Chalkbeat

Why can’t New York City schools design a decent app?

2024-03-15T09:00:00+00:00

Years ago, while chatting with a fellow teacher, I mentioned that my high school was adopting an online learning management system, or LMS, called PupilPath. His expression quickly changed. “You’re going to hate it,” he warned me. He was right. It was awful.

These days, however, I miss it terribly.

Learning management systems — digital databases of student information and electronic grade books, all in one — are great innovations, but their execution often falls short. With rosters of about 170 students, teachers can become swamped with administrative work, so procedures need to be quick and efficient. Anything requiring extra eye or brain work, whether it be an incomplete heading or a tedious procedure, can turn routine work into a quagmire.

Mike Dowd

PupilPath was not nearly as efficient as some other learning management systems I’ve used or seen, yet it had useful features. The system allowed teachers to post and grade assignments, look up guidance counselor and parent contact information, check students’ attendance and grades in other classes, and create and view “anecdotals” — staff reports about issues of concern involving students. The phone app even had a seating chart (an online Delaney Book, for you old-timers), making it quick and easy to take attendance, which was then viewable to parents.

Still, PupilPath was flawed enough that when the company was hacked and the city’s education department banned it, I was elated. But when the city announced that, because so many schools had relied on PupilPath, it would develop its own replacement that would be made available at no cost to schools, well, you probably see where this is going.

For starters, the city’s Grading, Attendance, and Messaging Application, or GAMA, which I started using late last school year, isn’t a single app. In fact, I now find myself using six different apps and websites to do the same job as before, and yet I am still without some of PupilPath’s most useful functions.

For schools that haven’t purchased a new LMS to replace PupilPath, grading has become a nightmare. Because the new grading app won’t allow attachments, I find myself keeping two separate grade books, one in Google Classroom and the other on DOE Grades. But no matter how carefully a teacher tries to transfer the grades from one site to the other, student averages never seem to match up. The discrepancies confuse students and parents and create a lot of extra work for teachers.

Meanwhile, finding basic student information requires teachers to slog through the various sites, many with their own complex navigation. Each site has bits of essential information, but one would need a graphic organizer to remember what exists where. Even obtaining simple facts about students — schedules, grades, or contact information — can be time-consuming and, frankly, infuriating.

Identifying a student’s guidance counselor while viewing their grades, for example, requires logging into a new website that requires an additional texted password, then choosing among 18 vaguely worded information portals and eventually downloading and scrutinizing a PDF of the student’s class schedule.

Even obtaining simple facts about students — schedules, grades, or contact information — can be time-consuming and, frankly, infuriating.

Since teachers take attendance while teaching, the process needs to be quick and simple, but, like just about everything else with GAMA, it’s not. That’s because after class attendance is submitted, it is forever lost to teachers. This absurd setup necessitates taking attendance once on paper and then once or twice electronically each period. Why twice electronically? During my school’s two “daily attendance” periods, teachers fill out the same electronic attendance sheets twice — once to show that students were in class, another to show that these same students were in school. I’ll leave it to readers to ponder this logic.

It’s hard to convey the difficulty of using this app. The phone version defaults to organizing students alphabetically by first name, but then puts last names before first ones, making them harder to scan. Bizarrely, those with two-part first names (common among Chinese-American students) are organized using the second name, placing them completely out of order.

The computer version of the app does contain a seating chart, but — I’m not making this up — it is positioned upside down, making it useless to me. Meanwhile, both versions of the app show so few student names at once that it’s inconvenient to scroll through rosters while teaching.

This system has many more design flaws, but I don’t have the space to explain them all. Furthermore, the apps often load slowly or simply don’t function. The result is constant irritation and mental fatigue among teachers, with our lunch-period discussions becoming less about teaching strategies and more about information-management woes. GAMA woes have even become a topic of conversation among my fellow wrestling coaches and me at weekend tournaments.

At a citywide teachers union meeting last fall, I aired some of the gripes I’ve articulated here. I was then advised by a teacher who was part of the team that created GAMA that if enough teachers emailed the education department, we could likely convince them to address some of the system’s flaws. (Education department officials told Chalkbeat that the city has made multiple updates to GAMA based on feedback from schools, including numerous changes to its grading and attendance applications as recently as February.)

A response to a broken product should not depend on the number of complaints made about it. Teachers, students, and families deserve an LMS that works well for everyone. With a little common sense, some focus from Mayor Adams’ “efficiency czar,” and a review of the well-designed learning management systems that some city schools have invested in, these problems should be simple to fix. For now, though, GAMA remains as dysfunctional as ever.

Mike Dowd is a social studies teacher and wrestling coach at Midwood High School in Brooklyn. He founded the school’s cycling club, and he has been active in transportation advocacy for many years. He and his wife have two children, both of whom attended New York City Public Schools.

As we embrace the ‘science of reading,’ we can’t leave out older students

2023-03-06T13:00:00+00:00

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The day before my first day of teaching middle school in 2018, I decorated my Brooklyn public school classroom with quotes from famous people reflecting on the importance of reading. Hanging on cream-colored cardstock were the words of Malcolm X, Toni Morrison, C.S. Lewis, Barack Obama, Maya Angelou, and dozens of other writers and thinkers. I hoped to inspire my students to fall in love with reading. I didn’t think to hope that all my students could do the very thing I was asking them to love. I didn’t know that part of my job as a sixth grade Humanities teacher would be to teach students to read in the first place.

Shira Engel

There was a round table in the very back of my classroom that a group of five sixth-graders bee-lined to on day one. On day two, I asked one, then another, to read aloud to me. My request was met with silence, guessing, a fist slammed on the table, and a student storming out of the room. When those sixth grade students finally sat down for a reading assessment, their ability to decode print text was at a first or second grade level.

As a newly minted middle school English teacher, I was shocked by the number of students who entered my classroom unable to decode text. As I got to know them, I saw that herculean efforts to mask their reading disabilities revealed intelligence, determination, and traumatic relationships to school.

Since my first year of teaching, I have dedicated a lot of time to understanding why that happened. With the toxic combination of inaccurate reading assessments and a whole-word approach that encouraged guessing rather than decoding, the Matthew Effect (rich get richer, poor get poorer) has been in full swing in middle schools all around the country. The children who lived in text-rich environments and/or with families who could afford supplemental private tutoring got to “get it.” And those who didn’t? Many never acquired the literacy skills that are tied to power and privilege in this country.

Since my first day of teaching middle school, the “science of reading” — tying reading proficiency to explicit phonics instruction in addition to comprehension work — became a catchphrase for Facebook groups, professional development, and curricula. Lucy Calkins revised her popular but widely criticized “Units of Study” curriculum to include phonics-focused lessons. “Sold a Story,” a podcast series investigating reading instruction, became one of the top podcasts of the year. I also got trained in Wilson Reading Systems, an Orton-Gillingham and multisensory approach to teaching the basic phonics instruction many of my middle school students never received.

In my experience, conversations about the science of reading are happening primarily with elementary and early childhood educators. Those conversations are preventing further literacy injustice and disenfranchisement. But how are we addressing the ways that the system has failed our secondary students when they first learned to read? How can I, a middle school ELA teacher, support the students in my class who were passed along without receiving the literacy instruction they needed?

I am worried that secondary students and secondary education as a whole are being left out of the conversation on how children learn to read. It’s wonderful that (finally!) we are getting to the root of the issue, but what about the young people for whom Tier I instruction comes too late? What about students who, from here on out, will need intensive intervention in order to get on grade level?

I found hope in literacy intervention programs targeting adolescents who lacked key skills.

My former sixth graders are in high school now, preparing for college and careers, but the best preparation they can get is one that helps them, once and for all, become fluent readers. I am concerned that among the excitement of elementary curriculum overhauls, we will leave the children who’ve been wronged even further behind. I am afraid that we’ll do to them what this country has done to people who struggle with literacy since its inception: disenfranchise, hide, and erase.

During that first year of teaching middle school, when I was shocked by the students in my class that struggled to sound out single-syllable words, who guessed based on the first two letters rather than sound out, and who, upon hearing they’d do partner reading, developed looks of panic in their eyes, I found hope in literacy intervention programs targeting adolescents who lacked key skills.

I want more for these students. I want every secondary educator to be trained in not just teaching kids about reading; I want them to be trained to teach their students to read, should one or two or 10 sit down in the back of their class and not know how.

I believe in the power of restorative literacy. Every day, I work with adolescents and pre-adolescents who have slipped through the massive cracks of our education system. What I have witnessed during my five years working in vastly different types of schools is that learning, achievement, and opportunity gaps either dramatically widen or dramatically close in middle school. Passion for social justice within our education systems is insufficient; the actual work — the literacy work — that makes change possible needs to occur.

Shira Engel is a former New Yorker who both attended and taught in New York City public schools. She now lives and teaches seventh and eighth grade Humanities in New Haven, Connecticut, and works as a Wilson tutor for students with dyslexia after school. Shira documents her experiences teaching, reading, and learning on Instagram at @readteachjoy.

‘Parents are not allowed in the classroom.’ Here’s why that’s a problem.

2024-03-01T12:00:00+00:00

Just before my daughter’s second birthday, I excitedly emailed her preschool teacher to coordinate a birthday celebration with peers. Then came the teacher’s response, “Unfortunately parents are not allowed in the classroom but we can take some pictures for you!”

Her response left me hurt, disappointed, annoyed, and angry.

Even though I read, write, and research on family-school relations, I had somehow chosen a school with “come if we call” tendencies. In these schools, the staff decides who enters the building. Parents are expected to get advance permission to visit and to show up when invited. This approach suggests parents don’t actually belong and aren’t truly welcome.

Shannon Paige Clark

I could have asked questions. I could have requested we compromise. I could have reached out to the principal to express my displeasure. But I did not want to be that parent, especially as one of few Black mothers with children in that school. That parent — as in the one who gets labeled angry or difficult for their advocacy.

Instead, I told a colleague about the incident, “Can you believe her teacher told me I was not allowed in her classroom? That’s a dealbreaker for me. Had I known they had policies like this, I would never have sent her there.”

I’m a parent who sends holiday cards with gifts and who delivers treats for special occasions. Yet, in just one sentence fragment — “parents are not allowed in the classroom” — my desire to do anything more with the school or for the teacher was smoldered.

For decades, policymakers and school personnel have had the unilateral authority to decide who is welcome in schools. In some districts, there are policies that limit approved visitors to people who have passed background checks, drug tests, and completed an arduous volunteer screening. Others decide on the basis of a range of superficial biases, such as attire or hairstyle. In extreme cases, some parents find themselves forbidden to come within a certain number of feet of their children’s school.

I understand that schools must enact policies that enable them to maintain a safe learning environment. But I’m not convinced that all policies do so.

My own email exchange with my daughter’s teacher made me less likely to do the things the school assumes “good” parents do, like volunteer and participate in school-organized social activities. I simply don’t feel welcome. If I cannot come in when I ask politely in advance, why should I come in when you call? Many institutions have visitation policies. I get that. But why can I visit the classroom to volunteer but not to sing “Happy Birthday”? Is my presence only safe when I am fulfilling a school need?

The benefits of engaged families outweigh the risks avoided by keeping parents out.

Perhaps my example sounds trivial. For me, it was anything but. Because if I was treated this way over birthday festivities, what happens when there is an issue that affects my child’s learning or well-being?

As a former elementary school teacher, I know that another set of eyes can foster angst. I understand that guests can interrupt routines. I do not expect teachers to drop everything to accommodate parents, nor do I expect them to always say yes. But I do expect a dialogue that invites alternatives.

What’s clear to me, as a parent and researcher, is that there are too many practices and policies that suggest families stay out of schools and keep their mouths shut. In a group of parents I interviewed about making peace after an unpleasant interaction with school personnel, one mother explained, “I didn’t [resolve the problem] because I have really bad anxiety, and that teacher is a character, and I already knew she was going to tell me I had to schedule a meeting that conflicted with my other obligations.” While this mother wanted to discuss an incident by phone, school policy required a face-to-face meeting, which made the mother anxious and would require her to take time off work.

I would have been content if my daughter’s teacher had written, “Unfortunately, we haven’t been allowing parents in the classroom since the pandemic began. If it’s very important, you can visit for 15 minutes.” They could have asked me to wear a mask or show the results of a negative COVID test.

Or she could have said something like, “I know how important birthdays are to many parents of young children, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that parents are not invited in the classroom because …” At least then, I would have felt like she empathized with my situation and had given my request serious consideration.

In my research, I characterize interactions among families and schools by their warmth and openness. I use these terms because they convey feelings that influence how people interact. If a teacher or a parent exudes warmth and openness in their tone, body language, and word choice, there are increased opportunities for proactive two-way communication and the ability to find common ground.

While the offer to take pictures conveyed some warmth on the part of my daughter’s teacher, I did not feel enough openness to my desires as a mother, and I replied accordingly.

It is my sincere hope that, as my daughters grow, I will find schools for them where I can have trusting relationships characterized by mutual respect — schools where my presence in the classroom would never be perceived as a threat. Teachers deserve parents who can be there when they need them. And parents deserve to be welcome in their children’s classrooms.

The benefits of engaged families outweigh the risks avoided by keeping parents out. But most of us are too afraid to find out what happens when schools embrace parents because we have been conditioned to see otherwise.

I really wish my daughter’s teacher would have simply said “Come on in!”

If she had, I would not be second-guessing my decision to enroll her in that school. I would not wonder whether there are some parents who are allowed in the classroom. Most importantly, I would not doubt that her teacher understood the significance of honoring parent requests like mine; I simply wanted to celebrate a milestone.

Shannon Paige Clark, Ph.D., is a mother of two young children. She has worked in and with public schools for nearly 15 years, first as an elementary school teacher and then as an instructional coach. Dr. Clark is a postdoctoral fellow at Northwestern University. She researches Black families’ experiences with schools.

My math teacher refused to let me fall through the cracks. It saved my life.

2024-02-27T13:00:00+00:00

Content warning: This essay contains references to self-harm and suicidal ideation.

I was 12 when I thought everyone had given up on me. Feeling like a burden to my family, my teachers, and even the mental health professionals I’d seen, I had given up on myself, too. Sixth grade marked the first time I’d wanted to die, and seventh grade marked the first time I tried to make it happen.

When you’re 12, six years feels like an eternity, so it’s hard to imagine making it to the finish line of a tumultuous adolescence. Many suicidal kids don’t necessarily want to die, but hopelessness is a powerful stranglehold when you have little or no control over your circumstances. Back then, I leaned into my persona as the weird, angry kid to push people away before I could get attached. I’ve since learned in therapy that it’s a common coping mechanism among those who feel rejected at home.

But there was one adult in my life who never gave up on me. One person who wasn’t scared off by my biting sarcasm, chaotic behavior, and tendency to shut down when I struggled with my schoolwork: my seventh grade math teacher, Mr. W.

Xandra Harbet

Between coaching swimming and going for his doctorate, Mr. W was the busiest person I knew, but he refused to let me fall off the face of the Earth. Mr. W spent lunch periods painstakingly explaining each problem in my dreaded skill sheet assignment. The weekly worksheet consisted of problems unrelated to that year’s coursework, and my neurodivergent brain just couldn’t unravel what felt like riddles from the sphinxes that populated the fantasy worlds I used to escape reality.

When he saw that this particular assignment led me to stop trying altogether, he decided to let me skip it, so long as I completed my daily homework. Some teachers refuse to make allowances for kids who think differently. But Mr. W’s accommodations turned a dejected student into someone who made an effort. As a result, I was able to improve my grade.

Mr. W’s class was right before lunch, and I tend to tear up when I yawn, which was a common occurrence in math class. (Sorry, Mr. W.) During these teary-eyed moments, Mr. W would always make sure I was OK, despite the 20 other students in the classroom. That small act of care meant a lot.

My two-week stint in the psychiatric ward, which followed my suicide attempt, felt more like a prison sentence than a saving grace. The monotony of hours with only my thoughts and the yellowing walls to keep me company was excruciating. There was no music, TV, or any of the distractions that helped keep me afloat outside of these dirty walls. It was just about the worst thing you could do to a kid with my potent combination of ADHD and a mood disorder. Visits from Mr. W were the highlight of my time there, providing a dose of normalcy and lighthearted banter that allowed me to forget where I was for a little while.

I had plenty of teachers who cared about me in middle school and the years that followed. However, most of my relationships with adults — both in and beyond school — felt like obligatory transactions. But it was different with Mr. W. He wasn’t trying to turn me into someone I wasn’t or even into an A-student in math. He just wanted to remind me that I mattered; importantly, he remembered to carve out the time and space to do that.

Every day, he offered me five minutes of undivided attention when I could vent, talk about my life, or recap in detail whatever TV show I was obsessing over that week. This continued the following year when he let me eat lunch in his classroom during his free period, even though he wasn’t even my teacher anymore.

When I was in high school, I went back to visit Mr. W weekly, and I remember telling him about the gym teacher who asked how I could live with myself for not taking initiative during whatever tedious drills he was having us do. “He has no idea,” my former math teacher told me, and I have never felt more understood.

Years on, I would occasionally visit his classroom on breaks from college, and without fail, he’d set aside five minutes for me. It’s been a while since I’ve made it back to my old middle school for a visit, but I still keep in touch with Mr. W.

Life is messy, and it’s easy to get swept up in the grind. Too often, children and teens feel dismissed by the busy adults in their lives, which can have real and devastating consequences. I know from experience that the inverse is true, too. Five minutes of recognition and kindness can be lifesaving for a young person who is struggling.

If it weren’t for Mr. W, I might not be here today. On some level, he knew that his time made a difference for me, but it wasn’t until I wrote him a letter inscribed on the author page of my first published short story that he realized he had helped save my life.

Xandra Harbet is a journalist, essayist, and creative writer with bylines in outlets including Salon, Insider, The Daily Dot, Regal, and StyleCaster. She has a BA in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing from the haunted halls of Randolph College. You can find her on social media @XandraHarbet.

Years after pandemic closures, we’re seeing their effects inside our schools

2024-02-23T15:00:00+00:00

Since school buildings reopened after COVID closures, I’ve heard teachers say, again and again, that the older elementary children in their classrooms are just not the same.

I lead a small network of schools, and many of our current fourth graders remain dependent on adults’ opinions and find it hard to move from one problem to the next without reassurance. Our fifth graders can solve a basic math problem but often struggle to explain how to answer a word problem. Across fourth, fifth, and sixth grades, we’re seeing students have trouble with sharing, taking turns, and working with others — symptoms of the developmental milestones many children missed in recent years.

What exactly did they miss?

Christine Ferris

As an early childhood specialist who taught kindergarten through second grade for 12 years, I remember watching the progression of cognitive and social development throughout the early elementary school years.

At the beginning of kindergarten, my students would bunch together, crowding at the door, massing around me, all asking questions or wanting to show me the boo-boo on their finger. Sometimes, it seemed like they didn’t even notice that they weren’t the only child in the room. They had to learn how to exist in a large group.

Once they learned how to manage in a group, we began the work on interpersonal relationships, like how to share, respond to a question, and show empathy. Kindergarteners frequently respond to questions with unrelated statements of fact that are of interest to them. For example, if I were to ask the class, “What do you notice about the main character in this story?” they might say, “My uncle is getting a puppy this weekend” or “I had pancakes for breakfast.” All year, they progressed toward understanding that their perspective wasn’t the only view of the world.

My first graders did understand that there were other people and perspectives. This made them good at working with partners. They wanted to please the adults by following the rules at school, but their good intentions could fall by the wayside if they wanted something badly enough. Because they knew the rules but could not help but break them sometimes, first graders would sometimes lie. “No, I didn’t do it!” was a frequent refrain.

For first graders, the playground was a magical place full of fairies, knights, and superheroes, because all you needed was the right stick or flower or a little scarf tied around your neck to transform. These types of imaginary games are part of developing complex representational thought, which helps our minds visualize characters in novels, understand the symbols that stand in for equations in algebra, and think through a variety of outcomes so we can make strategic life decisions.

My second graders were terrified of making mistakes and froze up when what they were trying to draw didn’t keep up with their underdeveloped fine motor skills. They wanted a lot of reassurance. They wanted to be able to do the things the big kids did, but they weren’t quite sure how. They thrived on routine and working together to tackle complicated tasks, whether it was creating a class newspaper or garden, or running the school post office. Second grade was always my favorite because of that incredible industriousness.

Isolated at home during the pandemic, early elementary school students missed out on complex, make-believe play and had grown out of it by the time we all got back. I worry that this might be getting in the way of tasks that require symbolic reasoning. We see, for example, that our fifth graders can answer a factual question about something they’ve read but struggle to make reasonable inferences.

Many grades have had to go back a few years to teach students some of the more basic concepts. We have adopted a social-emotional curriculum that teaches children to recognize and name their feelings, how to calm themselves down, and how to explain to another person the impact of their actions on them.

There is so much to study about the impact of those two COVID years on learning that I have no doubt it will be the subject of Ph.D. dissertations for decades. But in the meantime, schools and educators are tasked with catching students up on what they missed. The New York Times recently published an article with a tool where you could type in your local school district and see how far behind it was in math and reading compared to the pre-pandemic years.

I believe in assessments. It is crucial to understand what your students know and still need to learn in order to teach them well. But it’s also important to remember that there is much more to child development than learning multiplication tables or the fundamentals of reading. Even as we gauge academic progress and gaps, we must acknowledge the other skills that so many of our students need to catch up on as well.

In our rush as adults to be over this pandemic, let’s not deprive our students of the time they need to explore who they are in relation to their peers. In turn, hard-working teachers and school leaders need grace as they try to figure out how to give every kid what they need and deserve at this unprecedented moment.

Christine Ferris has been the Executive Director of Highline Academy Charter Schools since 2016. She founded and led Our Community School, a K-8 charter school in Los Angeles from 2005 to 2013. She is a writer of personal essays and a memoir about her experience leading Our Community School.

I worried that being trans meant being alone. My community showed me otherwise.

2024-02-23T13:00:00+00:00

It was a typical winter Saturday, and my family and I were walking home from dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. I was wearing an oversized gray knit sweater, a hand-me-down from my grandpa.

I was 13 and obsessed with oversized clothing that hid any curves. I always wore my hair in a ponytail and felt envious around boys my age. Sometimes when I looked at myself in the mirror and in photos, I felt that someone else was looking back at me. I felt strangely disconnected, as if someone had taken a knife and severed the connection between my mind and body. Now, in a lightning-fast moment of epiphany, I knew why.

Kai Arrowood

As the sidewalk passed beneath my feet, a single sentence sprang from my subconscious and repeated over and over in my head like a chant: “I’m not a girl.” The words caught me off guard. A part of me immediately knew they were true, and that was the scariest thing in the world.

As an eighth grader with a strong desire to fit in, I found it difficult to fathom a world in which I was not who I was told to be. My parents had raised a daughter. My friends were friends with a girl. I was a granddaughter, niece, and sister. My assigned gender was so embedded in me that I wondered if I would survive if I reached in and ripped out those roots.

I was afraid of becoming an alien to everyone and everything I knew. At the time, I did not know a single trans person. I thought that not being a girl would mean becoming estranged from my friends and family, that being myself meant not belonging.

I got into bed still wearing the gray sweater, and, lying in the darkness of my bedroom, I stared up at the ceiling. I knew that this realization marked a definite, massive change in my life. I did not know if I was ready.

But the voice in my head kept sounding.

The only thing about my identity that I knew for sure was that I wasn’t a girl. But the possibility of being a guy was so strange to me, so against the norm, that I couldn’t even bring myself to consider it. So after I learned the term online, I figured that I must be non-binary.

Seeing other trans people online made me feel a lot better and less alone. I learned about gender therapy, trans clothing brands, and barber shops. This knowledge lessened the internal pressure I felt because I knew I could do something about what I was feeling.

At the same time, the more I knew about my identity and the more I considered my future, the more I hated what I looked like. As my gender dysphoria got worse, I would stand in the mirror with my shoulders slumped, hiding my chest. I would stare at my long hair and eyelashes with disgust.

The pressure of feeling stuck in my body grew until I was ready to burst. I had to tell someone. So two weeks after my epiphany, I decided to tell my family during dinner.

Tears poured out while I spoke to my family, telling them I was non-binary and wanted to go by the name Ash, which I found on an online list of gender-neutral names. My sister and mom cried, too, while my dad looked confused. Although initially supportive, they were worried and uncertain how being trans would impact the rest of my life. The moments afterward were a blur, and I remember feeling afraid of the massive change.

The next year was the hardest of my life. We were in lockdown due to COVID-19, and the only time I left the house was to play softball, a sport that my dad took immensely seriously. I was closeted until my dad told my coach without my permission. Then I cut my hair and started using my chosen name, and there was no hiding my gender nonconformity.

But my voice and body still didn’t match how I felt. As time went on, my unhappiness and dysphoria made me more introverted, and I grew apart from the girls on the team. I felt other. I felt different — outcast, even.

One day in July, I was sitting in the dugout, the sun bearing down on me. Chatter from the game drifted in the summer air, and sweat dripped down my back. I could hear my team talking and laughing, but when I looked toward them to join in the conversation, I realized that they had moved down the bench, away from me. They seemed so at ease with themselves.

My assigned gender was so embedded in me that I wondered if I would survive if I reached in and ripped out those roots.

I prayed that one day I would leave this weird gray area, where I was not a boy nor was I accepted as a girl. Without saying anything and without bothering to move closer, I swallowed my tears.

I felt hopeless, unattractive, and worthless.

There were some positives, though. My parents took an active and supportive role in my transition and, during one of our conversations, they helped me decide on a new name, not Ash, which I had chosen in a rush, but Kai. I preferred Kai because my parents helped me choose it; my new name felt like a do-over for all of us. Soon after, I excitedly and nervously came out to my class on an advisory Zoom call. Then my math teacher helped me change my name in the school’s system. It was surprisingly easy. My mom just filled out a Google form.

I continued to ponder my gender identity. Sometimes people gendered me as a boy in public, and it made me happy. After many months of introspection, I realized that I wanted to become more masculine. I wanted more than “not a girl.”

The more I researched online and was exposed to the trans community, the less the idea of being a man felt terrifying and impossible. And so, I decided to explore the possibility.

My assigned gender was so embedded in me that I wondered if I would survive if I reached in and ripped out those roots.

The August before my freshman year, I went to a two-week sleepaway camp and started using he/they pronouns. When my friends called me he and him, a giddy feeling filled my chest, and I decided that I wanted to use those pronouns exclusively.

One day at camp, my sister called me her brother for the first time. It felt like there were fireworks going off in my heart. I was a brother, a son, a nephew, a boy. I finally felt that I was finally on solid ground and able to visualize who I was with clarity for the first time.

I didn’t tell my parents until that December, a whole year after I had come out as non-binary. I think they already expected it. At this point, I was dressing in a very masculine way, and they noticed.

The conversation switched almost immediately to options for a medical transition, which was everything I wanted at the time: to no longer feel separated from my body. I told my parents about testosterone gel, injections, and surgeries. To my delight, they were receptive.

After months of medical appointments and conversations with my parents where they made sure that I carefully weighed the potential risks against the benefits, it was decided. I would start testosterone sometime in the summer. Much later than I had originally hoped, but the promise still made me happy.

That summer I went to the same sleepaway camp as before, but this time I slept in the boys’ bunk. My bunkmates were all supportive, and it was the first time I had been truly affirmed by other guys. I even started dating someone from the girls’ bunk.

Having a girl like me as a boy was brand new and felt amazing. There is so much hatred online and in the world that made me feel that no girl would ever want to date a trans man, but that was entirely untrue.

One evening, holding a flip phone and lying on my back in a wet field, I dialed my mom’s number, anticipating the news that I could start taking testosterone. The night air was cool, and there were stars in the dark sky above me.

My mom’s voice sounded like it was coming through a tin can. After a few minutes, she asked, “Do you want to hear the big news?”

My heart stopped just a little, and I was smiling widely in the dark.

“Yes,” I said emphatically.

“The insurance company contacted us. Your testosterone is approved, and it’s waiting for you at home.” I could hear the anticipation in my mom’s voice, that she knew how excited this made me.

“Wow, that’s amazing. Thank you.”

After waiting for so long, her words brought a sweet relief. I would soon become more of who I was. I would look on the outside how I felt so strongly on the inside.

I could almost hear my mom’s smile and felt infinitely grateful to have such an accepting person in my life.

“You’ll start taking it when you get home from camp.”

All I could think was that I wanted to start testosterone immediately. I wanted to have a deep voice and muscles and stubble at once. But the news filled me with hope. I would become everything that I hoped to be.

After years of being publicly misgendered, constantly thinking of how my voice sounded and if I was passing, I would have the physical attributes of a cis boy. I was becoming a man because being a man in my head meant physically fitting into male gender norms.

After I hung up the phone, I walked back to the bunk, a faint yellow light illuminating the porch. The wooden steps creaked under my feet and I pushed through the mosquito netting hanging over the door. I turned to the first guy I saw, my friend Ethan.

“Guess what,” I said, not bothering to hold in my smile.

“What?” He asked expectantly. A few other of my bunkmates gathered around the two of us, hungry for the news.

”My testosterone was approved.” I blurted out, my grin widening.

“Yoooo!” Ethan yelled in unison with at least five other people. He dapped me up, then began chanting.

”One of us, one of us, one of us, one of us, one of us!” he hollered, clapping his hands. Everyone joined in, a thunderstorm of pubescent voices, and I was at the center of it all. My smile could only be described as beaming at that point. The chant continued until it was interrupted by a sleep-deprived counselor who staggered into the room.

”What’s going on?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at the commotion. I didn’t have to answer him.

“Kai’s testosterone got approved,” Ethan said, and his words were followed by a collective cheer. Ethan began the chant again, and this time the counselor joined in.

Emotions swelled in my chest as the echoing chant thundered around me. I was happy, of course, and laughing at the preposterousness of the whole situation. But I was also confused. I had slept in the same bunk as these guys, so why only now did I count?

I wanted to tell them that I was already one of them, that the testosterone didn’t really change anything, that it didn’t make me more of a man, but I didn’t. Partly because I knew that the testosterone would change so much for me, and make so many things better. And partly because the moment was so good and I didn’t want to ruin it.

Here I was in a rickety cabin in rural Massachusetts, a trans teenager being cheered on by 12 cisgender guys. Although the moment was complicated, there was no better feeling than fully exposing myself to everyone, showing everyone who I really am, and having them cheer for me with such fervor. It was one of the best forms of validation. The anxieties I had when I first came out now seemed distant.

By being myself, I wasn’t ostracized but embraced.

A version of this piece first appeared in Youth Communication. It is republished here with permission.

Kai Arrowood is a high school junior from New York City. His dream is to be a journalist and travel the world covering stories. In his free time, Kai likes to bake, write sci-fi, and listen to music. At school, he enjoys studying history and Spanish and writing for the school newspaper. He hopes to show the world that trans people are just like everyone else and are able to succeed despite the challenges they face.

Student voices on Uvalde: Our leaders ‘are just not going to protect us’

2022-06-07T12:00:00+00:00

Today’s high school students were born after the mass shooting at Columbine and were in elementary school when a gunman murdered 20 first graders and six adults at Sandy Hook. These teens are old enough to remember the massacre in Parkland, but most of them were too young to join the protests that followed.

They grew up with routine active shooter drills at school and with the perfunctory “thoughts and prayers” politicians offered when tragedy struck.

Following last month’s school shooting that killed 19 children and two teachers at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas, the supermarket shooting in Buffalo, New York, 10 days earlier, and a year that saw rising homicides in many major American cities, Chalkbeat invited teens around the country to tell us how gun violence affects their lives and education.

In their lifetime, there have been thousands of mass shootings, including those in Philadelphia and Chattanooga, Tennessee this past weekend. There have been hundreds of school shootings, too, but no new and significant federal gun control laws. (Bipartisan talks on firearm restrictions are again underway.) Because of pervasive gun violence, students say they have learned to scan every classroom for places to hide from an active shooter, plan out escape routes, and contemplate whether and how they might help stop a shooter in their school.

Some teens say they have become desensitized to news of mass shootings because there’s no time to process one massacre before another occurs. Other students say the American gun violence epidemic keeps them in a constant state of high alert and that they are traumatized and exhausted.

They fear more than mass shootings and shots fired inside school buildings. Everyday gun violence has them considering how they get to school, where they sit in public spaces, and whether or not they’ll see their families at the end of the day. One student talked to Chalkbeat about Kyhara Tay, the 11-year-old girl struck by a stray bullet last month in the Bronx. Another remembered her schoolmate Jimari Williams, an 18-year-old Chicagoan killed by gunfire just two months before he would have graduated from high school.

The students who opened up to Chalkbeat shared a range of emotions, from numbness to fear, from anger to despair. Although they want more from their leaders, they don’t believe elected officials will take meaningful action to curb gun violence any time soon.

Their stories have been lightly edited for length and clarity.

Pragnya Kaginele: Walking into a classroom, I think about hiding places

Jeremiah Griffith: It can’t get much worse

Amaya Turner: Kids are not pieces on a chessboard

Radiah Jamil: Schools should focus on student mental health and teach self-care

Meleena Salgado: Since third grade, I’ve worried about being shot at school

Anjali Darji: I’m in that crisis state of mind

Bryan Bastidas: America is normalizing gun violence on every scale

Ajibola Junaid: Elected officials must stop fighting the wrong battles

A view of Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas, the site of the deadly May 24 mass shooting.

Walking into a classroom, I think about hiding places

Pragnya Kaginele, 15

Freshman, Carroll High School in Southlake, Texas

Pragnya Kaginele

It almost feels hopeless sometimes. I can’t think of a good solution other than good gun control. But it’s not like I can say “There should be gun control,” and magically there’s gun control. The people who are supposed to be protecting us are just not going to protect us, and they have so much more power than all of us. I’d like to think it would happen when our generation becomes eligible to run [for office], but we can’t wait 15 years.

It’s so strange that people just have guns and can carry them into schools and cause this kind of destruction. What happened in Buffalo wasn’t a school shooting, but it was a hate crime, and it was about a week before. In the span of 10 days, there’s been a racially motivated shooting, and then there’s been a shooting where 19 little kids died. For those to happen back to back, it’s like you don’t finish processing the fact that one happened before the next tragedy. It just keeps coming at you, and I guess your brain starts to think, this is just normal.

Just because it’s been happening so much doesn’t make this loss of life normal. Just because the Founding Fathers wrote in the Constitution 200 years ago that Americans have the right we have the right to have guns — just because people are so obsessed with not making any change to [the status quo] — students are forced to live their lives in fear. (The Second Amendment states, “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”)

When I first go into a classroom, I think about hiding places. If I’m in a hallway, I think, if something happened, what bathroom would I go into? And there are these weird moral questions, like, would I throw myself in front of someone, or would I jump behind them? It feels weird to think about that because I’m 15 years old.

A small memorial sits outside a Chicago liquor store where 58-year-old community activist Willie Cooper was shot and killed on July 17, 2017.

It can’t get much worse

Jeremiah Griffith, 16

Junior, Noble Academy in Chicago

Jeremiah Griffith

I am a student journalist and was covering the Chicago Sky ring ceremony on May 24. The WNBA commissioner was talking about the mass shootings in the past month. She mentioned Buffalo and Texas, and I was confused because I hadn’t heard what had happened in Texas. There was a moment of silence, and the whole arena was silent.

I found out more about it during the post-game interview. When I went home, as I was finishing up the recap of the game and the article, I looked up what happened. It’s sad because, on the one hand, it’s like, oh, another mass shooting — same old, same old. But on the other hand, we have to change something.

The next day, in my AP language class, we talked about the mass shooting in Uvalde. My teacher let us have a Harkness, which is a kind of group discussion. We were talking about how we could possibly change the Second Amendment of the Constitution, but we know that might not happen. We’re being held back by the government and the lobbyists who control the NRA.

Here in Chicago, there are shootings every day. I remember when it first started getting warmer a few weeks ago, there were at least 28 people shot over the weekend , and all it got was local news reporting, and that was about it.

The Buffalo shooter literally used a live stream app, Twitch. All my friends use that app, and a lot of people saw the video (before the stream was removed). We’ve become desensitized to mass shootings, but there’s not much we can do unless there is a drastic change to the entire system. Otherwise, these things are going to keep happening. It can’t get much worse. We’re already witnessing murders on camera, and it’s normal.

This candlelight vigil, held on Feb. 14, 2019, in Orlando, Florida, commemorated the one-year anniversary of the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida.

Kids are not pieces on a chessboard

Amaya Turner, 17

Junior, Abington High School in Abington, Massachusetts

Amaya Turner

School shootings affect me more than I think they should. No matter how often they happen — and happen often, they do — I can never quite manage to feel desensitized. I suppose that’s good. I do not want to become desensitized, but the familiar fear and grief they stir up are beyond exhausting.

Every time a new school shooting occurs, I cannot stop picturing the hundreds of people who were close to the victims and will be forever changed. I cannot help but think about the surviving students who will live forever with the memories. Have we really come to a place in our country where lifelong trauma after a shooting qualifies someone as “one of the lucky ones” because at least they survived?

In 2018, when the Marjory Stoneman Douglas school shooting happened in Parkland, Florida, I remember being terrified to go to school for weeks. In every classroom I sat in, I would try to figure out where I would run or hide if there was a shooter. I was 13. I already knew about Sandy Hook and had internalized the idea that school shootings were a part of life I might as well accept.

But it is difficult to feel safe when watching your teacher cover the narrow floor-to-ceiling window pane with a cabinet because she is afraid a would-be shooter could break the glass. It’s difficult to feel safe when you’ve grown up practicing how to huddle together with the lights off, staying as quiet as possible, and then going through ALICE training (Alert, Lockdown, Inform, Counter, Evacuate). Many adults did not grow up with active shooter drills because they were mostly implemented after the Columbine shooting in 1999. So the majority of our government officials don’t know what it is like to hear kids joke nervously about who would jump in front of a shooter to buy time.

After each tragedy, there are desperate pleas for change but no real change, and then we end up repeating the tragic cycle. It is absolutely soul-crushing.

Student safety is a human right, and children, teens, and their teachers should be able to go to school without fearing the worst. I worry less for my own safety and school — Massachusetts, where I live, has some of the country’s most restrictive gun laws — and more for all the school communities bound to be impacted by mass shootings unless something changes. I worry about the parents planning funerals for their children. I worry about the surviving students who face a lifetime of traumatic memories. I worry about mental health professionals trying to help students who are suffering. I worry about innocent people who have the same mental conditions as past shooters and are now being unfairly stigmatized. Mostly, I worry about how many more children will die before change is finally enacted.

I feel so powerless hearing another shooting being politicized and debated. Kids are not pieces on a chessboard. For now, I can only hope that there will be a generation of children who never know the ever-present anxiety of school shootings or have to watch the death count slowly rise over a series of days. I can only hope my peers and I are granted the time and resources necessary to bring about the changes we deserve.

A girl visits a makeshift memorial for the shooting victims outside the Uvalde County Courthouse in Uvalde, Texas, on May 29, 2022.

Schools should focus on student mental health and teach self-care

Radiah Jamil, 18

Senior, Brooklyn Latin School in New York City

Radiah Jamil

I found out about the school shooting in Uvalde on social media — Instagram specifically. That’s where I get most of my news. It was just an infographic that said the number of people who were dead in Texas.

After mass shootings, a common thing people say is: Make it stricter to get guns or even abolish them completely. But I’m a big-picture person. Mental health is the primary thing that schools can focus on fixing. Mental health affects your thoughts, your decisions, your actions, and your interactions with everyone. It really impacts every aspect of your life, so that’s why I think it’s the primary thing to tackle.

Mental health has long been a crisis that has not gotten enough recognition. There has been a lot of stigma. I think we’re getting a bit better at reducing the stigma with technology, but technology can also make people’s mental health worse. It makes you more prone to cyberbullying, and online, you can be exposed to a lot of negative stuff.

When we were isolated during remote learning, we turned to Instagram and Snapchat to feel more connected. But that might not have been great for our mental health because there was a lot of stuff going on. The country was in such a tough space, and it definitely trickled down to have a negative effect on the mental health of many students.

Like most people, I was in my room for a year and a half and not socializing much. It took a toll on many of my friendships. I was diagnosed with depression. Coming back to school, it’s been so hard transitioning for both teachers and students. I feel like everyone is getting burnt out a lot more. There are many schools that don’t have access to a social worker on a daily basis, and a social worker is someone students can turn to when they’re having a hard time.

Last year, after winning money in a “Shark Tank”-style contest, I founded Mentalligence, a peer-to-peer mental health support organization to teach New York City high school students about different therapies, such as cognitive-behavioral therapy and existential therapy, and self-care techniques. Our peer support gives students a comfortable place to talk about their mental health, especially if they can’t afford a therapist or don’t have a reliable person at home to talk to.

If schools focused on mental health and self-care, it would really go a long way because, at school, we don’t talk about any of that stuff. Even little things like carving out 15 minutes to meditate and do gratitude journaling — teaching these self-care activities so that students can form these habits — could have a greater impact on students’ mental health in the long term.

People mourn at a makeshift memorial for the victims of the shooting at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas, on May 31, 2022.

Since third grade, I’ve worried about being shot up at school

Meleena Salgado, 17

Junior, John Hancock College Preparatory High School in Chicago

I was feeding my dogs, and my dad rushed in and said a school had been shot up. My heart just sank. I was frustrated that there was another one. I hate to use that term because there were people who were lost. But I was just like, come on. No matter how many are hurt, [politicians] are just going to say, “Oh wow, what a tragedy,” and then we’ll find out about the next one.

I’ve been worried about a school shooting since I was little. The oldest fear I have about being shot up at school is when I was, maybe, in third grade. I was in the bathroom alone and heard this really loud bang, and I thought, “Oh, God, maybe this is it.” (That bang turned out to be someone dropping a textbook in the hallway.)

A few weeks ago, my friends and I were discussing where we’d hide if there was a shooting. My friend was saying that there are a lot of windows in this building, and I said that’s unfortunate because what if someone gunned down the windows? Then we said we could try the library, but there are windows there, too. They said, “Well, we could try the theater,” but we realized that is right where the doors are to get into school, so maybe that would be the first place that would be attacked.

Later, when I talked about hiding places with my brother, my mom was looking at us in horror.

A Senate staff member prepares for a press conference on Capitol Hill on January 24, 2013. House and Senate Democrats were joined by law enforcement officials to introduce legislation to ban assault-style weapons and high-capacity magazines.

I’m in that crisis state of mind

Anjali Darji, 17

Junior, Rancocas Valley Regional High School in Mount Holly, New Jersey

Anjali Darji

When I walked into class on Wednesday, my history teacher had the last four mass shootings and the death tolls on the board.

We’re currently learning about the George W. Bush administration, and my teacher went off about the 1994 assault weapons ban that President Bill Clinton signed into law and how the weapons used in the recent mass shootings would have been banned under that law. He told us how the ban ended during the George W. Bush administration and was never renewed.

Then, we had a conversation about how we go forward as America. Do we continue to be proud of America despite this? Or what do we do to change? Or do we just condemn America? He was asking that and no one answered because, honestly, I don’t know how I feel about this. I’m in that crisis state of mind.

On social media, people have been posting the number of U.S. shootings compared to other countries and how high America’s toll has been. And what I proposed in class is that we analyze other countries’ policies on gun control and related policies because they must be doing something right if they have significantly fewer shootings.

When someone brought up what happened in Uvalde, we either had to stop talking about it because someone was gonna cry, or there was just this resigned feeling.

I have plans for what to do in case of a shooting. In one plan, I’m running to save myself. I have another plan in which I’m trying to evade the gunman and help people get out of the building because my school has over 2,000 kids, and it employs hundreds of people. I’m numb to the idea that I do this kind of planning now. It’s just a thing that I do for self-preservation.

Local residents pay their respects at a memorial for Kyhara Tay, an 11-year-old girl shot to death by a stray bullet, May 19, 2022 in the Bronx.

America is normalizing gun violence on every scale

Bryan Bastidas, 17

Senior, International High School for Health Sciences in New York City

Bryan Bastidas

In the middle of a beautiful Tuesday in New York City, after watching “Better Call Saul,” I found myself scrolling through Twitter, bombarded with the news of another mass shooting in Texas. This time it happened in an elementary school.

I was shocked and confused about how a person could do this to small kids. I watched my little brother smiling as he played and watched videos; I was thinking about how someone could take those beautiful smiles from their mouths. I felt disgusted.

The worst part of it is that we are normalizing gun violence on every scale. Not only in Texas but also in New York, where I live. Two weeks before this, a little girl named Kyhara Tay was killed by a stray bullet in the Bronx.

Walking on the streets of New York City does not feel safe, especially for me, a student who always takes trains and buses and uses public spaces to socialize or take a break. Every day, I fear not seeing my father or mother coming back alive from work or my siblings from school. I fear dying on the bus or the train. It’s absurd that an 18-year-old can get a weapon and carry it into public spaces like it’s a cellphone or a toy.

Many people think that banning guns will fix the problem — and yes, it would reduce violence significantly — but we do not think as much about the person who used the weapon. He was only 18. What kind of life did he have? What kind of problems? Sometimes, we see symptoms and signs, but we do not do anything until everything explodes.

I think there should be more and stricter regulations on who and when to carry a gun. Firearms are not toys and should be difficult to get. One great example is Switzerland, which, like the U.S., has a high rate of gun ownership. But, unlike the U.S., which has had more than 200 mass shootings just this year, there have been no mass shootings in Switzerland in 21 years. That country issues licenses for firearms and carefully vets would-be gun owners before issuing these licenses (sometimes talking to mental health professionals in the process).

I think schools should also have more security to prevent these kinds of actions. We can use metal detectors and give police more tools to prevent these events. It is complicated to talk about this problem, but it is worth letting people know that this problem should be fixed. I want my family and friends to have a future where they do not have to fear for their lives in any situation, from walking in the city to being in school.

A memorial dedicated to the 19 children and two adults killed on May 24 during the mass shooting at Robb Elementary School is seen on June 1, 2022 in Uvalde, Texas.

Elected officials must stop fighting the wrong battles

Ajibola Junaid, 18

Senior, Wendell Phillips Academy High School in Chicago

Ajibola Junaid

Gun violence means I don’t know how to ride a bike or have friends in my neighborhood because I don’t feel safe going out. The summertime is the worst because there are gunshots all the time. It’s hot inside, and it’s too risky outside.

Several students at my school have died of gun violence, including, last year, a senior named Jimari Williams, just two months before graduation. This year, a shooting outside my school injured a student and a security guard. It’s sickening. Nowhere feels safe.

We need gun control. We need politicians to stop fighting the wrong battles. Why are so many of them willing to do anything to make abortions illegal but not willing to take the necessary steps to protect the children who are here? Children like the 19 gunned down, along with two of their teachers, in Uvalde, Texas.

My heart bleeds for their families. I send my sincere condolences to all those who are grieving.

The saddest part of all this is that you’d think that massacre after massacre would bring about gun control. But nothing ever happens. The outrage will last only a few weeks, and everything will calm down until some other group of people dies. There have been at least 27 school shootings in the U.S. this year — and it’s only May. Hopefully, this time, government officials will listen to our cries for help. I hope the deaths of these innocent kids bring positive change to our society.

Stories from Anjali Darji, Jeremiah Griffith, Radiah Jamil, Pragnya Kaginele, and Meleena Salgado were told to Gabrielle Birkner.

If you are interested in speaking to Chalkbeat about how gun violence impacts your life and education, please reach out to us at community@chalkbeat.org.

I was 17, homeless, and alone. Here’s how my school helped me back on my feet.

2023-02-06T13:00:00+00:00

When I was 17, I was living temporarily with a friend in Ardmore, Oklahoma, and going to school about 30 minutes away. It wasn’t ideal, but having left a challenging situation at home, this seemed better than the alternative. Then, the friend I was staying with had to move away.

Suddenly, I was alone with nowhere to go and very little support, so I looked for temporary places to live. Often, I had to stay with strangers, always wondering how long it would take them to tell me to leave. My family came to the U.S. from Guanajuato, Mexico, for a better life. But here I was, unable to focus on my studies or future goals, only on my survival.

Carlos Lara-Gonzalez

My own unstable housing, along with other stressors, meant I had missed nearly two months of school. Almost forced to drop out, I managed to re-enroll at a school near where I was staying. That’s how I met Sabra Emde, Ardmore High School’s McKinney-Vento liaison. Sabra’s job is to make sure students experiencing homelessness have access to education and support.

Until I met Sabra, I hadn’t realized that there was a name for the situation I found myself in. When she first sat down with me and explained who she is and what she does, I was confused about why I was speaking with a woman who helps homeless students. I never thought of myself as homeless because I had a roof over my head most nights. She explained that even though I was often sheltered, where I stayed wasn’t always safe, and I could be asked to leave at any time. That meant I was, technically, homeless. And without a parent or guardian in my life, the government designated me an ”unaccompanied homeless youth.”

During the 2020-2021 school year, U.S. public pre-K-12 schools identified nearly 1.1 million students who experienced homelessness. Roughly 9% of homeless students were, like me, unaccompanied. Meanwhile, each year, an estimated one in 10 young adults, ages 18 to 25, experience homelessness unaccompanied by a parent or a guardian, according to a University of Chicago study.

Sabra helped me enroll at my new high school and connected me with resources for clothing, food, and hygiene supplies. As the school year went on, she continued to check in on me and offer support. For the first time in a long time, I no longer worried about when I would eat, where I would stay, or how I would wash my clothes. I felt like I was able to be a kid again, to hang out with the new friends I’d made, and focus on my education. My grades dramatically improved, from C’s and D’s to A’s and B’s. Sabra even helped me find a temporary but more stable living environment that ended up lasting past my high school graduation.

For the first time in a long time, I no longer worried about when I would eat, where I would stay, or how I would wash my clothes.

Sabra did so much for me during my junior year and the following summer. I don’t know how she managed it all while supporting so many other students experiencing homelessness in my school district. (A district official estimated that Ardmore City Schools serves between 150 and 250 homeless students during a typical school year.) When my senior year started, Sabra introduced me to her new colleague Keri Taylor. As a graduation mentor, Keri helped seniors prepare for life after high school. She gave me career assessments, connected me with college recruiters, and helped me apply for scholarships. All the while, Sabra and Keri kept reminding me that I had a bright future.

After graduating high school in 2020, I attended some community college before deciding to work full-time. My housing situation dwindles from time to time, but I always have somewhere to stay, thankfully. I’ve also found purpose in my life: I want to help people who experience situations like mine. One day, I hope to work for a nonprofit — or start my own nonprofit — that does direct outreach to people who don’t have stable housing, especially immigrants, and helps them get back on their feet.

I want to help people like Sabra and Keri helped me.

Carlos Lara-Gonzalez is a full-time worker who feels called to help others who are less fortunate.

I am medically fragile and use a wheelchair. Here’s what makes college possible for me.

2024-02-15T13:00:00+00:00

I will never be independent. That’s OK. No one is.

Don’t get me wrong: I understand wanting to be able to care for oneself. From an evolutionary standpoint, it improves your chance of survival. But when we move the goalpost from surviving to thriving, working together and caring for one another becomes more valuable. I admit I have a different perspective about all of this since I am severely disabled and medically fragile, but I know a few things about succeeding amid adversity.

I’m a junior at Columbia University, and I start each day being lifted out of bed by one of my parents or aides. The bed is raised on legs my dad built and has rails covered with custom padding sewn by my mom’s friend Erin, who also makes costumes for the Muppets. My mom, an engineer, helped Erin with the renovations on her house. We all need help with something.

Abraham Weitzman

I cannot feed myself or prepare and administer my medication. Being tube-fed requires bags, tubes, gauze, tape, and a special high-nutrient, high-calorie formula. My medication is prescribed by various doctors, all of whom have billing assistants, schedulers, nurse practitioners, and fellows working with them. The food, medication, and supplies are inventions of scientists and biomedical engineers. They are produced in factories around the world, packaged, shipped, and ultimately delivered to my house by Ralph, the best UPS man ever. My mom always offers Ralph a cold drink on a hot day.

I rely on all these people for breakfast and seizure prevention. They rely on other people to get through their days, too. They may have coffee from a Starbucks or a bowl of Cheerios they pour from the box, but they probably didn’t grow the coffee beans or harvest the oats. Their breakfast depends on factories and trucking, just like mine.

Once I’m dressed, brushed, and washed, I leave for school with Mahmood. He is my aide and my friend. We have been together for 13 years, and he knows everything about me. It is a short walk to the car, and I settle into the back seat, where my dad has installed a race car five-point harness to keep me safe and comfortable for the drive from my parents’ house in Queens to Manhattan. During the ride, we catch up on fantasy football and plans for the week.

There is always a parking spot waiting for us near Columbia since I have a parking pass for people with disabilities. Such accommodations are made possible by New York taxpayers and voters. It would not be possible for Mahmood to spend his days with me unpaid. He has living expenses and three adorable nephews who need baseball gear, books, and art supplies. Luckily, his salary and benefits are paid for mostly by a state-supported program called Self-Direction, which assists people with severe disabilities who are living, learning, and working in the community.

No one plans on needing help caring for themselves, but many people will need help with daily tasks at some point in their lives. About 11% of all New York City residents have disabilities, including 47% of city residents over age 65.

Monday at 2 p.m., I attend an art history lecture, followed by a small discussion group. I roll in and take the open space in between the fixed seats. The professor uses a microphone and his lecture appears at the bottom of the projection screen when he speaks.

While I pay close attention to the images on the screen and his terrific explanations, I cannot take notes fast enough to keep up. I don’t worry though, since one of my classmates is paid to share their notes with students who cannot take their own. I communicate by standing and hitting a six-switch array with my chest, which drives computer software my dad wrote for me. (Here’s a video of me typing.)

The laws and the regulations that have made my life and schooling possible have been hard-won. In 1977, disability activists staged the national 504 Sit-In to demand their civil rights, and in 1990, activists with disabilities left their mobility aids behind and crawled up the steps of Congress in what is known as the Capitol Crawl. Such activism helped lead to the passage of the Americans With Disabilities Act of 1990, federal legislation that mandates public spaces be made accessible to people with mobility challenges and those with other disabilities.

A photo of President George H. W. Bush signing the Americans with Disabilities Act on July 26, 1990. Below the photo is an inscription from the president to Justin Dart, a disability rights activist who is seated at right. It reads, “Without your drive, your ‘believing’ and your leadership this day would not have been possible."

These accommodations are necessary to ensure that I have access to an education and opportunities afforded to my peers without disabilities. It does not mean I’m entitled to the same destiny, only that I’m offered reasonable assistance, like more time to complete an exam, or opportunities to participate in class even though I am non-speaking.

Making rules is important, but having people who follow them makes my experience at Columbia possible. Laura Dayan in the university’s Disability Services office regularly communicates with my professors, sends my switches to my classrooms, and schedules testing around my physical limitations and medical needs. Laura is the face I know, but the campus is filled with others who advocate for accessibility projects, maintain elevators, and send me their lecture notes. I rely on and appreciate all of them.

At Columbia, I contribute to our community by listening to others and sharing my perspective. I always start with listening. Part of that is by necessity since I need to stand to access my communication system. Even when I could speak first, I choose to listen because people need to know that their experience is acknowledged and appreciated. When we listen, we are prioritizing other perspectives over our own.

Despite my challenges, I have a life of fortune. From the moment I was born, I’ve been adored, supported, pushed, and expected to do great things. My parents’ belief in me, and the persistence and confidence they instilled, empower me to tackle every day. I model that behavior, reminding those around me that they are not alone. I see their challenges, and I have confidence in them.

The visible and audible nature of my disabilities means they cannot be hidden. But human vulnerabilities, whether invisible or in plain view, are not shameful.

After class, my body is tired but there is lots of reading and research to do. I return to my dorm room, where I stay over from Monday through Thursday, and another aide, Ben, arrives so Mahmood can go home to his family. Ben bathes me, and we settle in for an evening of selections from books and journals. I can read but my involuntary movements make it impossible to keep track of my place on the page. Some documents are formatted for text-to-speech, and others Ben reads to me. He is good at reading aloud since he studied acting in college, and he gives the best baths. We share a love of film, especially horror movies.

Needing a team may seem like a sign that I am completely dependent on others. After all, I am never left without someone who could get me out of the building in case of a fire. The truth is everyone needs a team to help them through life. Weathering difficulties and celebrating accomplishments are best done in community.

I am not independent and, with the possible exception of hermits and desert island survivors, neither is anyone else. We all need friends, and we all rely on strangers who fabricate and maintain the world around us. We are all vulnerable to disability and will likely experience it at some point in our lives. And we all need examples to remind us that persistence and patience can produce great things.

Abey Weitzman is a junior at Columbia University. He enjoys traveling and staying home. Weitzman is a graduate of Bard High School Early College Queens. As a disability advocate, he hopes to use his writing to create change for his community. In 2017, Weitzman wrote in Chalkbeat about navigating New York City public high school admissions as a wheelchair user.

A visit to Auschwitz changed how I teach about the Holocaust

2024-01-26T12:00:00+00:00

When I was in sixth grade, I read Anne Frank’s “The Diary of a Young Girl.” This was my introduction to the Holocaust. I was so moved by her life — and subsequent death at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp — that I vowed to never forget Anne and the six million Jews murdered by the Nazis.

My 12-year-old mind could not fathom the senselessness of her murder. As I was reading her diary, I fully expected the outspoken girl who liked to read and disliked math, who had crushes and dreams for the future, to live. Anne reminded me of myself. To this day, it still saddens and haunts me that she did not survive.

Nikia Garland

The similarities between the plight of the Jewish people and Black Americans were also not lost on me. I was moved by photos of Black American soldiers helping to liberate the Jews from concentration camps, and struck by the irony of those servicemen returning to the U.S. where they were denied basic rights, faced racial hostility, and were still not completely free. I am a high school English teacher, and I was determined to teach my students about Black soldiers, such as Cpl. James W. Baldwin, who helped liberate Europe from Hitler’s rule.

Then, last June, decades after I first read Anne’s diary, I had the opportunity to travel solo to Poland and Germany as a Funds for Teachers Fellow. I pursued this fellowship because I wanted to learn more about the Holocaust, as I teach a unit on the subject.

When I arrived at Auschwitz, where about 1 million Jews were murdered, the atmosphere was heavy. Despite it being a sweltering summer day, I felt a distinct chill flow through me as I entered the gates that read, “Arbeit macht frei,” German for “Work sets you free,” even though the millions who passed through those gates were killed or brutally imprisoned and forced to work.

At Auschwitz, I was not prepared for the artifacts that were left behind. There were suitcases bearing names, dishes, and bundles upon bundles of human hair that the Nazis used for textiles. It was especially difficult to see the children’s clothing and shoes, photographs of grossly emaciated prisoners — including kids — and the squalid living conditions they endured.

Holocaust survivor Eva Mozes Kor stands outside the CANDLES Holocaust Museum and Education Center in Terre Haute, Indiana, during the filming of the 2014 Andre Singer documentary "Night Will Fall." Kor died at age 85 in 2019.

Entering the gas chamber there was like being transported back in time. The sharp scent of death still lingered in the air. It completely overwhelmed my senses, and I was moved to tears.

I also visited Oskar Schindler’s enamel factory in Krakow, Poland, which is now a museum. Schindler, a German businessman credited with saving more than 1,000 Jews, was the subject of Steven Spielberg’s Oscar-winning 1993 film “Schindler’s List.” Another museum visitor recommended the movie to me.

I watched it on my flight home from Europe — an emotional screening on the heels of an emotional trip. I was captivated by Schindler’s metamorphosis from an opportunistic industrialist to an upstander who, repulsed by the Nazis’ brutal treatment of Jews, developed a plan to save as many as he could. This year, I plan to have my AP students watch “Schindler’s List” and write a rhetorical analysis.

It’s one way my trip to Europe will shape how I teach about the Holocaust. I also created a PowerPoint about my trip to European Holocaust sites, and I have planned field trips to Indianapolis’ Peace Center for Reconciliation and Forgiveness, founded by a survivor of the 1994 Rwandan genocide and to a live production of “Letters From Anne and Martin,” which highlights the parallels between Anne Frank and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

In addition, my students will research a real Holocaust victim and learn their story. They will also hear about Eva Mozes Kor, a Holocaust survivor who, along with her twin sister, Miriam, endured the experiments of the brutal Nazi doctor Josef Mengele. Kor lived for many years in Terre Haute, Indiana, and opened a Holocaust museum and education center there. When I was at Auschwitz, I saw a large photo of Eva and her sister being liberated by Russian soldiers in 1945. (Kor died in 2019 at age 85.)

I also hope to speak to my son’s eighth grade humanities class as they study the rise of totalitarianism in the 20th century. And I look forward to sharing what I saw and learned during my Holocaust education fellowship in other schools and classrooms, too.

My students, and all students, should know what happened during the Holocaust. They should understand the importance of empathizing with those who are suffering, regardless of race or creed, and advocating for justice on their behalf. They will read the famous verse “First They Came For…” by Pastor Martin Niemöller, to help emphasize the danger of being indifferent to those in pain.

In memory of Anne Frank, whose story captured my 12-year-old self and whose death broke my heart, I am determined to help shape a generation of upstanders.

Nikia D. Garland teaches British Literature and AP Language and Composition at Arsenal Technical High School. She has taught a wide range of secondary and college-level ELA classes in the U.S. and internationally. Nikia has been a Terry Fear Holocaust Educator in Action recipient, a Mark Schonwetter Holocaust Education Foundation grant recipient, a Lilly Endowment Teacher Creativity Fellow, a Fund For Teachers Fellow, and a Grosvenor Teacher Fellow. In addition, she is a chair for the Indiana Teachers of Writing conference and president-elect for the Indiana affiliate of the National Council of Teachers of English.

I was told my Bronx high school had a bad reputation. I’m glad I didn’t listen.

2024-01-23T13:00:00+00:00

The writer of this essay is a 2023-24 Student Voices Fellow at Chalkbeat. Click to learn more about our high school fellowship program.

I sat in my room on a half-broken laptop worriedly staring at the high school application portal. At only 13 years old, I had to make a big decision: where I would spend the next four years. It was the beginning of winter, the season was changing, and like the cold weather, I already felt life rushing at me.

I went to a small middle school, where all 300 or so students shared one floor of a building, one gym, and one guidance counselor. My grades and test scores were competitive, but I wasn’t encouraged to apply to any of the city’s elite public high schools. I remember my guidance counselor telling me that “students from our school rarely ever get admitted into the top high schools.”

I ranked Harry S. Truman High School in the Co-Op City section of the Bronx as No. 1 on my application. When I told my siblings, there was fear in their eyes. Truman, they said, was “one of the worst schools in New York City.” While it was no secret to me that Truman had a bit of a reputation, I was enthusiastic about my decision.

I chose Truman because it is the largest comprehensive school in the Bronx. It has lots of sports and clubs, and did I mention a phenomenal four-year law program (because by age 13, I thought I wanted to be a lawyer). I ignored my siblings’ cries and embraced my choice.

My freshman year was unconventional, considering it was 2020-21, and most New York City high school students were learning online. I decided to go to school in person because I wanted the classic high school experience. But the school building and the classes were mostly empty. After just a week or so, I found the entire experience to be so depressing that I switched back to online learning.

Emily Muñoz wins money from a pitch competition.

I worked hard during my freshman year, staying after class to talk with teachers and joining many virtual clubs at my school. I found it difficult to make friends or even find other students who were as equally committed to their studies and as shy as I was. Unable to find my place, I began to regret choosing Truman.

I was beyond thrilled to find out that school would be returning in person for my sophomore year. At Truman, I made more friends, tried out track, and continued to take part in student government and mock trial. Although I fell out of love with the idea of becoming a lawyer, I developed a deep interest in politics.

While I valued these experiences, going to Truman was often bittersweet. Each day, I had to wait in long lines to go through metal detectors, which felt dehumanizing. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate because there were loud and disruptive students in the hallway. I also questioned some of our peculiar school policies, like those about who could enter the cafeteria and when.

Desperately wanting to escape the bubble of my school, I applied to the Family Court Division Youth Leadership Council. I was interviewed by a lawyer who was impressed with my passion, responses, and high grades. Then I told her where I went to high school. “Truman?” I remember her saying. “I haven’t heard good things about that school.”

Although I was selected to serve on the Youth Leadership Council, the interviewer’s surprise was the first of countless bursts of astonishment I’ve heard when I mentioned my school to people who knew of it but didn’t go there. “You go to Truman!?” people would say. “You don’t seem like it!” People assumed that attending Truman meant that I was mean, “ghetto,” unknowledgeable, and just everything short of the high-achieving high school student I was.

But I was determined to prove them wrong, not only for myself but also for the countless Truman students who work hard and do wonderful things despite the systemic inequities that many of us experience. (During the 2022-23 school year, some 88% of Truman’s nearly 1,900 students were Black and Hispanic, and nearly four out of five came from low-income households, according to city data.)

By getting involved with different organizations, such as the Youth Leadership Council, I was able to expand my network. One door opened the next, and soon, I found myself giving speeches at youth conferences to hundreds of people, being one of the youngest Young Scholars at the African American Policy Forum, and winning both national and citywide awards for my artivist poetry (and getting my poetry published).

Recognizing that a majority of students at my school did not have the same access to the resources and networks I was fortunate to discover, I decided to launch a mentorship program, Becoming Greatness, connecting underclassmen from marginalized communities to high-achieving upperclassmen who are also from marginalized communities. I won funding through a citywide pitch competition, and I’m currently working with my school’s administration to facilitate the official rollout of the program.

To my astonishment, I opened my email last summer and learned that I had been nominated for a prestigious Posse scholarship, which provides full-tuition leadership scholarships to partnering colleges and universities (as well as pre-collegiate training, professional development opportunities, and more). Where I come from, it’s not common for students to attend elite colleges, let alone receive merit scholarships to those schools. During my three long Posse interviews, I often felt like an imposter being surrounded by people from some of the most renowned high schools in the city. The sheer competitiveness and high stakes during the final interview nearly left me in tears.

But last month, I received the exciting news that I was chosen from among thousands of Posse Scholar nominees to attend Vanderbilt University.

It’s winter again now, just like in years past and just like in years to come. The only difference now is that I’m 17 and can’t help but softly smile at how far I’ve come. Even though people may have doubted me, my unwavering passion to expand my horizons has allowed me to persist. As I look forward to college, I’m just as determined to seize further opportunities — whether that means continuing my work to bridge educational disparities or studying abroad in France. But four years after submitting my high school application, I can confidently say that it’s never where we go but the fruit we make of it.

Emily Munoz is a 2023-24 Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow. She is an award-winning and published artivist poet and an advocate for intersectional racial and gender equity. A Young Scholar at the African American Policy Forum, a podcast host with Next Generation Politics, and a Teen Reading Ambassador at the New York Public Library, Emily is passionate about educational equity and plans on majoring in Political Science. Emily will be attending Vanderbilt University as a Posse Scholar in the fall.

NYC needs fully accessible schools. Families like mine depend on it.

2024-01-26T13:00:00+00:00

Josh and I were excited, planning for a child. I was not a happy pregnant person, but at each appointment, I was assured that the baby was growing well. Each sonogram declared he was “perfect.” After an uneventful full-term birth, our son Abey was born 8 pounds, 8 ounces. Within four months we knew he had challenges. At a year old, Abey did not sit, eat, grab a toy, or look at my face.

We had not planned for Abey’s disabilities, but in the months and years that followed, we became well-versed in therapies, doctor’s appointments, feeding tubes, seizure medications, and wheelchairs. By the time Abey was ready for kindergarten, we realized that our school system had not planned for his disabilities either.

Michelle Noris

Abey was born 13 years to the day after the Americans with Disabilities Act, or ADA, was signed into law. When we started looking at kindergartens, we found that the school across the street was not accessible. Neither were any of the schools within walking distance from our Queens home. He would need to be bused to another neighborhood.

When we looked at schools in other neighborhoods, school staff said things like “You won’t be happy here” and “We can’t handle his needs.” Finally, after the city’s Committee on Special Education agreed that its schools could not provide him an appropriate education, Abey, my 5-year-old who could not speak, ended up on a bus, hours each day, to Nassau County. Between kindergarten and eighth grade, he spent some 3,500 hours commuting.

What did that mean for Abey, other than thousands of hours lost to busing? It meant no after-school activities, since the school bus would not bring him home. It meant very few playdates, since I would need to drive to and from Nassau anytime he was invited anywhere. It meant he didn’t have friends in the community where he lived, since he had no exposure to them in school.

What did that mean for our family? It meant that every parent-teacher conference or school event required that one of his parents miss half a day of work. It meant that a bus strike required us to drive him back and forth to Long Island, which could take hours and meant more time off work. It meant not having my sons, born two years apart, in the same school like all the other moms on my block. We were socially isolated and economically penalized by our school system because Abey was disabled.

Fast forward 15 years, and Abey is a junior at Columbia University, where he enrolled after graduating from Bard High School Early College Queens, a fully accessible high school just 20 minutes from home.

The school across the street where we initially hoped to send Abey to kindergarten still is not accessible, and neither are any of those in walking distance from our home. Another generation of students with physical disabilities is being denied access to their community schools.

When I realized that New York City’s public schools were woefully behind in ADA compliance, I set about understanding why. As with many problems, the root was money. The first time I looked at the accessibility of our schools, back in 2018, only about 18% of city public schools were fully accessible, according to the group Advocates for Children.

The author with her son Abey at a Mets game.

The education department’s 2015-2019 capital budget allocated $100 million to improve accessibility in schools, with an additional $50 million earmarked in 2019. That sounds like a lot of money, but only 14 inaccessible or partially accessible school buildings became fully accessible with those dollars, according to a city report. At another 13 school buildings, building accessibility was improved though not enough to make them fully accessible, the report shows.

At the rate they were going, it would have taken many generations for the education department’s 1,300 school buildings to reach full accessibility.

The solution was, and is, funding. Based on what the education department was able to accomplish with the 2015-2019 capital plan, I projected that the city needed to invest about $1 billion every five years for all schools to become fully accessible within 26 years. During the 2020-24 budget cycle, the city allocated $750 million, and by 2023, 31% of city schools were fully accessible, up 13 percentage points from five years earlier.

To continue toward a school system that is inclusive and compliant with federal law, Advocates for Children asked the city to allocate $1.25 billion for accessibility in the next budget cycle, which runs 2025-29. But this time around, the city has plans to spend only about two-thirds of that, $800 million, for accessibility. It may be tempting to point to New York City’s current financial strains and say, “We cannot afford that now; we will do it later.” I say that it has been more than 33 years since the ADA was passed, and we are catching up on work that should have been completed years ago.

I did not plan in advance for my disabled son. When he arrived, my husband and I put our emotional, mental, and financial resources into making sure he got what he needed. New York City did not know that my son would be disabled, but we all knew, and still know, that disabled children will continue to join our community and need to go to school. They need friends in the neighborhood, rather than being bused to other counties. Families like mine should not shoulder greater logistical and financial burdens than our neighbors with non-disabled children. Our city must plan, budget for, and fast-track accessible schools. Students and families demand it, depend on it, and deserve it.

Michelle Noris is a mom to three children educated through the New York City Public Schools and owner of Norfast Engineering PLLC.

We are facing a migrant mental health crisis. More school social workers could help.

2024-02-05T13:00:00+00:00

A new student recently arrived in my third grade classroom in tears. She missed her mom, who was back in Colombia, she told me. She cried from 8 a.m. until lunch. The other students stared. Some cried, too. Some offered hugs. We all felt the heaviness of the moment.

I tried every trauma-informed technique I knew to comfort her: We took deep breaths, she visited our peace corner, I lent her a teddy bear, we looked at some calming books, and she wrote a letter to her mom. Despite my efforts, this child was inconsolable, and I could not just continue teaching. Our school’s lone social worker was dealing with cases that had already escalated into crises. I felt woefully unprepared.

Ashley Busone Rodríguez

I teach at a community school in Washington Heights where, like most New York City schools, we’ve recently received a dramatic increase in immigrant students. Unfortunately, it feels like we are failing them from the minute they walk through our school doors.

As teachers, we have a lot of training in literacy and math instruction. What we’re missing is what to do when trauma interrupts our teaching. Through my work with the City University of New York Initiative on Immigration and Education, I recently published this guide on trauma-informed practice for educators. I’ve been fortunate to gather resources and training on techniques that can support my newcomer students.

But even my practice isn’t enough to get teachers and students through this crisis. We need more social workers in our schools. Because if we don’t address their trauma now, these children won’t be able to get through the day, let alone learn.

Our one social worker for 450 elementary students does not have time in her overflowing caseload to do an intake with every new child. And our school is better than some in New York’s Department of Education. In 2023, there were about 907,000 students enrolled in NYC Public Schools, not including charters. There were around 2,000 social workers, according to the department’s press office. Like at our school, that’s roughly one social worker for every 450 students.

Instead of receiving trauma-informed resources and training from the city, I receive paperwork to fill out. Almost immediately, I must evaluate migrant students’ reading levels: Do they need English as a New Language services? I have to quiz them in math and determine if they will need intervention. I have to find out if they’ve been out of school and, if so, for how long. I am allowed to provide these students basic necessities, such as school uniforms or snacks from the teacher’s lounge if they have not eaten that morning, but a social worker could do so much more.

With more social workers, our school could offer consistent counseling to new students and their families, with periodic check-ins to monitor their mental and physical health and their academic progress. They could do more home visits and provide more preventative, rather than crisis, mental health care. They could take the time to really get to know families and build trust with them.

Due to time constraints, my own conversations with new families must be brief. I usually duck into the hallway to meet a parent or a relative who tells me stories of persecution, famine, poverty, or natural disasters that drove them to seek refuge in the United States. If I had time to linger, I might be able to understand the root causes of their child’s trauma. I could relay this information to a social worker who could apply their training when time permits.

Instead, I try to convince the family that their child will do just fine in my classroom, and then I have to return to teaching the rest of the class. When a child continues to cry, their tears remind me that they need more than milk and a math assessment.

On the same day I was trying to console our newest student, I got an email from the school district about Saturday School. I couldn’t help but think how the education system’s priorities were so backward.

Many schools in New York City run programs like Saturday School that help promote academic and test-taking skills. Where I work, we typically choose students who need a little extra help in math or reading and set aside money for curriculum and staff to run a remedial program. Our new arrivals are often considered for this academic support.

But how can we possibly be expecting these students to attend Saturday School for tutoring when they can barely get through school on a weekday?

Another “urgent email” recently came across my screen while I was reading a gut-wrenching article about the 11-year-old migrant who apparently died by suicide in a New York City shelter a few weeks ago. As I scrolled through, holding back tears, I saw the education department’s mandatory “Remote Learning Protocol” reminder pop up on my screen. That meant I had to reshuffle my schedule that day to ensure that students took computers home, that I assigned work in Google Classroom, and that parents had their passwords “just in case.”

Saturday School. Technology for every child. All of these are great initiatives and have their purpose. But what if, instead of test prep and technology, we use these resources to hire social workers and trauma counselors? What if there was time in every school’s schedule for social-emotional check-ins and self-care small groups? In the wake of a nationwide migrant mental health crisis, we must prioritize our students’ mental health before their ability to answer multiple-choice questions or log in to a Chromebook.

Ashley Busone Rodríguez is a third grade bilingual teacher at an elementary school in New York City’s Washington Heights neighborhood. She’s also a project researcher and instructor at the CUNY-Initiative on Immigration and Education. She has 50 students on her roster between two classes, and 11 of them were new to the country last school year.

I applied to 23 colleges and wrote 50 essays. Here’s what I learned.

2024-02-02T13:00:00+00:00

The writer of this essay is a 2023-24 Student Voices Fellow at Chalkbeat. Click to learn more about our high school fellowship program.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Sitting in the Seward Park Public Library, my fingers dance as they click away at my laptop’s keyboard, their momentum fueled by the overwhelming sense that all my hard work will pay off on decision day. But hours later, when all my mental power is drained and the rock songs on my Spotify playlist start repeating, I feel a sense of dread. What if I don’t get in?

For the past few months, the stress of the college application dominated my life, fueled by my desire to study at what society refers to as “top schools”— prestigious institutions of higher education that provide students with a world-class education but accept only a tiny percentage of those who apply.

Alexander Calafiura

Overall, I spent some 200 hours applying to 23 schools and writing 50 supplemental essays, with topics ranging from my interest in a school to the three words that best describe my life. Answer: providential, earnest, and excited. Of all the schools that I applied to, seven were “safeties,” meaning I was more likely than not to get in, four were “targets,” for which my grades and scores made me a strong candidate, and 12 were “reaches,” schools with the most competitive and unpredictable admissions practices.

Why would anyone in their right mind subject themselves to this much work when they can only enroll in one school? Why pay application fees, some of which top $80, for so many schools? Turns out, among my friends, many of whom attend some of New York City’s most competitive public and private schools, this is becoming an increasingly common practice.

The trend is not limited to my social circle or New York City students. In recent years, the Common Application, a platform that allows students to use one application for the majority of U.S. colleges, has made it easier for students to apply to multiple schools. And with fee waivers, which I qualified for, the Common Application has given students the ability to apply to a wide range of schools at no cost. Since schools that accept the Common Application may ask for supplementary essays, the number of schools I applied to was limited only by my own time, effort, and sanity. For instance, the University of Pennsylvania asks you to write a thank you note to someone who you’ve yet to thank, and Columbia University asks you to list the literature and media that has had the most impact on your intellectual development.

Additionally, in recent years, the Internet has popularized what is called the “shotgunning” method — that is, applying to many elite schools at once in hopes that at least one school will accept you. Essentially, “shotgunners” believe that because they have no insight, year to year, into the exact mix of qualities and skills a school is looking for, they might as well spread out their options in the interest of finding one singular “match” school.

And since many prestigious colleges went test-optional during COVID — meaning SAT and ACT scores are no longer required for admissions consideration — the Common App saw a 30% increase in total applications, which resulted in an even lower percentage of applicants getting in.

I am no expert in college admissions, but I have spent hundreds of hours applying to colleges. In the interest of benefitting future applicants and providing some insight into what it’s like to apply to college, here are some of my biggest takeaways from the whole process.

Strive to be yourself and find your authentic voice.

I’ve always thought that “be yourself” is a reductive piece of advice, but having been through the application process, I have to admit that it’s true. In my case, I wrote about my love for cycling around New York City and my passion for Russian literature. Colleges want to know what makes you unique, and your thoughts and emotions are a large part of that. To that end, rather than inventing aspirations and exaggerating your experiences just to appeal to an admissions officer, you should genuinely believe what you’re writing. If you don’t, why would the person reading your application believe it?

Stay organized or waste hours of your time.

If you’re like me, and you find it hard to keep track of things in your head, a spreadsheet or document that contains or links to all your college application-related materials will be invaluable. I’d say that more than anything else, following my college counselor’s recommendation of using a spreadsheet saved me tens of hours of my time, and made my life 10x easier. Added bonus: Keeping track of the total number of supplements I had left to do was motivating as well as therapeutic.

Love your schools, or you won’t love applying to them.

Applying to so many schools is not for everybody. In fact, if you don’t truly love a school, don’t feel pressured to apply for the sake of prestige or name value. Without a genuine interest and passion for these institutions, it’ll only be a matter of time until you burn out and the quality of your applications suffers. For instance, I wanted to attend college in the Northeast or California, so I made the difficult choice to take great schools, such as the University of Texas at Austin and Vanderbilt, off my list.

The process is temporary, but the takeaways are forever.

After writing so many essays about my experiences, interests, and desires, I realized that my supplemental essays were emblematic of what I wanted out of life and my college experience. For example, after I began writing about my intended major (economics), it occurred to me that what I’m truly passionate about is policy’s intersection with economics and mathematical modeling. After I began writing about my most treasured extracurricular experiences, it became clear to me how much I valued using my voice as a tool to impact my community and effect change. I believe that writing about your genuine interests is more valuable to you than simply trying to present something that you think will appeal to colleges.

Find ways to avoid (my archnemesis) procrastination.

As I started writing my essays, I struggled a lot with procrastination because I worried that no matter how artistic or beautiful the essays I wrote were, I’d still be rejected from a school. Over time, I’ve learned that this is a natural emotion. But once you fall into the trap of thinking this way, you’ll waste so much time that the quality of your work will suffer. Thankfully, I got around these thoughts by staying off social media, taking consistent, relaxing breaks, and practicing mindfulness. For example, I found it to be particularly helpful to take a “mental reset” every few hours; I did this by jogging along the East River, getting boba with friends, and going to the gym. After my brain and body took a break, I found it to be a lot easier to pour my thoughts onto paper and discover prior flaws or mistakes in my writing.

Now that I’m essentially done with the college application process, I’m extremely excited for admissions decisions over the next couple of months. But in the short term, I face the alarming, perennial beast: senioritis. I’ll take my time to address it after one … more … episode … of … “Suits” on Netflix.

Alexander Calafiura, a Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow for 2023-2 is a senior at East Side Community High School in New York City. In his spare time, he enjoys folding origami, reading classic literature, and discussing politics. At school, he is a co-editor-in-chief of the student newspaper, The East Sider.

Las familias como la mía necesitan más libros bilingües para niños

2022-03-31T17:59:42+00:00

Pasé semanas redactando un guión para mi primera competencia de ideas y ensayándolo por Zoom con mi mentora, Symone. Asegura que los jueces puedan verte los ojos, me dijo. Incluye estadísticas relevantes. Define para ellos lo que significa ser “bilingüe”.

Para prepararme, monté mi escritorio en la habitación más iluminada de nuestra casa, y con la ayuda de mi mamá decoré la pared blanca que está detrás de mí con un cartel de muchos colores. Como toque final, mandé a hacer una camiseta con el primer logo de mi empresa.

Finalmente, grabé mi presentación de dos minutos y la envié.

“Hola, me llamo Daniela Palacios”, comencé, presentando mi empresa, Para KIDS! “Vendo libros para niños bilingües que están escritos tanto en inglés como en español. Se me ocurrió la idea porque como hermana mayor, me cuesta encontrar libros bilingües para mi hermano menor, que tiene dificultades para entender libros en español”.

Por los últimos dos años, me he propuesto que estos libros lleguen a las familias que los necesitan — familias como la mía. Lo que me hace seguir adelante es el amor por mi hermano Xavier, que ahora tiene 8 años.

Pienso en la vez que Xavier empezó a llorar porque no entendía el libro para niños en español “El oso se comió tu sándwich”, sobre un oso que le roba el sándwich a un niño. Me imagino a mi hermano creciendo sin poder comprender ni apreciar la cultura hispana de nuestra familia. Pero cuando busqué libros que Xavier (cuyo primer idioma es inglés) pudiera disfrutar con mis papás, que hablan español, me encontré con las manos casi vacías.

Investigando el mercado, descubrí que las escuelas de mi comunidad en Newark solamente tenían un número limitado de libros bilingües para los estudiantes en sus bibliotecas.

Para mí fue frustrante ver cómo la industria editorial excluye a las familias bilingües. Muchas familias de mi comunidad de Newark enfrentan barreras de idioma similares. Un 49.5% de las familias de la ciudad habla otro idioma que no es inglés en el hogar, según los datos del censo.

Todos los niños necesitan literatura que valide sus experiencias y múltiples identidades y les anime a interactuar con niños de diferentes países. Los niños inmigrantes en Estados Unidos necesitan libros bilingües para aprender inglés y a la vez mantener los conocimientos de su idioma materno. Estos libros permiten que familias como la nuestra establezcan vínculos con cuentos que tanto los padres como los hijos pueden entender.

Para ayudar a mi hermano — y llenar una brecha significativa en el mercado — ¡abrí mi empresa Para KIDS! Al principio, me pregunté: “¿Puedo yo, una adolescente de Newark, realmente lograr esto?” Rara vez vi que se destacaran proyectos de mujeres empresarias de minorías, especialmente las de ciudades como Newark. Sin embargo, estaba decidida a darle vida a mi negocio de libros bilingües para niños porque reconocía su impacto potencial. Hice un esfuerzo por salir de mi zona de comodidad; me comuniqué con fundadores y profesionales de la industria editorial para pedirles consejo y participé en academias de negocios, y en una de ellas conocí a Symone.

Para KIDS! colaboró con el Liberty Family Success Center en un evento de lectura bilingüe en la comunidad para celebrar el evento Read Across America 2022.

También escribí el primero libro ilustrado de Para KIDS! Se trata de la amistad entre Sara, una estudiante ecuatoriana recién inmigrada a Estados Unidos, y su compañera de clase Riley, que es mexico-americana y habla poco español.

Desde el undécimo grado de secundaria, he presentado mi empresa en competencias de ideas. Ganara o perdiera, estas experiencias tuvieron un valor incalculable; me permitieron crecer como empresaria social y oradora. También he podido aumentar la conciencia sobre la importancia de la educación bilingüe y la equidad educativa.

Durante las presentaciones, mi trabajo es convencer a los jueces de las competencias y al público de que los libros bilingües para niños con personajes y experiencias diversas son importantes. Cada vez que hablo de mi compañía siento mucho orgullo porque estoy representando a las comunidades latinas y bilingües. El dinero de los premios que he ganado en los dos últimos años ha permitido que mi empresa se haga realidad. Por ejemplo, he podido contratar a un ilustrador para diseñar mi primer libro bilingüe para niños.

El libro — sobre la amistad intercultural y multilingüe entre Sara y Riley — se titula Sara’s New Country and New Friend/El nuevo país y la nueva amiga de Sara y se publicará este verano. El mensaje del cuento es el mismo de Para KIDS!: El amor y la amistad trascienden las barreras de idioma.

Daniela Palacios (ella) está en el último año de la escuela secundaria Science Park. En otoño asistirá a la Columbia University. Daniela es la creadora de Para KIDS!, una compañía que publica cuentos bilingües para niños con personajes de inmigrantes. Es autora de un libro bilingüe para niños en español que pronto estará disponible: “Sara’s New Country and New Friend/ El nuevo país y la nueva amiga de Sara” Daniela es parte del grupo de estudiantes periodistas Chalkbeat Student Voices.

Perder mi español es como perder parte de quien soy

2023-01-27T13:00:00+00:00

Read in English.

El español era mi primer idioma; de hecho, era el único que hablaba hasta que cumplí 5 años y empecé a ir a la escuela en Estados Unidos.

Al principio, ir a la escuela me daba miedo porque no hablaba inglés. Lloraba y buscaba cómo explicar de la mejor manera que me dolía el estómago y necesitaba ir a la enfermera. Luego le decía a la enfermera que tenía que irme a casa.

Ashally De La Cruz

Ahora me resulta difícil imaginarme batallando con el inglés, porque el inglés me resulta mucho más natural que el idioma en el que dije mis primeras palabras en la República Dominicana. A los 17 años, escribo, pienso y hasta sueño en inglés.

Pero mi mamá nunca aprendió inglés bien. La mayor parte de mi vida, le he traducido los documentos del gobierno al español. He traducido formularios escolares, reuniones de padres y maestros, mensajes de texto, correos electrónicos y hasta canciones de la radio.

Hace aproximadamente un año, mi mamá (que es asistente de salud en el hogar) me llamó desde el trabajo. Mayormente trabaja con gente que habla español, pero la paciente nueva solamente hablaba inglés. La mujer quería un pan específico del supermercado y había perdido la paciencia intentando explicarle eso a mi mamá.

La gente tiene muy poca paciencia con los que hablan poco inglés. Preguntan, con un tono de prejuicio en la voz: “¿Cómo es posible que hayas vivido tanto tiempo en Estados Unidos y todavía no sepas hablar inglés?” Suponen que mi mamá, después de 12 años aquí, es perezosa o simplemente no quiere aprender el idioma.

No obstante, verdad es más complicada. Aprender un nuevo idioma en la etapa de adulto requiere tiempo y energía, y no es fácil contar con eso cuando se trabaja muchas horas, a veces de un día para otro, solamente para poder subsistir. Los inmigrantes deberían contar con opciones fáciles y a precio razonable para aprender un idioma nuevo. Mientras algunos países ofrecen cursos gratuitos e ilimitados para aprender un idioma, e incluso les pagan a los inmigrantes para que aprendan el idioma local, Estados Unidos no lo hace.

Yo trato de tener eso en mente cuando ayudo a mi mamá y cuando me piden que interprete para los clientes de Old Navy, donde trabajo los fines de semana. Hacerlo toma tiempo y esfuerzo, y además me distrae de mis responsabilidades en el trabajo, pero la expectativa es que yo lo tome como si no fuera gran cosa.

Últimamente ha sido aún más difícil porque siento que mi español se me está olvidando. Los investigadores conocen esto como “desgaste del idioma natal” y es común entre las personas, especialmente los niños, que pasan largas temporadas lejos de su país y de su idioma materno.

Después de 12 años en Estados Unidos, hay palabras en español que siempre se me olvidan. Digo “thing” en vez de “cosa”, por ejemplo, y a veces necesito utilizar Google Translate solo para poder conversar con mi mamá. Como ya no hablo español tan bien como antes, mis conversaciones con ella son cada día más breves. Lo que antes era una larga conversación ahora se convierte en hablar sobre cosas sin importancia. Y la realidad es que la conversación no se siente genuina.

Cada vez que me cuesta recordar una palabra o frase en español, me desespero. Siento que las mejillas se me calientan y se enrojecen. Sé lo que estoy tratando de decir, pero no recuerdo cómo hacerlo. Busco otras palabras, pero terminan sonando raras. A veces me rindo cuando no consigo transmitir lo que quiero porque sé cómo decirlo en un idioma, pero no en el otro.

En esos momentos, se siente que estoy perdiendo una parte importante de quien soy: la parte dominicana. Mi mamá y yo no celebramos muchas de las tradiciones dominicanas. Lo único que nos conecta a nuestro país natal es nuestro idioma español y la comida dominicana (como mangú con queso frito que suena al masticarlo, tajadas delgaditas de salami crujiente y tostones con sal).

Este año, una de mis resoluciones de año nuevo es hablar español todos los días con mis amigos que lo hablan. A veces deseo haberme esforzado más por mantener mi nivel de español, pero era algo que nunca pensé que perdería.

Aprender un idioma nuevo es difícil. Pero también es difícil mantener uno que ya se sabía.

Ashally De La Cruz es estudiante de duodécimo grado en la Escuela Superior Central Park East de Nueva York. Hasta ahora ha sido aceptada en 10 universidades y está en proceso de elegir una.

Traducción: Milly Suazo-Martinez

My father gave me his name. I thought it was a curse but realized it was a blessing.

2024-01-28T13:00:00+00:00

The writer of this essay is a 2023-24 Student Voices Fellow at Chalkbeat. Click to learn more about our high school fellowship program.

In the eyes of my parents, their parents, and those who came before them, I see the ruins of lives never lived. Lives filled with laughter, ease, and comfort. Lives that know little of hardship and back-breaking work. Lives that could not be further removed from the ones they’ve actually lived.

David Malakai Allen, a Student Voices Fellow for 2023-24

As I excavate those ruins, I am reminded of questions posed by Langston Hughes in his poem “Harlem”:

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore—

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over—

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

I imagine this poem was more rhetorical than not, but to answer it anyway, I carry the deferred dreams of my father firmly on my two shoulders. They have trickled through the generations like rain through a tree, gently dropping from one person to the next. People often cringe when they hear that I aspire to be a criminal defense attorney, in part because that was my father’s dream when he was my age. They insist that I must live my life for me and not for him. What many people do not realize is that there is no greater honor for me than to achieve what he was unable to.

My mind whirls thinking of how different my father’s life would be had he been afforded the opportunity to pursue his dreams. Growing up, I witnessed firsthand the sheer brilliance that radiated from him when we spoke about politics, literature, or film. Here is a man with the keenest of intellects, and yet the world would rather overlook and dismiss him due to his race and economic status.

Student Voices Fellow David Malakai Allen as a toddler with his father.

About 17 years ago, I was born David Malakai Allen III. I was named for my dad, as he was named for his. This name, which now fills me with great pride and motivation, did not always do so.

When I was younger, I thought my name was a curse. I watched as the long hours my father worked at warehouses and driving trucks slowly wore him down, and caused him to feel both exhausted and somewhat jaded. I reacted to this observation with fear, even abhorrence. I thought that in giving me his name, my father had also handed me his future. A future of curtailed ambitions and of dreams deferred to the next generation. These thoughts soon fostered resentment that festered for years.

Then, when I was in my freshman year of high school, I was assigned a project centered around the meaning of my name. I sat down with my father to discuss my list of questions, and his answers both shocked and thrilled me.

He shared that while I was given the family name, I was also named with the biblical story of King David in mind. It’s a story that illustrates beautifully the idea that a person is capable of much more than they know, and they can rise above any obstacle with a steadfast faith in God.

My father went on to say that he knew from the moment he held me for the first time that I was born to accomplish something great. By naming me David Malakai Allen III, he was ensuring that not only was I imbued with a resilient spirit, but that when that great thing I am destined for does come to pass, both he and my grandfather will be there with me.

Now, with high school graduation and college enrollment only months away, I am filled with immense pride knowing that I am the first person in my family who will graduate from college. When I was younger, the pressure of carrying my family’s legacy felt debilitating. As I have grown, I can imagine no greater blessing than accomplishing something those who came before me never thought possible for themselves.

As for the questions posed by Langston Hughes: I think that, sometimes, a deferred dream becomes a seed, planted in the ground, watched and prayed over with the hope that it may bloom. In the eyes of my parents and their forebears, I see the ruins of their dreams, but I also see me. I see my ability to right generations of wrongs and ensure my children live in a world where their dreams know no bounds.

David Malakai Allen is a high school senior from Newark, New Jersey, with dreams of becoming a criminal defense attorney. As he begins his journey toward achieving that goal, he channels the strength of his family to propel him forward.

Meet Chalkbeat’s Student Voices fellows

2021-11-16T11:00:00+00:00

This school year, Chalkbeat is thrilled to pilot our Student Voices writing fellowship in three of our bureaus: Chicago, Newark, and Philadelphia. The fall and spring fellows — all high school students in communities Chalkbeat covers — will be writing First Person essays about their lives and journeys through public school. (You can read about the fellowship program here.)

You’ll be learning more about these impressive and accomplished students in the weeks and months ahead. In the meantime, please join me in welcoming the inaugural class of Student Voices fellows. Their bios and photos are below.

Chicago

Chicago fellows Ajibola Junaid, left, and Jeremiah Griffith

Ajibola Junaid (Fall semester):

Ajibola Elizabeth Junaid (she/her/hers) is a senior at Wendell Phillips Academy High School. She moved from Nigeria to the United States when she was 13. She has taken part in the University of Chicago’s Equitable Learning and Development Project, which works to improve public schools for all students, and in the dance education project Forward Momentum. Ajibola plans to study biology in college and go on to medical school to become an OB-GYN. In her spare time, she enjoys listening to music and dancing.

Jeremiah Griffith (Spring semester):

Jeremiah Griffith (he/him/his) is a junior at Noble Academy. He writes about sports for TrueStar magazine and manages his own sports blog, The Ball Talk. Jeremiah is a TrueStar Youth Violence Prevention Ambassador and a volunteer at Rush University Medical Center. He is a member of the National Honors Society and his school’s basketball team. During the fall semester, he is interning at Vega Partners and Chicago House AC.

Newark

Newark fellows Chimdindu Okafor, left, and Daniela Palacios.

Chimdindu Okafor (Fall semester):

Chimdindu Okafor (she/her/hers) is a senior at North Star Academy Lincoln Park High School. She is a social justice activist and organizer currently serving as a youth board member for the Sadie Nash Leadership Project and on the steering committee of the National Agenda for Black Girls. Chimdindu is “inspired by stories from urban youth whose experiences often parallel mine.”

Daniela Palacios (Spring semester):

Daniela Palacios (she/her/hers) is a senior at Science Park High School. Daniela is also the creator of Para KIDS!, a media company that publishes bilingual children’s stories with immigrant characters. She is the author of a forthcoming Spanish bilingual children’s book, “Sara’s New Country and New Friend/ El nuevo país y la nueva amiga de Sara.”

Philadelphia

Philadelphia fellows Lin Lin, left, and Umme Orthy.

Lin Lin (Fall semester):

Lin Lin (they/them) is a senior at Central High School. They are the co-president of the student-run newspaper Bullhorn News, where their goal is to make student journalism more accessible by increasing the number of BIPOC journalists and translating articles into multiple languages. Lin was previously a reporter for the paper, covering the School District of Philadelphia, where they enjoyed writing about racial consciousness and curriculum. In addition, they have done community organizing with such groups as Asian Americans United and VietLead. In their spare time, Lin enjoys reading and hiking.

Umme Orthy (Spring semester):

Umme Orthy (she/her) is a senior at Science Leadership Academy at Beeber. She is passionate about biology and wants to become a doctor. Umme is originally from Chittagong, Bangladesh, and hopes to provide free medical services to people in her hometown one day. She likes to write about her own experiences and express herself through writing, including poetry. “As an immigrant student, there are so many untold stories I want to share,” she said. In her spare time, Umme enjoys painting, cooking, and watching K-dramas.

We also take student submissions on a rolling basis. Have a pitch or a piece that’s a good fit for First Person? Read our submission guidelines, and email us at firstperson@chalkbeat.org.

Student Voices 2023-24: Meet Chalkbeat’s newest fellows

2023-10-12T12:00:00+00:00

As Chalkbeat’s Student Voices program enters its third year, we are thrilled to welcome our 2023-24 fellowship class.

In the coming months, these six high school students will publish essays on Chalkbeat about their lives and schools. This year’s Student Voices fellows — all public school students in New York City and Newark, New Jersey — will also be learning about journalism and taking part in writing workshops.

The published work of all previous fellows is compiled here.

Readers can expect to see the bylines of Chalkbeat’s new fellows on our pages soon. In the meantime, meet these impressive teens and hear what they hope to accomplish at Chalkbeat.

Fall Fellows

David Malakai Allen, Newark

David (he/him/his) is a senior at University High School in Newark. He is a social justice advocate, a public speaker, a proud member of the Newark Anti-Violence Coalition, and the founder of the Black Student Union at his former high school. David recently attended the international politics program at Harvard Summer School, and he aspires to one day become a criminal defense and civil rights attorney. James Baldwin’s nonfiction masterpiece “The Fire Next Time” inspired David to write, and he loves to read the works of Baldwin, Toni Morrison, and Audre Lorde. “I write because the plight of a Muslim is to stand up for those who are not able to stand up for themselves,” David said. “My words are a medium for accomplishing that.”

Alexander Calafiura, New York City

Alex (he/him/his) is a senior at East Side Community High School in Manhattan. He spent the first 10 years of his life in Shanghai, China, before moving to the United States in 2017. Alex is the co-founder of his school’s mock trial team and intends to use his voice to bridge inequalities in the criminal justice system. To learn more about the law, he has interned at the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office. Alex also loves writing and is co-editor-in-chief of his school’s newspaper, the East Sider. In his free time, Alex enjoys folding origami, teaching himself math, and reading nonfiction. At Chalkbeat, he hopes to hone his writing skills and use his voice as a tool to empower and inspire others.

Emily Munoz, New York City

Emily (she/her) is a senior in the law program at Harry S. Truman High School in the Bronx. She’s a staunch intersectional racial and gender equity advocate and a published and award-winning artivist poet. Emily is the co-chair of the 2023-24 Youth ACT! cohort of A Call to Men and a 2023 Young Scholar at the African American Policy Forum. After high school, she plans to major in political science with a concentration in African American studies and to one day work for the U.S. government. In her free time, Emily enjoys hosting the student politics podcast “The Round Table,” eating soul food and seafood boils, and listening to Ice Spice and Nicki Minaj. At Chalkbeat, she hopes to bring awareness to intersectionality and help readers understand what it means to be a Black girl in an inequitable school system.

Spring Fellows

Shamima Ahmed, New York City

Shamima (she/her/hers) is a senior at Central Park East High School in Manhattan. She is a secretary of her school’s National Honor Society, a member of the volunteer organization Glamour Girls, and a current OppNet Fellow. Shamima studied coding and product management through America on Tech, and she did a case study on Doc Martens during a summer program at the private equity firm Permira. A mental health advocate, she loves to journal, walk, reflect, and spend time with the people she loves most.

Alexa Brown-Hill, Newark

Alexa is a junior and taking her first year of college courses at Bard High School Early College in Newark. She is driven by a powerful sense of social responsibility and advocates for such issues as curbing bullying, fostering body positivity, and encouraging self-care. Alexa has held positions with a local chapter of the NAACP, is a member of the National Society of High School Scholars, and founded her school’s step team. In addition, she is a makeup artist and finds peace in faith and music. Alexa has a passion for literature and hopes to become a published author, sharing her personal stories with the world. At Chalkbeat, she wants to write about how students’ home lives can affect their education and show schools how to support children facing adversity.

Miriam Galicia, New York City

Miriam (she/her/hers) is a senior at the Institute For Collaborative Education in Manhattan. When she graduates in June, she will go on to become a first-generation Mexican American college student. She comes from a family of hard workers who never say her dreams are impossible. Miriam is the co-president of her school’s student council and works to ensure that school can be a welcoming experience for all. She loves to find ways to improve the community and herself. Over the summer, Miriam honed her leadership skills at the Sadie Nash Summer Institute. At Chalkbeat, Miriam hopes to strengthen her writing and learn from her fellow writers, mentors, and educators.

Interested in becoming a Student Voices Fellow? Apply here.

2023-08-16T20:02:21+00:00

Chalkbeat launched its Student Voices Fellowship two years ago to hear from teens — in their own words — about the issues shaping their lives and education. We’re thrilled to offer this paid essay-writing fellowship to public school students in New York City and Newark, New Jersey during the 2023-24 academic year.

I encourage applicants to read the published pieces by our previous fellows. That’s the best way to understand what Chalkbeat fellows do.

This past year, for example, Karen opened up about learning English as a new language, and Ashally told us what it’s like to feel her native Spanish slipping away. Dashawn recounted struggling during COVID lockdowns and then creating a course focused on teen mental health, and Jasmine explained the painful and precious ways the pandemic affected her high school class. Enoch discussed his early and ongoing experience with code-switching, and Vanessa told us what it’s really like to attend her famous New York City high school.

You can read more student work here.

This coming school year, we will select a total of six fellows, four from New York City and two from Newark. We are offering the fellowship in the fall and again in the spring. Applicants can indicate which semester they prefer. The fellowship will be virtual, with opportunities to meet in person with staff members of our New York City and Newark bureaus.

Fellows will receive a $1,000 stipend.

Fellowship requirements:

You are a rising 11th or 12th grader in New York City or Newark, New Jersey, and attend a public school or a charter school.
You are interested in journalism and storytelling.
You can manage your time, meet deadlines, and are willing and able to commit 1-2 hours a week to this extracurricular fellowship for about three months.
You have compelling personal stories to share and are willing and able to share them on Chalkbeat under your byline. (First Person does not publish anonymous or pseudonymous pieces.)
You are collaborative and eager for feedback on your writing.

Student Voices fellows will:

Pitch, write, edit, and publish personal essays.
Brainstorm, outline, and workshop your pieces alongside Chalkbeat journalists and writing coaches.
Attend Zoom sessions with journalism educators and Chalkbeat staff about the craft of reporting and writing. You will also have access to a library of recorded journalism lessons from reporters and editors.
Improve your storytelling ability across formats and platforms.

Applications are due Friday, September 1, 2023, at 11:59 p.m. ET.

If you have questions not answered here, please email gbirkner@chalkbeat.org.

About Chalkbeat:

Chalkbeat is the nonprofit news organization committed to covering one of America’s most important stories: the effort to improve schools for all children, especially those who have historically lacked access to quality education. We are mission-driven journalists who believe that an independent local press is vital to ensuring that education improves. Currently in eight locations and growing, we seek to provide deep local coverage of education policy and practice that informs decisions and actions, leading to better schools. Read more about our mission and values. We are committed to a diverse newsroom. Read our antiracism statement.

Student Voices: Meet Chalkbeat’s new fellows

2022-10-06T19:39:09+00:00

Prepare to see some new bylines on these pages, as Chalkbeat welcomes its new class of Student Voices Fellows. These teens, all of them public high school students in New York City and Newark, New Jersey, will write personal essays in Chalkbeat about their lives and schools.

Our newsroom piloted this fellowship last school year, and the six students who participated produced powerful, openhearted work. (You can read their essays here.) This year, we were thrilled to see such broad interest in this program. Hundreds of accomplished teens from across more than 70 New York City and Newark schools applied for a handful of spots.

Chalkbeat is proud to welcome these six students as our 2022-23 Student Voices Fellows. We can’t wait for you to read their work.

Fall Fellows

From left: Ashally De La Cruz, Enoch Naklen, and Dashawn Sheffield

Ashally De La Cruz, New York City

Ashally (she/her/hers) is a senior at Central Park East High School. She was born in the Dominican Republic and moved to the United States when she was 5. A native Spanish speaker, she went from taking ESL classes in elementary school to enrolling in Honors and AP courses in high school. Ashally has taken part in Peer Group Connection, supporting freshmen during the transition to high school, and in CARA’s Youth Leadership program, helping other students navigate the college application process. At Central Park East, she works on the yearbook and participates in the liberation program, which focuses on social activism. Through this fellowship, Ashally hopes to inspire and show others they’re not alone in their experiences.

Enoch Naklen, New York City

Enoch (he/him/his) is a senior at the Brooklyn Latin School. He is a published writer and current youth leader for the advisory board on culturally responsive education at Youth Communication. Enoch also enjoys print and digital journalism; this past summer, he attended JCamp, a journalism training program. Naklen also plays basketball for his high school, helping to found and recruit members of a basketball club. Although it is challenging to share personal stories, Enoch said he writes to “provide a voice for those who may not have found theirs” and to “bring to life stories that otherwise would not have been recognized.”

Dashawn Sheffield, Newark

Dashawn (he/him/his) is a senior at North Star Academy Washington Park High School. He is a mental health advocate and is the founder and president of a student wellness council that educates students and faculty on the symptoms of mental health issues and promotes school-based mental health support; the council is active at three New Jersey high schools and a Georgia middle school. As an AmeriCorps volunteer, Dashawn works with local partners to organize community service events. He plans to double major in finance and political science in college and become an investment portfolio manager or a senator; he recently completed an internship with BlackRock. In his spare time, he enjoys reading classic literature, especially novels by Jane Austen and Herman Melville, and listening to Mariah Carey and Britney Spears. At Chalkbeat, he hopes to share stories promoting student wellness in underrepresented communities and expand his impact.

Spring Fellows

From left, Vanessa Chen, Jasmine Harris, and Karen Otavalo.

Vanessa Chen, New York City

Vanessa (she/her) is a junior at Stuyvesant High School. She is a podcast editor and conversationalist at the Round Table, a Next Generation Politics Podcast dedicated to bridging the divides in our country through cross-partisan discussions. She has also organized multiple community events, including gatherings where Chinatown youth can bond, and protests against neighborhood displacement. Beyond her interests in social activism, Vanessa is the executive producer for her school’s theater community and is currently producing the fall musical, “Matilda.” As a Student Voices Fellow, she hopes to share her stories and bring awareness to a larger audience.

Jasmine Harris, New York City

Jasmine (she/her/hers) is a senior at Bronxdale High School at the Christopher Columbus campus in the Bronx. She is the daughter of immigrants, a mother from Cambodia and a father from Jamaica. Jasmine is a member of her school’s student council. She’s also an advocate with Youth Court, helping students who break the rules resolve issues safely in school. Jasmine has a passion for medical science, interns at Columbia University doing neuroscience lab research, and wants to become a dermatologist. During the summer of 2022, she studied abroad in Seoul, South Korea. In her spare time, she loves to bake (especially cinnamon rolls) and do nails. At Chalkbeat, she hopes to improve her writing and connect with like-minded peers to share stories and grow as a community.

Karen Otavalo, Newark

Karen (she/her) is a sophomore at Science Park High School. Originally from Ecuador, she moved to the U.S. when she was 11, and ever since then, she hasn’t stopped dreaming big. Karen serves as a youth board member for National Crittenton, an organization that helps girls, young women, and gender-expansive youth to overcome barriers. She also volunteers in the mentorship program at her high school. In her spare time, Karen likes to animate, draw, and read. In her writing for Chalkbeat, she hopes to give voice to marginalized women and share personal narratives related to opportunity, sexism, and education.

In the IB track, I learned persistence, patience, and the power of community

2022-05-12T12:00:00+00:00

During my first two years at Science Park High School in Newark, I knew very little about the International Baccalaureate, or IB, program.

The program’s coordinator explained how “high-level thinkers” and “self-motivated students” would excel in this environment. It would involve rigorous academic classes, including a philosophy course called Theory of Knowledge, or TOK; multiple lengthy research papers; 50-plus hours of community service, and a roughly 4,000-word “extended essay” on the topic of your choice.

Two years ago, I was one of 14 rising juniors to enroll in our school’s IB program. I felt highly motivated to excel academically, but in the beginning, I didn’t know how I would survive the seemingly never-ending papers and exams, being with the same small group of students for all of my main courses, and fitting in so many volunteer hours. It felt daunting to know how many deadlines were ahead.

But I did more than survive. I adapted and thrived. I learned how to conduct in-depth research, write analytical and compelling papers, and pace myself. I learned about patience, persistence, and the power of community (my committed teachers and my supportive classmates). I learned how interconnected different subjects can be.

Spoiler alert: The extended essay that was so nerve-wracking two years ago is now complete. I chose to write about Toni Morrison’s, “The Bluest Eye,” as it was one of the most memorable and powerful novels I have read.

As soon as I began preparing for the extended essay, I recognized that this was not going to be an average book report. My EE, as the extended essay is called, needed to be a meaningful exploration of “The Bluest Eye,” as seen through my chosen academic and philosophical lenses. It would require me to learn more about feminism, racism, colorism, intersectionality, and even existentialism. That meant dozens of books — including works by Kimberlé Crenshaw, a legal scholar who helped develop critical race theory, and activist Mikki Kendall, who wrote “Hood Feminism” — and many more hours in the library and in front of my computer.

Luckily, I was prepared. One of the main benefits of the IB program is the quality writing skills students develop. From creating a comprehensive outline to conducting research at my local public library to identifying reliable sources, I had learned the skills needed to complete the most complicated assignment of the IB program. Moreover, I had developed the ability to manage my time and complete assignments promptly. (Not all of my peers in Newark have the same access to advanced courses like IB or Advanced Placement: While more than 50% of 11th and 12th graders at Science Park take advanced classes, less than 10% do at some other Newark high schools.)

Daniela, top row, second from right, with a group of her IB classmates.

But IB is more than courses to pass, papers to write, and transferable life skills to learn. It is a community. When I started the program my junior year, all of our classes were remote due to the pandemic. Even in the virtual space, I bonded with my 13 fascinating and passionate IB classmates. Since we all take the same academic classes with the same teachers at the same time, we not only learned together; we learned about each other. Each of us adds something to our “IB group” with our unique interests and backgrounds.

Since coming back to school in person this year, our bond has grown even stronger.

It is crazy to think many of us didn’t know each other during the first two years of high school. IB provided this necessary foundation for our unique journey together, and we have developed genuine connections.

Since coming back to school in person this year, our bond has grown even stronger.

In our IB Physics class, for example, students often attempt problems on the board. If someone does the problem incorrectly or misses a step, we don’t criticize that person. We remind them of the missed step and uplift their efforts. Given our strong emphasis on academic excellence, we want each other to do well and offer support.

This spring, as our IB exam season approached, my peers and I would go to our school’s library after we ate lunch. There, we reviewed practice exams, tested each other on terms and concepts, and answered each other’s questions. For certain classes, we have created comprehensive study guides and shared them with each other. These group sessions have helped me hold myself more accountable for reviewing the necessary material.

We also share in each other’s joys. In late April, Science Park seniors celebrated College Signing Day, when students decide which college to attend. (All of my IB classmates are headed to four-year schools.) It was a bittersweet moment. It was thrilling to see my classmates in their college apparel and gear. Their hard work had paid off. But it also felt like the beginning of the end of an era — one that bonded us and brought us to this moment.

I am currently in the final stretch of my senior year, and I am thankful that I accepted the challenge to join the IB program. As I move toward higher education, I will keep with me fond and long-lasting memories of my peers and teachers who were fundamental to my high school journey.

Daniela Palacios (she/her) is a senior at Science Park High School. She will be attending Columbia University in the fall. Daniela is the creator of Para KIDS!, a media company that publishes bilingual children’s stories with immigrant characters. She is the author of a forthcoming Spanish bilingual children’s book, “Sara’s New Country and New Friend/ El nuevo país y la nueva amiga de Sara.” Daniela is a Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow. Read her recent Chalkbeat piece in English here or en español here.

Struggling during COVID, I helped my school develop a class about mental health

2022-12-01T13:00:00+00:00

I went to 19 funerals during the first year of COVID. When I wasn’t saying goodbye to people I cared about, I was in front of a screen that was my connection to school and friends for a year and a half.

I was used to greeting my friends and teachers with an enthusiastic “Hiiiii” and taking part in lively class discussions — experiences I couldn’t replicate on a computer. During online school, I struggled with grief and depression, and a general sense of being overwhelmed. I was trying to learn while dealing with spotty internet and helping my three younger god-siblings with their studies. During this time, I turned to a longtime hobby: journaling. It helped me get in touch with myself and work through what was being thrown at me.

As I was jotting down some ideas in my notebook one morning, a question came to mind: When will we ever talk about mental health here? At the height of COVID, with so many of us suffering in isolation, it was definitely needed.

I was already in the process of starting a wellness council, a club where students could share their struggles and hear about what others are going through. If we could start this club, why not a class about mental health built into the school day?

My research began online. I read studies about the benefits of social and emotional learning and thought about its real-world application. I watched lectures on YouTube about the importance of lessons on mental health. I even spoke with curriculum developers. Personal struggles, together with this research, underscored the need for a mental health class at my Newark high school.

Dr. Shaniqua Fitzgerald teaches Health and Wellness.

So I scheduled a meeting with my principal, Mr. Michael Mann, and began to work on a presentation that included testimonials from current and former students and staff. I had sent out surveys to students — freshmen through seniors — asking them about their mental health needs. They said a class that focused on student mental health would not only reduce the stigma surrounding mental health, but would also help foster social and leadership skills, self-awareness, and caring connections with those around them.

My principal seemed surprised at how passionately I advocated for this class, and he offered his wholehearted support. Next, I reached out to Ms. Julie Jackson, one of the co-CEOs of Uncommon Schools. (My school, North Star Academy Washington Park High School in Newark, is part of the Uncommon Schools charter network.) Soon, I was sitting down with one of the most powerful people in my school’s network. Ms. Jackson started the meeting by praising my efforts, and she assured me that it would be a casual conversation. Turns out, she was onboard, too.

Next, I created a working group made up of educators and North Star students. Our goal: To start a class where students could learn about the causes and symptoms of mental health challenges, and how to advocate for themselves and their peers.

Students tell me how this outlet helps them find their inner voice and relieve stress, making them less likely to experience burnout.

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years, I worked on lesson plans and brainstormed ideas for final projects. A lesson I’m especially proud of is about consent. Here’s one of the assignments: “Over the next week, please log two situations in which you were asked to give permission to someone else for something and at least three situations in which you asked someone else for permission to do something.” This lesson centers on the three R’s of consent: Rights, Respect, and Responsibility. Another lesson asks students about the evolution of their ideas about mental health, and a third helps students understand the difference between sex and gender.

The result of all this planning is a real-life class called Health and Wellness.

Health and Wellness students left notes of praise for Dr. Shaniqua Fitzgerald.

Because the class was piloted during COVID’s peak, it started off virtual so attendance and class participation initially lagged. However, since last school year, the class has been in person. Dr. Shaniqua Fitzgerald, who now teaches Health and Wellness, welcomes students into her cozy corner classroom with a wide smile. The smell of cocoa butter fills the entire room. It’s warm and serene inside. Just walking by on my way to class, I often hear students excitedly screaming out different answers whenever Dr. Fitzgerald poses a question.

Students tell me how this outlet helps them find their inner voice and relieve stress, making them less likely to experience burnout. They say they have a better sense of autonomy and agency thanks to lessons on sexual health. (Now, Dr. Fitzgerald and I are talking about bringing this class to other schools in the charter network.)

During remote learning, struggling with grief and depression, I wanted to develop something that would help me feel better and empower others. I’m proud of what Health and Wellness has become, a class that destigmatizes difficult conversations, and fosters knowledge, openness, empathy, and care.

Dashawn Sheffield is a senior at North Star Academy Washington Park High School. He aims to educate students and faculty on the symptoms of mental health issues, and promote school-based mental health support.

Here’s what happened when my ‘no excuses’ school piloted a restorative justice program

2022-01-07T14:00:00+00:00

Restorative justice. I first heard the phrase during a summer school class back in 2019. The teacher explained that restorative justice is different from our social norm of punishing those who have hurt others or committed crimes. Instead, the goal is to promote accountability and allow both parties (victims and perpetrators) to heal. Understanding restorative justice helped me to envision a world without the prison industrial complex and mass incarceration.

Over the next two years, I spent countless hours reading and theorizing about restorative approaches, as well as advocating for their real-world application. As a member of my school’s Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion team, I led forums on anti-racism and restorative approaches to discipline. But it was my personal experience with restorative justice that fortified my commitment to the practice.

It was a seemingly typical day in my African American History class: We were answering questions, laughing, and enjoying the academic company of each other. Meanwhile, we worked on our second-quarter group projects about the various methods of resistance for enslaved Black peoples across the Americas. My group had been assigned the Stono Rebellion, a 1739 revolt in colonial South Carolina.

I had an idea to add audio to the presentation to enhance the experience of the audience. Specifically, I wanted to incorporate juba, a genre of music birthed on the American Southern plantations and proved essential to mobilizing Black enslaved folks towards the Stono Rebellion.

I was surprised to receive an email from my teacher requesting a meeting about the verbal altercation.

But when I took out my phone to figure out how to add an audio file into our slide presentation, I heard my teacher say: “Chim! Put your phone away!” To which I reflexively blurted out, “I was just using my phone for our project!” This exchange stunned the class, altering its otherwise steady vibe. After a tense pause, my classmates went back to their projects. I tried to convince myself that it would blow over by the time the bell rang.

So I was surprised to receive an email from my teacher requesting a meeting about the verbal altercation. She asked me to choose from various approaches aimed at restoring harmony in my African American History class. I could select a meeting alone with my teacher, one with my teacher and my family, or one with my teacher and several classmates who witnessed the back-and-forth. Ultimately, I chose to meet with my teacher, a peer advocate, and two other classmates.

As the meeting approached, my heart picked up speed, and soon its beating was the only noise I could hear. My teacher began the session by assuring me I wasn’t in trouble. She explained that I was part of a restorative justice pilot program at my school. Restorative justice wasn’t really part of the DNA of the school — a charter known for its “no excuses” approach to academics and discipline. So hearing her say “restorative justice” gave me a sense of automatic relief, as I knew that my agency would not be debated or encroached upon. I realized I was surrounded by people who actually cared and weren’t automatically going to paint me as an aggressor. My heart rate slowed.

We discussed how our verbal interaction had been perceived, and we shared our feelings about it. By the end of the 15-minute session, we approached what everyone there considered an equitable way forward. My teacher conceded that she thought that by looking at my phone I was off-task. I agreed that I could have reacted in a way that was both less harsh and less defensive. The next day in class wasn’t awkward. I felt good about being back.

The restorative justice pilot allowed me to be advocated for, without the quick assumptions about who was in the wrong. If more students — especially those for whom respectability politics don’t play in their favor — could experience restorative justice, we’d all be better for it.

Black children, who often face disproportionate punishment, who may be treated like adults — or worse yet, criminals — in their own schools, need restorative alternatives to the status quo. Creating safer and more equitable school communities starts with relinquishing punitive discipline systems, and implementing restorative practices where students are heard, seen, and championed.

And as a Black girl, this issue is personal. Monique Morris, the author of “Pushout: The Criminalization of Black Girls In Schools,” has explained that while Black girls make up 16% of female students, they are massively overrepresented among those students referred to law enforcement or arrested on campus. This is what we mean by the school-to-prison pipeline. It’s the reality for Black girls across the country, especially those living in underserved, low-income communities. But the introduction of restorative justice approaches offers hope and lowers rates of recidivism by 11 percentage points, according to Communities for Restorative Justice.

Restorative justice has a role to play when it comes to more serious infractions, too, be they incidents of graffiti, truancy, or threatened violence. Rather than calling in student resource officers or issuing suspensions, restorative justice can de-escalate situations. Rather than officers and handcuffs, there are accountability, amends, and a willingness to believe that we can all do better.

Chimdindu Okafor is a senior at North Star Academy Lincoln Park High School in Newark, New Jersey. She has been accepted to 22 colleges so far. Chimdindu is a Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow.

Why I see myself at an HBCU

2022-02-01T15:34:11+00:00

In May 2018, my eighth grade class flew to Atlanta, Georgia, which some have called “The Black Mecca,” for a trip marking the end of our middle school years. We were about to start high school.

True to my Newark charter school’s precocious image, the educators who staffed the trip took us to visit colleges around the city. We were able to see Clark Atlanta University, Morehouse College, and Spelman College — three historically Black schools that make up the Atlanta University Center.

Chimdindu Okafor

Being there on a beautiful spring day — the sun shining down and the trees blooming— reminded me of my visit three years earlier to Howard University. Though I was young at the time, I vividly remember the warmth I felt there. The students looked like me. They seemed so happy and independent; they seemed like they belonged. I wanted to belong, too.

As an immigrant and a child of West African parents, I’ve long felt pressure to attend an Ivy League university or the like. But in the physical presence of HBCUs, I could reimagine what college could look like for me: the comfort, the beauty, and the welcoming atmosphere. I envisioned myself walking through their yards, talking and laughing with my friends. Visiting a lecture hall at Howard and seeing students joyously enter a class and eagerly dive into the material inspired me.

The students there looked like me. They seemed so happy and independent; they seemed like they belonged.

I’ve since learned that early HBCUs were founded to provide educational liberation for the newly freed, formerly enslaved Black people. The first HBCUs, Cheyney University of Pennsylvania and Lincoln University of Pennsylvania, were founded before the Civil War in 1837 and 1854, respectively. They were followed by the so-called “Black Ivies” Howard, Morehouse, Spelman, and Hampton University in the 1860s and 1880s. Today, HBCUs offer so much more than cultural markers of African American resilience and steadfastness. They are forces of real change and social markers for upward mobility, even amid an uneven playing field. (Black students, for example, have comparably more college debt than their white counterparts.)

Even today, Black students may feel othered or marginalized at Predominantly White Institutions. Some 52% of Black people who attended college said they had been treated as if they weren’t smart, according to the Pew Research Center.

That is why I think it’s so important to acknowledge those Black students who are accepted at HBCUs but ultimately must choose schools with larger endowments and, therefore, able to provide them with more financial aid. They should not have to compromise their dreams to fit into spaces where they feel at odds. Making sure HBCUs have the resources they need to support admitted students who see themselves at these illustrious, historically Black institutions must be a priority.

As for me, I owe it to myself to join the legacy of Black changemakers who graduated HBCUs and altered the course of our world for the better. Changemakers like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who attended Morehouse College and advocated for a world of equality. And changemakers like Zora Neale Hurston, a celebrated writer from the Harlem Renaissance whose work captured the joys and pains of the Black American experience; she graduated from Howard University.

I hope to work in medicine, possibly as a healthcare administrator focusing on the technology side of medical practices. I believe that attending an HBCU would put me directly on that path to that work. I love the thought of learning from professors and faculty who care deeply about my success.

The thrill of opening up my acceptance letters these last couple of months — from schools including Howard, Hampton, Spelman, and Morgan State — has been like none other. It gave me a glimpse into the excitement that I would experience attending one of these institutions.

HBCUs are some of the last-standing safe spaces where Black students from across the diaspora can enjoy academic rigor while celebrating the beauty in their identities. To me, it means a chance to explore my Blackness deeply as I encounter different identities across the diaspora and am embraced by a community of love.

Chimdindu Okafor is a senior at North Star Academy Lincoln Park High School in Newark, New Jersey. She has been accepted to 23 colleges so far. Chimdindu is a Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow.

What I want to be when I grow up often surprises people

2023-02-07T13:00:00+00:00

I’m a high school senior, and as graduation approaches, people are always asking, “Dashawn, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Those who know me expect me to say something along the lines of a psychologist or a corporate wellness director. After all, I helped my Newark high school start a wellness council and class, and I’m always looking for ways to make our community more empathetic and equitable. So people often give me a surprised look when I say “investment portfolio manager.”

My family taught me at an early age the importance of saving and budgeting; I did chores around the house, and in exchange, they put $2 in my piggy bank. Back then, money mainly meant that I could buy my own candy.

I became interested in finance for real when I was 9 and saw a television depiction of a chaotic Wall Street trading floor. I was a quiet kid back then but seeing the actors run around shouting different finance terms awakened something in me. I started running around my house shouting “Dow index” and “Bloomberg” without knowing what those words meant.

Wanting to know more about Wall Street, I begged my mom to take me to the library, where I checked out books like “Rich Dad, Poor Dad.” That book, while controversial, highlights the importance of financial education and shows how decisions can impact a person’s ability to build wealth. It got me thinking about building my own wealth. I realized that there was a world in which I could travel, help support struggling family members, and still have enough to buy all the Pepsi and Nutty Bars I wanted.

Until then, I honed my skills with Roblox’s Trading Simulator. It allowed me to buy, sell, and trade digital items with other players. At first, I couldn’t get anyone to buy my inventory, but with some practice, I was turning a profit — an imaginary one, but it was a start.

By high school, I was done with Roblox but still convinced that I wanted to go into finance. The summer before my senior year, I secured an internship on the fixed-income team at the investment firm BlackRock. On my first day, I worried that the traders would be arrogant, as they are sometimes depicted in the movies. I worried about making a mistake. I wondered: Do I really deserve to be here? I’m only 17. But as I was shown around the Manhattan trading floor, like the one I’d been dreaming about since I was 9, and met some key executives, my nerves subsided.

Here’s what a typical day at my internship looked like: I’m sitting at a desk, staring at the three different computer monitors perched there. On the center monitor, there’s an investment committee meeting going on; I’m feverishly taking down notes while trying to remember some of the “Wall Street lingo,” like BPS, which is pronounced like “bips” and refers to as one-hundredth of a percentage point. The computer screen on the left tracks the stock market down to the millisecond, and the one on the right flashes the firm’s security protocols as I enter the investment firm’s database.

At first, it felt hard to keep up with so much information coming in, but after asking my manager a plethora of questions, I began to think of it as a mystery, and here I was trying to guess whether certain stocks would go up or down.

I started running around my house shouting ‘Dow index’ and ‘Bloomberg’ without knowing what those words meant.

That summer, my manager tasked me with monitoring trades, conducting research on companies in the S&P 500, looking at how Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion efforts impact stock ratings, and monitoring social media for political trends that could impact the market. I learned about client relations and accountability, and I honed my problem-solving skills.

I’m confident in my career choice, but telling people about it can be awkward. When they hear “investment portfolio manager,” I hear subtle disapproval in their response. They have seen onscreen (and stereotypical) depictions of Wall Street bankers, too.

But I know that finance can be a force for good — and that I can be a force for good in the world of finance, which is currently a white-dominated field. As a Black man and a member of the LGBTQ+ community, I know that I have a role to play in helping under-resourced communities access financial information and capital that can help them build wealth.

I dream of creating affinity groups in my future workplace, where employees of color and LGBTQ+ employees could meet regularly to support each other and strengthen our sense of belonging. We could also work together to promote diversity in our workplace.

Outside of work, I imagine starting a nonprofit that teaches financial literacy to middle and high school students. I want other kids to have financial information that makes them feel informed and empowered. I want them to learn how to budget, use cash-flow spreadsheets, and even save for retirement. You’re never too young.

Families like mine need more bilingual children’s books

2022-03-25T11:00:00+00:00

I spent weeks crafting a script for my first pitch competition and rehearsing it over Zoom with my mentor, Symone. Make sure the judges can see your eyes, she told me. Add relevant statistics. Define ‘bilingual’ for the audience.

To prepare, I set up my desk in the brightest room in our house, and with the help of my mom decorated the white wall behind me with a colorful banner. As a final touch, I ordered a custom-made T-shirt with my company’s first logo.

Finally, I recorded my two-minute pitch and sent it off.

“Hello, my name is Daniela Palacios,” I began, introducing my company, Para KIDS! “I sell bilingual children’s books that are written in both English and Spanish. I came up with my idea because as an older sister, I struggle to find bilingual books for my younger brother, who has difficulty understanding Spanish.”

For the past two years now, I have been determined to get these books to families who need them — families like mine. It is my love for my now 8-year-old brother, Xavier, that keeps me going.

I think about the time Xavier broke down in tears because he couldn’t understand the words to the Spanish-language children’s book “El oso se comió tu sándwich,” about a bear who steals a boy’s sandwich. I imagine my brother growing up without being able to comprehend and appreciate our family’s Hispanic culture. But when I searched for books that Xavier, a native English speaker, could enjoy alongside my parents, who are native Spanish speakers, I came up largely empty-handed.

Through my market research, I discovered that schools in my community of Newark only offered a limited number of bilingual children’s books to their students at their on-site libraries.

I imagine my brother growing up without being able to comprehend and appreciate our family’s Hispanic culture.

It was frustrating to see the publishing industry’s exclusion of bilingual families. Many families in my Newark community face similar language barriers. Some 49.5% of city families speak another language besides English at home, according to census data.

All children need literature that validates their experiences and multiple identities and encourages them to interact with youth from different backgrounds. Immigrant children in the U.S. need bilingual books so they can learn English and keep up their native language skills. These books enable families like ours to bond over stories that both parent and child can understand.

Para KIDS! collaborated with Liberty Family Success Center on a community bilingual reading event to celebrate Read Across America 2022.

To help my brother — and fill a significant hole in the marketplace — I started Para KIDS! At first, I wondered: “Can I, a teen from Newark, really do this?” I rarely saw female entrepreneurs of color being highlighted for their projects, especially not those from cities like Newark. Nevertheless, I was determined to bring my bilingual children’s book business to life because I recognized its potential impact. I pushed myself out of my comfort zone, reaching out to founders and publishing industry professionals for advice and participating in business academies, through which I met Symone.

I wrote Para KIDS! first bilingual picture book. It is about the friendship between Sara, a new Ecuadorian immigrant to the U.S., and her classmate Riley, who is Mexican-American and speaks limited Spanish.

Since my junior year of high school, I have entered pitch competitions on behalf of my company. No matter whether I placed or lost, these experiences were invaluable; they allowed me to grow as a social entrepreneur and public speaker. I have also been able to raise awareness of the importance of bilingual education and educational equity.

During business pitches, it is my job to convince competition judges and audiences that bilingual children’s books featuring diverse characters and experiences matter. Every time I talk about my business I feel a strong sense of pride because I am representing the Latinx and bilingual communities. The prize money I’ve won over the past two years has allowed me to bring my company to life. For example, I have been able to hire an illustrator to design my first bilingual children’s book.

The book — about Sara and Riley’s cross-cultural, multilingual friendship — is called “Sara’s New Country and New Friend/El nuevo país y la nueva amiga de Sara,” and it will be published this summer. The story’s message, like that of Para KIDS! itself: Love and friendship transcend language barriers.

Millones de niños son intérpretes para sus familias inmigrantes. Yo soy una de ellos.

2022-05-18T16:29:00+00:00

Read in English

Mientras caminábamos hacia mi salón de noveno grado, mis padres me pidieron que les interpretara todo lo que dijera la maestra. Era el día de la conferencia entre padres y maestros, pero ellos hablaban muy poco inglés. Y yo era la encargada de interpretar.

“A su hija le va muy bien en la escuela”, dijo la maestra al comenzar.

Mis padres asintieron con la cabeza y sonrieron, pero yo sabía que no habían entendido.

Desde ese momento, yo les traduje todo. Era un reto porque mi familia se había mudado de Bangladesh apenas un año antes — y yo también estaba todavía aprendiendo inglés.

No solo tuve que adaptarme a un idioma nuevo y diferencias culturales, sino también ajustarme a un ambiente que era nuevo para mí. Y encima de eso, me convertí en la “intermediaria de idiomas” de mis padres, porque mi tarea era interpretar y traducir entre inglés y nuestro idioma nativo, el bengalí.

Aunque todos llegamos a Estados Unidos con un poco de inglés, yo aprendí el idioma más rápido que ellos porque iba a la escuela y socializaba en un ambiente en el que el inglés era el idioma predominante. Mi mamá, sin embargo, estaba en el hogar cuidando a mis hermanos menores y no tenía el mismo nivel de exposición al idioma nuevo. Interpretar se ha vuelto algo natural para mí durante los últimos cinco años. Lo hago en las conferencias de la escuela y en citas médicas, incluido cuando mi mamá estaba embarazada y cuando mi hermanita tuvo que ser llevada rápidamente a la sala de emergencias porque tenía fiebre alta y una erupción. Cuando estoy interpretando, a veces espero un poco para que mi mamá intente hablar inglés pero la mayoría del tiempo ella prefiere que yo lo haga.

Mis padres se han sacrificado mucho para que mis hermanos y yo tengamos un mejor futuro; dejaron sus vidas y todo lo lo que conocían para venir a este país. Siento que traducir para ellos es una manera de rendir honor a sus sacrificios, y también ha servido para mejorar mis destrezas sociales y de comunicación. Nunca he sentido que es una carga, pero no siempre ha sido fácil o conveniente. La mayoría de los hijos no se tienen que preocupar por los impuestos ni por documentos de inmigración, y tampoco por ayudar a sus padres a entenderlos y llenarlos.

Nunca he sentido que es una carga, pero no siempre ha sido fácil o conveniente.

Aún sí, no soy la única. La realidad es que unos 17.8 millones de niños en Estados Unidos viven con por lo menos un padre inmigrante, y más de la mitad de ellos viven en hogares en los que los padres no dominan el inglés. Como yo, muchos de esos niños son responsables por ayudar a sus familias a comunicarse, lo cual puede tener beneficios pero también dificultades. Una investigación publicada el año pasado en el Journal of Social and Personal Relationships mostró que los niños que sirven como “intermediarios de idiomas” podrían tener mejor autoestima y sentir más empatía, pero que el rol puede también agregar estrés, causar problemas en la escuela, y dejar a las familias con la sensación de que los roles entre padres e hijos se han invertido.

Para entender este fenómeno mejor, hablé con una amiga que ha sido la intermediaria de idiomas de su familia desde que tenía 8 años y su familia se mudó aquí desde Egipto. Ella me habló de lo difícil que es traducir cada palabra y cómo le preocupaba cometer un error al interpretar. Un día acompañó a su mamá a una cita médica de su hermanita. “La pulmonóloga preguntó, ‘What happened to your baby?” recordó mi amiga. “Mientras yo le explicaba la condición de mi hermanita, ella le preguntó a mi mamá, ‘Is that what is happening with your baby?’” La pulmonóloga se quería comunicar directamente con la mamá de mi amiga, pero eso no era posible.

Yo también he estado en situaciones estresantes porque no sabía cómo traducir terminología médica al bengalí y no quería que mis padres recibieran la información incorrecta.

Este otoño asistiré a Haverford College, una oportunidad hecha posible por los sacrificios de mis padres. Pero sé que la transición va a ser especialmente dura para mi mamá, ya que ella ha dependido de mi para traducir desde que llegamos en 2017. Tampoco será fácil para mí. Interpretar a veces es difícil, pero me acostumbré. Muy pronto mi hermano de 11 años será el encargado de seguir mi trabajo.

Umme Orthy es estudiante de duodécimo grado en la Science Leadership Academy en Beeber de Filadelfia, va a asistir a Haverford College en el otoño, y es una Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow. Para leer su ensayo reciente sobre la islamofobia en Estados Unidos (en inglés) haz clic aquí “In America, I experienced Islamophobia right from the start.”

I’ve been code-switching since kindergarten

2023-02-17T13:00:00+00:00

I’ve been code-switching since I was 5. Back in kindergarten, when I wanted something from my teacher — a sticker, say, or an extra prize — I would raise my voice to the highest pitch my vocal cords would allow, tilt my head, and twinkle my eyes. After receiving the sticker or prize, I could relax and talk to my friends with my natural voice, which is lower.

My younger self couldn’t tell you then what code-switching meant, only that I realized that altering my voice and demeanor endeared me to my teacher.

Enoch Naklen

Code-switching, a term coined in the 1950s by the linguist Einar Haugen, refers to the process of moving between languages and dialects. More recently, researchers writing in the Harvard Business Review defined code-switching as changing one’s language, mannerisms, or appearance to “optimize the comfort of others in exchange for fair treatment, quality service, and employment opportunities.”

In the U.S., the onus of code-switching (and making others comfortable) often falls on people in marginalized communities who are expected to talk and act like people in power — very often, white people. Code-switching is just one facet of an uphill battle marginalized communities face trying to survive in a society not made for us. Back in kindergarten, it seemed like a harmless way to get rewards from my teacher; now, as I near adulthood, it feels like a necessary tool just to get by in certain situations, like at school.

I am a senior at The Brooklyn Latin School, one of New York City’s specialized high schools where admission is based on a single test; Black and Hispanic students, who make up about 65% of all city students, are chronically underrepresented at these elite schools. Before high school, I attended schools that enrolled primarily Black and Hispanic students. Even with Latin being among the most diverse of the specialized schools, Black and Latino students still make up 12% and 11% of students, respectively.

When I got to Latin, I subconsciously began to speak in a higher-pitched voice at school and made sure not to let any African American Vernacular English, sometimes called Ebonics, slip into my speech. I began to assume that to get ahead, I needed to “act white” in a society that privileges whiteness.

Code-switching also carried me through my interviews and internships. In professional settings throughout high school, I hewed closely to the mannerisms of the person in charge; more often than not, these people were white. I tried to blend in.

The switch back and forth has become so natural that my friends and I joke about it. After an interaction with school staff, for example, I immediately relax, resting my shoulders and returning to a comfort zone among others who are also familiar with what it’s like to be a Black student at an elite school.

My friend Iyatta described her experience like this: “As soon as I step into the office, I activate my telemarketer voice, refresh my vocabulary, being sure to remind myself of various formalities and await the long day ahead of me.”

She said she experienced “undeniable” benefits of code-switching because others perceive her as professional, but noted, “I will always have to outperform the mediocre majority because of the internal biases that plague our society.”

I know what she means because despite being an exceptional Black scholar who feels comfortable in his own skin, imposter syndrome has festered within me. Sometimes I feel like I have to act a certain way (and not just “be myself”) to be accepted in some settings.

The topic of code-switching brings up a lot of strong and conflicting feelings, like when college football coach Deion Sanders recently called out a Black reporter for code-switching during an interview. Some thought Sanders was out of line, while others saw him as starting a much-needed conversation in the Black community.

I see validity on both sides. I’m well aware of the burden of code-switching and the dexterity it requires, but it also makes me more aware of the identities of the people and places around me. More sympathetic, too. And it’s given me a greater understanding of who I am and my duty as a Black man to be proud of my identity, even in spaces where I’m not in the majority.

Being comfortable with who I am no matter the situation means I’m no longer insecure about pairing “good afternoon” with a firm handshake instead of a head nod and dap. Because now it doesn’t feel like I’m trying to assimilate into an environment I don’t fully resonate with; it feels like leveraging a tool of social success.

Enoch Naklen is a senior at The Brooklyn Latin School and a Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow. He encourages young adults to have challenging conversations.

Why I didn’t want my friends to see where I lived

2022-12-08T13:00:00+00:00

After we moved to the Bronx from the Dominican Republic when I was 4, my mom, a home health care aide, worked long shifts and sometimes overnight. When she was at work, my friend’s mom babysat me.

I spent most afternoons and some nights in their apartment, where my friend had the pinkest room I had ever seen. It was something I thought was only possible in movies. There was a giant Barbie house and a toy chest overflowing with board games and stuffed animals. Sometimes, I thought, why can’t I live like this — in a home with cable TV and a PlayStation, with presents under the tree at Christmas?

Ashally De La Cruz

For most of my life, my mom and I lived in a studio apartment. There was a room divider separating the bed from the small kitchen, and there was a broken clock on the wall. I didn’t have toys like the ones I played with at my friend’s house. But I had a phone to communicate with my mom. On it, I could watch YouTube videos of other people playing games like Minecraft and Call of Duty. When I was at my babysitter’s home, I could play those games, too.

Our studio was a place to sleep, and I’m grateful for it, but it never felt like “home.”

So even when I was old enough to come back alone, I would spend days at a time at friends’ places. But I was constantly making excuses for why they couldn’t come to mine. I’d tell them my mom was cleaning the house or didn’t want guests — not because it was true, but because I was scared that my friends would judge me if they stepped even one foot inside. They probably would think it was weird that our whole apartment could fit in their living room.

I didn’t want people to know how much we struggled. When my friends went out for pizza, sometimes I’d only have a slice and no drink. Sometimes, I’d just tell them I wasn’t hungry, even if I was. Sometimes, I would ask the guy at the corner store near my school if I could pay him later. He’d known me since I was little and trusted that I’d give him the money when I had it.

I share this because it feels good to admit the things I have always been afraid to tell others. Maybe kids whose families struggle — or just don’t have as much as their friends do — will feel less alone. Maybe they will feel proud of the sacrifices their immigrant parents have made.

My mom has always been as generous as she could be. When she has an extra $5 or $10, she gives it to me so I can go out with my friends. After she pays the bills, she prioritizes things I need or that will make my life easier. If she sees a nice coat and she knows I need it, she’ll buy it for me instead of getting something for herself. During remote learning, she bought me a laptop. She really couldn’t afford it, but it was important to her that I stay on top of my schoolwork.

That hasn’t always been easy. I did my homework on the bed, since there was no desk or dining table, and tried hard to concentrate even as my mom talked on the phone on the other side of the room divider. We didn’t have WiFi, so if I needed internet, I’d have to go to my neighbor’s place or stand outside of it so their WiFi could reach my device. If I needed privacy to FaceTime with friends, the only option was to close myself in the bathroom.

Growing up, I knew it was important to my mom that I do well in school. She didn’t pressure me or scold me when I fell short. It didn’t matter though; I put plenty of pressure on myself. If I got an 80 on a test, I’d come home crying — having convinced myself that if I made one mistake my whole life would be ruined. I worried that all my mom’s sacrifices would be for nothing.

Sometimes, I’ve wondered why she came to the U.S. in the first place. In some ways, life in the Dominican Republic seemed more comfortable. My dad lives there and has a two-bedroom apartment to himself. But my mom saw a better future for me in the U.S., even if it meant working long hours and living in a studio apartment with little privacy and a broken clock. The schools here are much better, she told me. She wants me to go to college and become a professional. She wants me to have nice things and not be scared all the time.

That is my dream, too. I don’t want to worry about how I’m going to be able to pay the rent or take a day off if I’m sick. I want to finally take a vacation. I want to learn the budgeting and investing skills that generations before me never had a chance to learn. I want my mom to feel a sense of relief. I want my own kids to have a painted room and a toy chest. I want us to feel what it’s like to breathe, instead of fighting for the air we need.

That future feels closer than ever, now, as I prepare to graduate high school and begin college.

Ashally De La Cruz is a senior at Central Park East High School in New York City. She is in the process of applying to colleges.

How a group chat changed me for good

2022-12-13T13:00:00+00:00

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Nothing was more distracting to me than the constant sound of text notifications when I was at the gym. After a while, it became a game for me — the dings keeping pace with my weighted jump rope as it hit the floor. It created a beat of sorts to distract me from the pain. Notifications from the group chat I hadn’t even asked to join in the first place were relentless.

Enoch Naklen

Back then, I didn’t really see the point of the chat. In the years leading up to high school, I had experienced my share of trauma: I had confronted the realities of being a young Black man in today’s society; I had faced down poverty, initially hiding my situation from my peers. In the process, I was determined to rely on the only constant in my life: myself.

I believed that I had to understand myself completely before I could enjoy the company of others. The idea that others could help me figure out or forge parts of my identity never crossed my mind. So I focused on my school work, even when we were learning remotely, and keeping my body in shape at the gym.

The group chat wasn’t a priority, and I mostly ignored it.

But those dings were constant the summer before my junior year of high school. It would be several months before I began casually reading the group chat, surprised to realize that some of the participants shared my interest in basketball and Japanese manga. And here, I thought I’d be the only Black kid at Brooklyn Latin who watched a little anime. But these guys got all the references. Soon, the seven of us were chatting so regularly, we decided we needed a name for our group.

After some back and forth, we named ourselves after the superstar players in the manga “Kuroko’s Basketball.” They called themselves “The Generation of Miracles.” We called ourselves “The Miracles” to symbolize the great potential in each of us and, especially, our collective potential. Together, we shined brighter. We chose a group chat photo from “Kuroko’s Basketball,” and found uncanny similarities between the characters and ourselves. I was the “Aomine” of the group, who was strong and versatile but didn’t like to rely on others.

I did place a high value on independence and self-reliance, and that often meant forgoing group activities. When the rest of the Miracles would set time aside to play basketball or sit together to bond, I mostly opted out to focus on my schoolwork or to craft a new piece of writing. I never considered that my behavior concerned them.

Then one day, in our group chat, I summarized a point one of our favorite rappers had made in an interview. He just said that if he changed his name to Muhammad, people would “accept his new name before questioning why he changed it to something so significant,” I explained. In my reading, he was highlighting the lack of engagement and empathy in today’s society, which can cause misunderstandings between groups of people. I was expecting a resounding “MMMM” in acknowledgment of this idea. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Ding! “You are literally the ones he’s talking about,” one of my friends responded. “Enoch is that person. He’s too prideful to ask.” Ding! “Your ego is sky high, but your humility is very low,” another friend weighed in. Others on the text chain agreed.

I did place a high value on independence and self-reliance, and that often meant forgoing group activities.

I was genuinely confused. What did that quote have to do with ego? And how did sharing a quote turn into a bashing fest, targeting me? I was dismissive and defensive, and I concluded that they don’t know me as well as I know myself.

In quiet moments, though, I wondered how much validity there was to what my friends were telling me. I asked my partner to “give it to me straight.” Gently, she validated what my friends had been saying. What I saw as self-reliance and self-preservation born of past trauma sometimes came off as self-centeredness and a lack of interest in others. I understood now that my friends’ reactions to the quote weren’t malicious. They weren’t trying to pick on me. They cared about me, and they wanted me to consider how my actions affected others.

In a world full of hardships, we may try to shield ourselves from the judgments and distractions of others. But sometimes the protective shield also blocks us from making progress. The Miracles taught me that growth sometimes requires humility, letting our guard down, and listening to those we trust.

I had long lived by the adage that “the most consistent person in your life is yourself.” I still believe that, but also I know that I’m not the only person I need. Those “dings!” — I understand now that they serve a purpose.

Enoch Naklen is a senior at The Brooklyn Latin School and a Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow. He encourages young adults to have challenging conversations.

In America, I faced Islamophobia right from the start

2022-03-21T19:52:51+00:00

“Do you know you have to come back here because they are banning Muslims?” my uncle, calling from Bangladesh, told me, his voice scared. It was 2017, and he had just heard about President Trump’s executive order barring people from a group of Muslim-majority countries from entering the United States.

It was a terrifying thought, considering that it had taken my family 13 years to get U.S. immigrant visas, and we had only recently arrived in Philadelphia. According to my uncle who was watching the international news, we weren’t welcome here because of our religion. As it turned out, the executive order didn’t apply to us because Bangladesh — my mathribhumi, or motherland — was not one of the countries subject to the ban. But the call was unsettling because until then I hadn’t known that there was such a thing as Islamophobia. I never expected this kind of welcome to America.

My family dreamed of living in the United States. That dream and I were born the same year: 2003. This country represented a beacon of hope, freedom, and a new start. My parents wanted a better education for my siblings and me, and we wanted to be reunited with members of my mother’s family who were already in the U.S.

When our visas came through and we left Bangladesh, we thought we were answering the loud rapping of opportunity knocking. At the airport in Dhaka, the stifled sobs of my grandma, auntie, and uncle weighed down my steps across the gangplank. As the airplane took off, sweet memories of my former home and jumping rope in the schoolyard — places soon to be thousands of miles away — were flashing before me. That day while waiting on the plane, I wrote in my journal, “I feel numb. I don’t know how I will cope with the new culture, new people, new everything.”

I knew the transition would be challenging, especially since I spoke only a few words of English when I arrived. (Bengali is my mother tongue.) I just didn’t think my religion — and my hijab, or traditional Muslim headscarf — would be a factor. Where I came from, most people were Muslim, and many wore headscarves. My faith and clothing had never before called attention to themselves.

But when I started school in Philadelphia, they did. I walked through the halls on my first day, everyone stared. I seemed to be the only one wearing a hijab. Mine was covered in small pink flowers. I saw students in the hall, throwing menacing stares my way. Aiming to break the ice, I said “hey,” and introduced myself — using some of the few English words I knew. I sighed, thinking I did OK. Then someone giggled and pointed at my clothes, which was greeted with a supportive chuckle from her friends. Another boy mimicked my accent with exaggerated hand gestures, receiving roars of laughter from his friends. Someone shouted, “Look at her! What is that thing on her head?” Someone else tried to pull off my hijab. I felt stinging my eyes, but I bit my lip and said nothing.

I never expected this kind of welcome.

When I got home from school and shared my bitter experience with my mother, she smiled. She took me to her shoulders. “Ma,” my mom said, using a Bengali term of endearment, “accept the beauty in differences. Don’t be cowed by the negativity of others. Just remember, what makes us different makes us beautiful.” My mother’s words were Dua for me.

The racist and Islamophobic teasing continued, but in time I met other students who were recent immigrants to America and also learning English. They came from Mexico, Morocco, Saudi Arabia, and elsewhere. A few other girls even wore hijabs. My ESL class was a place where I didn’t feel like I had to know the language and culture to fit in.

When I started high school the following year, I also met other friends who asked with interest, with maturity and not malice, about my faith. I told them about my beliefs, and also about the obstacles I’ve faced in America — about the so-called Muslim ban that coincided with our arrival, about the bullying I have endured, and about the hateful implications that Muslims are terrorists. (I didn’t even know what terrorism was before I came to the U.S.)

In America, I have sometimes felt sad, but I have never felt ashamed about my identity and culture. It’s what makes me unique and makes me stand out from the crowd. As my mom said on that difficult first day of school, it’s what makes me beautiful.

Umme Orthy is a senior at Science Leadership Academy at Beeber in Philadelphia and will be attending Haverford College in the fall. She is a Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow.

There’s more than one way to write a college essay

2021-12-23T13:00:00+00:00

“You’re smart, you’re Asian, you’re queer and nonbinary, and you were raised by a single mom. Colleges will love you.” That’s the message I heard from friends even years before applying to college. In high school, advisers chimed in, too; they made it seem like it was a cool thing to be from a marginalized background.

When it came time to do my college applications, I think they assumed that I’d write about the challenges I faced growing up in an immigrant family with limited means, with minority racial, gender, and sexual identities. I knew that I could tell a phenomenal story about all the struggles I had overcome. I was, after all, applying to college through QuestBridge, a national nonprofit that connects low-income youth with colleges and opportunities. My peers initially encouraged me to use the hardships to my advantage. Tell them how you adapted and thrived through it all, even the pandemic, they urged me.

Lin Lin

I drafted an essay, then I discarded it and tried again. And again. One was about growing up in a neighborhood that is slowly being gentrified. Another was about living in a world that perceives me as an Asian woman and the violent consequences that come with it. Another still was about coping with my weight. None of them felt right. I knew some of what I went through was tough, and some saw my ability to persevere as remarkable. But is that all I had to offer? Is that all I am worth?

It felt like an exercise in proving my worth to college admissions officers.

And what, exactly, was I trying to prove? That despite the disadvantages I faced, I am still at the same academic level as those who didn’t face such adversity? That I can handle college because I grew up handling so much?

I resented the expectation that I lead with my trauma.

When I focus only on the worst things that ever happened to me and on the challenges and pain that come with my racial, gender, and sexual identity, it feels toxic and takes away from my humanity. Trauma is not the only thing that defines me, and it’s not the only reason I deserve to go to college.

I drafted an essay, then I discarded it and tried again. And again.

Of course, if other applicants want to open up about their hardships, they should tell their stories. I would never want to take this away from them. It’s just that I refuse to believe that it’s the only way to write a college essay.

Conflicted, I reached out to a fellow community organizer Van Sam, of VietLead. They were a great help. While overcoming challenges is character-building, Van reminded me that I have many other things to contribute. They urged me to question what actually makes up my identity.

Here’s what I came up with:

I am funny with a contagious laugh. I am loud. I like talking to people and always want everyone to feel included. I love urban green spaces and spending time outdoors, especially running or hiking. I’m addicted to romantic comedies and Chipotle. I’m someone who is growing constantly.

So what did I end up writing about? My love of nature, how much I adore analyzing the world around me and reveling in that same world. I also wrote about being non-binary through the lens of my liberation. Specifically, I wrote about buying my first chest binder. “When I put it on, it was euphoric,” I wrote. I compared the experience to eating candy without consequences. I compared it to flying.

The essays I submitted were more reflective of my character than my earlier drafts because they were rooted in the joy that defines me as much as anything else.

I felt good about what I had turned in, but as early decision day approached, I was overcome with doubt. I thought of all of the reasons they would reject me. I hadn’t submitted my SAT or ACT scores, which were optional. I worried that my essay wasn’t good enough and that I couldn’t compare to other high-achieving students who did more than I did in high school.

I tried to calm my nerves. I prayed to my ancestors. My hands were stained with the reddish color of the incense I’d been burning. My fingers were the color of sangria. It wouldn’t come off, no matter how much soap I used.

When I finally worked up the nerve to go log on, the “Dear Lin” letter waiting for me began: “Congratulations!” I had been accepted to Dartmouth and, thanks to QuestBridge, I would receive a full scholarship.

In the days since, I’ve spent time scrolling through Dartmouth’s website. I’ve decided I want to double-major in government and sociology. I want to join campus clubs and take part in Greek life. I want to study abroad. I want to learn how to swim and how to ride a bike and how to drive a car. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo of a rabbit and a tiger after saving up money. There’s so much joy ahead. I’m going to lead with that.

Lin Lin is a senior at Central High School in Philadelphia, the president of the citywide student newspaper the Bullhorn News, and a Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow. They will be attending Dartmouth in the fall.

Today I’ll sit in class and wonder, ‘Am I next?’

2022-05-25T15:54:13+00:00

I am afraid to go to school today.

Yesterday, a gunman killed 19 children at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde Texas. Today, I’ll sit in a classroom and wonder, “Am I going to be next?”

I’m not just afraid for myself, my classmates, and my teachers. My younger brother is in elementary school, and I’m afraid for him, too.

Last night, my parents gathered us — my brother, my sister, and me — to talk about what happened in Texas and to hold us close. My dad told me about another school shooting that killed 17 people in Parkland, Florida. It happened in 2017, the same year we immigrated to the U.S from Bangladesh, and I hadn’t known about it until yesterday.

My mom and dad moved us to the U.S. because they wanted us to have a better life and more opportunities. They wanted us to have the best possible education. Before coming here, I always thought of the U.S. as a place of safety and security. Then, a couple of days after I started school here, there was a lockdown drill on campus. I had no idea what we were doing because these drills aren’t common in Bangladesh. Neither are school shootings.

With my limited English, I asked my teacher, “What are we doing? Why are we hiding in the corner of a classroom?”

She explained that we practiced these exercises in case there was an active shooter at our school and we needed to hide. That day, I wondered why a country like the U.S — a democratic nation, a wealthy world power — would face such violence. Especially in schools. I thought surely the government would prevent this kind of thing.

But they don’t.

I asked my teacher, ‘What are we doing? Why are we hiding in the corner of a classroom?’

Yesterday, I watched online as Sen. Chris Murphy of Connecticut gave a speech on the Senate floor. He was begging his fellow lawmakers to enact gun control legislation. “Why are you here,” he asked his colleagues, “if not to solve a problem as existential as this?”

It was a powerful speech. So was the one Biden gave to the nation later in the day. Still, I don’t believe that our elected leaders are going to do anything about these mass murders that take place all the time and everywhere — including, way too often, in schools. Yes, our leaders should pass gun control legislation. If they wanted to, they could make it law today.

I know we’re going to talk about the Uvalde massacre in school today. After past mass shootings, teachers have provided space for us to share our thoughts and feelings informally. Some have also given us writing assignments with prompts like: How do you feel about what happened yesterday?

How do I feel?

I am terrified to go to school. I worry about school shootings, like the one in Texas, and I worry about everyday gun violence, which killed 562 people in Philadelphia last year. Both epidemics have given me another perspective on America. It is not the safe place I imagined. In my old West Philadelphia neighborhood, I would hear gunshots every day. Sometimes I’m scared to walk down the street or take public transportation. Today, I’m scared to sit in my classroom.

Umme Orthy is a senior at Science Leadership Academy at Beeber in Philadelphia and will be attending Haverford College in the fall. She is a Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow. Read her recent Chalkbeat essays “In America, I faced Islamophobia right from the start” and “Millions of children translate for their immigrant parents. I am one of them.”

Millions of children translate for their immigrant families. I am one of them.

2022-05-18T16:30:00+00:00

Leer en español

As we walked together into my ninth grade homeroom, my parents instructed me to tell them everything my teacher said. It was time for my parent-teacher conference, but my parents spoke very limited English. It was my job to translate.

“Your child is doing a really good job in school,” the teacher started.

My parents nodded and smiled, and I could tell they had understood.

From there on, though, I translated everything. It was challenging since my family had moved from Bangladesh only a year before — and I, too, was still learning English.

I had to navigate a new language and cultural differences, and try to fit into an environment that still felt foreign. On top of that, I became a “language broker” for my parents, meaning I was tasked with translating between our native language, Bangla, and English.

Though we all came to the U.S. knowing little English, I picked up the language more quickly than my parents because I was going to school and socializing in an environment where English was the dominant language. My mom, meanwhile, stayed at home to care for my younger siblings, so she didn’t have the same level of exposure to the new language. Interpreter is a role that has become second nature to me over the past five years. I have translated at school conferences and doctors’ appointments, including when my mom was pregnant and when my sister had to be rushed to the ER due to a high fever and a rash. Sometimes, when interpreting, I hold space for my mom to try to use her English, but most of the time, she relies on me to step in.

My parents have made so many sacrifices to give my sibling and me a better future, namely uprooting their lives to come to America. Translating for them feels like a way to honor their sacrifices, and it has also improved my social and communication skills. It has never felt like a burden, but it hasn’t always been easy or convenient. Most kids don’t have to think about tax filings or immigration paperwork, let alone help their parents understand it and fill it out.

I’m hardly alone. That’s because some 17.8 million U.S. children live with at least one immigrant parent, and more than half of them reside in households where parents speak limited English. Like me, many of those children are responsible for helping their families communicate, which can have benefits and drawbacks. Research published last year in the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships showed that child language brokers may experience enhanced self-esteem and empathy, but the role can also add stress, cause problems at school, and leave families feeling that parent-child roles have been reversed.

It has never felt like a burden, but it hasn’t always been easy or convenient.

To better understand the phenomenon, I spoke with a friend who has been her family’s language broker since she was 8, and her family moved here from Egypt. She talked about how hard it was to translate every single word and how she worried about saying the wrong thing. One day, she accompanied her mom to her sister’s pulmonologist appointment. “The pulmonologist asked, ‘What happened to your baby?” my friend recalled. “As I was explaining the condition of my sister, the doctor asked my mom, ‘Is that what happening with your baby?’” The doctor wanted to communicate directly with her mother, but that was impossible.

I, too, have been in situations where I’ve been overwhelmed because I don’t know how to translate medical terminology into Bangla, and I didn’t want my parents to get the wrong information.

This fall, I’m heading to Haverford College, an opportunity that my parents’ sacrifices made possible. But I know the transition will be hard on my mom, especially, who has depended on me to translate for her since we came here in 2017. It won’t be easy for me either. Interpreting is sometimes hectic, but I’ve gotten used to it. Soon it will be time for my brother, who is 11, to pick up where I leave off.

Umme Orthy is a senior at Science Leadership Academy at Beeber in Philadelphia and will be attending Haverford College in the fall. She is a Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow. Read her recent Chalkbeat essay, “In America, I experienced Islamophobia right from the start.”

Interested in becoming a Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow? Here’s how to apply.

2022-08-04T12:00:00+00:00

A year ago, Chalkbeat launched our Student Voices Fellowship because we wanted to hear directly from teens about how their school journeys shaped them.

Our first class of fellows wrote powerful essays that challenged ideas about city schools, explored the immigrant student experience from multiple angles, revealed how they found passion and purpose in their studies and extracurricular pursuits, and looked ahead with hope. You can read all of their published essays here.

Chalkbeat is thrilled to offer this paid fellowship opportunity again during the 2022-23 school year. We’re seeking applicants who attend public high schools in New York City and Newark, New Jersey, and are eager to publish personal essays on Chalkbeat.

During this extracurricular program, fellows will become a part of Chalkbeat’s dynamic and diverse newsroom. They’ll learn from professional journalists and writing coaches about what makes a strong personal narrative and how to turn their experiences into publication-ready pieces. Fellows will also learn some journalism basics and best practices. Over the course of a semester, participants will work toward publishing two original essays on Chalkbeat.

Fellows will receive a $1,000 stipend.

We will select a total of six fellows during the 2022-23 school year, four from New York City and two from Newark. We are offering the fellowship in the fall and again in the spring. Applicants should state their semester preference if they have one.

More information and the application are below. If you have any additional questions, please email me at gbirkner@chalkbeat.org.

Fellowship requirements:

You are a high school student in New York City or Newark interested in journalism and storytelling.
You can manage your time, meet deadlines, and are willing to commit at least an hour a week to the fellowship for about three months.
You have compelling personal stories to share and are willing and able to share them on Chalkbeat under your byline. (First Person does not publish anonymous or pseudonymous pieces.)
You are collaborative and eager for feedback on your writing.

Student Voices fellows will:

Pitch, write, edit, publish, and promote personal essays.
Brainstorm, outline, and workshop your pieces alongside Chalkbeat journalists.
Attend Zoom sessions with journalism educators and Chalkbeat staff about the craft of reporting and writing. You will also have access to a library of recorded journalism lessons from reporters and editors.
Improve your storytelling ability across formats and platforms.

The fellowship will be virtual, with opportunities to meet in person with staff members of our New York City and Newark bureaus.

Applications are due Friday, August 26 at 11:59 p.m. ET.

About Chalkbeat:

Esta fue mi experiencia al transicionar de las clases de ESL a las clases regulares

2023-08-14T11:05:00+00:00

Read in English.

“Entonces, ¿quién sabe qué marca de zapatos no ha cambiado desde que se creó?” me preguntó mi instructora de clases de verano.

El salón se mantuvo en silencio. Entonces, varios de mis compañeros murmuraron entre ellos, pero nadie parecía saber la respuesta.

Como la niña que tenía el talento de conocer los hechos más triviales y al azar, yo sabía la respuesta: Converse. Los tenis han sido los mismos desde 1917.

Converse, es solamente dos sílabas, pensé. Seguro puedo decir dos sílabas. Sin embargo, solo pensarlo me llenó de pavor.

Mientras tanto, mis compañeros gritaban marcas al azar. Yo sacudí la cabeza hasta que, por proceso de eliminación, alguien por fin lo dijo: “¡Converse!” La instructora sonrió. “Sí, así es”, dijo. “Converse no ha cambiado desde 1917. “

Me senté y me dije que la próxima vez diría algo.

Karen Otavalo, practicante de Newark Student Voices, creó esta obra de arte. “Tengo puesta la misma ropa que el día que me mudé a Estados Unidos”, le dijo a Chalkbeat. “La bandera en el fondo representa mi herencia ecuatoriana, y los colores expresan la familiaridad de mi lengua materna, el español. Estados Unidos está sobre mí, envolviéndome en la incertidumbre de un nuevo idioma. Me aventuro en un nuevo capítulo de mi vida”.

Pero este ciclo se repetía en la escuela, en discusiones de grupo y en las conversaciones diarias. Cuando tenía que hablar, la ansiedad podía ser insoportable. Me habría sentido más cómoda en silencio parada frente a un estadio lleno de gente que hablando con una sola persona.

Y yo sé que este reto no es solo mío. Más de una cuarta parte de los estudiantes en Estados Unidos son inmigrantes o por lo menos uno de sus padres lo es, según el director de la Inmigration Initiative at Harvard. Y para recién llegados que están aprendiendo inglés, el camino hacia la fluidez puede ser largo, incómodo y no contar con el apoyo obligatorio.

Mientras tanto, el grado de dominio del idioma de los estudiantes no solamente impacta su trayectoria académica; también puede afectar su bienestar mental, según un estudio publicado en la revista de Child and Adolescent Psychiatric Clinics of North America. Este hallazgo refleja mi proceso como inmigrante hispana, y es una experiencia compartida por muchos niños inmigrantes que llegan a Estados Unidos.

Aprender un idioma raramente es un camino directo.

Después de mudarme de Ecuador a Estados Unidos, aprendí rápidamente a escribir y leer en inglés, pero mis destrezas de comprensión y expresión oral aún necesitaban desarrollo. El sexto grado fue mi primer año en una escuela estadounidense, y en séptimo me asignaron en el programa ESL avanzado. En el salón me sentía segura y apoyada mientras practicaba inglés, pero afuera, el mundo parecía intimidante. Así que me aferré a la comunidad tan unida que habíamos creado los estudiantes inmigrantes y mis maestros. Nos unieron momentos de risas, lágrimas y las luchas compartidas de navegar un mundo nuevo.

Mi inglés progresó. Pero cada vez que pensaba en cambiar a una clase normal, lo descartaba. No me sentía preparada todavía.

Sin embargo, el tiempo pasó volando y cuando entré a octavo grado, las solicitudes de admisión a la secundaria estaban justo a la vuelta de la esquina. Debatí con lo que sabía que tenía que pasar. La secundaria que me gustaba no tenía un programa de inglés como segundo idioma, así que tendría que cambiar al salón de clases regulares. Mis maestros hicieron todo lo posible para que esa transición fuera posible. Reconociendo mi potencial, se aseguraron de que el idioma no fuera una barrera. Por eso les estaré eternamente agradecida.

“Es lo mejor para ti”, me había asegurado uno de mis maestros. De hecho, fue lo mejor, pero el mejor camino no siempre es el más fácil.

Durante esos meses iniciales de transición, no encontraba las palabras para expresarme. Y cuando las encontraba, me invadía ese miedo tan familiar. Antes, el poder de la palabra solía ser unas de mis fortalezas, y verme fallar en algo tan esencial — no solo para transmitir mis ideas, sino también para ser tomada en serio — era desalentador. No ayudaba que, a pesar de las horas de práctica, a veces parecía que no mejoraba.

Aprendí rápidamente que la impaciencia no hace que las cosas mejoren. Aprender un idioma raramente es un camino directo. Esforzarse más no siempre se traduce en más progreso. En cambio, tuve que aprender a ser paciente, pero eso tampoco es una transformación de la noche a la mañana. Todavía tenía mis momentos de frustración, pero al final me acostumbré a los vaivenes del aprendizaje.

No hubo un solo momento de revelación absoluta. De hecho, todavía no he podido eliminar todo el miedo que siento al hablar. Pero esto es lo que pasa con los idiomas: No son destinos; son viajes interminables. Hasta para los hablantes nativos. Es posible que nunca llegue a estar absolutamente lista, pero dar ese salto, aunque sienta terror hace que la próxima vez sea menos intimidante.

Karen Otavalo cursará el undécimo grado este próximo año, y adora dibujar y escribir en su tiempo libre. Este otoño se matriculará en el programa de política mundial del programa de IB en su escuela secundaria. Trabaja como asesora juvenil en National Crittenton y es practicante de Chalkbeat Student Voices en Newark. En el futuro, espera usar creatividad y alfabetización para ayudar a las comunidades desfavorecidas.

Here’s what it was like for me to transition from ESL to mainstream classes

2023-08-01T11:00:00+00:00

Leer en español

“So, who knows what shoe brand hasn’t changed since it was first created?” my summer instructor asked.

The room was silent. Then several of my fellow English learners murmured among themselves, but no one seemed to know the answer.

As the kid who had a knack for knowing the most trivial and random facts, I knew the answer: Converse. The shoes have looked the same since 1917.

Converse, only two syllables, I told myself. I could say two syllables. And yet, the thought of it made me recoil.

Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow Karen Otavalo created this piece of artwork. “I am wearing the same clothes I wore the day I moved to the U.S.,” she told Chalkbeat. “The flag in the background represents my Ecuadorian heritage, and the colors speak to the familiarity of my mother tongue, Spanish. America looms over me, engulfing me in the uncertainty of a new language. I venture into a new chapter of my life.”

In the meantime, my classmates shouted random shoe brands. I shook my head until, by process of elimination, someone finally said it: “Converse!” The instructor smiled. “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Converse hasn’t changed since 1917.”

I sat back, and I told myself that next time, I’d speak up.

But this cycle repeated itself at school, in group discussions, and during everyday conversations. When I had to speak, the anxiety could be excruciating. I would have been more comfortable standing quietly in front of a stadium full of people than speaking to one person.

I know this challenge is not mine alone. More than a quarter of U.S. schoolchildren are immigrants or have at least one immigrant parent, according to the director of the Immigration Initiative at Harvard. And for those newcomers learning English, the journey to fluency can be long, uncomfortable, and lacking mandated support.

Meanwhile, students’ degree of linguistic proficiency doesn’t just impact their academic trajectory; it can affect their mental well-being, too, according to a study published in the journal of Child and Adolescent Psychiatric Clinics of North America. That finding mirrors my journey as an immigrant coming from a Hispanic background, and it is an experience shared among many immigrant children arriving in the United States.

Language acquisition is rarely a linear path.

After moving from Ecuador to the United States, I quickly swiftly acquired English writing and reading skills, but my listening and speaking skills still needed development. Sixth grade was my first year at a U.S. school, and by seventh grade, I was placed in advanced ESL. In the classroom, I felt safe and supported as I practiced my English, but outside, the world seemed intimidating. So I clung to the close-knit community we, immigrant students and our teachers, had created. We were united by moments of laughter, tears, and the shared struggles of navigating a new world.

Karen Otavalo

My English progressed. But whenever I thought about transferring to a regular classroom, I pushed it to the back of my mind. I wasn’t ready yet.

However, time slipped through my fingers, and when I entered eighth grade, high school applications were just around the corner. I grappled with what I knew needed to happen next. The high school I wanted to attend didn’t have an ESL program; to apply, I’d have to be in a mainstream classroom. My teachers went above and beyond to make that transition happen. Recognizing my potential, they made sure language wouldn’t be a barrier. I’ll be forever grateful to them.

“It’s for the best,” one of my teachers had assured me. It was, indeed, for the best, but the best path isn’t always the easiest.

During those initial months of transition, words eluded me. When they did surface, that all-too-familiar fear rippled through me. Speech used to be one of the things I was strongest at, and seeing myself fail at something so essential — not only to get my ideas across but also to be taken seriously — was disheartening. It didn’t help that despite hours of practice sometimes it seemed like I wasn’t getting better.

I learned quickly that impatience doesn’t help things along. Language acquisition is rarely a linear path. More effort doesn’t always translate into more progress. Instead, I had to learn to be patient, and that isn’t an overnight transformation either. I still had my moments of frustration, but eventually, I got used to the ebb and flow of the learning process.

There was no single “aha” moment. Even now, I haven’t eradicated every ounce of fear that comes with speaking up. But here’s the thing with languages: They are not destinations; they are never-ending journeys. Even for native speakers. A moment of absolute readiness may never come, but taking that leap even when you are terrified makes it all the less daunting the next time around.

Karen Otavalo is a rising high school junior who adores drawing and writing in her free time. This fall, she’ll enroll in the global politics track of the IB program at her high school. She works as a youth advisor at National Crittenton and is a Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow in Newark. In the future, she hopes to help underserved communities through creativity and literacy.

The pandemic defined my high school class in painful and precious ways

2023-06-27T10:00:00+00:00

As I rubbed my tired eyes, I searched for my phone to stop the 8:55 a.m. alarm I had set for each weekday. Before I could even brush my teeth and form a thought in my brain, I opened my laptop and clicked the login link for my trigonometry class.

Had I been in class rather than doing school online, I would’ve greeted my friends, smiled at my classmates, and talked about how hungry I was. But for the past year — and for what would be the entirety of my sophomore year of high school — the school day started when a teacher let me into the Zoom meeting from the waiting room. I sat in silence on my bed, waiting to speak my first words of the day.

“How is everyone doing?” my math teacher said.

Jasmine Harris

“Good,” I responded, grateful that she was making some effort at normalcy. But with delayed responses and cameras off, were we really engaging, and was I really “good”?

Before the COVID-19 lockdown began in March 2020, I was partway through my freshman year of high school. I had just met most of my classmates a few months earlier, so I only knew them on a surface level. When we returned to campus at the beginning of our junior year, I expected things to be a bit awkward, considering we were timid freshmen the last time we were together. However, I did not expect this awkward phase to last all of junior year.

Jasmine, far right, with her classmates during their senior class trip in Lake Harmony, Pennsylvania.

I think it’s safe to say that many high school students graduating this year had a similar experience. After all, this year’s graduating seniors were freshmen back when COVID first closed schools. For the Class of 2023, our high school career has been largely defined by the pandemic and its consequences.

We spent our junior year — a challenging academic year under normal circumstances — adjusting to being back in a classroom setting. Socially, it was weird, given that it had been almost two years since most of us had seen each other face to face. Conversations were awkward and short. I can count on my fingers the number of times I hung out with my friends the entire school year, and by the end of my junior year, I still didn’t feel a close connection with the friends I had met my freshman year.

So when senior year came around, my classmates and I were determined to make our last year of high school our first normal year of high school. We no longer wanted to be burdened by the strangeness of almost two years without in-person socializing.

Just one month into my senior year, my friend group expanded, and everyone around me seemed so much more extroverted and eager to hang out. My friends constantly tell me how much I’ve changed, that I used to be so quiet and not want to do anything after school. My classmates and I have grown closer by the day and are eager to plan an entire bucket list of things that we want to do together before we head off to college.

It’s like we want four years of high school experiences — so many of them missed to quarantine — rolled into one year. This year, we feel the need to plan parties, go to the movies, and go out for food together constantly. This has also made our senior year all the more precious.

My fellow seniors and I were determined to make our last year of high school our first normal year of high school.

My friends and I often reflect on this feeling and speak about how, even though it is sad that this is our last year together, it feels like we’re just getting started. That feeling has also bonded us and made us more appreciative of our time together. This year has been thrilling in ways that I do not think it would have if we hadn’t been isolated for so much of high school.

But I believe that the lockdowns and the difficult time apart have taught us about ourselves, how valuable it is to live in the moment, and the importance of prioritizing our friendships and relationships.

This year, racing through these four years of high school has come with major (and historic!) challenges for the Class of 2023. But with every hardship comes lessons. These days, we seniors greet each other with a smile and a “hello.” We may complain about how hungry we are. But then, maybe because we know what it’s like to go without these social interactions, there’s a beautiful afterthought about how important our “hellos” and smiles are.

Jasmine Harris is a senior at Bronxdale High School and a Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow in New York City. In the fall, she will be in the Sophie Davis BS/MD program at City College of New York. She’s glad to have found a good balance between school and social life despite the chaos of her high school career.

Cómo una llamada de mi abuela me hace retroceder en el tiempo

2023-06-22T11:55:00+00:00

Read in English

“Estudia mucho mijita, ¿sí?”, me recuerda mi abuelita cada vez que la llamo a Ecuador, y su voz resuena en el teléfono. Está a más de 3,000 millas de distancia, pero incluso desde aquí, en Newark, Nueva Jersey, puedo oír los pregones de los vendedores mientras una música retumba por las calles.

Asegúrate de estudiar mucho, ¿de acuerdo?

Karen Otavalo

Es una petición sencilla y una frase común en todas las culturas y geografías. En el caso de mi abuela materna, María Isabel, sé que viene de querer para mí lo que ella no pudo tener: educación, independencia y oportunidades profesionales. Cuando ella era pequeña, su clase favorita era la de historia, y llevaba un cuaderno en el que dibujaba figuras históricas, decoraciones y banderas de distintos países.

Aunque soñaba con terminar la secundaria y hacer trabajo humanitario, tuvo que dejar la escuela y empezar a trabajar a los 12 años para mantener a su familia. También hicieron los arreglos para que se casara cuando sólo tenía 16 años. Esa era la realidad para muchas jóvenes en Ecuador, especialmente para aquellas con recursos limitados.

Ella quería más para sus hijos.

Pero cuando mi mamá tenía 16 años, también abandonó la escuela y se puso a trabajar. Ella se cansó de tener que cubrir sus zapatos rotos con pintura blanca porque estaba fuera del alcance de su familia comprar unos nuevos. En busca de independencia, ella se marchó para volver un año después, cuando mi abuela la convenció de que terminara la secundaria. Lo hizo, y luego se esforzó para ir a la universidad mientras también criaba a una hija pequeña: yo.

Luego, cuando yo tenía 11 años, nos mudamos a Estados Unidos y nos instalamos en Newark. Incluso antes de poder hablar inglés fluido, se matriculó en la universidad, decidida a aprovechar las oportunidades que le ofrecía un país como los Estados Unidos. Como inmigrante, ella luchó contra las barreras del idioma y la impaciencia de la gente, quienes suponían que su poco dominio del inglés significaba que ella no era inteligente. Mi mamá siempre les demostró que estaban equivocados. En mayo, mi madre se graduó con honores de la universidad.

Yo tengo 16 años. La misma edad que mi abuela tenía cuando la obligaron a casarse, y la misma que tenía mi mamá cuando dejó la escuela. A menudo pienso en lo diferente que es mi vida de las suyas. En dos generaciones tanto ha cambiado: donde vivimos, los idiomas que hablamos fuera de la casa y las normas que rigen los logros de las mujeres.

En Ecuador, las oportunidades y el buen empleo son escasos. La edad prevalece sobre la sabiduría, y por eso no se promueve que los jóvenes a hablen en la manera que se hace en Estados Unidos. Esta experiencia me ha hecho darme cuenta de lo afortunada que soy por vivir en un país con espacios y programas que empoderan a la juventud.

Por eso decidí matricularme el año que viene en el Bachillerato Internacional de mi escuela (conocido como IB), un programa famoso por su riguroso currículo. Dar este paso me ha hecho reflexionar sobre mi abuela y mi mamá, las mujeres que hicieron posible que yo recibiera una educación de primera clase.

Aunque mi gratitud es inmensa, viene acompañada de la presión silenciosa de tener éxito y de una necesidad inquebrantable de lograr algo. Con un plan de perseguir mis sueños más allá de lo que creí posible, está en mi abrazar esta nueva comunidad y asegurarme de que mi trayecto de vida es uno que no me arrepienta.

Tengo 16 años, la misma edad que mi abuela tuvo cuando la obligaron a casarse, y la misma que tenía mi mamá cuando dejó la escuela.

Mi mamá y mi abuela son las que soportaron la cruda realidad de una sociedad austera y aun así han conseguido vivir como ganadoras de la vida. Sus historias son unas de sacrificio, pero sus sacrificios no son lo único que las hace extraordinarias. Sus vidas también se definen por la esperanza y la perseverancia. Por ejemplo, mi abuela, que ahora tiene 54 años, está recuperando lo que no pudo vivir de joven, como tomar clases de tejer, bailar, cantar y salir con sus amigas. Mi mamá, por su parte, está manejando su propia empresa pequeña y tiene planes de obtener una maestría en contabilidad. Sus vidas siguen siendo complejas y muy afectadas por nuestras circunstancias, pero siempre han logrado perseverar.

Por eso, cuando mi abuelita, al otro lado del teléfono, me dice: “Estudia mucho mijita, ¿sí?”, un millón de pensamientos cruzan mi mente porque sé lo mucho que esa simple petición significa para ella y para nosotras.

“Si, lo haré”, le respondo.

Palabras no me valen para expresar mi gratitud por el camino que me han forjado pero en ese momento es simplemente perfecto.

Karen Otavalo es estudiante de décimo grado y en su tiempo libre adora dibujar y escribir. Este otoño se matriculará en el programa de IB y su curso elegido se enfoca en el estudio de la política mundial. Ella también trabaja como Consejera Juvenil en Crittenton Nacional y es becaria de Chalkbeat Student Voices en Newark. En el futuro, espera ayudar a las comunidades desfavorecidas a través de creatividad y servicio a la comunidad.

I’m a Stuyvesant junior. Here’s what I wish I’d known about the high school I’ve grown to love.

2023-05-01T20:13:57+00:00

Chalkbeat is a nonprofit news organization covering public education in communities across America. Sign up for Chalkbeat New York’s free daily newsletter to keep up with NYC’s public schools.

The boy sitting to my left was shaking his legs up and down. To my right, a girl cupped her hands in a silent prayer. Their anxiety was as palpable as my own, each of us breathing in irregular harmonies as the proctor handed out the scantrons. The sacrifices that culminated in this day, this test, were immense.

For me, it was 20 hours a week of studying for three months. Some kids studied less and some more for the controversial Specialized High School Admissions Test, or the SHSAT — the sole criteria for entry to eight elite public high schools in New York City. Whatever preparation went into that day, what mattered now was our ability to score high enough for admission.

Vanessa Chen

Stuyvesant, the school requiring the highest score, was my goal. And when I was accepted about six months later, I cried as months of anticipation and stress lifted from my shoulders.

Three years on, I rarely think about the SHSAT and what it means to have tested into a specialized high school. But now and then, I’m reminded of my school’s prestige, like when a substitute teacher says, “You are all going to Harvard, right?” (Spoiler alert: We’re not.)

Many people — especially prospective students — get things wrong about Stuyvesant due to unflattering headlines and daunting stories about the heavy workload and the pressure-cooker atmosphere. I made a lot of unwise decisions based on misconceptions about Stuy. I overestimated the importance of certain tests and lost sleep as a result. I spent too much time lamenting past grades.

The stereotypes don’t tell the whole story of my large Lower Manhattan high school. With graduation just over a year away, here are some things I’d wish I’d known about Stuyvesant before enrolling at the school I’ve grown to love.

Don’t stress about placement tests.

Once rising freshmen officially confirm their seats at Stuy, they’re invited to “Camp Stuy” for two days. There, soon-to-be students sit for math and foreign language placement exams, meet school guidance counselors, take swim tests, and get their photos taken for their student ID. For many incoming students, Camp Stuy marks their first time on our Lower Manhattan campus. (There’s also a version of Camp Stuy for new Stuyvesant parents but no placement exams!)

This past year, I was one of the “big sibs” assisting with Camp Stuy, and many students were anxious about the placement tests. Some admitted they had hired tutors to help them prepare.

Here’s what I told them: Don’t worry if you don’t place into honors classes your freshman year. It’s common for freshmen who didn’t test into advanced courses to switch to them by sophomore year — so long as they keep up their average and get a recommendation from their current math teacher.

Remember: Getting into a class you’re unprepared for can be counterproductive. If a student tests into an honors class they’re not ready for, it could be detrimental to their GPA, limiting the classes they can take in future years (to say nothing of the unnecessary stress).

Advanced Placement classes are capped.

While Stuyvesant is known for its numerous advanced placement and honors classes — the high school offers dozens of APs in everything from Studio Art to Microeconomics to Music Theory — the number of AP classes students can take each year is capped based on their GPA.

For instance, students who wish to take three AP classes at Stuyvesant must have at least a 93% average overall. Students must maintain an overall average of 88% to enroll in two AP classes. And there’s an added hurdle: You’re often competing with hundreds of other students for a spot in the AP class you have your eye on.

The transition to Stuy is difficult, and some students struggle freshman year as they adjust to the workload and pace of the demanding curriculum. For those students, freshman grades can hinder their GPA and limit the number of AP courses they can take in the future. This makes the climb more difficult.

Stuy runs on Facebook.

Before I started at Stuy, I, like many of my peers, thought that Facebook was for older adults. But “Dear incoming Stuyvesant Class of [insert graduation year] ... WE HAVE ADVICE!” Facebook groups are part of the school’s culture and connective tissue. At Camp Stuy, “big sibs” encourage new students to get on the social platform that they’re more likely to associate with their parents and grandparents.

Private Facebook groups for Stuy students and alums provide a safe and easy way to get or give advice, learn more about extracurriculars, and connect with upperclassmen and alums on everything from how much sleep to get to the pros and cons of taking one class over another. Most Stuyvesant clubs and activities also have their own Facebook groups, where they post advertisements and announcements (typically embellished with emojis and exclamation points).

It was on the Class of 2024 advice page that, during remote learning, I found a posting for the Stuyvesant Theatre Community. They were looking for small role actors for their spring comedy, “Twelfth Night,” and although I had never acted before, in a flurry of pandemic isolation and boredom, I decided to audition for the play. Luckily, I got the role.

For the next few weeks, I worked one-on-one with the directors and talked with my fellow cast members, most of whom were older than I was. I found joy and excitement in interacting with people I had never met. That brings me to my next point.

Stuyvesant is a creative community.

At Stuyvesant, you’ll study harder than ever here and stay up until the early morning hours writing papers, but your experience will also transcend academics. There are so many creative outlets here, from the school newspaper to the calligraphy club, from podcasting to theater arts.

Once we were back from remote learning, I auditioned for the fall 2021 musical, “Something Rotten!” I was chosen to be a part of the ensemble. Every day after school, hundreds of students would come together to sew costumes, build sets, and practice lines. The energy was contagious, especially in the frenzied days leading up to opening night. My part was small — one that involved striking a scorpion pose and singing a song about rotten eggs — but it was meaningful. With every lyric I sang and every step I sashayed to, I learned, first off, that I’m not a talented dancer, but, more importantly, that I love to see a vision come to life.

I went from playing a two-line part in “Twelfth Night” freshman year to being the executive producer of Stuyvesant Theater Community my junior year. Although my responsibilities are much greater now, I still love what drew me to the theater in the first place: the creative freedom and the supportive community.

Three years ago, I would have never anticipated finding my niche in Stuy’s theater program. I had set my sights on Stuy before I’d even been to an open house or researched the school’s clubs and electives. But what ultimately made Stuy the perfect school for me was the quirky, supportive, and creative community I found once I got there.

To those eighth graders who have just received their high school results, remember that schools are complex and idiosyncratic places. You’ll be learning about your campus and classmates from orientation up until graduation. You’ll discover niches you didn’t know existed and find yourself at home in some of them — even if it doesn’t feel like it at first. Good luck!

Vanessa Chen is a high school junior who loves to write and read in her free time. She has organized community events, including gatherings where Chinatown youth can bond and protests against neighborhood displacement. In school, Vanessa serves as executive producer for her school’s theater community and produced her school’s fall musical, “Matilda.”

This proposed NYC middle school will be ‘genderful.’ Here’s what that means.

2024-02-09T13:00:00+00:00

For the past 10 years, I’ve been teaching math to middle school kids in New York City. My classes are filled with children, ages 10-14, concerned with their friends, their responsibilities, phones, and, if I’m lucky, pre-algebra. In that way, these students are the same as they were a decade ago. But in so many other ways, they are different.

The pandemic and social media have changed their realities in painful and pressing ways. Many kids are grieving, confronting new addictions, and feeling extremely anxious about the future.

Joji Florence

On the flip side, though, I’ve seen a growing number of students find creative and joyful ways of being open and out about their gender. More of our children want to explore, learn about, challenge, change, or move inside and outside the bounds of masculinity and femininity. Many kids seem to get that with increased access to an evolving gender spectrum, more people can experience more joy. In the trans community, I’ve heard this idea described as “genderful.”

That is exactly the concept that propels Miss Major Middle, a proposed public charter school that I hope to open in the fall of 2025. Located in Community School District 13 in Brooklyn, our team envisions a genderful middle school where students are agents of justice, where their identities are affirmed, their voices are heard, and their humanity is celebrated.

The spirit of our school will be embodied by our namesake, Miss Major Griffin-Gracy. Miss Major is a Black transgender activist who played a pivotal role in the Stonewall Uprising and has dedicated her life to advocating for the rights and well-being of transgender and gender non-conforming people.

I started thinking about the possibility of Miss Major Middle several years back, when an eighth grade student of mine bravely came out as non-binary. I noticed that other teachers and administrators were asking the student directly what non-binary meant and what they/them pronouns were. The onus of teaching these adults about their gender identity fell, unfairly, to the child.

I realized then that New York City needed a school established from its inception with the needs and voices of trans, nonbinary, queer, and ally students, teachers, and parents in mind. This is Miss Major Middle.

Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, the school's namesake, at a Pride parade in San Francisco in 2014.

Our team didn’t invent the concept. As we’ve developed our school model, we’ve worked with existing genderful communities. We recently visited Magic City Charter Acceptance Academy, or MCAA, in Birmingham, Alabama, a mission-explicit LGBTQ+ affirming 6-12 school. During our visit, we learned that about half of MCAA’s students do not identify as LGBTQ+, yet chose the school because of its supportive and inclusive environment. This highlighted the broader appeal of such an educational setting, where students from various backgrounds and identities feel welcomed and are able to thrive.

As we work on our charter application (due this month to the SUNY Charters Institute), we’re underscoring that Miss Major Middle will strive to serve as an additional educational option. Our school wants to be part of the collection of schools already working to address issues of identity and discrimination.

What will make our school unique is our commitment to centering genderful students and teachers, and creating a safer space to learn and grow. I believe Miss Major will also demonstrate the appeal of an inclusive, progressive educational environment for students who do not identify as LGBTQ+. All of our middle schoolers will be able to explore their gender, embrace their own identity, and decide how they will walk authentically through the world.

What will that look like? At Miss Major Middle, our curriculum will have a STEAAM focus — that’s the traditional science, technology, engineering, arts, and mathematics, but we add to the mix an extra “a” for activism; our students will learn about (and how to become) changemakers. Our science curriculum will teach Gender Inclusive Biology, which focuses on how diverse organisms evolve and thrive, and our arts offerings will prioritize self-development and social-emotional well-being.

While we have not yet encountered public opposition, we are preparing to meet resistance due to misconceptions about gender and sexuality and a polarized national debate about affirming spaces. If we do receive this type of opposition, we know we can call on our robust support network, including elected officials, community organizations, hundreds of supportive families and, we believe, thousands of New York City residents ready to advocate for our school’s mission. The LGBTQ+ community’s history of resilience and flourishing in New York City positions us to address the questions and critiques that come our way.

As we’ve grown our community of families, I’ve often thought back to my own childhood. I was raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in the 1980s, where I had no knowledge of, or access to, trans language.

One of my earliest memories is of being at my friend Emily’s birthday party when I was about 7. The girls at the party took their long, beautiful hair, wrapped it around their chins, and tied it off with hair bands, creating beards. I remember this gesture, this game, so vividly because what they showed me was what I felt inside. It wasn’t that I was a girl or a boy or even that I wanted a beard, although I did want long hair. It was that I felt somewhere in between and outside of what gender was and that it all felt like something to be played with.

I share this story because I wonder, “What if I had known there were non-binary people in this world? What if I could have used they/them pronouns? What if my friendships had been anchored upon shared interests and passions instead of split lines for the bathrooms? And what if the human values of consent, compassion, a right to privacy, and a space for joy eclipsed the developmental fixation on how kids ‘of a gender’ should look, sound, or act?”

The “what ifs” of my own experience speak to how far we’ve come. But I’m also aware of the hostilities that continue to surround many students and families. Hatred, misunderstanding, and transphobia force folks to hedge their efforts to disrupt the gender binary because they must think about safety and security.

At Miss Major Middle, our academic philosophy is one of total inclusivity because safer spaces lead to better outcomes for our kids. And isn’t this what we all want? Ours will be a shared space where we work toward physical and emotional safety for students. A shared space where our policies and resources are designed with and for trans, gender-nonconforming, queer, and ally students and families.

Right now, our children and families are speaking to us, asking us to do better. It is our responsibility and privilege to bring this vision of a genderful school — and a genderful future — to fruition.

Joji Florence (they/them) is an educator, agent of justice, and the co-founder and proposed Head of School for Miss Major Middle Public Charter School. A proud nonbinary parent, they live with their amazing, brilliant spouse and three joyful children in Brooklyn.

Work has become more flexible post-pandemic. So should special education.

2024-02-08T16:00:00+00:00

Thirteen years ago, my neurodivergent child’s experience with public special education led us to leave it altogether and home-school from grades 6-12.

I created a customized education program for my son, incorporating his ideas and interests. I connected with educators who operated enrichment centers offering homeschool classes in the morning and after-school programs later in the day, as well as community college staff, local museum educators, retired teachers, homeschool groups, and university professors who offered additional opportunities for alternative learning.

Amy Mackin

We spent Monday mornings at an enrichment center where an MIT professor taught home-schoolers biology and anatomy. Thursday afternoons, we headed to a community gym, where my son studied Latin with a professor of Greek and Roman mythology, played chess, and then joined a group exercise class — all for a small fee. We learned about birds of prey at our local Audubon Society, and we discussed farming history during a visit to a cranberry bog.

It wouldn’t have been possible if I didn’t have a spouse with a full-time job and health care benefits — putting this option out of reach for many, if not most, families. But the types of partnerships I developed could help fill the gap that exists between what schools can reasonably offer and the expansive services children — especially those with disabilities — need to thrive, without asking parents to become full-time, unpaid instructors and curriculum designers.

Developing these partnerships is more pressing than ever.

This past summer, a Pew Research Center report revealed that the number of students in the American special education system has doubled over the past four decades, from about 3.6 million during the 1976-77 school year to approximately 7.3 million during the 2021-22 school year. Schools are struggling to find enough special educators to serve this increasing population, especially amid the rise in mental health challenges among students, including those with disabilities.

We know that a subset of neurodivergent students do better in more flexible educational settings. COVID closures showed us as much. Because while the pandemic was devastating for students with disabilities who needed in-person, tactile assistance, some children, including many on the autism spectrum, thrived outside of traditional school spaces. For these students, virtual learning provided a welcome reprieve from challenging social environments, resulting in improved academic performance and lower stress.

Serving these students post-pandemic means engaging community organizations to create a flexible education ecosystem, powered by traditional instruction in school and subject matter experts outside of it.

The Brookings Institution described a similar arrangement that they call ”Powered-up Schools” in a 2020 report outlining ways that public education could emerge from the pandemic stronger than before. They draw inspiration from the community schools movement, which advocates for public schools that provide wrap-around services to meet the needs of students, families, and neighborhoods.

Meanwhile in the U.K., students in some districts are engaged in what’s called “flexi-schooling.” This system allows a child to be a fully funded public school student while spending part of the week homeschooled and/or attending off-site educational programs.

School systems stateside could offer something similar. We know it’s possible. COVID-19, after all, forced us to get creative in our delivery of educational services. We must carry that forward with strategies that honor students’ individual learning styles, integrate community resources, and optimize teachers’ instructional strengths.

It’s too late for my son’s generation, but we can meet the needs of students with disabilities, including those who are more successful in a hybrid design, by breaking away from models that haven’t served many students well and haven’t changed in decades. We should replace them with more nimble solutions that don’t take years to actualize. In schools, like in workplaces, we learned to pivot quickly when COVID gave us no choice; it’s time to embrace those lessons and build upon them.

Amy Mackin is a Boston-based writer and inclusion advocate who serves as Manager of Communications and Outreach for the Population Studies and Training Center at Brown University. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic, The Washington Post, Assay: A Journal of Nonfiction Studies, The Writer’s Chronicle, Witness, and The Shriver Report, among other places. She has taught in the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at UMass Boston and mentors community college students in writing.

I teach future teachers. They don’t need the edTPA.

2023-03-31T14:00:00+00:00

I am a supervisor of teachers who work time and a half, for free. They arrive at work as early as 6:30 a.m., consult with guidance counselors during their free periods, tutor students after school, plan lessons and grade essays before and after dinner. They don’t sleep enough.

These teachers are student teachers, but they carry a full load. And they do all this work under the constant supervision of a veteran teacher and me, their university supervisor, with the expectation that they continuously revise their practice in response to feedback. Not all will make it out with a license. Those who do will have earned it.

When Illinois’ COVID Disaster Proclamation expires on May 11, the student teachers with whom I work will have even more on their plates. Lots more. The edTPA assessment for teacher licensure, which Illinois began requiring of all new teachers in the fall of 2015, will again be required in the spring of 2024.

The edTPA is often compared to the assessment required of veteran teachers seeking National Board Certification. Developed by the Stanford Center for Assessment, Learning, and Equity, it required my students to create some 50 pages of writing as well as video clips of themselves teaching. Despite its good intentions and fancy pedigree, this assessment is redundant, costly, and has the unintended effects of narrowing teacher education curricula and keeping strong candidates out of schools that need them — or out of the profession altogether.

To be sure, I want to hold future teachers to the highest standards; they are working with our most precious assets, our children. But to add such an onerous assessment when there are so many checks already in place is to fall prey to the accountability movement’s lie: that more testing is always good.

Already, pre-service teachers at my university have to apply for admission to our teacher education program after successful completion of prerequisite courses, maintain high grades in their education coursework, pass a state-administered content area test, and receive repeated positive evaluations of their student teaching by at least two veteran teachers. No additional testing is necessary.

For the few years that the edTPA was mandated in Illinois, its negative effects were immediately clear to me and went well beyond making a stressful student teaching semester remarkably more stressful. Because of the pressure to capture excellent student work on video, placement coordinators worried about assigning student teachers to some of the non-selective enrollment schools with which they had previously partnered. Because of the test fee, some teacher candidates with whom I worked — first-generation college students putting themselves through college and helping to support their families — put off licensure. And some, disheartened by not being able to finish on the planned timeline, put it off further.

Most ridiculously, my university colleagues and I devoted precious class time to teaching edTPA-specific vocabulary. The test emphasizes obscure terminology — terms like “language function” to describe “the content and language focus of the learning task, represented by the active verbs within the learning outcomes.” These terms left our and our students’ minds in tangles when we should have been focusing on teaching.

The edTPA doesn’t assess anything a good teacher education program doesn’t, and there are systems in place to assess the teacher education programs themselves. What the edTPA does do is distract from the work of teaching and increase stress, debt, and inequality, making it harder for lower-income student teachers to be licensed and disincentivizing their work in lower-income schools.

If the edTPA had proved itself to be a completely accurate assessment, that would be at least one point in its favor. But it hasn’t. Instead, we see damning data like that reported in a 2021 American Educational Research Journal article that “raise[s] serious concerns about scoring design, the reliability of the assessments, and the consequential impact on decisions about edTPA candidates.” (The testmakers have disputed those claims.) And yet edTPA is due to become required under law again in Illinois after the COVID-era emergency orders cease.

Hopefully, this will not come to pass. State lawmakers are considering changes to the licensure process, and I hope they make them. If the edTPA returns, I will have to return to using valuable class time to prepare students to clear this unnecessary hurdle. And I will again have to watch as the edTPA’s demands dangerously overload student teachers’ plates.

Indeed, as I watch this semester’s student teachers working so hard, giving up time with family and friends to support students of their own, I quake to think of asking future student teachers to do even more. Given Illinois’ teacher shortage (ISBE reported more than 2,000 unfilled teacher positions in 2022) and our children’s increased needs since the pandemic, we should be doing everything we can to get these dedicated aspiring teachers into the schools that need them.

Kate Sjostrom is a lecturer and associate director of English education at University of Illinois, Chicago.

I’ve worked in child care for three decades. It’s been a long, tough road.

2023-04-07T15:45:00+00:00

In 1994, after earning my master’s degree in early childhood education, I founded Kids Academy Early Learning Center with just one room for 10 children. Today, my center, located in the Chicago suburb of Morton Grove, has four classrooms where we can care for and educate up to 71 children, ages 6 weeks to 5 years.

Azar Khounani

After almost 30 years, my passion for caring for the youngest children during the most important years of their growth and development is just as strong as the day I started. But it’s been a long, tough road.

Programs like ours are part of a critical but fragile infrastructure that helps keep families afloat. We care for children who have experienced hardships and trauma. Our teaching staff, with support from experts and in partnership with families, provides a safe place for children to heal. Since the pandemic, we’ve seen higher levels of trauma and challenging behaviors, making access to warm and welcoming spaces even more important. Kids Academy educators are trained in trauma-informed practices.

But child care costs exceed what many families can pay; many parents report financial hardships. One parent in my program moved from a first-floor apartment to a basement-level unit to save $50 a month. She’s not an exception.

And while child care remains a costly necessity for families, programs like ours continue to operate on razor-thin margins. Over the past three decades, I have seen many providers close due to financial challenges and a lack of qualified staff. Kids Academy has survived because of community support, government resources for parents and providers, and the resilience of the Kids Academy teachers.

Why are the economics of providing care so precarious? There are many reasons, including plentiful regulations, the challenge of hiring qualified teachers in a competitive job market and at a time of historic inflation, and the cost of keeping our facilities and equipment clean, safe, and updated. Tuition income often doesn’t cover operating costs, especially at daycare facilities serving low- and middle-income families.

While child care remains a costly necessity for families, programs like ours continue to operate on razor-thin margins.

During the pandemic, our early-learning center was able to keep our doors open thanks to community and government support. St. Luke’s Church, where Kids Academy is located, lowered our rent. Federal COVID relief money was a lifeline. Without these child care stabilization payments, many families — including those doing essential work — would have been left without care for their young children. Reimbursements from the Child Care Assistance Program also helped us stay open.

At the height of COVID, our teachers risked their lives to serve our families. Today, some Kids Academy educators commute an hour or more, all the while fretting over the high cost of gas. I cannot overstate how much I appreciate and admire their strong sense of purpose and the sacrifices they continue to make.

Teachers often share that if they worked somewhere like Amazon, they would earn higher wages while enjoying greater scheduling flexibility. Some early childhood teachers burnout and eventually leave, but others stay put citing their passion for the work and the kids they serve. As dedicated as educators are and as critical as their work is, it’s clear that the funding landscape has to change if we are going to continue to support families.

Here in Illinois, Gov. J.B. Prtizker’s newly announced Smart Start Illinois plan is a roadmap for equity, recruitment, access to quality early child care and education, and higher compensation for those doing this care work. The program is also allocating $100 million for child care facilities, giving centers like ours a chance to improve their spaces.

But we’re not just waiting for early education dollars to appear. As a member of We, the Village coalition, I advocate for families, care providers, and other early childhood professionals. We seek adequate, reliable, and steady funding for child care providers to help them survive and continue as vital parts of our communities. We work together to be a voice for all young children who deserve quality child care, regardless of race or ZIP code.

I have been sustained on this “long, tough road,” thanks to my love for this work, my belief that caring for young children means a better future for them and all of us, and the community and government support — moral and financial — that acknowledges our work as essential.

Azar Khounani is the founder and president of Kids Academy Early Learning Center, a member of We, the Village coalition, and the Director of the Say Yes to Childcare campaign.

White students need more information about race and racism, not less

2023-04-10T20:30:36+00:00

As an assistant professor of education at Howard University, I have watched over the past two years as state lawmakers and governors have made it harder to teach public school students about American racial history.

These “anti-CRT” and “divisive concept” laws make teachers afraid to talk openly about the history of race and racism in this country, which will leave gaps to fill in years to come. As many have pointed out, a lack of accurate history harms all students. I want to offer my perspective as a white woman who, like many other white people, grew up without exposure to accurate information about race and American history until later in life. I use it to underscore why white children, in particular, need more information about race and American history, not less.

I went to high school in a blue-collar, midwestern city where the automobile industry fed the local economy. I attended a mostly white high school and had no idea that just a few miles away, the schools were mostly Black. In fact, we lived in one of the most segregated cities in the nation during the 1980s.

In high school, we read Maya Angelou and Mildred Taylor, and learned about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Rosa Parks. But we did not learn how racial segregation laws had shaped the schools we attended, nor how redlining and racial covenants had shaped the surrounding neighborhoods.

We did not learn why it was that our school had so few Black students or so few Black teachers. Each day, the ebb and flow of mostly white students and teachers went unquestioned, leading me, and likely other white students, to assume it was perfectly normal. At home, we did not talk about race, history, or politics. Maybe it was because, like other working-class families, we went to work and did not ask questions. Or maybe it was because, like many white families, talking about race explicitly is taboo.

It wasn’t until graduate school at a predominantly white university at the age of 25 that I began to learn about the history of race in America. And, importantly, it wasn’t by choice. I was not a “race and ethnicity” or “ethnic studies” or “Black studies” major. I was an education major. Making the difference were my professors, who integrated information about race, racism, and the histories and contributions of Asian Americans, Black Americans, Indigenous peoples, and Mexican Americans into the class curriculum.

As a result, my entire understanding of this country changed. And in fact, it improved. I understood more about laws and civics and social movements, and the history of the United States and the colonies. I gained significant respect and reverence for communities of color and a new understanding of my own history as a white person. It opened my worldview and expanded my perspectives and relationships. It made me more committed to our democratic ideals and to building community.

Learning about race and American history fundamentally changed my entire trajectory, and for the better. It shaped each personal and professional decision that I made thereafter.

It wasn’t until graduate school that I began to learn about the history of race in America.

But what if, instead of learning this in my late 20s, I had learned this history as a child? It was only by accident, to some extent, as a first-generation college student, that I attended the graduate program that I did. And it was only through the work of my professors, many of them faculty of color, that I was exposed to anything different. Think of all the other white students in my high school who have proceeded through life, casting votes and making decisions that impact the lives of other people, without an understanding of this nation’s past.

Many white people that I talk to from my own generation, even now, do not know much about America’s racial history. Just this past year, I’ve talked with white people about the ways white lawmakers segregated schools and universities, how Klan members held public offices in the 1920s and 30s, and how Massive Resistance unfolded during desegregation. And it is new to them. When they hear this, it’s like a light bulb goes off. Suddenly, anti-racism and diversity efforts make more sense.

Opponents of addressing this history are afraid that it will make white children feel bad. And yes, I did learn of the brutality and violence of white people. I know that we have the potential to act with malice and disregard for the lives of people of color. But did this make me feel bad? No. It made me feel a healthy sense of responsibility to those different from myself. Teaching our children about the harms white people have perpetrated will not make them feel bad; it will keep them from doing the same thing in the future. And importantly, we must teach them how white people can contribute responsibly and with reverence to the work of racial justice.

White children notice race and internalize prejudice and superiority early on. If we do not inoculate our children from these ideas, we leave them vulnerable to the rising tide of prejudice and race-related hate. Today we are seeing the political impact of my generation, who went through school without enough information about race, racism, and American history to make better decisions in the interest of democracy. We will continue to pay a collective price as a nation if we censor this information in schools.

As white people, we have a lot to learn about the history of race and racism in America. As adults, we have our own gaps, and those of our children, to fill. We need to learn the accurate history of white people, the bad and the good. We need it to better understand ourselves and the world and human dignity. We need it to be better members of our community and to make informed policy decisions and to inoculate our children against racial extremism and xenophobia.

Learning about race, racism, and American history has fundamentally changed my life, and for the better. What I needed as a young white student — what so many of us need still today — was more information about race, racism, and American history, not less.

Kathryn Wiley is an assistant professor on educational policy and leadership at Howard University.

Career and technical education needs a mental health revolution

2023-04-11T12:00:00+00:00

As a longtime public school occupational therapist, I know what students look and sound like when they’re ready to transition from the work lab to the workforce.

In recent years, I’ve personally witnessed more of my students struggle to make that transition or not make it at all. It has nothing to do with a lack of technical skills, as I’ve seen them master complicated vocational concepts and tasks — graphic design, woodworking, 3D printing, and CNC programming. The struggle has everything to do with skyrocketing anxiety, depression, and trauma experienced by my students as they prepare to enter the workforce.

Michele Morgan

Our students are experiencing a mental health crisis across our state and country, and that’s something all of us can and must work to address. That’s why I’m focused on helping our general education and special education students develop job skills and strengthen their mental health while still in our hallways.

Starting about six years ago, I worked with my colleagues at Warren Woods Public Schools in Warren, Michigan, to launch a new approach to student mental health and wellness to complement our existing emphasis on pre-vocational skill development. The program, available at our district’s two high schools, includes an OT lab that combines technology-driven and traditional machines, a reset room where students can process emotions in a calming environment, and an after-school program called Scratch the Surface.

This curriculum helps students process uncomfortable feelings, such as loss, grief, or anger.

When we first launched the after-school program, it served only as an alternative to traditional disciplinary measures for students who were skipping school or getting behavior referrals in class. But nearly all of the students referred to the program voluntarily continued attending well past what was required.

I also collaborate with our school social worker to provide students with a series of weekly sessions that center on mindfulness, self-compassion, and the principles of psychological flexibility. This curriculum helps students process uncomfortable feelings, such as loss, grief, or anger, and recognize that painful thoughts will pass and do not define them. My program has reached up to 82 students year-round, including programming offered over spring break and during summer.

Some of the artwork produced by Michele Morgan’s CTE students.

In our OT labs, students use raw materials (donated by a local kitchen and bath manufacturer) and machines, such as lathes, 3D printers, CNC routers, laser engravers, and wood burners to make functional art infused with meaning and messages related to mental health. Student art has included granite memorial markers, engraved wood cutlery, mosaic art, candles, jewelry, and more.

The results speak for themselves.

Attendance has gone up and behavior referrals down to near zero for every Warren Woods-Tower High School student who has participated since the program began. At Enterprise High School, the principal of our alternative education program says the OT lab has given students a supportive outlet when they need it most since they can choose when during their school day to visit. Through the power of mindfulness, my students have learned to process their feelings in a constructive way at school. This has allowed them to refocus on developing job skills and preparing for career success.

As our program has evolved, we have gained partners at the local and state levels, including Michigan Works! and Michigan Rehabilitation Services, which support program costs and pay students an hourly wage during spring break and summer sessions. I’ve also worked with interns from occupational therapy programs at Eastern Michigan University, Macomb Community College, and Wayne State University, developing a pipeline of prospective OT lab practitioners. It’s been exciting to see professional and community partners recognize the value of our work and help keep it going.

I’m not a psychotherapist. The good news is that occupational therapists, too, can have a long-lasting impact on student well-being. The key to our success has been making a personal investment in their health, welfare, and happiness — not just one focused on grades or performance.

Michele Morgan is an occupational therapist at Warren Woods Public Schools. Learn more about her work at makeitworkprogram.com.

I survived a school shooting. Here’s why you probably haven’t heard about it.

2023-04-13T19:30:00+00:00

“It wasn’t a school shooting,” my Algebra 3 teacher said nonchalantly as he passed around the bag of “Great Mills Strong” bracelets someone had donated to us. “It was just a shooting in a school.”

His words sounded ridiculous to me, but this was a sentiment shared by many in and beyond our community.

Mollie Davis

Two weeks earlier, 16-year-old Jaelynn Willey was shot dead by her 17-year-old ex-boyfriend on a Tuesday morning inside Great Mills High School, where in 2018 I was a senior. The boy died, too, of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, as the school’s student resource officer responded to the incident.

But all this happened a month after the massacre at a high school in Parkland, Florida, where 17 were killed. What happened at our school seemed minuscule by contrast. The gun-control advocates forgot us and the gun-rights advocates pushed out a video claiming us as a victory for the side of “good guys with guns.” Never mind that the events of that rainy Tuesday morning left Jaelynn dead and traumatized us Great Mills students. Meanwhile, we were told that what we experienced wasn’t really a “school shooting,” so we were fearful of being seen as dramatic. The message: Be grateful that it wasn’t worse.

If I was testifying under oath, I’d have to say I’m not sure if I heard the gunshot. The doors of our school slammed loudly by default, people dropped things, and I think I may have heard it without recognizing what it was. Either way, what alerted me that something was wrong was the screaming. There was screaming and my head turned to a boy running past the open door of our classroom in black basketball shorts with a white stripe up the side. Two of my classmates went to the stair landing to see if they could see what was going on. They came back inside reporting that people were screaming someone had a gun, and sat back down.

We all sat at our desks with the lights on, the screaming reverberating off of the walls below us. Someone said their friend told them that someone popped a balloon behind a girl’s head and told her to drop. What a jerk, he’s in trouble, my mother texted when I relayed that information to her. I chuckled as my hands shook and the intercom crackled to life. Something about how there was no immediate threat but to go on lockdown.

I tweeted a plea for prayer that went viral; when CNN asked if I was available, I turned them down. But they found someone who said yes, someone who went on national television and said seven people were dead.

I tweeted a plea for prayer that went viral.

Thankfully that wasn’t true. Thankfully, only one girl was shot in the head; thankfully, the bullet that went through her head only hit someone else in the leg; thankfully, the only other casualty was the shooter. The word “thankfully” has been rotting on my tongue for the past five years, but I can’t spit it out because that would be rude to the people who worked overtime to make it palatable.

The shooting took place around 7:55 a.m., and I didn’t leave the reunification center until close to 4 p.m. As we pulled out of the parking lot, my chest started hurting so bad I couldn’t sit up. So I hunched into a ball in my dad’s passenger seat until we got home and I stumbled into the house to hug my mom. I forced myself up the stairs and into the bathroom before I collapsed, my eyes falling to the piece of white masking tape on my sleeve. We all got one when checking into the reunification center for reasons that I’ve never understood. Ripping it off, I slammed it against the wall and turned the water on so my family wouldn’t hear me as I let out an earnest sob from the depths of my being. I crawled into the shower, curled up in a ball, and willed myself to wake up from what was surely just a vivid nightmare.

But it wasn’t a nightmare, and the short list of dead and injured wasn’t some “get out of trauma free” card for me or my peers.

Smaller school shootings get lost in the shuffle of too-frequent violence with higher death tolls. You can tell me to be thankful that it wasn’t worse. But what happened at my school five years ago remains an open wound.

Mollie Davis is a 23-year-old writer residing in Denver with the Colorado Episcopal Service Corps. In the fall, Davis will be a 1L.

At our parent-teacher conferences, students lead the way

2023-04-18T12:00:00+00:00

Each fall and spring, families and schools across the country take part in “parent-teacher” conferences. Filing in and out of classrooms (or Zoom rooms), educators and parents talk about student progress, participation, and social development. The children and teens who are the subject of the conference are not usually in the room.

At the Newark middle school where I work, though, our students are the ones leading the conference. They are the ones facilitating the conversation about their strengths and areas for growth.

Lauren Whidbee

It takes preparation to get there, but I’ve seen it pay off for everyone involved.

To help students to feel confident enough to advocate for themselves, we have them prepare and practice with their peers. Before parents arrive, students complete a reflection activity, and my colleagues and I use a checklist to ensure we make the most out of these rare opportunities to all get together.

The checklist, for example, reminds teachers that they can ask probing questions or direct the student to the agenda but to be careful not to dominate the conversation. We arrange for interpreters if needed. Even the design is intentional — we adjust our seats into seminar-style circles to promote discussion.

I remember one student whom I’ll call Maria. She was a hard worker and strong reader but was often uncomfortable speaking in front of her peers. At her first conference, she put her hands over her face, too nervous to share.

Through patience, practice in class, and the support of her family, her conference the next year looked completely different. She was able to present, her shoulders back and head held high as she discussed her progress and how she wanted to be pushed not just academically but also socially.

At traditional parent-teacher conferences, students may worry about being misrepresented, and parents and guardians might feel surprised and overwhelmed when a teacher expresses that their child is struggling. It also places a strain on teachers who have large class sizes.

It takes a lot of maturity to express your growth and areas for improvement, but I see a genuine effort from all of my students.

Empowering students to lead these discussions lessens the emotional and mental burden on educators. Students have the opportunity to reflect on the skills they learned, their accomplishments to be proud of, what they can work on during the next quarter, and how those goals align with our school’s values: bravery, ownership, and leadership. Families can also trust that if their student identifies they are struggling with completing math homework and assignments on time, it is true. From there, teachers, parents, and students can work together to create action plans.

Of course, it still takes work and an understanding of the students and their families. I know what classes my students are excelling in and if they are having trouble with behavior in a specific class or homework in another. I let the students lead, but I may ask probing questions or direct the student to the agenda. And I help the student if the parent is talking too much, redirecting the conversation if someone begins to get upset.

After the meeting, students send thank you notes to their guardians who attended the event. It takes a lot of maturity to express your growth and areas for improvement, but I see a genuine effort from all of my students.

Since moving to student-led conferences more than five years ago, we have noticed a subtle but important shift. Students are learning public speaking skills. They are learning to advocate for themselves and to manage their time while speaking. And we see parents making a real effort to attend.

For schools looking for a way to improve on their own conferences, shifting to a student-led model is worth considering. For families wondering how to connect the dots between school and home, ask your child’s school about student-led conferences. Some of the best innovations in education are low-tech and right in front of us.

Lauren Whidbee is a successor school leader at KIPP BOLD Academy in Newark, where she has worked since the school was founded in 2015. She started her career as a Teach for America Corps member in Baltimore. Whidbee is a proud alumna of the University of Pennsylvania, and she earned her master’s degree in education at Johns Hopkins University.

I know what it’s like to struggle with bad credit, so I piloted a youth personal finance course

2023-04-21T19:53:00+00:00

During my freshman year at Brooklyn College, there were credit card companies lined up, eager to earn the business of students. Enticed by various rewards programs and sales pitches that only told part of the story, many students signed up for one or more cards without understanding the repercussions of late payments.

Lacking basic financial literacy meant that many college students started off their adult lives with poor credit. As a result, they faced challenges later in life when they needed to borrow money but couldn’t secure a low-interest loan. (A 2009 federal law has made it harder for those under 21 to obtain a credit card, though financial products companies haven’t stopped trying to lure college students.)

Emmanuel Jeanty

Poor credit followed me past college and years into my teaching career. (I am a teacher for students with disabilities at a Brooklyn middle school.) That has fueled my sense of obligation to teach the next generation of students about personal finance. It’s why I helped develop a personal finance curriculum for teens and young adults through the Gentlemen Factory’s youth mentoring organization, Groomed Success.

Because we wanted the class to be as engaging and relevant as possible, we polled students we work with to see what topics interested them. They wanted to know about buying homes and cars. Our curriculum, geared toward those ages 14 to 21, has them considering questions such as: How much do I need to save (and for how long) in order to make these purchases? Which purchases do I want to prioritize? And how do I know if I’m even in a position to make one of these purchases?

Young people also wanted to learn about credit, investing, and cryptocurrency. We realized that students have consumed a great deal of advertising and social media posts about crypto, and we could provide discussion and clarification. Other topics of interest included budgeting, bookkeeping, and financial planning for starting a business.

New York state — the financial capital of the world — does not require any separate financial literacy course for high school students.

We, educators, can help young people prepare for life after graduation, which is why I hope more schools and youth organizations will offer financial education. There are many great resources out there, and developing our curriculum was easier than I anticipated.

Even more importantly, there are steps elected officials can take to help support school-based efforts to deepen financial knowledge. Unlike states such as Iowa, Utah, and North Carolina, New York state — the financial capital of the world — does not require any separate financial literacy course for high school students.

Encouragingly, state lawmakers have proposed mandating the successful completion of a financial literacy course for all New York state high school students. But those proposals are not yet law.

Financial literacy shouldn’t be optional because it puts those without it at a significant disadvantage, as I was in the years after I graduated from college. And if my experiences as a student and educator have taught me anything, it’s that no one should have to learn crucial financial lessons the hard way.

Emmanuel Jeanty teaches seventh graders with disabilities at I.S. 285, the Meyer Levin School in Brooklyn. Jeanty is a Brooklyn native and a Brooklyn College alumnus who is motivated to educate young people about the world and how they can contribute to it.

It’s tough to build school community post-pandemic. Music helps.

2023-04-24T16:00:00+00:00

The gym was packed. Parents, aunties, grandparents, and cousins filled the seats and more stood in the back. As their child’s class came up to perform, they jostled to the front, cell phones in hand, ready to get a good video.

The kids were dressed up in their finest sparkly red dresses or shiny slicked-back hair, with creased pant legs and bowties. All for a little winter concert at an elementary school.

It almost seemed like a night from the before times, pre-pandemic. The students’ voices weren’t always in perfect pitch, and some of them were a little fuzzy on the exact words. But the scene, and the songs, were perfectly beautiful.

It was also a surprising turnout for this school year. I lead a two-school charter network in Denver, and our school community has been a paradox post-pandemic. When we ask for feedback from our families, they ask for more in-person events: movie nights, dad and child dances, parent workshops, festivals. But typically we rely on parent volunteers to help us host these events. This year, when we’ve asked for volunteers to organize these events, almost no one signs up.

At the last moment, a little flurry of people always agree to man the grill, run the popcorn maker, or be on the clean-up crew. But it makes each event feel like a heavier lift when there aren’t quite enough hands, and that makes parents and staff more hesitant to volunteer the next time.

Turnout for most school meetings this year have been sparse, too. Our School Accountability Committee, which is supposed to have as many parents as staff members reviewing our academic data, had only staff at several meetings. We held a parent education night and only three people attended, while seven teachers were ready to share their great curriculum work.

It feels like we are longing for the social events from before the pandemic but we have all changed our boundaries. People have re-organized their work-life balance. They are used to being home more and maybe less used to extending themselves outside their most intimate sphere. Just as so many people are reluctant about going back to the office, we are reluctant to shift back to our previous level of community engagement. It feels like no one wants to leave home after collecting their kids at the end of the day and even fewer want to jump on a Zoom meeting after work.

I can understand it. I feel resistance myself about going to as many evening events as I have in the past, and teachers are more hesitant as well. Maybe we are still exhausted — or depressed, scared, and traumatized — from all we’ve been through, from the pandemic to recent gun violence. It leaves few people, parents or staff, with the energy it takes to organize and volunteer.

It has also been hard to be a parent in this country for a long time. We do so little as a society to support people with young children. Maybe living through these last few years has taken that little bit of extra parents still had to give.

Still, it worries me. Those outside of school time events are where community gets built. It’s where we get to see each other as people, and not just a teacher and a parent.

It all felt different at our winter concert performances, though. We were not trying to educate our families, we were not trying to fundraise, we weren’t even asking them to set up game booths or make cupcakes. We just invited them to hear their children sing.

It was a simple event. Staff set up the chairs and the stage. Teachers shepherded the children from classrooms to the stage and back. Our office team bought trays of cookies, and the tech teacher set up the sound system. I was grateful that staff were willing to do a little bit more that night so that we could all hear the children sing.

Music is a healing force, and children singing together often brings tears to my eyes. It is an expression of innocence and hope wrapped up in nostalgia for our own childhoods. Recent studies have shown that creative expression helps relieve anxiety, stimulates the rewiring of the brain after trauma, and even just listening to music can reduce cortisol production and stress. So it is no accident that these assemblies drew us together in community like nothing else has been able to since the pandemic.

We need the medicine of music to breathe life back into our tired, traumatized parent brains. I think it might be time for a spring concert.

Christine Ferris is the executive director of Highline Academy Charter Schools in Denver. She founded and led Our Community School, a K-8 charter school in Los Angeles, from 2005 to 2013. Ferris has been a consultant for charter schools in Denver, Los Angeles, and nationally.

AP U.S. History is a ‘race across time.’ That’s an outdated way to teach.

2023-05-05T12:00:00+00:00

I walk into my Advanced Placement U.S. History class, excited to teach the Vietnam War, yet knowing I will fail.

My students may learn some basic information about the war from primary documents and get a sense of its horror of it from film clips. But they will not have time to make deep connections to our world today — to wonder deeply about whistleblowers and government secrets, to connect it to “forever” wars, or to consider the implications of war and peace in Ukraine today.

But I smile at my students and queue up my slides because there is no time to waste on doubt. I only have one day for this topic.

For AP U.S. History, the number of units and topics — and their relative importance on the AP exam — are dictated by the College Board. Sadly, the last unit of the AP U.S. History course, Period 9: 1980–present, is the least represented on the exam, making up only 4-6%. The unit likely to be the most relevant to my students is the least tested, and preparing my students for the exam means giving it less emphasis in my classroom, too.

Jeremy Kaplan

The “race across time” content demands of the U.S. History curriculum have also meant that I have to cover a different historical topic each day. It means I have had little to no time to have my students study current and recent history so that they can make meaningful connections between the past and the present.

It’s a frustrating state of affairs, especially when AP History courses are upheld as the model for educational excellence. The assumed supremacy of AP courses is explicitly reinforced through initiatives like New York City’s push to enroll as many students as possible and implicitly reinforced when a school’s “best” teachers are “rewarded” by being programmed to teach AP courses.

I have not found this to be true. To me, AP History courses represent an outdated vision: the idea that knowing more information, however superficially, is good.

In my one-day lesson on the U.S. involvement in World War II, for example, my class did learn about the important topics of Pearl Harbor, D-Day, and the use of atomic weapons in Japan by the U.S. However, how rich would our discussions have been, and how useful to our democracy, if we could have gone deeper? If we could have asked questions about if it is ever justified to kill civilians during war? If my students could have researched current issues of U.S. military interventions? How far we should go to prevent or start a war or terrorism?

How rich would our discussions have been, and how useful to our democracy, if we could have gone deeper?

But no. This is AP History. And there’s no time.

I am totally in favor of students learning historical content. Plenty of research supports the importance of factual knowledge for higher-level thinking and reading comprehension. Current and recent events are also historical content, though, content that students usually do not know much about.

We also know that adolescents learn best when they find what they are learning relevant to their lives. But the AP course rarely allows us to “make it” to the present. The format means never giving my students today a chance to learn about such important, relevant events as the end of the Cold War, September 11 and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, Obama’s presidency, or the Trump presidency. It simply does not make pedagogical sense to leave the current and recent past to the end of the year. That’s why this year, I opted to teach these more contemporary lessons first (albeit necessarily rushed) as an “entry point” to the other content.

I’m convinced that a more engaging course would prioritize deep learning and engagement by having students study fewer historical topics more deeply and including much more recent and current history. Every unit would include connections to more recent events. This is more straightforward than it seems: History happens chronologically, but history is not the events of the past; it is the study of the events of the past. We experience history by continually bouncing back and forth (cognitively) between the past and the present.

In my dream scenario, high school history classes would allow students to engage in civic action as they sow connections between history, their lives, and their hopes for the future.

Imagine a course where students spend 4-6 weeks on a Racial Justice unit, where students learn about Reconstruction, the Civil Rights Movement, and choose a current issue of racial equity to research. Students could connect with an organization that is working on that issue, take some action on the issue, and write a paper reflecting on the experience.

This is the type of class I think my students need. I know it’s the type of class I need. And I think it’s the type of class our country needs.

Jeremy Kaplan is an assistant principal of supervision at High School for Health Professions and Human Services in New York City. He has been a teacher, instructional coach, and assistant principal in New York City since 1994.

I research addiction. Today’s cannabis landscape demands a new approach to curb teen drug use.

2023-05-11T12:00:00+00:00

As Chalkbeat recently reported, a growing number of students are using cannabis, even as schools work to deter use with vape detectors and suspensions for violating the rules. The Chalkbeat article included my perspective on teens and cannabis because I’m a psychiatrist who researches addiction.

I also have two sons. About five years ago, when my older son was in high school, I attended a parent association meeting about the problem of vaping in school bathrooms and stairwells. As parents and educators discussed the issue, I realized that it was time to consider the issue from a psychiatric perspective.

After this meeting, I began leading drug-information seminars with parents, educators, and students at my son’s New York City high school. Soon, other high schools invited me to speak, and my school-based work on drug and vaping prevention continues to this day. My goal is to change the way we talk about drugs with teenagers by focusing on why people use drugs, what gets them into trouble, and how to know when to get help.

In these seminars, I explain the phenomenon of self-medication, or when people use drugs to reduce psychiatric symptoms. For example, nicotine improves attention and has antidepressant effects. As a result, people with ADHD or depression are much more likely to be smokers, including e-cigarettes. Cannabis, meanwhile, can reduce anxiety, sadness, and agitation.

Research shows that teenagers experiencing these symptoms are more likely to use THC, the psychoactive compound in marijuana, compared to students who don’t have a psychiatric disorder, and they use it more often. That helps explain why vaping at school is so hard to eliminate: Drug use that reduces psychiatric symptoms is deeply rewarding, and punishment doesn’t change this.

Diana Martinez

Can anything be done? Research shows that science-based sex education reduces sexually transmitted infections, unplanned pregnancies, and sexual violence. It’s time to apply a similar approach to curbing teen drug use. This includes teaching parents, educators, and students to recognize self-medication and problematic drug use so that it can be addressed in a way that changes behaviors.

Now that many states, including New York, have legalized recreational marijuana use for those 21 and up, it’s especially important to discuss the risk of cannabis without exaggerating the harms.

When I speak at high schools, I start with the science. I explain that American teenagers are the fastest-growing cohort dying from overdoses. It’s important for them to know that alcohol can cause a deadly overdose, and the risk increases when cannabis and alcohol are used together. The perils, of course, transcend cannabis, and I make clear how even experimenting with opioids can quickly prove fatal. Learning to recognize the signs of an overdose and to administer naloxone to reverse an opioid overdose can save lives.

I then describe the symptoms of psychiatric disorders and how drugs make people feel better in the short term. I clarify that self-medication isn’t a solution because drug use doesn’t treat the underlying problem. For example, the anti-anxiety effects of cannabis wear off when the drug wears off. On the other hand, treating a psychiatric disorder with counseling or medication provides a long-lasting benefit.

Drug use that reduces psychiatric symptoms is deeply rewarding, and punishment doesn’t change this.

Self-medication increases the risk of developing a drug problem, which is the loss of control over use. The warning signs include use that interferes with schoolwork or grades (including using drugs at school); giving up sports, extracurriculars, artistic passions, or part-time or volunteer work — and replacing those activities with drug use; craving a drug; using it alone, and needing more of a drug to get the same effect. I tell teens that it’s common for people to feel as if they have control over their drug use even when they don’t; that’s because drug use that increases over time begins to feel normal.

However, it’s possible to prevent addiction and its downstream effects with early intervention, as opposed to punishment, which doesn’t resolve the underlying issue. An evaluation from a school- or community-based mental health professional is a good place to start. Counselors can lean on the Providers Clinical Support System and the Opioid Response Network, as well as state and federal resources, to help families identify local treatment options.

It’s time to embrace science in service of curbing drug use. That starts with changing how we talk about it, and it demands support services over punishment.

Dr. Diana Martinez, MD, is a psychiatrist and addiction researcher at the Columbia University Irving Medical Center and the New York State Psychiatric Institute. She is the principal investigator at Columbia’s Martinez Lab. Her work focuses on the development of treatments for substance use disorders and associated conditions, such as chronic pain. Through this work, she has become passionate about prevention and harm reduction.

As problem behaviors persist, is state testing making things worse?

2023-05-12T11:00:00+00:00

I could tell from her body language that she was angry. A student I’ll call Talia was standing by the door, tense. I approached her slowly and quietly said, “Hey, you don’t seem like yourself. Is everything okay?” She said she was going to hit another student as soon as she saw him. She wouldn’t tell me why. I knew I had precious little time to de-escalate. I called another teacher for help and asked Talia to take a few deep breaths, reminding her that nothing bad had happened yet, and it didn’t need to.

Ronak Shah

We held it together for three minutes, the rest of the class staring silently in disbelief. But when the other student walked past us, she lunged after him, me holding her back, grasping the door frame for support. She pushed past me and almost reached the student before he got into the other teacher’s room.

What transpired just two months ago is hardly unique to my middle school classroom in Indianapolis. Students, teachers, and families across the country have been grappling with an uptick in troubling student behaviors in schools. The trend is in schools of all types and in all communities, spanning minor behaviors like tardies to more significant incidents of violence and hate-based rhetoric. According to one national survey, “twice as many teachers witness violent classroom incidents today versus pre-pandemic.”

There’s no shortage of guesses as to the cause, among them academic and social skills gaps from online learning, residual trauma, cuts to social-emotional and equity-based education, unaddressed mental health, teacher burnout and shortages — it’s a long list. Although the problem is worse, it is not new. And schools have had a limited toolkit of incentives, consequences, services, and staffing to react to all of these challenges.

So I find myself asking: Is there something about the structure of school, about what we’re asking and requiring students to do, that plays a role?

The answer I keep coming back to is our state tests and what we must teach so students will pass. Too many students are disengaged and unhappy at school because the day is structured around assessments instead of what is relevant to their lives and futures.

During the pandemic, many hoped that the seismic shift would transform this status quo. In 2021, there was no shortage of prophetic think pieces heralding the coming revolution. “Integrate technology!” “Educate the whole student!” “Reimagine the school day!”

Students got a taste of how learning feels when schools prioritize relevant instruction above the test. But it was only possible because states set aside their tests. They held schools “harmless” for the results or canceled testing altogether. Fast forward to now, and we’ve reverted back to the pre-pandemic culture of testing.

Students got a taste of how learning feels when schools prioritize relevant instruction above the test.

Meanwhile, in most schools, you’ll find almost no mention of today’s biggest problems: political division, climate change, income inequality, resource scarcity, loss of biodiversity, artificial intelligence, misinformation. But you’ll find plenty of solutions to the problems of yesteryear in textbooks scarcely updated in a generation.

How can we expect students to engage in school if they don’t value what we put in front of them?

One bright spot: Rep. Jamaal Bowman’s proposed the More Teaching Less Testing Act, which would pivot schools away from a teaching culture built around annual testing. Instead, states could test representative samples of students or limit testing to once every three years. Most importantly, the proposal prohibits districts and states from using state assessments for teacher evaluations and school grades, which can have a chilling effect. That’s because poor test scores can lower a school’s letter grade and hurt teacher evaluations (which may be tied to compensation).

I know we need data we can act on, and that means testing at least a representative sample of students. But by limiting the time spent testing and lifting the stakes tied to it, we’ll see more schools like Ehrman Crest in Pennsylvania, which partners with a local children’s museum to make the school feel more like a curated set of experiences. We’ll see history, civics, career and technical education, robotics, physical education, health, music, art, and so many other enriching subjects make a comeback in the bell schedule. We’ll see students spending less time resisting lessons that they can’t connect to. We’ll shrink the disconnect between our teaching and the world in which students live.

For now, most lesson plans are guided by what state tests require. I’ve observed these lessons, and despite great teachers’ best efforts to teach students how to write an argumentative essay, for example, the prompts are often uninspired, and the process rote. Is it any wonder students are bored?

Every year, by contrast, my class holds mock trials about topics such as water pollution near a housing complex or deforestation in a state forest. Students develop an argument, analyze primary sources to compile evidence, and make their case. My students always rank this as one of their favorite activities, and every year, at least one student says, “I kind of want to be a lawyer now!” My real objective, though, is to teach them how to write an argumentative essay in a way that is absorbing and relevant.

But this kind of teaching and learning demands breathing room from the high-stakes testing we’ve relied on for decades. That approach hasn’t worked, and the data it produced didn’t teach us much we didn’t already know.

Talia is one of my brightest students, but like many young people, she couldn’t see herself in the learning, and the seed of frustration grew into something worse. Let’s move forward with what we have learned and free teachers to educate students for tomorrow. We want students to be engaged and excited to come to school, not bored and angry because of it.

Ronak Shah is a seventh grade science teacher in Indianapolis and a Teach Plus Senior Writing Fellow.

ChatGPT caught NYC schools off guard. Now, we’re determined to embrace its potential.

2023-05-18T10:00:00+00:00

As Chancellor of the nation’s largest school system, New York City Public Schools, I anticipated starting 2023 by continuing the crucial work of ensuring every student can read proficiently, preparing each student for well-paying jobs, and providing quality schools that are safe, welcoming, and supported by the entire community.

Naturally, our best-laid plans are sometimes disrupted by the advance of technology and innovation.

In November, OpenAI introduced ChatGPT to the public, unleashing the power of generative artificial intelligence and other programs that use vast data sets to generate new and original content. Due to potential misuse and concerns raised by educators in our schools, ChatGPT was soon placed on New York City Public Schools’ list of restricted websites. This doesn’t prohibit its use entirely, but it does require schools to request access for staff and students; websites like YouTube, Netflix, and Roblox share this classification.

New York City Chancellor David Banks, at the podium, with Mayor Eric Adams.

This response allowed principals and educators to use ChatGPT while also signaling fear and risk, and it has sparked over 1,000 news articles since January. The knee-jerk fear and risk overlooked the potential of generative AI to support students and teachers, as well as the reality that our students are participating in and will work in a world where understanding generative AI is crucial.

Like many others, we had much to learn about the promise and perils of AI in our schools and communities. We have embarked on this journey and are eager to proceed hand-in-hand with our community — knowing that other districts will be looking to New York City schools for guidance.

Our team began discussions with tech industry leaders about their platforms’ potential and the future possibilities for schools, educators, and students. Most importantly, we consulted our most trusted experts — citywide educators, many of whom had already started teaching about the future and ethics of AI, thanks to the Computer Science for All initiative in our schools, while using generative AI to enhance their teaching.

For example, students at a Queens middle school are debating ethical issues surrounding AI prejudice while participating in teacher-supported activities to learn about its potential, such as asking ChatGPT questions and researching the accuracy of its answers. Teachers at this middle school are experimenting with AI to create personalized lesson plans and grade papers. This school is merely one example of many we found among our educators.

While initial caution was justified, it has now evolved into an exploration and careful examination of this new technology’s power and risks.

We are providing educators with resources and real-life examples of successful AI implementation in schools.

New York City Public Schools will encourage and support our educators and students as they learn about and explore this game-changing technology while also creating a repository and community to share their findings across our schools. Furthermore, we are providing educators with resources and real-life examples of successful AI implementation in schools to improve administrative tasks, communication, and teaching. We will also offer a toolkit of resources for educators to use as they initiate discussions and lessons about AI in their classrooms. We’ll continue to gather information from experts in our schools and the field of AI to further assist all our schools in using AI tools effectively.

As we celebrate the global Day of AI on May 18, we are putting this work at the forefront. Using resources developed by MIT, we encourage all schools to engage students in activities exploring how artificial intelligence has already impacted their lives and the broader issues it presents to our society.

Our nation is potentially on the brink of a significant societal shift driven by generative artificial intelligence. We must make sure that this technology’s benefits are equitably distributed to prevent further widening of socioeconomic gaps in our country. We will educate our students about the significant ethical concerns that many leaders in tech and government are contemplating, which both educators and students are already discussing in their classes. However, we will also ensure our students are supported by AI’s opportunities and prepared for the jobs of today and the future. Many of those opportunities will be built on technological innovations — both AI and innovations we do not yet know.

David C. Banks is the Chancellor of New York City Public Schools.

I never thought my child would need a school social worker, but I’m so glad she’s in our lives

2023-05-19T12:00:00+00:00

Walking my eldest daughter to school in the mornings is one of my favorite things to do. We use this time to talk about her friends and the subjects that excite her, like art and music. When we reach the school and say our goodbyes, I remind her that I love her. I wait in the schoolyard until I see her pass through the doors; sometimes, she turns back to wave again but usually just heads right in.

Fabiola Mejia

The school shooting in Nashville, on the heels of too many other school tragedies in recent memory, has added a sense of foreboding to our morning routine. I find myself praying for her safety as I watch the kids follow one another into the colorful hallways. Despite how well my daughter does academically, there are times I wish I could wait in her schoolyard until the end of the day just to make sure she’s OK.

Having gone through some difficult events in the past few years — from a student threatening her with a weapon at school, to the pandemic shutdowns, to a tragic fire that broke out in front of our home last November and claimed a little girl’s life — it’s no wonder why my 9-year-old daughter developed anxiety.

I knew something was up after she started complaining of stomachaches. When multiple trips to the doctor showed no physical ailment, I wondered if there was something she wasn’t telling me. Was she being picked on at school? Her father and I did our best to reassure her that she could talk to us about anything. She couldn’t put a name to her feelings, but we could see the worry on her face. There were periods of pensive silence and nights when she struggled to sleep.

Nervous about receiving judgment rather than empathy, I didn’t talk about this situation with family or friends. So I was hesitant when the school social worker, Mrs. D, contacted me just before the holidays last year, asking to have regular meetings with my daughter. Filled with wrongheaded ideas about what a school social worker does, I worried that I had failed my daughter. The possibility filled me with shame.

At the same time, I was relieved to have someone supporting my daughter — and our family. I choked up during our initial phone call as I explained the traumatic events my daughter had experienced, including her twin sisters’ multiple hospitalizations for respiratory issues in the last year. I told Mrs. D that I felt guilty that I could not protect her from things over which I had no control.

Mrs. D listened to me patiently, never once interrupting to tell me she had to go or that she didn’t want to hear our life story. I could hear the empathy and grace in her voice as she told me that I had a lovely daughter who was doing her best in school and just needed a little help coping with her fears. We agreed that Mrs. D would meet weekly with my daughter and would be in touch if she saw any red flags. As our call wrapped up, she made sure to ask me to take care of myself, telling me to call her if we needed anything.

Before working with Mrs. D, I thought school social workers were only for families experiencing homelessness, abuse, or in need of major interventions. Social workers do so much more. For our family, Mrs. D was a lifeline — helping us navigate scary and painful moments.

For a time, my daughter refused to leave the house without a mask, even after the mask mandate had been lifted and her father and I told her she could go to school without one. She became fearful of passing on any germs that might cause her little sisters to get feverish. Mrs. D. worked with her to overcome this fear, informing her that some germs are necessary to strengthen our immune systems. Gradually, my daughter went a few minutes to a few hours without a mask at school. Now, she no longer panics if she forgets to wear one.

I’m grateful that I put aside my notions about what it meant to work with a school social worker. I’ve learned the valuable services that school social workers can offer students and families — those in crisis, yes, but also those like ours who just need a little extra support.

There were periods of pensive silence and nights when she struggled to sleep.

My daughter is slowly starting to enjoy school again and has gotten better at expressing her emotions. She has learned some coping mechanisms for when she feels anxious; they range from simple breathing exercises to writing down her fears and tossing the paper in the trash as a way to release the fears from her mind. It’s reassuring to hear her say that she looks forward to her one-on-one and small group sessions with Mrs. D.

Mrs. D has also identified school activities that might interest my daughter and walked me through getting a referral for counseling services. Most importantly, though, she has reminded me that it’s OK for parents to seek out support. In doing so, we demonstrate to our kids that there’s power, not shame, in asking for the help we need.

Fabiola Mejia is a freelance writer and HR coordinator from Boston who enjoys traveling, reading, and gardening. When she’s not at her desk, she’s either experimenting with new recipes in the kitchen or taking walks with her family.

In my classroom, I offer trigger warnings. Sometimes, I worry they do more harm than good.

2023-05-31T12:00:00+00:00

In my English classes at a community college in Sonoma County, California, I’ve been teaching the podcast S-town, off and on, since its release seven years ago. Students are overwhelmingly enthralled with the twisting plot, which begins as a murder mystery, evolves into a treasure hunt, and then meanders into examining the life and mind of John B. McLemore, a brilliant and complicated horologist (that is, a person who studies clocks).

Narrated by the unflappable Brian Reed, the podcast is a great vehicle for examining the line between art and exploitation and the debilitating grip of untreated mental illness, among other topics.

Jess D. Taylor

The last time I taught S-town, a student lamented that I didn’t give a trigger or content warning before they listened to the final episode, in which John engages in severe self-harm. (To ensure they felt comfortable with what was ahead, I did give them a trigger warning, but it was before we started the podcast as a whole.)

Through comments on Canvas, she told me, “I swear to you I nearly puked” while listening to the episode. She was a bright and inquisitive student. I valued that she felt comfortable enough to be honest with me, as I work hard to build rapport and trust with my students.

I empathized with her reaction, and I told her so, but I also explained that I wasn’t dismayed by her nausea. In this time of desensitization and apathy (one of John B’s major gripes), I’m actually glad she could let art move her so viscerally. I felt the same way when I read parts of Toni Morrison’s “Beloved” for the first time. To be clear: I do not want my students to suffer needlessly, but nor do I want them to fear discomfort or expect other people to take responsibility for their feelings.

This is one of the reasons why Cornell University administrators recently rejected a student assembly resolution that would require faculty to provide trigger warnings for potentially upsetting or offensive material. In rejecting the motion, the school’s president and provost wrote that such a requirement would “have a chilling effect on faculty, who would naturally fear censure lest they bring a discussion spontaneously into new and challenging territory, or fail to accurately anticipate students’ reaction to a topic or idea.”

Of course, this is nothing new: Trigger warnings have been the subject of widespread debate for years now as educators across the country wrestle with whether and how to prepare students for what they are about to read, hear, see, or experience.

The Cornell student resolution said potentially triggering topics included materials discussing “sexual assault, domestic violence, self-harm, suicide, child abuse, racial violence, transphobic violence, homophobic harassment, etc.” But these topics are very often part of literature classes, as we seek to think critically about all aspects of the human experience.

As such, I actually do give trigger warnings, usually both verbally and in writing before the start of a unit. I do this despite the fact that studies have shown such warnings to be ineffective and possibly counterproductive. Students are used to these well-meaning signifiers of care, and I want my students to feel taken care of, especially as they come of age in a sometimes terrifying world in which their bodies, livelihoods, and environments are under attack. As Roxane Gay points out in her essay, “The Illusion of Safety/The Safety of Illusion,” “Few are willing to consider the possibility that trigger warnings might be ineffective, impractical and necessary for creating safe spaces all at once.”

Students are used to these well-meaning signifiers of care.

Another of the tenets of the rejected Cornell resolution was that students be allowed to opt out of the potentially upsetting material. The president and provost, however, wrote, “Learning to engage with difficult and challenging ideas is a core part of a university education.” It’s hard to disagree with that.

I take seriously my role in creating a safe space in which discomfort is valued as an invitation to deep engagement rather than something to be eschewed or feared. I do this in part by assigning challenging, provocative texts that demand a mature audience. In my experience, when my college students feel heard and seen as burgeoning adults, they are more likely to meet me with measured responses.

“Trigger warnings also, when used in excess, start to feel like censorship,” Gay writes. “They suggest that there are experiences or perspectives too inappropriate, too explicit, too bare to be voiced publicly.” An English class, or any class, may not be the place for a student to work through their trauma, of course. But it can be a place where they see that they are not alone in their experiences, whether that be mirrored through literature, discussions with their peers, or an imperfect podcast with all-too-human elements.

S-town gives my students an opportunity to lean into understanding (rather than summarily pigeonholing and dismissing) someone who sees the world differently. By coming to terms with John B’s conflicting, multitudinous self — at once generous, sensitive, repressed, angry, benevolent, and, sometimes, casually cruel — they can learn to embrace nuance over fundamentalism, which is beneficial in all public discussions.

“I have coaxed many infirm clocks back to mellifluous life,” John B writes in his suicide note. “I have audited the discourse of the hickories, oaks and pines even when no wind was present. I’ve lived on this blue orb now for about 17,600 days, and … I know that if I died tonight my life has been inestimably better than most of my compatriots. Additionally, my absence makes room and leaves some resources for others who deserve no less than I have enjoyed.”

Despite all the ugliness that led to this moment in the podcast, I think these beautiful words are worth considering — even as they may evoke discomfort, with or without warning.

Jess D. Taylor has written for Bon Appetit, Creative Nonfiction, SmokeLong Quarterly, Eater SF, Little Patuxent Review, and several other publications. For 18 years, she has taught English at both the high school and college level in Sonoma County, California, where she also edits Made Local magazine and raises her two daughters.

Teaching civics is increasingly fraught, but I won’t stop doing it

2023-05-31T17:00:00+00:00

After 23 years as an educator, teaching is in my blood. I’ve taught U.S. history, civics, government, and economics, sponsored clubs before and after school, and hosted students during lunch. I married a fellow educator, who has taught for 21 years, and our class trips have become family vacations.

But after years of teaching amid the environmental hazards of southeast Chicago, I wonder what else may be in my blood. The community where I live and work is “bombarded with pollution from toxic industry, such as petroleum coke dust,” according to the NRDC. There is manganese in the soil. The rate of emergency room visits for asthma is more than twice the national average.

Donald Z. Davis

As a U.S. history and civics teacher, I face a choice. I could keep my head down and limit my horizon to my classroom’s four walls. I could read verbatim from a textbook and focus on dry topics like how a bill becomes law.

Or I could acknowledge that these out-of-school factors impact what happens in school. I could encourage my students to take part in real-life democratic activities, not to guide them toward an outcome but to prepare them to be informed citizens and leaders who are capable of standing up for what they believe in.

I choose real life.

This choice means my students learn to become passionate public speakers about topics that matter to them and participate in press conferences. This choice means they learn about community organizing — and fight back against plans to locate a scrap-metal recycling facility a half-mile from our school. (We won.) And this choice means my students write about the environmental racism in our community and then receive scholarships to Northwestern University.

Choosing real life means more work and more peril. We engage directly with problems playing out in our community, stepping into the messiness of the democratic process. In doing so, I risk incurring parents’ and politicians’ wrath.

These threats are real. One minute, teachers are being criticized for being lazy, and the next minute teachers who take action are facing calls for their dismissal. (This really happened). All the while, young people, notably, are not voting enough.

In this climate, it would be easier for me to teach a more passive kind of textbook civics. But I refuse. My students are worth the risk, and creating the next generation of informed leaders is too important to choose a path of less resistance.

Choosing real life means more work — and more peril.

Our students are in dire need of civics education. On the National Assessment of Educational Progress, known as the Nation’s Report Card, students’ civics scores just dropped for the first time in more than two decades.

Our students also desperately need to engage with school. Even before the pandemic, only one-third of high school students reported feeling “highly engaged” at school. During the widespread pandemic shutdowns, about half of students reported feeling less motivated in school, and many experienced lower morale.

I help counteract these feelings by sponsoring my school’s Student Voice Committee. This group is based on the Issues to Action program created by Mikva Challenge, a nonprofit that promotes youth civic engagement, and it’s designed to give students agency and power in their schools.

The committee members survey their peers, and they research issues that students face in school — pushing for uniform policy changes, access to period products on campus, and updates to outdated infrastructure. Then, they devise possible solutions and meet with the administration to propose changes. In the process, educators acknowledge students’ lived experiences and create opportunities for them to share their perspectives, improving their civics understanding and increasing their engagement with school.

Another way to boost students’ engagement with school is to get them out of it. Through my experience with Mikva, I’ve chaperoned student trips to Iowa and Wisconsin to encourage voter turnout. And I’ve assisted my students who are 18 to register to vote themselves.

All of these efforts are intended to help my students find their spark. Mikva’s curriculum helps teenagers identify the issues they are passionate about, identify the people and organizations that hold power, and speak truth to that power. Mikva likes to say that “democracy is a verb,” and I’ve found that my students respond enthusiastically when democracy is positioned more as a path toward something better — now, today, for themselves — and less as a form of government rooted in Ancient Greece.

Ultimately, my focus on civic engagement is not about grades or lesson plans or even about keeping more polluters out of our neighborhood. I teach civic engagement to help my students feel powerful. And to paraphrase Maya Angelou, they won’t forget that feeling, and it’ll help orient them toward action for the rest of their lives.

Donald Davis graduated from Chicago Public Schools and has taught social science classes for 23 years at three CPS neighborhood schools. He lives with his wife and two children on the southeast side of Chicago. He currently teaches at George Washington High School, where he also sponsors the Student Voice Committee and coaches the Girls Bowling Team.

I was hired to write a Black history curriculum. Then I was asked to walk back key concepts.

2023-06-12T11:00:00+00:00

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In 2020, I was approached on LinkedIn about working with an organization to create a Black history and social justice course curriculum for high school students. They sought me out because of my previous commentaries about teaching Black history. I told them I was interested, and they asked me to draft a prospectus for such a course.

What I provided was a philosophical overview of what a social justice and Black history course could look like. I wanted no misunderstanding about the educator they’d be partnering with and the language that I use to teach my students. So I told them that I wanted students to leave this class understanding the United States is a white settler colonized state, built by way of racial capitalism to enrich “white people” of European descent above everyone else.

Rann Miller

When they brought me on, I believed that it was a real opportunity to expose students to the truth they had not previously learned in their history classes.

While the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor months earlier weren’t the first time the U.S. was confronted with the systemic racism of policing, the protest movement that followed seemed to mark an inflection point. The 1619 Project had just won a Pulitzer Prize. A reckoning seemed on the horizon. That was the backdrop against which I, then optimistically naive, got to work.

I was primarily responsible for the content of the course, with others handling the packaging of the course. I took the responsibility very seriously. My students have often asked me why they hadn’t learned what Arturo Schomburg called the missing pages of history prior to attending my history classes. That question served as a guide. I asked questions such as “What is whiteness, and did it exist before the formation of the United States?” and “What is American exceptionalism, and how does it show itself in popular culture?”

The initial feedback that I received was positive. I was supported and encouraged to continue down the path I was going, and I believed that the completion of this work would transform the minds of the course participants.

But by the following year, I realized the racial reckoning was not to be. There had been no effort to address systemic racism in earnest, which would require a dramatic reorganization of our social, political, and economic orders. What happened instead was an insurrection at the start of the year. What happened instead was a backlash to protests against police brutality. What happened instead were voter suppression policies and legislation banning Critical Race Theory in curriculums and professional training.

Such backlash spilled into my curriculum work.

About halfway through the development of the curriculum, I was informed that what I had created so far presented a client sensitivity issue. Words and concepts and topics such as white supremacy, intersectionality, and racial capitalism would make it difficult for the curriculum to be sold in states that experienced backlash to Critical Race Theory, the company spearheading the curriculum explained.

Initially, I was confused because the ones delivering the news were the very people who had complimented my work up until this point.

I was asked to remove certain terms and concepts, like intersectionality, in favor of a trajectory that explored justice without explicit mention of these words. I was also asked not to phrase these concepts in a way that acknowledged them as established truth. Rather than saying white supremacy has done harm to the United States, for example, I was asked to say that some individuals argue that white supremacy has done harm to the United States.

I flat-out disagreed. But after a spirited back and forth, I agreed to stick with the project because I accepted the idea that compromise was better than students, namely white students, not receiving any instruction that challenged their idea of history. So I went back to work but no longer approached it with the same excitement as before.

I believed that it was a real opportunity to expose students to the truth.

The labor was split between myself and other curriculum writers to expedite the development process. I rededicated myself to submitting work rooted in truth, and that’s just what the folks received. Some of those words and phrases they asked me to remove remained. But once I submitted my work, decisions around what to include (and what to excise) were out of my hands.

In the end, the completed course flirted with ideas of identity and injustice — and how we ought to respect the identities of others — but without any specific call to antiracism or anticapitalism. Certainly, perfection can be the enemy of good. But in the case of teaching Black history, compromise, I realize now, is an assault on justice.

Black educators who want to entrench Black history in mainstream school curriculums have struggled with doing so for more than a century. It’s in large part due to white sensitivity to the truth — a truth that implicates their ancestors, their history, and their sense of self in crimes against humanity. This is true dating back to the dawn of the 20th century when seminal writings by the likes of historian Carter G. Woodson and sociologist W.E.B. DuBois were often kept out of classrooms where Black students learned.

And we witness this in real time, too, with the College Board’s botching of the AP African American Studies course. I should consider myself in good company.

Looking back on the experience, I am not angry. I am resolute. Since that time, I have published ”Resistance Stories from Black History for Kids.” It does just what I wanted that curriculum to do: teach the truth. The goal of our collective work is not to create a world where we, Black people, are the oppressors and white people suffer. The goal is to equip young people to, one day, eradicate systems of oppression altogether. I believe that our efforts are not in vain, for as Frederick Douglass explained, where there is no struggle, there is no progress.

Rann Miller is an educator and freelance writer based in New Jersey. His Urban Education Mixtape blog supports urban educators and parents of children attending urban schools. He is the author of “Resistance Stories from Black History for Kids” (Ulysses Press), available everywhere, including Mahogany Books. Follow him on Twitter @RealRannMiller.

I work with struggling readers. Here’s what’s standing in their way.

2023-06-12T12:00:00+00:00

I learned to love reading as a kid, spellbound by wizarding worlds and ghost stories. I wanted to share this love, so I became an intervention teacher, working with struggling readers and special education students.

Kids love reading. I don’t care what think pieces say about screen addiction, children still gravitate towards books. If they can’t read, they like looking at the pictures in “Dogman” or listening to Junie B.’s antics.

Bridget Scanlan

In my eight years of teaching in Philadelphia and its suburbs, I’ve worked with first through fifth graders from diverse racial and economic backgrounds. I’ve worked in both low-performing schools and higher-performing ones, and the same problem keeps cropping up: So many kids can’t read. I’ve seen first graders who don’t know what sound “a” makes and fifth graders who can’t read two-syllable words.

Why is this happening? People blame COVID, but the problem predates the pandemic.

As long as I’ve been teaching, I’ve seen students ushered grade to grade, even when they are several grade levels behind. And there’s pressure on teachers to move too quickly through content. Halfway through first grade, direct reading instruction may get phased out for standardized test skills, such as main idea and inferences. The content just keeps getting harder, especially as reading becomes a key part of all subjects, even math. If they can’t read by third grade, they have a much harder time catching up and are less likely to graduate from high school, research has shown.

But a big part of the problem has been teachers’ reliance on the whole language approach, which has prioritized sight words and finding meaning in rich texts, instead of the research-backed phonics-based efforts that teach letter-sound connections to decode words.

The first year I taught, I used a guided reading program from Fountas and Pinnell rooted in the whole language approach. A curriculum representative modeled how to teach students certain reading strategies, like using pictures or context clues to guess unknown words. In fact, some of the words in their books seem to be written way above what a child can reasonably sound out, like “deluge” in a third grade reading lesson.

“How do you pronounce this?” my co-worker asked me. “Day-looj? Dee-looj?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve only ever seen it in writing.”

Each lesson lasted 30-40 minutes, mostly consisting of the students silently reading while I came around the resource room to listen to them whisper-read one at a time. We discussed the books before and after reading, and I pointed out unknown words (like prehistoric).

Students were encouraged to guess words using context clues. If the word starts with “t” and there’s a picture of a tree, kids can fill in the blanks. They might guess alligator if the word starts with “all” and the story is about river animals.

‘The answer isn’t floating over there. It’s right here, in the letters.’

Did it work? Well, I was thrilled that the kids got to read so much and seemed to actually like the books we were reading. But truthfully, only one student out of eight became a fluent reader. The others seemed to improve. They still missed a lot of words and read with difficulty, but I figured any progress was a good thing.

I loved the Fountas and Pinnell curriculum, though I didn’t know at the time what so many people learned from Emily Hanford’s popular “Sold a Story” podcast: that reading research has long shown the whole word approach doesn’t work.

Guessing words based on a story’s context isn’t the same as reading. And it’s a crutch that’s kicked away as students advance to higher grades, where the vocabulary is more complex and the pictures fade away. I suppose the reading practice was better than nothing, but it’s heartbreaking to realize that despite my best intentions, I never actually taught them how to read.

After the pandemic, I switched schools. Now I teach a phonics-based reading program that’s built on repetition and reading words with patterns they can sound out.

Sounds boring, right? Repeating “a—apple—ah” and using your fingers to tap out the sounds in “cat” aren’t exactly riveting. But to a second grader who knows he can’t read (and tells me all the time), it’s a lifeline. It works. A boy who couldn’t read “the” at the beginning can now read “shrimp” and “dreams.”

Interestingly enough, I’ve noticed that my struggling readers tend to default to the whole language guessing strategies, even though I no longer teach them. I think they are grasping for anything that might help. They’ll see the word “ball” and guess “baseball,” until I tell them to look at the word more closely.

“The answer isn’t floating over there,” I say. “It’s right here, in the letters. If you use the skills you know, you can read it.”

And you know what? When they actually take the time to focus on the letters, they can.

Bridget Scanlan is a teacher and writer based in Philadelphia. She has worked with elementary-aged students for eight years.

My kids were among 45,000 NYC students locked out of Summer Rising. The city can do better.

2023-06-17T01:17:24+00:00

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I recently became acting president of the Community Education Council, or CEC, for Brooklyn’s District 15. At my very first meeting in charge, I was yelled at by angry parents — an experience many school board presidents around the country can probably relate to.

What I can relate to is the frustration of these parents, who had come to vent to us and our district superintendent about the lack of seats in the city’s Summer Rising program. They asked us what they were supposed to do now: Where would they find high-quality summer programs just a few weeks before the end of the school year? More importantly, how and where would they find affordable childcare?

Nancy Randall

That night, I told the parents in attendance that I, too, am livid about the situation. My two kids were among the 45,000 city students who didn’t receive spots in the free, six-week summer program that combines academics and enrichment activities, such as sports, arts, and field trips. I had hoped to have my children in Summer Rising until mid-August, when they begin their vacation time with my ex-husband. But like thousands of other parents, I found myself scrambling to figure out what they would do instead.

Just two years after the city’s education department and youth and community development department rolled out the program for all students in grades K-8, demand has far exceeded the available spots. The shortfall of seats, combined with the city’s lack of clear communication around it, has created a situation that feels neither safe nor supportive.

As an advocate for equity, I’m grateful that the education department prioritized seats for students required to attend summer school, those in temporary housing and foster care, those with 12-month IEPs, and those who attend free after-school programs run by local organizations that are also running Summer Rising sites.

But nowhere in schools Chancellor David Banks’ April 5 email announcing 110,000 Summer Rising seats does the city say how many applicants might not get seats. In the weeks that followed, as the city continued to promote the program, many families enthusiastically applied.

Just days ago, the city’s education department sent an email saying that 94,000 spots had been filled and that from June 16-23, they will fill the remaining spots with students mandated to attend summer school. Once those students are enrolled, they may have spots available for some of the 45,000 students who applied but did not receive seats. One week before the end of the school year, thousands of families who did not get in are left hoping to get lucky.

How many families within and just outside of the priority categories have been left desperate to figure out what to do?

Looking ahead, for the sake of all the parents now left scrambling, I implore the city to start the Summer Rising application process three months earlier. Additionally, since the program is held in public schools, I believe Summer Rising should prioritize students in traditional public schools over those in charter and independent schools to whom the program is also open. And finally, city officials should also communicate more clearly the number of available seats in relation to the number of potential applicants. (I also realize there may be questions about the future of the program, which has been funded in part by federal COVID relief dollars, and those dollars will soon dry up.)

While I still don’t have summer plans finalized for my children, I know my family will be able to make the best of this situation. But how many families within and just outside of the priority categories have been left desperate to figure out what to do?

District 15’s Community Education Council had a packed agenda for our recent meeting, but every attempt to move on to the next item on the agenda returned us to the issue of Summer Rising. Following our meeting, our council created district and citywide petitions, asking the education department to reevaluate its Summer Rising plan.

We will share the responses with the education department, Chancellor Banks, and Mayor Adams. I want school and city leaders to know how profoundly this issue resonates with families and how widespread the need is for free, high-quality summer programs. The city must do better for our children. I know it can.

Nancy Randall is acting president of the Community Education Council for Brooklyn’s District 15, PTA President of P.S. 58, and a Ph.D. student in Urban Education at the CUNY Graduate Center.

Why NYC teacher evaluations don’t yield meaningful feedback

2023-06-23T12:00:00+00:00

It’s my favorite moment during a debriefing with teachers. I ask a probing question; they pause, look off to the side, say, “That’s a good question,” and trail off. In these moments, the teacher is thinking and, in the process, they are becoming a better teacher.

As we head into the end of the school year here in New York City, one of the tasks we, administrators, have to do is have end-of-year conferences with each of our teachers; during these meetings, we reflect on their goals for the year and sign the Measures of Teacher Practice, or MoTP, evaluation summary. I love reflecting with teachers, but I hate the evaluation process.

Jeremy Kaplan

One of the major educational trends in the past decade has been the revamping of teacher evaluations. In New York City, this has meant adopting Charlotte Danielson’s rubric in 2014 and using a four-point scale to evaluate teachers as Ineffective, Developing, Effective, or Highly Effective.

A lot of time, effort, and money is spent by New York City’s education department supporting teacher evaluation. Our superintendent’s team makes periodic visits to our school, and the instructional supervisors have to spend a half-day visiting classes together, “norming” our evaluations.

The premise behind this system and other similar systems is that if we get teacher evaluation right, then teachers will be pushed to develop their practice.

I have come to the conclusion that this premise is wrong. In fact, teacher evaluation makes teacher development more difficult.

Writing in Chalkbeat, Kim Marshall, a leader in teacher evaluation, offered eight criticisms of the current evaluation system back when New York City first adopted it. My experience bears out his concerns.

Evaluation hinders teacher growth. Everyone wants a good grade, and so during an evaluative observation, a teacher goes into defensive mode. They emphasize the positive and minimize the negative, explaining away problems: “That student has been absent for days,” or “You didn’t see the end of the lesson,” or “Those students need basic skills.” The goal is to get a good grade. Improvement be damned.

And then there is the growth stance. When I ask what the teacher thought of the lesson during a non-evaluative observation, they are more likely to be honest about weaknesses and look for ways to improve. When I offer a critical observation, they will often ask what ideas I have to address it. Inviting me to give ideas increases the chance that they will implement it. Sometimes a teacher will ask me to observe something new that they are trying. Taking risks is more likely to happen when evaluation is not in the picture. This is how teachers improve.

One way people grow is by getting feedback, but evaluations yield bad feedback. It is, arguably, not even feedback at all. Grant Wiggins, in his excellent 2012 article “Seven Keys to Effective Feedback,” explains that feedback “is information about how we are doing in our efforts to reach a goal.” If you tell a joke, for example, feedback is seeing if people laugh. The best feedback is descriptive, not value judgments. Evaluating teachers using the Danielson rubric is an attempt to be descriptive, but it is the grade that sticks.

As an instructional supervisor, I do as many non-evaluative observations as possible. I simply pop into classes, invited or not, and then have “coaching” debriefs soon after.

My technique comes mainly from David Rock’s excellent 2007 book “Quiet Leadership,” which argues that the best and most efficient way to improve someone’s performance in any field is to facilitate their own thinking, not to tell them what to do. The reason is brain functioning; a person understands an idea only when they form a new synapse in their brain. It can’t be done for them.

Teacher evaluation makes teacher development more difficult.

And so, when debriefing, I mostly ask questions, looking for an “entry-point” to get the teacher to recognize a good thing that can be expanded or a problem that needs a solution. “What do you think you did well? What would you have done differently? Where do you notice gaps in student answers?”

And I can tell when I hit on something meaningful when the teacher says, “Good question,” and stares off to the side. In these moments, they are generating an idea that they can implement.

Evaluation erodes trust. But I have been able to gain the trust of the teachers I supervise — and our end-of-year feedback survey bears this out — by downplaying evaluation in favor of non-rated cycles of observations.

I also invite my teachers to observe my classes and give me feedback — a type of reverse observation. This process enables teachers to see some of the things that I talk about.

And so, at our end-of-year conferences, teachers will sign their Measures of Teacher Practice summary ratings sheet. The number on that sheet is only a very blunt estimation of the quality of a teacher’s practice. But we will also, luckily, have a reflective conversation.

In his Chalkbeat piece from 2014, Kim Marshall argues for a teacher-evaluation system with one evaluative grade at the end of the year, a rating decided collaboratively between teacher and administrator, based on at least 10 unrated observations. Such a system would better support a teacher’s practice and growth.

Why not change the evaluation system to one that actually supports teacher development? That’s a good question.

With the end of affirmative action as we know it, let’s demand more from our elite universities

2023-06-29T19:08:36+00:00

Following today’s Supreme Court ruling striking down affirmative action at two of the nation’s top colleges, diversifying student bodies, correcting historical wrongs against communities of color, and advancing equity through college access will require new approaches.

I am a first-generation college graduate whose parents only advanced up to eighth grade. They were restaurant workers, moving our family from town to town across the southern states of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, looking for opportunities. I graduated from a Mississippi public high school in 1999 and moved to Chicago to attend the University of Chicago. Without visiting the campus, I decided where to attend college based on which pathway would cost the least money and get me out of a small town where I felt like I didn’t belong.

Lina Fritz

I am also an Asian American woman. My mother heard a rumor that colleges discriminated against applicants of Asian descent and suggested I leave that off my application. I wanted to be evaluated by the merit of my application, so I followed her advice.

Race-based affirmative action, a policy aimed at increasing representation for students of color at colleges and universities, will leave a complex legacy. For all the good it has accomplished, it has also fueled a scarcity mindset, pitting communities of color against each other. I felt this as a young student applying to college.

In light of today’s Supreme Court ruling, which focused on admissions policies at Harvard and the University of North Carolina, it’s time to reimagine new ways to pursue equitable distribution of opportunity for all. Some institutions have already focused on new forms of diversity, such as socioeconomic status and geography. We need to do more to expand opportunities for students from the lowest income bracket, recognizing that these initiatives will lead to racial and socioeconomic diversity on our campuses.

According to The New York Times, the median family income of a student at Harvard is $168,000. Of all applicants accepted, 67% come from the top 20% for household income, and about 4.5% come from the bottom 20%. Lower-income students have very little representation. And for those low-income students who are admitted, a lack of preparedness can be an added challenge due to underinvestment in neighborhood public schools and other systemic issues.

My family came from that bottom 20%. My 55-year-old, widowed mother delayed her retirement and worked as a cashier making less than $250 a week to help me pay tuition. Like many students from low-income households, my family could not afford expensive test prep or avoid having me work while attending school. As a college freshman, I juggled work and classes while feeling academically underprepared and wondering if I had been admitted by mistake. Was I welcome here? Could I succeed?

Now, my work focuses on students facing similar challenges and doubts. At OneGoal, where we serve students from mostly low-income communities, students of color, and first-generation college students, high-quality postsecondary advising is key to our mission. We believe every student should have an equitable opportunity to get to and through college — be that community college or a highly selective institution.

Although only a few of the 15,000 or so students taking the OneGoal class around the country are applying to the most competitive colleges, where the Supreme Court ruling is likely to be felt most profoundly, the loss of affirmative action as we know it will have a chilling effect on overall enrollment. That’s because it may create the perception among underrepresented communities that their admission to these institutions is now even more unlikely, and students could be deterred from applying.

At this turning point, can we think more expansively about how our nation’s most elite institutions support the success of students like those we serve at OneGoal? What if highly selective colleges focused on being student-ready instead of placing the burden on students to be college-ready? What risks should we ask those institutions to take — risks that might be uncomfortable because they require reputational and financial sacrifice? Can we, at long last, upend our ranking systems for colleges that are based, in part, on how many students they keep out rather than the quality of the student experience, academic and otherwise?

Studies show that graduating from highly selective institutions like Harvard and the University of Chicago can have a life-changing, income-growing impact on low-income students. In contrast, students from higher-income backgrounds can make similar incomes regardless of the selectivity of their alma mater.

What if highly selective colleges focused on being student-ready instead of placing the burden on students to be college-ready?

It is time for our elite institutions to confront how they have reinforced racial and economic inequality. It’s time for them to design a new system and formula — one that demonstrates their commitment to supporting the success of students of color, those from the bottom 20% of the income bracket, first-generation college students, those who may be pregnant or parenting, and those who don’t qualify for federal aid.

Harvard or Yale could use their respective $50 billion and $40 billion endowments to open up campuses in Detroit or St. Louis and create more admissions seats, even if it means risking a drop in their ratings. Stanford and Princeton could open more seats for students from lower-income families and single-parent households or for those whose ZIP codes are in historically under-invested areas.

I think it’s time we challenge our institutions to invest in the ideals of equality, liberty, and justice for all by leveraging their monumental resources to create more seats at the table.

At this juncture, there are many paths forward, but we need a commitment from our elite colleges and universities — the ones with the resources to light and lead the way — to do better now. This is our moment to ask these institutions to bend the arc of history toward justice.

Lina Jean Fritz is the Regional Vice President of Innovation for OneGoal in Chicago, an advocate for equitable postsecondary access, and lead strategist for Summer Hub Chicago, an online resource developed to help all Chicago high school graduates plan and pay for their college and career paths.

I’m a college access counselor. Here’s how the affirmative action decision could upend the college application process.

2023-06-30T17:24:56+00:00

There is no way to define what is being Latina. For me, it used to be just an identifier, the thing I’d say when somebody asked, “Hey, what are you?” It has been recently in high school, however, that my identity as a Latina has grown to become the backbone of my voice.

These were the opening lines to my own college application essay in 2012.

Affirmative action is in the news again, with the Supreme Court ruling this week that race-conscious admissions policies at Harvard and the University of North Carolina violate the 14th Amendment of the Constitution. But affirmative action was already a hot topic among my high school classmates over a decade ago.

Carina Cruz

I remember sitting at a large round table, filled with my mostly white and affluent peers, debating, as was the class assignment, whether affirmative action should still be in place. While one side of the room argued that it provided an unfair advantage to certain students, the other pointed out that, given the history of this country, the policy was necessary to make space on college campuses for students of color.

At the time, college was still a couple of years off for me. But I knew then that what we were ‘hypothetically’ discussing impacted me in a very real way.

As a Black and brown girl from Brooklyn attending a small and predominately white private high school, being able to highlight my identity was crucial for me. Most of my friends were fellow students of color who had gotten to our school through neighborhood college access programs. Whether it was putting together the Latino History Month assembly or attending yet another student diversity conference, taking opportunities to express my culture was my entire high school experience.

So, when it came time to apply to college, my identity as a young woman from a very Nuyorican family was at the center of it all. In my college research and campus visits, I sought out affinity groups and faces that looked like mine. My Latina identity appeared in the answers to most of the supplemental essay questions I responded to and as a discussion point in all of my college interviews.

For decades, affirmative action has had its naysayers, some of whom believe that beneficiaries of the policy are unfairly taking spots at highly selective universities. After being accepted to an Ivy League institution myself, I heard comments such as, “She only got in because she’s Hispanic.” This Supreme Court ruling, however, is likely to leave students of color even more vulnerable to being left out and behind in the world of higher education.

Writing for the majority, Chief Justice John Roberts noted that “nothing in this opinion should be construed as prohibiting universities from considering an applicant’s discussion of how race affected his or her life, be it through discrimination, inspiration, or otherwise.”

But Justice Sonia Sotomayor, in her dissent, called this carve-out “a false promise to save face.” She wrote: “This supposed recognition that universities can, in some situations, consider race in application essays is nothing but an attempt to put lipstick on a pig. The Court’s opinion circumscribes universities’ ability to consider race in any form by meticulously gutting respondents' asserted diversity interests.”

What is at risk here is students being able to include a core part of themselves throughout the application process. For many applicants, particularly students of color, talking about one’s cultural background provides important context. Though the ruling doesn’t ban students from talking about how race impacts them in, say, their essays, it limits how they can discuss it to the boxes the Court deems appropriate. This adds yet another hurdle for Black and Latinx students that white applicants never have to consider.

For many applicants, particularly students of color, talking about one’s cultural background provides important context.

As a college graduate, I got my start in college counseling at the same community-based college access program that guided me. When I sit down with my students as we begin working on their applications, especially their personal statements, I always start with the same questions: What are the things somebody needs to know to truly understand you? What are some defining moments that changed or shaped your perspective?

For my full-paying and private clients, those conversations normally revolve around picking the right extracurricular activities to showcase. For my college access students, more often than not, it’s how to talk about their identity. These stories are woven into the fabric of their being, impacting what they are passionate about and, often, why they want to go to college in the first place.

College admissions offices insist that the application is a space for them to get to know a student. How can that continue to be the case if this ruling forces students to rethink and edit what they can share? What does this say to students who believe their racial identity is a key part of who they are now that they have to question how colleges will review their story?

When I entered the college access field, I only intended to work for a year before heading to grad school. I stayed not only because I saw myself in my students, understanding how critical the right guidance is in this process, but also because I got a front-row seat to the changes that needed to be made.

No, it’s not that colleges and universities need to stop considering race in their admissions decisions. It’s that more efforts need to be put into centering the process around student voice and personal development rather than ambiguous benchmarks. It’s that more resources need to be invested in making the process and campuses themselves more accessible to students of color and those from under-resourced communities.

I have seen institutions lean into these changes, especially after the pandemic. With many schools remaining test optional, admissions representatives continuing to offer virtual events, and more offices accepting video statements from tools like Glimpse, we are seeing colleges acting on their calls for diversity.

While college counselors and admissions representatives alike are concerned about the possible setbacks, the silver lining is that this ruling will shine a light on the campuses that truly strive for diversity rather than the ones that are simply checking a box. As a college access advocate, I’m curious to see which offices are going to take the extra steps to seek out the very students that race-conscious admissions policies are protecting and which ones are going to hide behind the ruling.

I look back at my college essay today with a clear understanding of just how much I beat the odds as a Black Puerto Rican student brought up in under-resourced communities and also how my application would have to be totally reworked under this ruling — my identity being erased for the sake of a false sense of equality.

Carina Cruz is a New York native dedicated to the college access community and supporting students in their pursuit of an education. While still counseling, Cruz is also Director of U.S. Counselor Outreach at InitialView, partnering with community-based organizations and school networks to showcase their students’ voices in their applications.

My student shared a poem about fearing gun violence. Later that day, he was shot.

2023-07-10T16:00:00+00:00

Leer en español.

Every day in my classroom, I invite students to share with the class a poem that they have written. This exercise is a way for the students to get to know each other and the different Denvers that we live in. Park Hill kids share their Park Hill realities. Swansea kids share their Swansea realities.

It was in this setting that, back in February, Jose Luis Garcia, wrote the this line: “My city is the sound of gunshots … Its getting shot just cuz you were at the wrong place at the wrong time.” And then, later that day, Jose Luis — Luis to his friends — was shot.

Andy Bucher, center, with his family.

The wrong place was 17th and Esplanade. It’s just off of the East High School campus, where I teach English and where Luis was in 11th grade and a member of the school’s championship-winning soccer team. The wrong time was during seventh period. He was in his car and died of his injuries about two weeks after the shooting.

We all thought that he had written poetry, not prophecy.

After the shooting, I worried that I had done something wrong but realized my only sin was getting kids to feel safe and share their truth. Luis’ truth was that he feared getting shot.

The same class sat in a circle two days after the shooting and tried to process what we had heard from Luis. We spoke, cried, and tried to make sense of the nonsensical.

In the weeks that followed, I found myself obsessed with advocacy for change, such as bringing back school resource officers, or SROs, which had long been stationed at Denver schools. In June 2020, the Denver school board voted unanimously to remove officers from Denver public schools. I remember our staff giving our SRO, Chris Matlock, a standing ovation as we, sadly, reluctantly bid him adieu on his final day. I emailed all six Denver Public Schools board members; two of them responded. One member told me dismissively that SROs would never return, and another explained that I was mistaken in my hope.

A few weeks later, I found myself at a gun violence prevention summit that was hosted by students from East High School. The students organized the summit, but the participants were politicians and administrators.

I noticed midway through members of Luis’ family came in quietly and found a seat. I was impressed at their attendance, given what they must have been going through. When the summit was over, I watched as his brother, a recent East High School graduate, went up to a school board member who opposes SROs. I listened as he told the school board member, “If my brother had had an SRO to run to, then he might be alive today.” I listened as the school board member responded with, “I’m sorry for your loss, but …” and then went on to give a bunch of reasons that Luis’ older brother was wrong.

We all thought that he had written poetry, not prophecy.

A few weeks later, I sat through another lockdown as two of my friends and colleagues were shot by a student whom they were patting down as a part of a safety plan. And while we were sitting in lockdown, the Denver superintendent announced that he would send SROs back to schools. The following day, the school board, whose members had ignored the community — and had ignored Luis’s family — finally saw the wisdom in having officers on campus and voted 6-0 to bring them back for the spring. (Just a few weeks ago, a divided school board voted to keep SROs on campus next year and beyond.)

My students and I have a very simple desire: safety. What I want is for Denver’s school board members to listen and not assume that they know better than students, teachers, and family members who have lost loved ones to gun violence what is best for schools. The return of SROs is not the only solution to school safety. But it is a piece of a puzzle that includes common-sense safety plans as well as exploring possibilities such as closing the Esplanade in front of the school or adding metal detectors. We need to be open to new ideas. We need to be proactive, not reactive.

Luis wrote about his fear of being shot for being in “the wrong place at the wrong time.” May all of our schools, and East High School in particular, cease being the wrong place at the wrong time. And may we remember Luis not only as a victim of violence but also as a scholar, soccer champion, and poet whose words were painfully prophetic.

Andy Bucher is an English teacher at East High School in Denver. He is a husband and a father. He faithfully follows the Chicago Cubs and semi-faithfully rides his bike.

A new teaching assignment took me way outside my comfort zone

2023-07-12T18:34:21+00:00

I recently received five thank you notes saying that I had been a good teacher. I also got an invite to a graduation party.

These were nice gestures, but the truth is, I don’t feel like a good teacher. In fact, this past school year, I doggy paddled in self-pity for being in this position — involuntarily reassigned from my instructional coaching position to teaching full-time.

Yvette J. Green

The teacher shortage in my district meant that central office staff who were still part of the teachers union would once again become classroom teachers. I would be teaching 12th grade English, African-American literature, and speech. Finding my sea legs was hard, and I wasn’t excited about all that would be required of me — quickly assessing student work, adjusting and re-adjusting instruction, and keeping large groups of students off their devices. Students carried their trauma and pain into the classroom; as an empathic person, it impacted me daily.

It felt like many students were biding their time in a system they couldn’t escape. Some teens told me that school was an obstacle on the way into the real world.

Meanwhile, I felt so poorly equipped for the job before me. And yet I was determined to reduce the harm and offer something different in my African-American literature and speech electives. I introduced my students to some of the standard bearers of African American literature, such as Gwendolyn Brooks, August Wilson, and Lorraine Hansberry, and had them do research on topics relevant to the texts. Sure, they preferred to write notes passively from a PowerPoint, but my training taught me that students learn by thinking and doing.

As an instructional coach for six years prior, I loved working with educators and students one-on-one and in small groups. In those settings, I was able to assess students’ needs and push them harder and assist teachers with their lesson planning. It isn’t an efficient way to teach. Work takes longer to complete, and not all students are on task as I offer individualized instruction to their peers. But I saw real progress.

As the teacher of record, I did my best to bring practices from my coaching years into my classroom. For example, when students were nervous about giving speeches to the entire class, I had them speak in front of three or four students.

My students saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself.

One day, after students delivered their speeches, I said, “Tell me one thing you did well and one thing that you need to work on.” I never had a student say that they did everything perfectly; their responses were thoughtful. I wanted them to develop a habit of being self-reflective. Sometimes, I had them grade themselves.

Throughout the year, I gave my students different opportunities to practice thinking on their feet, conducting research, and making videos. We played games like Liar Liar, charades, and Finish the Story. Eventually, they raised their heads and looked at me as they spoke, and they eased into speaking before their entire class. Their classmates cheered them on. So did I.

And in their end-of-year notes, my students were generous with their praise. “I always appreciate the talks we had after class, they meant a lot to me. I consider you a friend of mine,” wrote one student. “Thank you for all of your spectacular teaching! You really helped me develop my voice!” wrote another. My students told me they learned from me that it is OK not to be OK. They said they now understood the importance of giving themselves space to get something wrong and space to grow.

I doubted myself often this past year. In my lowest moments, I felt like a failure, wondering what had happened to the teacher I had once been. But my students saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. They saw in me a good teacher even if I didn’t feel like one. They reminded me that my heart, my grace, and my desire to do better in an imperfect and sometimes chaotic system were more than enough.

Yvette J. Green is originally from Nashville and has lived in the Maryland/Washington, D.C., area for over 20 years. She is a mother of two sons, a former educator, and a freelance writer. Her writing has appeared in Salon, Slate, Viator, midnight & indigo, and 45th Parallel, among other publications.

Mi estudiante compartió un poema sobre su temor a la violencia con armas de fuego. Más tarde ese día, le dispararon.

2023-07-19T00:08:29+00:00

Read in English.

Cada día en mi salón de clases, invito a los estudiantes a que compartan con los demás un poema que hayan escrito. Esta actividad es una manera de hacer que los estudiantes se entre sí y a las diferentes Dénveres en las que vivimos. Los niños de Park Hill comparten sus realidades en Park Hill. Los niños de Swansea comparten sus realidades en Swansea.

Fue en este entorno que, el pasado mes de febrero, Jose Luis Garcia escribió esto: “Mi ciudad es el sonido de disparos … Es que te disparen solo porque estabas en el lugar equivocado en el momento equivocado”. Y luego, más tarde ese día, a Jose Luis — Luis para sus amigos — le dispararon.

Andy Bucher, al centro, con su familia.

El lugar equivocado fue 17th y Esplanade. Está justo al lado del campus de East High School, donde enseño inglés y donde Luis era estudiante de 11º grado e integrante del equipo campeón de fútbol de la escuela. El momento equivocado fue durante el séptimo período. Luis estaba en su coche y murió debido a sus heridas alrededor de dos semanas después de que le dispararan.

Todos pensamos que había escrito poesía, no profecía.

Después del tiroteo, me quedé preocupado por haber hecho algo incorrecto, pero me di cuenta de que mi único pecado fue hacer que los niños se sintieran seguros y compartieran su verdad. La verdad de Luis era que temía que le dispararan.

El mismo grupo de estudiantes se sentó en un círculo dos días después del tiroteo e intentó procesar lo que habíamos escuchado que Luis dijera. Hablamos, lloramos y tratamos de encontrarle sentido a lo que no tiene sentido.

En las siguientes semanas, me obsesioné pensando en formas de abogar a favor del cambio, como con hacer que regresaran los agentes de seguridad armados o SRO [por sus siglas en inglés], quienes por mucho tiempo habían estado presentes en las escuelas de Denver. En junio de 2020, el consejo de educación de Denver votó unánimemente para sacar a los agentes de las escuelas públicas de Denver. Recuerdo cuando nuestro personal se despidió con una ovación de pie, tristemente y a regañadientes, de nuestro SRO, Chris Matlock, su último día. Envié mensajes electrónicos a todos los seis integrantes del consejo de educación de las Escuelas Públicas de Denver; dos de ellos respondieron. Un integrante me dijo, desdeñosamente, que los SRO no regresarían nunca, y otro explicó que estaba equivocado con mi esperanza.

Algunas semanas más tarde, me encontré en una cumbre para la prevención de la violencia con armas de fuego organizada por los estudiantes de East High School. Los estudiantes organizaron la cumbre, pero los participantes eran políticos y administradores.

A mitad de la cumbre, me di cuenta de que la familia de Luis había llegado silenciosamente y encontrado un asiento. Me impresionó que estuvieran ahí, debido a lo que probablemente estarían pasando. Cuando la cumbre terminó, observé mientras su hermano, un estudiante recientemente graduado de East High School, se acercó a un integrante del consejo de educación que se opone a los SRO. Escuché mientras le decía al integrante del consejo: “Si mi hermano hubiera tenido un SRO a quien acudir, quizás estaría vivo hoy”. Escuché cuando el integrante del consejo de educación respondió con: “Siento tu pérdida, pero…” y luego continuó dándole un montón de razones por las que el hermano mayor de Luis estaba equivocado.

Unas semanas después, me senté durante otro cierre de emergencia mientras un estudiante les disparaba a dos de mis amigos y colegas que lo estaban revisando como parte de un plan de seguridad. Y mientras estábamos bajo cierre de emergencia, el superintendente de Denver anunció que enviaría a los SRO de regreso a las escuelas. El día siguiente, el consejo de educación, cuyos integrantes habían ignorado a la comunidad—y habían ignorado a la familia de Luis—finalmente vieron la sabiduría de tener agentes en las escuelas y votaron 6-0 a favor de que regresaran en la primavera. (Hace solo un par de semanas, un consejo dividido de educación votó para mantener a los SRO en las escuelas el próximo año y más adelante.)

Mis estudiantes y yo tenemos un deseo muy simple: seguridad. Lo que quiero es que los integrantes del consejo de educación de Denver escuchen y no supongan que saben más sobre lo que es mejor para las escuelas que los estudiantes, los maestros y las familias que han sufrido la pérdida de un ser querido debido a la violencia con armas de fuego. El regreso de los SRO no es la única solución para la seguridad escolar. Pero es una pieza del rompecabezas que incluye planes prudentes de seguridad, además de explorar posibilidades como cerrar el espacio abierto frente a la escuela o agregar detectores de metales. Necesitamos estar abiertos a nuevas ideas. Necesitamos ser proactivos, no reactivos.

Luis escribió sobre su temor de que le dispararan por estar en “el lugar equivocado en el momento equivocado”. Espero que todas nuestras escuelas, e East High School en particular, dejen de ser el lugar equivocado en el momento equivocado. Y que recordemos a Luis no solo como una víctima de violencia sino también como un estudiante, un campeón de fútbol y un poeta cuyas palabras fueron dolorosamente proféticas.

Andy Bucher es un maestro de inglés en East High School en Denver. Es un esposo y un padre. Sigue fielmente a los Cubs de Chicago y monta semifielmente su bicicleta.

La manera en que la reciente decisión de acción afirmativa puede trastornar el proceso para solicitar admisión a una universidad

2023-07-27T12:00:00+00:00

Read in English

No hay manera para definir lo que es ser Latina. Para mí era solo una manera de identificarme, la respuesta que daba cuando alguien me preguntaba “Y tú, ¿qué eres?” Recientemente en la secundaria, sin embargo, mi identidad como Latina ha crecido hasta convertirse en parte esencial de mi voz.

Estas fueron las primeras oraciones de mi propia solicitud de admisión universitaria en 2012.

La acción afirmativa está nuevamente en las noticias, ya que el Tribunal Supremos decidió esta semana que las políticas de admisión que toman en cuenta la raza en Harvard y en la Universidad de Carolina del Norte representan una violación de la 14ta Enmienda de la Constitución de Estados Unidos. No obstante, la acción afirmativa ya era un tema candente entre mis compañeros de secundaria hace más de una década.

Carina Cruz

Recuerdo estar sentada en una mesa redonda grande, debatiendo con mis compañeros de clase, en su mayoría blancos y afluentes, si la acción afirmativa debía continuar. Mientras un lado del salón argumentaba que le daba una ventaja injusta a ciertos estudiantes, el otro señalaba que, dada la historia de este país, la política era necesaria para que los estudiantes de minorías raciales tuviesen espacio en los campus universitarios.

En esos momentos todavía me faltaban un par de años para ir a la universidad. Pero yo sabía que lo que estábamos discutiendo ‘hipotéticamente’ me impactaba de una manera muy real.

Como chica negra y latina de Brooklyn en una escuela secundaria pequeña, privada y predominantemente blanca, era crucial para mí destacar mi identidad. La mayoría de mis amigos eran estudiantes de minorías raciales que habían llegado a nuestra escuela mediante programas de acceso a la universidad. Ya fuera organizando la asamblea del Mes de la Historia Latina, o asistiendo a otra conferencia más de diversidad, toda mi experiencia en la secundaria se enfocó en aprovechar las oportunidades para expresar mi cultura.

Por lo tanto, cuando llegó el momento para solicitar admisión a la universidad, todo giraba en torno a mi identidad como chica de una familia de puertorriqueña en Nueva York. Mientras investigaba universidades y las visitaba, procuré fijarme en los grupos y las caras que se parecieran a la mía. Incluí mi identidad Latina en las respuestas a la mayoría de las preguntas de ensayo que contesté y fue parte de la discusión en todas mis entrevistas de admisión.

Por décadas la acción afirmativa tuvo sus críticos, gente que cree que los beneficiarios de la política están tomando espacios injustamente en universidades altamente selectivas. Después de que me aceptaron en una universidad prestigiosa de Estados Unidos, escuché comentarios como “a ella la aceptaron simplemente por ser hispana”. La decisión del Tribunal Supremo, no obstante, probablemente dejará a los estudiantes de minorías raciales aún más vulnerables a quedarse fuera y rezagados en el mundo de la educación superior.

En su escrito a nombre de la mayoría, el Juez Presidente del Tribunal Supremo John Roberts dijo que “nada en esta opinión debe considerarse como que las universidades tienen prohibido considerar una discusión de un estudiante de cómo la raza afectó su vida, ya fuese en forma de discriminación, inspiración, u otra cosa”,

Pero la Juez Sonia Sotomayor, en su disidencia, se refirió a esa declaración como “una promesa falsa para quedar bien ante el público”. Ella escribió lo siguiente: “Este supuesto reconocimiento de que las universidades pueden en algunos casos considerar la raza en los ensayos de solicitud no es otra cosa que un intento por hacer que todo sea bonito. La opinión del Tribunal circunscribe la habilidad de las universidades de considerar la raza en cualquier forma eliminando meticulosamente los intereses de diversidad de los solicitantes”.

Lo que está en riesgo aquí es que los estudiantes puedan incluir una parte esencial de ellos durante todo el proceso de solicitud. Para muchos de ellos, particularmente los de minorías raciales, hablar sobre su trasfondo cultural ofrece un contexto importante. Aunque la decisión no prohíbe que los estudiantes hablen en sus ensayos de cómo la raza les afecta, sí limita cómo pueden hablar del tema en las áreas que el Tribunal considera apropiadas. Esto agrega otra barrera para los estudiantes negros y latinos en la que los estudiantes blancos nunca tienen que pensar.

Como graduada de la universidad, empecé a ofrecer orientación universitaria en el mismo programa comunitario de acceso universitario que me ayudó a mí. Cuando me siento con mis estudiantes para empezar a trabajar en sus solicitudes, y en particular sus declaraciones personales, siempre les hago las mismas preguntas: ¿Qué cosas necesita saber otra persona acerca de ti para verdaderamente entenderte? ¿Cuáles son algunos momentos de definición que cambiaron o moldearon tu perspectiva?

Para mis clientes privados o que pagan por mis servicios, esas conversaciones normalmente giran en torno a seleccionar qué actividades extracurriculares incluir en la solicitud. Para mis estudiantes del programa de acceso, con mayor frecuencia gira en torno a cómo hablar de su identidad. Esas historias están entretejidas en la fibra que su ser, afectan aquellas cosas que les apasionan, y con frecuencia dictan por qué quieren ir a la universidad.

Las oficinas de admisiones en las universidades insisten que la solicitud es un espacio para que ellos conozcan mejor a un estudiante. ¿Cómo puede eso continuar si esta decisión obliga a los estudiantes a reconsiderar y modificar lo que pueden compartir? ¿Qué les dice esto a los estudiantes que consideran que su identidad racial es un elemento clave de quienes son y ahora tienen que cuestionarse cómo las universidades interpretarán su historia?

Cuando yo empecé en el campo del acceso a la universidad, mi única intención era trabajar en eso por un año para luego continuar mis estudios graduados. Pero me quedé no solo porque me ví reflejada en mis estudiantes y entendí lo crítico que es obtener la orientación correcta en este proceso, pero también porque me puso en primera fila para ver los cambios que se necesitaban.

No, no se trata de que las universidades necesitan dejar de considerar la raza al momento de decidir las admisiones. Se necesitan más esfuerzos para centralizar el proceso en torno a la voz del estudiante y su desarrollo personal y no en hitos ambiguos. Hay que invertir más recursos para hacer que el proceso y los campus universitarios sean más accesibles para los estudiantes de minorías y los que provienen de comunidades con pocos recursos.

Yo he visto a las instituciones inclinarse a estos cambios, particularmente después de la pandemia. Como muchas escuelas se han quedado con un modelo en el que los exámenes son opcionales, los representantes de admisiones han seguido ofreciendo eventos virtuales, y más oficinas están aceptando declaraciones en video con herramientas como Glimpse, hemos visto universidades que están actuando acerca de sus llamados a la diversidad.

Aunque a los orientadores universitarios y representantes de admisiones les preocupan los posibles atrasos, las buenas noticias son que esta decisión del Tribunal dejará ver qué campuses están verdaderamente buscando diversidad y cuáles simplemente están cumpliendo un requisito. Como defensora del acceso a la universidad, siento curiosidad por saber qué oficinas van a tomar los pasos adicionales para encontrar a los estudiantes que las políticas de admisión que toma en cuenta la raza protegen y cuáles se van a escudar con la decisión del tribunal.

Yo ahora leo mi ensayo de solicitud con un claro entendimiento de cuántas barreras superé como estudiante afropuertorriqueña que creció en comunidades con pocos recursos, y de cómo tendría que cambiarla ahora por esta decisión — tendría que borrar mi identidad completamente solo por dar un falso sentido de igualdad.

Carina Cruz es natural de Nueva York, se dedica a ayudar a la comunidad a tener acceso a a universidad y apoya a estudiantes que están buscando continuar su educación. Al mismo tiempo que ofrece servicios de orientación, Cruz es también Directora de Programas de Alcance para Orientadores en EE.UU. en InitialView, donde trabaja con organizaciones comunitarias y redes escolares para destacar las voces de los estudiantes en sus solicitudes.

In preschool, one size doesn’t fit all. So why is NYC asking early educators to use a single curriculum?

2023-07-31T12:00:00+00:00

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This past year, a child in my preK class had major surgery and was out for several weeks. When he returned, we transformed a corner of the classroom into a doctor’s office. He played there every day for a week, administering bandages and shots to his curious patients. The nearby water table became a place for friendly witches to mix healing potions. Then he was done, and we closed the doctor’s office.

Supporting children’s healthy development is skilled work. After 25 years of working in early care and education, I continue to learn how to assess children and create responsive plans. To begin, I get to know each child’s family. I want them to feel comfortable sharing their hopes and expectations with me. Each day, I observe children at play, during meals, rest, and transitions, and reflect on what I learned.

Helen Frazier

I am lucky to have a partner teacher who is a good listener; she creates space for me to consider the various possibilities. Maybe the child is more emotional because it is the end of the school year, and they are nervous about the upcoming transition. Maybe it’s because they have moved recently. Maybe it’s because, as a white teacher of a Black child, I am not seeing their strengths and needs clearly. We are never sure of the answers. The skills are asking questions, observing, and being responsive.

This spring, Eric Adams announced that contracted infant/toddler, 3K, and preK programs in New York City, including in over 8,000 classrooms in district schools, community-based organizations, family child care homes, dual-language, and faith-based settings, will be following one script: Creative Curriculum. Previously, the majority of early childhood programs in New York City, including mine, used the free, flexible, local, and multilingual curricula provided by the Division of Early Childhood Education. A smaller number chose an emergent or Reggio Emilia approach or a purchased curriculum such as Creative Curriculum, High Scope, or Tools of the Mind.

In early childhood, the curriculum consists of absolutely everything in each child’s day: schedule, environment, interactions, family communication, transitions, books, and lessons. The change to the Creative Curriculum “ecosystem” means that children’s experiences across the city will be standardized — making it much harder to be culturally responsive since everyone is expected to be doing the same thing. (Early childhood programs that contract with the city have until the 2024-25 school year to implement the curriculum.)

I am concerned that the transition will also make children’s experiences less linguistically responsive. Creative Curriculum is only available in English and Spanish, while the Division of Early Childhood Education curricula are translated into the 11 languages most commonly spoken in New York.

The books included in the Division of Early Childhood Education curricula are high-quality literature, carefully curated by early childhood educators to reflect the experience of growing up in our diverse city. The proprietary Creative Curriculum books are geared toward a national market. The city’s choice to replace a free curriculum with a corporate product is an unnecessary use of taxpayer money during a time of supposed budget crisis.

I have used Creative Curriculum. I used it in 2002 when I was a Head Start teacher. At that time, Creative Curriculum, first developed by the educator Diane Trister Dodge, was a flexible framework not unlike the current Division of Early Childhood Education curricula. It was play-based, interdisciplinary, and encouraged teachers to learn about children through their observations.

I used Creative Curriculum again in 2014 when I worked for an EarlyLearn program, a subsidized child care and education program in New York City. By then, Creative Curriculum was owned by a private equity firm, and it had become something else entirely. (It has since been sold to another private equity firm, KKR.) The units of study that were once scaffolds for the teacher’s creativity now included facilitation guidance to be delivered with fidelity.

“... the work of care is slow, organic, and often unpredictable.”

Today, an image of the early care and education provider on the Creative Curriculum website is a teacher reading from an iPad. While this kind of technology integration may work in other industries, the work of care is slow, organic, and often unpredictable. When an educator interacts with a very young child, they need to be present and act as a mirror to the child, not to the instructions on a screen.

The new Creative Curriculum integrates its child assessment system, Teaching Strategies Gold. Teachers observe children and then use the online system to score their skills against a developmental schedule. Creative Curriculum Cloud then uses the ratings to suggest lessons through an algorithm that automates support for children’s skill development.

The data can also be aggregated for school-wide and system-wide monitoring of children’s progress toward “widely held expectations.” For their part, administrators are able to keep track of educators’ curriculum and assessment work remotely. While this may seem efficient as a design, I found it to be time-consuming in practice. Moreover, as doctors have seen in recent years, the quality of care is not often improved by efficiency.

A teacher who strictly follows the Creative Curriculum is likely to become consumed with data collection since they must upload sufficient evidence to determine a score for each of 75 skills. For a class of 18 children, the teacher may complete over 1,000 ratings every three months. Because most educators working in community-based and family child care settings do not have planning time, teachers do this data entry on the evenings and weekends. It is rarely meaningful for us. We do not know where the data goes. We do not know how it is used by the private equity firm.

There is more to consider about a young child than their skills. Not everything that we value can be measured. And yet, the Creative Curriculum assessment system asks you to rate the curiosity of a child on a progression. Where to begin? They are just starting out. They are more curious than they will ever be again. They are motivated by their interests, by wonder, by the love of their families, and by their first friendships. When I plan responsive experiences, I consider what the family values, what the children are excited about (potions!), and who in the class they are connecting with. Driven by delight, they will develop their skills. If I lead with their skills, I will crush their delight.

New Yorkers trust educators with their young children every day in family child care homes, Head Starts, community centers, and district schools. These educators express their love by being responsive and creative, and sharing their individual, cultural, and linguistic knowledge. Replacing this human work with a single curriculum is a misguided decision.

Helen Frazier is a preK teacher working in Brooklyn and an instructor teaching Approaches to Early Childhood Assessment at Bank Street College of Education. Helen is the lead writer of the Revised New York State Early Learning Guidelines and a creator of the New York Association for Young Children’s Interest-Driven Learning Framework. Helen is the proud mother of two sons who attend NYC public schools.

In the AI age, it’s time to change how we teach and grade writing

2023-08-04T23:24:30+00:00

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Many adults fear that, at some point, the skills they have spent years mastering may suddenly become obsolete.

My father, an art teacher and darkroom aficionado, railed against digital photography in the early 2000s as the downfall of an art form he held (and still holds) dear. He retired before the transformation of his darkroom into a classroom computer lab and many years before the revival of film photography from Gen Z kids seeking authenticity in the smartphone age.

Matthew Fulford

In 19th-century England, Luddites similarly protested textile machinery by famously smashing the expensive devices. Their outcry captured the imagination of many who feared that we were becoming, as the Victorian writer Thomas Carlyle put it, “mechanical in head and heart.”

As someone who loves to write almost as much as I enjoy teaching students how to do so effectively, the arrival of Chat GPT in my Denver classroom last semester has placed me in a similar predicament. Within a few weeks, everything I knew about writing, plagiarism, student accountability, and grading was tested.

I made a number of mistakes in a short time, and I realized that if we continue to treat the use of AI as plagiarism, we’re all doomed to fail. Instead, we need to question the fundamentals of how we teach writing in high school and examine what we’re grading when we read student writing.

“What’s the point of writing anymore if we now have browser extensions to do it for us? I mean, why am I even teaching this?” I asked my tech-worker friend when I was at my lowest. “Writing as we know it is dead!”

“Not exactly,” he said, explaining that because AI relies on human-created content to generate answers, it, therefore, depends on the creativity of humans to improve. Otherwise, it would be a closed system that continued to get dumber over time. Moreover, he predicted that as AI content becomes ubiquitous, human creativity would be essential for work to stand out in the future.

“Still,” he acknowledged, “it’s going to change writing a lot.”

Midway through grading student research papers in May, I began to realize what he had meant. I began clumsily pasting suspicious sections of various essays into Chat GPT and asking, “Did you write this?” I’m embarrassed at the number of random false positives this method generated and the awkward conversations I needlessly had with students.

“Yes, I wrote that,” the AI would respond.

“Are you sure?” I pressed further.

“Apologies for the confusion, I cannot confirm that I wrote it.”

After several days of the slowest grading of my life, a colleague introduced me to a browser extension that would confirm patterns in the writing that seemed to be AI-generated. Sure, students could edit the writing to avoid detection, but that seemed quite extreme and time-consuming. I was later surprised to learn from students that some of them would, indeed, spend far longer than it actually takes to write an essay editing AI-generated content.

I found myself spending so much time looking for cheating that I missed the most important aspect of my grading: the ideas that students were actually coming up with.

It was reassuring when an essay I was grading received a thumbs up and “A Human Wrote This!” message. But what is a teacher supposed to do when a browser extension says that an essay appears to be “87% human”? Plagiarism often comes with stiff penalties, and I was nervous about responding too strictly to such uncertainties. This dynamic is also playing out in higher education, and none of the professors I reached out to had answers yet.

This past spring, I found myself spending so much time looking for cheating that I missed the most important aspect of my grading: the ideas that students were actually coming up with. As I shifted my focus, I realized that centering the student’s ideas also proved to be the best AI detector of all. Because AI writing is often pretty terrible.

I began grading some of the best AI-generated essays as though they were human, and I realized that they were rarely proficient anyway. A lot of their issues were obvious, such as the research essay on the history of the American West that intermittently (and critically) confused which “West” it was writing about — the Cold War West or the Western frontier.

There are also some practical ways I intend to alter these projects next year. For example, typing into one document ensures that all writing is timestamped. Separately grading the research process, outlines, and rough drafts all help to encourage students to do the thinking themselves. The inner Luddite in me is also excited to return occasionally to handwritten essays.

Most of all, though, I’m eager to emphasize creativity in research and writing. Classroom writing should never be about the regurgitation of other people’s ideas to aid memorization, and I’m fairly certain that this is one skill that AI will truly make obsolete anyway. So rather than asking students to “Compare and contrast how two authors explore the history of the American West,” I might instead ask them to “use primary sources you have found during your own research to tell the story of a real person in the West, including their challenges and life experiences.” Certainly, AI could do this, but results are certain to be duller than those that tap into students’ natural curiosity and creativity.

This tumultuous semester clarified that using AI in writing is fundamentally different from other forms of plagiarism; it’s so new that the line between using it as a research and writing aid and using it to cheat has not yet been established. I’m optimistic that we can teach students to use it as a tool while they simultaneously do the most valuable creative thinking themselves.

In recent years, my dad has emerged from the darkroom to embrace digital photography as an art form with its own creative potential. And I’d like to think that if Thomas Carlyle was alive today, he would have agreed with me that it’s the creativity of our thinking that separates us from machines; AI in its current form merely develops an illusion of creativity.

Matthew Fulford is a high school history teacher in Denver, Colorado. His passion is teaching historical research and writing. He is the 2023 Colorado History Teacher of the Year.

I am a Black, queer teen. I am resilient.

2023-08-15T11:30:00+00:00

Until I was 10, my father was nothing more than a faint memory. Then he seemed to want to make up for his absence, and he would show up occasionally to take me on different adventures. We’d go to the park, where I would hop on the swings and he would push, and to the bowling alley, where I felt my stress rolling away each time the ball spun forward and knocked over the pins. We’d go to his house, where we would sit and watch horror movies (my favorite genre).

As a preteen, I was growing into my sexuality and did my best to mask my true self. But one evening, when my father and I were watching “Seed of Chucky,” I said, “Oh, he’s cute,” referring to one of the characters onscreen. Immediately, I felt the air shift. I didn’t say another word for the rest of the movie.

My father made his disapproval known a couple of weeks later. That’s when my godmother, who raised me, called out my name, saying that my father was on the phone asking to speak to me. I rushed into her room and held the phone. The moment I put my ear to the phone, I heard a torrent of homophobic slurs. He told me he was going to beat me up to turn me “into a man.” The fact that my father uttered those words to his own son over something as minuscule as a remark about a movie character baffled me. But I also somewhat expected it after the way he had tensed up.

I handed my godmother back her phone and slowly left her room. Once back in my own room, I opened my journal and began to describe the emotions fluttering through me: rage, sadness, confusion, anger.

When I asked my godmother to cut off all forms of communication with my father, he would ride around my school early in the mornings to try to spot me. My godmother’s mother, whom I think of as my grandmother, lived across the street from my school and let me stay inside her house until his black sedan completed its daily ritual of circling slowly around the block five times before disappearing. At one point, my father tried to pick me up from my school without my godmother’s permission. Then, as suddenly as he reappeared in my life, he packed up his things and moved away. I don’t know where he went. I haven’t had contact with him in the six years since.

It wasn’t just my father pushing this version of what it means to be a man. Growing up, I remember family members telling me how I should be strong and not display my emotions, as denying vulnerability is just the way of life for Black males like me. I would always ask: Why is this a thing? Why can’t I show emotions? What if I’m not as strong as I’m always told to be?

I learned subsequently that notions of Black masculinity and homophobia among Black Americans have been reinforced since the 1960s Black Power movement. In his memoir “Soul on Ice,” Eldridge Cleaver, an early leader of the Black Panther Party, attacked the racial authenticity and masculinity of the acclaimed author James Baldwin, writing that Baldwin’s homosexuality was an attempt to distance himself from his Blackness.

And Cleaver’s ideas are hardly a thing of the past. The phrase “no homo” is still common in hip-hop.

It takes a toll. A 2022 study conducted by the Trevor Project, the world’s largest crisis intervention organization for LGBTQ youth, found that there is a high prevalence of homophobia and homophobic abuse that is linked to significant rates of family disownment, homelessness, and loneliness within Black LGBTQ communities. According to the study, 68% of Black LGBTQ youth either considered or attempted suicide in the past year, and 50% were physically threatened or harmed due to their sexual orientation and/or gender identity. Black LGBTQ youth were 58% more likely to attempt suicide than their white counterparts and were six times more likely to feel misunderstood by their care providers.

I have often felt ostracized by my peers. Many seemed apprehensive of my flamboyance, including my Mariah Carey and Britney Spears super-fandom and my interest in skin care. I imagined that if I could somehow stop concealing my sexuality, my chronic sadness would disappear. My hopelessness, at times, veered into thoughts of self-harm.

I talked recently with one of my school’s math teachers, Kysung Tisdale, about the challenges of being a Black queer male. “When I come to school, I’m no longer Kysung,” he said. “I am Mr. T. I am the teacher that people can come to for advice.” Kysung is more outgoing and flamboyant, while Mr. T is more stern, more conventionally masculine. He also said that he tends to code-switch in order to ensure his safety. When he’s in typically male environments like the barbershop or at basketball games, he dims his personality and deepens his voice.

What if I’m not as strong as I’m always told to be?

River, my school peer, was assigned female at birth and is nonbinary. River said they conceal their masculinity when they go to places where their queerness might not be accepted, such as a hair salon. They feel they lose a part of their identity with each switch. But when they feel safe and secure, River loves to lean into their masculinity, dressing in baggy pants and sneakers.

Kysung and River are fellow travelers. I’m fortunate to know them. I’m also lucky to have been raised by my godmother. She is a lesbian and has faced discrimination and hostility similar to what I’ve endured. She was kicked out of her grandmother’s house, where she lived as a child in Alabama, because of her sexuality.

She wants a different upbringing for me, so she takes me to various pride events, shows me movies and documentaries with queer characters, and gives me space to express myself. At her job, she has hosted a series of workshops on LGBTQ inclusivity.

And yet, I still fall prey to the stigma of being a queer, Black male. Like Mr. Tisdale, in male-dominated spaces, like going to the barbershop or hanging with friends as they play basketball, I find myself deepening my voice and acting more “masculine.” That’s me subconsciously yearning for acceptance — not just from the Black community but also from society as a whole. Of course, homophobia and harmful stereotypes of what it means to be a man are not limited to the Black community. They’re everywhere.

As I prepare to leave for college, a place where I will live as my most authentic self, I’ve been thinking a lot about something Kysung once told me, “Queer men are diamonds that are made with pressure and time.” I’ve come to realize that discrimination, marginalization, isolation, and shame can lead to the development of a strong sense of self and a deep understanding of one’s own identity. Despite the challenges, queer Black men often demonstrate remarkable resilience. Like diamonds, we are formed through the application of pressure and time, emerging beautiful.

Dashawn Sheffield recently graduated from North Star Academy Washington Park High School and will be attending Lafayette College in the fall. He was a Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow in Newark and was among the recipients of the Princeton Prize in Race Relations for his work on racial equity.

Community violence is traumatizing my students. Here’s how I help them cope.

2023-08-18T14:15:00+00:00

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Half of Chicagoans will witness a shooting before they turn 40. And the average age of a Chicago resident witnessing gun violence: 14. That’s according to a new study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association.

What does this disturbing data say about the collective trauma Chicagoans are experiencing? What does it mean for the long-term well-being of our children? These questions loom large for me since I work with teens and preteens who attend Chicago Public Schools. My goal is to help students stay in school by giving them the tools to cope with trauma, set goals, make progress on their graduation plans, and prepare for life beyond high school.

LaToya Winton

For the past two years, I’ve worked at a K-8 school in Chicago’s West Englewood neighborhood, providing one-on-one counseling and other programs through the nonprofit Communities In Schools of Chicago.

West Englewood is made up of sturdy bungalows and two-flats located about a dozen miles southwest of Chicago’s Loop. It also happens to be one of the Chicago neighborhoods where gun violence is most prevalent. As of Aug. 1, 69 people have been shot; that’s about one shooting every three days. Seven of those victims were teens, just like my students.

These are more than grim statistics to me. I grew up in West Englewood, near the school I work in today. One of my extended family members was a victim of gun violence, so I know all too well that every shooting represents a person, a family, and a community devastated.

Despite the neighborhood’s tough reputation, the block I grew up on in the early 1990s was a nurturing place where we watched each other’s back and celebrated graduations and birthdays together. Bad things went on back then, but as a kid, I felt mostly insulated from it because of the strength of my caring family and neighbors.

Things are harder now for kids in West Englewood, despite many families still wanting the best for their children. Many former residents have moved away, leaving old familiar streets frayed. Enrollment has declined in the area’s schools, including the one where I’m based. Poverty and joblessness are a fact of life as well, with almost half the community’s households earning less than $25,000 a year.

Each day, I see young people coming to school with clear signs of distress. Last fall, for example, one of my students lost a brother in a shooting. He tried to keep his emotions under control, but one day a class discussion reminded him of the incident, and he stormed out of the room and punched lockers in the hallway.

Another one of my students who lost an older brother to gun violence broke down in tears in my office. She had come in to speak to me about her loss, and I sat with her, listened, and let her feel those emotions. I also asked her to share with me some of the good times she had with her brother and told her that I was always there to talk if she needed it.

Each day, I see young people coming to school with clear signs of distress.

We don’t keep official records about which of our students have been directly impacted by gun violence, but the numbers are high; by my estimate, at least 20 of the 50 students I provided one-on-one support to last school year either saw a shooting or know a friend or loved one harmed or impacted by gun violence. Gun violence prevention isn’t in my job title, but so much of my work involves me helping young people cope with and curb community violence. I’m lucky to have support from teachers, administrators, and fellow counselors where I work.

How do you teach students to avoid violence? It starts with building trusting relationships with young people and steadily equipping them with the knowledge and skills they need to lead safer lives. This is far from a one-size-fits-all strategy, but there are key principles that the work is grounded in:

Building positive relationships is an essential life skill that can be taught. I want my students to know that they can come to me for encouragement and feedback, and I’ll always strive to be transparent and relatable.
Encouraging effective coping strategies — from deep breathing to creating art to reflective journaling — can help young people learn to manage stress and anxiety. During our sessions, I provide a space for students to sit with their emotions. Often, the young men whom I work with think crying is a sign of weakness; on the contrary, showing their emotions is a sign of strength.
Offering more evidence-based approaches like cognitive-behavioral therapy and brief solution-focused interventions for students who need more robust support. This can reduce fight-or-flight responses and help students choose the path of de-escalation.
Building young people’s self-esteem and sense of purpose in life helps them frame interpersonal conflicts within a broader context, increasing the chances they will pursue peaceful solutions. Small discussion groups, such as the one I hold for girls in fifth and sixth grades, have helped some of my students find their voice.

There are no overnight transformations. This work takes time, patience, and consistency to make a difference. I’m also aware that even when my students embrace these principles and make great progress, we are still sending them out into a city where community violence is all too common and anything can happen. We adults have to acknowledge those risks, even as we work tirelessly to empower young people to lead positive and peaceful lives.

LaToya Winton is a student supports manager at Communities In Schools of Chicago, a Chicago nonprofit helping students succeed in school and stay on the path to high school graduation.

I helped two migrant teens enroll in Chicago Public Schools. It was anything but straightforward.

2023-08-23T19:15:00+00:00

The first week of school highlights yet another facet of the challenge Chicago faces in supporting newly arrived migrants: enrolling their children in school. For the past two days, I saw it up close while helping two migrant families enroll their daughters at a neighborhood high school in Brighton Park.

These families, recent arrivals from Venezuela, are among more than 1,200 migrants currently sleeping in police stations; about 6,500 more are staying in local shelters.

Maureen Kelleher

Since mid-July, Chicago Public Schools has been beefing up its efforts to enroll migrant students. The district opened a welcome center at Clemente Community Academy in West Town. School officials say they have enrolled about 1,000 new English learners over the summer and expect 1,000 more to enroll in the coming weeks. However, there’s no way to tell how many of them are recently arrived migrants. In a last-minute push, the district said teams from the Office of Language and Cultural Education are visiting police stations to help migrant families staying there to enroll.

And together with mutual aid groups supporting migrants at police stations, the Chicago Teachers Union held a Zoom training for volunteers helping families enroll and signed up migrant students as part of a back-to-school party at union headquarters.

Yet some families are still struggling to get their children in school. As the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Sun-Times reported, volunteers and young migrants staying in South Side neighborhoods with few Latino students say schools have turned them away because they lack staff qualified to teach English learners.

But even enrolling in schools with the staffing to support new arrivals can be daunting, especially in high school, where the red tape is extra-thick. As a volunteer with the mutual aid network for the 9th District police station in Bridgeport and a longtime education writer, this is what I saw. I’m sharing it here with the families’ permission. Their names have been changed because their asylum cases are pending.

Monday, Aug. 21, 2023

7:45 a.m., Kelly High School, 4136 S. California Ave.

While hundreds of Kelly students wait to enter school on the first day of the new year, I’m meeting aspiring freshmen Sofia and Marianna and their respective mothers as they get out of another volunteer’s car.

Inside, a security guard tells us registration for new students doesn’t start until 9 a.m. We can wait or come back later. The four of them haven’t had breakfast, so we head out.

8 a.m., Tio Luis Tacos, 3856 S. Archer Ave.

Over plates of pancakes for the girls and eggs with nopales, chorizo, and cecina for the grown-ups, we get to know each other a little. We speak in Spanish, though mine is only mediocre. Like many migrants coming to Chicago, Rosa, Sofia’s mom, says her family has been at the Bridgeport police station for three weeks. She and her husband have two children: Sofia and a 1-year-old boy.

Maria, Marianna’s mom, tells me her family has been at the station for just 10 days. In addition to Marianna, she and her husband have two other children: a 10-year-old boy and a 4-year-old girl. Both of them have already been enrolled at Holden, a neighborhood elementary school close to the police station. Her 10-year-old went to Holden on time for Day 1; her little girl has to wait while they make sure the preK has enough room for another student.

They tried to enroll Marianna there, too, but the school staff said she had to move on to high school due to her age: She’ll turn 15 in February.

Marianna has a taste for the salsa roja on the table with the chips, which makes both moms laugh. From volunteering, I know that Venezuelans, unlike Mexicans, don’t usually like their food spicy. Sofia is the more talkative one, convincing Marianna to have pancakes with her. Both girls love the pancakes, which vanish quickly. The sausage, not so much. Sofia takes some of her scrambled eggs in a to-go box.

9:10 a.m., Kelly High School, Door 4

When we get back to Kelly, a few other families are waiting by the registration entrance — Door 4. They have been buzzing, but no one is answering. I press the buzzer just for good measure, then text one of the lead volunteers with the District 9 group, who teaches at Kelly.

It’s starting to get hot outside. Maria holds her manila envelope full of papers up against her right cheek to shield her face from the sun.

After a few minutes, the Kelly teacher opens the door for us. We walk up to the security guard, who is helping with registration. She looks at the papers in Maria’s folder and a smaller stack of papers Rosa brought. Both moms have their daughters’ birth certificates, but neither has any transcripts from previous years. Both girls completed seventh grade in Colombia before making the trek to the U.S., their mothers say, but there are no records.

The security guard says she can’t register them without a transcript evaluation. How do you do a transcript evaluation without transcripts? We’re not sure what to do next, so we step out.

The Kelly teacher meets us outside and texts me a photo of a flyer outlining a two-step process for transcript evaluation. It’s translated into Spanish and Chinese. Step 1: Call the downtown office to make an appointment. Step 2: Bring the following documents downtown for review: a birth certificate and/or passport (if they have one) and any grades or transcripts they have from previous schools they attended outside the U.S.

I call the office to ask if we need an appointment, and the woman on the phone says we can come right away. So, off we go.

On the way, we make a pit stop back at the police station to pick up Sofia’s little brother. Rosa thinks it’s better for her to have him if we’re going to be gone for a while.

Maria’s husband, Juan, is at the station with Marianna’s little sister, who can’t start school today. They want to come, too. Juan especially wants to meet me since we haven’t met before and now I’m driving his wife and older daughter all over town. So we all pile in my ‘97 Camry. Juan sits shotgun; the moms and kids are squished together in the back.

On the way north to the Loop, I ask Marianna’s and Sofia’s parents if registering their children for school in Colombia had been easier. They say yes.

10:25 a.m., Chicago Public Schools Central Office, 42 W. Madison St., Garden Level

We walk through the revolving doors and down the stairs. Two security guards sit behind a Plexiglas barrier. I explain that we called ahead and name the person who is expecting us.

After a short wait, another staffer comes to meet the two families. She interviews them in Spanish and confirms both girls were born in Venezuela. Then she asks, in Spanish, “What school are you accepted to?” The girls and their families all give blank stares because they haven’t memorized the name of their soon-to-be high school yet.

“Kelly,” I answer.

The central office staffer asks, “Is that a neighborhood school?”

“Yes.”

Later that night, I received messages that suggest I might have misheard the question about neighborhood school. It’s possible she asked me, “Is this the neighborhood school?” The messages I received indicated that CPS wants families currently in police stations to register at the neighborhood school nearest the station, and then transfer if the school can’t provide the services they need.

But that’s really hard on people who have been living in constant motion, especially children. Our mutual aid group decided to bring them to Kelly because it is a convenient bus commute from the police station, has bilingual teachers, and English as a second language class. There’s also a teacher there who is also a mutual aid volunteer to help them if they have any problems.

Finally, the staffer comes back with some new papers to add to each family’s stack, allowing them to go ahead and register their daughters as ninth-graders at Kelly.

11:54 a.m. Kelly High School, Door 4

We’re back. This time, Door 4 is propped open. We tell the security guard we went downtown and show her the additional papers. She gives each family a packet of enrollment papers to fill out.

The security guard asks Rosa for her ID. It’s back at the police station. Rosa, Sofia and the little guy pile in the car with me to go get it.

By 1:05 p.m., we’re back at Kelly for the fourth time today. The chances Sofia and Marianna will get any class time on Day 1 have already vanished. Now I’m afraid Sofia’s registration gets pushed another day too.

But the guard gives her a number – 45 – on an index card and tells us to wait in the auditorium. Marianna and her family are already there, among a dozen other families, holding an index card with a number, too. Hers is 40.

1:30 p.m., Kelly High School Auditorium

While waiting, Sofia and Marianna fine-tune all the paperwork. Heads bowed, they tick off the to-dos. Media release, done. Consent for school text messages, done. Racial/ethnic survey, done.

A short woman walks in and calls the number 33. A family follows her out of the auditorium. Sofia’s baby brother sleeps in his mom’s lap. Marianna’s little sister miraculously fell asleep while sharing a wooden auditorium seat with her big sis. The older girls are yawning. Eventually, they each put their head on their mother’s shoulder, their long hair hiding their faces as they burrow in for a rest.

There are two counselors down near the stage. I ask them what happens next. They say the girls must get registered in the main office; then, they can receive class schedules. If the girls don’t make it to the main office today, they will have to come back at 9 a.m. tomorrow and keep on waiting.

Suddenly, there are end-of-day announcements coming over the intercom. They’ve missed the first day, and it’s looking like they won’t be able to attend class tomorrow, either.

2:47 p.m. Kelly High School Main Office

Finally, Marianna’s number – 40 – is called. I follow her family to the main office, where they get to wait again, this time in padded office seats.

When Marianna and her parents start talking with the school clerk, she asks for two proofs of address. I interrupt and say, “They are STLS,” which means students in temporary living situations. These students are legally entitled to enroll in school without the usual documents.

Once that’s done, I play with the 4-year-old while Marianna and her parents hand over the paperwork. Eventually, the clerk shares the good news before the bad: Marianna is officially registered. But tomorrow she’ll have to come back at 9 a.m. tomorrow to take an English proficiency test before she gets a class schedule.

We head back to the auditorium. Sofia and her family aren’t there; their number has been called, too. Both girls are registered and can test tomorrow.

We leave Kelly around 3:40 p.m. No one except Sofia has eaten since breakfast; she had her leftover eggs.

Tuesday, August 22

9:10 a.m. Kelly High School, Library

Tuesday morning, Sofia, Marianna, their moms, and the 1-year-old all come with me to Kelly while the girls take the English-language placement test. While we all wait in the library, a teacher brings in a box of donut holes to share with all the families waiting to register or have their children test for English placement. After about half an hour, a teacher comes in to take Sofia and Marianna downstairs for testing.

I leave them my cell number to call when the test is finished. When I return, the girls and their mothers are outside, talking with two young women who appear to be Kelly students. I join the circle between Sofia and Marianna and ask in Spanish, “How did it go?”

“Excellente!” Sofia says with a wide smile. Marianna smiles shyly, and I stretch my arms each way to give them both a quick shoulder hug. Soon after, the conversation wraps up, and we head back to the station.

Wednesday, August 23

8:00 a.m. Kelly High School, Main Office

At the office, the girls get paper printouts of their schedules. The secretary says they can get IDs and bus passes at lunchtime.

When they see they have a class together, they squeeze hands and smile. Then they head to their first-period class: English as a Second Language.

Maureen Kelleher is a volunteer with the District 9 mutual aid group and a longtime education writer. She previously wrote a First Person piece about choosing a new school for her daughter.

What a cultural exchange program taught me about responding to racism

2023-08-29T12:00:00+00:00

In the heat of the Indiana sun, a cold sweat ran down my spine. With my mouth agape and adrenaline coursing through me, I wondered which instinct would win out: fight or flight.

I must have heard him incorrectly. There is no way he asked me that, right?

But he did. And now, I had to decide how to respond.

Vanessa Chen

This summer, I was one of 10 Americans chosen to participate in a government-sponsored cultural exchange program with the goals of promoting mutual understanding and civic responsibility. Out of the 10 American fellows and 45 European fellows — one from each country on the continent — I was the only young woman of Chinese descent.

As someone who grew up in New York City’s Chinatown and went to elementary, middle, and high schools with Asian majorities, I have never been a minority in my community. I have had the privilege of feeling so comfortable in my skin that race was not something I considered when I decided to attend this exchange program.

Of course, I am aware that Asians make up only around 7% of the adult American population. I have learned about America’s history of anti-Asian racism preceding even the construction of the Transcontinental Railroad. And at the height of the pandemic, with hate crimes targeting Asian Americans skyrocketing, I feared for my parents’ safety every time they went outside for a simple grocery run.

That being said, I have never felt like a minority. Because in all those instances of hate that I learned about or faced, I am fortunate enough to have been in a community that reminds me to be proud of my identity. I took part in protests against AAPI hate and campaigns to support small businesses in Chinatown, and I have always had a support system.

And so, when a fellow in a majority white environment asked me whether I ate dogs or bats, I was shocked. Not knowing how to respond, I ended up laughing but not because I found it funny.

I am not usually afraid of confrontation. When I heard stories of people facing racist comments from their peers, I had always imagined that I’d demand an apology if I found myself in a similar situation. The fact that I stayed silent and laughed still feels disappointing.

At the same time, I feel lucky that my first direct encounter with racism was at age 17; I am old enough to understand that comments like these do not define me. I cannot imagine the impact that these comments can have on younger kids of color who regularly face microaggressions and worse.

Having grown up in a beautifully diverse place like New York City, I could not fully sympathize with people who purposefully reject their home language or traditions to fit into their environment. My ability to speak both Chinese and English fluently has always been something I pride myself in — not something that embarrasses me or makes me uncomfortable. But being in Indiana for a month, as one of the few Asian students in my program, I became keenly aware of why someone might feel compelled to try to assimilate.

Unfortunately, my experience with racism during my fellowship was not isolated to a single person or incident. I had to have multiple conversations with different people about it. Some people responded by apologizing right away. Other times, I had to explain to someone why certain comments were racist, not simply “jokes” to which I was overreacting.

At moments, I was too filled with emotion to say anything productive. “You don’t know anything that you are saying,” I’d say in those moments. Or “Google it.” These remarks never yielded any real understanding, but they taught me how to respond more effectively the next time.

My experience with racism during my fellowship was not isolated to a single person or incident.

I also learned how important it is to show vulnerability and empathy in these conversations. Why would you show vulnerability to someone who just said something racist to you? While some people who spout racist remarks are actively trying to undermine you, others aren’t trying to hurt you (but still do).

When I pulled aside the kid who asked me about dogs and bats and told him how I felt, he apologized. I later told him about the anti-Asian hate that people in my community faced amid the pandemic, how Chinatown boycotts affected my family’s small business, and how his words impacted me.

Importantly, I listened to him and tried not to judge his lack of awareness. The fellows in this program were from all over and haven’t had the same upbringing as I’ve had. As such, I focused on our common ground: respect. No matter where you are from, respect goes both ways, and I hoped that if I showed him respect, he would do the same. Had I scolded him, he might have put his guard up or become defensive.

Still, it’s important to know when someone is not worth your time. It is not my job or any person of color’s job to educate other people on racism. If after attempting to explain the impact of their words and actions they are unwilling to listen or change their behavior, they are not worth it.

And to the white allies, it is natural to protect someone you care about. It comes with good intentions, and in many cases, your voice and actions are appreciated. But sometimes, the person who was targeted might want to respond directly. I encourage you to yield to them in these situations.

I applied to the fellowship intent on learning more about international diplomacy and global affairs. I never expected it to be my introduction to direct racism. The experience, while sometimes painful, has made me more thankful for my New York City upbringing and more sympathetic to those who don’t have the privilege of growing up in such an accepting and diverse community.

Landing back in New York City, I found myself paying closer attention to the communities that I travel through. From Manhattan’s Little Italy and Koreatown to Flushing, Queens, home to Chinese, Indian, Jewish, Hispanic, and many other communities, I have a newfound appreciation for the beautiful ethnic enclaves that make up my hometown.

Vanessa Chen is a rising high school senior who loves to write and read in her free time. She has organized community events, including gatherings where Chinatown youth can bond and protests against neighborhood displacement. In school, Vanessa serves as executive producer for her school’s theater community and last fall produced the musical, “Matilda.”

As school leaders, we need to create opportunities for our teachers as well as our students

2023-08-31T12:00:00+00:00

More than a decade ago, while running a high-performing school that I loved, a small moment forever shifted how I lead. As a Black woman who was a teenage mother and had dropped out of high school, I was proud of my career and taking great care to figure out what was next.

While at lunch with a mentor, a leader of a large charter network, she asked, “Have you ever considered being a CEO?” I remember feeling grateful that she thought so highly of my work.

Garland Thomas-McDavid

“You think I could do that job?” I asked. She said she did and went on to explain that I was already doing a lot of that job; I just didn’t know it yet.

Now, after many years of hard work and mentorship, I’ve successfully served as CEO of three different school networks. I find joy in many parts of my job, but what keeps me devoted to this work is so much larger than leading school networks and all that entails.

Ever since that lunch with my mentor, my work, my calling, has been evolving and expanding. I serve in ways that have allowed my life to come full circle — creating pathways to college for children who might otherwise be counted out. I also work to open pathways for the adults who work at the schools I lead. I want everyone to have the full picture of what they can become.

To be sure, I wouldn’t be where I am today without other leaders guiding me on my journey, especially when I lacked the social capital and background knowledge to make the next right move. From my former principal who helped me secure my first assistant principal job to another mentor who encouraged me to seek out executive coaching, I’ve been lucky to receive sound advice and practical support.

But my commitment to professional growth for educators, particularly those who are women and people of color, is not just a matter of paying it forward. It feels like a necessary investment — and a smart one.

While some of the recent efforts focused on recruiting more teachers of color have paid off, keeping those teachers in our schools and classrooms is an urgent challenge. A 2021 RAND study found that nearly half of Black teachers reported that they were likely to leave their jobs at the end of the school year because of stress and challenging working conditions. What if schools retain and grow these educators? Chances are their perspective and leadership could help improve retention across the board.

The current reality, however, holds back rising educators and potential school leaders as well as students of color. That’s because research has shown that when students of color are exposed to teachers who share their race or ethnicity, they perform better academically and are more likely to stay in school.

Yet, we’ve failed to show many educators of color that teaching and education leadership are viable career paths. That means losing the next generation of educators only a little past the starting line.

So what must we do differently? First, access is a game changer.

In too many schools, the leadership team is small and insular. At our school, we schedule leadership and board meetings in the evenings, when our whole staff can attend. We invite team members to show up, contribute to materials, and present directly to the board. This may seem small, but if you don’t know what it looks like to be a principal, chief of staff, or CEO, how can you aim to become one?

Next, it’s time to build on access with resources, information, and opportunities. When you open doors to what is possible, you have to make space for learning and growth to follow. That looks like taking time to mentor people or setting them up with mentors, and providing professional development stipends in amounts that allow them to pursue further education.

“...we’ve failed to show many educators of color that teaching and school leadership are viable career paths.”

A year ago, I had a new middle school principal and assistant principal who showed great potential and were hungry for development. After a year of intentional support and mentorship, both individuals have been promoted and joined our school’s leadership team. They’ve since been invited to speak at conferences, and their work has been highlighted in the media.

Finally, it’s important to be supportive of the many places this kind of development will lead. When you invest in your staff, you might end up with your next great principal or CEO. You might also send people beyond your school walls to other schools, to advocacy organizations, and to district or state offices. Remember, your investment in talent is not just about growing leaders that benefit your school; it’s about building the next generation of leaders and elevating women and people of color who will shape education in this country.

We want our students to dream big and be prepared to chase whatever future they want. We should want the same for our teachers. Increasing access and opportunities — that’s how we diversify the profession, strengthen our schools, and build the kinds of talented, driven leaders that students at every level need.

Dr. Garland Thomas-McDavid is the CEO of Brooklyn Lab Charter School, a sixth to 12th grade charter school in New York. A Brooklyn native, Dr. Thomas-McDavid returned home last year to run Lab after over two decades leading schools in Chicago.

Back-to-school season is an exciting, exhausting, and anxious time, even for veteran teachers like me

2023-09-01T12:00:00+00:00

I stand at the front of the classroom. Twenty-five high school kids are in there with me. I’ve never met them. They’re all chattering to one another as the bell rings to begin the class.

I call out a welcome to them, smiling, projecting my voice so that all can hear me. They take no notice of me. I try again. If anything, the hum of conversation rises. Some look my way, then return to their conversations. I begin to fret, raising my voice a little more. The conversations continue unabated.

The kids are not abusive, they’re not unruly. They just won’t stop talking. We’re now about five minutes into a 42-minute class.

Now, I’m strategizing as quickly as I can. I’ve never met these kids before, and we’ll be together for 179 more days. It’s the first day of school; I don’t want to yell. But I don’t want to be walked and talked over. I keep trying. They keep chattering. We’re now 15 or 20 minutes into this horror show.

... And then I wake up.

Richard Schwartz

I don’t know how many times I had this dream during my teaching career. Most often it would happen during the last two weeks of August; those two weeks could be like the two weeks in which you’re waiting for your surgery, waiting for your year-end performance review, waiting to hit those rapids on the Colorado River.

I really enjoyed my career. And still, I’d dream this dream.

New Jersey high school teachers know that T.S Eliot was all wet. April is surely not the cruelest month; it’s the four weeks from mid-August through mid-September. The day after Labor Day, you sit through interminable first-day meetings, lug hundreds of textbooks from a storage room to your classroom, and decorate that classroom. Days later, you go over classroom procedures with your students, complete form after form that you completed in previous years, and block out time to take required online courses regarding the protection of students’ physical and mental health.

You ruminate on establishing a classroom environment that will last through June. You know that if you establish the right climate in September, you’ll spend little time on students acting out over the ensuing nine months. You’ll be able to enjoy teaching.

But how to do it? That’s not always an easy call.

The question for all but the strongest, most charismatic teaching personalities: Given the as-yet-unknown classroom chemistry of each of your five classes, how do you want to come across? Friendly, approachable, and compassionate hold allure, but what if your students — or even one or two of them — read that as weakness and an invitation to test limits?

Or do you go with authoritative, businesslike, and orderly?

So much of your satisfaction when you walk out of the building in June will have to do with how you manage setbacks.

When asked by their parents after the first day of school how they like their teachers, your students will label some as “nice.” Is it important that you be on that list? Or is it in your interest to reveal your niceness gradually over the course of the year? Is niceness actually less important than kindness? Or than being respected?

I know what you’re saying: Why does it have to be either/or?

A fair question. How many people do you know that simultaneously project approachability, compassion, authority, and orderliness?

While you’re working to be all of the above, you’re also trying to teach some really compelling early lessons, lessons that engage your students, that awaken and enliven them. Lessons that signal that you’re surely not going to lecture and run PowerPoint slideshows 42 minutes a day, five days a week, for 36 weeks. Lessons that make clear that they will carry the ball a lot. You’re going to try early to show them some of your best stuff since you want them to think: This class might actually be OK.

And that’s why, right now, as you read this, if you’re a high school teacher waiting to start the year, you may be feeling excited as you anticipate seeing your colleagues and the students with whom you’ve enjoyed working. But also anxious. You know pretty well what could go wrong, and you know that you have only so much control over what’s to come.

Chances are that your own commitment to the work will mean another fulfilling year for you and your students. (Not “High School Musical,” “Dead Poets Society,” “Mr. Holland’s Opus” fulfilling. You teach in a school, not on a Hollywood set.) And it’s not as though you expect a year free from adversity. So much of your satisfaction when you walk out of the building in June will have to do with how you manage setbacks.

But you know better than anyone that there are no guarantees. That’s why, as a high school teacher, over the next few weeks, as you bid farewell to summer vacation and get back to the good work you do, you offer us all a profile in courage.

Richard Schwartz taught social studies at Whippany Park High School in Whippany, New Jersey, for 43 years before retiring in June 2022. He is the author of “The Prairies on Fire: Lincoln Debates Douglas, 1858.” His newsletter, Common Sentences, is on Substack.

What Gen Z needs to know about 9/11 and its aftermath

2023-09-08T14:00:00+00:00

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Monday marks the 22nd anniversary of 9/11. Around the country, people will remember the unimaginable losses of that day with memorials, rallies, hashtags like #NeverForget, and acts of service. And then they will move on, relegating 9/11 to a one-dimensional and incomplete historical narrative that centers the attacks and the immediate aftermath but neglects the long-term effects of decisions taken after that day.

This cycle of remembering and forgetting can be damaging for young people, especially those who did not live through 9/11 or started school after it occurred. Given recent attacks on how and what to teach about U.S. history, coupled with rising acts of hate against communities of color, we must demand more inclusive curriculums about 9/11 and its aftermath.

For both of us, what happened after the 9/11 attacks catalyzed our research and teaching. For Ameena, it grounded her research with youth from Muslim immigrant communities in the U.S. and, eventually, the creation of the curriculum Teaching Beyond September 11th. Examining the two decades after 9/11, the curriculum covers U.S. foreign and domestic policy as well as solidarity movements, media representation, and Islamophobia. For Deepa, it led her to support South Asian non-profits and write a book that documents the post-9/11 experiences of South Asian, Arab, Muslim, and Sikh immigrants in America.

Ameena Ghaffar-Kucher, left, and Deepa Iyer

Today, we are also parents of Gen Z children and have witnessed how limited the conversation around 9/11 is, particularly in public schools. Much of this conversation focuses on what unfolded on that terrible Tuesday. Rarely do students examine the devastating aftermath on communities who have borne the brunt of policies that followed in the name of national security or the roughly 432,000 civilian victims of direct war violence in the global war on terror.

It is becoming clearer with each passing year that U.S. students are receiving partial, time-limited, and de-contextualized histories and perspectives about a watershed moment in history. According to a 2017 audit, only 26 states include 9/11 and the subsequent war on terror in public school curriculums. Where and when it is taught, the emphasis is often on national security with scant mention of the effects of Islamophobia, restrictions to civil liberties, or the vast human costs of military interventions.

For Gen Z, 9/11 and its aftermath is perhaps akin to how our generation, Gen X, perceived the Vietnam War. Most of us did not live through that time, and our lessons reduced it to a dark period of U.S. history disconnected from the present. Knowing about the costs of the wars in Southeast Asia, their impact on the global anti-war movement, and the treatment of refugees would have provided us with a vital lens to evaluate U.S. policy.

Similarly, understanding how the world changed after 9/11 will better prepare Gen Z to evaluate policy, understand current events, and form meaningful connections with members of the communities impacted by the backlash to the attacks. It will help them assess the recent U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan, the treatment of Afghan refugees, and the cynical use of anti-Muslim election rhetoric.

Social studies content about 9/11 should teach about the backlash perpetrated against Arabs, Muslims, Sikhs, and South Asians in the U.S. by fellow Americans and, later, by the state itself through government surveillance and profiling.

American history classes should probe how the U.S. immigration and national security infrastructure changed with the creation of the federal Department of Homeland Security. Students should learn how the war on terror did not just include wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, but also subsequent counterterror activities in 85 countries.

Our classroom amnesia around 9/11 could get worse.

Those who want to understand the fuller history have access to stories, case studies, voices of young activists, research, and documentation. These resources are likely to spark discussions about such topics as the mental health consequences of Islamophobia and the effects of domestic policies on working-class communities.

Still, our classroom amnesia around 9/11 could get worse, given the attacks on teaching and learning about the histories of people of color. But it’s crucial that students not receive watered-down historical information, be it about Black history in America or the 9/11 terror attacks and what followed.

Now, 22 years on, we have yet another opportunity to provide students with a complex and multi-layered understanding of 9/11. We have the chance to teach in ways that uplift historical accuracy and complex perspectives for young people. Our children deserve no less.

Ameena Ghaffar-Kucher, EdD, is a Senior Lecturer at the University of Pennsylvania’s Graduate School of Education. She is the project director and curriculum lead for the Teaching Beyond September 11th curriculum project.

Deepa Iyer works on solidarity and social movements at the Building Movement Project. Her book, ”We Too Sing America”, documents histories of South Asian, Muslim, Sikh and Muslim immigrants in the wake of 9/11.

When my daughter was being treated for cancer, her teacher worked from the hospital

2023-09-12T10:00:00+00:00

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I first met Miss Anne Marie when she peeked her head through our hospital room door.

“Mom. Is now a good time?” she whispered, tilting her head and looking at me over her glasses.

Her friendly grey-blue eyes met mine, which were bleary, puffy, and strained. She wasn’t wearing scrubs or a lab coat, but a tidy blouse and a neutral skirt. Her salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back in a high, neat bun. Under her arm was a stack of folders, workbooks, and papers.

Jessica Phillips Lorenz

When she spoke again, her thick Bronx accent carried the city’s education department on its wings. “Hiiii, Mom. Is your daughta ready for school today? I’m her teacha.”

School had been nearly the last thing on my mind.

I was aware it was now September, not by the shift in the humidity or a peep of orange on a leaf. I knew it was by the onslaught of social media posts. My grad school cohort was beginning their first year as teachers. My friends posted photos of their children with new hairstyles and fresh backpacks holding “First Day of …” signs.

For me, each one was a sharp kick. It would have been my daughter’s first day of first grade had her stomach bug that wouldn’t go away actually been a stomach bug. Instead, she was undergoing her first round of high-dose, inpatient chemotherapy.

Not a stomach bug. Lymphoma.

A few weeks before my daughter’s stomach bug that wasn’t a stomach bug began, I graduated with my master’s degree in Educational Theater. When I began my coursework, I had one 2-year-old. By the time I finished, that 2-year-old was 6 and I had another 2-year-old. I was eager to move into my own classroom, to become a bridge connecting students to stories and to one another.

“Mom!? Is now a good time?” Miss Anne Marie tried again. “Can you come into the hallway for a second? I’d like to speak with you about school for your daughta.” I had already turned away the volunteer knitting teacher and a couple of clowns that day. I was ready to shut the door again, to say no thanks. No more kid-cancer world.

But Miss Anne Marie was a teacher, and ever the good student, I followed her instructions. She asked me what grade my daughter was in. Not what grade she would have been if the stomach bug had been a stomach bug, but what grade she was in today.

“First grade! OH KAY! I have another first grader on this floor!”, she said as she peeked in the room and caught my daughter’s eye. “And the other first grader loooooved this story.” That interested my daughter, who peeled her head from “Puppy Dog Pals” on TV and toward Miss Anne Marie.

Miss Anne Marie understood that learning is essential to a child’s humanity.

The educator in me recognized a strong “hook” when I saw one. “Oh, she got her,” I thought. In came Miss Anne Marie with coloring pages and photocopied handouts and a million stickers. My daughter’s first day of first grade was about 10 minutes long.

Before she left and my daughter fell asleep, Miss Anne Marie turned to me and said “Mom, I know you’re new here. Here’s how this works. When she’s admitted, I’ll come to her room to see your daughta, but when she’s outpatient I’ll see her at my table. OK, bye.”

After spending the first 38 days of my daughter’s treatment inside the hospital, she was stable enough to go home for a week. We returned for blood work a few days later and got to see what Miss Anne Marie meant by “my table.” There it was, a small oval table in the corner of the waiting area next to a giant fish tank that had been a patient’s Make-A-Wish wish.

Every morning, Miss Anne Marie unlocked a closet that held her materials and she began taping visual supports, a word bank, and student artwork to the wall to create a makeshift classroom. We saw children, writing their names, coloring in days on a class calendar with their little bald heads, fresh scars, and IV poles full of chemo. They were in school. They were learning. My daughter pulled up a chair.

For 20 years, Miss Anne Marie Cicciu was part of the Hospital Schools Program under District 75 in the city’s Department of Education. D75, as it’s known, offers the highest level of support for public school students with a range of significant learning challenges. Today, the program serves about 300 students a month at city hospital sites and virtually.

“Learning is a Part of Healing,” the Hospital Schools website says. The program provides students with the kind of coursework they would be receiving if they were at school and helps them transition back to the classroom or at-home learning after their hospital stay.

On a typical school day, Miss Anne Marie would welcome children who had come to the hospital for chemotherapy, radiation, scans, or follow-up visits. Every single one of her students needed accommodations, and she rarely saw the same children every day. Each child was welcomed to “school” with Miss Anne Marie’s big smile and Bronx accent. There is room at the table for them and a comforting routine.

When a child has a life-threatening illness, like mine did, it is understandably easy to let academic skills slide. The health and survival of the child become the top priority. Some might think, why bother to educate medically fragile children? Why not just let them have fun? Perhaps they wonder what’s the point if a student learns how to add when they may not see their next birthday.

But Miss Anne Marie understood that learning is essential to a child’s humanity. They hunger for novelty and to understand the world around them. None of these students felt well and yet school was there for them when they were ready. The Hospital Schools Program gave my daughter some agency in her young life.

While some educators might disconnect from their students with life-threatening illnesses for fear of losing them, Miss Anne Marie moved closer. She extended herself to her students and their families. She was a guide on their path of discovering the marvelous simple truth that when you put letters in a certain order, you create words. Now they were readers and writers, not just sick children.

Sometimes Ms. Anne Marie and I would get to talking. I was desperate for small talk, beyond prognosis and protocols. I told her I was a teacher, or at least I was about to be a teacher before all of “this.” She told me about her three-bedroom rent-stabilized apartment on Park Avenue South, where she lived for 40 years until the building went co-op and she was forced out. “My dinner table was here,” she gestured, “And out the window here was the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building. They were my friends. I had dinner with them, in my dining room. Yes, I had a dining room.”

After she moved out, her apartment was cut up into three separate million-dollar listings. She was heartbroken to move across the river to New Jersey, having grown up on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx and lived in Manhattan all of her adult life. She told me she used to take the bus from her new building into her old neighborhood to grocery shop because she didn’t drive.

We weren’t the only ones missing home.

Her move to New Jersey was hard for her in other ways. She was confronted by the boxes and boxes of her students’ work she had saved over the years, including work by her students “that didn’t make it.” She told me, “I know they drew that Letter of the Day, and I know I’m the only person who knows it. And I know they aren’t here anymore, but I can’t throw it away! How could I? My students do beeeautiful work, and I can never throw it away.”

My daughter is now six years cancer-free, twice the age she was when she was diagnosed. Miss Anne Marie has retired, but she still has the boxes of her students’ work.

Jessica Phillips Lorenz is a writer, educator, and cancer-mom. Her work has appeared in Romper, Insider, Parents, Real Simple, MUTHA Magazine, and a theatre festival for babies in Northern Ireland. She is a member of the American Childhood Cancer Organization, Momcology, Piper Theatre, and Emerging Artists Theatre. She lives in New York City with her husband and two children. She’s on Instagram @PlaypracticeNYC.

Without paid parental leave, I went back to teaching three weeks after giving birth

2023-09-13T16:00:00+00:00

Many of us enter into the field of education because we love children. We work hard to support and grow the students placed in our classrooms each year. We carefully craft lessons, create beautiful, safe learning environments, and aim to meet the unique needs of each child. It’s a job that requires much from us to care for and educate the children of others, but unfortunately for many of us working in the field, that care isn’t guaranteed to be returned when we have our own children.

Back in December of 2020, I was filled with so much optimism. The new year was just around the corner, COVID-19 vaccines were on the horizon, and my husband and I found out we were expecting our first child after a decade-long battle with infertility.

The immense joy we felt was quickly dashed when I dug out my copy of our teacher handbook to re-read the district’s maternity policies. I knew that under the federal Family and Medical Leave Act, I could take up to 12 weeks off following the birth of a child, but I was shocked to find out that my school district, which is located in rural West Tennessee, didn’t pay for any of that time off. And our district is hardly alone: Many U.S. school systems offer no paid parental leave; only a small number of states guarantee that teachers can take paid leave after welcoming a child.

In my district, teachers could use banked sick days to patch together their own “paid” leave for up to six weeks post-birth, but after teaching through the first year of a pandemic with all the quarantines and illness, I had depleted a good portion of the sick days I had accrued after teaching for 15 years.

Terrified of going without pay after the birth of my child, I took an after-school job managing a car wash.

Terrified of going without pay after the birth of my child, I took an after-school job managing a car wash, and my combat veteran husband took his first job outside of the home in years. I worked my teaching and car wash jobs until 72 hours before going into labor.

I was lucky. My labor was quick and easy; we named our son Wyn. We loved becoming parents, and my husband loved his new role as a full-time, stay-at-home dad. I, on the other hand, returned to my classroom just three short weeks after giving birth. My body was still healing, and I had a hard time finding space in my busy schedule to pump breast milk for my son.

When Wyn was nine months old, in the summer of 2022, we found out we were expecting again. We were elated, but we also knew that I would have even fewer sick days for maternity leave this time around.

On the first day of school, I knew something was wrong with my pregnancy. I waited till the end of the school day and made an emergency appointment with my medical team. When the ultrasound technician scanned my belly, I was relieved to hear a steady heartbeat, but then she and the doctor told me that my baby was not growing properly and that I was experiencing a miscarriage. My heart sank and tears flooded my eyes. I was sent home to wait for my baby’s heart to naturally stop and for my body to process it all.

My husband and I knew immediately that we wanted to try again, so I was placed in the impossible position of returning to work the next day so that I could preserve any sick days in case I was able to conceive again and carry that baby to term.

Over the next several days, I taught while miscarrying my child.

I smiled at the children in my classroom while I could feel my own child slipping away.

In my pain, I looked for community online. I tweeted about my experience, my grief, and the need for paid parental leave. I didn’t want other teachers to find themselves in this position. I connected with an advocacy group, A Better Balance, which was in the process of finding sponsors for a bill that would give all public school teachers and certified school employees in my state 12 weeks of paid parental leave, separate from their sick leave, and that leave would cover the birthing and non-birthing partner. We knew this bill was a long shot, but a similar bill had recently passed in Georgia and had granted three weeks of paid leave, so we had hope.

The bill found sponsors, and I wrote an impact statement to read in front of legislators. I shared my experience and the predicament I found myself in after giving birth to my son and after suffering a miscarriage. I spoke about the need for paid leave. I listened live, while on my lunch break at school, as my statement was read to a crowded committee room in our state legislature.

Getting a bill passed is a roller coaster. It went through various committees, rewrites, and votes. It looked as if it was about to get tabled until the next session when on the last day of the legislative session, the revised bill came to a floor vote. The legislature voted unanimously to pass six weeks of paid parental leave for all Tennessee teachers and qualifying school staff, for birthing and non-birthing partners following the birth, adoption, or stillbirth of a child, beginning with the 2023-24 school year. Lawmakers also allotted $15 million for districts across the state to hire substitute teachers during parental leaves.

Advocating for change to my state’s parental leave policies was how I healed from my loss. I feel empowered knowing that I will be able to leave the teaching profession a little better than when I found it.

Kathryn Vaughn is an elementary art teacher from rural West Tennessee. She has been teaching for 17 years, having graduated with a master’s in education from the College of Saint Rose, in Albany, New York. She was the 2021 Tennessee Education Association’s Distinguished Educator of the Year. She is also a published author with work appearing in School Arts Magazine, Ed Weekly, and The Tennessean.

My teenage son has autism. Here’s what I wish his teachers and therapists understood.

2023-09-22T22:23:04+00:00

In December, my son who has autism was placed in a New York State-approved residential school. It was a process that I began looking into when he was 12 years old; he had just turned 15 upon placement. It was a long, arduous journey.

I’m still adjusting to the new normal of Josh’s absence and healing from having made this decision. Perhaps the greatest difficulty for our family is simultaneously dealing with a new staff, a new district, and a new school environment.

It’s typical for children to switch schools at different points in their education. What’s different with a special education placement, particularly one in which the child requires a more restrictive environment, is implementing an IEP and setting goals. The period of “we’re still getting to know him/her” can take months, and parents may not be a part of the process as much as we’d like.

Jennifer Berger

This most recent transition has me reflecting on the relationship between parents like me and the therapists and educators who help care for and educate our children.

Although we, parents, aren’t necessarily authorities in the fields of education or therapeutic interventions, we are experts in our children. We have spent years observing their habits, preferred environments, and strengths, and sometimes this information may not be seen as valuable in the same way a neuropsychological or speech evaluation is.

If parents are expected to be partners in their children’s education, we need to be consulted in their most effective interventions thus far. That involves building a direct relationship with not only the students but with their guardians, too.

As an autism parent, my knowledge evolved through continuous dealings with a motley crew of teachers and therapists throughout my son’s development. As is the case with students, there’s no one-size-fits-all rule in dealing with parents, but we all need to be an active part of the school team. This means talking not only about the goals we hope to set prior to an official IEP meeting and how they’re to be implemented — this means considering how we can best accomplish those goals together.

The best way to do this is to understand this most basic concept: Parents of many children with disabilities are terrified of their offspring’s impending transition into adulthood.

Asking us where we see our child at 21 is probably the worst way to start a conversation about the future. You may as well ask us what’s going to happen to our child when we die. A more compassionate approach would be, “What sort of path do you see for your son/daughter following graduation in order for him/her to achieve a purposeful and meaningful life? In general, our students exercise the following options,” and then provide a sample list. From there we can keep building on the necessary skills and goals to make certain that all of us are on the same page, while still retaining a sense of hope and perseverance in an already daunting situation.

In planning a student’s therapeutic interventions and goals, please make certain guardians understand the terms you’re using. Do not assume that they’ll know or ask. Hyposensitive, sensory integration, vestibular, and proprioceptive input are all terms I learned being hands-on in my son’s interventions as a stay-at-home parent. This is not the reality for all families, and even when it is, parents may fear that asking questions of educators and specialists will make them appear ignorant.

Parents of many children with disabilities are terrified of their offspring’s impending transition into adulthood.

To better enable a parent’s sense of meaningful participation, gently explain how and why what you’re doing may help and suggest activities into which we can integrate our child’s passions. This better helps us build upon your work at home.

When meeting to discuss my child’s issues, positive framing can make a big difference. Instead of saying “Josh has a very short attention span; it’s hard to get him to focus,” an alternative would be “Josh is so determined when he wants to do something, it’s hard to redirect him to an assigned task. How have you been successful in engaging him in a non-preferred activity?” Sometimes, I’ll have an answer and sometimes I won’t, but this will create a dialogue between us as opposed to a report of my son’s limitations and the frustrations that may arise along with them.

Finally, please don’t generalize when describing my child. Saying “I really like working with Josh” doesn’t give me any sense that you understand who he is or what makes him tick. Talk about his specific qualities, even if they seem irrelevant to the work.

I never tire of hearing school staff speak of Josh’s clever wit, sense of humor, or sweetness, and how they manifest in the classroom. Remember that parents of students with disabilities are raising children in a primarily neurotypical world, one in which our offspring’s attributes rather than deficiencies often go unnoticed, if not ignored.

We realize that the goal of their formal education is to prepare these students for a world outside of the classroom. To best accomplish this, we need to feel that there is more than a timeline involved. We need a sense of meaning in the effort we’re putting forth and the possibility for improvement in our child’s outcome. Only then can we keep pushing through the challenges, retain hope, and have a sense of why we are doing this work as opposed to an attitude of “what more needs to be done now?”

I understand that expecting the staff working with Josh to keep me updated on a weekly basis is unrealistic. If I want as full as possible a picture of his ever-evolving passage into adulthood, it’s my responsibility to maintain a dialogue between us. My hope is that those working at the residential school see these conversations as opportunities — not only for Josh but also for our family and in service of the essential work that they do.

Jennifer Berger lives in Queens, New York with her husband, Aaron. After 15 years of being a full-time mother and advocate for her son, Josh, she is now coping with the new circumstance of her son attending a residential school. At this point, Jennifer is reading, writing, healing, and taking it one day at a time.

In our schools, many families speak Mixteco. So we decided to translate children’s books into the Indigenous language.

2023-09-29T21:26:31+00:00

For the past four years, I served as superintendent of Oxnard School District, located 30 miles up the California coast from Malibu. But unlike Malibu, most of our school district’s 14,000 students come from low-income, Spanish-speaking families.

Yet, not all of our Latino families consider Spanish their first or second language. Nearly 500 families reported speaking Mixteco, an Indigenous language of Southern Mexico, which has scores of variants. For a long time, though, Mixteco wasn’t represented in any of our literacy materials, often making it hard for families to read together.

Karling Aguilera-Fort

Despite the prevalence of the Mixteco language, our students sometimes felt ashamed to report their Mixteco heritage or identify with their unique language and culture, Argelia Alvarado Zarate, one of our school district’s Mixteco translators and community support liaisons, told the Oxnard school board last spring.

“I was told not to say that I spoke Mixteco because it was something that we couldn’t share with other people who weren’t from our community,” said Alvarado Zarate. Growing up, she said, she yearned to have something in her native language to show that speaking Mixteco was “nothing to be ashamed of.”

Looking to change this, Alvarado Zarate and others on our family and community engagement team decided to support our Mixteco families and bring their culture to life through storytelling. The idea to translate digital books into Mixteco first sprouted a few years ago at a family reading night at one of our schools. There, Norma Zarate Cruz, another one of our school district’s Mixteco translators and community support liaisons, translated a book into Mixteco for some of the families in attendance.

Because Mixteco isn’t a written language, we had to make some decisions to ensure the greatest accessibility.

“They’re always told to go home, read to your child,” Alvarado Zarate told the school board. “But the same answer that they always give the teachers is, ‘I don’t know how to read or write.’”

Mixteco is a spoken — not a written — language.

Recognizing the literacy barriers that our Mixteco-speaking families faced, Alvarado Zarate and Zarate Cruz approached our school board with an idea to help these students and their families read together. They got approval to translate some of our digital books available on myON, the educational software company Renaissance’s digital reading platform. The app gives students access to digital books that match their desired language and interests.

The book cover of “The Bear Says Thank You,” translated into Mixteco.

We then partnered with Renaissance and worked with them to translate digital books into written (transliterated) and spoken Mixteco. Now, Mixteco-speaking families throughout Oxnard have 25 books they can enjoy together. For the first time, our families can listen to stories in their native language and read stories that appreciate and preserve their rich culture.

Alvarado Zarate and Zarate Cruz carefully chose the book titles, looking for topics that would most engage Mixteco-speaking students in the younger grades. They chose themes focused on overcoming bullying, maintaining cultural pride, and spreading kindness, including “Tasha Viun Caáchl Oso,” translated from “Bear Says ‘Thank You.’”

Because Mixteco isn’t a written language, we had to make some decisions to ensure the greatest accessibility. In each of the digital books, the text follows Spanish phonics, and the recording was spoken in the San Martin Peras variant of Mixteco. The audiobooks include two familiar voices: Zarate Cruz’s and Alvarado Zarate’s.

I know how important it is to foster inclusivity, diversity, and an appreciation for the languages and cultures that make our communities thrive. I also know what it’s like to feel excluded as a non-native English speaker. I’m originally from Venezuela, where I worked in special education before I began teaching in the Spanish Bilingual Special Education setting at San Francisco Unified School District several years ago. From there, I came to Oxnard.

At Oxnard School District, we designed a student profile to message the key traits we wanted our students to develop before they graduated. Two of these traits connect to equity, diversity, and inclusion, and one focuses on developing students to be global thinkers. We want our students to interact and solve problems with people across a diverse spectrum of races, ethnicities, and gender identities. The other focus speaks to students’ development into digital learners who carry with them a sense of cultural identity and pride, so as they learn to solve the problems of the future, they never forget where they’ve come from.

Our Mixteco translation project supports these goals — encouraging families to embrace their native language. To truly reflect diversity, equity, and inclusion, we know that content must go deeper than honoring heroes and holidays. We cannot pretend that we understand and reflect the different cultural backgrounds of our student population if we don’t elevate others who can speak to those experiences.

With this effort, Mixteco has “been given light,” as Alberto Mendoza, a district parent support liaison, put it. “It’s been given that space to say yes, you and your language are part of us.”

Dr. Karling Aguilera-Fort served as Superintendent of Oxnard School District from 2019–2023. Earlier this year, Dr. Aguilera-Fort accepted a role as the Site Associate Superintendent of Educational Services at San Francisco Unified School District.

Outdoor classrooms should outlast COVID

2023-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

For me, the smiles in back-to-school photos felt extra forced this year.

How can I hold in one hand dystopian headlines about schools — closures for excessive heat, dilapidated buildings with dangerous indoor air quality, shortages of school-based mental health professionals, a worsening mental health emergency — and, in the other, the promise and excitement of a new year of learning?

I offer one common sense proposal to help. I “discovered” it as a teacher in 2011. Many educators deployed it in fall 2020. But it’s hardly new. It was apparent even in the early 20th century.

Teach students outdoors.

Becca Katz

I credit my old high school Spanish classroom for my discovery. It was located in a repurposed strip mall in Durango, Colorado, and its storefront window wall had exactly zero windows that opened. I wasn’t supposed to prop the doors due to security risks. The air conditioner didn’t work. August and September temperatures in my classroom hovered in the upper 90s and low 100s. It was unbearable.

We improvised. We spilled out to the parking lot, playing conjugation musical chairs standing on notebook-spots instead of sitting in chairs. We chanted and danced “Pie-pie-pie” (a Spanish-language twist on “head, shoulders, knees, and toes”) in a giant circle. Our paved heat island was better than indoors but still too hot. So we headed to a park a few minutes walk from our sauna.

We held class chasing shade. I got a small whiteboard and filled a cardboard box with dry-erase markers and extra writing utensils. I even started adapting my lessons to the park with fewer papers that could fly around and no screens. This gave way to more movement, flexible group work, and games. My students were super engaged in learning. Outdoors a chattering squirrel allowed for a “brain break” and a new Spanish vocabulary word, “ardilla.” Nature’s distractions almost felt like they helped my students focus. I’ve since discovered research validating that feeling.

Late fall arrived with cooler temperatures. Even though our outdoor classroom was working, and I had over a decade of experience as an outdoor educator, I led us back inside. My students didn’t question it. On autopilot, we marched indoors to be surrounded by classroom creature comforts: whiteboards, dry-erase markers, a sometimes-functional Smartboard, speakers to blast Aventura and Enrique, books, paper, desks, chairs.

Looking back, it feels like malpractice to have led my students back indoors. I faced fewer barriers teaching outdoors than most teachers do, thanks to two decades of experience leading wilderness expeditions and teaching high school students everything from English to natural history to environmental ethics in outdoor classrooms in the Bolivian Andes, the Canadian Arctic, Utah’s canyons, and Colorado’s mountains.

In Durango, a mountain town with a hearty outdoor recreation culture, most parents were happy for us to be outside. My curriculum at a project-based learning charter school was mine to invent. My students and I were insulated from many standardized tests and accountability pressures. We had a great park nearby.

COVID was our national window-walled classroom moment. In fall 2020, many districts, schools, and individual educators across the country took to learning outdoors out of necessity. Green Schoolyards America led a beautiful collective effort to document outdoor learning practices in a National Outdoor Learning Library.

If we can provide 1:1 tablets, surely we can do 1:1 clipboards.

In the fall of 2020, in a different rural Colorado school, we improvised an outdoor school to make in-person learning possible. Students spent full days outdoors alternating with days indoors with their classroom teachers. In November 2022, after that school received a Bright Spot award from Governor Polis for academic growth through the pandemic, I received an email from the principal. Her take? Outdoor school was a causal part of their success.

The evidence for learning in nature is compelling, robust, and growing. Reduced stress. Improved attention and cognitive function. More physical fitness. Fewer behavioral challenges. Higher engagement. Enhanced cooperation. Better relationships among students and between teachers and students. It even has promising potential as an equity lever.

But I fear the autopilot response that drove my students and me indoors is happening across our country post-pandemic. As we’ve returned to “normal,” we’ve forgotten the immediate benefits of learning outdoors.

I know the magical combination of favorable conditions I faced is far from the reality for most teachers. I also know widespread adoption of learning outdoors in nearby nature is simple and could happen almost overnight in schools with access to green spaces. In those schools, let’s build educator capacity to teach students outdoors. Let’s purchase the requisite resources to support outdoor classrooms. If we can provide 1:1 tablets, surely we can do 1:1 clipboards plus a class wagon, or “go-bin,” with writing utensils, foam sit spots, and a portable whiteboard.

Next, let’s retool or develop from scratch school systems to integrate and support teaching and learning outdoors. While we’re at it, let’s mobilize parents and community members as extra hands who can carry materials, help students cross busy roads, and share what they know about local flora and fauna. Just like that, outdoor learning can generate positive sentiment about what’s happening in (and outside of) school.

For some schools, the solutions are less immediate. Excessive heat. Poor outdoor air quality. Gun violence. Concrete as far as the eye can see. These are real issues that must be addressed. For these schools, let’s do two things. First, let’s immediately infuse the indoor environment with nature to create verdant learning spaces filled with plants (real or fake!), nature imagery, nature soundscapes, and nature objects, like pinecones, seeds, and shells.

In parallel, let’s do the longer work to ensure these schools have safe, nearby nature spaces.

Because back to school should mean back outside for all.

Becca Katz has been a teacher, administrator, and wilderness expedition leader in public and private schools, teaching in indoor, outdoor, and backcountry classrooms. Now, she writes about mainstreaming nature-based learning on her Substack, Learning, by Nature. Through her organization Good Natured Learning, she also works to help teachers integrate nature and the outdoors into their routine teaching practices.

Click here to read Becca Katz’s guidance for outdoor learning.

Schoolwork shouldn’t double as screentime

2023-10-16T20:31:22+00:00

Children get one childhood, and time is one of the most precious resources we have in schools. For these reasons, I am increasingly frustrated that I have next to no power to stop my own children from wasting their time in front of a computer screen.

That’s because screens are where they are expected to access and complete their schoolwork and homework. My children are assigned to watch online videos and answer questions about them in an online form. Their grades reflect their responses.

Jeff Frank

No doubt, this assigned screen time probably comes from a good place. Teachers want to provide students with experiences they will enjoy. Why give students a reading that they may not do when you could give them a video they are more likely to watch?

Watch enough videos and students begin to believe that learning must be passively entertaining and that the best way to take in new information is through streaming content. The most compelling story is often not the most truthful one, but the one that is the most slickly produced.

I don’t want that for my children. I want my children to enjoy the challenges of learning, to take in multiple sources, and to ask good questions about everything they engage with. I don’t want them on autopilot, screening their way through childhood.

UNESCO recently published a book titled “An Ed-Tech Tragedy?” and it is sobering. This book spells out how pandemic school shutdowns resulted in massive learning losses. It also highlights the costs, in terms of mental health, of spending so much time on screens.

For years, educational technologists have cast personalized online learning as an answer to what plagues education. But even when ed tech was needed most, these tools did not always rise to the occasion. They couldn’t take the place of teachers, peers, and classroom conversations. And our reliance on them has instilled terrible habits in teachers and students.

Parents were rightly frustrated and angry when their children were robbed of the opportunity to attend school because of pandemic lockdowns. It is not good for a child to be away from their peers and in front of screens. Key social, emotional, and intellectual skills are lost when this happens. That’s why we must not replicate the worst aspects of school lockdowns now that children are back in school. Children should spend time engaging their teacher and each other — making eye contact and appreciating what can only be learned through human presence — not retreating back into the safe, solitary spaces of their devices.

There is no greater gift we can give children than our fullest attention.

Their schoolwork should have them engaging with what is best in our culture, not what is most convenient or entertaining. This means reading challenging texts with students and doing the work of helping them develop their voices in relation to these texts. However, educators seem to be having a hard time remembering that distance learning was the best we could think to do during the lockdown, not a best practice that we should continue.

I am not afraid to mourn all that was lost because of the pandemic. Children suffered tremendously, and schools across the country will be dealing with the academic, social, and emotional fallout for years to come. My grieving process involves honoring my hopes and fears from the middle of the pandemic. I promised myself then that if we ever got back to normal, I wouldn’t take the physical presence of my students for granted. I would look at their unmasked faces and try to communicate how much I appreciated that we were together.

Screens, and the illusion of engagement they offer, get in the way of this type of lived gratitude, and they distract us from what matters.

To be clear, teachers’ lives in schools are often tremendously difficult. Many educators are demoralized and under-appreciated, but an over-reliance on screens will not make the work of teaching more rewarding or valued. It’s human connections that make teaching an endlessly rewarding calling. I know this from my own classrooms and my experience training future teachers.

As much as I may internally complain about having to pick up all the little Lego pieces, Magna-Tiles, and wooden blocks that my boys leave scattered around the house at the end of a long day, I know that this type of embodied play is the foundation of a good childhood. And as hard as it might be to listen — really listen — to the stories my daughters tell as they process their day at school (and not just let my mind wander to all the items on my to-do list), there is no greater gift we can give children than our fullest attention.

I am not a perfect parent or teacher, but I do know that I am at my best when I am present. And I know that screens keep me from offering my full presence. I wish I had more power to keep them out of schools because I know my children — and all of our children — deserve better.

Jeff Frank is a professor, department chair of education, and director of the Center for Innovation in Teaching and Assessment at St. Lawrence University in Canton, New York.

For my medically complicated son, going to school was a struggle and a joy

2024-01-12T13:00:00+00:00

The following essay is adapted with permission from “More Than We Expected: Five Years With a Remarkable Child” (Post Hill Press, 2023), James G. Robinson’s memoir about parenting a child with a complex heart condition and the lessons he and his family learned along the way.

The first day of kindergarten is an anxious and exciting day for any parent. But for us, parents of a medically complicated kid, it was even more nerve-wracking.

One of our three sons, Nadav, had been born with a congenital heart defect that required four surgeries before his fifth birthday. The last was unplanned, an emergency operation that lasted 14 hours and left us stranded in a country far away. It took nine months of recuperation in unfamiliar hospitals before he was strong enough to return home.

James Robinson

By then, Nadav had adapted to his new circumstances. He learned to write with his right hand, rather than his natural left. He’d gotten used to the extra oxygen he needed, delivered from a tank slung across the back of our stroller. And my wife was determined to not let anything stop him from having the same experiences as his brothers. In particular, she had made up her mind that Nadav would spend the fall like any other 5-year-old. He was going to go to kindergarten.

We’d lived across the street from a public elementary school for years. But we’d only visited it once, four years before, when we were trying to decide what school was best for our oldest son.

Crammed into a stifling hot cafeteria with dozens of other anxious parents, we’d been welcomed by a stern warning from a frazzled staffer. “The first thing you need to know,” she said, trying to project her voice off the ceiling and around the room, “is that there is no parking on the street.”

It wasn’t a great first impression, and we ended up sending Nadav’s two brothers to another public school a little farther away. But it was our zoned school, and when Nadav finally returned home after his nine-month medical odyssey, it became his.

Under federal law, school systems must provide any child with a disability with “a free appropriate public education.” But that didn’t mean that it would be easy. (“If they give you a hard time,” one hard-nosed mom warned us, “just threaten to sue ‘em.”) Bracing for the worst, we set up an IEP meeting with the school staff — the principal, assistant principal, psychologist, parent coordinator, two teachers, and a paraprofessional.

They sat around a cramped table, putting on airs of relaxed eagerness. But I suspected most of them were secretly terrified. To us, who’d seen him at his worst, Nadav looked fine. But I doubted that any of them had ever seen a child so ill, much less take responsibility for caring for one.

Pleasantries quickly turned into negotiations. Who would take him to the bathroom? How would he get upstairs? Unflinching advocates for our son, we parried policy with persistence; a stubborn strength that came from five years of bending the world to our will. He is going to go to this school, we said in as many words. And you are going to help make it happen.

At one point, we reached an impasse. I can’t remember if it was about toileting, or his oxygen tank, or something else; it wasn’t going to work, and the dam was about to burst. And then his teacher, who hadn’t said a word to that point, leaned over, across the table, and met our eyes.

“Listen,” she said, “we’re human.” It was a statement of fact, but also a promise. To my ears, it was a commitment as firm as a wedding vow. I knew then that we needn’t worry. He was in the right place. They cared, and they would make sure everything would be OK. They were human.

Mary, his teacher, had a heart as large as the sun and all of the right instincts. “Let Nadav come on the second day,” she said. “That will give me time to introduce him to the kids, away from the first-day craziness.”

As it turned out, Nadav caught a cold and didn’t start until two weeks later. In the meantime, Mary helped the class understand what to expect. She explained that his heart didn’t work properly, but that otherwise he was like anyone else; she described his oxygen tank, his cannula, and his nasogastric tube; plainly, directly, honestly.

She put his name on the door, along with everyone else’s, written on a smiling green frog.

Mary knew the secret strength that children have — and that adults too often lack — a remarkable ability to look past the surface, without implications or inference, and see things for what they are. She understood that kids needed to know the truth; that fear came from not knowing.

Adults see an oxygen tube and think: this tube means that your lungs are in such bad shape that you can’t breathe properly. It means you’re in trouble; you might even die. That knowledge brings us fear.

But explain to a child that a tube gives you oxygen, and they’ll understand that’s what it’s for — helping you breathe. This knowledge that the tube serves a useful purpose is a source of comfort.

She was a wonderful teacher.

When Nadav recovered from his cold and was ready to start school, Tali and I took him across the street together. We parked his stroller in the yard (it was still difficult for him to walk long distances) and I saw an old friend with his wife. They’d just dropped off their kids too.

“First day of school,” I beamed, an oxygen tank slung across my back. “Could you take a photo?”

Other kids streamed by, full of manic energy Nadav couldn’t match. While they skipped and bounded up the stairs, he took each step slowly, carefully, gripping the handrail with one hand, and mine in the other. When we eventually reached the classroom, it was marvelous to see him there — no longer a patient, but a normal kid on his first day of school.

The author's son Nadav in his kindergarten class.

We figured that given his lack of strength, Nadav might go to school a day a week, or perhaps a few hours a day. But that first day, with Tali at his side, he stayed until the bell rang, and at dinner, he was the happiest I’d seen him in a long time. “Do you want to go back tomorrow?” Tali asked, already knowing the answer. He went back the next day, and the day after, and the day after that; each day a quiet triumph.

Still, when he went to school, one of us would always stay home, just in case something came up.

Perhaps the most nervous person in the school was the nurse. She’d probably been looking forward to a boring year of skinned knees, and was suddenly responsible for a world-champion cardiac kid. She called us often, apologetic every time; just a little concerned; just keeping an eye out.

“Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” she’d say. “But could you just come over and check that his oxygen is working?” Or, “He’s looking a little tired, could you come take a look?”

I’d come to her office, and sit down, and ask Nadav to come over and tell me what was wrong. I knew that no matter how tired he was, if he could walk across the room, he was OK.

He’d walk over, every time. And I’d give him a big hug, and a kiss, and tell him to have a great day in school.

On the rare occasions when the nurse from our other son’s school called, we must have seemed like terrible parents. He had a headache? A scrape? A fever? Whatever. We had more important things to worry about.

Mary was right. Those looking after Nadav were “human” in the best sense of the word. His paraprofessional patiently fed him tiny scraps for lunch, singing songs to convince him to eat just another bite, just as we had when he had been in the hospital. His therapists were full of excited updates, high-fiving him as he left for home, his infectious charm contagious as always. One even built him a special chair out of reclaimed wood, so that he could sit with proper posture and not get too tired.

Nadav had a hard time with stairs, so whenever the class visited the library on the second floor, we came by to help out. It was lovely to see him with his classmates. They’d bring him books, help him hold crayons, give him hugs. One curly-haired girl named Charlotte sat next to him every day and was especially sweet; we met her mother and thanked her profusely. But we both knew there was really nothing for us to thank her for. Her daughter was just being a friend.

One evening we went across the street for parent-teacher conferences. There wasn’t too much to discuss — we were already in daily contact with most of the people caring for him — but it was nice to meet some of the other people in his life.

I met the art teacher toward the end of the evening, just as he was packing up, and introduced myself as Nadav’s dad. He smiled, offering his hand. “Thank you for choosing to send him to public school,” he said.

Even though it hadn’t occurred to us to send him anywhere else, it was nice to hear. The school had learned what we already knew. Nadav wasn’t a burden; he was a gift.

Nadav died four months later – a sudden loss, but not entirely unexpected. We’d known for a while that he might not have long to live.

It is our tradition to give charity in memory of a loved one, and so that spring we decided to help fund a small memorial garden at the school. The therapist who’d built Nadav’s special chair made a little wooden planter, and we gathered on a lovely spring day to fill it with Nadav’s favorite herbs.

We still ached from his absence, but it was gratifying to see his teachers and classmates again — digging little holes in the dirt, dropping in assorted plants, patting down the soil on top.

Among my many swirling emotions, I couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of unfairness — for his classmates, those lovely, innocent souls, who had to be told about their friend’s death; and for the adults, who had to do the telling. I hoped that they would have the courage to be honest, to trust their children’s strength. But I also felt terrible that they were put in that position.

We couldn’t bear to attend the “graduation” ceremony at the end of the school year. But the other parents sent us a yearbook they’d put together. It had a special page just for Nadav, with quotes from his classmates about how much he meant to them. The last page was a group photo of all of us at the freshly planted garden. It made me feel better to know that they could handle our loss, too.

James G. Robinson has spent nearly two decades at The New York Times, where he helps the company use data to better understand its audience. He has taught expository writing at NYU and is currently an adjunct professor at Columbia Journalism School. A native New Yorker, he lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Tali, and their two surviving sons. His memoir, ”More Than We Expected,” was published last fall by Post Hill Press.

I’m a teen who used to spend hours a day scrolling. Here’s how I curbed my social media habit.

2023-11-02T20:22:55+00:00

As a member of Gen Z, I was introduced to technology at a young age. It started out innocent: watching “Kim Possible” reruns on YouTube and creating Minecraft servers with my twin brother. But as my interests changed, so did the content I consumed.

I saw teen lifestyle influencers amass millions of followers on YouTube simply for sharing the mundane details of their daily lives. I obsessively watched them do makeup in their large houses and style trendy clothes that I could never afford. I began to hate the one-bedroom apartment I lived in, with its thrift store furniture and occasional mouse sighting. The message, to me, was clear: I would never be worth watching.

Kate Romalewski

This culture of comparison only intensified when I got my first phone at age 10 and downloaded Instagram, Snapchat, and TikTok. I spent hours finding the perfect photos to post on Instagram, analyzing selfies of my prepubescent face for imperfections. Curating the perfect profile was everything to me. In reality, I was a ball of anxiety. I remember looking in the mirror and wishing I was somebody else.

After five years of heavy social media use, I deleted Instagram from my phone for the first time in January 2021. The fresh start lasted for all of three weeks, after which I broke down and logged back in from the web. I deleted TikTok, too, but would re-download it intermittently and end up scrolling for hours. It was confusing for me; I hated social media and recognized how awful it made me feel, but I could not put it down.

This past summer, I saw an ad for the Opal app, ironically while in one of the TikTok rabbit holes I had fallen down. It claimed to limit screen time use, and I knew I needed all the help I could get. To set up an account, it requires you to enter the average amount of time you spend on screens per day. I estimated 3-4 hours, and Opal informed me that meant I was on track to spend 17 years of my life on a screen.

As I had recently turned 17, I was shaken. I imagined myself on my deathbed, regretting everything I had missed out on. In 17 years thus far, I’ve experienced elation and sadness, highs and lows, and moments that have shaped me forever. What if I had lost out on my entire life because I was too busy experiencing other people’s digital ones?

The Kaiser Family Foundation reports that kids ages 8-18 spend an average of 7.5 hours on a screen each day. That doesn’t even factor in necessary technology use, such as online homework. I’ve scrolled for five minutes, four hours, even 12 hours at a time, and yet cannot recall a single thing I’ve gained from it. Even if I learned something new or saw anything interesting, it was drowned out by the sheer amount of other random media I saw as I scrolled on.

I hated social media and recognized how awful it made me feel, but I could not put it down.

If something constantly drains you, makes you feel not good enough, and is almost always a source of stress, why would you keep using it?

I had asked myself this question for years, but could never conjure a clear answer. Maybe it’s because when you tell a person you have no social media, you’re immediately met with suspicious eyes and interrogating questions. Maybe it’s because I didn’t know how to spend my free time without it. Maybe it’s the dopamine hit.

I was tired of the cycle: using social media, hating myself after so much self-comparison, hating myself even more for using the apps in the first place, deleting social media apps, getting bored, and re-downloading the apps because I was sure that this time would be different.

After deleting my social media again last summer, I used Opal to restrict all the non-essential apps on my phone every day of the week. Every time I try to open one of them, the app reminds me that I set a time limit for a reason; that usually makes me put the phone down.

I try to be more mindful now with how I use my time. On the subway, I no longer sit hunched over my phone. I simply look around, studying the mosaic of faces walking in and out of the car. In my moments of free time, I’ve replaced screens with reading, journaling, painting, or using technology in ways that bring me joy, like talking to friends or watching comforting TV shows, such as “New Girl” “Modern Family,” and “Vampire Diaries.”

Not that I’ve eschewed social media completely. I still use Instagram once in a while to post photos I’ve taken. I occasionally watch a TikTok video a friend has sent my way. But these apps no longer control me. When I feel myself switching from casual use to obsessive habits, I simply delete them from my phone. I know now that I am in control of my own life, and it is my responsibility to choose pastimes that are productive, positive, or both.

My generation gets a lot of grief about our excessive technology use, and I don’t think all of it is justified. We were born into a society that relies on technology to thrive. Online life is inextricably intertwined with in-person life: Many jobs are remote, long-distance relationships are maintained over smartphones, and search engines have replaced encyclopedias. It’s unfair to blame us for becoming victims of a society that was built around us. That being said, everyone has the power to stop social media from negatively affecting them.

Talk to the person sitting next to you instead of scrolling through photos of your friend from middle school’s most recent family vacation. Find your new favorite book to read before bed instead of watching meaningless videos. Minutes turn into hours, hours to days, days to years.

I don’t want to spend 17 years of my life on screens, and now, I know that I don’t have to.

Kate Romalewski is a senior at a New York City public high school. In her free time, she loves to read, journal, and spend time with loved ones. She is the copy editor of her school’s newspaper, the 411 Press, and is the co-president of the school’s Sexual Assault Prevention Board.

I am a teen with muscular dystrophy. This camp changed my life.

2023-11-06T13:00:00+00:00

As I sit in front of a 50-foot tree covered in rows of glow sticks — with one slot still empty — I think of the friends and loved ones I’ve lost throughout my life. The memories are like raindrops as they become a puddle. From my hand dangles the missing glow stick, uncracked.

I rejoice in thoughts that my lost friends are running around happy and alive in the afterlife; at the same time, my heart aches, because they are no longer by my side. I am soothed by the friends who are still here as we sit, parked side by side. Having them there gives me the strength I need as I crack my glow stick, say my wish, and set it on the Wishing Tree.

Torrance Johnson

We are in the woods near Lake Huron at a campsite that hosts camps for kids and adults with muscular dystrophy, a group of diseases that cause weakness, muscle decay, and impaired sensations.

Despite the limitations these neuromuscular diseases that fall under the muscular dystrophy umbrella can cause, summer camps like this one allow people with these conditions to be more than just their limitations. They allow us to connect with other people with similar conditions.

Before camp, I was extremely extroverted, charismatic, and funny, so making friends wasn’t too hard. But I was often the only wheelchair user in many of the places I went. People would stare, point, and whisper as if I could not hear their words or feel their eyes on my skin as they stared.

This all changed when I was 6 and went to MDA Summer Camp in Lexington, Michigan, for the first time. There, I was surrounded by 100 people just like me. Everywhere I looked, there was a camper with whom I found some similarities — from wheelchairs to crutches to those who could only take a few steps before exhaustion caused them to seek a wheelchair.

During camp, I was placed in a cabin with five other campers, and two of the campers were the same age as I was and shared the same diagnosis: spinal muscular atrophy. The three of us grew close due to our similarities. Each year, we remained cabin mates, and our familial bond strengthened.

We talked about things other people just couldn’t understand. We all looked at the world through a similar lens; we could all look at the sky and see the same blue.

At camp, we are able to do activities that most people without muscular dystrophy can do, like swimming in Lake Huron and going horseback riding. I’m from Detroit, so seeing horses was startling at first. With some mild convincing, I was placed on a horse with someone behind me to manage my balance. My counselor walked alongside the horse, mainly to keep me calm. I rocked back and forth on the horse as it slowly walked step by step.

Extremely passionate and cheerful volunteers plan activities. Each year, they put on skits designed to make us smile. My personal favorite is the joke-filled magic show featuring the magicians Magico and Razzmatazz.

Though the camp is full of joy, it still acknowledges the sadness we feel because we’ve lost loved ones. On the last day of camp, a ceremony at dusk is dedicated to the individuals who have died, and we light a glow stick in their honor on the Wishing Tree. During this time, the community comes together, sheds tears, shares memories, and holds each other close.

The first time I experienced the Wishing Tree, I didn’t fully get it. I knew it was something we were doing to honor our loved ones, and while many people were crying, I didn’t fully understand why. I hugged those who came to me as a reflex, not an intention.

While not all campers are wheelchair users, the shared experiences are just one of many layers that make this camp a family. We have a song written by the longtime camp volunteer Karen MacDonald that perfectly sums up the meaning of camp. The chorus goes like this: “Where some of us roll and some of us walk, yea, we’re all the same in this magical place.”

Summer camps like this one allow people with these conditions to be more than just their limitations.

Ian Zurawski, 17, is a close friend of mine and a camper who uses a wheelchair due to spinal muscular atrophy. “You really just make and find your people, and you make a family — one that you’ll never forget,” he said of the camp community.

The reality of having a neuromuscular condition is not lost on me for reasons beyond my having one. I’ve also lost many friends to these conditions, as several types of muscular dystrophy will eventually lead to death.

Zachary “Diezel Train” Davis was a bright-eyed camper with Duchenne muscular dystrophy. With a soft, raspy voice and a mouth that had no filter, he said how he truly felt and enlightened others while doing so.

Once, while riding together at camp, I kept saying “Excuse me” to people in our way. Diezel said, “Just keep going. They’ll move.” Then he said, “If they don’t move. Just run them over.” This summed up Zachary. He was one of a kind.

Zachary was more than a friend to me — a brother is the only way to put it. Though he is no longer here physically, his words of wisdom stay with me to this day, nearly three years after his passing. While I cannot quote him directly due to his profane tongue, something he said that stuck with me was “not to be scared.” Through any challenge I take on, I remember his words, and I roll forward with my head held high. Zachary loved wrestling, loved the ladies, and, most importantly, loved his family, which I am proud to say I was a part of.

The Wishing Tree ceremony takes place on the last day of camp at dusk. As the sun starts to set and the gray light takes over the sky, everyone at camp grabs a glow stick and surrounds the Wishing Tree.

This is a time for quiet.

This is a time for reflection.

This is a time to pay our respects and remember the deceased.

It is also a time to make a wish for our future.

While we honor those who have died and look ahead with hope, we hold each other tight. As I grew and matured, and as I lost friends to illness, I came to understand what the Wishing Tree experience is all about.

As I made my way to the tree this year, memories crept into my mind. The smiling faces of fallen friends began to fade as new friends and others who had matured and lived came into focus. I tried my best to contain my tears until Patrick, a friend who knew a younger me, spoke about how proud and amazed he was at my personal growth. Tears came again, as another friend a few years younger named Colin told me, “Being there for others is good, but don’t forget to share your burdens with others.”

“Those are some wise words,” I told him, to which he said, “I learned from you.”

Then, the dam holding back my tears broke wide open when someone approached me with open arms. For a while, we sat there, locked in a hug, crying on each other’s shoulders. At this moment, no words were shared; they weren’t needed.

An eternity passed during this hug, and the kid who never stopped talking became a man who chose his words carefully and knew when they weren’t needed.

At the end of our hug, she tells me how one of her friends waits until everyone leaves the Wishing Tree to hang their light. I, too, found myself with my friends at the tree after most people had left. My glow stick remained uncracked.

The last part of the Wishing Tree ceremony focuses on one of the most powerful things in the world: hope. Another key part of the Wishing Tree is to make a wish that is up to each person’s discretion. Hope for the future, a message to a loved one.

Zachary’s brother, Dominic Davis, said it best when talking about his goal: “To raise awareness (about) this disease and what it can’t take from our community: hope.”

Torrance Johnson is a high school senior with a passion for music and writing. His goal is to share his experiences and stories with others through them.

A version of this piece was written with the support of the Detroit Writing Room’s Journalism Camp, in partnership with Coaching Detroit Forward.

We changed how our NYC school districts teach reading. It’s working.

2023-11-07T15:00:00+00:00

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Reading scores are in crisis. Instruction is uneven at best. Can a plan to change curriculum at all New York City public schools help more students become proficient readers?

We believe it can.

As district superintendents who oversee more than 80 schools combined in Brooklyn and the Bronx, we have seen firsthand how a well-chosen reading curriculum can spark and hold students’ interest, sharpen instruction, and shape classwork that builds confidence and literacy alike. In our schools, reading lessons build foundational skills, vocabulary, critical thinking, and a bank of background knowledge that connects students to one another and prepares them for lifelong learning.

Tamra Collins, left, and Cristine Vaughan

It wasn’t always so. A few years ago, too many of our students were not reading at grade level, and despite extra help and the hard work of teachers, too few were ever catching up. In the “balanced literacy” approach our schools were using, students were spending a lot of time reading independently, which meant reading books that were often two and three grade levels below where they needed to be. They were almost never exposed to high-quality texts at the right grade level, and they weren’t getting enough explicit instruction in the building-block skills that would accelerate their progress.

In each of our districts, we gathered our principals together, compared our school-based data to state test scores, and had a tough moment of reflection. It was time to change how we taught reading and what materials we used to teach it.

This is the moment where our colleagues across the city currently find themselves. Under the “New York City Reads” campaign, every local district leader is required to choose one of three reading curriculums and see that it is implemented at every school they oversee. About half of the districts began using one of the selected curriculums this fall, and the other half will do so in 2024. The city has committed funding to support training and coaching for teachers, many of whom will be teaching new materials and in a new way.

We are excited that the city has embraced the same approach to reading instruction that we chose for our respective districts four years ago. This course correction comes decades after what Banks rightly described as “overlapping, contradictory, and sometimes just flat-out bad guidance.”

The transition won’t be easy.

Changing curriculum can be complicated and uncomfortable. It means adopting new materials, new lesson plans, and new expectations for teachers and students. Forcing educators to make these changes on the campaign’s timeline and according to its rules will be especially tough in New York, where individual principals have long held authority over instruction and many teachers curate or create their own materials. It’s hard to find time on busy school calendars to give teachers the training and practice they need to make the transition.

But take it from us: It’s worth the effort.

Our districts use two of the three curriculums approved by the city: District 19 in Brooklyn, which Dr. Collins leads, uses Wit & Wisdom, and District 11 in the Bronx, which Ms. Vaughan leads, uses Expeditionary Learning. We chose these curriculums, together with our principals, because they are designed with cognitive science in mind. They present carefully sequenced informative and narrative texts, which students use to build confidence and a foundation of knowledge to make inferences and accelerate future learning.

Throughout the school year, classes delve into a complex, high-interest topic, like immigration in elementary school or the Harlem Renaissance in middle school. Over several weeks, lessons follow a sequence where students encounter and use vocabulary and content knowledge to investigate different aspects of the topic, read related fiction and nonfiction texts, and follow discussion and writing prompts to connect what they are learning to their own experiences. Students still spend some time reading independently at their skill level, but they also receive explicit, personalized phonics instruction that draws on the “science of reading.” And during whole-class read-alouds of grade-level texts, students can join in or, if they are not yet ready, listen and follow along.

Because everyone is reading, thinking, and writing about the same topic, students of all skill levels can learn and work together. Every student gets a daily dose of grade-level text, including teacher-provided support for a just-right reach above their comfort zone. And they promote equity in city schools, where nearly two-thirds of Black and Hispanic students fail reading tests, compared to about one-third of white and Asian students.

We see the power of this approach whenever we visit a classroom. For example, at P.S. 169 in the Bronx, we listened as an energetic second-grade class read, talked, and wrote about bats. It was part of a longer unit about pollinators, which began with students reading fables and folktales about butterflies and visiting a local botanical garden. They then read a nonfiction book about bats, which included pictures, captions, and a glossary so students of various skill levels could engage with the second-grade text.

We’ve seen the joy and excitement in our classrooms, where students are rising to the challenge.

On the day of our visit, students gathered on the classroom rug to read or listen to an opinion essay about why protecting bat homes is important. In pairs and a whole-class discussion, they discussed the author’s point of view and explored detailed questions about the importance of safety and sleep for bats and people alike, using vocabulary words like “sensitive” and “hibernate.” Then, back at their desks, they wrote responses to research questions based on the piece. Some students worked with a partner, some on their own, and some worked with the teacher or a special education aide to transcribe their responses.

It was a hot and sunny morning at the end of the school year, but students were engaged and connected to a specific, shared learning goal. The lesson concluded with students’ reflections on whether bats are in need of protection. As pollinators, the class decided, they are.

These types of learning experiences are not easy to create. Four years in, we are still refining our instruction, and in the wake of pandemic interruptions, reliable performance data is not yet complete. But we do know that our teachers have benefitted from professional coaching, which the city’s funding makes available to districts changing curriculum in the coming year. And we’ve seen that working with a shared curriculum across school buildings throughout our districts fosters deep connections among teachers.

Most dramatically, we’ve seen the joy and excitement in our classrooms, where students are rising to the challenge and enjoying what educators like us call the “productive struggle.” As Jasmine, a student at P.S. 325 in Brooklyn, put it, “If I stick to the stuff that I know, how am I going to learn? If I stick to the stuff that I don’t know, I’ll be able to learn new things, my brain is going to get to know more information, and I’ll get better at more things that seem hard to me.”

All students deserve the chance to become proficient readers. Now, all schools can deliver on that promise.

Tamra Collins is New York City Department of Education Schools Superintendent of District 19 in Brooklyn and Cristine Vaughan is New York City Department of Education Schools Superintendent of District 11 in the Bronx.

It’s time to choose a public kindergarten for our daughter. Here’s how we decided where to apply.

2023-11-10T14:36:57+00:00

“So how do we even go about this?”

Our kids were playing together in our neighbor’s backyard about a year ago. Sitting on their patio, our friends had turned the conversation to asking us where to send their daughter to kindergarten the next fall.

Matt Impink

My wife and I looked at each other not knowing where to begin. We are both former teachers and have been working in local public education circles in Indianapolis for over a decade. Despite having three young kids, we were avoiding the conversation about choosing a school for our daughters. Maybe it was because we had another year before our oldest daughter would be kindergarten age. Maybe we were afraid of making a tough decision knowing that there were so many factors to weigh.

We told our friends that they could apply to Indianapolis Public Schools and local charter schools through the city’s common enrollment system, Enroll Indy. We shared a few schools we planned to tour because we wanted to see them for ourselves and not rely on biased assumptions. Our friends started asking a lot of good questions, ones we should have been asking for ourselves. What schools could we consider? How would we manage transportation? What things do we value as a family?

I have strong opinions about K-12 education. My wife does too. I have long been interested in the enormous political, racial, and economic forces impacting our schools, but that night on my neighbors’ patio, I was forced to consider how to navigate it all as a parent. No longer was this decision hypothetical, now that we had actual kids, with unique personalities, strengths, and challenges. No one knows your kids better than you do, and where you choose to send them to school is one of the most personal decisions you’ll ever make.

We’d make the right decision, wouldn’t we?

I grew up in Pike Township, Indiana, and attended the closest elementary school to where my family lived. Schools were a huge factor when my parents were deciding where to buy a house.

When my wife and I decided to make a life together, we moved to the Fletcher Place neighborhood inside the boundaries of Indianapolis Public Schools, or IPS. We love where we live and have both been extremely active community members, sitting on local boards and associations. However, there are no public schools in Fletcher Place, even though historically there were three IPS schools within a five-minute walk from our front door. Like many families in IPS, there isn’t an obvious school where our kids would go.

This past summer, we got serious about figuring out where we would send our oldest daughter in the fall of 2024. We started writing the names of schools we’d like to consider on the refrigerator based on the distance from our home, where friends and family were sending their kids, academic programming, the new IPS zones, and other factors. We looked at Enroll Indy’s School Finder and identified seven schools that we wanted to consider.

Once the current school year started, I began calling to schedule tours. I had to coordinate work schedules and squeeze in as many tours as possible on a day we both had off. Some schools had set tour dates, others an online sign-up, but most just had you call the front office. We ended up touring five schools.

Most school tours are pretty similar. A principal or enrollment coordinator will welcome families and talk briefly about the history of the school. Then they take you to a kindergarten classroom to observe briefly. They always show off the media center (i.e. library). The tours honestly were really helpful. After a couple, we started to look for a few things:

Were the students happy and engaged? Was there productive chatter? We really liked the school where we saw “buddy reading time” between older and younger students in the hallway. My daughters are really social and need many chances to engage.
Look for student work on the wall. Some schools will have more than others. I think a school should use data to respond effectively to students’ needs, but I don’t like assignments that look robotic. I liked seeing student work that emphasized critical thinking and creativity, rather than memorizing the right answer.
What’s the dress code? I personally hate strict dress codes, so I wanted to know how it was being enforced.
Did schools put in effort to make you feel welcome? We wondered how we might fit into the school culture. We loved that Potter School 74 invited us to salsa night (both the dancing and the sauce), Center for Inquiry School 2 held the tour right after their weekly student-led community meeting, which we got to witness, and Garfield School 31 invited us to see them at the Bates-Hendricks Street Fest.

If our community is serious about families being able to choose schools, the system must make it work for all families — including those who can’t easily tour campuses during the workday, those who speak limited English, and those without needed transportation — to tour schools and join school communities. Taking time to call each school is asking a lot of families (and schools too). If our community is committed to unwinding the historic and present-day inequities in our city schools, we need to break down as many barriers as possible.

One small but meaningful step would be for Enroll Indy to establish a centralized tour-scheduling system on School Finder with tour opportunities that align with each Enroll Indy application round (Currently Round 1: Nov. 1-Jan. 24; Round 2: Jan. 25-April 19). All applications submitted within Round 1 will be considered together, so your best shot to enroll in your desired school is to apply by the end of Round 1. It’s important to schedule tours before Round 1 ends.

It was a lot of work, but we’re excited to identify Center for Inquiry School 2, Potter School 74, and Global Prep School 44 as our top three choices for our daughter. We’re comforted that there is a 95% chance we’ll be accepted into at least one of those three. We wish all Indy families the best as they begin the process of choosing a school.

Matt Impink lives with his wife and their three daughters in Fletcher Place near Downtown Indianapolis.

CORRECTION: A previous version of this piece incorrectly referred to Enroll Indy as the district’s enrollment portal. Enroll Indy is the city’s unified enrollment system and serves both district and charter schools.

The secret to good teaching? Teamwork.

2023-11-17T13:00:00+00:00

Twelve years ago, when I left a career as a lawyer to become a history teacher, my vision of what a “good teacher” looked like was shaped in part by movies, such as “Stand and Deliver” and “To Sir, With Love,” which depict teachers who overcome institutional dysfunction to connect with students and inspire them to achieve their potential.

Catherine Friesen

Watching “To Sir, With Love” was even a course requirement in my teacher residency program. It was with great trepidation — knowing that I could not live up to this model but wanting to do my best — that I took my job teaching social studies at a small public high school in the Bronx.

I spent the next decade at that same small school, and my time there reshaped my view of what makes a good teacher. The movie model, I learned, underplays the extent to which a school’s success depends on collaboration and on an interconnected web of complementary skills of teachers and school staff.

No one can be all things to all students, yet all students need love and a reason to show up. This requires a team capable of providing academic skills and content as well as consistency, emotional support, extracurricular activities, and so much more.

Who is needed on this team? I expected the obvious: general content teachers, teachers who work with English language learners and students with disabilities, counselors, social workers, paraprofessionals, and other support staff. In practice, I found that what is really needed is staff who can learn from each other and how to support each other.

Last year, as I watched my co-teacher quickly defuse a cranky student with humorous banter — a skill I never did acquire — I appreciated again how much a school needs these different strengths. His action allowed me to calmly steer all the students back to the history lesson at hand. While I benefited from his deep connection with our students, other teachers learned from my organizational skills, which I used to map out curriculum, break down standards, and track student progress.

Schools, I’ve learned, need teachers who are adept at differentiating instruction for individual learning needs, tutoring small groups, and instructing dozens of students for multiple periods in a single day without a break between classes. They need teachers who know the latest scholarship and those who know the latest social media platforms. They need teachers with physical and mental endurance, but they also need teachers who struggle physically or emotionally. There are lessons that cannot be explicitly taught.

They need teachers and staff who can anticipate and prevent conflicts from happening, those who will jump in to contain a fight, those who can calm a classroom after a conflict raises adrenaline and brings everyone close to an emotional edge, and those who can mediate conflict afterward, bringing healing to the whole community.

Schools need teachers with high expectations and teachers with a deep, personal knowledge of the stresses and life experiences that can make it difficult for children to get to school in the morning and live up to their potential.

They need school staff who speak the home languages of the students and teachers who reflect the students’ ethnic, religious, and racial backgrounds. They need educators who are willing to reflect on their own assumptions, privileges, and biases, and those who are adept at leading others in that process. They need teachers who are not afraid to have hard conversations with students about class, race, gender, and other challenging subjects, and who know how to create productive spaces for them to occur.

Schools need staff members with connections to other professionals, the community, and those in the trades. They need those willing to organize school-wide events that build a sense of belonging, and those who will organize field trips even when funding or transportation pose challenges.

They need teachers with naturally loud voices that can reach across a classroom or outdoor space, and they need those who talk softly and force the students to learn to listen more attentively. They need introverts and extroverts.

They need teachers and staff members who recognize neglect, hunger, and abuse, and those who recognize a student’s hidden genius as a writer, philosopher, artist, poet, or engineer. They need teachers who know when to quietly bring a box of tissues, when to text a counselor or consult a social worker, and how to build trust with a student.

They need teachers who laugh and those who make the students laugh. They need teachers who can laugh at themselves.

It took time for me to fit into the web of my small school. What ultimately made me a good teacher there was recognizing and drawing upon my own strengths and the strengths of my colleagues. Supplementing individual performance reviews with celebrations of teamwork among school staff could result in happier and healthier workplaces and reduce teacher turnover.

I never did replicate the movie model, but I found in my colleagues the strength and skills to give my best to my students. Although I left teaching reluctantly in June due to the accumulated strain of the work, which increased astronomically after COVID, and the commute, it was especially hard to leave my fellow educators.

This is my love letter and thank you note to my former colleagues. It is also a plea that we do more to acknowledge all of the amazing people who, working together, make a school a good place to learn and grow.

Catherine Friesen is an educator and lawyer who taught Global History in New York City public schools from 2013 to 2023. During this time, she served as History Content Team Leader, a schoolwide teacher-leader, and an International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme Coordinator.

Being a sub made me a better teacher

2023-11-20T16:15:00+00:00

My own path into teaching took a detour when COVID forced me to complete my student teaching online. I found myself adapting on the job and making the best of the hand I’d been dealt, which turned out to be good practice for what lay ahead.

After graduating, I couldn’t secure a full-time teaching position right away, so I turned to substitute teaching. It isn’t the path I would have initially chosen, but I’m grateful it chose me.

Torrey Barlow

Substitute teaching gets a bad rap, as subs may face inconsistent assignments and pay, and they often encounter more challenging student behaviors than their permanent counterparts.

But subbing, despite its drawbacks, allowed me to try more than I usually would as a new teacher — kind of like sharing a dessert platter with friends! Within just a couple of years, I’ve taught a variety of grade levels and subjects in all sorts of campus environments. It also exposed me to a variety of lesson plans, which permanent teachers left for me.

Sometimes, I served as a classroom aide, which meant I got to observe various teaching styles. I remember, for example, the first time I saw a teacher use a “think-pair-share” activity, in which the teacher asked students a question, had them think about it, write it down, and then share their ideas with a partner. I also saw how teachers used moments of levity to develop their rapport with students. It was moments like these that showed me how being part of a team helps new teachers turn theory into practice.

Variety also helped me discover the grade level that resonates with me. I went into teaching picturing myself teaching second grade, when students are full of wonder but they’re also making big strides developmentally. I was especially excited to help students learn to read during that stage of their lives.

Substitute teaching has been more than a 31-flavor tour of classrooms. It has also been a window into the distinct cultures of different schools.

That changed last year when I had a long-term substitute position as a sixth grade teacher. At first, I was intimidated because kids that age are going through so many physical and emotional changes. Then I fell in love with teaching sixth grade because I was able to engage students and content on a deeper level. My sixth graders even helped me realize that I love teaching math — a subject I hated learning. Admitting to my class that I wasn’t a great math student helped me quickly build crucial connections with students.

Substitute teaching has been more than a 31-flavor tour of classrooms. It has also been a window into the distinct cultures of different schools. Before I started teaching, I didn’t think much about finding a school that fits my personality, but now I can see why that’s so important for first-year teaching success.

My years as a sub taught me that I thrive in collaborative environments, something that I will seek out in a full-time position. (I’m close to finishing my master’s in education, which should make me an even stronger candidate.) I want to find a job where teachers hang out in shared spaces and eat lunch together, instead of at their desks, and where administrators walk around the campus and spend time in classrooms.

Had I not spent these past couple of years as a substitute teacher, I don’t think I’d appreciate teaching as much as I do. Instead of getting burnt out and quitting in my first few years, as nearly half of new teachers do, I feel an even stronger commitment to my students and the profession.

Schools would be wise to better support substitute teachers, providing opportunities to learn from and collaborate with permanent teachers, and developing a pipeline so that subs like me can move into full-time teaching roles.

Subbing wasn’t initially the path I saw myself on, but it has been the best possible training ground for me. I can’t wait for what’s next.

Torrey Barlow is a full-time credentialed teacher at the North County Coastal Substitute Consortium in San Diego, California.

‘Where are you from?’ The question gnawed at me.

2023-12-05T10:00:00+00:00

The writer of this essay is a 2023-24 Student Voices Fellow at Chalkbeat. Click to learn more about our high school fellowship program.

Little me, seven years old and in second grade, peers around the panoramic room, occasionally taking a nervous look at other students surrounding me at the library near my school in the East Bronx.

“So, we’re gonna start this kids’ culture day by going around the room asking where each of you is from,” the librarian says, smiling.

My heart rate increases, my stomach drops, but I keep all composure.

Emily Muñoz

“Puerto Rico!” one kid shouts before even raising his hand.

“Bangladesh!” another says.

And then: Yemen! Ghana! Albania! Pakistan! Dominican Republic! Jamaica!

As the countries pour out of everyone’s mouths, it’s as though the words are chasing me.

Before it’s my turn, I get up and leave the room. Once I’m out of the library, my heart rate stabilizes and my stomach returns to its place, but I can’t quite put words to what just happened and what I am feeling.

My last name, “Muñoz,” is a Spanish surname said to mean son of “Muño,” a name that also means “hill.” But my last name doesn’t tell the full story. From a young age, my last name raised more questions than it answered.

Whenever people would ask “Where are you from?” I would tell them what I thought was obvious: “I’m Black.” I could already anticipate the next question, which was some variety of “Then why is your last name Spanish?” The truth is, I didn’t know.

Their questions and my lack of answers only heightened my headache of understanding who I am. I remember being in elementary school and doing a family tree project. On it, we had to write down where our family came from. Having grown up with a busy dad, and living apart from my mom, I didn’t have any answers to the questions the tree demanded.

As I got older, I began asking my dad about our last name and our family story. “We may have a Spanish last name from your grandfather,” my dad would tell me, “but we should be proud of our Black American heritage.”

My father told me tales about his father’s roots in Latin America and the Caribbean, but he mostly emphasized his mother’s Black American heritage. Having connected most to the latter, I immersed myself in studying Black American history, from the transatlantic slave trade to the civil rights era to our music and style.

Even as we experienced the effects of centuries of generational inequities, we have created a culture woven into the very country that perpetrated and maintained those inequities. Many facets of “American” culture are Black American culture. Black Americans created hip-hop and R&B and popularized jazz and pop. We were at the leading edge of fashions, including sneaker culture and athleisure. We’ve led social movements, and we contributed enormously to the fields of science, literature, and politics.

Their questions and my lack of answers only heightened my headache of understanding who I am.

In April, my high school, located in the Co-op City neighborhood of the Bronx, had its first culture day. Everyone was asked to wear or bring something to school that represented their culture. Watching so many people proudly wear their cultural garments and carry vibrant flags from around the world left me feeling like my younger self in the library and not knowing how to express my identity. Instead of running out, though, I channeled my pride and grief into creativity.

I wrote a poem called “Tribe of Tribes,” an ode to my Black American heritage.

I come from rap songs and poetry,

From seamstresses sowing strings,

We never gave up even when we had nothing, our art gave us

something sweet

Each stanza I typed flowed easily out of my mind and onto the page, almost like honey. I was so proud of my poem that I submitted it to the New York Public Library’s Teen Voices Magazine contest, and I won. I had long struggled to define my Black American identity, and here I was naming it and celebrating it. (Scroll down to read the poem in full.)

Throughout this process, I also discovered that identity isn’t always clear-cut; there are dimensions to who people are. I have one friend who is a Black girl with a Portuguese last name; she has a Guatemalan father and a Black American mother, but her mother grew up in Guatemala with an adoptive family. I wouldn’t have known all of this if I hadn’t bothered asking. Sometimes acknowledging the complexities, acknowledging what we know and what we wish we knew, can bring us together.

Like when I sat with my assistant principal this past spring. She’s a white, Jewish lady from New York City, and it confused many students that she ran our school’s Africa Club. But when we took the time to connect, I discovered that she went to college in South Africa in the post-apartheid era. She opened up about how her experience there opened her eyes to the global racial injustices and also the diverse cultural landscape of the African continent. She told me about how her time there inspired her to learn more and more about African history and cultures.

“You have to be culturally competent,” my assistant principal would tell me.

“What’s that?” I asked her.

“It means understanding and respecting values from cultures different from your own,” she said.

Whenever I think back to this conversation, I smile.

I’ve grown to accept that a tiny part of me will always feel like that small child who ran out of the library on culture day. It happens when I walk around the city and see flags representing the heritage of many people who live here. In the South Bronx, I’ll see Puerto Rican flags; around 14th Street in Manhattan, I’ll see Ukrainian flags; and in Washington Heights, I’ll see Dominican flags.

As much as I may yearn to represent my family history and culture in that way, these scenic walks only heighten my cultural competence and my eagerness to learn more.

Emily Muñoz, a high school senior from the Bronx, is an award-winning and published artivist poet, an advocate for intersectional racial and gender equity, and a host on the Next Generation Politics Podcast “The Round Table.” She’s passionate about history and plans to double major in political science and economics. Emily is a 2023-24 Student Voices Fellow at Chalkbeat.

View of a display at the National Museum of African American History and Culture, Washington DC, September 28, 2016. (Photo by Anthony Barboza/Getty Images)

Read “Tribe of Tribes” by Emily Muñoz in full below:

I am Black American

I come from brownstone buildings

The steepest concrete hills

Grass so green and vibrant, you’d never stand still

I come from loud screaming mamas,

Talking to their loud yelling babies,

Never given a chance to live cus all the babies driving her crazy

I come from long luscious nails,

And braids as long as tails,

Styles so elaborate, you could style it on a whale

I come from rap songs and poetry,

From seamstresses sowing strings,

We never gave up even when we had nothing, our art gave us

something sweet

I come from cobblers and pumpkin pies,

Soul food so good it’d make you sigh

macaroni so smooth, collard greens so savory, fried shrimp so crunchy, that thinking of it all makes me cry

I come from sprinklers on hot days,

Humility and slight praise,

No doubting what we’d achieve because we’d always find a way

I hail from a town of hills, a people of love, an enforcement of style, a community of creatives, a group of good taste, an ensemble of energy, and a bunch of determination.

I am Black American, and I hail from a tribe of tribes

The racist bullying at school was unbearable, so I decided to speak out

2023-12-07T13:00:00+00:00

The writer of this essay is a 2023-24 Student Voices Fellow at Chalkbeat. Click to learn more about our high school fellowship program.

In November of my junior year of high school, I watched from outside my body as I spoke before the Newark Board of Education. As someone who had always shied away from being under any kind of spotlight, it was uncharacteristic for me to be delivering this speech. However, when it was time to decide if I was going to speak up or remain silent, I remembered a quote by the incomparable writer Zora Neale Hurston: “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.”

The passage of time has blurred the details of that night about a year ago, but I distinctly remember that the air in the room had shifted when I was done speaking. It was as if I could see on the faces of the adults before me that a rug had been pulled out from beneath them. I had just brought a significant amount of attention to an issue that most Newarkers seemed to know about, even as few spoke up: the culture of segregated schools in our city. (Many schools here are either overwhelmingly Black or overwhelmingly Latino.)

David Malakai Allen

At Newark School of Global Studies, where I was enrolled, the situation had escalated from kids teasing each other to the minority Black student population being the targets of racist harassment and hostility. At the time, the high school had been open just three years, and from the beginning, students spoke among themselves about the divisions and racism that marred their experience there.

During my sophomore year, a number of my friends and I attempted to rationalize the way we were being treated. Maybe our classmates just didn’t like us, we thought. But by the end of that school year, it was impossible to deny that there was something larger at play and that the institution at which we were enrolled was part of the problem.

One instance in particular that has stuck with me took place in June of my sophomore year. Ironically, it happened to be our school’s cultural appreciation day. I had just finished taking the written exam for my driver’s ed class and was preparing to tell my favorite teacher that it had gone well. While en route to her class, I felt someone’s fingers digging into my arm and pulling me to the side of the hallway.

I turned to realize that the person pulling me was my best friend and that she was visibly upset. The sentence that soon fell from her lips would alter the rest of my high school career.

“Reuben [not his real name] shoved me and called me a n—,” my friend told me.

For a moment, time stood completely still. We stood completely still. I could hear and feel the bass drum that replaced our heartbeats. We did not speak, nor could we meet each other’s gaze. Very briefly, I considered confronting the boy who had uttered that hateful word but ultimately realized that could make the situation worse. Instead, I rushed over to the first teacher I saw and reported this incident. This wasn’t the first time Black students at Global Studies had been subject to harassment and abuse. Reports, both written and verbal, had been filed, but nothing seemed to change. And this time around was no different.

I could also sense how powerless my friends felt, how defeated.

My school’s failure to put an end to this racist bullying made me feel like my voice did not matter. Or worse, like I did not have a voice at all. I could also sense how powerless my friends felt, how defeated. We had tried not to let the circumstances get the best of us, but it had begun to take a toll on our grades and our mental health. I would come to school ready and willing to learn, only to be met with a racial slur or a bigoted joke vocalized in the middle of a class period. It was eating away at me. Turning in assignments became the very least of my worries.

In dire need of comfort and community, I decided to create a Black Student Union — not only because Black students deserved a safe space but also because it felt abundantly clear that no one in power was going to show up and save us. We would have to save ourselves.

It was that belief that eventually led members of our student union to that November 2022 Newark Board of Education meeting. We had no idea what would come of us sharing our story there. This was our opportunity to truly make ourselves heard.

And yet the situation inside our school building did not improve. By the following school year, some Black students, including myself, had decided to transfer to a different high school. (Chalkbeat Newark requested the number of students who transferred out of Global Studies during the 2021-22 and 2022-23 school years, but the request was denied, citing student privacy.)

In January of this year, the Newark Board of Education commissioned a review of the racial and cultural climate at Global Studies. While the report has not been publicly released, some of its recommendations have been. According to the report, the Newark district must look at how “anti-Blackness and other deficit beliefs” impact its schools. It also calls for Newark Public Schools to create spaces for difficult conversations about race and help school staff identify and fill “cultural gaps” in their practices. While this is hardly a solution, I hope that it results in a safer and more inclusive environment for everyone.

Such changes won’t have happened on the timeline many of us would have wished for, but it’s never too late for our leaders to hold themselves accountable and right their wrongs. In fact, every Black student in the city depends on them doing so. As I told the members of the Newark Board of Education at that fateful meeting: “At the very least, Black children deserve to feel loved, valued, and respected.”

David Allen is a high school senior who started a Black Student Union at his former high school to combat racial injustice. It was his admiration for literary giants like Zora Neale Hurston and James Baldwin that ultimately guided him toward becoming a student activist. Earlier this year, he was awarded the “Celebrating Black Resistance Award” by the City of Newark.

I lost a friend to gun violence when I was in high school. Now, I counsel Chicago students facing similar pain.

2024-01-16T11:00:00+00:00

My first job after high school was working in the cafeteria at an elementary school located between Chicago’s West Garfield Park and North Lawndale neighborhoods. When you say the names of those communities, they may evoke negative images. I get it. Both are neighborhoods with some of the city’s highest rates of gun violence. I don’t need to watch the news to know this. I grew up in North Lawndale and have lost friends and family on its streets.

In the spring of ninth grade, one of these murders changed my life. My cousin hosted a party at her Lawndale apartment to celebrate my good grades. Unfortunately, gang members who were denied entry to the party got mad and started shooting. My friend, who was a star athlete at Westinghouse High School, died in the crossfire. It saddens me to think of what he might have become had he lived.

Latonya Booker, a Student Supports Manager at Communities In Schools of Chicago.

My friend’s killing helped set me on a path of purpose. Back then, I didn’t have anyone who could help me make sense of what happened, so I became determined to be that person for other kids. After high school and college, I worked a variety of jobs in K-12 education, eventually becoming the dean of discipline at a charter school on Chicago’s West Side. But I felt like I wasn’t being true to myself since most of my time was spent handing out punishments when students didn’t follow rules. What I really wanted to do was help students heal from the trauma impacting their lives.

So last year I took a job with the nonprofit Communities In Schools in Chicago, where I provide one-on-one counseling to students who need extra help academically and socially. I also work to connect families with resources, to bring speakers into the school, and to arrange for off-campus field trips. I would’ve been excited to do this job at any school, but when I learned it would be at the school where I held that first cafeteria job, it felt like a homecoming.

The needs of my students are great, as the school is located in a high-poverty neighborhood, where some 40% of households earn less than $25,000 a year and where community violence is all too common. These conditions take a toll on the kids I work with, more than a third of whom are chronically absent. Some have a hard time coming to class because they suffer from anxiety or PTSD symptoms; others need support – just like I did at their age – to process the killings of loved ones.

Family, friends, and former colleagues sometimes ask how I’m able to help children who’ve lost beloved family members to violence. I tell them it starts with relationship-building, and that sometimes means sharing my own stories. Because students know I can relate, they are more willing to let their guard down and open up about what’s standing in the way of their success. Often it has to do with the fear of violence and the trauma of losing a loved one. Together, we practice deep breathing techniques that they can lean on when they feel consumed by anger or sadness.

In a support group I lead, I developed an exercise called Me vs. Me, in which I challenge our middle school boys to read to the kindergarteners who look up to them. And in my Just Us Gurlz group, I bring together young ladies going through puberty to develop respectful relationships with each other — and themselves. I want them to move through their self-doubt and know that they are talented, beautiful, and poised for success.

Whatever may be happening outside the school walls, inside, I want students to feel safe. It’s a team effort. Our security guard has worked the front desk for 37 years, knows everyone, and stays in contact with two of the school’s former principals who are now retired. Current students have followed in the footsteps of previous generations of their family who also learned here. Meanwhile, our current principal and assistant principal, who, to the delight of our young people, dressed as Ken and Barbie for Halloween, have walked alongside our students in peace marches and are a steady, caring presence in their lives.

I try to be a similar source of stability for my students. For example, when a young man I work with got into verbal altercations with his teacher, I reminded him that his teacher was someone’s mother. I asked if he would want someone talking to his own mom that way, which got him thinking. Slowly, his attitude improved, and he became more receptive to anger management strategies, including deep breathing and journaling.

He ended up having a solid year and his behavior improved in big ways. Earlier this academic year, I was surprised to find him standing in the hallway, sent out of class by his new teacher for misbehaving. He hid his face when he saw me but said emphatically: “I’m working on it, Ms. Booker!”

We would all do well to remember his words. Working through trauma can be a long and tangled process. Our young people are working on it every day, often more than we know.

Latonya Booker is a Student Supports Manager at Communities In Schools of Chicago.

Joining an Asian student group showed me I didn’t have to choose between my Chinese and American identities

2023-12-11T13:00:00+00:00

The writer of this essay is a 2023-24 Student Voices Fellow at Chalkbeat. Click to learn more about our high school fellowship program.

When I was five months old, my family moved from New Jersey to Shanghai, China, leading my childhood to be defined by a hybrid of two distinct identities: Chinese and American. My Chinese identity was built on heated mahjong games with relatives and intense haggling with shopkeepers in fish markets. My American identity was defined by playing soccer with friends at my international school and listening to Jimi Hendrix.

2023-24 Student Voices Fellow Alexander Calafiura

Around the time I was 7, I started to wonder: Am I Chinese? Or am I American? I couldn’t come up with a good answer because I was constantly switching between the two. At school and home, I spoke English and immersed myself in Western media like Minecraft and Marvel movies. With my Chinese extended family and most of my friends, I spoke Mandarin and talked about what was on my local TV channel. It was always one or the other.

When I was 10, my family decided to move back to the U.S. and live in New York. It was a massive personal and social shift for me. From the way people dressed to the way they acted in public, almost everything was different.

My unfamiliarity with American culture forced me to play “catch up” with my peers. On the first day of middle school, I remember hearing some students jam along to a song from their phones. After school, I looked up the lyrics and discovered that the song was “Bad and Boujee” by Migos. Bad and what? Before that day, I had never even heard the word “boujee” before. It was clear to me that I would have to dedicate my out-of-school time to consuming American pop culture through movies, songs and TV shows, if I wanted to fit in.

During middle school, as I leaned more and more into the American side of my identity, I became less involved with my Chinese side. My Mandarin, which I now used only infrequently, grew noticeably worse. Major Chinese holidays that I used to love, like the Mid-Autumn Festival, stopped feeling as important to me as Christmas and Thanksgiving.

In the first few weeks of high school, one of my Asian teachers asked me to join the Asian Student Association. She thought it would be good for me, an Asian student, to be more in touch with the Asian community at school.

Her invitation was the first time I had encountered the idea of an affinity group. At first, I rejected the idea: I imagined feeling like I was in an echo chamber. What benefits could there be from isolating myself from one group to dwell in another?

Despite my skepticism, I showed up for the Asian Student Association’s first meeting of the year. I wanted to find peers who spoke fluent Mandarin and maybe even some who had also lived internationally. I wanted to make some new friends.

Right away in that first meeting, I discovered how many teens could relate to my experiences. I even met someone who had also lived in China. Immediately, we clicked, speaking in Mandarin about our life experiences. For the first time in high school, I felt culturally included.

We spent our time playing Asian-themed charades, competing over random Asian trivia on Kahoot, and talking about our summers. It felt like a super welcoming, meaningful, and low-pressure experience.

Before I knew it, a couple of meetings and a few months later, I took my first active role in the group. I stood in front of a whiteboard, marker in hand, attempting to teach Mandarin to a room full of my classmates. “Try to copy me,” I told the other students, and with slow, emphatic strokes, I drew the characters ni hao (hello) on the board.

When I looked over at my peers’ papers, most had a significantly deformed version of what I had drawn, but a few had copied my strokes pretty well. Regardless of their level of success, though, I saw everyone’s face light up when they learned how to write in a new language.

In recent years, many schools and workplaces have started affinity groups to give students or employees with shared identities (race, heritage, sexuality) a place to get together, have discussions about wants and needs, and feel supported.

Affinity groups provide invaluable spaces for young people to exchange cultures, share unique life experiences, and be themselves.

During the height of the COVID pandemic, a study by the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism found that hate crimes committed against Asian Americans rose dramatically. As a result, affinity groups like the Asian Student Association have become important spaces for Asian Americans to discuss and confront discrimination in our community.

Still, opponents of affinity groups, including the organization Parents Defending Education, claim that affinity groups for students of color are a form of modern segregation inside school systems. They believe that special treatment of students, solely based on skin color, is harmful and even unconstitutional.

But my personal experience has shown me that these concerns, similar to some of my initial preconceptions, are not the reality. From the jump, the Asian Student Association’s goal was to unite students, not separate them. In the case of my school, non-Asian allies are always invited to join our meetings. As long as they are open-minded, respectful, and interested in learning more about Asian customs, politics, and people, they will continue to be welcome. The goal of the Asian Student Association is to celebrate culture, not confine it.

Junior year, I was chosen by my peers to be the next president of the association. With my new mantle, I’ve strived to make the Asian Student Association an inclusive, diverse space for everybody, regardless of how they identify. Recently, our meetings have included Chinese, Japanese, Tibetan, Black, white, and Native American students. I aim to provide all students a chance to share their unique cultural perspectives in an Asian-centered space.

We spent November learning about and celebrating Diwali, a major Indian holiday, from one of our Indian teachers. At the end of the month, an Indian student’s parent brought in a variety of Indian food for us to try. The event was a hit and felt particularly meaningful to students because it demonstrated that Asia is not a monolith. (Too often, people only think of China, Korea, and Japan when they think of Asia.) Exploring South Asia felt like a great way to shatter this narrative.

This year, I want the Asian Student Association to make a more significant impact on the school community. I hope to give Asian students more opportunities to get what they want out of the school — lessons on Asian history, recognition of Asian holidays, and tackling Asian discrimination in the community — by facilitating important conversations between students and school administrators. I also want to vastly improve our annual Asian luncheon where we share foods from Japan, India, China, Korea, and other countries with the entire student body.

In the past four years, I’ve learned how affinity groups provide invaluable spaces for young people to exchange cultures, share unique life experiences, and be themselves. They are inherently inclusive because they provide a forum for people of many different backgrounds to find common ground. Since my first meeting, I have felt seen and heard by my peers in a way that I never have before.

The Asian Student Association has shown me that I do not have to choose between being Chinese or being American. Instead, I can embrace being a Chinese American.

Alexander Calafiura is a senior at East Side Community High School in New York City. In his spare time, he enjoys folding origami, reading classic literature, and discussing politics. At school, he is a co-editor-in-chief of the student newspaper, The East Sider.

My 16-year-old son was shot and killed. What would justice look like?

2023-12-19T19:55:43+00:00

This story was published by The Trace, a nonprofit newsroom covering gun violence in America. Sign up for its newsletters here.

I arrived at my daughter Janyah’s high school graduation on a warm day in May. When I stepped into the building, staff began shutting all the doors to the auditorium where the ceremony was taking place because people were sneaking in without tickets. I started to worry. As I fought back tears, I thought to myself, “Jaree, you need to get in there to see your baby girl get her diploma because you won’t be able to see your son walk across the stage next year.”

My son, Rishawn Hendricks, was shot and killed in North Lawndale on October 22, 2022. He was 16 years old and a junior at North Lawndale College Prep. The case remains unsolved so like too many other Black Chicagoans, I still don’t know who did it. Rishawn was scheduled to graduate from high school in 2024, which made seeing my daughter walk across the stage feel so important. I keep these milestones close to my heart.

Rishawn was a good kid who didn’t bother anybody. I now know this can happen to anyone, and that I may never get the justice my son deserves.

I never imagined my life would turn out this way. As a child, I had many dreams. I wanted to graduate from high school, go to college, and pursue a degree in criminal justice. All of that changed in 2004 when I became pregnant at age 16. Seven days after Janyah was born, I thought my life was over. I had a seizure, a stroke, and an aneurysm. I was placed in a coma. Those first few months after leaving the hospital were hell. I had to battle depression while being on several medications and learning how to be a mom. I knew I had to get better for my daughter.

A year later, I noticed something felt off, and I discovered that I was pregnant. Because of my medical history, this was a high-risk pregnancy, and I couldn’t afford two kids at a time. My boyfriend at the time and I considered not moving forward with the pregnancy, but I decided to keep my child. My boyfriend named our son, but he died in a car accident in April 2006. On August 21, 2006, Rishawn was born. I immediately knew that I had made the right decision.

Years passed and we got our own place in North Lawndale. My kids never gave me any problems. Shawn was amazing, respectful, joyful, helpful, and strong. When he was about 9, he had his tonsils taken out. Shawn insisted that he was OK and demanded to go to school. He loved being around his friends. I eventually let him go. I just knew Shawn was going to be a strong kid, like me.

Memorial candles and items commemorating the life of Rishawn Hendricks, who was murdered on October 22, 2022.

When Rishawn made it to high school, he was on the basketball and football teams. All he wanted to do was enjoy his friends, play sports, play on his PS5, and listen to his music, especially Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” and Fantasia’s “When I See You.”

The last day I saw my son was October 22. Earlier that day, I was joking and laughing with him. I wanted to barbecue because the weather was so pleasant. He asked if he could go outside. I said it was OK. I watched him leave through the rear gate and head toward a playground about a block away.

When I stepped inside the house to check on the macaroni I was making, my partner started yelling.

“You heard that?”

“What happened?” I asked.

“They were shooting,” he said.

“Where were they shooting?”

He pointed toward the playground.

“Call Shawn now,” I remember saying.

My partner called Shawn about three times. I called his phone but there was no response. From my backyard, I could hear children calling Shawn’s name. I thought “OK, there are several children named Shawn,” but at the same time, I was terrified it was my Shawn.

Please put the guns down. Too many people are gone for no reason.

I was nervous as I walked to the playground. As I got close, two kids came running, crying, telling me Rishawn had been shot. I asked them if he was OK, but they said they had no idea. Before I got close, I saw him lying on the ground while the paramedics tried to revive him. I noticed my baby was not moving. I knew he was gone. I had to go to the hospital, where I saw he still wasn’t moving. The physicians said what no parent wants to hear: “I’m sorry. We did the best we could. He came in without a pulse.” That moment permanently damaged my life.

Now, when I see young men walking, laughing, and playing around my neighborhood, all I want to do is cry, because I know my son is meant to be here. I often ask myself, what was the point? Rishawn was a good kid who didn’t deserve this. It’s been over a year since Rishawn was killed, and, it’s painful to think that we might never know who shot him.

Please put the guns down. Too many people are gone for no reason.

Every day, I hear about another child losing their life. Many are killed like Rishawn — by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We, parents, will never be the same, especially those of us who don’t get justice. And every day, I wish we could get justice. Justice for losing a child, a friend, a family member. Justice for living in a city where there’s no real control over guns. I constantly ask myself what would that even look like for people like me? How would it feel? Part of me wants the person who did this to be found by the police. But I also know that isn’t going to bring Shawn back. Even if we find out, I’m still going to hurt because I’m never getting my son, my heart, back.

I was eventually able to get into my daughter’s graduation. One of my son’s coaches heard that I was stuck outside. He and Rishawn were close, and he knew how important this moment was to me. I was excited to see my daughter walk across the stage, to see all her hard work pay off. But I could sense the pain my daughter felt because my son wasn’t there to watch her.

I’m now organizing Rishawn’s graduation. We plan to have our own ceremony with close family and friends. I wish I could have had more time with my baby boy, but I know he is with me every day. I can’t be selfish because I still have to make sure I’m OK for myself and my daughter.

Son, I know you’re on this long journey, and I can’t join you right now, but we will meet again.

Jaree Noel is a mother from Chicago’s North Lawndale neighborhood.

This story is part of a collection of essays and reported stories driven by gun violence survivors in Chicago, a product of the Trace’s Survivor Storytelling Network. Read the full collection here.

I’m a teacher with anxiety. Here’s why I’m honest about it with my students.

2023-12-18T12:00:00+00:00

I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember, but I really became aware of it in middle school. Seventh grade was an especially challenging year. I can still remember the worry, stress, tension, and panic attacks. Every little thing felt like a huge deal. I was scared to embarrass myself around my peers. A “D” on a test felt like the end of the world.

Back then, in the mid-2000s, the mental health field wasn’t what it is today, especially in the small, rural town of Berne, Indiana, where I grew up. Most of the adults I talked to about my problems didn’t seem to understand what anxiety and depression were, and neither did I. By every external measure, I had a great life with a loving family that provided for my every need. So why did I feel so sad? What did I have to worry about when there were people out there with “real” problems?

Blake Mellencamp

In my early 20s, I gave therapy a shot, and it really helped me understand what I was feeling. I finally had a diagnosis of anxiety and depression, and just the simple act of being able to put a name to my feelings made them so much more manageable. Through the combined power of many factors — therapy, medication, diet, exercise, mindfulness, and journaling — I finally learned strategies that helped me manage my anxiety and depression in healthy ways.

By the time I received my diagnosis, I was teaching seventh grade. In the classroom, I noticed some all too relatable behaviors in my students. There was the kid in tears because they got a B on an assignment. There was the kid in a full-on panic because they had an essay due … in two weeks. And who could forget the kid who just couldn’t decide what college to attend and what career to pursue, even though he was only 12?

It’s important to remember that these kids are still learning how to manage a locker, keep track of seven classes a day instead of staying in one, and navigate peer relationships. They have sports and other extracurricular activities taking up hours of their time every day. They have homework. They have tests. They have the expectations of their parents and teachers to live up to. They have the specter of college and adulthood looming over them. And that’s all on top of a whole lot of brand new emotions that come with becoming an adolescent.

Thanks to my own mental health journey, I am able to share with my students some of what I’ve learned about managing emotions and self-soothing. Sometimes that looks like taking a lap around the hallway. Other times, it may mean pausing for some deep breathing exercises.

I know what a difference these strategies can make. Because even now, sometimes I’ll sit down at my desk to do some lesson planning, and my anxiety will make itself known. There’s a tightness in my chest, and it feels like the blood is coursing through my veins a little bit faster. Oh man, students have their personal narratives due soon. I also have to get them ready for that vocab test. And after that, I’d better make sure they’re reading their library books so they’re ready for their upcoming project.

By the time I received my diagnosis, I was teaching seventh grade.

How am I supposed to juggle all this? Wait a minute, I remind myself. I’m the adult. I’m the teacher who assigned all this stuff in the first place. If am feeling this overwhelmed, then how must the kids feel right now having to juggle this work, their six other classes, and their lives outside of school?

In beginning-of-the-year professional development meetings, I’ve been told that our job as teachers is to bring 110% to the classroom every day. Regardless of what’s going on in our personal lives, once we enter our classrooms, we should put on a smile and a brave face. But when I hear that advice, I think back to my middle school self, confused by my emotions and not knowing anyone who seemed to be going through the same things.

Children and teens need representation, and that includes the area of mental health.

That’s why I’m transparent with my students about my anxiety and depression. I want my students who are struggling to know that there is an adult in their lives who can relate. I want all of my students to see a positive role model in someone with a mental illness who is successful and cares about them.

Should the topic of mental health come up in class, as a result of a book we’re reading or in a student’s writing, I don’t shy away from it. Sometimes, I encourage them to use their Free Write Fridays to vent about what’s on their minds. Other times, I offer to help them break down overwhelming tasks into smaller, more manageable pieces.

In the same way that we seek to create a more equitable world by ensuring teachers, libraries, and curricula have diverse representation, I think visibility when it comes to mental health also makes a difference. Showing that we can exist with the full range of human emotions and still thrive teaches kids that it’s OK to be human. It teaches them that it’s possible to excel while embracing our whole selves.

Many of my students with anxiety and depression tell me they feel seen when I open up to them about my own challenges. I’ve received heartwarming emails from students who are now in high school, thanking me for making middle school a bit easier to manage. I’m grateful for their candor. And I’m grateful that they live in a world with more mental health resources — and less mental health stigma — than there was when I was their age.

Blake Mellencamp is a language arts educator and freelance writer. He is currently the middle school chair for the Indiana Council for Teachers of English and a teacher-consultant for the Indiana Writing Project.

After my mom died, I took grief leave. It made me a better teacher.

2024-01-04T13:00:00+00:00

The summer of 2023, filled with travel, reading, family time, and relaxation, was just what I needed after a long and tiring year of teaching. I was feeling refreshed and ready to return to school, this year as a curriculum assistance teacher for special education.

Then, on Aug. 17, four days before school was to start, my husband, 4-year-old son, and I headed to the mountains to spend a long weekend with friends, squeezing the life out of summer.

My mom was dead by Aug. 19 at 11:30 p.m., exactly 30 minutes before my birthday. The day before, she had gone in for what we thought was routine surgery. We have a family history of brain aneurysms. I had the same surgery four years earlier on my unruptured aneurysm, and my mom had a similar procedure on her first unruptured aneurysm 12 years ago. Those recoveries had been quick and painless.

Teacher Lauren Barrett

This time around, my mom was fine when she first got out of surgery, sending my dad home and reminding me to have fun on my weekend trip. Then, out of nowhere, she had a hemorrhagic stroke, slipped into a coma, and never recovered.

Over the next few days, battling deep grief and disbelief, my family and I somehow managed to plan a funeral in a different state, pack, and drive to West Virginia. On Aug. 24, before the funeral even took place, I got this text from my department chair at my school: “Hi … I hope you are doing well. I hate to bother you but can you let us know what your plans are for next week?”

I was not well. I was anything but well. I was 34 and had just watched my mom die. I had to tell my 4-year-old that the grandma he saw almost every day was never coming back. We were in the middle of adopting a baby — a baby whom, now, my mom would never meet. I watched my strong dad break down over his wife of 38 years. My younger brother, who would not have his mom at his wedding, was also inconsolable.

Was I supposed to be doing well? As for next week, when I was expected back at school, my mom would still be dead.

I tried to put that text message out of my mind while I stood next to my mom in her casket for four hours as people paid their respects, as I sat through the funeral mass, and as I delivered her eulogy in front of a large crowd.

But the question remained: What was I going to do about teaching? Ultimately, I decided I couldn’t return to teaching — at least, not yet.

I teach high school, and my teenage students have a lot going on themselves. Some of them are battling their own grief and mental health challenges. I feared that I couldn’t provide the academic and social-emotional support they deserved while my own grief was so raw.

Grief, I told my students, isn’t something we need to fix.
Lauren Barrett

My family deserved me, too, as we learned to live without our proverbial glue and our rock.

Most importantly, I deserved me. I deserved time to reflect on my mom’s selfless life. I deserved time to grieve.

Luckily, when I told my administration I needed time off, they were supportive. I have been at the same school for 13 years, so I felt I could advocate for what I needed. I realize, though, that not all teachers are in the position to take an extended, unpaid grief leave, either because their administration is unsupportive, or because financial and logistical hurdles make it impossible.

I wish our society treated this time off as a necessity, not a luxury, because the often standard three days of bereavement leave is a slap in the face to teachers everywhere. I ended up taking off nine weeks, and it was one of the best decisions I ever made during the worst time of my life.

When I returned at the start of the second quarter, I was still immensely sad. But by then, I had gained deep insight into grief and loss — something I was determined to pass along to my students. I wanted to destigmatize the conversation around grief, to make it less awkward, because it is something everyone had experienced or would experience.

On my first day back, I wondered how my students would respond when something triggered my grief. How would they react to my dark humor? What if they saw me crying? Despite my nerves, I had vowed to be open, honest, and vulnerable with them. When I told each of my classes what had happened, the students were extremely quiet — and high schoolers are rarely quiet.

I explained why I couldn’t go back to work immediately and how it’s OK not to be strong all the time. I mentioned some of the things that helped me, like journaling to my mother, joining a support group, exercising, and connecting with others. Grief, I told my students, isn’t something we need to fix; it isn’t something to “get over”; and it isn’t linear.

I also shared with them what I learned about showing up for people who are grieving: How saying nothing is hurtful. How the person grieving doesn’t want you to fix them. How allowing someone to just be sad is powerful. How showing up for other people is a big part of life.

I told them how my mom and I had spent a lot of time relishing each other’s presence. I said that, in this class, we are going to talk and listen to one another — not hide behind screens.

I let them know that some days I would be especially sad, but every day, I would do my best to show up and be a bright spot in their day. I reminded them to do the same for others, because we never know what other people are carrying with them.

When I stopped speaking, my students remained silent.

Then, I added, “Let’s have some fun.”

The other day in one of my classes, I overheard one of my students say, “This is the only class I enjoy coming to.” And I thought to myself, “I enjoy coming here, too.” We are showing up for one another, learning lessons planned and unplanned. That’s all we can do.

Lauren Barrett is a high school special education teacher of deaf and hard-of-hearing students, a former cross country coach, a writer/author, and a full-time mom to an amazing 4-year-old. She is multi-passionate and works hard to help all people become their best selves and build positive relationships with the people around them. She blogs at Lauren Barrett Writes.

Teen stories: What our student fellows shared in 2023

2023-12-27T13:00:00+00:00

This year, Chalkbeat’s Student Voices fellows continued to impress us with their resonant real-life stories about what it means to be a high school student today. Our essay-writing fellowship, now in its third year and open to public school students in New York City and Newark, New Jersey, aims to amplify the voices of teens, who have written powerfully about everything from immigrating to America to facing down bigotry in school to benefiting from restorative justice programs. Here’s a sampling of their recent work:

The pandemic defined my high school class in painful and precious ways

The COVID lockdown came midway through Jasmine Harris’ freshman year, and it kept her home all of sophomore year. When she and her classmates returned to campus as juniors, “conversations were short and awkward,” as teens readjusted to in-person learning and socializing, Jasmine explained in this Chalkbeat New York essay about how the pandemic affected her high school career. By senior year, though, Jasmine and her classmates were determined to make up for lost time. She wrote that they often reflect on how “even though it is sad that this is our last year together, it feels like we’re just getting started. That feeling has also bonded us and made us more appreciative of our time together.”

Losing my Spanish feels like losing part of myself

Ashally De La Cruz was born in the Dominican Republic and spoke only Spanish until she started kindergarten in New York City. Once in school, she quickly picked up English and began using her Spanish less frequently. Her hardworking mother, however, never had the chance to learn much English — and that created a language barrier between mother and daughter. “After 12 years in the U.S., I’m always forgetting Spanish words,” Ashally wrote in Chalkbeat New York, explaining that she sometimes relies on Google Translate to communicate with her mom. “In these moments, it can feel like I’m losing an important part of myself — the Dominican part.”

The racist bullying at school was unbearable, so I decided to speak out

Facing racist bullying, David Malakai Allen worked to change the reality for Black students at his high school. In this Chalkbeat Newark essay, he opened up about his efforts — founding the Black Student Union and advocating for change at the district level. Despite being an ambivalent public speaker, David offered searing testimony before the Newark Board of Education. He wrote: “When it was time to decide if I was going to speak up or remain silent, I remembered a quote by the incomparable writer Zora Neale Hurston: ‘If you are silent about your pain, they will kill you and say you enjoyed it.’”

What a cultural exchange program taught me about responding to racism

New York City native Vanessa Chen recently took part in a cultural exchange alongside students from across the U.S. and Europe. She was the only young woman of Chinese descent in the program — something she didn’t think much about until she found herself on the receiving end of racist remarks. These incidents left her so filled with emotion that, at first, she struggled with how to respond. “I had always imagined that I’d demand an apology … ,” she wrote in this Chalkbeat New York essay. “The fact that I stayed silent and laughed still feels disappointing.” Eventually, Vanessa learned how to push back against the racism in her midst.

Here’s what it was like for me to transition from ESL to mainstream classes

2022-23 Student Voices Fellow Karen Otavalo

After moving to the United States from Ecuador, Karen Otavalo was placed in ESL classes for students learning English. But when it came time to transfer to mainstream courses alongside fluent English speakers, Karen found herself newly afraid to speak aloud. She wrote about the rocky transition in this Chalkbeat Newark essay, explaining, “Language acquisition is rarely a linear path. More effort doesn’t always translate into more progress. Instead, I had to learn to be patient, and that isn’t an overnight transformation either.”

Gabrielle Birkner is the features editor and fellowship director at Chalkbeat. Contact her at gbirkner@chalkbeat.org.

Adults failed me as a kid. I am a journalist today to be a watchdog for children.

2023-11-07T11:00:00+00:00

My earliest memory is of an adult hurting me in an unspeakable way.

For decades, pieces of the memory would sneak into the forefront of my mind from my subconscious. I spent a lot of time running away from the flashbacks, trying to keep them from becoming a reality. And yet, the abuse bled into almost every aspect of my life.

Hannah Dellinger

The sexual abuse I suffered at ages 3 and 4 impacted my childhood, my education, and my development in ways I am only now coming to understand three decades later.

I acted out as a cry for help in school. I had trouble focusing in class. Trauma-induced memory loss made me a poor test-taker. Executive dysfunction caused me to put off assignments. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder meant I was easily overstimulated in crowded settings. I didn’t trust any adults, especially those who held authority over me, like teachers. My self-esteem was shattered, and I had trouble connecting with other kids.

I exhibited all the telltale signs of a child in pain who needed extra support, but no adults heeded the call. Instead, I was punished for behavioral issues. I was made to feel like I was a “bad” kid, which exacerbated the feelings of guilt and shame that stemmed from the abuse.

After I was assaulted by an adult during a school activity at 15, my cries for help got louder. I self-harmed, had suicidal ideation, and developed a substance abuse disorder while still in high school.

No adults ever took the time to ask what was behind my surface-level behavioral issues, like acting out in class or not pushing myself academically, throughout my childhood and adolescence, despite best practices and what research tells us about kids who “act up.”

Because I never received any kind of trauma therapy or services as a kid, issues that could have and should have been addressed as early as pre-K, followed me into adulthood and were exacerbated by the intimate partner violence I survived in my early 20’s.

I became a journalist in part to help protect the vulnerable — especially children — from systemic injustice and the people in power who hurt them.

As I join the team at Chalkbeat Detroit as a reporter covering K-12 education in Michigan, I want our readers and the community to know I am here to be a watchdog for children and families. I will be a safe adult who will listen and believe children who are suffering. Because I know what it feels like to be a child in pain.

As the number of children experiencing trauma and mental health issues in America grows, those issues are becoming more a part of covering education. We are becoming more aware as a society and as journalists that children can’t learn if their basic needs aren’t being met.

Trauma can impact children’s bodies physiologically and alter their brains. Adverse childhood experiences can negatively affect overall health for a lifetime.

Around two-thirds of U.S. children will experience trauma such as abuse, neglect, homelessness, loss of a loved one, serious illness, domestic violence, or gun violence by age 16, according to a 2007 study.

In Michigan and Detroit, the way trauma impacts learning cannot be overlooked. The region’s long history of poverty and racism contributes to childhood stressors and kids experiencing trauma.

Seven out of 10 adults in Michigan reported adverse childhood experiences, according to a 2019 Centers for Disease Control and Prevention report.

Ninety percent of educators in the Detroit Public Schools Community District surveyed in 2019 said more than half of their students were impacted by trauma that hurt their ability to learn in the classroom.

The collective trauma of the pandemic in Detroit exposed many more kids to poverty, death and grief, food insecurity, as well as mental and physical health issues.

Behind those statistics are real children who are hurting in ways we can’t possibly measure. There are teachers and schools who aren’t equipped to meet their needs. There are policies in place that allow the cycle to continue.

As reporters covering these issues, we can bring awareness to these realities and, in some cases, prompt change. I am fortunate to be here to do this work.

I made a choice to embrace healing through therapy, psychiatry, and sobriety after years of powering through the pain until I hit a wall and I couldn’t anymore. I faced my worst fear and confronted my first memory.

After years of work, I am fully functioning in a healthy and sustainable way. Though I will always have to live with the impacts of the abuse, I have learned how to thrive and love myself. And I make the trauma serve a purpose because I want it to.

Hannah Dellinger is a reporter for Chalkbeat Detroit covering K-12 education. Contact Hannah at hdellinger@chalkbeat.org.

What I learned covering national education issues for Chalkbeat

2023-10-11T19:36:42+00:00

This is my last week at Chalkbeat.

Since joining our then-nascent national team in 2017, I’ve written hundreds of stories about many topics — the often derailed ambitions of presidential administrations and educational philanthropies, the flawed way we rate schools, the initial and then lingering consequences of the pandemic, and a stream of interesting research studies. (Fortunately, I’ll still be reporting on K-12 education, soon at the Wall Street Journal.)

I’ve learned an incredible amount, most of which I’ve tried to communicate in my published stories. But as journalists, we rarely get a chance to reflect on the broader takeaways from our reporting. So I thought I’d use my last week to do so.

Education issues usually aren’t federal, but often are national

Because U.S. schools are so decentralized, covering national education issues can be tough. There are nearly 100,000 public schools, over 19,000 school districts, and 50 states. That’s where most of the important decisions about education are made.

We do have a U.S. Department of Education, but at the moment that’s not where the action is. The policy agendas of both presidential administrations I’ve covered, Trump and Biden, mostly did not or have not come to fruition.

But that doesn’t mean there is no national education story. I’ve learned that what is happening in one school is often happening in many others, all across the country.

There has been, for instance, a rise in teacher turnover since the pandemic in a pattern that has been strikingly similar in different places. Schools almost everywhere have seen a rise in chronic absenteeism, too. Before the pandemic, most states experienced stagnant or declining test scores.

National policies also have a way of trickling down into classrooms, even without any national edicts. Two recent examples: The science of reading and high-dosage tutoring are education ideas that have been embraced, at least in rhetoric, across the country.

Now, whether these big ideas end up working as intended is another story, one that reflects a different tendency in education: The way that policies can get muddled in the game of telephone from idea to implementation.

Research is valuable, but it can’t simply be “followed”

I’ve spent a lot of time covering education data and research, which means talking to researchers frequently. Sometimes they lament to me that cutting-edge research about what works in education is not being heeded by educators or politicians.

I get the sentiment, but I’ve also come to realize that research can’t dictate school policies. That’s because education is shaped by values, priorities, politics, costs, and local context. A research study can help us understand what might work to improve some outcome, usually student test scores. But it can’t, on its own, say whether a school should adopt a given policy. Parents, teachers, and politicians might care about something other than test scores, they might object to a policy for political reasons, or they might find the policy difficult or too costly to implement.

Plus research itself is often complicated, context-specific, contested, and sometimes quite limited. To name one example: Despite many studies on the topic, researchers still don’t have a clear answer on whether holding students back a grade is worthwhile.

I still earnestly believe that research can help improve schools, but I’m also more aware of its limitations.

Parents look at schools differently than journalists and pundits

Education journalists and others who write about schools are often surprised to learn that parents typically rate their own child’s school as good or great.

This contrasts with how we as journalists approach covering education — we tend to focus on highlighting problems and holding people accountable. Indeed, the American public gives schools writ large mediocre grades, which may reflect how journalists and others write about them.

I like to think of this as the parent–pundit divide. Once you’re looking for it, you’ll see it everywhere. For all sorts of reasons — geographic, educational, political, professional — pundits often have different perspectives about schools than most parents and others involved in education.

Another example is the four-day school week, which is derided by pundits as an ill-conceived idea that hurts students. (And indeed research suggests shorter school weeks are harmful to learning.) Yet four-day weeks are widely popular with parents and teachers in districts that have adopted it.

There is good reason for journalists and others to focus on problems in the system, and I’ve done so in my own reporting. But I think those of us who write about education should be cognizant of this disconnect.

History rhymes with the present

Our high school history teachers were right: History repeats itself or as some historians like to say, it “rhymes.” After dabbling in historical research myself and reading compelling histories written by education journalists, I’m convinced that all of the history-teacher cliches are true in education policy.

Consider the recent experiment in sending a boatload of COVID relief money to schools in a bid to make up for learning loss. We shouldn’t be surprised how this has played out, because there was a strikingly similar experience in the late 1960s after the enactment of Title I, which provides federal funds for high-poverty schools.

In both cases, there were high expectations: the money was supposed to solve poverty in the ‘60s and fix learning loss now. That was quickly followed by disillusionment after the problems weren’t solved. Poverty persisted then and learning loss persists now. In both cases, there were complaints about how the money was tracked and spent, sometimes based on eye-catching but unusual examples: like Olympic-sized swimming pools then and a new football field now.

This also reflects a historical pattern in education, identified in journalist Dana Goldstein’s book “The Teacher Wars:” The hype-disillusionment cycle. This tendency means to swing wildly from hope that a policy will be a silver bullet to disappointment when it’s not.

Progress can and has happened

Since I’ve been covering education at Chalkbeat, headlines, including many I’ve written, have painted a grim picture of American education. Student test scores were flat or declining before the pandemic and have cratered since. Various touted reform efforts have failed to deliver hoped-for gains. That can lead to a nihilism about improving school and student performance. (See hype-disillusionment cycle.) But I think that’s unwarranted.

The flip side to the depressing results during the pandemic is that it also shows that schools matter — students learn when they are in school. Moreover, in the decades before the last one, students made substantial academic progress, particularly in elementary and middle school math. I’ve also reported on plenty of studies that find benefits from various efforts to improve schools or improve children’s lives outside of school.

We should not be Pollyannaish about American education at this moment, but we shouldn’t give into fatalism either.

Matt Barnum is interim national editor and before that was a national reporter at Chalkbeat.