its Department of Biochemistry and Cellular and Molecular Biology.

Students with disabilities continue to face obstacles in schools despite the passage of three major federal laws -- the Individuals With Disabilities Education Act, Section 504 and the Americans With Disabilities Act -- designed to protect their rights. Even though the number of students with disabilities enrolling in college has been steadily growing over the past several years, their graduation rate still lags significantly behind their nondisabled peers. They make up an even smaller percentage of graduate schools: Those with disabilities make up about 8% of graduate students, according to data by the National Center for Education Statistics.

Those challenges are far greater for Black students with disabilities, who are more likely to face disciplinary sanctions in schools than their peers. Stark racial disparities persist in graduate education, a product of generations of systemic inequities in American education. In fact, scant research or data exist on the outcomes of Black graduate students with disabilities.

When Sankoh arrived at the University of Tennessee, she could tell that some of her peers doubted whether she belonged in the rigorous doctoral program.

She struggled to understand the interpreter assigned to her courses because of the specialized scientific background needed to even communicate certain concepts. She recalled a lecture about mass in which the interpreter completely misunderstood the scientific vocabulary.

Many times, she sat in classes for hours, completely lost.

"A teacher wouldn't think I was paying attention in class because I was watching the interpreter," she said. It was frustrating and took hours of studying on her own, working with a mentor and seeking one-on-one help outside of class.

"When a deaf person asks me, 'How did you survive?' I say it was a lot of work, a lot of patience and a lot of perseverance," she said.

There were times when she wanted to give up. The first time she had to give a presentation in front of her classmates, she felt sick to her stomach.

But she persisted.

On April 20, Sankoh, 32, defended her dissertation.

She is the first deaf Black woman to earn a doctoral degree in a STEM field.

Sankoh said reaching this elite academic milestone feels surreal. Her family is still in Sierra Leone -- proud of her and stunned by what she's accomplished.

She thinks back to that student in Africa who always ranked last in her class.

"I wish I could tell her that there's nothing wrong with you," she said. "I wish I could go back and tell that child, 'You are stronger than you think.'"

The rituals that mark the end of high school have multiplied since I was a senior.

Granted, I graduated in an era so long ago that we had to call our friends on a phone attached to a wall and deal with a busy signal if the line was engaged.

Those were primitive times. It makes sense that students who can take professional-quality photos and shoot videos from phones in their pockets have more events to document.

Our daughter had the misfortune of graduating from high school during the height of the global pandemic two years ago. Her commencement was in the parking lot of a dead mall. There were few senior traditions because most of us were just trying to stay alive.

But this year, for our son's graduation, all the pomp-and-circumstance is back. By the end of the month, his school and the parent organization will have hosted: a Senior Sunset, where the class gathers on the football field on the last day of school to watch the sun go down (a bookend to the Senior Sunrise they had on the first day); a class photo; a senior field trip; a last-day senior picnic; an honors night; the prom; a senior parade and an after-graduation party.

Back in the landline days, we had a senior skip day and a senior prank, both unsanctioned. My former classmates reminded me that our prank involved dumping buckets of water off the roof of the school onto the administrators during our senior picture. The principal was not pleased.

Allegedly, class pranks were outlawed after a student hired a stripper one year.

Gen X was built differently.

I can't imagine my kids, part of do-gooder Gen Z, involved in anything like that. Their school's Instagram feed is filled with student testimonials about their favorite teachers. I have to admit that teachers also seem to have more compassion and patience these days.

I had a chance to think about all the educators who have taught our kids when I showed up for the best senior tradition, which was also new to me: the elementary school walk-through. The seniors put on their caps and gowns, got on the school buses and headed to the elementary feeder school they had attended. Before they entered, the high school teacher who accompanied them told them to hand a sticker to any little kid who reminded them of themselves at that age. The kindergartners through fifth graders lined the hallways with congratulatory signs and chanted, "Let's go, seniors," cheering as the older ones sauntered through the halls.

I kept myself together through all the other "lasts" -- the last tennis match, the last band performance, the last day of school. But when I saw those tiny kindergartners gazing in awe at these giant kids walking through their school, I fought back tears. In that instant I saw the highlight reel -- the school plays, the strings concerts, the end-of-year assemblies and class parties -- that took place in that building. The little ones saw a glimpse into the future; the older ones, a reflection of their past.

My son said his former third grade teacher spotted him in the walk-through and tackled him in a hug. Mrs. Powell had adored him, and I adored her. I don't know if their teachers know how much they shaped them into the young adults they are now or how grateful I am for their effort and care. I don't know if the parents of those kindergartners realize how quickly it will be their babies' turn to walk these halls in caps and gowns.

"What a journey," my son's elementary school chess coach said to me as we walked out. I could only nod, afraid that any words would release the torrent of emotions I was trying to keep under control. As I walked to my car, I ran into the mom of another senior, whom my son has stayed friends with throughout the years.

"I'm trying not to break down in front of my kid," she said. Her voice caught as she held back a sob.

I could hardly speak.

The elementary school looked so much bigger when they used to go there. It seems to have shrunk. Now, they scarcely fit in the hallways. How had they outgrown this place that had helped shape them into young men and women?

I watched from my car in the parking lot, where I used to wait in the pickup line, as the seniors loaded the buses.

Slowly but surely, they left the school behind.

Tasha Turner learned how to change her mom's wound dressings and give her medication when she was in second grade.

Turner's parents divorced when she was 2 years old, and a year later, her mom, Tannette Hunter, got sick. Doctors diagnosed her with cardiomyopathy and other heart afflictions.

Turner was an only child and stepped up as a caregiver. By the age of 7, she could cook a full meal, clean the house and take care of her mom's daily needs.

Hunter, knowing her time was limited, tried to make as many memories with her daughter as possible. "She loved to laugh," Turner said. "She loved to dance, when she could."

When Hunter was too sick to get out of bed, Turner would lie next to her and play with her hair to help her fall asleep.

Hunter died when she was 29 and Turner was 11.

"I remember her being very loving. She was an all-around fun mom," she said.

There's no official count of how many children in America lose a parent before the age of 18. A 2020 study published in the American Journal of Orthopsychiatry estimated that about 4% of U.S. kids under age 18 -- roughly 2.9 million children -- had already experienced the death of a parent or sibling, and projected that about 1 out of 14 would lose a parent or sibling by the time they turned 18. The COVID-19 pandemic escalated child bereavement, with more than 200,000 children losing a parent or primary caregiver to the virus.

Turner, now 35, says she didn't allow herself to really grieve after her mom died. She was sent from her home of Overland, Missouri, to California to live with her father and his family. She struggled to adjust. Halfway through her junior year of high school, she came back to live with her mom's sister in St. Ann, Missouri. Her aunt nurtured her during those turbulent teenage years.

Experts say that having a strong support system is critical to helping children heal from the loss of a parent. Having a ritual or memorial to honor the deceased parent also can be helpful for healing. Turner made a point to visit her mother's gravesite every Mother's Day and lay roses on her grave.

Turner graduated from high school, and a year later, met the man who would become her husband. Richard Turner, then 25, saw her in a car when she was stopped at a light near her church. He followed her to the church and asked if she wanted to hang out. They met up with some friends later and went on a few dates.

"It was almost like a 'love at first sight' type of thing," she said. He was working as a carpenter at the time. A few weeks after they met, he was in a serious accident that nearly severed four of his fingers. Turner moved in with him to help take care of him.

"It's always been a natural role for me," she said. In fact, she went on to become a nurse, until the COVID-19 pandemic burned her out.

She and Richard have now been together 16 years and are raising three daughters. Back when she first moved in, she met her future mother-in-law, Debbie Grafeman.

"I don't know what to call you," Turner said to her.

"You can just call me Mom," Grafeman said. From that point on, Grafeman treated her like a daughter. Turner describes her as "funny and wild and amazing at everything."

Grafeman was in a car accident in September 2018. While she was in the hospital and then in rehab, Turner helped take care of her.

"She didn't trust anyone else to dye her hair but me," Turner said. Grafeman had been recovering, but suddenly passed away in April 2019 from a blood clot.

"Losing her was like losing my own mother all over again," Turner said.

Over the years, she's come to terms with grieving. Despite losing her mom at a young age, she focuses on being grateful for all the love she gave her.

But holidays, especially Mother's Day, are still tough.

That day, she visits two cemeteries. First, she goes to talk to her mom. She tells her about her daughters, how much she misses her and that she loves her. Whenever she can, she takes her daughters with her because she wants them to know about their grandmother.

Turner's eldest, Tiffany McMahon, 17, said she loves the tradition.

"I never met my grandma, but it still makes me emotional," she said.

Turner tells her mom that she can't wait to see her again, and then she drives 10 minutes to where her mother-in-law is buried.

She remembers the first Mother's Day without Grafeman. She cried while she spoke to her.

"Thank you for loving me like a daughter," she said. "I miss you. I'll take care of everyone the best I can."

Then, she heads back home to tend to her family.