Chalkbeat

Power in pride: This Brooklyn student wants to reclaim queer activism in NYC schools

2026-01-22T21:36:44+00:00

This originally aired on The Bell’s Miseducation podcast.

At my school, the Gender and Sexuality Alliance, or GSA, feels more like a social club than a space for activism. And I’m not alone in feeling that way.

In this episode, I look at how GSAs in New York City have drifted from their original purpose: organizing for change and uplifting queer voices. Once at the front lines of student activism, many GSAs now avoid political conversations and lack diversity, even as queer youth face mounting attacks across the United States.

It’s time for a GSA rebrand. To recenter activism and ensure every queer student feels seen and supported, GSAs must be spaces that are bold, inclusive, and purposeful.

Queer youth have played a key role in leading social movements, and history shows that when we organize, we create change. It’s time for GSAs to reflect that legacy and reclaim their role.

This is a video-first episode. You can watch it now on YouTube.

Miseducation is The Bell’s flagship podcast, which gives New York City public high school students the tools to report on inequities in the nation’s largest school system.

To join the conversation, send us a message and follow us on Instagram.

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Credit recovery: Is it a second chance to pass or permission to fail?

2025-12-12T22:11:35+00:00

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This originally aired on The Bell’s Miseducation podcast .

Thousands of New York City students rely on credit-recovery programs to earn course credit they need for the next grade or graduation. But do these second chances to pass give the system permission to fail?

A 2018 audit at a Brooklyn high school found that 96% of recovered credits were improperly awarded, exposing how uneven oversight and underqualified instruction can shortchange students.

In this episode, I share my own observations, along with my classmate Hawa’s firsthand experience navigating credit recovery. I also sit down with Shante Martin, a Williamsburg Charter High School administrator who sees the program’s promise, but also proposes changes such as limiting eligibility to seniors and raising the minimum grade requirement for a student to enter credit recovery.

A genuine second chance shouldn’t mean cutting corners. If credit recovery remains part of our school system, then it must deliver on the education it promises.

This is a video-first episode. You can watch it now on YouTube.

Miseducation is The Bell’s flagship podcast, which gives New York City public high school students the tools to report on inequities in the nation’s largest school system.

To join the conversation, send us a message and follow us on Instagram.

Never miss an episode! Subscribe on YouTube | Spotify Apple Podcasts | Google Play | Stitcher

How to improve restorative justice in NYC schools

2025-10-03T20:44:05+00:00

Sign up for Chalkbeat New York’s free daily newsletter to get essential news about NYC’s public schools delivered to your inbox.

This originally aired on The Bell’s Miseducation podcast on June 18.

In New York City schools, restorative justice – or RJ – has been around for almost a decade. It’s a way to repair harm by bringing together the person who caused it, the person affected, and the community.

Restorative justice circles are designed to help students heal, take accountability, and build stronger communities, but too often they feel like just another routine. Most RJ schools rely on circles — structured conversations that serve three tiers: Tier 1 community-building before harm occurs; Tier 2 conflict resolution when harm happens; and Tier 3 reintegration after healing.

At my Brooklyn high school, we sit in a circle twice a week, yet phones stay out and eyes glaze over. Far from the healing practice they’re meant to be, these sessions can become checkbox exercises.

As a peer mediator and RJ leader, I’ve seen both their promise and their pitfalls. Black students are suspended 3.4 times more than their white peers. Studies show that even minor suspensions can derail academic achievement for years. A 2022 citywide study found that some students “do not care, do not pay attention, or fall asleep during circle”. I see my peers doing the same. So I started asking: What would it actually take to make it work? And how should we reassess success — beyond suspension rates — to include trust, student voice, and genuine community healing?

Join me as I dig into the gap between adult-led and student-led circles, sit down with restorative justice facilitator Javon Lomax, and make the case that real healing demands students, not just staff, at the forefront.

This is a video-first episode. You can watch it now on YouTube.

Miseducation is The Bell’s flagship podcast, which gives New York City public high school students the tools to report on inequities in the nation’s largest school system.

Never miss an episode! Subscribe on YouTube | SpotifyApple Podcasts | Google Play | Stitcher

I asked my Haitian students why they answer me in Creole. Here’s what they said.

2025-09-25T11:00:00+00:00

Sometimes, I wonder if the students doubt my proficiency in English.

But I quickly put that thought out of my mind, remembering my first visit to this elementary school in September 2023. Back then, students learning English far outnumbered native speakers of English. I loved how the kids in the hallway cheered in response to my question: “Kòman nou ye?” — Haitian Creole for “How are you doing?” That day, they identified a Creole speaker in their midst.

The following month, I walked into Promise Prep elementary — now called PLA@48, following a recent merger — in Indianapolis as a Haitian Creole/ESL Interventionist, tasked with supporting the learning journey of the Haitian immigrant students working to improve their English proficiency.

As a native of Haiti who was mostly educated in French, I bring with me my own challenges that come with learning English. To say that my position resonates with my own experience is an understatement. And now, my role has been extended to include family engagement and support services for our Haitian students and their caregivers. They can reach out to me for public transportation passes, for example, or for help with a job application.

Websder Corneille is the founder and director of the Haitian Creole Program, an adjunct college lecturer at Indiana University, and a reading interventionist at Promise Prep.

Now, as Promise Prep’s reading interventionist, I see myself as serving the community, not just the students or the school. The Haitian parents seem to see me that way, too. As a result, I am sometimes exposed to the realities of their lives, including economic hardship, unstable housing, language barriers, and physical and mental health-related issues following arduous journeys to the U.S. Knowing what they’ve endured has helped me create responsive resources that reflect their experiences, and has led me to seek out professional development opportunities related to trauma-informed care.

I am always looking for ways to connect with our scholars, especially the Haitian ones with whom I have a common background and language.

Because I help manage students’ arrival each day, I am among the first people to greet them and hear about their morning. My ability to foster connections was recognized when, during the 2023-24 school year, I was honored with the Support Staff of the Year award from the school. I received notes of praise and congratulations on a Haitian parents’ WhatsApp group.

I’ve been at the school for almost two years now, and my Haitian students still address me in Haitian Creole, even when I initiate the conversation in English.

When I stopped by a third grade classroom to share an announcement with the teacher, a student welcomed me with a flurry of questions.

“Mr. C., gen gwoup jodi a?” (Mr. C., do we have small-group reading today?)

It’s not possible today. The room is busy with testing.

Oke. Ap gen demen? (OK. What about tomorrow?)

Yes, for sure. We will be reading a story with four paragraphs and extracting the main idea.

- Dakò. Mèsi! (OK. thank you!)

This short conversation is representative of my daily interactions with Haitian students.

One time, I asked a fourth grader why she always addresses me in Creole. She smiled, then responded: “Mwen santi m pi byen epi konekte ak ou.” (I feel more comfortable and connected to you.)

Her response had me reflecting on my own Haitian immigrant journey in the U.S. over the past two years. I relate to this sense of connectedness, which I, too, nurture when I go to family events or am in settings where Haitian Creole is the dominant language. I nurture it when we gather on May 18 for Haitian Flag Day. Or when we meet up over soup joumou (pumpkin soup) to honor our ancestors’ fight for the liberation of the world’s first free Black republic on Jan. 1, 1804.

When I recounted what my student told me to another Haitian Creole interventionist, she described experiencing something similar at school — speaking to kids in English and having them respond in Creole. I realized that it provides students with the opportunity to interact with someone who speaks their mother tongue and to feel connected on a different level.

That’s no small thing, and it fills me with joy.

To provide my students ages 6-12 with additional support outside of the classroom, I founded the Haitian Creole Program in December 2023. More than 200 people have taken Creole classes in person and online, and the program hosted a children’s cultural summer camp in Indianapolis in summer 2024.

This immersion program was a joint activity with Partners in Literacy Haiti to help students of Haitian descent sharpen their Creole language skills and foster their understanding about Haitian culture. Former Deputy Mayor Judith B. Thomas even paid a visit to a Saturday morning class to share insights on the importance of early literacy for child development with our young Creole language learners.

Throughout the entire program, a Caucasian 9-year-old girl was driven 60 miles to participate, aiming to improve her communication with friends from Haiti. If a kid who’s not of Haitian descent can see the Creole language as a way to foster connections, you can imagine the pride I see in the Haitian students when they master their native language.

Websder Corneille is the founder and director of the Haitian Creole Program, an adjunct college lecturer at Indiana University, and a reading interventionist at Promise Prep. He believes language can be a vector to foster greater belonging and understanding.

Schools need libraries, librarians, and banned books

2025-09-09T15:00:00+00:00

The first day of middle school is a defining moment — and a frightening one. And when you are a kid who spent elementary school recess reading books rather than running around, it can feel more nerve-racking than exciting. When we, Aruja and Marium, started middle school at the Young Women’s STEAM Research and Preparatory Academy, or YWA, in our hometown of El Paso, Texas, we were terrified.

What we didn’t know was that this school, more specifically its library and book club, would become a place that we both wanted to be a part of, thanks to our wonderful librarian, Pete Biddle.

Aruja Misra, left, and Marium Zahra.

Mr. Biddle is a guitar player, a rock star, a teacher, a hiker, and a joy to encounter on the YWA campus. Most importantly, he is someone who loves knowledge and always encourages us to seek it out.

On that first day almost six years ago, after hearing an announcement about the BookNappers Book Club, a book club focused on banned books, the YWA library became a part of our lives.

For Aruja, being a part of BookNappers throughout middle school meant fostering a community that valued reading just as much as she did. It meant connecting with new people in a space that was inclusive to people of all backgrounds, experiences, and opinions. It meant coordinating beloved school events, from the annual Harry Potter Day, where we replicated Hogwarts, to the haunted house, to the cookie bake-off.

At a time when reading for pleasure, or even for school, can feel like a low priority, when library programs are losing funding, and when so many campuses lack dedicated librarians, the libraries like ours — and librarians like Mr. Biddle — are invaluable.

School libraries are disappearing when students need them most

From conversations about the latest political news to debates about the next fantasy book in a series to listening to awe-inspiring music during free periods, the YWA library is so much more than just books. For Marium, the library is a place of new ideas. That’s because Mr. Biddle encourages us to research, think critically, and look for the untold stories and perspectives.

Both of us, Marium and Aruja, have had similar experiences becoming avid readers. The only difference is the specific books that led us to embrace reading as a hobby. For 8-year-old Marium, the first page of “The Lightning Thief,” by Rick Riordan, part of the Percy Jackson fantasy series, had her hooked. Feeling reflected and represented by characters, even if they were mythical, was exhilarating. In discovering new books, she was able to continue chasing that feeling.

For Aruja, the first transformative books she read were those in the Harry Potter series. She, too, was 8. Aruja recalls sitting in a dinosaur-shaped stuffed chair in her elementary school library, and realizing she’d discovered her favorite hobby.

Mr. Biddle’s book selections and our subsequent discussions have also stoked our passion for storytelling. Today, we are both 17, and while Aruja now attends a different school, Marium often spends her lunch period in the YWA library.

Reading books such as “All My Rage” by Sabaa Tahir and “Born a Crime” by Trevor Noah, both of which reflect marginalized experiences, inspired Marium’s interest in pursuing reporting. Having access to books like these in our formative years allowed us to lose ourselves and to find new versions of ourselves, growing along with the number of pages we flip.

Mr. Biddle started BookNappers by displaying banned books in our library, along with information on the people and policies that led to their being banned. He highlighted books like Ray Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451” and Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale,” ensuring that we knew why they proved so controversial.

School libraries are essential ‘third spaces’ for students like me

Access to books is crucial everywhere, including in El Paso, with its large immigrant communities and its Title I schools serving many students from low-income households. A single book can have such a large impact. For example, reading “Born a Crime” made Marium finally feel like her identities on the Frontera, where she lives now, and in Pakistan, where she was born, are both valid.

Mr. Biddle’s enthusiasm and book selections make the YWA library a place that has pushed us to explore new topics and ideas. It makes us people who will forever love books. Most of all, we know that the library is always a home we can return to; a haven, thanks to our “friendly neighborhood rockin’ hikin’ librarian.”

Aruja Misra is a high school senior from El Paso, Texas, who loves mock trial and debate. Misra wants to pursue a career as a lawyer (as you can probably tell).

Marium Zahra is a high school student and a 17-year-old independent journalist working from the Frontera in El Paso, Texas, covering education, culture, and politics.

Hear more from Marium, Aruja, and Mr. Biddle in their audio segment for On Our Minds, a podcast from PBS News Student Reporting Labs.

I teach elementary school in L.A. The feds are targeting my students.

2025-09-05T16:18:00+00:00

President Trump recently injected $170 billion into immigration enforcement funding amid the Southern California immigration raids that have made national headlines since June.

Federal immigration arrests continue to instill terror in the Los Angeles Unified School District, or LAUSD, community where I teach. Our community was quietly fearful long before it made headlines. Hypervigilance is now supercharged by a supercharged budget.

Misti Kemmer is a teacher in Los Angeles Unified.

Seventy-four percent of teachers support the guaranteed right of undocumented students to attend public school — schools that provide physical and psychological safety and are well-resourced with academic and social-emotional supports. This is true across party lines: More than half of Republican teachers agree.

More than 40 years ago, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Plyler v. Doe that children cannot be denied a free public education regardless of immigration status. But now, the Trump Administration seems hell-bent on depriving immigrant students of exactly this.

I’ve seen this firsthand. In April, I was approached by a colleague on my way to coach my after-school robotics club. He asked me whether a smiley and silly fourth-grader I’ll call Daniel was in the club. I confirmed, and he insisted — urgently, and more than once — that I ensure that when Daniel headed home, he did so with his dad. No one else, and not alone.

I stood by Daniel’s side at pick-up time at the school gates until he bounded off to his dad’s pickup truck as usual. I assumed I was playing a minor role in a run-of-the-mill divorce custody battle. It wasn’t until the next day that I learned I was actually shielding Daniel from a “welfare” check by Homeland Security Investigation, or HSI, agents seeking out immigrant children.

Daniel had been one of a handful of kids on a list of names HSI agents had brought to my school that afternoon. They arrived unannounced with no uniforms and no warrants, armed with a list not of criminals, but of children under the age of 9. I had no idea I was safekeeping Daniel, just a hallway away, from potentially being separated from his family without their knowledge or consent.

Though immigration raids like this have dominated the news, the Trump Administration has been simultaneously pursuing education policy changes that will negatively impact immigrant students — and all students — that have garnered less media attention but will be similarly devastating.

In April, the U.S. Department of Education canceled a billion dollars’ worth of school mental health grants that Educators for Excellence, a teacher-led nonprofit organization I’m a member of, traveled to Capitol Hill to advocate for in the wake of the horrific Uvalde school shooting, which killed 19 students and 2 teachers.

These grants were increasing the presence of diverse, highly qualified mental health professionals in schools, exactly the kind of expertise needed in instances of crisis like my school community experienced in April. The cancellation of this funding is a travesty for overwhelmed and anxious students and teachers in the LAUSD immigrant community and all teachers and students nationwide.

In May, President Trump released his proposed education budget for next fiscal year. In it, he recommends eliminating Title III, funding that supports English learners and immigrant students. He also rescinded guidance on the educational rights of students learning English. In 2024, California received over $150 million in Title III funds to support English learners. If Congress moves the recommended elimination forward, we will receive $0, risking English proficiency programming, dual-language immersion schools, bilingual educator positions, and more.

And in July, President Trump refused to give states nearly one billion in Title III funding that Congress had already approved, unilaterally and illegally advancing his budget priorities a year earlier. He also signed into law the “Big, Beautiful Bill,” which, in addition to dramatically increasing funding for deportations, cuts SNAP benefits, Medicaid, and so much more from our nation’s most vulnerable families. The bill also creates a federal voucher program that will direct billions to create scholarships for private schools that can deny admission based on immigration status or other factors.

So while the cable news channels earlier this year trained their cameras on Waymos and smoke bombs in a small section of downtown Los Angeles, the truth is something less in-your-face, but equally violent and tragic: Children deprived of the right to learn who are terrified of what comes next.

Like most teachers, I used to eagerly await summer break, especially the sleep. But this past summer, sleep was elusive. I woke up wondering if my students were OK, if their families were intact, and if they would return to fifth grade in the fall and come visit me at lunchtime. I wondered if they or their caregivers had been detained or deported, or if they would be sent to a country where they do not even speak the language.

I implore the Trump Administration to change course. I implore them to give immigrant students the safe, engaging learning environments every child deserves and the vast majority of public school teachers desperately want for them this new school year.

Misti Kemmer is a fourth grade Los Angeles Unified School District teacher and member of Educators for Excellence.

Acupuncture, sound baths, fresh juice: Here’s how our school prioritizes student wellness

2025-09-04T14:00:00+00:00

In today’s educational landscape, there is growing recognition of the need to support the whole student — mind, body, and spirit. Academic success, while essential, is only one piece of the puzzle. Neglecting mental, emotional, spiritual, physical, and social well-being can impact a student’s ability to thrive academically.

That’s why the small, alternative high school where I work as a social worker has started hosting Community Wellness Night events for students and families. Since the spring of 2024, we’ve been organizing these gatherings once a semester to meet the need for accessible wellness services.

DonDre Harris is a school social worker in Denver.

Chair and table massages, Normatec leg compression, massage guns, acupuncture detox, sound baths, fresh juice, nourishing food, games, and wellness kits are all on offer in the space they trust the most: their school.

Why is this important? Many of our students and their families face barriers to accessing essential wellness services. The demands of daily life, financial constraints, and even mistrust or unfamiliarity with outside service providers can make seeking out self-care intimidating or out of reach.

With Community Wellness Night, we eliminate those barriers. Here, relationships have already been established, creating a comfortable setting for families to experience holistic care.

I know firsthand how it feels to be a student who doesn’t exhibit behavioral concerns and performs well academically, yet is overlooked when it comes to social and emotional needs. When I was in high school, I struggled in ways that often went unnoticed. As a result, I wanted to support as many students as possible, knowing the positive impact that it can have on emotional regulation, self-awareness, confidence, and achievement.

The impact of these supports on students’ well-being cannot be overstated. Research shows that stress, anxiety, and emotional challenges can affect a student’s ability to focus, engage, and perform academically.

Physical wellness, too, plays a role. When students are feeling run down, disconnected, or physically strained, learning takes a backseat to simply getting through the day. By providing access to wellness practices such as massage and acupuncture, we offer an opportunity to release the physical and mental tensions that may be holding them back.

Many of our students and their families face barriers to accessing essential wellness services.

Spiritual and emotional health, often the most overlooked aspects of student wellness, are addressed through practices like sound baths, which foster relaxation, mindfulness, and a deeper connection to oneself. At a time when young people are navigating immense societal pressures and personal struggles — cyberbullying, comparison culture, unprocessed trauma, safety concerns, and more — creating space for reflection, inner peace, and emotional balance is essential. I’ve seen how these practices can be transformative, giving students the tools to manage stress, build emotional resilience, and cultivate self-awareness.

The social component of our gathering is also essential. Families come together to bond over games, wellness kits, and the joy of trying something new. The result: strengthened family relationships and student support systems. The event connects our students and families to a broader network of community resources, helping them feel less isolated and more empowered to take control of their health and well-being.

Community Wellness Night has been well-received by our families, with attendance growing with each subsequent event. Since we began hosting these gatherings, parents and guardians have been more willing than before to sign consent forms allowing their children to receive mental health supports at school.

In addition to hosting Community Wellness Night, I facilitate a boys’ group centered on issues facing young men; a “Namaste” group focused on stress management, anxiety reduction, and self-management; a grief and loss group to help students navigate different forms of grief; and a Genders and Sexualities Alliance group to support the LGBTQIAP+ community.

By prioritizing health, we are giving students the opportunity to recharge, refocus, and reconnect — not just to their studies, but to their families, communities, and most importantly, themselves.

Community Wellness Night is our way of saying: We see you, we care about you, and we are committed to supporting your whole self. It’s a reminder that wellness isn’t a luxury — it’s a necessity.

DonDre “Don” Harris is a school social worker, emotional learning coordinator, and 504 coordinator at Academy of Urban Learning Denver High School.

Black teachers face too much pressure

2025-09-03T12:00:00+00:00

When I was in middle school, I received two detentions. Detentions were reflected on academic records, and three meant a suspension.

Detention No. 1 stemmed from my bringing a cheap digital camera to school. I love photography, and as I’d received the camera for Christmas, I brought it with me to take pictures on the playground. While other students texted on their smartphones despite the strict no-phone policy, I took photos of the swings. Seeing this, my teacher confiscated my camera and gave me my first-ever detention.

Avery Oliver

I got my second detention for being late to my math class. During the five-minute period between one class and the next, I stayed behind in computer class to help my teacher. She wrote a note so my math teacher would excuse my tardiness. The second I walked into my math classroom, my math teacher rushed to write me a detention. All the while, as I was attempting to explain my situation, a non-Black student also slipped in late, unexcused, and did not receive a detention.

There is a common denominator in both of these stories. When I received these detentions from two different white teachers, I went to the same Black teacher for support. Not only did she not back me up, but she also chastised me, siding with those who punished me. This has stuck with me for years.

As a Black student, I understood at a young age that having Black teachers didn’t necessarily save me from racial discrimination. It wasn’t until high school, after meeting my science teacher who was Black, that I finally felt heard. My high school introduced me to various Black professionals, from all walks of life, in both staff and administrative positions. It was in this environment that I eventually felt safe as a Black student.

For Black and other marginalized children experiencing racism and other forms of discrimination, a teacher who looks like them can aid in their success and comfort, research has shown. However, Black teachers are not the only ones responsible for educating Black students.

That’s why I wish well-meaning educators would stop treating the presence of Black teachers as a quick fix and our community like a cultural and economic monolith. Black educators may themselves be experiencing racism and microaggressions at school. We also come from different communities and socioeconomic backgrounds, which means we may or may not share similar life experiences with our students.

As someone who has worked as an assistant teacher and is currently a literacy skills tutor — my students are primarily marginalized learners, including Black and Hispanic children, and those from low-income households — I listen and try my best to understand their experiences. I am very privileged to be someone they open up to. And I am happy to know that my presence in my students’ lives has made them feel seen and more comfortable at school.

But I’m not going to reach every Black student, and the responsibility to do so shouldn’t fall disproportionately on my shoulders. Accepting this saddened me at first, and I worried that I was failing students who looked like me.

I sometimes see other Black educators on TikTok expressing their concern about reading levels among Black students. One teacher mentioned that many of her students read far below their grade level. The teachers cited many reasons for these struggles, such as the lack of family support and underfunded school systems, especially now, when programs supporting low-income students and students of color are being targeted by the current administration. We need policy changes, but they aren’t likely to be forthcoming.

Of course, parental engagement plays an important role in ensuring the success of Black learners. But placing all the blame on parents isn’t right, either, considering many of them are working long hours at multiple jobs, and they may have faced educational inequities in their own schooling. (Across the U.S., some 54% of people between the ages of 16 and 74 read below a sixth-grade level, and there are clusters of low literacy rates in some majority-Black communities in the South.)

The responsibility for educating Black children is not the work of Black teachers alone. Nor is it the sole responsibility of parents or guardians. Community intervention means educators from all backgrounds and families coming together to ensure that Black students have what they need to thrive.

When I was 22, I interned for KERA, a Dallas-based, listener-supported radio station. Part of that internship involved assisting at an educational summer camp that primarily served Black students. There, I watched as the kids learned from Black educators about the environment around them, and I understood how this summer camp fostered relationships between Black youth, teachers, and the parents who enrolled their children in this camp, where the kids learned to care about nature and conduct science experiments.

I realized then the importance of us all coming together to be cheerleaders for our Black youth. It made me see how unfair it was to expect Black educators or parents to do it alone; it should be a group effort. It’s on all of us to uplift Black students.

Avery Oliver is a freelance and contributing journalist based in Denton, Texas. She currently writes about such topics as the environment, mental health, entertainment, and representation for Black people. In addition, Oliver tutors students in kindergarten through college level in reading, writing, and spelling.

I run an internship program for undocumented students. Here’s what we owe immigrant youth.

2025-08-22T12:00:00+00:00

On the same day that Trump’s Homeland Security chief Kristi Noem led an ICE raid in the Bronx earlier this year, I was blocks away preparing the application for Beyond Rising, the Oyate Group’s paid internship program for undocumented young people. We just wrapped our fourth year of this summer program geared toward 16- to 21-year-olds for whom such opportunities are very limited.

Working through crises is part of the job at community-based organizations like ours. We’re often on the front lines of public health emergencies and major news events. Today, we face frequent immigration arrests and a flurry of executive orders dismantling structures that help support the most vulnerable populations.

Augustina Warton

Times of crisis are overwhelming for everyone, and for the young people we work with, I’ve observed fear manifesting in troubling ways.

As an educator, organizer, and nonprofit administrator for over 20 years, the burning question that is always at the back of my mind is, “Will we be able to keep our young people safe?” The answer to that question for me right now is no. I can never fully guarantee that the spaces we share together will always be safe.

For undocumented young people like those in our Beyond Rising internship program, the scare tactics and threats of ICE arrests are exacerbating widespread teen isolation. Such threats are so effective that many of the young people I work with are worried about leaving their homes, whether to go to school or an extracurricular activity.

As the start of the school year nears in New York City and the threats of immigration arrests intensify, I fear that students will stay home altogether. We need to do a better job of changing the narrative so that our young people and their families can continue to live their lives as our neighbors, coworkers, teachers, and students without fear.

Within Beyond Rising, we see a side of undocumented young people that is not represented in the news headlines. Our program places students in competitive internships across the city in MakerLABs, in policy institutes, at career development offices, and in public health initiatives.

We receive over 1,000 applications for 50 summer spots, so the need for programs like this far exceeds capacity. On Fridays throughout the summer, we meet with Beyond Rising interns to build relationships and strengthen college and career skills. Our workshops are hands-on, interactive, and often arts-based.

With the combination of work experience and Friday workshops, we see interns coming out of their shells and revealing their full personalities. We see young people like Sylvia, whose name has been changed to protect her privacy; she interned in the scholarships office at CUNY’s Hostos Community College, where her job involved gathering information about student scholarships. Through that work, she also learned about the Dream Scholarship, which she received for her first semester of college this fall. We see hopeful moments like this frequently at Beyond Rising.

We also see them helping their families make rent, considering college, and dreaming about future job opportunities. They are leaders in student organizations and on sports teams. They are poets aspiring to study law, first-year nursing students working to conquer their fear of public speaking, and high school seniors who plan to study pre-med despite knowing that barriers to medical school and residencies for undocumented students make their training nearly impossible to finish.

Why don’t we hear more of these stories? Stories of undocumented young people striving to do well for themselves, their families, and their communities. I’m angry that so much of the attention is focused on the prejudiced lie that undocumented immigrants are criminals and not on how much they lift up this country and this city. Study after study shows that undocumented immigrants commit fewer crimes than U.S. citizens; in fact, immigration is tied to lower crime rates.

We owe it to the impressive young people I work with at Beyond Rising to keep our promise of sanctuary, to protect whatever might be left of the “American Dream,” to be brave in the spaces we occupy, and to offer our money and our talents in support when we can.

My passion and determination to continue this work come from knowing that even if we can’t have safe spaces in this fragile and unpredictable world, we can work to build brave spaces together that reflect what we want to see in the world. Immigration lawyers, mental health practitioners, artists, and teachers — and all of us, really — have a role to play.

I often refer to the poem “An Invitation to a Brave Space” by Micky Scottbey Jones to illustrate this point: “Together we will create brave space / Because there is no such thing as a ‘safe space’ / We exist in the real world … It will not always be what we wish it to be / But / It will be our brave space together.”

Correction: A previous version of this story misspelled the name of the Oyate Group.

Augustina Warton is the director of programs at Oyate Group and a first-generation Peruvian American with a passion for driving social change through education and the arts. She creates and oversees youth development programs that blend career readiness, leadership, art, mentorship, and other resources that uplift the next generation of New Yorkers. Warton also serves as an adjunct professor, teaching a range of subjects at the City College of New York.

Learning to teach Illustrative Math is hard, but it’s worth it

2025-08-19T12:00:00+00:00

As a high schooler growing up in Yonkers, I was the kid my math teachers could ask to help the students who struggled in class. I was fortunate that math came pretty easily to me, and I could explain concepts and approaches in many different ways until it made sense to my peers. By 11th grade, I knew I wanted to be a math teacher.

Now, as I enter my fourth year teaching Algebra I at New Directions Secondary School in the Bronx, my favorite thing is getting to witness the moment a new idea clicks for my students. Some kids arrive in my classroom convinced they’ll never be good at math, and then a quarter of the way through the year, they’ll nearly jump out of their seats yelling, “I get it now!” Seeing that pride and accomplishment will never get old.

Back in 2022, my school piloted the new NYC Solves curriculum, Illustrative Mathematics, which prioritizes real-world problem-solving and class discussions. New Directions serves transfer students, including those who have fallen behind in credits, and students who are new to the U.S.

About 70–80% of the kids in my classroom are either learning English or have disabilities, and sometimes, both. I teach in English and Spanish, but I have kids who speak other languages at home.

Brian Wong

The thing all my students have in common is that they are behind in math, some by a grade level or more. It’s a daily challenge to teach a group of kids with such vastly different life experiences, educational experiences, and needs, but I don’t know a single teacher in New York City who doesn’t face the same thing to some degree. Even with the best curriculum in the world, it’s still a tall order to differentiate instruction and meet the specific needs of every student.

Since New York City Public Schools first adopted Illustrative Math, I’ve heard plenty of critiques of the curriculum — specifically, the speed with which teachers are expected to cover the material, that it’s out of step with the Algebra I Regents exam, and that it lacks sufficient remediation for students who have fallen behind. And I’ll acknowledge that the curriculum’s high level of rigor made for a more challenging transition, especially because the district didn’t provide enough professional development early on.

When my co-teacher and I first started teaching the curriculum, we received a two-hour Zoom training, and then we were sent on our way. The training is supplemented with coaches, but they are stretched thin among New York City’s many math teachers.

We made all kinds of preventable mistakes in those early days. For example, we focused our efforts on trying to cram 60-minute lesson plans into our 45-minute teaching periods, which felt like we were rushing our kids through material they still weren’t understanding. It was a constant source of anxiety.

But after that first year, it started to click. I learned that I could adjust the lessons and the pacing to fit our classes without sacrificing the rigor. I watched my students go from memorizing equations to learning and discussing math. And that’s when I started to really appreciate the Illustrative Math curriculum.

The language routines built into Illustrative Math — like Notice and Wonder and Three Reads — introduce consistency and structure that help my students with math anxiety know what to expect. A lot of my kids arrive in my classroom with gaps in the background skills required to do grade-level math.

If a student who is behind also feels anxious or uncomfortable trying to understand material they didn’t get when they were younger, the prerequisite material doesn’t sit right. The routines give all my students a confidence-inspiring place to start, reduce anxiety, and free up their brain space to learn.

“I’ve seen what happens when students who think they’re ‘bad at math’ start to lead discussions, defend their thinking, and believe in their ability.”
Brian Wong

The curriculum also creates opportunities for synthesis that are often missing from classrooms. Students in my Algebra I class discuss, collaborate, and reflect on the concepts they’re learning. During Unit 4 on functions, one of my students shared how she understood the rate of change in her own words. As she explained it to her classmates, more students started contributing their own ideas on how and why the concept made sense. When I see my students listening to each other’s strategies and analyzing their own thinking, I can see the wheels turning and the concepts clicking.

And most importantly, the Illustrative Math Algebra I curriculum is grade-level math. It’s the math my students should be doing, and we need more of that in New York City classrooms. When given the opportunity, so many students rise to the challenge.

Now that I’ve been using Illustrative Math for a few years, I can dial the challenge in a given lesson up or down without making the problems any easier. For example, if an activity has five problems, I’ll just break my students into groups and have each group take two problems. Then I’ll share out what they learn afterwards. By giving them more time to work on fewer problems, I never have to sacrifice rigor.

From September to May, I had students go from confused and frozen to confident and engaged. Four students who had difficulty understanding number lines in September are now successful in graphing systems of equations by themselves. Of the kids who started more than a year behind in math, almost three-quarters are showing significant improvement, engaging with the routines, and meeting expectations.

Like any curriculum, Illustrative Math isn’t perfect. But I’ve seen what happens when students who think they’re “bad at math” start to lead discussions, defend their thinking, and believe in their ability. It’s not just a benefit that outweighs the drawbacks; it’s also the reason I teach.

Brian Wong is an Algebra I teacher at X350 New Directions Secondary School in the Bronx.

Student teachers shouldn’t have to make impossible choices

2025-08-11T21:10:39+00:00

As I started my presentation at our open house, I did a double-take. One of the parents sitting in the audience was … Arabelle?!

It’s strange when former students become current parents. I stammered. She grinned. When the evening ended, I sought her out. As if my former student becoming a current parent was not enough, Arabelle, whose name I changed here to protect her privacy, hit me with another bombshell: “I wanted to thank you, Mr. Kannan, for teaching my daughter and inspiring me to become a teacher.”

Memo to self: More Kleenex boxes.

Courtesy of Ashley A Kannan

She told me about her experience in becoming a teacher. Then, she dropped one more emotional truth bomb. Arabelle was considering quitting her education studies because she could not complete her unpaid student teaching requirement. “I have to eat, Mr. Kannan. Me and my little girl have to stay somewhere,” she told me. “I just can’t afford to student teach. No one’s there to help me, Mr. Kannan.”

Fifteen years ago, when I heard that voice coming from my student, I would rush to help her. But now, I felt powerless.

I was also not surprised. When I was an education student nearly 30 years ago, student teaching without pay was an unfortunate “part of the gig.” In Illinois, where I teach, it still is. That needs to change — and urgently.

As a student teacher, Arabelle will do a teacher’s job five days a week, including weekends, since the work inevitably spills beyond the school week, and then go back to her life as an education student each night.

She should not have to say, “I need to eat” or “Me and my little girl need a place to stay” because developing one’s craft as an apprentice should not involve such agonizing choices. Paying our student teachers would not only lift Arabelle as she climbs, but also help alleviate Illinois’ easing but still present teacher shortage.

The Illinois General Assembly recently passed HB3528, prohibiting higher education programs from forbidding student teachers from accepting payment. While this is a start, it is far from what prospective student teachers like Arabelle need. (A more comprehensive bill that would facilitate stipends for student teachers and supervisory teachers who complete a training is stalled for now, amid uncertainty in federal funding.)

A recent Teach Plus report highlights the importance of paying student teachers for their service, as a way to show respect to those who, like Arabelle, will transform our vocation. Paying student teachers is also a way to redress systemic racial inequity. The financial barrier of unpaid student teaching affects prospective teachers of color disproportionately, as they are more likely to experience financial need.

Compensating would-be educators is important, but that’s hardly the only barrier pre-service teachers face. School districts and schools of education must work harder to ensure that student teachers are placed with a good supervisory match. A thorough vetting process that considers the student population a would-be educator is likely to teach would yield better results.

If I had a supervisor invested in my success, I would not have been so lost during my own student teaching experience. I filled out a boilerplate form asking me questions such as “What grade did I want to teach?” and “How far would I be willing to travel?” I ended up at a school in an unfamiliar community with a disinterested cooperating teacher. Randomness should not be the dominant experience for our emerging educators.

My supervising teacher offered little in the way of feedback. He was disengaged from my growth, and there was no real incentive for him to put the time in, since he wasn’t being paid for his supervisory role. That, too, must change.

In addition, every student teacher must be supported with high-quality mentorship beyond the supervisory relationship. There are so many areas of confusion for student teachers. A mentor teacher can make a big difference, as early-career teachers learn to navigate everything from real-time grading to student differentiation, from parent communication to lockdown protocols.

I told Arabelle to keep in touch with me, both as her child’s teacher and as a potential mentor. She smiled, but I sensed her lingering concern about her career path.

I have been incredibly lucky to grow in this profession. Arabelle should have that same opportunity to teach; moreover, students should have the opportunity to learn from her. With compensation for student teaching, good-fit supervisors, and committed mentors, we can set Arabelle up for success as an educator who could soon be doing her own open house presentation.

Ashley A. Kannan teaches eighth grade American History and African American Studies at Percy Julian Middle School in Oak Park, Illinois. He is a 2025-2026 Teach Plus Leading Edge Fellow.

In training educators to use AI, we must not outsource the foundational work of teaching

2025-08-11T14:00:00+00:00

I was conferencing with a group of students when I heard the excitement building across my third grade classroom. A boy at the back table had been working on his catapult project for over an hour through our science lesson, into recess, and now during personalized learning time. I watched him adjust the wooden arm for what felt like the 20th time, measure another launch distance, and scribble numbers on his increasingly messy data sheet.

“The longer arm launches farther!” he announced to no one in particular, his voice carrying the matter-of-fact tone of someone who had just uncovered a truth about the universe. I felt that familiar teacher thrill, not because I had successfully delivered a physics lesson, but because I hadn’t taught him anything at all.

Timothy Cook

Last year, all of my students chose a topic they wanted to explore and pursued a personal learning project about it. This particular student had discovered the relationship between lever arm length and projectile distance entirely through his own experiments, which involved mathematics, physics, history, and data visualization.

Other students drifted over to try his longer-armed design, and soon, a cluster of 8-year-olds were debating trajectory angles and comparing medieval siege engines to ancient Chinese catapults.

They were doing exactly what I dream of as an educator: learning because they wanted to know, not because they had to perform.

Then, just recently, I read about the American Federation of Teachers’ new $23 million partnership with Microsoft, OpenAI, and Anthropic to train educators how to use AI “wisely, safely and ethically.” The training sessions would teach them how to generate lesson plans and “microwave” routine communications with artificial intelligence.

My heart sank.

As an elementary teacher who also conducts independent research on the intersection of AI and education, and writes the ‘Algorithmic Mind’ column about it for Psychology Today, I live in the uncomfortable space between what technology promises and what children actually need. Yes, I use AI, but only for administrative work like drafting parent newsletters, organizing student data, and filling out required curriculum planning documents. It saves me hours on repetitive tasks that have nothing to do with teaching.

I’m all for showing educators how to use AI to cut down on rote work. But I fear the AFT’s $23 million initiative isn’t about administrative efficiency. According to their press release, they’re training teachers to use AI for “instructional planning” and as a “thought partner” for teaching decisions. One featured teacher describes using AI tools to help her communicate “in the right voice” when she’s burned out. Another says AI can assist with “late-night lesson planning.”

That sounds more like outsourcing the foundational work of teaching.

Watching my student discover physics principles through intrinsic curiosity reminded me why this matters so much. When we start relying on AI to plan our lessons and find our teaching voice, we’re replacing human judgment with algorithmic thinking at the very moment students need us most. We’re prioritizing the product of teaching over the process of learning.

Most teachers I talk to share similar concerns about AI. They focus on cheating and plagiarism. They worry about students outsourcing their thinking and how to assess learning when they can’t tell if students actually understand anything. The uncomfortable truth is that students have always found ways to avoid genuine thinking when we value products over process. I used SparkNotes. Others used Google. Now, students use ChatGPT.

The problem is not technology; it’s that we continue prioritizing finished products over messy learning processes. And as long as education rewards predetermined answers over curiosity, students will find shortcuts.

That’s why teachers need professional development that moves in the opposite direction. They need PD that helps them facilitate genuine inquiry and human connection; foster classrooms where confusion is valued as a precursor to understanding; and develop in students an intrinsic motivation.

The problem is not technology; it’s that we continue prioritizing finished products over messy learning processes.

When I think about that boy measuring launch distances with handmade tools, I realize he was demonstrating the distinctly human capacity to ask questions that only he wanted to address. He didn’t need me to structure his investigation or discovery. He needed the freedom to explore, materials to experiment with, and time to pursue his curiosity wherever it led.

The learning happened not because I efficiently delivered content, but because I stepped back and trusted his natural drive to understand.

Children don’t need teachers who can generate lesson plans faster or give AI-generated feedback, but educators who can inspire questions, model intellectual courage, and create communities where wonder thrives and real-world problems are solved.

The future belongs to those who can combine computational tools with human wisdom, ethics, and creativity. But this requires us to maintain the cognitive independence to guide AI systems rather than becoming dependent on them.

Every time I watch my students make unexpected connections, I’m reminded that the most important learning happens in the spaces between subjects, in the questions that emerge from genuine curiosity, in the collaborative thinking that builds knowledge through relationships. We can’t microwave that. And we shouldn’t try.

Timothy Cook, M.Ed., teaches third grade and researches AI’s impact on education. He writes about cognitive development and technology at Psychology Today.

I asked students why they go to school. This answer changed how I design campuses.

2025-08-04T14:00:00+00:00

At first, the question seemed simple: “Why do we go to school?”

I had asked it many times before, in many different districts. I’m a planner and designer specializing in K-12 school projects, and as part of a community-driven design process, we invite students to dream with us and help shape the spaces where they’ll learn, grow, and make sense of the world.

In February of 2023, I was leading a visioning workshop with a group of middle schoolers in Southern California. Their energy was vibrant, their curiosity sharp. We began with a simple activity: Students answered a series of prompts, each one building on the last.

“We go to school because …”

“We need to learn because …”

“We want to be successful because …”

Enrico Giori is a California-based planner and designer at Architecture for Education.

As the conversation deepened, so did their responses. One student wrote, “We want to get further in life.” Another added, “We need to help our families.” And then came the line that stopped me in my tracks: “We go to school because we want future generations to look up to us.”

I’ve worked with a lot of middle schoolers. They’re funny, unfiltered, and often far more insightful than adults give them credit for. But this answer felt different. It wasn’t about homework, or college, or even a dream job. It was about legacy. At that moment, I realized I wasn’t just asking kids to talk about school. I was asking them to articulate their hopes for the world and their role in shaping it.

As a designer, I came prepared to talk about flexible furniture, natural light, and outdoor learning spaces. The students approached the conversation through the lens of purpose, identity, and intergenerational impact. They reminded me that school isn’t just a place to pass through — it’s a place to imagine who you might become and how you might leave the world better than you found it.

I’ve now led dozens of school visioning sessions, no two being alike. In most cases, adults are the ones at the table: district leaders, architects, engineers, and community members. Their perspectives are important, of course. But when we exclude students from shaping the environments they spend most days in, we send an implicit message that this place is not really theirs to shape.

However, when we do invite them in, the difference is immediate. Students are not only willing participants, they’re often the most honest and imaginative contributors in the room. They see past the buzzwords like 21st-century learning, flexible furniture, student-centered design, and collaborative zones, and talk about what actually matters: where they feel safe, where they feel seen, where they can be themselves.

During that workshop when the student spoke about legacy, other young participants asked for more flexible learning spaces, places to move around and collaborate, better food, outdoor classrooms, and quiet areas for mental health breaks. One asked for sign language classes to better communicate with her hard-of-hearing best friend. Another asked for furniture that can move from inside to outside. These aren’t requests that tend to show up on state-issued planning checklists, which are more likely to focus on square footage, capacity, and code compliance, but they reflect an extraordinary level of thought about access, well-being, and inclusion.

The lesson: When we take students seriously, we get more than better design. We get better schools.

There’s a popular saying in architecture: Form follows function. But in school design, I’d argue that form should follow voice. If we want to build learning environments that support joy, connection, and growth, we need to start by asking students what those things look and feel like to them — and then believe them.

Listening isn’t a checkbox. It’s a practice. And it has to start early, not once construction drawings are finalized, but when goals and priorities are still being devised. That’s when student input can shift the direction of a plan, not just decorate it.

It’s also not just about asking the right questions, but being open to answers we didn’t expect. When a student says, “Why do the adults always get the rooms with windows?” — as one did in another workshop I led — that’s not a complaint. That’s a lesson in power dynamics, spatial equity, and the unspoken messages our buildings send.

Since that day, about a year and a half ago, when I heard, “We want future generations to look up to us,” I’ve carried that line with me into every planning session. It’s a reminder that students aren’t just users of school space. They’re stewards of something bigger than themselves.

So if you’re a school leader, a planner, a teacher, or a policymaker, invite students in early. Make space for their voices, not just as a formality but as a source of wisdom. Ask questions that go beyond what color the walls should be. And don’t be surprised when the answers you get are deeper than you imagined. Be willing to let their vision shift yours.

Because when we design with students, not just for them, we create schools that don’t just house learning. We create schools that help define what learning is for. And if we do it right, maybe one day, future generations will look up to today’s students not just because of what they learned, but because of the spaces they helped shape.

Enrico Giori is a California-based planner and designer at Architecture for Education, or A4E, specializing in K-12 educational facilities. He focuses on agency-driven school design that promotes equitable and future-thinking learning environments.

Here’s what I wish I’d known as an immigrant student heading to the Ivy League.

2025-08-01T19:21:27+00:00

Standing at the top of the escalator, I had the chance to take a good look at the entire Penn bookstore, with its branded school merchandise ranging from short-sleeved tees to baby overalls to shot glasses. I took a deep breath. “I am finally here,” I thought to myself.

It was my move-in day at the University of Pennsylvania. The second our car entered University City, I felt my stomach turn and my head fill with anxious thoughts. Few students from my public high school in New York City went to colleges like Penn. I knew I had to make the most of the opportunity to be the first in my immigrant family to attend an Ivy League institution.

Jahin Rahman, a 2025 graduate of the University of Pennsylvania.

On the day I found out I had been accepted to Penn — “Congratulations,” the letter began — my entire family gathered in the kitchen, like in those viral social media videos of students checking their admissions decisions.

Soon, my mom was screaming, and my grandma was asking questions about university in America. My dad called one of his closest friends in the U.S. to share the news. I overheard the friend, on speaker, say, “Buddy, you grew up in the narrow alleys of Salimuddin Market. Now, your kid is going to be studying somewhere like Penn.”

“It finally seems like us being in this country is paying off,” my dad announced to our family after he got off the phone. My dad had never made such a claim before. The move to the United States from Bangladesh, when I was 9 and my sister was 7, was generally referred to as the greatest sacrifice my parents ever made for our family.

It’s been four years now since we celebrated my acceptance to Penn.

I studied political science there, and, in May, I graduated magna cum laude with a bachelor’s degree in Political Economy. As I reflect on this milestone, here’s what I learned as an immigrant student attending an Ivy League school, and what I want students from immigrant and other marginalized backgrounds to know.

Take advantage of the academic resources.

I struggled academically my freshman year. The rigor was on a different level than I was used to. At my high school, the Academy of American Studies in Queens, I was a top student — and the class salutatorian — who found it easy to get straight As, so long as I studied. But at Penn, where I was in classes with many students who had attended elite private high schools or affluent public schools, I felt like I was trailing behind, which is why I recommend speaking to your professors and TAs about the school’s free tutoring opportunities available to you. I took notes throughout my freshman year when instructors presented “Sources of Support” slides, and they ultimately came in handy. That’s how I discovered opportunities at Penn’s Weingarten Center, where I received tutoring.

Find and build community.

Having spaces where you belong will be crucial to your college experience. I came to Penn knowing no one from my high school or city, which was initially alienating. By sophomore year, I began stepping into organizations where I met people with whom I had things in common. The South Asia Center at Penn, where I once led a seminar on democracy in Bangladesh (a subject close to my heart), and Penn First Plus, an organization advocating for students who are the first in their family to attend a four-year college or come from households of limited means, were two places where I found friends and fostered community.

Network with those who understand your value.

I did not have the same professional connections as many of my wealthier classmates. When you are not part of the dominant narrative, you have to work harder to find professional career guidance. But over time, I connected with mentors and other helpful adults. Often, they were people of color and had been first-generation students themselves.

A class that I still think of fondly is Psychology of the African American, during which students participated in roundtable conversations about our own families, what privilege means, and how first-generation students of color can make their mark on campus. Every single student in this class was a person of color, and many were first-generation college students. I found these conversations so invigorating that they inspired me to pursue a career in policy and education. I looked to the professor, Howard Stevenson, a clinical psychologist in Penn’s Africana Studies department, and others like him as mentors.

Penn First Plus and scholarship networks also proved to be good networking resources. Even cold messaging on LinkedIn paid dividends. Some of the people I connected with on that professional networking site, including Penn alums, met me for coffee and offered advice on pursuing a career that makes quality education accessible for all students.

Remember that you belong in these spaces.

This school has many students of privilege, but I have also met exceptional individuals who came from less. I met those whose parents put their lives at risk by crossing the border, and those who grew up in one-bedroom homes with eight siblings and shared a single computer. We were at Penn not only to earn a college degree, but also to erase generational poverty. In our laser focus, we often forget to be proud of ourselves for navigating a place that was not created for us.

While at Penn, I learned to push back on those who didn’t see my presence as something to celebrate, like when I stood up to an upperclassman who told me that “affirmative action was ruining admissions at elite universities,” after I mentioned my status as the first in my family to attend an American university. If you don’t advocate for yourself, it’s possible no one will.

Take stock of, and pride in, your family’s journey.

I remember the summer after my freshman year, one of my closest friends from middle school and I met up in New York. As we lay in a hammock in the middle of Central Park, my friend turned to me and said, “At least we can take out our hammocks and just chill in Central Park on a summer day.”

We compared our journeys to those of our parents. As a teenager, my own mother had to stitch and sell clothes to her neighbors in Bangladesh to help her family make ends meet. I guess this guilt associated with enjoying life has been ingrained into the minds of many children of immigrants like us.

But the guilt and pride coexist. I am proud to be the first in my family to attend a university like Penn and to excel during my time there. I am proud of stepping out of my comfort zone and making friends I genuinely trust and connect with. Most of all, I am proud of persevering, prioritizing myself, and continuing to look toward the horizon of opportunity.

Jahin Rahman is a first-generation American college graduate from New York City and an alum of the University of Pennsylvania. Rahman’s studies focused on political economy, education, and public policy. With a background in community advocacy, research, and public service, Rahman is looking to pursue a career in education policy to advance equity and opportunity for historically underserved communities.

Fighting for my students’ right to read, I lost my teacher’s license. I’d risk it all again.

2025-07-24T17:00:00+00:00

“The Hate U Give.” “Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.” “Challenger Deep.” “The Poet X.” These are just some of the titles my students researched and recommended as part of a 2018 project-based learning unit I had assigned. The goal: to diversify our high school’s required reading lists. “Why don’t we have these books?” the superintendent of the district where I was teaching English at the time asked me.

The following school year, these books were integrated into the English I curriculum as choice reads for our literature circles. I find it hard to fathom such a thing happening today.

Summer Boismier

Four years later, I was teaching in another school district, this one in Norman, Oklahoma. Just days before we were set to return for the 2022-23 academic year, teachers were advised during a faculty meeting to restrict or remove student access to classroom libraries.

Such a sprint toward soft censorship was a response to the Oklahoma State Board of Education’s enforcement of House Bill 1775 of 2021, which restricts conversations around race and sex in academic spaces. Concerned about a potential accreditation downgrade for violating this law, a school site administrator suggested I cover the 500-plus books in my classroom library with butcher paper, which I did. But that was far from the end of the story.

Without the classroom library that I had spent my career curating, some of my students walked into class that first day to find stories that reflected their lives had been reclassified as contraband. So I wrote on the butcher paper covering my shelves, “Books the state doesn’t want you to read.” A protest in pixels, I also added a QR code for students to scan for information about Books Unbanned, a nationwide initiative from Brooklyn Public Library, offering students ages 13-21 free eCard access to the library’s more than 500,000 digital items.

I’ve never taught a math class, but I knew that 500,000 books > 500 books. I also knew that this act of resistance could cost me my job or even my teacher’s license. But if state leadership was going to censor classrooms, I was going to make sure my students still had ample opportunities to read, think, and decide for themselves.

Oklahoma’s HB 1775, which is facing a challenge in federal court, and similar laws from Texas to Florida to Iowa, followed the first Trump administration’s 2020 Executive Order on Combating Race and Sex Stereotyping. These state mandates are often referred to as “divisive concepts” laws. But really, they are censorship by another name. And they don’t just silence ideas; they silence people. They resist the inclusion of historically marginalized voices, such as BIPOC and LGBTQ+ perspectives, because those voices challenge the comfort of the dominant narrative.

“Most characters/authors are straight white guys, and that kind of reflects how we treat literature,” one of my students reflected back in 2018, as they were working on the reading list project.

That student said they wanted to see more diversity in the assigned reading. Unfortunately, the progress made to integrate inclusive, relevant texts into curriculums and libraries is now at risk.

Friday, August 19, 2022, was my first day of year nine as a certified English teacher in Oklahoma public schools and my second year in the Norman district. By day’s end, however, I was placed on leave and told to report to district offices first thing Monday morning. Although the district expressed hope I would return to the classroom, I chose instead to resign so that I could continue to speak out for intellectual freedom and against HB 1775. Soon, my story was making headlines.

And while in 2023 an assistant state attorney general recommended against revoking my teaching license, the Oklahoma State Board of Education still took it away the next year. That has put my livelihood and my life on hold for the foreseeable future and taken an irrevocable toll on my mental health.

Recently, at my eldest nibling’s kindergarten graduation, I was ambushed somewhere around the second chorus of Imagine Dragons’ “Believer” by a panic attack. To an outside observer, I was there in that small-town auditorium, listening to a stage full of big little voices as they belted out “Pain! You made me a believer, believer.”

However, at that moment, I could not have been further from row G, seat 1.

Suddenly and without consent, I was lost amid the voices in my head that for almost three years have relentlessly labeled me a loser, letdown, failure, and fraud — my entire being seized by a feeling akin to what I can only describe as white-knuckling an electric fence.

Until recently, I associated post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, with literal soldiers scarred by the hell of war. Yet I’ve spent most of the past decade not on the battlefield, but in the classroom. I’ve learned, however, that the majority of PTSD diagnoses do not in fact stem from past military service. Apparently, standing up for students’ right to read can leave its own scars.

Despite the deep personal and professional costs, it’s impossible to convey just how little remorse I have. None at all, really. Because not every battle worth fighting is winnable. Because sometimes “Paycheck or principle?” isn’t a rhetorical question.

The books we ban are the books we need

We are living through a near-constant deluge of crises that are designed to make meaningful teaching and learning unsustainable and undesirable — from efforts to dismantle the Department of Education to the wholesale retraction of diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives, from book bans in PK-12 schools to ideological litmus tests imposed on American universities.

In this era of renewed threats to civil liberties coming out of the White House, the statehouse, and the courthouse, I’d challenge all teachers in the schoolhouse to ask themselves: What’s your QR code?

To teach is to take a stand. And just like teaching, taking a stand can look a lot of different ways, including:

Sometimes, it can even look like resting, a radical act of resilience for the fight ahead.

As the youth scholar and artist Jasmine Lewis shared with me in a recent email exchange, “[The world today] reminds me how important it is that we continue reading, writing, and harnessing care in any/every space that we are able to.”

Against the torrent of extreme partisan interference in our public schools, it is your persistence, teachers, that forms the foundation for meaningful resistance to censorship efforts. Despite everything you’re up against, we need you for what comes next: the 2025-26 school year. There’s a lot riding on the integrity of those spines beyond books.

Summer Boismier (she/her) is an English language arts educator and doctoral student at the University of Oklahoma whose work focuses on free expression issues, culturally sustaining pedagogies, and educational equity in public schools. A nationally recognized youth free expression advocate, she is also a recipient of the Oklahoma State Department of Education’s 2019 Rising Star Award and Piedmont Public Schools’ 2018-2019 District Teacher of the Year honor. In 2024, the Oklahoma State Board of Education unanimously revoked her teaching certificate for telling her students about a public library card.

L.A. is scarred by fire and terrorized by ICE. Here’s what it means to teach civics in this city now.

2025-07-18T18:11:13+00:00

Attending a recent lecture by climate scholar Carolyn Kissane at New York University, I was introduced to the idea of “polycrisis,” where multiple challenges amplify one another. That brought me to my students, who are living through a time of fire and ICE in Los Angeles.

My students will return to campus next month after a summer marked by fear. It has been terrifying for them to watch federal agents, fanned out across this city for months, targeting Angelenos who look like them. Former students have told me about the terror that citizens and non-citizens alike feel while traveling to and from work, or just going out to get groceries.

Joel Snyder

The circumstances of this moment leave me, as a civics teacher, balancing my own polycrisis: trying to sell those students on the merits of democracy at a time when the instruments of government are being used to attack their families and communities.

Teaching civics now means making decisions about what to emphasize and how to teach it. A civics curriculum that is rooted in understanding the American structure of government is critical, but how much do you discuss the decay of those systems? Addressing today’s realities lends credence to the important role government plays in our lives, and it pokes holes in the argument that government is a force for good.

The tension of a civics class in 2025 boils down to this core question: Are we there to tell the story of how American systems came to be, or are we there to help students become the protectors and owners of those systems?

I’ve come to believe that our role is the latter. While there is room for healthy debate about what needs to be protected and what needs to be discarded, if civic educators don’t emphasize the importance of these systems as a force for good, their demise will be a foregone conclusion.

My students need to look no further than our opening unit examining reports from the nonprofit Freedom House on the state of American democracy. In recent years, the U.S. has dropped from a score of 94 in 2011 to 84 now, meaning that Americans today have fewer individual and collective freedoms than in years past. Global freedom scores have also declined for 19 consecutive years, signaling a problem that transcends our borders.

The analysis of why this has happened can’t be a coldly analytical one; it must also emphasize the impact on our daily lives. Less democracy means more instability and more uncertainty.

In order to teach students to be protectors of our democracy, we need to teach them about themselves. We should challenge them to explore who and what brought them to this moment, and how they can be keepers of the American legacy that preceded them. This, of course, is harder when state structures threaten their families and upend the social fabric of their communities.

Messages that I once felt confident telling my first-generation American students — that undocumented people without criminal records wouldn’t be targeted, that the rights of naturalized citizens were identical to those who were born here — no longer seem to hold water. I’m searching for the right message to welcome my students to the school year ahead. I’ll tell them that, even amid this polycrisis, our classroom must be a place to explore and create opportunities rooted in our democratic system.

Last school year, for example, my students worked closely with our county supervisor’s office to help decide how over $500,000 would be spent in our neighborhood. And we will support the implementation of programs addressing issues such as homelessness, the need for green space, and job opportunities. It’s an ongoing lesson in the role of local stakeholders, even when they are unable to vote due to age or citizenship status.

Polycrisis is an apt description for today’s Los Angeles, where everywhere you look there seems to be a new frontier to assess the question of democratic backslide, as well as personal danger.

Back, though, to my specific crisis: How do I build the muscles in my students to become the protectors of American democracy and its tenets, while its decaying foundation makes them believe in it even less?

This is decidedly not the overly politicized debate around “action civics” and to what degree, if at all, students should see themselves as activists; this is about how to get them to see themselves as civic actors — people who have a place in the nation’s fabric and its protection.

I’ve come to appreciate that the act of civic muscle-building – a long, slow, continuous process – must come before the pitch about democracy’s merits. It happens in students’ offline conversations with their parents about our class meeting with a local government official; in exploring news sources together and assessing their truthfulness; and in seeing how institutions are of value in our daily lives, as we did during the participatory budgeting process.

The many crises before us can be addressed only one at a time, day by day, as we work to rebuild the civic culture that has left us in a moment of polycrisis.

Joel Snyder has been teaching American Government in the Florence-Firestone neighborhood of Los Angeles for almost two decades. Recognized by the Chief Justice of California’s Supreme Court as Champion of Civics in 2022, he is a graduate of the University of Michigan.

I am a Discovery student at Bronx Science. My SHSAT score doesn’t define me.

2025-07-18T12:00:00+00:00

As a student at the Bronx High School of Science who scored below the cutoff on that school’s entrance exam, it’s easy to feel like I don’t belong.

I attend one of the city’s nine elite specialized high schools. For eight of them, admissions are based on one number: an applicant’s score on the SHSAT, which stands for the Specialized High School Standardized Admissions Test.

The exam has been compared to the SAT, but most colleges take more than just test scores into account, also considering high school classes, grades, extracurricular activities, and volunteer work.

Mariam Musa is a student at Bronx High School of Science.

When I took the SHSAT alongside about 26,000 eighth graders, I remember feeling like my whole academic future depended on how I did.

Although I didn’t score high enough to get an automatic offer at Bronx Science, today I am a rising junior there. That’s thanks to the Discovery Program, which offers specialized high school access to economically disadvantaged students who score just below the admissions cutoff. Discovery students are invited to complete a month-long summer program to earn a specialized high school seat.

Currently, about 20% of specialized high school seats are reserved for students in the Discovery Program, which the city expanded in 2018 as part of a broader initiative to increase diversity at these elite schools.

I am what other specialized high school students sometimes call a “Discovery kid.” Feeling worthy of being at Bronx Science and surrounded by students who outscored me is a challenge that takes more than studying to overcome.

From the first day of school, I sheepishly pledged to myself that I would never, ever reveal my SHSAT score, a 471.

This number stayed with me throughout much of my freshman year. At times, it felt like a reminder of how far I had to go academically. I was worried that my peers would see me differently if I revealed that I was a “Discovery kid.” I found myself engaging in intellectual comparison. From test scores to IQ, from class rank to my student ID, it felt like I was defined by cold, hard, unchangeable numbers.

My SHSAT scores didn’t show what I could achieve at Brooklyn Tech

While I was busy doubting myself, my peers didn’t seem to be judging me. Not once during my first semester of freshman year did anyone ask me my SHSAT score. However, they did ask me to join in many of the clubs and extracurricular activities at Bronx Science. I’ve since joined the school’s Legal Society, Muslim Student Association, National Organization of Women, and Model U.N. Each group is a way to engage with like-minded students and develop valuable connections.

By sophomore year, busy with schoolwork and extracurriculars, it was finally sinking in: I am more than any number. I am worthy of going to Bronx Science alongside some of the brightest minds in New York City.

Are my grades perfect? No. But is the number scribbled in red pen atop an exam paper the numerical embodiment of my intellect or self-worth? Also no.

I call what I feel now “fulfillment with imperfection,” and it means letting go of the pressure to be flawless. It means understanding that joy comes from personal growth, not from comparing yourself to others or trying to prove yourself to them.

Mariam Musa is a rising junior at the Bronx High School of Science. She has a passion for law, art, and literature, and is a member of the Anti-Bullying Committee at her school.

I am a homeless teenager in Detroit. I’m also an honors student, a school leader, and a poet.

2025-07-10T10:00:00+00:00

The stage lights were warm on my skin, and the sound from the microphone clipped to my shirt reverberated around the theater. As I recited my lines, I looked out at the crowd. High schoolers are harsh critics, and I was nervous to be in front of so many teenagers I didn’t know. Glancing out, I wondered if any of those students looking back at me were experiencing the same situation I was describing in my poem:

“They don’t know what it’s like to not have a roof over my head, but always have walls built up around me.”

Charisma Holly

It was September 2023, and I was reading a poem I’d written, “Andy’s Attic,” as part of a play put on by Teen Hype, a youth development program in Detroit. The group’s student organizers curated a performance that explored social issues, and they’d asked me to write and recite a piece about housing insecurity.

As a homeless teenager myself, I was initially concerned that the piece would hit too close to home. My parents had lost the house in January of that same year. I was embarrassed about my still-uncertain housing status. Once I started writing, however, I would find that telling my story through poetry could be emotionally healing.

When I finished reciting my piece, silence fell over the crowd. Suddenly, a boy in the audience called out, “Yo, that was fire!” The theater erupted into applause as I walked offstage.

As the play continued, I couldn’t keep a proud smile off my face. I felt like I had released some of the shame I experienced because of my family’s circumstances. And maybe I had helped others in the process.

Late that night, I returned with flowers and cupcakes to the house where I had been staying. My siblings and younger cousins were already upstairs sleeping, so I quietly placed my things into a corner. For some time, I sat silently at the kitchen table reflecting on everything I had been through for the past nine months, following the eviction.

For me, all of 2023 was a blur. It was right in the middle of my sophomore year — January 17 to be exact — when my family was evicted from our house. For months, I stayed with my cousins during the school week and with either my aunt or my grandparents on weekends. There were often last-minute schedule changes that involved stuffing backpacks full of clothes as quickly as possible and rushing out the door.

With our eviction, I became one of nearly 1.4 million students in America who experience homelessness during the school year — a staggering statistic. Michigan, where I live, is home to more than 35,000 homeless students, with many of them residing in Detroit.

In many cases, families aren’t aware that their situation can be described as homelessness, since they are not sleeping outdoors. But homelessness also refers to the kind of displacement I experienced, like doubling up with family members. Other homeless families live temporarily in shelters, hotels, or motels, or reside in a vehicle. Families in these situations don’t necessarily know that the federal McKinney-Vento Homeless Assistance Act entitles them to transportation to and from school, free uniforms, and various other support services.

Moving from place to place was very disruptive to my sleep schedule and took a toll on my mental health. At times, I would start crying inconsolably in a bathroom stall, and other times, I would grow irritated by the smallest inconveniences. Once at school, a friend cracked a joke about my shoes always being untied. Everyone around us laughed good-naturedly, but I glared at her. “Sorry,” she immediately apologized. “I didn’t know you would take it so seriously.” It wasn’t a big deal, but I was under so much constant pressure that even harmless jokes would trigger intense emotions.

Homelessness has meant seeing mice in the places I was sleeping, wearing the same uniform for a week, and falling asleep in the middle of class. It has meant loss, pain, confusion, and fatigue.

It has also meant resilience.

It wasn’t easy at all, but thanks to empathetic teachers — and my own stubborn determination — I received academic honors every year. I maintained a 5.0 grade point average, taking advanced courses and participating in the National Honor Society. Although the fatigue from my circumstances led me to procrastinate, I did my best to concentrate on my studies.

I also thrived in my after-school activities. The free meals and a building to spend some extra hours in made these programs safe havens for me. I even became president of my school’s student youth advisory council as well as a leader of the robotics team. Staying committed to my passions also gave me a sense of control and a positive outlet for difficult emotions. The consistent hours and program expectations provided stability during a chaotic and uncertain time of my life.

Housing insecurity has been shown to have a drastic impact on a child’s education, often leading to increased chronic absenteeism and lower graduation rates. I understand how homelessness makes it harder for students to thrive in school. But I also know that having a supportive community can make a big difference.

Once, my Advanced Placement U.S. History teacher gave me an unexpected extension on some of my assignments. I hadn’t asked for it, but the struggle to keep up with my assignments was increasingly obvious. “You just seem like you need time,” she told me. It didn’t sound like pity but rather genuine understanding. I believe that her compassion is what helped me pass with an A and receive college credit in her class.

Another time, a friend of mine at our after-school theater program, Mosaic Youth Theatre of Detroit, brought me nuggets from Wendy’s. He hadn’t known about the hunger I was experiencing or the pressure that I was under. “I just thought about you and wanted to bring you something,” he remarked. It wasn’t anything major, but the gesture helped get me through the day, and I still think about it sometimes.

Even now, as I am preparing to begin college, my housing remains uncertain. I’m hoping that the independence and relative stability of living on campus next school year will enable me to flourish. Although I am still nervous about budgeting, I know that I can achieve anything I put my mind to.

I am proud of the work I have done. And I want people to know that with the right support, students experiencing homelessness can navigate and grow from even the most challenging circumstances. These are circumstances we should never have to endure, but are all too common in the U.S.

Charisma Holly, a 2024-25 Student Voices fellow, is a young writer born and raised in Detroit. She creates stories, plays, poetry, and other forms of writing. Charisma writes to be an inspiration to her community and to share her voice with the world around her.

Online, at school, on the street: Sexual harassment changes how I move through the world

2025-07-09T12:00:00+00:00

We were on the subway heading home from a Broadway show. It was late, and I was sitting next to my mom when both of our phones started blowing up.

I was in sixth grade and had just gotten Instagram. My mom had agreed to let me download the social media app, so long as she also had my login and could monitor it. It would just be for the first couple of months, she said.

Student Voices Fellow, Anika Merkin, 2024

That night, out of the blue, I started getting added to a bunch of group chats. The boys in those chats didn’t seem to realize I could see what they were saying. They talked about my body using derogatory language, some of which I had never even heard before; they called me names that made me feel ashamed. Especially because my mom could see everything they had said.

My mom, alarmed, asked me about it.

I shrugged it off. Even though I was only 11, this kind of attention and the discomfort that came with it had already started to feel routine. The comments, the screenshots, the way girls are sexualized without consent — it has become so familiar that many teens and tweens don’t immediately recognize it as wrong.

But it is wrong. And it happens constantly, in ways big and small, online and in person, in school and on city streets, starting way earlier than most adults think.

The problem is pervasive. Some 71% percent of women and girls in the U.S. report having experienced street harassment, with more than two-thirds of them saying it started when they were 13 or younger, according to the nonprofit organization Stop Street Harassment. When I was barely a teenager, a man exposed himself to me at the subway station down the block from my house; it would be the first time of many. And this kind of street harassment doesn’t even take into account what teens experience among peers, in school, at social gatherings, and online.

In seventh grade, after trying to explain to a boy in my grade how exhausting it was to be watched and commented on constantly, he essentially told me it was my fault, saying, “You want people to stop objectifying women, but you’re giving them a reason to do it.” That sentence stuck with me.

Anika Merkin, age 11

Sometimes I wonder if speaking up and pushing back, as I often do, makes a difference. It doesn’t stop the behavior or change how it feels. And it doesn’t erase the excuses I so often hear from family members and educators: “They’re just middle school boys.” As if this behavior stops at a certain age.

Those kinds of responses make me feel so small, conveying with their dismissiveness that I am not someone being harassed but rather someone who is causing drama.

Once, after I spoke up about a particular incident, my school suggested that I participate in a mediation circle with a group of boys, where I was asked to explain why their behavior was inappropriate. This exercise reflected my middle school’s restorative justice approach to conflicts. Not only was the dynamic uncomfortable, but the boys there didn’t seem to take me or the situation seriously.

Even in a post #MeToo era, I feel like I’m expected to adjust to others’ bad behavior, to laugh it off, to change what I wear, to be “the bigger person,” to stop engaging, and to question whether I’m overreacting. It’s confusing because I’m often told these things by family and educators, the same people who taught me to stand up for myself in these scenarios. After all, I grew up going to women’s rights marches with my mom and wore the pink cat hats — the whole nine.

But being a woman means absorbing contradictory messages: Be strong, but not too strong. Be confident, but not intimidating. Speak up, but don’t be too loud. Be attractive, but cover up. Be smart, but not a know-it-all. Be kind, but not naive.

By the time I got to high school, the lines had started to blur. I didn’t always know whether to feel flattered, angry, or both. At times, I tried to lean into the idea that being looked at or catcalled meant being wanted, that it was a form of validation, not victimization. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of shame — shame, I realize now, that never should’ve been mine to carry.

These are survival tactics dressed up as everyday habits.

I wish teens understood how dangerous their words can be. How a “joke” can follow someone for years and affect how they see themselves. How a glare, a snicker, or a post can make them fearful.

This kind of fear changes everything: the way I walk, the way I hold my keys, the way I dress, speak, and laugh. These are survival tactics dressed up as everyday habits. Like how I check my reflection before leaving the house, not just to see how I look, but to ask myself whether I look like a target. Even though that very idea feels like victim-blaming.

Looking back, I don’t know what I would have wanted someone to say to me when all of this started. If I could speak to my younger self — or any girl going through this now — I would tell her: This is a big deal. You are not overreacting. You are not alone. It isn’t your fault. It’s not a compliment. It’s not a joke. It’s not something you should accept just because others minimize it. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to speak up. You are allowed to protect your peace. There is so much power in girlhood — so much grace, resilience, and strength — that no one gets to take from you.

That power is still mine. I feel it now, even through the fear and frustration. Even when I don’t know what to do next. Because I’m still here. Still writing. Still fighting to be heard.

Anika Merkin, a 2024-25 Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow, is a junior at Brooklyn Prospect High School in Brooklyn, New York. She finds comfort in cuddling with her cat, watching movies, and making pottery. Through her writing, she hopes to create a space for honesty, connection, and appreciation for the things in life that often go unnoticed.

Here’s why we pushed for our child to repeat kindergarten in NYC

2025-07-03T12:00:00+00:00

The other night, our son Gabriel read “Mac and Tab” from cover to cover. He pointed to each word with confidence and pride. And recently, over breakfast, he showed off his understanding of place value, explaining his thinking with a grin as we asked follow-up questions.

By most definitions, he is “first-grade ready,” and he will indeed start first grade in September. But readiness is not just a skill set; it’s a state of mind. Today, he believes he is smart and that school is for him. That is the biggest change from the past year and a key reason why we made the decision to have him repeat kindergarten.

Gabriel was born in October 2018, making him one of the younger kids in his New York City public school kindergarten class in fall 2023. In many other parts of the country, he wouldn’t have started kindergarten until fall 2024. But New York City’s rigid age-based enrollment policy means that if your child turns 5 during the calendar year, they’re expected to start kindergarten that September. As a result, about a quarter of schoolchildren here begin kindergarten at age 4, and not all of them are ready for it.

From left, Luis Miranda and Chandler Miranda

As for Gabriel, we had some concerns going in — he’s a young, high-energy, bilingual boy — but we hoped that the dual-language program at our neighborhood school would support his transition. Instead, we found ourselves watching our exuberant son shrink before our eyes.

Just six weeks into the school year, we noticed changes. When we sat down to write thank-you notes after his fifth birthday party, Gabriel refused to write his name. “I can’t write unless it fits between the worm line and the airplane line,” he told us, referring to the “Fundations” handwriting guide used in his classroom. For months, he had been joyfully scribbling his name in oversized, freeform letters. Now he was afraid to get it wrong. Eventually, we learned he had stopped trying to write his name altogether.

At our first parent-teacher conference, we were presented with a report card filled with 1s and 2s, signifying that he was struggling to keep up.

“Identifies letters by name and sound – below grade level.”

“Uses knowledge of letters and sounds in writing – far below grade level.”

“Demonstrates understanding of spoken words and syllables – below grade level.”

His teachers complained about his need to play and move around. When I asked whether he was playing and moving enough during the day, the teacher assured me that 20 minutes of recess, gym class several times a week, and moving from class to class were sufficient. They also explained that there was simply no time, except on Friday afternoons, for unstructured play or “choice time,” given the district’s academic expectations and the amount of material they had to cover.

We were dismayed that his energy was misinterpreted as a behavior issue and that his desire to play was seen as inattentiveness. Most alarming was that despite the research on how literacy for bilingual children presents differently in the early years, his bilingualism seemed to be viewed as a delay.

Gabriel, who had been in formal school for just a few months, was already being identified as a struggling learner and characterized as hyperactive.

When the midyear report brought more of the same concerns, we suggested he repeat the year. Immediately, the teachers reversed course, assuring us that he would not need to repeat the year; he just needed more seat time and drilling on sight word flashcards.

We made the difficult decision to withdraw him from our neighborhood school at the end of the year. We transferred him to a new school that values play, movement, and meeting children where they are, and where he was ultimately permitted to repeat kindergarten. In that environment, Gabriel was given the gift of time to grow into a confident learner, and he has thrived.

To be sure, giving Gabriel an extra year to mature, develop fine motor skills, grow emotionally, and gain confidence is a privilege not afforded to most New York City students.

Some would call what we did “redshirting,” the controversial practice of delaying kindergarten for athletic or academic advantage. Others may argue that he is already at an advantage from having a mother with a Ph.D. in education and a father who is a kindergarten teacher with a master’s in bilingual education, and they would not be wrong. We knew what to look for, when to be alarmed, what questions to ask, what choices existed, and how to navigate the system.

But we didn’t hold him back to get him ahead of other children; we did it to stop the damage that developmentally inappropriate schooling was causing.

Just last month, The New York Times reported that offering an extra year of pre-K or transitional kindergarten to students, and to low-income Black and brown boys in particular, could help to close gender and opportunity gaps.

New York City public schools offer no such flexibility. Kindergarten starts based on your birth year, regardless of whether a child is emotionally, socially, or developmentally ready. Other school systems have responded to the research by offering more choice in when children start school and how quickly they progress. In 2010, California passed the Kindergarten Readiness Act, which makes kids whose birthdays fall between September and December eligible for a publicly funded transitional kindergarten, or TK, year before starting traditional kindergarten.

As a city and state, we need to do more to ensure we are meeting children’s academic and social needs in the early years of school. If kindergarten has become the new first grade, with early academic benchmarks, then we need to ensure it’s also a space where a child’s individual development is respected. For many children, an additional year of pre-K or transitional kindergarten would be the most appropriate option.

I want parents to know that even in New York City today, they have options. You can ask to repeat kindergarten. You can advocate for your child. And sometimes, you can change schools in order to make another year of kindergarten possible.

I’d like to see the city’s next mayor encourage its public schools to create a transitional kindergarten program that gives families more flexibility to decide, in conversation with educators, the best time for their child to start first grade.

New York State policymakers also need to recognize that age alone isn’t a sufficient measure of readiness and that younger children, especially boys and multilingual learners, often need more time to grow into school. A transitional year can offer that time without stigma, giving children space to develop their confidence, language, and love of learning.

Our experience with Gabriel has shown how much of a difference the right environment and an extra year can make. Families shouldn’t have to fight for that chance. Giving every child the time they need isn’t just good practice; it’s an equity issue, and it’s time New York City caught up.

Chandler Patton Miranda earned her Ph.D. in Educational Leadership at New York University and is an Assistant Professor of Education at Molloy University. She is a former high school science teacher.

Luis Miranda earned a Master of Science in Education with a specialization in dual language and bilingual education at Bank Street Graduate School of Education and teaches kindergarten at the Collegiate School in Manhattan.

I’ve seen the disconnect in local news. As your audience engagement intern, I want to reach you.

2025-06-30T21:50:15+00:00

Growing up, my family and classmates cemented in me the idea that school wasn’t just about learning — it was an extension of your neighborhood and your community. When you come to school, you bring a little piece of your home with you and swap with your classmates.

My mother wanted me to learn with students from a patchwork of different backgrounds. When I was 5, my family moved from rural Oregon to Aurora, Colorado, to be closer to family. My mom advocated for us to live within the boundaries of the high school she had attended years earlier. Returning to Overland High School was the clear choice, because my mom valued its diversity. When I was a student at Overland, I remember the administration boasting that our student body spoke more than 50 languages.

I started to recognize how news organizations outside our city perceived us differently. While other areas of the Denver metro area got cheerier coverage, like business spotlights and heartwarming features, Aurora frequently got the crime and poverty treatment. Aurora faces many challenges, and those issues deserve coverage. But news that focuses only on its detriments erases the nuances of my beloved hometown.

During my senior year of high school, I enrolled in my school’s broadcast journalism class. We reported on identity clubs in the school, notable alumni, and school events like culture night where students could showcase their culture through clothes, food, dances, and more. We were the counternarrative to the often one-note news coverage afforded to our community. Every brainstorming session, we turned the school upside down and inside out to shake out stories. It felt like honoring the passion my mom has passed on to me for my school and community.

Chalkbeat audience engagement intern Florian Knowles holds a diploma at his kindergarten graduation at Eastridge Community Elementary School in Aurora, Colorado in 2010.

Here I am, three years later, living in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and entering my senior year of college, and here, too, the local news coverage is full of crime and poverty stories.

As an adult, I’m faced with a similar question that I faced when I was 5: How do I learn about this new place?

One way I’m diving into my community is through the New Mexico News Map Project. My professor recruited me as an intern to help create a map of local news outlets across the state. I’ve found that the smallest news outlets can fill the most vital niches for readers, whether it’s telling people about the local arts scene in Grants, New Mexico, or explaining the implications of the Laguna pueblo’s budget.

As the media landscape shifts and more and more people spend their time online, it gets harder to stay connected to news outlets that are struggling to catch up. The outlets I logged had online presences that ranged from homemade websites featuring multimedia formats to print publications that were practically nonexistent online outside of LLC records. Communities that felt like their local coverage wasn’t accessible or complete responded by creating their own social media news content. We came across 411 Facebook groups where news is shared by local members and Instagram pages with memes sprinkled into their coverage. People want to stay connected to their community.

As I dig into my work this summer at Chalkbeat, research, accessibility, and visibility are top of mind. I’m excited to work with Chalkbeat and Civic News, knowing their reporting emphasizes the power of local news and creating impact in communities. My experiences in Aurora and New Mexico have shown me that mission-driven news organizations are essential to fulfill community and audience needs. I hope to ensure that the communities we cover get access to the high-quality news that the reporters here publish, and also for them to feel seen and heard, and to connect them to the information they are seeking.

This summer, Chalkbeat will experiment more with social media videos to meet our audience where they are. I’d love to hear from you and get your thoughts on Chalkbeat’s social media presence and how it can better meet your needs. Feel free to email me at fknowles@chalkbeat.org with any thoughts or questions.

Florian Knowles is a senior at the University of New Mexico studying video journalism. He is interning at Chalkbeat as the audience engagement intern as a part of the New Mexico Local News Internship program.

The move from principal to district leader was fraught. Here’s what I missed the most.

2025-06-26T12:00:00+00:00

I didn’t expect to grieve.

I knew taking a central office role meant trading the school building for a district badge. I knew the days would be filled with policy, meetings, and personnel issues. What I didn’t know was how much I would miss morning announcements, front office chatter, and the small but sacred chaos of classroom life.

When I accepted my central office role at Knox County Schools nearly three years ago, I heard words of congratulations and encouragement, and a lot of “You’ll be great at this.” What I didn’t hear was, “You’re going to miss the cafeteria noise” or “You’ll feel phantom pain for your walkie and reach for it like it’s still there.” No one warned me I’d find myself lingering too long during school visits, trying to feel like I still belong.

What I lost wasn’t just proximity; it was identity.

Meagan Booth

As a principal, I was part of everything. Students shouted greetings across the parking lot. Parents stopped me in the grocery store to ask about bus routes or share weekend news. Teachers popped into my office with questions or just to drop off a piece of cake from the lounge. I wasn’t above the work. I was in it. I was woven into the messy, beautiful rhythm of a school day.

Shifting to the central office changed not just the pace of my day, but the feel of the work. The space was quieter, the communication more deliberate. There are no morning announcements. No car rider line and morning high-fives from kids. No spontaneous TikTok dances during class change. I moved from the rhythm of a living, breathing school to a place where school leadership feels more technical, more filtered, and more removed.

The relationships changed, too. As a principal, you’re not just part of a team; you’re a part of a family. You laugh together, carry each other’s burdens, and share both the stress and the wins. Move into a district role, and you’re now “from downtown,” even if your heart still lives on campus. You walk into buildings with a badge that means something different, and the conversations shift just enough for you to notice.

None of this means the central office work doesn’t matter. It does. Or that I don’t love it. I do. Central office work gives me a systems-level view of how our schools function. I find purpose in improving not just individual outcomes, but the structures that guide them.

Still, the change in relational gravity caught me off guard. And once the initial disorientation passed, it left me with a deeper concern: How will I stay connected to how the work is actually experienced and carried out in schools if I’m no longer living in it each day?

‘What I lost wasn’t just proximity; it was identity.’
Meagan Booth

At first, I told myself it was just a learning curve, that it would pass, that I’d find new rhythms soon enough. And I did — but not before realizing that central office leadership requires a different kind of muscle. One I hadn’t needed before.

As a principal, I lived in fast feedback loops. I saw the effects of my decisions by lunchtime. I knew which teachers were having a hard week, which student needed extra eyes, which parent was about to call. Even hard conversations came with a certain clarity because I was close to the context and knew the culture I wanted to build.

At the district level, the impact is broader but harder to track. The wins take longer to see. The feedback is quieter.

I had to become more intentional about noticing what I could no longer see. That meant listening differently during school visits, paying closer attention to what leaders were navigating, and asking better questions. Not just about what was happening, but what it was costing them to make it happen.

One of the advantages of working at a systems level is being able to recognize patterns across multiple settings. They can reveal root causes that individual concerns might never expose. That clarity opens the door to more aligned, lasting support.

I began thinking less about whether expectations were clear and more about whether they were sustainable. My role was not to direct the work but to support the people carrying it out.

These changes didn’t come naturally. They came because I didn’t want to become a leader who made good decisions in theory but stayed out of touch in practice. I didn’t want to lead by spreadsheet, even though color-coded tabs bring me great joy. I wanted to lead by understanding.

Eventually, I began to see that even though I was no longer in the thick of the school day, I could still choose to stay connected — to show up, to ask real questions, to build trust not just through policy, but through presence.

The classroom educators and school leaders I supported didn’t need someone who had knowledge of what it was like to be a teacher or principal. They needed someone who remembered what it felt like to be one. Someone who hadn’t forgotten the rush of the morning bell or the weight of a tough parent meeting or the impossible feeling of juggling school culture, teacher evaluations, instructional priorities, and a leaky roof all before noon.

I think back often to my first year in central office. The silence. The absence of bells and kids and chaos. The invisible weight of missing something no one warned me I would lose. I remember walking through a school one afternoon and instinctively reaching for my walkie talkie. It wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t there. But the reflex reminded me of something important: I still wanted to be tuned in.

Leadership doesn’t have to grow lonelier as it grows broader. But staying connected takes intention. It takes habits, not just memories.

I didn’t expect to grieve. But I’m grateful I did. Because grief has a way of reminding you what still deserves your presence.

Dr. Meagan Booth is a former high school principal and current human resources supervisor for Knox County Schools. Her work focuses on how school systems can better support educators through the lens of retention, culture, and generational dynamics.

Juneteenth: How classroom lessons sparked a community-wide celebration

2025-06-19T10:00:00+00:00

When I moved to Crete, Illinois, in 2021, I didn’t expect a five-day curriculum unit to change how I saw my community or myself.

Tapped by the county to work on a new Underground Railroad unit, I came to the project with an educator’s mindset and a heart for justice. What unfolded over the next several months, however, was more than a lesson plan for local students. It was a journey of reconnection, reckoning, and restoration. And it all began with a question: What would it mean for students to see themselves not just as learners of history, but as part of it?

That question anchored our team of educators’ work as we developed a unit exploring the Underground Railroad through the lens of Caroline Quarlls. Quarlls’ journey from slavery to freedom began in St. Louis; she passed through Crete on her way to Canada. Bolstered by a county grant, my colleagues and I designed the middle and high school curriculum with a deep commitment to place-based education and social-emotional learning.

To ensure authenticity and accuracy, we consulted local historical resources and received invaluable insight from the Crete Area Historical Society and Museum. These partnerships helped us understand our community’s role in the broader narrative of the Underground Railroad.

Yet one of the most formative parts of this journey didn’t come from a textbook or archive. It came from listening, deeply and humbly. After completing the initial curriculum, I realized that while the first edition was grounded in good intentions, it had not adequately included the lived expertise of Kimberly Simmons, a direct descendant of Caroline Quarlls.

That realization, which Simmons pointed out after she saw the lessons we devised, stopped me in my tracks. Instead of moving forward with that version of the unit, I reached out and arranged to meet Simmons virtually and later in person. I also had the opportunity to engage with Dr. Larry McClellan, a distinguished historian whose work has focused on the Underground Railroad in Illinois. McClellan and Simmons are co-authors of “To the River,” a vital text that became central to our unit.

Simmons welcomed me into a conversation that became a turning point. I attended a symposium she led at the University of Windsor in Canada, where she illuminated the deep historical connections between the Detroit River, Canadian freedom, and the networks of resistance that carried freedom seekers across borders. Her perspective, and the truths she carries with both authority and grace, reshaped how I understood the narrative we were teaching.

She personally reviewed the revised unit, helping us to correct a significant inaccuracy regarding Quarlls’ motive for escape. It was a reminder that good intentions don’t replace responsible storytelling. Proximity to a story doesn’t equal ownership. It was a lesson in what it means to approach this work with the respect it deserves.

What emerged from these relationships wasn’t just a powerful social studies unit. It became a dynamic way for students to connect with the land they walk every day. Through maps, primary sources, and values-based reflection, students didn’t just learn about the Underground Railroad. They traced its path through their neighborhoods. They explored how places like the Crete Cemetery and Crete Congregational Church connect directly to stories of resistance, courage, and legacy. Some students even brought their families to visit these sites, sparking long-overdue intergenerational conversations.

Be bold enough to ask what history lives in your backyard. Be brave enough to learn what you were never taught.

This curriculum didn’t stay in the classroom. It led to the Village of Crete’s first organized Juneteenth celebration in 2023, a small but deeply meaningful event sponsored by family and the Crete Area Historical Society and Museum. That gathering grew into a larger event called Juneteenth at the U, supported by Crete-Monee School District 201-U, local businesses, Monee Township, Prairie State College, and Governors State University. Like the curriculum, the celebration was rooted in truth-telling, joy, and reclamation.

Eventually, this journey led me to co-author, with Dr. Rita Guzmán, “We Celebrate Juneteenth Unidos,” a bilingual children’s book inspired by Juneteenth at the U. Through the voice of a grandmother and her granddaughter, the book invites families to see Juneteenth not as a historical footnote, but as a thread connecting past, present, and future.

Throughout this process, I’ve learned that you don’t need to be a credentialed historian to begin this work. You don’t need to be an expert to care deeply or lead thoughtfully. What you do need is a willingness to listen, to be corrected, to seek out those who know more, and to let your curiosity guide you with humility and care.

We are all part of living history. The more we approach that truth with a curious and open spirit, the more meaningful our learning and our teaching become.

To every educator, parent, neighbor, or community leader reading this: Let this be your invitation. Be bold enough to ask what history lives in your backyard. Be brave enough to learn what you were never taught. And be willing to say, I didn’t know, but I want to.

Because honoring the past doesn’t just shape the future. It shapes us.

Valerie Butrón is an educator, speaker, and co-founder of Tumbao Bilingual Books. She bridges curriculum and community to bring overlooked histories into classrooms through place-based, student-centered storytelling.

Why I quit the Stuyvesant debate team

2025-06-11T20:08:26+00:00

“Good morning, Dagas!” Dr. B. exclaimed, greeting my family.

My family neurologist, Dr. B., worked with my mother to manage her stress-related migraines around the time I was born, and everyone in our family had grown to trust her in the years since. She was always happy, and usually it made me smile, too. Today, though, I could barely move the corners of my mouth.

Sama Daga

We got through questions about my medication, sleep, and diet quickly.

Then, the moment I was dreading arrived.

“So what’s been going on, Sama? Tell me the major events this past month.”

I took a deep breath. I passed time by telling her about school, my best friend’s Sweet 16, and anything else that was remotely interesting, while working up the courage to tell her my real news. My parents started to give me questioning looks, forcing me to get to the point.

“I quit the debate team,” I finally said. “I know it was a bad idea, but I thought it would help my migraines. Stress and all that.”

Silence filled the air. I could feel my heart beating rapidly.

“Sama … ” Dr. B. said.

I braced myself for her response.

“I’m so proud of you.”

For the first time in days, I felt a smile creep up.

From age 10, two things have stayed constant in my life: debate and chronic migraines. As soon as I became eligible for my elementary school’s debate team, my family was eager for me to continue our legacy of debating, a competitive activity where students defend a given position in front of students arguing the opposing point of view and a panel of judges. My grandfather, father, and brother all worked their way up to captains of their respective high school debate teams, winning multiple state and national awards.

I didn’t question my motivations behind the activity; it felt like a family requirement. I was thrown into the world of research and public speaking, just as my family members had been. The only difference? They never had to do it with a pounding headache.

I have been experiencing intense headaches since elementary school, and they’ve only gotten longer and more severe every year since. My parents took me to multiple doctors and neurologists, but no one seemed to have a solution, only flimsy theories. I distinctly remember one doctor essentially saying that it was all in my head (no pun intended), and reassuring my parents that I just needed to exercise more.

Even with these headaches, I strove to be the best debater possible. Within a few months of my first debate tournament, several medals, trophies, and certificates lined the walls of my room. With every win, my mom reminded me that debate ran in my blood and how proud she was that I was honoring the tradition. I was motivated by the praise and recognition, so I pushed myself to be better with every round.

When I got to Stuyvesant, one of New York City’s elite public high schools, I met similarly driven debaters. Suddenly, I was exposed to a new world of terminology and strategy by the upperclassmen, who seemed to live for this team. I poured hours into perfecting my arguments, the intonation of my voice, and even my posture. I sacrificed sleep, time with friends and family, and even rest needed to nurse my migraines.

At the beginning of my sophomore year, I was diagnosed with chronic migraines. My parents encouraged me not to let this diagnosis change my life in any way, and so I continued to push through the pain.

The nights before national debate tournaments were particularly intense. One such night, I sat in front of my laptop, head throbbing from pain, and stared at my written speech. Countries’ GDP and renewable energy numbers covered my screen, but my sleep deprivation did not allow me to fully understand the charts I was reading.

As chronic migraines sapped my energy and focus, my schoolwork and mental health suffered

At first, I could write through the migraine. My fingers moved furiously as I researched for better evidence, better statistics, and better refutations. As the night continued, the words started to blur together.

Ding, ding, ding, my ears rang out in pain.

Tending to my headache was a problem for after I was done prepping. Nothing was going to keep me from perfection.

My mom peeked her head through the door of my room, then tiptoed in hesitantly.

“Sama, why don’t you eat something?” she offered.

I was too caffeinated to respond with kindness.

“I can eat later,” I said.

“You can prepare later, too. Let’s eat, OK?”

After an overly dramatic eye roll, I got up to walk to the dining room table. My legs wobbled, and I grabbed onto my bed’s railing to stabilize myself.

My mother ran to hold me and brought me to my bed. It was only then that I realized just how much my head was hurting. I could barely hear her voice over the ringing.

At the time, my family, including me, didn’t fully understand the consequences of chronic migraines. Fatigue and sore muscles became a part of my daily life, along with an endless supply of medications. As the symptoms got worse, I struggled to leave my bed most mornings, so we consulted a neurologist for pain management techniques.

As I lay in bed the next day, missing a tournament I had spent weeks preparing for, I was surprised by my relief. I thought I would miss the adrenaline rush of giving speeches in front of a panel of judges, but it was the last thing on my mind.

I felt ashamed for enjoying this tranquility as I remembered what my parents would say when I first started getting migraines: “You have to push through, Sama.” For the first time in my life, I let go of the ambitious, workaholic attitude that surrounded me and listened to my body.

Further reflection over the next couple of weeks led me to a scary conclusion: I never really loved debating. I liked the external validation associated with my performance in debate. But was that worth aggravating my condition? Beyond the expected anxiety of high school, this new chapter in my life had brought on debilitating symptoms, including extreme dizziness at random times, spots in my vision, and even occasional fainting.

As I started to journal about how I was feeling, as opposed to how everyone else felt about my life, it was obvious that I needed fewer stressors and more time for myself. In other words, something had to give. I knew I had to quit the debate team.

A few weeks after my epiphany, I approached my father, who was sitting in his usual spot on our brown leather couch, with his laptop illuminating his face. I sat on the carpet, leaving at least five feet of distance between us, as if that would protect me from his reaction.

I thought I would miss the adrenaline rush of giving speeches in front of a panel of judges, but it was the last thing on my mind.

“Papa?”

I felt my heart race.

“So you know how I’ve been having a lot of migraines lately?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ve been trying to reduce stress in my life. Focus on me. On what’s healthy for me.”

Then I said it: “I’m going to quit the debate team.”

At first, he couldn’t comprehend what I was saying. When he spoke, he said, “You’ve been doing it for years. You’re so good at it, too. Why are you throwing it all away?”

“I can’t do it anymore, Papa,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.

I struggled to explain my reasoning. My father didn’t know how my life differed from his because of my illness.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to think about life without debate,” I told him.

“Oh, but now you can? You’re at the peak, but now debate isn’t worth it?”

I wasn’t angry at him for not understanding. Instead, I was ashamed of myself for not meeting his expectations. After some back and forth, he went silent, cueing me to leave him alone.

With a heavy heart, I went to school the next day and told my friends about the conversation from the night before. They, too, tried to talk me out of my decision. They reminded me of college applications and how bad it would look to quit a long-term activity.

When I explained my reasoning to the debate team captain, she attempted to nod sympathetically, but I could tell she didn’t approve. Still, she hugged me goodbye.

I felt hot tears in my eyes. For a split second, I considered telling her this was all a joke, that I would never leave this community behind. But as I looked around the room, I remembered that the familiarity of the space and the activity were not reasons to stay in an environment that wasn’t serving me anymore. I left with a quick wave and forced smile.

Walking away from that room was a step in the right direction; it was time to let myself heal.

With the help of my neurologist, I was able to implement some daily routines to prevent and treat my migraines. I started my mornings with three glasses of water and a balanced breakfast. I ended my nights with my gratitude journal and a quick set of affirmations, which helped me look past the disadvantages of my condition. It felt silly at first, but I could see the positive changes in my mood within just a few days. I began to wake up excited for the day, as opposed to my usual dread.

Here’s what I wish I’d known about Stuyvesant, the high school I’ve grown to love

My mom also helped me get in touch with an acupuncturist, which led to weekly appointments to relieve my muscle tension. After three months, my migraines began to improve. More importantly, I was connecting with my body and my internal monologue, slowly but steadily unlearning the prioritization of ambition over physical and mental well-being.

There was an obvious adjustment period for my family members who noticed my new pace of life. They would often encourage me to do more than my body would allow me to, like taking on more classes at school or going on more family outings. In these moments, it took a lot of courage to remind them (and myself) that I had challenges they would never be able to fully understand, and I needed their empathy more than their motivation.

As I reflected on how much my health was improving, I was proud of my choice to leave the team. However, that didn’t mean I didn’t miss being part of the debate community.

At times, I wondered if I was ready to rejoin the team. While grappling with this decision, a friend recommended we volunteer as student coaches over the summer at the NYC Urban Debate League, an organization that brings debate resources to students across the city. I hesitantly agreed.

As I planned lessons with my fellow lab leaders, I focused on activities that allowed students to have fun and build skills, instead of activities that just helped them win rounds. As a coach, I was responsible for fostering each student’s relationship with debate, and I aimed to ensure those relationships were healthy.

I was connecting with my body and my internal monologue, slowly but steadily unlearning the prioritization of ambition over physical and mental well-being.

My students, ages 5 and 6, were the youngest at camp, and they would often tell me that speaking in front of a room of people was the scariest part of their experience. To encourage them, I made it a habit to cheer every time they gave a speech, even if it wasn’t a full sentence. Slowly, the kids started to feel more comfortable talking at the podium.

On the last day of camp, I sat watching the young debaters run around the lounge after the camp tournament, congratulating each other on their medals and comparing the number of chocolate chips in their ice cream. I reflected on how differently I viewed debate at their age.

After every tournament, I would sit and look at my notes, wondering what I had done wrong and why I didn’t place higher. These kids were just happy to be there, and they were proud of themselves for competing.

Darren, my teaching mentor at camp, interrupted my thoughts, setting my “paper plate award” in front of me.

At camp, the teaching mentors give student leaders awards written on paper plates that relate to a personal attribute. I had almost forgotten about mine.

My plate read “The Calm at the Center of the Storm.”

I was puzzled. I was almost sure he gave me the wrong one. I was the calm one? I turned the plate around to reveal a letter.

“The kids were the lucky beneficiaries of your talents, debate experience, and peaceful presence,” it read.

It was at this moment that I realized that choosing my well-being was not something to be ashamed of; it was my superpower.

A version of this essay first appeared in Youth Communication.

Sama Daga is a Stuyvesant High School student with a deep commitment to activism, education, and social equity. She is also the founder of FLOW Prep, a nonprofit that offers free tutoring and mentorship to under-resourced middle school students. Sama uses writing as a tool to amplify youth voices and advocate for meaningful change.

I live in the Bronx and go to high school in Lower Manhattan. My commute is my refuge.

2025-06-04T12:00:00+00:00

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

Then, as the subway doors begin to close, I hear the one sound I look forward to every day: Ding-dong.

My weekdays begin about an hour earlier when my alarm wakes me up. As I fight with my body to get out of bed, I wake up next to my niece. Some days, I have to get her ready for pre-K while my mom and my older sister return from their night shifts. On those days, our morning routines start the night before: I make sure we both bathe, brush our teeth, and have our schoolwork ready for the next day.

From the moment I get home from school in the afternoon to the moment I leave the next morning, I juggle my household responsibilities, like babysitting, with my academic ones, like doing my homework and studying for the next big test.

People on my block are often playing loud music, and our upstairs neighbors sometimes sound like they are training for a marathon. Not only do these outside noises get under my skin, but my head can feel noisy, too, because my mind is always thinking about what I have to do next.

Ginger Roger Ceballos

But as soon as I step onto the train car, everything seems to get a little quieter, including the thoughts in my head.

I take the 4 train from 167th Street in the Bronx to Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall in Lower Manhattan. The ride should take about half an hour, but that’s only if the MTA is having a good day. A sick passenger, track maintenance, or the dreaded “train traffic ahead of us” announcement can make the commute much longer. And yet, I’ve come to savor the ride, no matter how long it takes.

The only thing predictable about my commute to and from school is that it is always unpredictable. Not one day is the same. I’ve seen passengers dancing, singing, rapping, running from the cops, cursing out conductors, and vomiting all over the train car. Learning to love my commute is something that took time, but once I did, I came to accept all of those annoying little things as part of my city. So, in a way, they are a part of me, too.

My commute is hardly unique. The average New York City high school freshman spends 31 minutes getting to school, though some students commute significantly longer, often taking some combination of subway, bus, ferry, and foot. Thankfully, our student MetroCards give us four free taps a day. In an essay for The New Yorker, the “Saturday Night Live” comedian Colin Jost reminisced about his own 90-minute commute from his home on Staten Island to his high school in Manhattan and how, even to this day, his time in transit “frees his mind to be creative.”

Ginger Roger Ceballos commutes to school on the New York City subway.

For me, my commute frees me to let go a little. You see, before I step foot onto the train, everything is up to me. Will I wake up on time? Will I get my niece to school before the bell? Will I miss my test? But the moment the train starts moving, all those worries fade into the background. For the next 35 minutes — give or take — I have no responsibilities, no duty to do anything for anybody. The train is the one place where I am just another person moving through the city. My job is to merely exist.

As a teenager, I often feel hyper-aware of everything I do at school. I worry about what people are going to think about my hair, my outfit, the way I speak, etc. I see my classmates every day, and one stupid thing that I do could stick with me for the whole year. On the subway, though, I don’t worry about anyone’s judgment. I don’t know anybody, and nobody knows me.

Growing up, I’ve always had to deal with problems on my own because everyone around me has had their own struggles. At home and at school, I have to be strong, caring, welcoming, responsible, an honor student, the first in my family to be college-bound. I carry the weight of my family’s sacrifices and expectations every day. It’s how I was raised, and all I know how to be.

I hadn’t planned on going to a high school so far from home. I had ranked 12 high schools from first choice to last, but little, delusional eighth grade me assumed I’d get into one of my top five choices, meaning I hadn’t put much thought into my other selections.

Even though my high school, Manhattan Early College for Advertising, was not among my top choices, when I was admitted there, I knew that everything would work out. Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall — that would be my new stop on the 4 train, just about every weekday during the school year for the next four years.

The subway constantly reminds me that life is always moving, always changing.

Being underground forces me to disconnect from social media and be alone with my thoughts. At first, it was uncomfortable. But over time, I started to rely on that relative quiet to prepare for my day. The repetitive clatter of the train wheels drowns out all the other noises and pressures in my life.

It’s honestly the only time I have to myself. On the subway, I enjoy reading for pleasure without feeling like I should be doing something else.

Books are my way of escaping reality. “Dance of Thieves” by Mary E. Pearson, “These Violent Delights” by Chloe Gong, and “The Poppy War” by R.F. Kuang are some of my favorites. On the train, I can fully immerse myself in the struggles and experiences of the main character.

By now, I know exactly where to stand on the subway platform to get a seat. I know by heart which stations are the busiest and recognize the way people start adjusting themselves when they hear they are about to approach their stop.

When I’m sitting down, I notice the little things, I see people in all the different stages in life. There are little kids trying to balance themselves as the train jolts forward, teenagers like me probably headed to or from school, exhausted-looking parents holding their children’s hands, and elderly riders resting their eyes.

I remember after one really stressful day at school, I was struggling to drown out my thoughts on the train. I didn’t want to bring the anger I was feeling home with me. As I was approaching my stop with music blasting in my ears, I noticed a mother with a note sticking out of her lunch bag that read, “have a great day mami I made this with a lot of love.” And just like that, I completely forgot why I was so angry, and the only thought I had was to get home to my family.

The subway constantly reminds me that life is always moving, always changing. Whatever might feel overwhelming in the moment suddenly doesn’t seem so big.

I spend almost six hours on the train weekly. That’s a lot of time, but when I’m on the train, it feels like time stops. My worries no longer feel so heavy when I’m underground.

And sometimes, I crave just a little longer to be frozen in time like that.

But then I hear: “The next stop is…”

And I come back to reality, where time doesn’t stop for anybody in this city, and I rush out of my subway car.

Ginger Roger Ceballos is a high school junior at Manhattan Early College for Advertising. As the youngest of six siblings, she’s learned resilience, adaptability, and the importance of forging her own path. Born in Puerto Rico and raised by her Dominican mother, she moved to New York City when she was 6. Today, she embraces the rich cultures that have come together to shape her identity.

Listen to an audio adaptation of Ginger’s essay on an episode of the PBS News Student Reporting Labs’ podcast, On Our Minds.

Battling OCD, I struggled with school refusal. Here’s what it felt like and how I got back on track.

2025-05-29T12:00:00+00:00

My tailbone presses against the wall as I sink to my bedroom floor, breathless and unable to move. I can’t think clearly. Just breathe in, and breathe out, I tell myself. For a moment, air floods my lungs. But my face is sticky with snot and hot tears, and soon, it feels like there’s nothing left to breathe in. A coarse breath escapes my throat, almost like a croak. All I can do is melt into myself, knowing I’ll wake up tomorrow and repeat this whole excruciating routine.

Day after day, this was what the first three months of my freshman year of high school looked like.

I’d spend an hour and a half each morning getting ready for school, straightening my hair, perfecting my makeup, changing my clothes until they felt “right.” I believed that if I did everything a certain way, my fears wouldn’t come true, and I’d be able to get out of the car when we arrived at my Brooklyn school.

Anika Merkin upon completing her treatment at the Anxiety Institute in Madison, New Jersey, May 2023.

Like many other teens, I worried about what others thought of me and about my grades. I didn’t just worry about these things, though. The worries consumed me.

I had missed a few days of school in the early fall because I’d caught a cold. Despite my symptoms being gone within a day or two, I struggled to return to school. Over the next few months, I would often wake up and feel incapable of going to school. I went from missing a day here and there to missing weeks at a time.

It was a lonely experience, but I’m hardly alone. Before COVID, an estimated 1% to 5% of students showed signs of school refusal, or emotional distress that causes children and teens to miss school, often for extended stretches. In the years since the pandemic, though, more adolescents have experienced anxiety, depression, traumatic stress, and other mental health challenges that make school refusal more likely.

From the outside, it probably looked like I was playing hooky. Even my parents started to wonder if I was just being lazy and stubborn. In reality, I was overwhelmed by anxiety that continued to build every day, whether I went to school or not.

Related story: How NYC students are navigating post-COVID school

After three months of being in a near-constant state of panic, I reached a breaking point. It was early January of my freshman year, a week before our midterms, and I was in an unrelenting battle with my mind. Going to school had begun to feel impossible, and I stopped going entirely.

I couldn’t stand being present in my own life, so I disappeared into TV and movies. It felt easier to exist in a world where I didn’t.

But for two months after I stopped going to school, I would still get up every morning, get ready, get in the car, and panic. Like clockwork. I watched from inside the car as my peers filed into the building as if it were no big deal. Watching them made me wonder: What’s so wrong with me? Why can’t I function like everyone else?

I would tell myself that my one job as a teenager was to go to school every day, and I was failing at that. It was embarrassing.

Meanwhile, life outside kept moving. Classmates would text me and ask where I had been, or if something was wrong, and I would respond with something along the lines of “Yeah, I’m good, just dealing with stuff.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell them what was really going on: that I’m afraid of coming to school, and I don’t know why.

A therapist suggested treatment in the form of an Intensive Outpatient Program, or IOP. It wasn’t a residential program — I would sleep at home — but it involved me getting a full day of therapy Monday through Friday. When my parents felt like they had exhausted every other resource available to us, they enrolled me at the Anxiety Institute in Madison, New Jersey, where I would spend the remainder of my freshman year.

Soon after I arrived there, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Better known as OCD, the disorder often causes people to have unwanted, intrusive thoughts and to perform rituals or mental habits as a way to ease their anxiety.

There are many misconceptions surrounding OCD, and with more than 15 subtypes, it’s a different experience for everyone. The stereotypical traits associated with it, like being superstitious and hyper-organized, are just a fraction of what people with OCD experience. For some, it’s false memories or dissociation; for others, obsessions and compulsions can be contamination-related or religious. For me, it involved bodily functions and a need for things to feel “just right.”

But if you met me when my OCD symptoms were at their worst, I may have appeared outgoing and high-functioning. On the inside, though, I was busy convincing myself that something terrible would happen and then doing everything I could to prevent it, even if it didn’t make logical sense.

At the Anxiety Institute, I was treated with a range of therapies. There was art therapy, where we did things like draw what anxiety felt like. There was fitness therapy, where I could earn the physical education credits needed to graduate high school on time. On nice days, we would take long walks or play soccer in a nearby park; on other days, we would practice yoga inside. There was group therapy, where we discussed topics such as relaxation and mindfulness techniques and the distinction and relationship between thoughts, feelings, and behaviors.

Most importantly, there was Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, focusing on exposure therapy. This means that patients are gradually exposed to their fears in a safe and controlled environment, under the guidance of a therapist. The goal was to build up my tolerance for anxiety and discomfort.

In one early exposure, to address general fears about being judged by others, I was tasked with trying to order a Big Mac in a Burger King (where, for the record, they don’t sell Big Macs); in another, I had to ask a Whole Foods worker where in the store I could find a bunny.

As my treatment progressed, the exposures targeted my specific anxieties and compulsions. No makeup, chipped nails, singing “Happy Birthday” in public, writing without backspacing. I was tasked with doing these things that triggered spirals of fear and shame.

What if people thought I was gross, awkward, unhinged?

If my nails weren’t perfect, my already clean hands felt sticky and covered in goo. I repainted them again and again, chasing relief that never lasted. Exposure therapy helped me slowly get used to sitting in that discomfort and not trying to fix it right away.

It helped with my social anxiety and online interactions, too. One exposure I’ll never forget was when my therapist had me post a completely random photo on my public Instagram story and leave it up for 20 minutes. I took a picture of my foot in a Croc — and anxiously watched the view count go up. I was convinced people were judging me, wondering what was wrong with me, thinking I was weird or cringey or embarrassing.

Turns out, no one said anything. Everything was still OK. That was the whole point. Exposure therapy taught me that I can feel uncomfortable and nothing terrible will happen. It is just a feeling, and eventually, feelings pass.

Every day, after treatment and before heading home, I would log into Google Classroom. I did my best to keep up with the schoolwork and homework that my teachers back in Brooklyn had assigned. It was hard missing out on in-class lessons and interactions. It was exhausting to apply myself after hours of therapy and exposures.

In May 2023, after about three months of treatment, I graduated from the Anxiety Institute feeling like a different person than when I entered. Someone who understands that you can’t control what happens, but you can control how you respond to it. Someone who is still terrified of going to school, but also someone capable of returning to school.

My treatment taught me that I can do hard things. We all can.

In the two years since, I’ve changed and evolved even more, though it’s still difficult to look back on that time without feeling a little shaken. I want people to know that my school refusal wasn’t just me deciding not to go to class; it was a perfect storm of fear, pressure, shame, and confusion that I needed to understand before I could address it.

Today, school no longer feels like something I’m constantly trying to survive. The workload is still stressful at times, and I still get overwhelmed, as many teens do, but I no longer approach school with such an extreme, perfectionist mindset. Having a group of understanding friends helps.

I’ve also learned to see and embrace the beauty in imperfection. And my advice to those facing similar struggles is this: Things don’t have to be perfect to be wonderful, and at the end of the day, what’s meant to be will be.

I am a member of the smartphone generation, but I cherish my screen breaks

2025-05-28T12:00:00+00:00

It’s a typical spring Saturday. The sun is shining, and the wind carries my laughter as my friends and I gather outside the Main Branch of the Detroit Public Library.

We arrive with backpacks slung over our shoulders, waving to the library security guards, who have become accustomed to our weekly routine. The impressive rooms of the century-old Renaissance Revival structure are typically quiet on Saturday mornings, so we jokingly shush each other’s giggles as we set up our laptops and browse the stacks for books.

Charisma Holly

Our phones are, of course, not far away. Mine is in my back pocket, and it vibrates with texts from my mother, reminders about upcoming deadlines, and the occasional direct message on Instagram. I resist the urge to click on the notifications. I know that clicking on one video will turn into two, and before I know it, I’ll be mindlessly scrolling through funny cats and tutorials on braiding hair.

My friends and I are digital natives, as most of us grew up with technology and had our own phones or tablets before the end of fifth grade. I’ll admit that the concerns my parents expressed on many occasions about teenagers being addicted to their phones were not entirely unfounded.

Studies have shown the potential dangers of teens spending too much time online, especially on social media. According to a 2023 U.S. Surgeon General’s report, “some researchers believe that social media exposure can overstimulate the reward center in the brain and, when the stimulation becomes excessive, can trigger pathways comparable to addiction.”

It’s easy to get distracted by constant notifications and endless internet content curated just for me. However, if I start scrolling, a gentle nudge from my friend beside me in the library convinces me to focus on completing my homework assignments. The antique wooden tables and the quiet ambience calm me amid the pressure that comes with completing schoolwork.

After typing up an essay for my history class and drafting a book report for my English class, it’s time to take a break for lunch. We put on our jackets and talk as we walk over to the Detroit Institute of Arts. We debate whether we should go to the main cafe or hang out in Kresge Court. It’s a pointless argument, since we’ll end up walking around the exhibits for so long that we’ll get hungry again and have the opportunity to get food from both places.

It’s refreshing to experience things in the real world, not just in the digital one. But for a long time, I used technology to escape the real world. Back in middle school, I would sit alone in the stairwell when there was a rumor going around the lunchroom about me. Sometimes, I would blast music through my headphones so I didn’t look so pitiful to the teachers walking past me.

At home, I’d binge-watch Netflix shows until my eyes hurt more from staring into blue light than crying over an unfortunate report card. I hid in my room, and I felt like I couldn’t explain to my mom the stress I was experiencing. She would see my sullen face and ask questions like, “What’s wrong with you?” and “What are you making that face for?” I would shrug my shoulders and go back upstairs to be alone with my phone.

My friends and I decided to spend quality time together without the distraction of our devices.

My mental health suffered. My sleeping schedule was unpredictable, and my appetite fluctuated. I would wake up in the middle of the night crying, and it felt like the only way to calm my racing heart was to scroll through random memes online until sleep overcame me. The insomnia only furthered my anxiety during the day. I was trapped in a spiral of emotional breakdowns followed by attempts to use social platforms to ignore the real issues.

But one day, I was sitting on the porch at my friend’s house, and I felt like I could finally breathe. We weren’t doing anything serious or exhilarating — just talking out loud to one another in the fresh air. I could feel the warm sunshine and smell the grass that was freshly wet from the sprinklers.

For hours, we flipped through conversation topics, such as the cartoons we grew up watching and our favorite poems. It didn’t even occur to me to pick up my silenced phone, and I felt no need to check any of my social media accounts. An older neighbor even remarked, “It’s so refreshing to see kids being outside instead of always on their phones.”

I used to think that adults were being overly dramatic when they talked about how bad smartphones were for us, but the more afternoons I decided to leave my phone on Do Not Disturb, the better I felt. Soon, I could fall asleep without watching YouTube videos, and I spent fewer nights crying.

It wasn’t just me, though. My friends also mentioned how getting away from screens was mood-boosting. “I forgot monarch butterflies were orange,” one of my friends admitted. It was a silly thought, but it showed just how detached we had been from our physical surroundings.

My friends and I decided to spend quality time together without the distraction of our devices. We agreed to meet up at the library to check out some books. We brought out stacks of novels from the shelves and stayed until closing time.

But the day’s break from Instagram reels and TikTok trends just didn’t feel long enough. We decided to return the following Saturday and the Saturday after that. Hence, our library routine was born. What started off as a mental health day turned into a weekly custom, and now, I feel much more connected to the world, to my friends, and to myself.

But it’s increasingly clear that social media has played a role in exacerbating mental health issues ever since its earliest days. A 2022 study examined surveys of college students’ mental health between 2004 and 2006, when Facebook first came online on college campuses, and found that the platform negatively impacted users. The rollout of Facebook was linked to more than 300,000 young people suffering from depression, the study showed.

The risks posed are even more intense today, with the social media ecosystem more developed and with powerful apps at our disposal.

Amid these distractions, it sometimes seems that we’re losing our ability to connect. But activities as simple as meeting up with friends at the library and walking museum corridors together reveal how stepping away from our digital lives can improve our well-being.

I want to challenge the narrative of hopelessness surrounding teens today, and I want to show my peers and the younger generation that there’s a whole world beyond the screen. There is so much to explore.

Our school started enforcing its cell phone ban. The results have been astounding.

2025-05-23T09:25:11+00:00

“Screen time check!” I barked at my health class.

My students sighed, took out their phones, and opened their screen-tracking applications.

“Patricia, how much yesterday?”

Patricia said, “12 hours.”

I whistled. “Okay, how about you, Larry?”

Larry said, “Eight hours. See, I’m way better than Patricia.”

“Shut up!” Patricia replied.

I patted the air with my hands to indicate they should calm down.

“What about you, Manuela?”

Gilbert Schuerch

“Seventeen hours.”

“What?”

“Seventeen hours. Yeah, mista, it was a Sunday. I didn’t have much else to do.”

I sighed and went around the room getting a quick read on how much screen time each student had accumulated. The class average neared 11 hours.

I said, “Let’s suppose you sleep eight hours a day. That means you’re awake for 16 hours a day. If you’re on your phone for 12 hours, that means you only spend 4 hours not looking at a tiny screen. Is that really how you want to spend your life?”

Most of the kids just shrugged.

Then one kid said, “What else is there to do?”

That’s how I knew we were in trouble.

That exchange happened around two years ago, back when our school had “banned” phones, but kids were still allowed to carry them in their pockets. The policy was effectively useless. The moment a teenager felt a vibration in their pocket, a command from Satan himself wouldn’t stop them from checking their screen.

The year after that, we tried Yondr. Some company called Yondr had created an “unbreakable” pouch that we required students to slip their cell phones into before the first bell. Then we would use a magnet to engage a locking mechanism so they couldn’t access them. The students would carry the pouches around with them, and we would unlock them at the end of the day. This way, students could still “have” their phones, but they couldn’t access them.

Our kids are smarter, more social, and more motivated to do the things they actually want to accomplish in this world when they don’t have a Pavlovian vibration derailing their attention every 20 seconds.

This worked initially. On the first day of school, a senior mentioned to me that he had “resigned himself to a year of boredom.” He had said this while idly looking at his pouched phone. For three days, teachers enjoyed bliss. The ability to teach without saying the words “put your phone away” was something some teachers hadn’t experienced in over a decade.

Then the kids started getting creative. You see, even though they couldn’t access their phone, they still felt the dopamine burst whenever they felt a vibration go off in the pouch. They had to know. They had to see. It drove them mad. Students started taking pens and stabbing through the fake Kevlar pouches. Other kids started using their keys to saw off the locking mechanism. Others still would bring two phones to school. They would let the dean watch them pop their old phone into the pouch at entry, and keep their main phone in their backpack until the coast was clear.

One kid even got entrepreneurial about it. He went on Amazon and bought the magnet that unlocked the phone pouches for $50. Then he charged kids a dollar every time they wanted to unlock their phone. The kid had made a tidy profit by the time the school confiscated the magnet. Silicon Valley has made a product so addictive that a kid created a new economy within our school to help kids manage that addiction.

Luckily, this school year has been different because students must hand in their phones at entry, or we will immediately call their parents. The phones are plugged into safe boxes that the students aren’t allowed to access until the final bell has rung. There are no constant vibrations reminding you that you’re missing out on something, and there are no pouches to rip.

The consequences for smuggling your phone past entry are high. Immediate detention, a call home to parents, and a personal visit from the dean mid-class. There was some pushback in the beginning. But we teachers stuck to our guns, calling the dean the moment we saw any kid with tech. That included AirPods, Apple watches, iPads, and anything you could use to connect to the internet.

One kid smuggled three separate school iPads into her backpack, so when she got caught with one, she would wait and just pull out the next. When we discovered her “trick,” she received reductions in her classwork grades, phone calls home, and several detentions.

Every kid who tried to push the boundaries received the same kind of consequences from us every single time. The students eventually accepted their fate. This year, they would have to go through school without an entertainment system in their pocket.

The results have been spectacular.

Students talk to each other between classes. The cafeteria is full of conversation. Teachers cover the material faster. Cyberbullying has fallen. When a fight happens, half the school doesn’t immediately run out of the classroom to watch. Mindless doomscrolling happens on their time, not school time. Boys can’t watch porn in the bathroom (or the cafeteria). I don’t have to fight an impossible war against the greatest behavioral psychologists Silicon Valley has ever employed.

Here’s a typical scenario in my gymnasium. A student is seated with their back against the wall, and they don’t want to participate. I choose one of my various talking points: “You know participation is how you pass my class, right?” “You know you have to pass this class to graduate.” “All you have to do is try; I’m not asking for a serious feat of athleticism.” “Exercise is good for the soul, man.” “Your team needs you.”

Or my personal favorite exchange:

“Do you like math class?”

“No.”

“But you have to do it right?”

“Yes.”

“Same deal here. You have to do it, even though you don’t want to.”

“But I’m not feelin’ it.”

“Yeah. I know. But guess what, do you think I was feelin’ it when my alarm clock went off at 5 a.m.? Do you think I was feelin’ it when I took an hour and 20 minute commute on the train?”

“What? You love it here, though. You’re always so loud. You’re always so enthusiastic. You’re so extra all the time.”

I gave a lopsided grin. “That’s because I’m faking it. It’s the most adult skill you have to learn how to do. You have to learn how to do the things you don’t want to do,” I said.

Last year, a student would listen to my pleas, say they would get up, and then immediately get back on their phone. Why would you play in the gym when you could sit against the wall and watch endless entertainment algorithmically curated just for you?

Now I battle boredom, and that’s a winnable fight. I’m not fighting against brilliant social scientists getting paid to figure out ways to capture human attention, I’m fighting against sitting on your butt doing nothing. And my class is awesome compared to boredom.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Banning phones in school won’t save Gen Z. I once watched our dean hand cell phones back to students in the cafeteria. When she rolled the cell phone cart through, it was like watching a crowd of hyenas catch the scent of stinking flesh. Kids stopped conversations mid-sentence and lifted their heads to watch that cart roll by.

The moment a boy got up from his table, a storm of students jumped to their feet to beat him to the cart. The dean started screaming, “If you come near me without being called up, you’ll go to the back of the line.” It took 10 full minutes to get everyone seated before she felt comfortable enough to call kids up, table by table.

That’s the kind of addiction teachers are dealing with. The kids are not all right, whether or not we ban the phones.

But when I compare the seven years battling the cell phone in the classroom vs. almost an entire year of phone-free schooling, there is no comparison. Our kids are smarter, more social, and more motivated to do the things they actually want to accomplish in this world when they don’t have a Pavlovian vibration derailing their attention every 20 seconds.

Bring on the phone-free school legislation. New York State just passed a “bell to bell” cell phone ban. We should enforce it. We should make it nationwide. Teachers need it, but the kids need it more.

Gilbert Schuerch is a high school P.E. teacher and a strength and conditioning coach who has worked in Harlem, New York, for the past eight years. He writes the Substack Fit To Teach, where a version of this post originally appeared, and where he shares his stories about teaching in a Title I school and his opinions on education.

My high school Spanish teacher taught me about the original AI — Authentic Interaction

2025-05-20T12:00:00+00:00

As AI dominates the education zeitgeist, I think it’s time to highlight an effective teaching tool as tried and true as a Ticonderoga No. 2 pencil: high-quality IRL relationships with students.

I learned this first — and best — from my high school Spanish teacher, who, as the matriarch of the Spanish department, went simply by “Señora.”

Señora started class with “Qué hay de nuevo?” (What’s new?) She learned what had happened at our most recent swim meet, band concert, or football game. She laughed as she gently unearthed the chisme (gossip). I loved this part of class. It seemed so useful, like I was actually learning to speak Spanish, and it involved one of my favorite things, talking.

Years later, when I became a high school Spanish teacher, I understood Señora was up to something deeper than building conversational Spanish skills.

Becca Katz writes Learning, by Nature, a Substack about all things nature.

She held court over those sessions, sitting atop her tall stool, sipping coffee from the mug with two of her favorite sayings, “Es mi mundo” (It’s my world) and “Todo es posible, nada es seguro” (Everything is possible, nothing is certain). All the while, she was busy taking mental notes on which students were uncharacteristically quiet, who hadn’t slept, who wasn’t OK.

We also learned Spanish. I remember my brother telling me how he announced to Señora’s whole class that he had taken a shower with a Japanese man, confusing Japón with jabón, the word for soap. That lesson stuck.

Some of my favorite class periods involved the slide projector. On those days, we would join Señora on her travels across Latin America, like the time she navigated border crossings as the official interpreter for an Airstream caravan tour. We’d listen, rapt, about her trip to Machu Picchu during which — you won’t believe it — she slept in the ruins. From our desks in a random Wisconsin public high school classroom, we gallivanted through Amazon waterfalls.

Senior year, having exhausted our school system’s Spanish progression, two friends and I asked Señora to teach us “Spanish 6.” Without pausing, she said “¡Sí!”, voluntarily giving up her planning period for us.

Only after becoming a teacher did I recognize Señora’s level of sacrifice.

Each day, fourth hour, we’d sit in a fishbowl cubicle in the library. On Wednesdays, we worked from the “Book of Questions,” asking and responding entirely en español. I learned Señora’s opinion about soulmates (good for frolicking through the aforementioned Amazon waterfalls, not for unloading the dishwasher or changing diapers), tattoos (always regrettable), and travel (¡por supuesto!).

Señora was ever present with us, existing in the physical world of pencils and people and spending exactly zero momentos chasing ed tech hacks that would “transform” her teaching. Her ace was building relationships with and among her students, deploying the original AI — Authentic Interactions — to forge real connections.

I was in college when cancer forced Señora to leave the profession prematurely.

More than half a dozen years into Señora’s illness, her classroom storage closet remained exactly as she left it. Por si acaso — just in case.

“For when she comes back,” the other Spanish teachers said.

I know because I got to visit it. By then, I was teaching Spanish. Señora knew she wouldn’t teach again, so we planned to meet at her classroom for the official baton pass when I was home for a visit.

But time and life being what they are, months passed before I made it home again. By then, Señora was bedridden. Señorita Jolley would let me in, she told me. And “take anything you’d like.”

I called a close friend who was also in town. I wanted una amiga with me.

Only after becoming a teacher did I recognize Señora’s level of sacrifice," writes Becca Katz.

In the time capsule closet, we sat amid Señora’s belongings. Piles of papers, decades of planners, and dozens of meticulously labeled manila folders with handwritten transparencies and photocopied, handwritten worksheets shared shelves with books, lesson plans, and slides. Crisscross applesauce on the closet’s green linoleum floor, we sifted through the layers.

I assembled original copies of her worksheets and transparencies, hoping the cursiveish font de Señora would buttress my confidence in a room full of discerning high school juniors. My friend assembled Señora’s books and posters of Spanish art. I added her 1998-99 planner to my stash, sentimentally marking our graduation year.

As we were leaving, I remember seeing her mug — the one with her favorite sayings on it — and I took that, too.

The mug that Becca Katz's Spanish teacher passed down to her.

When I returned to my school to teach, I excavated a dust-covered overhead projector from a supplies closet. I literally typed up Señora’s worksheets and transparencies one by one. I could have Googled resources on the subjunctive mood or passive voice, but transcribing Señora’s work felt like the right thing to do. I didn’t wholesale avoid technology; I just recognized where my priorities as a real human teaching real humans should lie — with them.

I started class with “¿Qué hay de nuevo?” sipping tea from Señora’s mug while taking mental notes about who was uncharacteristically quiet, who hadn’t slept, who wasn’t OK. And I followed up with those students after class in a way no bot ever could.

Becca Katz is an educator, mother, friend, partner, nature-lover, writer, activist, and edupreneur. She co-founded Good Natured Learning to grow educators’ capacity to integrate nature connections into their routine teaching practices. Becca writes Learning, by Nature, a Substack about all things nature.

In prison, I embraced the SEL skills I should have learned in grade school

2025-05-12T12:00:00+00:00

The classroom on this particular Friday night was quiet, the only exception being my quavering voice as I divulged my darkest secrets. I opened up about the downward spiral that had become my life: dropping out of college, getting fired from multiple jobs, and committing increasingly destructive acts that would lead to my incarceration.

It was the first time that I’d shared my entire story, and I couldn’t get through it without shedding a few tears. I felt vulnerable and exposed, yet relieved that I was finally able to let my truth out.

This is what restorative justice looks like at MCI-Shirley, a medium security prison for men in central Massachusetts, where I’ve spent the past 12 years. Every week, a group of us sit in a circle, telling our stories and learning about our feelings. The goal is to better understand ourselves and one another. We are committed to becoming better people by contributing to our community, both here at Shirley and when we return home.

For me, restorative justice has been transformative, providing me with the tools to break down the walls of insecurity and shame that I’d built up most of my life. I can’t help but wonder what my life might have been like if I’d had access to these tools earlier. Maybe, if I’d learned how to better express my feelings and emotions as a kid, the trail of destruction that caused so much pain to my family, friends, and community could’ve been avoided.

In high school, I struggled with self-confidence. Like so many teens, I was consumed by people’s perceptions of me. I learned to hide my insecurities behind false bravado. I pretended everything was OK and coped with my struggles by abusing drugs and alcohol, acting out in increasingly damaging ways. I stole, I damaged property, and, as I got older, I began to light fires.

Today, I know that there’s a name for what I needed as a student: social-emotional learning. SEL provides students with the tools to manage their feelings and emotions. Done well, these programs help students establish positive relationships, develop empathy, and make responsible decisions. Students who are anxious or upset, as I so often was, learn to pause and recognize what’s causing their feelings, as opposed to acting out or becoming disruptive.

A growing body of research points to clear benefits for students who have access to SEL. A recent meta-analysis of studies spanning more than a decade found consistent, positive effects on student outcomes, including increased social and emotional skills, higher academic achievements, and fewer problems with behavior. A 2015 study at Columbia University makes the economic case for SEL, concluding that the benefits of these programs far outweigh the costs. One major source of cost savings: students who partake in SEL programs are less likely to commit crimes.

Unfortunately, these programs are also controversial. Some parents have argued that SEL takes away from academics, that it’s softening their children, or that it’s teaching values they disapprove of. SEL has also been lumped in with other acronyms that have become increasingly divisive in the current political climate, such as CRT and DEI. The Department of Education recently threatened school districts that “veil racially discriminatory policies with terms like ‘social-emotional learning’” with investigations and the loss of funding.

That’s a shame because the sorts of restorative justice programs that have been life-changing for me could assist countless students who struggle with their emotions and behavior as I did.

Sitting in a circle, learning about accountability and empathy, creating a safe space to share feelings and personal stories — these valuable restorative lessons can help kids better understand themselves and their relationships with others. It can feel like such a lonely world for those who struggle with anxiety, depression, or anger. But hearing the stories of peers who feel the same way allows students to build connections, learn to respect one another, and even resolve conflicts responsibly.

As I think about the men who fill the classroom every Friday for our restorative justice circles, I can’t help but consider what might’ve been. How many of them could’ve avoided prison if they’d been exposed to programs like this growing up? How many lives could’ve been saved, relationships left unbroken, communities unharmed?

I can’t turn back the clock to undo the crimes that I’ve committed, save the lives that I’m responsible for, or take away the immense pain that I’ve caused to my community.

I can, however, use the skills that I’ve acquired through restorative justice to be a better man who will help others as opposed to hurting them. That includes championing the cause of making social-emotional learning and restorative practices part of every school curriculum. We have to start getting ahead of crime before it happens. I believe it’s possible.

Anthony Baye is an inmate at MCI-Shirley in Massachusetts and a student in the Boston College Prison Education Program. He’ll be graduating with a bachelor’s degree this fall.

My ACE score reflects my history of trauma. It also connects me to my students.

2025-05-08T19:26:59+00:00

Four.

That’s my score on the Adverse Childhood Experiences survey, or ACE. Four is also a relatively common score. One in six adults has an ACE score of four.

The original ACE questionnaire asks 10 questions about childhood trauma. The questions gauge a person’s experiences with such traumatic events as physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, parental neglect, and the mental illness or incarceration of a member of their household. ACE scores range from 0 to 10, and each endorsed question counts as one.

Brittany Lewno-Dumdie

A score of four or more correlates with an increased likelihood of facing mental health challenges, financial instability, and adverse health outcomes, and it ups a person’s chances of partaking in risky behaviors in adulthood. There is no ACE score that necessarily leads to specific outcomes, bad or good. But the higher the ACE score, the greater the negative impact tends to be on adult life.

Sometimes, my ACE score makes me angry and makes me wonder how my life would be different if my upbringing had been different. At the same time, it gives me insight into my role as a public school psychologist and better equips me to support students facing trauma. (Three of four high school students have an ACE score of at least one, and one of five report a score of four or more, numbers not likely to surprise today’s educators.) Plus, I’m not sure if I would have even entered this field if my upbringing were different.

Educators know that when kids step into schools, it’s not just about teaching them core academic subjects. It’s about providing a safe, supportive environment, and sometimes giving that little extra attention to those who need it. Plus, supportive, engaging classrooms can help students work through adversities.

As a school psychologist, I frequently have the privilege of providing that little extra attention to students. In doing so, I often learn about a student’s traumatic experiences.

In one-on-one settings, school psychologists help students complete self-assessments of their social-emotional/behavioral well-being, and those experiences really open the conversation. I might ask, “Would you say you never, sometimes, often, or almost always feel happy to be at school?”

I recall one student’s answer: “I guess often, I’d rather be here than home. But I still don’t like reading.”

“Do you want to talk about what’s going on at home?”

His mom worked a lot, he told me, and he had to take care of his younger sister when he’d rather be on his scooter with friends. He’d talk about how his mom had a new boyfriend and it was going just “OK.” His father was in prison, but he was supposed to talk to him on the phone the following week. Then, he asked, “Do you have any snacks? I’m starving.”

And another student’s response: “I hate it here, I feel like I can’t get a break.”

“Tell me more about what you’d like a break from.”

This student shared how the pressures of school and getting good grades were hard to juggle while also feeling hungry for both a good meal and affection most nights at home.

If I could change traumatic experiences for these kids, I would. I think we all would. But I’m not sure I would change my own ACE score because it helped lead me to become a school psychologist.

When I reflect on my own experiences in schools, I am grateful to see how far things have come. I’m grateful that more public schools are acknowledging the importance of mental health and amplifying what’s available under the umbrella of special education services. At the same time, I’m terrified for students without access to these types of services. The opportunity to support young people at a time when so many are struggling feels like a gift and one that I hope continues to evolve with the needs of our students.

Brittany Lewno-Dumdie, Ph.D., NCSP, is a school psychologist in Washington state. When not working with students, she enjoys writing about school experiences, school psychology, and strategies for helping students.

I am many things from many places. That’s something to celebrate.

2025-05-05T12:00:00+00:00

When people ask me where I’m from, I usually just say, “I’m from the Bronx, New York.” It’s the easiest explanation. Simple. Clean. One label. No confusion.

But the truth? The truth takes a lot longer to explain.

Here’s what I wish I could say: I was born in Puerto Rico, I’m the youngest daughter of a Dominican mother and a Puerto Rican father. I spent the first six years of my life walking to the beach after school, spending my days with the neighborhood kids, and soaking up a language and culture that still lives within me today.

Ginger Roger Ceballos

Then, in 2014, my mom packed up our lives and brought us to New York City. Suddenly, my days were filled with subway rides and bodega cats, and there was the occasional snow day. While it was exciting at the moment, I left behind a piece of myself when I got on that flight from San Juan, Puerto Rico, to New York City. The easy walks to the shore, the small-town pace, and the neighbors who felt like family.

Which is why, when someone asks where I’m from, I hesitate. I pause, not because I don’t know the answer, but because I do, and it doesn’t fit into a neat little box. I want to honor all the places, people, and relationships that have shaped me.

Am I Boricua? Dominican? A New Yorker? An immigrant? A first-generation American? The truth is, I’ve never quite felt like I belong in any category.

I’m also a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a student. As the poet Walt Whitman easily put it: “I contain multitudes.”

Puerto Rico is a U.S territory, but our culture is nothing like it is on the mainland. My mom is fully Dominican and immigrated to Puerto Rico before I was born. But moving to New York City wasn’t like moving to a different state. I had to learn a different language and different customs. All of a sudden, my life was no longer summer 24/7. This new home had four seasons, skyscrapers, and practically a whole other world beneath its streets.

My comfort food is mangu, a Dominican dish my mom has made for me ever since I was little. She never serves those mashed green plantains without the tres golpes — salami, fried eggs, and fried cheese. My favorite dessert is a Puerto Rican cheese-filled pastry called a quesito, and you can’t get a better one than from the island.

When I speak Spanish, my accent mixes Dominican and Puerto Rican dialects. And as soon as I speak English, you know straight away that I’m from New York City.

The beaches of Puerto Rico, the countryside of the Dominican Republic, and the city streets of New York — they are all so different from each other, but they come together to make me who I am. I have family and homes in all three locales.

That said, I am more familiar with some places than others. I know the streets of Santurce, the San Juan neighborhood where I lived, and New York City like the back of my hand. But if you dropped me off near where my mom grew up in the Dominican Republic, I probably wouldn’t make it 10 steps without getting lost.

I’m scared sometimes of losing the parts of myself that don’t feel as strong as they used to. There are times when I visit family back in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic and realize I’ve forgotten simple words in Spanish, my tongue tangled in a language that used to come so easily to me. I wish I lived closer to the islands because the distance sometimes makes me feel like an outsider when I’m there during school breaks.

Still, there are moments that make me forget I ever felt that way. Like the summer night in Dorado, Puerto Rico, when my family and I sat at a small beachside restaurant with the sound of waves in the background and live bachata, merengue, and salsa music playing. Everyone was dancing, and as I watched in amazement at how their bodies moved and how happy they all looked, my cousin grabbed my hand and pulled me up to dance.

I had begged my mom to teach me how to dance back in middle school, wanting to be closer to my culture. Still, I never had the courage to dance in front of anyone — too scared to embarrass myself and convinced other people would think I’m “not Latina enough.” But that night, three years later, I finally let go and danced.

Moments like those bring me home, not to a place, but to a feeling. Reminding me that I am made up of more than where I live or how I speak. I am made of music, movement, laughter, and my family.

In New York City, the closest you’ll get to feeling like you’re in the Caribbean is going to the Dominican hair salon. As a little girl, this is the only place where I was surrounded by grown-ups speaking the same Spanish we do at home — gossiping, gushing over my hair, and asking when I would next go to the Dominican Republic. The smell of the blower, the sound of Milly Quezada on the loudspeaker, and the feeling of my hair being wrapped tightly onto rolos. I felt so safe being surrounded by women who carried the island with them wherever they went.

That’s why I hold on tightly to all that makes me who I am, even if it’s just cooking locrio on the stove, calling my titi in the Dominican Republic, or choosing to say something in Spanish instead of English.

Some days, I feel like an impostor. Like I’m not Boricua enough, not Dominican enough, and not enough of a New Yorker. But most days, I’m learning that I don’t need to be enough for anyone. I just need to be enough for me.

Maybe, my identity lives in the mezcla of accents, the various places I call home, and the way my history and family walk with me every day.

And maybe that’s more than enough.

Ginger Roger Ceballos is a high school junior at Manhattan Early College for Advertising. As the youngest of six siblings, she’s learned resilience, adaptability, and the importance of forging her own path. Born in Puerto Rico, raised by her Dominican mother, she moved to New York City when she was 6. Today, she embraces the rich cultures that have come together to shape her identity.

I am the son of a transracial adoptee. Here’s how I learned to embrace my Korean heritage.

2025-04-18T12:00:00+00:00

The moment I had been dreading had arrived. What was usually a mundane part of the day was now a moment of tension.

“Oscar Scr-binder?” the fourth grade substitute teacher’s voice boomed. I heard my friends snickering because she butchered the pronunciation of my last name, Scribner. I felt my face turn scarlet.

“Excuse me, it’s actually pronounced Scribner,” I said softly. I’ll never forget that incredulous look she gave when I, a Korean American, claimed that surname.

“You’re Oscar Scribner?” she asked.

“That’s me,” I gave a wry smile.

Oscar Scribner

This was not a novel phenomenon. If anything, her skepticism seemed like a natural reaction. Scribner was not a Korean name, and it wasn’t even an Asian name. Still, her response cut deep.

I’m not biracial, but my father was adopted by white American parents when he was 3. He ended up with my mother, an immigrant from Korea. So while I am Korean on both sides, in reality, there are probably K-Pop-obsessed Americans who are better versed in Korean than my dad is.

When I was young, I rarely saw my mother’s side of the family, but I spent every winter break with my WASP cousins on a scenic island called Bainbridge, near Seattle. My closer relationship with my father’s family and traditions meant that there were times when I felt like I was white, if only because I had no concept of what it meant to be Korean besides food and my mother’s occasional rants in a language that sounded foreign to me.

I lived in Harlem, a predominantly Black and Latino neighborhood, and I was always among a small number of Asians at the schools I attended. Even though my mother would try to get me involved with the Korean community, she was busy with work, and things like Korean churches were mostly out in Queens. My most Korean experience was going to H Mart, an Asian supermarket chain.

I didn’t conform to Korean standards of beauty since I have curly hair, which is all the rage now with Asian boys, but when I was younger, it just seemed to affirm my detachment from Korean culture.

There were times I felt guilty about my lack of connection to Korea. I rarely saw my maternal grandmother, and the few times I did, my lackluster Korean made me too embarrassed to talk.

My mother and I also struggled to connect. When she was home from work, much of our time together was spent arguing about how I never cleaned my room or about my bad Korean pronunciation. She once spent over an hour lecturing me about my pronunciation of the word “ear” in Korean.

I did love Korean food. I never experienced the banal “Eww, what is that?” reaction in the school cafeteria. But I felt self-conscious enough about bringing pungent-smelling Korean food into school that I decided to suffer through the nasty school lunch instead.

By the end of seventh grade, I couldn’t have been more excited for the start of summer break. Although I made friends, I was socially cooked the whole year. All the little jokes and stares because COVID had originated in China, all the “North or South Korean” questions, all the … whatever, didn’t matter now because I was going to Bainbridge to see my cousins.

As I packed, I heard my mom call out, “Oscar, come sit down!” I rushed out, nearly tripping over the mound of clothes that had accumulated on the floor of my room.

“We’re going to Korea!” she announced.

“Korea!? What about Bainbridge?” This could not be happening. It was a violation of our family tradition; I didn’t care for most traditions, but this was sacrosanct.

“Oscar, we’ve saved up a lot of money for this trip. We go to Seattle every year; don’t you think it’s time we finally go to Korea?” My mom gave me her characteristic assertive smile. “Also, it’s about time we go see your 할머니 (grandmother).”

“Bu-” I stifled my comment after seeing the stern expression on my mother’s face. I wanted to say: “God, why do I have to go to Korea? I don’t want to speak Korean, and … I’ve never been!” But I knew my mother hadn’t been in years, and it felt rude to whine, which she hated, so I nodded my head softly.

When we landed in Seoul, I saw tourists from a wide assortment of countries, wide-eyed and ecstatic. I noticed one family dressed up in BTS shirts. I glared at them scornfully, but I also felt a pang of guilt that they loved Korean culture so much while I wanted to be elsewhere. I remembered my mother’s disappointed expression from all the times I had refused to go to K-Pop concerts or watch K-dramas.

When we walked toward our Airbnb, I noticed how the bright lights of the Seoul skyline seemed to illuminate the sky. There was electricity in the air: People were out enjoying the weekend. It felt odd to be one among many and not the racial outlier I had been for most of my life.

“Wake up, Oscar.” I opened my eyes groggily, my body still sore from our flight.

“What is it, Mom?” I asked in a haze, not wanting to leave the comfort of the bed.

“We’re making 만두 (dumplings).”

“Can’t this wait?” I groaned, rolling around.

“Your 할머니 (grandmother) is here.”

I hastily got up. “지환아!” my grandmother called out to me, and I hugged her.

“Your 할아버지 (grandfather) would be so happy if he could see you here,” my mother sighed. “He looked so much like you!”

Hearing that really hurt; I had never once talked to my Korean grandfather. He passed before I had the chance to go to Korea. Knowing I would never meet him filled my heart with guilt. I felt glad to be in Korea now, to be able to see my 할머니.

For the next few hours, I sat at the table, running my hands through the goopy dough. My shoulders ached from the repetitive action of leaning over the table, rolling out the floury skin, and shaping the dumplings.

“Oscar, what are you doing?” my mother laughed, seeing my misshapen creations. I lifted my head to see the elegant dumplings that my mother and grandmother had made.

At the dinner table, a delicious aroma filled the air. It reminded me of my grandmother’s 떡만두국 (dumpling soup) that she had made the last time she visited us in New York City. Suddenly, all the tedium seemed worth it, and the appearance of my contorted dumplings was secondary.

All year, I had eaten drab ham and cheese sandwiches at school. And now, my eyes watered from the bursts of flavor and from the simple pleasure of eating Korean food unadulterated by other people’s words and stares. I felt a mixture of pride in the food I had made and an appreciation for my Korean culture.

While we were in Korea, my mom took us to a new place every day. She did this with an enthusiasm that I soon began to share. I had grown closer to my mother and grandma in recent weeks, and I was speaking Korean with them.

One day, we were trotting down the narrow streets of Seoul when my mother stopped in front of a gleaming hair salon door. “Let’s go in!” she said.

“What are we doing here?” I asked skeptically,

“You need a Korean haircut,” my mother insisted. She then went to the stylist and whispered in rapid-fire Korean. The stylist nodded. Forty-five minutes later, I stared at my new reflection in the mirror. “What the he-”

“You like it?” my mother gave a light smile.

The reflection showed a bespectacled Korean with artificially straight hair. I felt a semblance of happiness. It was as though I had fully embraced my Koreaness; at the same time, I couldn’t help feeling like the boy in the mirror looked incomplete.

When I came back to America for eighth grade, I began to practice Korean. My mother had quit her job during the pandemic, and we spent more time together and got very close. I made an Asian friend, brought Korean food for lunch, and began to talk about Korean culture openly.

At the same time, my natural curls grew back. During this time, I realized that fragments of my Korean and American identity could coexist.

I set my sights on Stuyvesant, one of New York City’s elite specialized high schools, which is majority Asian and has a large Korean American community. The academics were a draw, but having a chance to make connections with other Korean students was another attraction.

On the first day at Stuy, I was nervous. A raven-haired Asian kid caught my eye outside geometry class. He wore the kind of round, metallic glasses popular among many Koreans, but I didn’t want to make assumptions about his background.

“Hey, what’s your name?” I sputtered out.

I felt a sense of regret as I saw an odd expression on his face.

“Brandon! What’s yours?” he smiled.

“Oscar. Are you Korean?” I asked nervously.

His face lit up. “Korean American,” he said with a laugh, “but, yes.”

The regret washed away, and the conversation became easy.

I’m now a sophomore at Stuyvesant, and during my time there, I have gone on trips with the Korean Student Association and connected with other Korean American students. While we bonded over everything from track meets to late-night study sessions, there was a unique aspect to our friendships. We were all navigating the space between two cultures.

Oscar Scribner is a sophomore at Stuyvesant High School. He enjoys running and reading all things historical.

A version of this piece was originally published in Youth Communication.

Immigration crackdowns mean an expanded role for schools and for educators like me

2025-04-10T12:00:00+00:00

Once upon a time, we in America may have looked to houses of worship for support and safety in times of chaotic danger. In 2025, many families turn to public schools.

Ever since Election Day, educators around the country have been planning how to protect students amid heightened risks of immigration raids and threatened cuts to public benefits and school funding. Here in New York City, where I am a high school principal, school staff have been trained how to respond if “non-local law enforcement,” such as Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE, were to show up at school and demand entry. By now, every principal in New York City knows that they do not have the right to enter without a judicial warrant.

During a training session on immigration enforcement, another school-based educator asked if we could provide sanctuary to families fleeing ICE. The response of the trainers was to restate the protocol: ICE does not automatically have a right to enter, but call the staff attorney for your district immediately if they arrive.

Kristin Cahill

Both the question and the response clarify a new role for schools in our faltering society. But it’s not a new direction. Our daily tasks include what was once considered religious work, though we do it for the secular purpose of developing responsible young adults who contribute to a just society. Our schools already provide as much social service support as our budgets can stretch to provide, including food baskets, winter coats, backpacks, and laundry facilities. During COVID, educators braved pre-vaccine infection to deliver Chromebooks and hotspots.

“In many ways, the expectations for educators are in the realm of miracles ... We have mostly accepted this challenge.”

We build our school communities on positive values, such as empathy, justice, hope, and perseverance. We turn these values into habits of encouragement, as you can see from the mantras lining classroom walls: You can do it! ... Dream big! ... You are stronger than you seem and smarter than you believe! We promote these values at assemblies and through social-emotional learning because such a foundation is a precursor for the hopeful work of learning.

We provide correction when students do harm, sometimes with traditional consequences, but most often through long conversations with students and families. We help young people find the courage to admit their role in wrongdoing and the strength to change. Sometimes, things go terribly wrong, and despite our best efforts, students do things to harm themselves and others. In these moments of despair, it often falls to me to hold another mother’s hands and remind her of the good in her child and the power of her love.

Visitors who come to school for events are not immune to the currents of hope coursing through a school. This is because our work is based on the conviction that there is good in all children and families, that there is a way to help each child succeed, and that together, we can build a better world.

In many ways, the expectations for educators are in the realm of miracles. We are asked to teach students the skills and knowledge that will enable social mobility, absent the support of a just society. We have mostly accepted this challenge. The opportunities offered at high schools have expanded to include advanced and college-level classes, intensive academic and social-emotional support, and career training.

Building such schools requires much more than love and hope; it demands creativity, strategic thinking, organizational skills, and the endurance to work 14-hour days for years. At schools, every teacher, counselor, school aide, and secretary is a partner in visioning, planning, and monitoring progress, even as our compensated workday is spent in student-facing roles. The work can feel punishing.

As a principal, I know what my school needs the most is more smart, committed teachers and staff, but every year, teacher shortages make hiring more challenging. I wish I could find a way to communicate to young people starting their careers that working in schools involves the kind of challenge and significance that many of the highest-performing college graduates yearn for. And in New York, at least, we are compensated well by non-profit standards.

When I talk to students, teachers, and parents about how we will support newly arrived and undocumented students during this time, I see indications of a broad consensus. We believe that all children should be safe at school, regardless of immigration status or any other aspect of their identity. We believe that schools are sanctuaries and should remain that way.

It does not surprise me that the New York State Department of Education stuck to its values in the face of threats to reduce funding, even though the leaders of some prestigious universities and law firms responded with markedly less conviction. Educators choose meaning and service over profit and status every day. Our students and families can depend on us to try to do what’s best, no matter what the context.

Today, educators are tasked with promoting positive values, making sure children and families have their needs met, and teaching students the skills they will need to survive and thrive. We do this work for everyone, including undocumented immigrants, Trump supporters, students who can’t read in high school, trans students, homophobic students, and students who bully and are bullied. We do this work for students who will take on the challenge of saving the world from the problems they inherited.

Kristin Cahill is the founding Principal of HERO High School in the South Bronx. HERO High opened in 2013 with an early college and career P-Tech pathway in nursing and community health, and it has since added career pathways, PSAL teams, and grown its paid internship program.

Here’s what birdwatching taught me about classroom management

2025-04-07T12:00:00+00:00

During a quiz about plate tectonics, two students whisper in the back of my room. I notice but stay quiet. I have one chance to redirect them. Forty-seven seconds into their conversation, with my back to them, I spin around, make eye contact, and say, “I know, right?”

They pause mid-sentence, shocked. “How did you hear us?”

“This may come as a surprise, but when the room is silent, I can hear you whisper.”

Teachers often seem to have eyes in the back of their heads. They respond to a murmured question in a class full of conversation. They can tell if someone’s skipping class a floor away by reading faces in the room. Cognitive scientists call the ability to filter signals from noise the cocktail party effect. Teachers sometimes call it radar, and we use it every day.

Ronak Shah

Thirteen years in, I credit this radar with much of my success as a teacher. But it’s not instinctual. It’s something anyone can develop with practice and coaching, and my radar used to be terrible. As I gained experience, I lost sight of my growth trajectory. I lost sight, specifically, of how teachers develop the radar necessary for classroom management. And that made it harder to help new teachers grow their own skills when they asked for help.

That was until I got into birdwatching.

Birdwatching is astonishingly multisensory. Your eyes scan for the slightest disturbances in a still forest. Was that a wing flapping or an acorn falling? When the wind and rain pick up, you peer more vigorously, discerning the types of motion that leaves and branches make when pressed by different forces.

Simultaneously, you’re listening for calls and knocks that distinguish one bird from another. Was that one bird or two? Was that the same bird I just heard a half mile back? Novel sounds became distinct notes. It’s the feeling of hearing a song, and suddenly recognizing it’s a familiar tune.

These sights and sounds meld with texts, guides, and knowledge about what species are likely in an area and when they migrate. Could that actually be a rose-breasted grosbeak at this time of year? Is that pecking more likely to be a red-bellied woodpecker or a northern flicker? A birder filters what to attend to and what to ignore.

How can anyone learn this? For me, it took authentic practice and constant feedback from experienced birders. I realized that I was basically re-learning radar. And it’s changed the way I look at my early days of teaching.

For most teachers, student teaching is their most valuable preparatory experience, and a strong program gives them armor against burnout. But most education majors only get 10-15 weeks of it, and those in alternative pipelines typically get even less. States minimally regulate student teaching, so quality is scattershot.

But if we don’t prepare and support new teachers consistently, we’re just driving them back out of the classroom door. Fixing this will take time. Meanwhile, what can early career teachers do to get better faster, and how can experienced teachers help? Here are three strategies that birding made clear to me.

The first is to practice noticing things in the classroom. On a birdwatching trail, I learned to slow down for every slight movement and sound. I perceived things I didn’t know I could notice. It works in the classroom, too – just name what you observe aloud. The new kicks, the haircut, their posture. Statements of fact build the muscles of radar.

Just as I need pointers when I misidentify a feather or call while birding, early teachers grow and sustain themselves with great coaching.

Second, observe as many other teachers as possible. My birding skills improved by moving beyond my backyard, to lakeshores and prairies and thickets. If I could start my teaching career again, I would request professional development days to observe beyond my content area, grade level, and even my school. This exposes you to new approaches to familiar challenges. You see what’s possible.

Third, I was lucky to have a trusted mentor who saw the teacher I could be, even when I was at my worst. Just as I need pointers when I misidentify a feather or call while birding, early teachers grow and sustain themselves with great coaching. A good mentor is the equivalent of an additional year of experience. But even though long-term retention of high-quality teachers pays for itself, not all schools invest in coaching. If that’s the case, look for educators you feel trust and affinity with. Ask them to observe you, give you feedback, or watch footage of you teaching. Experienced teachers want to work in a building filled with other great teachers, and they’ll share what they know to make that possible.

Today’s teaching force is less experienced than ever, with a widening gap between veteran teachers and new ones. Anyone entering the classroom deserves the support and experience they need to thrive in spite of those headwinds. Birdwatching reminded me of our collective responsibility to sustain all of us in this work because none of us gets better alone. We rely on the support and guidance of those with experience. And for most, it starts with classroom management. Let’s stop treating preparation as an afterthought. Instead, let’s invest in our early career teachers so they have the skills to rebuild our profession and build longterm careers in the classroom.

Ronak Shah is a seventh grade science teacher at Thomas Carr Howe Middle School in Indianapolis and a Teach Plus Senior Writing Fellow.

School libraries are essential ‘third spaces’ for students like me

2025-04-04T12:00:00+00:00

A 12-foot square chess set, a community puzzle, materials for crocheting, and books wrapped for a mystery book exchange.

This may not be what comes to mind when you think of New York City public schools, but it’s what I think about when I recall my time at Forest Hills High School. And that’s because of my school library.

Located in the middle of the second floor, the school library is full of natural light that shines through the glass patio doors.

I fondly recall how my librarian, Ms. Klemas, remembered my name after only one visit. I was shocked. Forest Hills High, the school I graduated from last year, has thousands of students. How did she already know my name?

Salma Baksh

I came to realize that this small act was part of a larger philosophy that she and her co-librarian used to shape the library: acceptance, empathy, and support. As I kept returning to the library, my conversations with Ms. Klemas evolved from book recommendations to solicited advice on how I could shape my future. Ms. Klemas became the adult I trusted most in my school building, and the library was the place I felt most comfortable.

Here in New York, we hear our elected officials talk a lot about student literacy and how to improve it. That’s understandable, given that fewer than half of New York City students were reading at grade level in 2024. But the fixation with data sometimes drowns out the softer, less quantifiable roles that school libraries can play not only as literacy hubs but also as a third space, a safe haven distinct from home or work/class.

Libraries are places of community-building and socialization — essential at a time when many teens are struggling with isolation and mental health challenges.

If you asked the students of Forest Hills High School what they thought of their library, they’d probably talk about the well-tailored selection of books or the “See yourself on the shelf” book display, featuring works written by diverse authors and about diverse characters. They may or may not recall lessons they received on digital media literacy or research skills. They will, however, almost always mention how they felt in the library: welcomed.

As a library volunteer in my senior year, I observed how students used the space to connect through crafts, games, and conversation. Our librarians encouraged connection by hosting book clubs, “talking circles” about current events, and oversized board game days.

In 2023, a national survey found that only 55% of students felt close to people at their school, down from 62% in 2021, so community-building efforts like these feel especially important now. After all, research has shown that these connections are linked with improved mental health, attendance, grades, and behavior.

As a student, my school library gave me a sense of belonging. I was part of a community of “library people” (Ms. Klemas’ term for those who frequent the library). I felt more motivated to go to school and supported in knowing that the library was there when I needed it.

New York State recognizes the key role of school libraries. State law mandates that every school has one. Yet, it’s estimated that only 16% of New York City schools have a certified librarian budgeted. And high-poverty schools are less likely to have a librarian compared to their more affluent counterparts.

There are many reasons for this — principal autonomy in budgeting, fundraising inequities, and budgets based on enrollment. Whatever the reasons, though, it’s clear that for too long, school libraries have been an unfunded mandate, and students have the most to lose: access to diverse reading materials, literacy and research curricula, community, and a third space.

That’s why, on April 8, I’ll be joining other “library people” and our supporters to testify before the New York City Council’s education committee in favor of Librarians Count, which would require city public schools to report each year on school library and librarian access.

As a school library activist, I’ve been working with the Brooklyn-based advocacy group Librarians=Literacy and City Council Member Rita Joseph’s office to bring awareness to this issue. New York students, parents, teachers, and others can share their experiences with (or without) a school librarian, too.

I was lucky to attend a high school with a well-funded library and two incredible librarians. But it shouldn’t be up to luck.

Salma Baksh is a passionate leader dedicated to advancing education equity through advocacy, policy, and civic engagement. She’s originally from Queens and is now a first-year student at Smith College studying government and sociology.

COVID changed the class of 2025. It changed their teachers, too.

2025-03-18T21:34:32+00:00

This year’s high school seniors lost half of their seventh grade year to COVID school closures. They finished middle school either virtually or attending school in person while wearing masks and sitting six feet from their peers.

These students started kindergarten in 2013 — the year after the Sandy Hook massacre. Lockdown drills became almost as common as a math test for them. They know nothing of reverence for our political leaders, and I love them for that. They were born after the iPhone came out, and they don’t know life without social media.

Brandon McCoy

It’s when we look deeper and when we listen that we understand how the COVID years changed them. The high school students where I work no longer take things at face value. There is a constant question of “why” in their minds: Why do this assignment? Why attend class today when everything can be made up online from home? Why do we have to accept things as they are?

It is now quite difficult to convince a student to complete that worksheet when they know it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. They have called our bluff on busy work or any work that they do not see as having a direct connection to their lives.

Some educators will say COVID changed everything five years ago and irreparably scarred a generation of students. But in my experience, I’ve found that the school population most affected by the pandemic are the adults.

Some of my fellow educators are simply stuck.

I’ve spoken with adults in our building who carry lingering anxiety from when we came back to campus part-time in 2021. Things were quiet — creepy, even — in the building then. Everyone was in masks, and no one spoke during passing periods. Thousands of kids were in the halls, the only sounds being their footsteps. Each day seemed to bring or lift new COVID mitigation policies.

The imagery and about-faces haunt educators. So, too, do the words of families and community members during that time. It seemed to come from all sides. One parent who was opposed to reopening campuses told me that “the blood of your students will be on your hands.” Other parents who wanted schools fully open called me a coward, a sheep, and a medical tyrant.

There was one time I had to evacuate a 10th grade chemistry class because the student refused to wear his mask and his teacher was having a panic attack. My attempts to convince the student failed. When his parents arrived, they explained that God told them that their children should no longer wear masks in school.

Educators who worked through COVID don’t get to graduate or be promoted to the next grade or next school. Many adults are still in the same classrooms and offices they occupied in March 2020. And they may not have appropriately processed the impact of the COVID era on our profession. When the pandemic began, we adapted on the fly and then adapted some more. Then schools reopened, and we adapted again.

Some of my fellow educators are simply stuck. They wish so deeply that COVID had never happened that they now blame any kind of deviation from the norm on the fact that the kids learned bad habits from their time in hybrid or virtual learning.

Others, specifically high school educators, are quick to point out that they’ve never been able to get back to teaching grade-level content due to the year of learning lost to shutdowns. They attribute mundane teenage behavioral challenges to COVID closures. I agreed with that when we were fresh out of lockdown. But I’m afraid some folks now overuse this line of thinking.

10 ways COVID changed American schools

Five years after the halting and realigning of our educational world, I find myself appreciating the maturity of today’s high school students. Their questioning of how we’ve always done things doesn’t come from a place of apathy or an inability to complete the tasks. Instead, their questions come from a more profound and thoughtful place.

People are quick to point to the school closures of March 2020 as the turning point in public education. Yet the polarizing political climate in the United States, the prevalence of social media opinions, the rise of AI, and the ubiquity of misinformation have also played a role in student behavior.

And we, the educators, act as a sort of Charon, ferrying the souls entrusted to us through high school, ending anywhere and everywhere. I often wonder if our own trauma keeps us down, keeps us focused on how things used to be in “the before times.” Are the students as negatively impacted today as we tend to believe they are? Or are we, adults, impacted and clinging to how we used to do school?

Dr. Brandon McCoy is a high school administrator in Kansas City, Missouri, where he lives with his wife and three children. He writes about life, and public education at The Worst Kids Always Become Principals.

There’s a better way to celebrate the 100th day of school

2025-03-17T13:00:00+00:00

The 100th day of school has come and gone in our country’s schools, but many schools celebrated it all wrong. I’m sure students, parents, and teachers mean well, but marking the 100th day of school by dressing up like a 100-year-old person is surprisingly insensitive.

We’re thoughtful about all kinds of differences nowadays — and that’s a good thing. So why is it still OK to caricature elderly people?

I first learned about this practice on the website of the school district in western North Carolina, near where I retired from teaching. And I’ve since heard that this dress-up day is not just a quirky local practice in my new hometown. These celebrations are everywhere. An online search shows students brandishing canes, pantomiming backaches, and teachers in curlers using walkers as props. Really?

Barbara Gottschalk

At best, these exercises are silly and at worst, they’re … unkind.

So what should schools do instead? Lots of classrooms and schools already celebrate the 100th day of school in more empathetic ways, and I applaud them. For others, here are some ideas:

Invite a real person who is 100 years old to your classroom. For several years, I delivered meals to a lovely lady who lived to celebrate her 100th birthday. Miss Margaret’s party was a blast, and she would’ve made a great classroom guest. Such stories she had!
Build empathetic intergenerational relationships with elderly people by visiting a local nursing home. Sit with residents there, talk to them, and listen to what they have to share. Students at the elementary school where I taught in Michigan often went to a nearby nursing home and an assisted living center to sing songs and read with the residents. Over the years, the students put on a puppet show and an opera, and they interviewed the residents for a school project.
In class, read aloud a relevant book to mark the occasion. “If I Were 100 Years Old” by Mary Jantz is a good example of a book that’s appropriate for students up to third grade. Reading this and similar books aloud and discussing them would better foster conversation about aging and caring for elderly loved ones than simply having students dress up as cartoonish stereotypes.

I get the feeling, however, that dressing like a 100-year-old isn’t really about understanding and connecting with elderly people; it’s about the number 100. So here are some better ways to build academic connections with this concept.

I’m on record having reservations about dress-up spirit days at school, mainly because students can feel excluded if they can’t participate. But if you simply must, why not ask students to dress up like people did 100 years ago? An even better idea would be to actually study what life was like 100 years ago, a perfect social studies curriculum connection.
Finally, the best way to mark the 100th day of school is through math. At a time when math NAEP scores continue to decline for our country’s lowest-performing students, the 100th day of school is a perfect time to highlight math and number awareness. Students can do hands-on activities that show them exactly how much 100 of anything is. For example, younger students can make pasta or cereal necklaces; older students can collect cans for a food drive — anything, really, that involves 100s.

The fact that I’m just now noticing this whole “dress up like you’re 100” thing makes me wonder — are my eyes open only because I’m getting older? Would I have looked the other way if I were less close to 100 years old myself? I hope not.

The American Psychological Association has called ageism is the last “socially acceptable prejudice” and “it’s so ingrained in our culture that we often don’t even notice.” I’m ashamed to admit it took me reaching 72 years of age before I noticed the inherent ageism in this particular way to celebrate 100 days of school. Apparently, many people in our school systems haven’t noticed either. Let’s do better.

Barbara Gottschalk taught English language learners of all ages in five states, including her last 18 years in Warren Consolidated Schools in suburban Detroit. She’s the author of “Misconceptions About English Language Learners: Research-Based Ways to Improve Instruction” and “Get Money for Your Classroom: Easy Grant Writing Ideas That Work.”

As a first-year educator, I focused too much on being the young, cool teacher

2025-03-14T13:00:00+00:00

During my first year of teaching, I had little clue what I was doing. I had no training, was on a temporary teacher’s license, and was thrown into this position after another educator left two weeks before the school year started.

I wanted to make math engaging for my students, but in reality, my seventh graders struggled to retain anything I “taught” them. Every day, we embarked on a new activity. We were up and moving, doing group work, and giving presentations.

But my nontraditional approach to teaching mathematics wasn’t working. I knew this because my students were falling behind the pacing guide the school district had given to me. My students were also failing their district assessments.

Ivy Sage

At the Deltona, Florida, middle school where I was working, I was so focused on being known as the young, cool teacher that I lost sight of what was important: getting the kids to learn and understand the material.

I tried to model myself after one of my favorite high school English teachers, but I couldn’t exactly replicate her creative literature lessons when teaching about rational numbers and probability.

My colleagues assumed that I was best positioned to understand students’ technology use, social behaviors, and slang — and while that was true, it didn’t necessarily translate into middle school math skills.

After driving myself mad with creative but ineffective lessons, I decided to reach out to a more experienced teacher to see what I was doing wrong. She told me to stop worrying so much about what the kids think of me and prioritize what they need to succeed. She helped me analyze my students’ classwork and test scores and taught me how to devise lesson plans.

The first thing she ever told me was to take a deep breath before planning out lessons. Then, she showed me how to plan nine weeks at a time, align my calendar with district deadlines, and use color-coordinated organizers — pink for group activities, for example, and blue for tests — to stay on track. She encouraged me to do student surveys with questions like “What do you like most about yourself?” and “What are your hobbies?” to get to know the kids better.

I am currently a fourth-year teacher — these days, I teach algebra to ninth and 10th graders. I realize now that much of what tripped me up early on was that I didn’t understand how to differentiate my lessons to meet the needs of diverse learners. What I found out the hard way is that differentiation means creating a lesson that meets the needs of each type of learner.

Changing course, I was able to stretch out my lessons over multiple days. I typically only needed three days to cover one section — on expressions, equations, and inequalities, say — and I was able to teach multiple types of learners in those three days.

On the first day of teaching a new section, I catered to the visual and auditory learners. Students were given guided notes that had definitions, example problems, and fill-in-the-blank statements. On the second day, I catered to the more hands-on learners, with gallery walks, scavenger hunts, and partner activities. On the third and final day, I would check students’ understanding of the concepts with a mini quiz, a Jeopardy! style classroom contest, or group discussion.

Many of my students had processing challenges and took longer to understand what I was teaching; I had to change how I taught my lessons and timeline so they could be successful in my class.

I learned from colleagues that every first-year teacher makes mistakes differentiating their lessons because of the pressure they are under. New teachers may also imagine cracking the code on creative and engaging lessons without considering that those lessons might not be what their students need.

I am still learning. Every child learns differently. I learned in my first year of teaching that not every kid wants to play educational games in class. Some might want to sit down, take notes, and work in a traditional setting because that’s how they feel they will succeed.

By the end of my first year teaching, my students’ math scores were up, the kids were more engaged, and by catering to my kids’ needs more, they were having fun.

Ivy Sage is a support facilitator for Algebra 1A and Algebra 1 for ninth and 10th grades at Pine Ridge High School, in Deltona, Florida. She has been teaching for four years. When she is not working, she enjoys going to theme parks with her fiancé and friends or spending time with her dog.

5 years on, COVID still casts a shadow over American school boards

2025-03-12T19:21:29+00:00

During the seven years I served on the Derry School Board in New Hampshire, the board often came first. During those last two years during COVID, when I was chair, that meant choosing many late-night meetings over dinner with my family. It meant working my day job on weekends to make up for frequent board-related meetings and calls during the week. Once, it even meant walking out of my daughter’s ninja meet to take an urgent call from the superintendent.

These efforts were often met with anger from community members, who accused the board of not listening to them — by which they seemed to mean not agreeing with them — and making decisions that hurt kids. Parents who supported us rarely came to meetings, but they did send emails; people who were angry sent emails and came to meetings.

They were upset when we voted to require masks in schools during the height of COVID, when we, like school districts across the country, temporarily transitioned schools to remote learning, and when we refused to ban certain books from school libraries.

Erika Cohen served on the Derry School Board in New Hampshire for seven years.

There are two sides to every story, but they can only be heard when people practice civility. Many parents honestly believed that masks and distancing rules were having a negative impact on their children’s social and emotional well-being, as well as their ability to learn. Their concerns weren’t the problem; it was how they expressed them, often using demeaning language, calling us “selfish” and “idiots.”

During the pandemic, which coincided with a national racial reckoning following the 2020 murder of George Floyd, members of the public threatened us, called the board Nazis, and claimed students in our K-8 district were taught to feel guilty because they are white.

Our board meetings were open to the public, and they were often tense and raucous. Audience members often clapped when they agreed with a speaker and sometimes yelled over someone with whom they disagreed. At times, we paid police to attend meetings in case the outbursts got out of control. I always responded to people with great care, knowing my words could be chopped up and posted online in a way that did not convey their original meaning.

With one year left on my term, I stepped down in 2023 and let the community choose someone else to serve out my term. But the anger about mask mandates, remote schooling, and district vaccine policies created a distrust that still cast a shadow on the board’s decisions.

Students continue to pay the price. Last year, for the first time since my kids entered Derry schools, the budget, which was put to a townwide vote, failed, leaving a nearly $1 million hole. Everything else failed, too, including a proposal to close two older school buildings and build one new one, and another to fix existing buildings. The voters were clear: They didn’t trust the board with their money.

Since resigning from the board, I haven’t attended board meetings for mental health reasons. But I attended the meeting the month after the March 2024 vote. My kids would both be at the regional high school, which the town pays tuition for by contract, but I was curious how the district planned to close this gap in the lower grades.

At the meeting, I received Excel handouts that laid out options based on whether all schools stayed open or whether one district school closed. The biggest-ticket options were all bad and included cutting a beloved gifted and talented program, eliminating math teachers, and increasing class sizes to state maximums.

Other suggestions included putting off replacing staff laptops, combining bus routes, and forcing more kids to walk to school. But those options alone were unlikely to close the budget gap. Scanning the crowd, everyone seemed displeased. And who could blame them? Still, I’m not sure what people expected with a $1 million shortfall.

At the start of the meeting, I had a knot in my stomach. I was worried someone would recognize me and approach me. As a board member I had absorbed so much anger and mostly held my cool, but it wound me up and sometimes led me to yell at my family. This was not the kind of person I wanted to be and was no longer the person I was. Then I took a deep breath and reminded myself the main responsibility was no longer on my shoulders.

Come March 2025, the town voted again for a bond to repair the schools. This bond was smaller than the previous one, but it passed overwhelmingly. Apparently, a year with a tight budget and no school repairs caused enough pain to drive more parents to the polls. But the fight also exhausted board members, with several of them opting not to run for reelection.

At its most basic level, the second law of thermodynamics states that entropy, or disorder, is the natural state of the universe and increases over time. To create order requires energy. After seven years on the board, my energy was needed elsewhere. However, I have learned that hostility increases disorder, which requires even more energy to reverse.

Hopefully, there will be more board stability, and school buildings will be fixed quickly this coming year; if not, it’s the students who will pay the price.

Erika Alison Cohen served seven years on the Derry School Board, the last two as chair. Her two teenage children are in high school. Erika works as a writer, ghostwriter, and editor, helping executives write and edit books.

Halting education research in the name of ‘government efficiency’ is incredibly inefficient

2025-03-06T22:12:23+00:00

In recent weeks, we’ve seen federal and state governments issue stop-work orders, withdraw contracts, and terminate employees in the name of “government efficiency.” When it comes to research, however, nothing is more inefficient than canceling studies that are already underway.

As a tenure-track university professor who studies ways to increase access to high-quality early learning, I have been personally affected by the shortsighted decisions of the current administration to cut research funding. About two weeks ago, I received an email that the work and spending on a large state-contracted research grant was to be immediately paused until further notice.

Nine days later, I got a follow-up email that the contract was terminated due to state budget constraints and the need to prioritize federally mandated work. No other explanation was provided. With that, our four-year study abruptly came to an end.

Jenn Finders

Up to this point, I had been collecting data on the effectiveness of early childhood education to better understand how best to prepare children for kindergarten. We were specifically focused on the experiences of children from low-income families who receive child care subsidies in the Republican-led midwestern state where our research originated.

This project was developed with state agency administrators to ensure public dollars spent on early learning and pre-K programming are invested efficiently. By the time the project was halted, over $1.5 million had already been spent — dollars that, now, have largely been wasted. The answers we sought to critical policy questions, including how to maximize the benefits of publicly funded pre-K, are no longer within reach.

The weeks since I heard this news have been chaotic. I’ve spent time trying to figure out how to proceed with this research in the absence of funding, as well as advising personnel on how to shift their responsibilities during a time of incredible uncertainty. What I have learned is that there are few protections in place for when research like mine must suddenly cease and financial accounts must close. Until recently, the idea that a grant would be canceled midstream, without warning, would have been regarded as dystopian.

I know of no excess pots of money to ease the transition for those who work day-to-day to move the research forward. I have needed to stop non-essential work and scrounge for any supplemental money that can sustain only the most critical research activities. Worst of all, I will likely be forced to let go of hardworking and high-performing employees.

A few weeks ago, the Department of Education canceled almost $900 million in research funding for the Institute of Education Sciences. Many of these federal contracts were studies, like ours, that seek to examine how the education system can best support student success. The consequence, as is the case with my halted state grant, is that people will lose access to data and information that helps them make evidence-based decisions about early childhood spending.

These state and federal actions not only threaten science and innovation but also undermine the work of researchers seeking to make a difference in the lives of children and families. The ripple effects will be far-reaching, impacting low-income students who receive educational services, government employees responsible for executing programs and policies, and the productivity of early career scholars, such as myself, who are racing against the tenure clock.

I am sharing my story to give a voice to those who have unexpectedly found themselves in similar circumstances as a result of these cruel tactics masquerading as “government efficiency.” Stopping this important work severely undercuts efforts to improve education in this country. It will be a major setback for our understanding of “what works” in education. It is also the textbook definition of inefficient.

Jenn Finders, Ph.D., is an assistant professor in the Department of Human Development and Family Studies at Colorado State University. Her research focuses on the role of early care and education programs in promoting cognitive, behavioral, and social-emotional learning among children from underrepresented backgrounds. She was previously a faculty member at Purdue University. Finders enjoys running, hiking, biking, cooking, and spending time in the mountains in her free time.

The opinions expressed in this piece are those of the author and may not reflect the views of institutions with which she is affiliated.

I’m a high school student who fled the war in Ukraine. I still miss home.

2025-03-06T13:00:00+00:00

Until I was 5, I had lived my whole life in Luhansk, Ukraine. Then, in April 2014, Russia invaded Luhansk and another nearby region, Donetsk. Russia declared these eastern Ukrainian areas independent states and renamed them Donetsk People’s Republic and Luhansk People’s Republic. These name changes are part of how the Russian government tries to erase the Ukrainian identities of people who live there.

After the invasion, my family moved to Ukraine’s capital, Kyiv, and tried to find a better life. My dad listened to political podcasts and interviews, but my parents didn’t talk to me about the political situation much. I knew there was a war, that Russia had claimed our land, and that the two countries hated each other.

It took years for my family to fully adjust to our new lives. School helped: In Kyiv, I went to one school with the same kids from first grade through seventh grade. We didn’t even know how close we’d gotten. In sixth grade, another kid from Luhansk joined our class, and we exchanged sad glances.

Arina Limarieva

Every summer, I’d go to camps for a Japanese martial art called aikido. My favorite camp was outside Kyiv, in a forest by a lake. The last night of camp was prank night. During my last summer in Ukraine, on prank night, my best friend and I put toothpaste on some sleeping kids’ arms and cheeks, then snuck out of the dorm. We laughed and ran to the beach and watched the sunrise.

A few months later, on February 24, 2022, Russia launched an even bigger invasion into Ukrainian territory. It attacked towns and cities all across Ukraine, including Kyiv. Rumors of war had been circling us like snakes. My neighbors often lit fireworks, so when I heard loud bangs at 5 a.m., I went back to sleep. An hour later, my mother woke me up and said, “Wake up, the war started.” Those words were like freezing water over my body.

I heard the sound of bombs from my apartment. Out my window, I saw people rushing with suitcases to their cars.

I had practiced packing my things a few days before, so I went ahead and packed for real. My dad asked me to help him carry our bags to the car, and the sounds outside became terrifyingly loud. Huge swishes, then deafening blasts when bombs flew into buildings. I was shaken to my core.

My dad drove the two of us to the gas station, about seven minutes away, and waited in the line of cars for 20 minutes. My grandmother, mother, and one-year-old sister were at home finishing packing. I texted my classmates, who I was supposed to see two hours later in English class.

As my dad and I sat in a traffic jam, I got a message from one of the tougher guys in class. “I am going to miss all of you and I hope one day we will see each other again,” he wrote. We were friends, but I didn’t think I’d ever see him so vulnerable. It was the first time that many guys in my class admitted they had feelings. We all texted that we were afraid and were going to miss each other. It didn’t feel real.

After my dad and I picked up the rest of our family, we drove southeast along the Dnipro River for about two hours, arriving at a village near Cherkasy where my great-uncle lived. There, we lived for about two weeks, eight people in very close proximity. Because it was a small village, it felt safer. There were not a lot of alerts and sirens.

My friends who had stayed in Kyiv, meanwhile, constantly awoke to sirens and bombs and had to hurry into bomb shelters. They described their daily lives to me on the phone in voices laced with anxiety.

Early one evening at my great-uncle’s place, as the sun began to set, our phones blared a bomb warning. The serene atmosphere crumbled. We quickly got into the car and drove 30 minutes to my great-uncle’s wife’s parents. They had a basement we could shelter in. I grew up Christian, but that evening was the first time I had prayed in years. I didn’t know who might die that night. That’s when my parents decided to leave the country.

On March 6, 2022, my 13th birthday, we stopped at a hotel for a night on our way to the Hungarian border. The five of us dragged our suitcases. My grandma and I shared one room, while my parents and younger sister shared another.

Everybody was on edge and too exhausted to talk, so we got room service, including my favorite chocolate cake, but my euphoria at being 13 lasted about three minutes. Then the grief and sorrow and fear came back.

We stayed in a hotel in Hungary for three days. My dad could not get the right documents to leave the country, so he returned to Kyiv while the rest of us drove to Slovakia. Next to the road were beautiful fields full of flowers, but stress plagued our minds.

In Slovakia, we stayed with a Slovak friend of my dad’s and two other refugee families, also from Kyiv. We were there long enough for the other two refugee kids and me to start school there. I learned Slovak and even made friends. But I worried about my dad.

Three months into our stay, he joined us in Slovakia. New wrinkles had grown around his eyes, but his hug was still as warm and big as ever. The four of us stayed in my dad’s friend’s apartment for another three days. We then got the word that we could all immigrate to the United States.

I was somewhat ecstatic to see America as I knew it from the movies. I imagined a bright city with lights shining on me as I danced. I did not think that this move would be permanent.

In June 2022, we flew to New York. We lived at first with a family friend on Long Island. I started eighth grade in a middle school there. Because Ukrainian kids start studying English in first grade, I did not require ESL classes.

My accent set me apart though. All the kids in the school had known each other since kindergarten. I didn’t fit in and only made three friends. I might have made more friends if I didn’t focus on school so much, but reading a book during lunch gave me more comfort than kids asking me how to cuss in my native language.

I have gone to three schools in the last two years, a stark contrast to the one school in Kyiv that I attended for seven years. Two of them were middle schools, and now I attend a high school in Queens.

I get tired of talking about Ukraine to Americans. Whenever I mention my nationality, a beloved part of my life, I get the same questions — often about the war and if anyone I know died in it. (Thankfully, nobody close to me has been among the dead.)

The new U.S. president claims that he is capable of finishing the war “within weeks” even as Ukraine mourns the three-year anniversary of the Russian invasion. His words remind me of how Putin said he could control Kyiv in three days. He did not. It hurts to see the new U.S. administration turn its back on a democratic Ukraine and embrace its aggressor, Russia.

I constantly look for media coverage about Ukraine. My Spotify playlist of Ukrainian songs is up to 13 hours and 19 minutes. I text my loved ones there, and I think about them, especially late at night. I hate that my only access to them is through a screen. I yearn to be back in the Kyiv school I attended for seven years, singing makeshift karaoke as our teacher walks in and tells us to quiet down. I yearn to be back at my old dojo doing aikido with my friends.

But I don’t like feeling sad or like a victim. I have friends here, and I found people to do aikido with. My school offers college credit during junior and senior years. I should be halfway through my college credits by the time I graduate high school. This intense academic load helps to distract me from my sorrow, but the sorrow sometimes spills over.

Not long ago, I walked into my guidance counselor’s office, feeling overwhelmed. When I closed the door of his office, I suddenly collapsed on the chair and started sobbing. I was so tired of everything in my life.

My guidance counselor said supportive things and let me cry for five minutes. Then he started using calming techniques. “What is your happy place?” he asked. “Whenever I am stressed I like to think about my happy place. Walking on the beach, or just being out in nature. What’s yours?”

I took a few deep breaths and realized that my happy place was the aikido summer camp where my best friend and I watched that forbidden sunrise. The tears fell anew, and as they did, I tried to make sense of a happy place I might never return to. I tried thinking instead of people as my happy place, but the people I imagined comforting me were also from Ukraine, like my friend from camp. And anyone still there remains in danger from the ongoing war.

I started to see a therapist four years ago back in Ukraine, and I still “see” her on Skype once a week. She can get me to talk about my feelings, and we have tough conversations about the fact that I can’t control everything about my life.

My parents do not expect to return to Ukraine. All my high school classes seem to be about wars. I’ve been crying a lot. The news about the war looks bad, and it seems likely I won’t be able to go back in the next few years. I’m trying to be realistic and still have faith that, one day, my homeland will be safe.

A version of this piece was originally published by Youth Communication.

Arina Limarieva is a proud Ukrainian who writes poetry, takes photographs, and practices aikido and its philosophy.

Being a principal just got harder. Here’s why.

2025-02-21T20:21:41+00:00

There is a squeaky old merry-go-round in my neighborhood that my own children play on from time to time. Years of kids riding on it have loosened its joints so it spins more freely and quickly. The last time they played on the merry-go-round, my children learned the important lesson that the closer to the center they sit the more stable and in control they feel.

While being a school leader has always felt like being on a spinning piece of playground equipment, leading since the inauguration of President Donald Trump has made me feel as if I moved from the center to the edges in this merry-go-round metaphor. Immigration raids and attacks on civil liberties have made the work feel blindingly fast.

Chris DeRemer

The school I serve has a large population of immigrant students. Teens who just weeks ago felt like our school was a safe and secure place now carry a new level of concern into our classrooms and hallways. My school has seen a significant drop in attendance since January with parents and guardians citing the desire to keep their children home instead of sending them to school and putting them in harm’s way as ICE raids happen across the city.

Our staff feels the impact of the rhetoric and policy shifts out of Washington as well. They fear for the physical and emotional safety of our students when they leave the school.

For my part, I wonder if my decisions that prioritize equity and inclusion will make me the target of criticism — or worse, an investigation. This year, we have had ongoing professional development opportunities to teach staff how they can better support our queer students and employees. Each time we engage in these discussions, I find myself worrying about the repercussions.

But I am determined that the programs and people in place to support and protect our most vulnerable students will not go away. Rather, they will be reinforced. My role as a school leader is to create an environment so safe and accepting that students and staff never feel like they must look over their shoulder while they are at school. We want them to breathe easily knowing that, at least during the school day, they can be seen, safe, and successful.

To be sure, this job has always been a juggle, which includes instructional leadership, behavioral support, budgeting, staffing, and — in my case — fighting the stigma of historically being identified as a low-performing school by the Colorado Department of Education. But the changes out of Washington have taken things to the next level. As I navigate it all, I do my best to be energetic, optimistic, and reliable. Each day is an exercise in finding joy in my interactions with students and staff.

I find joy in seeing students cheer on their peers at basketball games. I find joy in watching a teacher sit with a student until they grasp a challenging concept. I find joy when I see staff members step in to teach a class for a colleague who is sick or just needs a break. I find joy and hope in my daily interactions with students and staff; they are the core of my work and are the bravest people I have worked with in my career.

When I push my children on the merry-go-round, I tell them to get to the center because the spinning seems to slow down and the noise decreases. This is the same advice I would give to school leaders right now. Get right to the center of your work by being with students and staff as much as possible. Even at the center, the spinning does not stop. The raids, political attacks, and fear tactics do not decrease, but the challenge of facing them becomes a little more manageable. While every force out there may be pushing leaders away from the center of their work, prioritizing that values-based work reminds us exactly why we do what we do.

Dr. Chris DeRemer is the principal of Manual High School in Denver. He has been teaching and leading schools in the Denver metro area for the past 15 years. When he is not working in or thinking about schools, he can be found running or playing outside with his wife and three kids.

Teaching English has gotten away from exploring literature. That’s a problem.

2025-02-18T13:00:00+00:00

I had a surprisingly positive middle school English experience. I remember my teacher holding “A Separate Peace” aloft, asking us to consider the names John Knowles chose for his two main characters: Phineas and Gene.

Phineas, or Finny, is handsome, athletic, and trusting. Gene is envious and competitive and (spoiler alert!) indirectly causes Finny’s death, shaking a tree limb from which Finny topples. He lives on but with crippling guilt. Finny, our teacher pulled from us, comes from the Latin root “Fin”— meaning ending; and Gene, comes from Gen — birth and beginning.

“Finny must die,” he said, “for Gene to live.” I lost my breath.

Daniel F. Levin

I don’t think that moment could happen in my own sixth grade classroom in Brooklyn. And the reasons for that are leading to the exodus among teachers in New York and across the country. Even those of us who stay are switching schools at a fast clip. According to one study, more than one in three teachers planned to leave their current school, a form of “musical chairs” that I have seen harm school communities. Teachers are setting out for something more satisfying, but we’re still ending up on the same block.

I want to be able to find joy and revelation in my classroom. I want to be surprised by how my students respond to questions. Yet in my own evaluations by school leadership, I’ve often been asked, What is the answer you are looking for, Mr. Levin? But what if I don’t know? What if I want my students to disrupt my own ways of thinking — not just meet a couple dozen reading proficiency standards my state requires? What if I want to teach English, where we explore literature, not teach ELA, where we analyze passages? Who wants to take a class called English Language Arts anyway? I wouldn’t!

There are a number of ways in which our classrooms have become increasingly joyless, but to me, all paths lead back to the state test, the annual assessment that measures how well students in grades 3–8 are mastering the learning standards. For charter schools, like the one where I teach, these tests are crucial criteria for renewal and expansion. For New York City’s traditional public schools, they influence a school’s profile on websites parents frequent, such as InsideSchools.

For students, state tests mean absolutely nothing except stress. But the state tests, especially ELA because math has always been more easily measured by numbers, skew the way students learn in classrooms, including in mine. But we now grade writing on a five-category rubric, with each category having a 1-4 rating; the cumulative number is the grade. I sometimes feel I might as well be a computer.

I’ve noticed myself grading these writing assignments: hunched over, constantly referring to a rubric, losing any sense of the whole. I can’t tell you how enervating this process is. If my student writes an ingenious hook that pulls me in, that’s great, but if it’s not related to a rubric category, it won’t help their grade. I mentioned to my colleague how disorienting and dehumanizing our checklist system of grading feels. Their response: “It’s true. But it’s taken exactly from the state test.”

This approach is a recipe for hyper-programmed students and burnt-out teachers. Who benefits? As far as I can tell, it’s the test creators, the makers of education software, and the data-specialist administrators who are hired because they are known for raising school testing data — hence the cycle.

Then there’s the reading material itself. It is often not even an actual book. Few students are reading “1984,” but they might be reading a passage about the ills of censorship. Afterward, they are tasked with writing CERERs, or Claim-Evidence-Reasoning-Evidence-Reasoning paragraphs, where they make an often-generic claim, like censorship is wrong, and support it.

Why do we read and write about passages and not books? Passages are what’s on the state tests. This teaching to the test is pervasive, far beyond my school. My own seventh grader is in a traditional public school in Brooklyn, and during our conferences, I asked his ELA teacher (whom I like very much) what books they read this year. At the time, they weren’t planning to read any books. “We read passages that are related to a central theme — like conformity,” she said. Noticing I’m crestfallen, she explains that ELA now prioritizes writing proficiency over exploring literature. I nod.

This then means that there are students entering college with little experience reading books cover-to-cover in middle and high school. The Atlantic recently explored this phenomenon, explaining how many teachers have “shifted from books to short informational passages, followed by questions about the author’s main idea — mimicking the format of standardized reading-comprehension tests.”

Growing up, I don’t remember many of the essays I wrote in my eighth grade English class, though we wrote many. I do remember “Catcher in the Rye” and the trial of Modern Man. Our class staged a mock trial, and my side had to present evidence defending Holden Caulfield. We argued that his targeting of “phonies” and his asking taxi drivers where the ducks in Central Park go in the winter were justified in a modern world so insane that only absurdity made sense.

I think that trial, along with the revelation from “A Separate Peace” and a hundred other non-assessed moments, pushed me to become a lifelong lover of literature as well as an English major in college. And while that last part might be of dubious value, those strange and wild conversations we had in English class are most certainly not.

To be clear, I believe in my school — its students, educators, and leaders. I’ve seen the school’s commitment to improving lives, whether that’s teaching kids about their rights in a frightening political environment, helping them empathize with each other when conflicts arise, or, as I’ve witnessed in my role as a learning specialist, adapting lessons so different types of learners can thrive. The grading rubrics we use have worthy goals, such as eliminating biases and improving equity. Even so, something has been lost in the way we are teaching literature and writing to kids.

There’s the line in Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World:” “I hear babies cry, I watch them grow/ They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know.” A teacher’s job is really to show a student how to teach themselves. We need to get back to a fundamental belief in wonder and leave behind the failed idea that reading and writing should be guided by and graded on a five-category rubric.

Teachers and students should be passengers on a common literary adventure. There are claims and evidence, to be sure, but those only come after gray areas, layers of meaning, irony, symbolism, and story. Phineas and Gene must continue to tumble and do battle, and when one idea dies, another should be born. According to this vision, you can’t always tell who is the teacher and who is the student.

Daniel F. Levin is a writer, educator, and father living in Brooklyn. He teaches middle school ELA and Humanities at a charter school in New York City. Previously, Levin taught for five years at Saint Ann’s School, where he wrote musicals for his students, and spent a decade running programs for ArtsConnection. When not lesson planning, he writes grown-up musicals and plays and always is happiest when diving into the next great story.

At home during COVID school closures, I found myself drawn to the manosphere

2025-02-12T19:00:50+00:00

It was midnight. I was mindlessly scrolling through the content on my TikTok feed. After watching countless videos of Andrew Tate, a social media star known for his misogynistic worldview, I found myself in an endless loop. As soon as I finished one of his videos, with titles like “Tate Destroys Feminism,” another one would pop up. This was my reality for months.

At the time, I was 12. It was the height of COVID. My Detroit school was closed, classes were online, and social media had become my main form of human interaction. Being stuck at home meant being on screens. Hours I would usually spend hanging out with friends were instead spent playing the video game Fortnite or doomscrolling on TikTok.

That’s how I found my way into the manosphere, a network of online content that promotes chauvinistic and often hateful ideas while borrowing from the language of self-development.

Bryan Campbell

Content creators in the manosphere say they want to help the viewer become what’s known on social media as a “high-value man,” capable of providing for and protecting those around him. That seemingly laudable goal has many unsavory subtexts, but I didn’t see them at first.

As a gullible child, I really believed that I would become a high-value man.

It was easy to watch video after video, not realizing the material was getting darker and darker. One minute I was watching tips for young men to improve their confidence; the next minute, that same creator was explaining that women need to be controlled, LGBTQ+ people don’t deserve rights, and Black people are “snowflakes.” And I believed them.

I had been “red-pilled,” which is a term from the 1999 film “The Matrix” used to describe a person’s awakening to a previously unseen reality. Male supremacists, however, co-opted the phrase to illustrate what happens when they “realize” they are at the impulse of women and feminists. (Some manosphere tenets are, unfortunately, becoming increasingly mainstream.)

I also found myself following the hashtag #TheBoys, which trended on TikTok during the height of COVID lockdowns. Boys roughly between 10 and 15 years old were using this hashtag to highlight their posts that promoted homophobic, misogynistic, and anti-Black ideas. They would say their pronouns were “heaven/normal” and make jokes about sexual abuse. They called the Black Lives Matter movement a joke.

Alone during COVID, with limited real-life academic and social interactions, these videos turned me into a drone — one who senselessly repeated statements that showed I did not understand the severity of sexual assault or respect the LGBTQ+ people and communities of color.

Things started to change over the Thanksgiving holiday break in 2020.

That’s when my older brother — home from Harvard College for the holidays — overheard me casually repeating the things I heard online as I played Fortnite with friends. He decided to confront me. While walking me into the living room to have a conversation, my brother brought up the topic of Andrew Tate and other creators like him. I told him that I found Tate observant and inspiring.

My brother said, “Women are no less than men.”

Then, repeating ideas I heard from Tate and others, I replied, “Girls can’t be independent.”

After hours of back and forth in which we discussed the manosphere’s ideas about women, the LGBTQ+ community, and Black people like my brother and me, I began to yell the popular red-pill mantra “facts over feelings.” It may sound like a rational idea, but these words are often used to justify hateful falsehoods.

“If we’re talking facts,” my brother countered, many of the content creators elevated by the manosphere “are known white supremacists and Neo-Nazis.”

He added, “The people you support don’t support your existence.”

My brother said I had become a “racist talking point.”

He ended the conversation by asking me, “What type of person do you want to be? What type of impact do you want to have?”

Seeing my calm and collected sibling get unusually bothered showed me how worried he was about me.

The impact of our four-hour discussion did not immediately set in. But over the next couple of weeks, I considered my brother’s words and had my answer to his question about impact: I want to have a positive impact on all people I cross paths with.

I realize now, that if I had continued my descent into the manosphere, my ideologies could have morphed into something even worse: I could have become black-pilled, which is like being red-pilled but much more extreme. The black-pill ideology advocates men reject the version of society they’ve “awakened” to — by any means necessary. The rhetoric of eugenics emerges. Men who are deemed “useless” are advised to end their own lives. At worst, these misguided men, who are told their lives are worthless, may commit acts of mass violence.

I’ve come a long way in the past few years. I’m 16 now, and these days, I stand up for ideals my younger self would have scoffed at: women’s rights, LGBTQ+ rights, and racial justice. My work with the student-led nonprofit Diversify Our Narrative and my high school’s Black Student Union are examples of this. At Diversify Our Narrative, we advocate for more inclusive curriculums, including lessons about many marginalized identities like BIPOC and LGBTQ+ people, and an end to racial disparities in schools. Similarly in the Black Student Union, where I am vice president, my fellow students and I speak about Black life and history.

My run-in with the manosphere is hardly unique. Young men are still falling into similar patterns and pipelines. They may be lonely, suffer from low self-esteem, or lack positive male role models and find themselves caught in a loop of toxic content.

If my brother hadn’t walked me back from the brink, I don’t know where I’d be now. I am determined to pay it forward. As I near adulthood, my interactions with those younger than me feel more consequential than ever because I understand the impact one conversation can have.

Bryan Campbell is a junior at Cass Technical High School who loves reading and writing in his free time. He works as a national team member at Diversify Our Narrative and is a 2024-25 Chalkbeat Student Voices Fellow in Detroit. In the future, he hopes to help Detroit through journalism and education.

I loved being a school principal. But anxiety and depression brought me to a breaking point.

2025-02-06T18:06:34+00:00

My greatest fear as a school principal wasn’t test scores, an angry parent, or a poor evaluation. It was oversleeping on a school day. That fear became reality one August morning in 2021.

I rolled over, hoping for another hour of sleep, but the clock read 9:35 a.m. Panic set in! I had already missed an hour and a half of the school day. As I scrambled to get ready, my wife walked in and calmly told me she had already called in sick for me. I hadn’t asked her to, but she was right. I was sick, much more than I realized.

Wes Cottongim

The night before, my mental health deteriorated to the point people often call “rock bottom.” It was my first visit to that place, but it wouldn’t be my last. My actions and words alarmed my wife enough that she intervened and, in doing so, may have saved my life.

I came from a family of educators but never imagined becoming one myself. Initially pursuing business administration, I eventually found my calling in teaching. After years as a sixth grade teacher, I became an assistant principal and later accepted a similar position closer to home. Though I wasn’t in a hurry to become a principal, I knew that was my ultimate goal.

When a lead principal position opened in my school district located in South Central Kentucky, I took a leap of faith and applied. I got the job at the same elementary school I attended as a child. It was an incredible opportunity. I had a wonderful wife, two young children, and my dream role. Life was good.

The summer entering my third year as principal was busy but typical. Until it wasn’t. My team and I prepared schedules, processed records, and moved into a new school building to accommodate our growing enrollment. Then, the weight of my responsibilities began to feel different. Though I had a solid grasp of my role, I found myself staying at school all hours of the day/night and on weekends. This included working from home nonstop. I was physically present with my family but mentally absent.

As the summer ended and the new year began, every decision, big or small, felt overwhelming. Sleep became scarce, and when I did sleep, I woke up fixating on work. Some nights, I’d go into the office before dawn. Our school custodian once found me asleep at my desk. I had been there all night.

The logistics of leading a school weren’t the only things that felt newly crushing to me. Interactions that weren’t perfectly smooth consumed me. I began dreading unpleasant emails and felt the need to rectify any concerns immediately, no matter what I was doing at the time. I lost 30 pounds. People were noticing something was wrong.

The desire to be great was consuming me.

I feel incredibly vulnerable sharing my story, but I do so because I know other school leaders face similar struggles.

This heightened desire to be everything for everyone eventually became unbearable, and I didn’t have the coping skills to deal with what I was facing. Although I might have put on a happy face, I was hurting on the inside. At the end of the day, I’d go home and go to my bed. That was one of the few places I found relief.

I was reluctant to seek help because doing so felt like a sign of weakness or failure. When I did see a doctor, though, I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. After discussions with my superintendent and doctor, I decided to take a leave of absence. Stepping away was heartbreaking, and at first, the darkness only deepened.

Determined to get better, I leaned on my support system: my family, faith, and professionals. Through therapy and self-reflection, I realized that my relentless pursuit of perfection had been my downfall. I had placed impossible expectations on myself, believing that a good principal had to be available 24/7, never make mistakes, and wear all the hats. What I learned is that leadership isn’t about perfection; it’s about sustainability, about finding ways to serve without losing yourself in the process.

When I returned to work after a few weeks away, I became intentional about how I spent my days. I scheduled time with students, made myself visible, and prioritized what truly mattered, my family. I set boundaries, something I had never done before. I learned that saying no to unnecessary obligations wasn’t a sign of failure but an act of self-preservation. I am grateful to say that I finished out the school year alongside 600 incredible students.

We all fall. My fall happened in a public role, but perhaps that wasn’t a coincidence. I feel incredibly vulnerable sharing my story, but I do so because I know other school leaders face similar struggles. A 2022 RAND Corp. report found that 48% of principals experience burnout and 28% report symptoms of depression. The toll is immense.

But we can change the narrative. We must reassess workloads, create sustainable expectations, and build real support systems. We need policies that encourage school leaders to take care of themselves without guilt. We need to foster an environment where asking for help is seen as a strength, not a weakness.

The success of our schools depends on the well-being of those who lead them.

Dr. Wes Cottongim serves as an assistant professor of education administration at Western Kentucky University. He teaches graduate-level courses for both aspiring and current school administrators. His research is focused on school safety, sustainability of roles in education, and teacher/administrator burnout.

Explicit instruction: Students need more of it

2025-01-31T16:00:00+00:00

As a progressive educator in New York City for 30 years, I thought I had all the answers. The best teaching had to do with inquiry, with “higher-level thinking,” with “student-centered” project-based learning. I still believe in all of that, but I now understand that these are just part of the picture.

What students — especially struggling students — also need is teacher-directed explicit instruction.

By explicit instruction, I am speaking of the “I-do, we-do, you-do” strategy, where the teacher models a concept or skill, engages students in targeted practice, checks and corrects understanding, and then gives students more independent practice, with more checking for understanding and corrective feedback.

NYC teacher and assistant principal Jeremy Kaplan

As an assistant principal in a public school in Manhattan, I have begun to use explicit instruction more in my own teaching and have focused on explicit instruction in my professional development with the history and physical education teachers I supervise.

When I taught ninth grade Global History to an integrated co-teaching, or ICT, class last year, I used explicit instruction in ways I had not done before. When I asked students, who were a mix of general education students and students with disabilities, to do Harvard’s Project Zero’s “see-think-wonder” protocol, where they look at an image and consider the ideas and questions it brings up for them, I realized that many students had trouble with thinking and wondering. They needed modeling, practice, and feedback.

There is ample evidence that explicit instruction works for everyone, especially struggling learners. This research dovetails with the “science of reading” practices that have been transforming reading instruction to favor a phonics-based approach.

Explicit instruction is also common sense.

If I need to learn something I don’t know anything about — tie a specific fishing knot, say — any amount of “productive struggle” would not be so productive. I would need someone to show me what to do, multiple times, and give me plenty of practice and feedback as I attempted it myself.

My daughter in high school needs explicit instruction. She has severe dyslexia and dysgraphia. She goes to a small, progressive public school in New York City, similar to one that I taught in for 10 years, that is focused on project-based learning. This is the type of school that I believe in, but this school does not prioritize explicit instruction, and my daughter is struggling.

Small, progressive schools in New York City often create project-based curriculums that focus on issues of social justice, both for educational and political reasons. But if you are not effectively teaching the students who struggle most, you are perpetuating educational inequity.

Explicit instruction, done well, is not a return to traditional teacher lectures.

In my history and physical education department meetings last year and this year, I have focused our work together on explicit instruction — a shift from the project-based learning strategies I had favored in years past. Many of these explicit instruction strategies do not take much time to learn or use, and some of the teachers I supervise are already starting to use them.

Some of these same teachers have told me that they have been wary of using explicit instruction because they were told previously that instruction needs to be “student-centered.” But learning does not have to be student-driven in order for it to be student-centered.

While it’s true that explicit instruction is teacher-directed, it offers opportunities for student participation as well as the teacher to call on students to check and correct understanding. It is also true that explicit instruction is not mentioned in the Danielson framework, the rubric that New York State uses for teacher ratings.

Student-centered learning is often conflated with the idea of “productive struggle,” when students figure things out on their own, such as the meaning of a text or the rule for a set of problems. Productive struggle may work for some students who have the background knowledge, skills, and desire to figure things out on their own. But productive struggle does not work for my daughter. As she said one night at dinner, “I can’t learn if I have no idea what to do.”

Explicit instruction, done well, is not a return to traditional teacher lectures. It is a deliberate progression of modeling, guided practice, and independent practice of a skill or a concept.

Explicit instruction is not contrary to project-based learning — they are complementary. Students do need to be engaged with authentic tasks and real-world problems, such as writing letters to elected officials about current issues of the world. But along the way, they also need explicit instruction on topics such as how to identify a policy goal and structure an email.

Project-based learning helps ensure that learning is meaningful and long-lasting for students. Explicit instruction helps ensure that students learn at all.

As New York State transitions to a Regents-optional high school graduation regime, I hope that project-based learning expands to become the dominant curricular model. And I hope that explicit instruction expands along with it.

Jeremy Kaplan has been a New York City public school educator since 1994. He is currently Assistant Principal of Instruction at the High School for Health Professions and Human Services.

The science of reading: It’s time to bring preschool teachers into the conversation

2025-01-27T20:26:01+00:00

Here’s what you might see when you step into my classroom: rapturous renditions of nursery rhymes, Play-Doh being turned into letters, and 4-year-olds acting out the adventures of a very hungry caterpillar.

As a transitional kindergarten teacher in Oakland, California, my job is to get the youngest learners ready for school as part of California’s universal public preschool program. I teach my students how to get up when they fall, how to open a carton of milk without incident, and how to master the skills they will need to eventually become readers. Nursery rhymes to teach phonological awareness so students can recognize and manipulate the spoken parts of words. Play-Doh to teach phonics so they understand the relationship between letters and sounds. Dramatic play to teach comprehension since acting out stories can help kids better understand them.

To me, this early literacy work is integral to addressing the current literacy crisis. In California, half of all public school students read below grade level. Nationwide, two out of three elementary schoolers read below grade level. The consequences are far-reaching, from high school graduation rates to future earnings to future encounters with the criminal justice system.

Alicia Simba

For students to become successful readers, they need instruction based on the science of reading — direct, explicit, and systemic lessons teaching phonemic awareness, phonics, fluency, vocabulary, and reading comprehension. Children are expected to master these skills in the short years between kindergarten and when they sit for standardized assessments in third grade, despite the fact that many students begin school with limited literacy exposure or require more time to practice these skills.

But what if instead of beginning our literacy efforts in kindergarten and first grade, we began that work in early childhood classrooms? What would it look like to work with early childhood educators to integrate and align literacy efforts so that all students are set up for success?

In my classroom, I have seen how effective early literacy work is because the brain in the early years is a sponge. For instance, years ago, I taught my students the ballad “I Know Where I’ve Been” from the musical “Hairspray” for our Black History Month assembly, and they picked it up almost instantly, still singing it weeks after our performance. Every new line of lyrics came with new vocabulary I defined and then started to use in our classroom.

And thanks to the kinesthetic nature of early childhood education, young children experience literacy best through movement, which is also backed by research. My 4-year-olds love to play “Clap, Stomp, Jump,” where we segment the syllables in our names and pair them with actions. They love it because they get to move and be loud. I love it because it builds phonological awareness, so they are better able to manipulate sounds. A total physical response approach to literacy is developmentally appropriate for the early years and sets students up for future success by building their reading skills early.

Lastly, because early childhood classrooms emphasize creativity, students are introduced to the joy of reading through fun. In my classroom, phonics looks like kids using finger paints to write their names with rainbow colors, sounding out letters to reinforce the relationship between letters and sounds.

I love engaging my transitional kindergarteners in literacy. But we need more high-quality professional development at the intersection of early childhood education and literacy instruction. I have attended conferences hosted by the Oakland Literacy Coalition and training by SEEDS of Learning facilitators that have provided me with strategies, activities, and lessons aligned with the science of reading to help my youngest students become successful. I want all childhood educators to have access to these resources, from Head Start teachers to family child care providers to stay-at-home caregivers. Children in all preschool contexts should have foundational literacy experiences.

Early childhood educators also need to be partners in crafting education policy and initiatives. I have sat in Instructional Leadership Team meetings at my school and attended countywide meetings, both of which have helped me to teach early literacy skills with larger K-12 objectives in mind. All students should be working toward the same goals, regardless of their place in the education system. Examples like Mississippi and New Jersey show that aligning and investing in early childhood education leads to improved reading outcomes.

Here’s what you might see when you step into my classroom: my students falling in love with letters, words, and books, as I once did. I get them there through literacy work that shows them the magic of reading and prepares them to be strong and successful readers for years to come. For my students and me, that work starts now. We just make it look like play.

Alicia Simba is a public school teacher living and working in Oakland, California. She is a 2024-25 Teach Plus Senior Writing Fellow, and her writing has been published in Teen Vogue, Slate, Blavity, and more.

Trump is promising mass deportations. Here’s how schools can support undocumented families.

2025-01-21T23:11:35+00:00

“What if I go home and my parents aren’t there?”

Those were the words of a fifth grader to his teacher.

The teacher told me that she fears what’s ahead for her students living in immigrant households, as the new Trump administration promises mass deportations that could impact millions of youth.

As an education policy and immigration researcher and an educator, I have listened as students and families express fear and uncertainty about what Trump’s hard-line immigration policies could mean for them. Meanwhile, educators and organizers are wrestling with the question of what “sanctuary” might look like in their communities, including in their schools, and how to best support students and families.

Sophia Rodriguez

In his inaugural address Monday, Trump said he would return “millions and millions” of undocumented immigrants to their countries of origin. Less than a day after taking office, he rescinded a longstanding policy that prevented federal immigration enforcement from making arrests at schools and other sensitive locations, like hospitals and houses of worship. This change could lead to surveillance, searches, and arrests at schools and other formerly protected locations.

Amid this political theater, educators, community leaders, and immigrant advocates want to know how they can protect their school communities. They want to know what they should be doing now and what to tell students like the fifth grader worried about coming home from school and finding his undocumented parents have been detained or deported.

In New York City, some schools are receiving city guidance, while schools dedicated to serving new immigrants are training staff for potential immigration officers’ presence at schools. The Chicago school board, meanwhile, passed a resolution vowing that school officials would not comply with federal immigration enforcement. As a community leader there told me: “Keeping people here and safe is a form of resistance.” The Los Angeles Unified reaffirmed its role as a sanctuary district and tasked the superintendent with creating a plan to train school staff to respond to requests or visits from federal immigration authorities.

Such moves may ease some concerns, but they are not necessarily possible or happening in suburban communities like the ones I study, due to a lack of infrastructure and social service support, or in places where state policies reflect widespread anti-immigrant sentiment. The lack of a safety net means there are fewer opportunities for school districts to partner with community-based organizations or build coalitions to support families.

Despite the expanded authority for ICE to operate near schools, the 1982 U.S. Supreme Court ruling in Plyler v. Doe, which has stood up to legal challenges over the years, says that students have the right to a free public education, regardless of their immigration status. While overturning Plyler is a stated policy goal of the Heritage Foundation, a think tank closely linked to Trump, I think it’s more likely that local law enforcement will cooperate with ICE with strong encouragement and erratic policies from the Trump administration.

Plyler also means schools don’t have to turn over information about whether students are documented or undocumented — if they collect that information at all. (California, for one, cannot, but Oklahoma’s state superintendent wants families to share their immigration status before enrolling their children in school.)

Even before the protected spaces rule was overturned, immigrant families may have felt the need to hide, refrain from seeking help or services, and keep their kids out of school. During the first Trump administration, absenteeism due to fear of immigration enforcement increased. My research shows that, fearing immigration raids, youth and families avoid certain parts of town or driving to work or the grocery store near common ICE checkpoints.

Against this backdrop, there are several ways that schools can be a shield for immigrant students. Some of the districts I partner with have plans to safeguard immigrant students’ rights and to support teachers and school staff in this effort. Training educators and implementing safety plans consistently will be key to maintaining schools as safe places. Meanwhile, other schools are updating safety plans they began during the first Trump administration, and others still report needing more awareness of immigration policy and youth and families’ rights.

For many immigrant students, school is their one safe place

Educators and local organizers know that immigrant families’ fears are valid and should be helping them prepare documents, list emergency contacts, and have a plan in place for kids if parents are detained or deported.

At the state level, organizers should encourage legislation that protects educational rights, including bills shielding child care centers from immigration raids and ensuring access to higher education regardless of immigration status — in contrast to a proposed Florida law that would bar undocumented students from selective state colleges.

Some states, cities, and school districts already have sanctuary policies limiting local cooperation with immigration enforcement. However, sanctuary policies vary widely and do not fully protect undocumented immigrants from deportation.

There is much work ahead for schools and community-based organizations, as well as state and local officials serving immigrant communities. The first steps for educators and educational leaders ought to be: pass safe-zone plans to combat threatened or real ICE presence near schools, ensure that a communication tree and family plan are in place in the event of raids or deportation, secure legal expertise through school-community partnerships, and designate school staff to support these efforts. Subsequent steps for community-based groups should include advocating for state policies to protect higher education and financial aid access and expanding things like driving privileges, temporary work permits, and professional licensing for immigrants.

State, local, and school district leaders need to invest in these efforts and not leave it up to chance. Families’ lives depend on this kind of support and mobilization.

Sophia Rodriguez, Ph.D. (@SoRoPhD), is an associate professor of educational policy studies at New York University’s Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development. She is also a first-generation college student and child of an immigrant from Latin America, which drives her advocacy work and quest for equitable policies for immigrant youth and their families. Her research investigates how community-school partnerships and educators promote racial equity for immigrant youth; her research has appeared in academic journals as well as in the Washington Post, Education Week, and the Conversation.

As chronic migraines sapped my energy and focus, my schoolwork and mental health suffered

2025-01-17T13:00:00+00:00

Months of waiting were finally over. It was April. I would soon know if I got into the Telluride Association Summer Seminar, a six-week summer leadership program where students take courses in subjects like Critical Black Studies and Anti-Oppressive Studies.

Then came the email. The words “Congratulations! We are pleased…” flew across my screen. I let out a sigh of relief, knowing that my perseverance had been worth it.

The acceptance to this prestigious program, better known as TASS, was hard-won. Just a few months prior to getting in, it seemed unlikely that I would ever live a life filled with passion. Tormented by chronic migraines, I had become another hopeless high schooler. Throughout my sophomore year at a Detroit high school, I experienced it all: hospitalization, depression, and anxious spiraling.

Bryan Campbell

I even found myself in the emergency room on Christmas. I spent this day synonymous with joy and family togetherness, feeling like a shell of myself.

Christmas Day began normally, with all my family gathered at my house to exchange gifts. At the time, I was working on application essays for TASS and studying for finals, which were approaching. Suddenly, the words on my computer screen started to blur, my head pulsated with pain, and the world seemed like it was spinning.

I tried to sleep it off, but when I woke up, the symptoms were many times worse. Even while lying flat, everything appeared upside down, and closing my eyes only intensified the disorientation. Speaking became near impossible as even the slightest movement would cause me pain. Tears streamed down my face. I had dealt with migraines for months, but this one was debilitating.

At 5 p.m., my mother rushed me to the ER. I waited an hour, and I felt the reception room begin to move and turn. Migraines often come with temporary visual symptoms, like blurriness, bright spots, or seeing double. In my case, my dizziness and impaired eyesight landed me in a wheelchair.

As I was rolled to a hospital room, helplessness overwhelmed my body. The bright lights agitated my eyes, but I couldn’t close them either. This is the worst Christmas ever, I thought.

At 4 a.m., I returned home, but for days, simply walking to the bathroom would leave me immobile for minutes due to dizziness.

Over the next few weeks, I didn’t experience another migraine, but I still didn’t feel relief. The fear of not knowing when the next migraine would hit and leave me unable to function again held me back from achieving the things I desired. My once bright outlook dimmed. My A’s in school turned into D’s, and every interest I once had seemed to fade away.

Noticing the change in my work ethic, teachers started to pull me aside. But often, their comments seemed accusatory rather than supportive. I remember one teacher telling me, “You do know migraines won’t stop you from failing.”

Their obvious disappointment could not have come at a worse time. I had already been blaming myself for my drop in academic performance. My teachers’ remarks felt like piling on. One word describes this experience: stagnation.

I attend Cass Technical, one of the most competitive public high schools in Detroit, and that environment only exacerbated these feelings. And having a brother who goes to Harvard had already put me in a mental space where I believed that every action of mine could decide my future.

Struggling with chronic pain, or sometimes just the fear of it, my mental health suffered along with my grades. It felt like my peers were thriving while I was falling further and further behind.

With my motivation gone, even waking up became a daunting task. My attendance gradually declined, which alarmed my teachers once again.

One day, after a few weeks of falling attendance, I walked up to my chemistry teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, to inquire about a concept I didn’t understand in class. To my surprise, in the midst of our conversation, she requested that I step out into the hallway.

She asked, “What’s going on? You seem different than usual.”

Surprised by her genuine concern, I went on to explain my illness and its aftereffects.

In response to my vulnerability, she gave me helpful resources for young people facing struggles. She connected me to other students who could relate to what I was going through and helped me to create a plan for getting back on track. To catch up in school, she proposed that I document my illness and get it on the record for my administrators.

As I was writing this essay, I interviewed Mrs. Cunningham. I asked her about what she noticed and why she reached out to me. She said, “I saw effort but could tell something was holding you back.”

What Mrs. Cunningham saw in me was the dormant urge to grow, simply waiting to be reignited.

During the TASS program, I tapped into that energy again. I read many books, immersing myself in new ideas in sociology, history, and Black studies. I learned about the ways ideas can be expressed through writing, which can be used as a political tool. I slowly regained the passion I had once had. The dedication I put into the program confirmed for me that I was still capable of achieving.

TASS quite literally turned my life around. At a time in my life when I felt that my path would lead to failure, I proved not only to myself but to everyone that our worst moments don’t have to dictate our future. I saw how an empathetic ear and opportunity granted can make all the difference.

These days, I get migraines about once or twice a month, rather than weekly, thanks to effective treatments. But I no longer fear them like I used to. The key to letting go of that fear is to believe that the migraines will get better — and to focus my energy on subjects I’m passionate about.

In retrospect, I see that I always had the ability to thrive. In Mrs. Cunningham’s words, “All you were missing was acceptance and support.”

I never had trouble making friends before. Why was high school so lonely?

2025-01-10T22:12:34+00:00

In 10th grade, my lunch periods usually looked like this: After finishing class, I would head to the library and computer lab, where I’d sit and make Pinterest boards — about Halloween costumes, say, or what I imagined my future house would look like. I did this while listening to music or true crime podcasts on my earbuds. When I looked up from my phone, I’d see students sitting together, doing homework or just hanging out. I was sitting alone. As for eating lunch, I’d always wait until I got home from school.

It was a lonely experience.

In September of my sophomore year, I transferred schools and was excited for a fresh start. At my old high school, my lunch periods looked about the same, except phones weren’t allowed, so I’d use a school laptop to search for things my future self would buy for trips. I imagined riding the Glacier Express in Switzerland or sandboarding in the Moroccan desert. If I didn’t like my present situation, at least I could prepare to love a future of endless possibilities.

Awa Sangare

I thought my school social life would improve when I transferred. But when it didn’t, I realized that the one thing that had stayed the same throughout was me.

My loneliness was particularly unnerving because I wasn’t used to it. I had attended elementary and middle school with many of the same friends and classmates year after year. As a younger child with a simpler worldview, it was easier to make friends. When new students would enroll at my elementary and middle school, I would fearlessly walk up to them and invite them to play. But in the post-COVID world of high school, fostering these connections seemed impossible.

Why was it so hard for me just to walk up to someone and start talking?

I’m not the only one struggling with these sentiments. In 2023, U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy issued a report on America’s epidemic of loneliness, which he said presents “profound threats to our health and well-being.” The epidemic preceded the pandemic, but COVID worsened the problem. A more recent study revealed that 41% of adolescents showed “higher rates of stress and anxiety” during this time of widespread isolation.

And it’s important to remember that even during ordinary times, the transition to high school can be nerve-wracking. The effects of quarantine made the change even harder.

I recall desperately wanting another student to initiate a conversation with me, but no one did. I had some friends, but, especially being a transfer student, the friendships weren’t as deep as I craved.

It was May of my sophomore year when I finally realized that my loneliness was the result of insecurity and a fear of rejection. I wanted to see Luca Guadagnino’s movie “Challengers,” but I had no one to go with. The theater was also a 20-minute subway ride away, which isn’t very long, but I rarely went on the subway alone back then. I still really wanted to see it, so I pushed myself to go alone. At the end of the movie and upon returning home, I thought about how my happiness doesn’t have to be dependent on others. After all, I had just gone out and had a great time on my own.

I thought about my behavior over the past year and a half. Too often, I stayed home and never asked anyone new to hang out. I live in New York City — there are a million things to do here — yet I wasn’t taking advantage of it. So I decided that I would start doing something I had heard a bit about online: solo dating. This self-care exercise involves taking yourself out to nice places with the goal of boosting confidence and encouraging self-discovery.

Once I stopped focusing so much on not having close friends and more on enjoying my own company, I naturally began making meaningful relationships with other people. I became great friends with classmates I was already well acquainted with, as well as some I wasn’t.

With this new confidence, I began reaching out to ask new people if I could sit with them during lunch or if they wanted to go somewhere together. I was no longer afraid of rejection. As it turns out, people were much friendlier than I assumed, and I started socializing more during my free time. I was even invited to join a new club.

Nowadays, I’m still a homebody and a bit shy. I’m not confident enough to walk up to people in every situation, but it’s not as upsetting or lonely. I’ve continued my solo dating practice — taking myself to the movies, new cafés, or to another neighborhood to go shopping — in addition to doing these things with friends. I still sometimes spend my lunch hour alone, but I’ve stopped fixating on the absence of people.

One of my favorite quotes is “Don’t waste your time chasing butterflies. Mend your garden, and the butterflies will come” by the Brazilian writer Mário Quintana. It encapsulates what I’ve learned throughout this experience. When you focus on improving your life and tapping into what brings you joy, your positive energy invites people in. And even when it doesn’t, when you’re your own best friend, you will rarely be lonely.

Awa Sangare is a member of Chalkbeat’s 2024-25 Student Voices Fellowship class. She is a high school junior who enjoys nuanced discussions, literature, and history. Awa started a Muslim Student Association at her school in an effort to explore her own religious identity and provide a safe space for Muslims to express their thoughts. She hopes to study English and history in college.

Boys battle disordered eating, too. I know because I am one of them.

2025-01-07T13:00:00+00:00

Content warning: This essay discusses eating disorders. If you or someone you know is suffering from an eating disorder, call the National Alliance for Eating Disorders Helpline at 866-662-1235, 9 a.m.-7 p.m. ET, Monday-Friday.

On June 30, I stood on the scale in the doctor’s office. My heart pounded as I waited for the moment that always dug its claws into my confidence. My eyes widened as I took in the number on the scale. I felt like my body was going to cave in on itself.

My struggle with weight did not germinate overnight. It was something I’d battled my whole life. I had always lived in a larger body. However, my doctor’s appointment that day ignited 16 years of negative emotions, leaving me feeling paralyzed. Even if I attempted to downplay the situation in front of nurses, peers, and family members — I could not hide my humiliation.

Ocean Lin

Back in fifth grade, classmates would ask me how much I weighed. I would always brush it off, telling them such a high number that it was clear I was joking. It was easier to make light of the situation than to put an actual value to it. I feared being a laughingstock, so I wanted to be in on the joke.

Every year, as New Year’s approached, I would make a plan to lose weight, one of the most common resolutions. However, my weight loss goals were always unrealistic. Especially since I was a growing child, not Mr. Potato Head. And so, I would find myself back where I started.

After that June doctor’s appointment, though, I was set on proving to little Ocean that I could do it. I turned to extreme measures: counting, restricting, and overexercising. In doing so, I traded my overeating for something even worse. I lost weight rapidly — way too rapidly.

Though I received positive feedback about my changing appearance, I was still unsatisfied with my reflection. Despite everyone telling me how “good” I looked, I still wanted to hide my body. While many people who commented on my weight loss meant well, they did not understand the dangerous habits I was practicing — and what they were doing to me. I experienced constant mental fatigue and dizziness. I told myself I was getting healthy, but what I was really doing was spiraling downwards.

This all reached a breaking point on October 6, 2024, when I fell on the hardwood floor, too weak from lack of nourishment. Fortunately, this incident happened in my living room and not on the jagged concrete outside. My energy was drained, but until the moment of my fall, I had willed myself to push through. That day, I blacked out and had to miss school the next day.

When I returned to my pediatrician after the fall, he was shocked by my dramatic weight loss. I had dropped weight so fast that my doctor warned me about the life-threatening effects of extreme dieting.

When people think about crash diets and about eating and body image disorders, such as anorexia, bulimia, and body dysmorphia, teen girls may come to mind. And while women and girls make up the majority of those with eating disorders, men and boys account for about a third of cases — and the signs are frequently missed. To me, it makes sense — and not just because I’ve lived it. We all exist in the same diet culture, and we often don’t consider the health consequences of chasing after what social media and celebrity culture deem an “ideal” body. This is much more alarming to think about because I am one of millions of teens who attempt to diet every year. A portion of these teens will develop severe eating disorders, which studies showed became significantly more prevalent during the pandemic.

As crazy as it may seem, I am thankful for what happened on October 6. Had I not fallen down, I could have gone down a darker path, developing a more severe condition, and thus putting me at higher risk for self-harm.

Just like that number on the scale was a wake-up call to me, so, too, was my fall. This time, I recognized the dire need to repair my relationship with food.

I have since looked into intuitive eating, a non-diet approach that focuses on listening to your body’s hunger and fullness cues. But what did it mean to “listen to myself?” Growing up, I ate excessively — too much and too quickly — and then, for months earlier this year, I barely ate at all.

My goal now is to maintain healthy habits — to find a balance between eating when I am hungry and stopping when I am full. Despite everything, the journey is ongoing as insecurity manages to follow me.

For many, eating disorders can be a long-term struggle, and I would be lying if I said that everything was all right just three months after my fall. In reality, it is not. There’s still shame and still fear of regaining weight. I still have to fight the urge to weigh myself after every meal. Nonetheless, I have seen the positive impacts of intuitive eating on my mental health. By taking it one step at a time, I know that eventually, I’ll reach a point when I can look in the mirror and feel proud of what I see.

My body has gotten me this far, and it is only right for me to treat it with care and consideration.

Ocean Lin is a junior who wants to pursue a career in chemistry. He hopes to make a difference and share authentic stories despite living in a society that expects conformity. He started the Instagram poetry account Tide Tales to give marginalized groups a platform for creative self-expression.

NYC teachers are told to foster ‘politically neutral’ classrooms. How should they talk about Trump?

2024-12-23T13:00:00+00:00

A few weeks after Election Day, a former student of mine, now a New York City public school teacher, reached out by email. She had just hosted a group of teacher friends at her apartment to think about and discuss “where we go from here as educators. One thing that kept coming up is the insistence from the city and their administrators alike that teachers remain “neutral” when talking to students about the election results and the upcoming Trump administration.”

She called the instructional guidance presented on a slide at her school “murky,” because, referencing city policy, it advised:

“Schools have an obligation to create a politically neutral learning environment. While presidential elections are a time to help teach and foster civic engagement, NYCPS employees must refrain from advocating for their preferred candidates or political parties, including refraining from wearing any items advocating for a candidate or political party.”

She went on to tell me that “warnings that our school administrations have issued make it feel as if no speech related to Trump’s policies or the impact that they may have on our school communities is permissible.” Her colleagues, she said, were “fearful about speaking truth,” lest it be labeled political speech.

David C. Bloomfield

Despite the guidance’s vague reference to a “politically neutral learning environment,” the rest of the text refers to partisan campaigning and not generic political issues.

Classroom teachers are, in fact, obligated to address political issues under New York State law and the state’s Civic Readiness Initiative. A city regulation, meanwhile, states that the expectation of neutrality “does not preclude school personnel from discussing or distributing information about election issues in connection with legitimate instructional programs and activities.” Post-election, New York City Public Schools updated its ”civics for all” resources for this purpose.

Within that framework, teachers are not only encouraged but also required to teach post-election matters in a factual manner within the context of the curriculum. These lessons can take place in social studies but also in science, math, English language arts, and arts — whenever they are relevant. Even if the city’s neutrality guidance is interpreted to go beyond partisan electioneering, the word used is “neutral,” not “neutered.” Teachers should take strength from that difference and meet the moment accordingly.

This is not Florida, and even there, a recent settlement over “Don’t Say Gay” legislation makes clear that discussion of so-called banned topics, such as sexual orientation and gender identity, is permissible, even if those topics cannot be part of the formal curriculum in certain grades.

In New York, marginalized individuals and groups are protected and may have full representation in the curriculum, as do hot-button issues, such as climate, trans rights, gun violence, and immigration. Educators must present this material responsibly and without demeaning individual students or those with differing views, but those considerations should enrich classroom discussions, not silence them.

I’d add that when planned, intentions to teach controversial topics might be brought to the attention of parents and school leadership, not for a veto but for possible discussion, and so those involved are prepared for any student or community response. Similarly, after-the-fact notification of unplanned classroom conversations may be advisable.

New York State law and curriculum standards — along with the ethical obligation to help students understand their world and build critical thinking skills — obligate teachers to resist perceived pressures to avoid controversial topics in context. This takes skill, and school leaders should provide professional development to help teachers navigate these hard conversations.

But to answer the question posed by my former student turned elementary school science teacher: There is a need for educators to present “speech related to Trump’s policies or the impact that they may have on our school communities” despite warnings from administrators. It’s probably unhelpful — though hard to resist — to say, “Here’s what I think,” but it’s constructive to discuss differing opinions supported by facts and ethical considerations.

David C. Bloomfield is Professor of Education Leadership, Law and Policy at Brooklyn College and the CUNY Graduate Center. A former elementary and middle school teacher, he was General Counsel to the New York City Board of Education.

Teacher harassment is making headlines. It’s past time for school districts to address it.

2024-12-23T13:00:00+00:00

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Teacher harassment in Malvern, Pennsylvania, grabbed national headlines earlier this year. But what happened there is hardly an isolated incident.

At our Philadelphia school, situated about 30 minutes from suburban Malvern, my fellow teachers and I have daily mental health check-ins with each other. We console each other in supply closets. For years, I have given out therapists’ contact information. I have written about the safe workspace that my colleagues and I need but don’t have.

Lydia Kulina-Washburn

What brought this issue to the fore is a New York Times article about Malvern’s Great Valley Middle School, where teachers were alarmed to find students impersonating them on TikTok. Over 20 accounts were created to depict teachers using “pedophilia innuendo, racist memes, homophobia, and made-up sexual hookups among teachers.” The article called the Malvern case the first of its kind and “a significant escalation in how middle and high school students impersonate, troll and harass educators on social media.” But really, it is nothing more than the public documentation of a years-long problem that plagues educators online and off. Behind the headlines, teachers are regularly harassed and even assaulted.

The superintendent in Malvern said that some students’ actions were protected by free speech. He said the district did what it could but that student privacy prevented him from discussing disciplinary actions taken. Very often, however, students who engage in this type of behavior are not held accountable.

In an opinion piece last year for the Philadelphia Inquirer, I wrote about the phenomenon of teacher bullying and abuse, noting, “The deterioration of boundaries, compounded with poor teaching conditions, leads to a myriad of problems. It is difficult to create connections, let alone teach content while being cursed out by a student.” Since writing the article, I have experienced and watched my coworkers face some of the same hateful rhetoric seen on Malvern student TikTok accounts. Daring pupils have threatened to “smack the shit” out of me.

These are not baseless threats against educators. I have received harassing text messages and ominous telephone inquiries about my then-infant child. Once, parents snuck into my second-floor classroom in North Philadelphia to confront me about a student’s grade. Worried student bystanders whisper apologies and their peers’ proclivity to outbursts and murmur, “It’s not you.” With clenched toes and ample yoga classes, I have learned to shrug it off, but I know if left unaddressed, it will continue to escalate.

Teachers are scared. Teachers are leaving midyear. “I am going to get you fired” is a common refrain among students.

To be clear, these actions are not taken by the majority of students. But a few individual actors have created ripple effects through building and district cultures, as in Malvern. I have made the case for transparency and accountability for these incidents within the School District of Philadelphia. Although a goal of the district’s new Strategic Plan calls for district leadership to visit school buildings more frequently, nothing has changed.

On the surface level, the Philly district has little in common with Malvern, which is an affluent and well-funded district. Ours serves many students from low-income households and struggles with funding inequities. And yet, both districts are experiencing a shift in youth culture that sociologist Jonathan Haidt posits in “The Anxious Generation” is partially the result of an isolated and phone-based childhood. As social media has become more popular during my teaching tenure, I have watched student experiences of depression, perfectionism, loneliness, and community fragmentation explode.

The fallout from the pandemic — worsening student mental health and heightening criticism of teachers — has resulted in increased research on student aggression towards educational staff. But such aggression is something I’ve endured throughout my decade in the classroom.

Teacher bullying is a national education issue. Yet it continues to be hidden in Google Forms and incident report forms. Meanwhile, progressive disciplinary models such as “relationships first” or “restorative practice” often seem to fall by the wayside when it is an educator who has been harmed.

It is not that teachers are not reporting the incidents. In his work, Byonook Moon and fellow researchers found that “the extent of reporting victimization to school officials by victimized teachers is quite high; however, a large number of victimized teachers perceived school intervention following incidents as ineffective and inadequate.”

Sometimes, school administrators tell teachers they’ve “handled” the issue, but then keep the resolution under wraps.

Mind you, it is easy to hear these school-based realities and chalk it up to teachers’ inability to build rapport and embrace culturally responsive teaching. Let me assure you, even the most beloved teachers, who foster and maintain strong relationships with students, who meditate on Harry Wong and Robert Marzano’s texts, are struggling with behaviors and deserve to be taken seriously when an incident occurs.

Two years ago, in a Philadelphia NICU, I smiled at a squealing newborn wrapped in more tubing than the steamfitter’s union. “That’s it?” I thought. “This is what terrified all new parents?” His tiny pleas for milk did not contain profanities, insults, or threats of physical assault. As toddler tantrums start to surface, I remain unfazed.

There is a need for education leaders, policymakers, and the public to care about teacher harassment. Hopefully, the attention around the Malvern case illuminates the difficulties experienced nationally by teachers.

Lydia Kulina-Washburn is an urban educator and journalist in Philadelphia. Her work has been featured in Education Week, Hechinger Report, Philadelphia Inquirer, and the Huffington Post. Follow her @LydiaKulina.

I was tapped to help lead a Spanish immersion school. I didn’t speak Spanish.

2024-12-20T14:16:32+00:00

“I do not speak Spanish.”

These were the first words I muttered to myself when I was told, in July 2023, that I had been tapped to become the interim assistant principal at Forest Glen Elementary, a Spanish immersion school in Indianapolis.

I hadn’t taken a Spanish class since high school.

I am a Black man, and my entire career, I have taught at or led schools where at least 80% of the students looked like me. I got into this profession to serve these students because, growing up, I did not get my first Black male teacher until eighth grade and didn’t have another one until my junior year of high school.

Dr. David McGuire

I graduated from an HBCU, where a professor told our class that education is the civil rights issue of our generation. That shaped my entire teaching philosophy. I realized that, as an educator, I could lean into challenging systemic inequities. In addition, I wanted to be a mirror through which my Black students could see themselves teaching and leading schools.

When I was placed at Forest Glen, I never imagined it would allow me to tap into the things that first inspired me to become an educator. But it did.

Forest Glen Elementary School has almost 1,000 students in pre-K through sixth grade. Many of the students come from Spanish-speaking homes.

I remember the first time I stepped into a Forest Glen classroom, eager to engage in the lesson and offer support and feedback. But I was completely lost within a minute as the teacher spoke to students in Spanish. Desperate to keep up, I tried using a translation app, but the class had already moved on by the time it processed the words. I realized then that I was experiencing what many families face when they arrive in the U.S.

In this setting, I struggled to see how I, the only Black male adult in the building, could have an impact. For the first time in my 14-year career in education, self-doubt kicked in.

But as the school year unfolded, I tapped into the philosophy of being a servant leader — that is, tailoring my leadership to the school and students I was serving. It wasn’t easy. I had to adjust and redefine what my role would look like. By being present in the classrooms, learning alongside the students, spending time with Spanish-speaking parents, and participating in our school’s Hispanic Festival, I learned much more than the basic Spanish phrases I came in with.

The annual Hispanic Festival is one of the school’s biggest events. Each kindergarten through sixth grade class selects a country and creates a performance inspired by it. The event is held over four nights; each night, the school gym is standing room only. I learned a lot about the rich cultures at Forest Glen through the flags and projects displayed throughout the building, as well as the costumes and performances at the main event.

Forest Glen is a school full of rich traditions, but I was able to start new traditions, too. With the talented culture team at the school, we hosted a pumpkin patch in the fall and a “Mom Prom” in the spring. We gave away family gift baskets to students who had perfect attendance. In May, we hosted a school-wide awards program.

I learned about myself as an educator and a leader. I realized that my students cared less about my rudimentary Spanish skills and more about my commitment to them. Through messages, thanks, hugs, fist bumps, and gifts both during my time there and now after, I could see that I was making a difference and that the students appreciated my efforts. I also developed a strong rapport with the teachers in the building. I appreciate Dr. Smith, our superintendent, who saw that I needed a place like Forest Glen at that moment in my career. I am forever grateful for the opportunity he provided for me and for the Forest Glen colleagues who embraced me.

Students need teachers who look like them and share the same experiences. I know I did. Still, my time at Forest Glen showed me that authentic, empathetic leadership can transcend language and cultural differences.

By the end of the year, I had developed a newfound appreciation for the richness of what a Spanish immersion school could offer to students, regardless of their background and home language. My challenging yet rewarding year at Forest Glen made me more resilient and strengthened my skills in cross-cultural communication.

In short, it brought me closer to the leader I have always aspired to become.

Dr. David McGuire is Principal in Residence at Rooted School Indy and serves as treasurer for the Indiana Alliance of Black School Educators. Dr. McGuire hosts The Recess Podcast, where he has real conversations about students and schools.

In NYC, my quest to transfer high schools was an exercise in persistence

2024-12-18T13:00:00+00:00

It was the moment I had been anticipating the whole school year: receiving my high school admissions letter. I ripped open the white envelope that my teacher had handed to me.

As I read the name of the school where I would be spending the next four years, my heart dropped. I had never even heard of the school, though I would later learn my mom had included it third among my selections.

My teacher must have noticed a shift in my demeanor because he tried to assure me that the school I was matched with did not define me. He meant well and was right, but his words weren’t reaching me.

New York City’s high school admissions process is famously complicated — so complicated, in fact, that the man who designed the system that now matches some 70,000 eighth graders to about 700 programs across 400 public high schools went on to win a Nobel Prize in economics.

Awa Sangare

For the roughly 120 public high schools that use a screening process, a student’s grades from seventh grade are used to place applicants into priority groups. Some schools require some combination of essays, interviews, auditions, and portfolio reviews, too. Students also receive a lottery number that can determine whether they get a particular school’s offer. Making sense of it all is a lot to ask of a 13-year-old.

The day before my high school applications were due on MySchools, the city’s portal, an administrator at my school told me that I hadn’t officially submitted my applications, even though I thought I had. This sums up my initial experience navigating the public high school admissions process: confusing.

When I imagined what high school would be like, I envisioned walking with friends down the stairs in pretty outfits that I picked out. I pictured myself running around Manhattan during lunchtime and group study sessions at cafés. I wanted to take rigorous classes, especially in the humanities, because I already knew that I wanted to be a lawyer.

I had an idealistic view of high school that mirrored those in books and movies. I imagined the type of schools that had exchange programs and funding for unique classes. It didn’t quite register with me that most public schools don’t have those programs and resources.

Looking back now, a number of factors could have contributed to my high school placement. I blamed my middle school for allowing me to be so clueless about the whole admissions process. I blamed my parents, who had offered limited help and thought that any high school that was safe and close would do. My oldest sister attended a local school, and my middle sister went to a screened school but managed the application process largely on her own.

And, of course, I blamed myself. After hearing from other students, I realized that my middle school wasn’t unique in how it prepared students for high school admissions. Many other eighth graders rose above it. I should have done more research, I told myself. I shouldn’t have focused so much on a handful of highly competitive schools and disregarded others. I should have studied harder in middle school. I should have applied to more private schools that could have offered scholarships.

Regardless of my regrets, I would be going to the school whose name was bolded on my acceptance letter. And as my first day of high school approached, I resolved to make the best of this next phase of life. Growing up, I had always looked forward to the first day of school.

On Day 1, I dressed in my new school’s gym uniform, only to be informed as I walked through the door that wearing sporty attire outside of P.E. class was against the school dress code. It wasn’t the best way to start the school year, but I took it in stride.

I was looking forward to joining the debate club and taking challenging classes as an underclassman. But I would soon find out that the school had very few clubs — none of which I was interested in joining — and the courses offered there weren’t as challenging as I wanted them to be.

Then there was my commute home every afternoon. The M10 bus, which was at the end of the long block, came almost immediately after school ended, so I had to run to make it. When I missed it, the next bus was consistently filled with loud kids playing music. I yearned for quiet after a long school day, and the ride on the later bus always irked my soul. Perhaps if I had been at a school that was a better match for me, my commute wouldn’t have been a tipping point. But it was during one of those noisy bus rides that I decided I would try to transfer for sophomore year.

I focused on my grades and started researching transfer opportunities. I also registered to take the SHSAT, the admissions test that eight specialized high schools in New York City schools use. I frequently dropped by the counseling office to ask about enriching my applications. Lunch periods were often spent flipping through the giant book of high schools that the city’s education department publishes. My options, I realized, would be very limited as a 10th grade applicant. Most competitive schools that had what I was looking for did not have additional sophomore seats.

I began submitting applications for screened high schools that aren’t specialized. Meanwhile, I studied for the SHSAT. Some students spend years of their lives and thousands of dollars preparing for the exam, but I didn’t have that time or money, so I wasn’t particularly optimistic. And as soon as I finished the test, I had a feeling that I did poorly.

I held out hope that I would get a seat at another, non-specialized high school, but when the admissions decisions came out in March of my freshman year, I did not get any offers. I was waitlisted at one school, but when I emailed to find out my chances of getting in, they told me I was too far down the list to be admitted.

As my freshman year came to an end, I had given up on finding another school. All of my plans for the next few years would have to be reworked. It was devastating.

One of my older sisters, who had seen all of the work I had been putting into my transfer applications, insisted that it wasn’t over until it was over. She said I needed to have more faith in myself for things to change. That simple advice pushed me to call a Family Welcome Center, which oversees transfers, to find out which high schools still had seats open. I sent formal emails to a few heads of admissions and attached my transcript. Then, I waited.

In response to those emails, I read through rejection after rejection until the last school to respond told me they had a spot. Within a few days, my mom and I had talked on the phone with the head of admissions, and I had done a short Zoom interview. Before it was official, I had to get approval from the local Family Welcome Center. [Education department officials told Chalkbeat that Family Welcome Centers typically provide referral letters to screened schools before students contact them.]

When my mom and I arrived at the welcome center to put in the transfer request, there was a line of students and their parents also waiting for approval to change schools. As we waited, I was anxious — pessimistic even — about my chances of getting the transfer approved. Then, I remembered my sister’s advice and tried to calm my nerves.

When I finally received the transfer, I sent an image of the document to the head of admissions. I was in. At that moment, I felt free from all the doubt and negative feelings that had been with me for most of the past year. I did it. I had achieved my goal.

The new school has proved to be a much better fit for me. It’s definitely not the picture-perfect vision I had of high school, and a lot of people who’ve been here for a while complain about it — that happens at every school — but it offers a lot of opportunities I wouldn’t have otherwise had. I like how students here can take free, for-credit Columbia University classes, and I plan to take one next fall. I also like how the guidance counselor posts and updates a list of internship and program opportunities throughout the year. The academically challenging environment inspires me to work harder.

Looking back, I’m grateful that I pushed through. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be doing debate or running a fully funded Muslim Student Association, which I founded this fall. I want people to know that they don’t have to resign themselves to a situation that doesn’t feel right. There’s power in persistence. At any point in this process, I could have given in to doubt and decided to give up on the idea of transferring. Instead, I kept going — refusing to stay where I wasn’t happy.

Awa Sangare is a member of Chalkbeat’s 2024-25 Student Voices Fellowship class. She is a high school junior who enjoys nuanced discussions, literature, and history. Awa started a Muslim Student Association at her school in an effort to explore her own religious identity and provide a safe space for Muslims to express their thoughts. She hopes to study English and history in college.

Nikki Giovanni was one of my first Black teachers. Here’s what she meant to me.

2024-12-13T13:00:00+00:00

“I am a space freak …” the writer Nikki Giovanni, who died this week at age 81, told the New York Times in 2021. “I got to sleep on the side of the bed facing the outside wall, so there was a window, and I would look out at the stars. I thought if I ran into a Martian and the Martian said, ‘Who are you?’ what would my answer be? The only answer could be ‘I am an Earthling.’ I realized — and have continued to realize — that it would be illogical if I were to tell the Martian I’m a Black woman. That’s because a Martian doesn’t know what Black is, and they don’t know what a woman is. So we know that race is illogical.”

When I am feeling pessimistic about Black history education, I dream of Mars because of Nikki Giovanni. I started dreaming of this Afrofuture decades ago, as I looked out my own bedroom window, silently coping with the racism that I experienced at my suburban high school.

Abigail Henry

I never had a Black teacher in school. My Dad was my first Black teacher. Nikki Giovanni was my second. Her poetry opened doors for me emotionally and academically in ways I did not find in the classroom. Put simply, she ignited my Black freedom dreaming.

She was a Black teacher for me throughout all chapters of my life. I received my first poetry collection from my father, “The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni,” when I was in high school. It includes the poem “My House,” which, for me, is the definition of Black joy. This collection also contains “A Poem of Friendship,” which I frequently gifted to others for high school graduation. A few years ago I passed along my copy of the book, the one that my dad gave me, to a socially justice-minded senior at her graduation.

As much as I craved it, I did not read any Black literature in school until I was a high school senior. Giovanni’s writing was my own traveler’s guide to understanding and responding to anti-Blackness. I looked up the references in her poems and began to teach myself the Black history I was not learning in school.

Giovanni traveled with me to the next chapter of my life, the University of Virginia. Because Professor Giovanni taught at our rival school, Virginia Tech, I had the opportunity to meet her, to hear her recite her poetry, and to sign my books. I can vividly remember how she made me laugh and how she connected me to a greater cause. She called me to public service.

I saw her again when I was visiting my sister in Boston. This time I was captivated by the story behind her poem “Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea.” The title Afrofuturistic poem is one she created to recite at NASA. The poem is a metaphor for the legacy of the slave trade. Giovanni beautifully suggests that, if we were ever to journey to Mars and navigate Martian politics, we could rely on the experiences and histories of the Black community to guide us on such a journey.

While teaching about the development of the modern world system — what most teachers refer to as the Atlantic Slave Trade — I use this poem at the end of the unit to pause, to celebrate Black joy despite trauma, and to reflect on the possibilities in Black future and leadership.

Giovanni also provided me with comfort during my most recent transition. I left my job as a West Philly high school teacher of Black history to become a Ph.D. student, Schomburg Fellow, and graduate assistant. I did so for many reasons, and despite knowing it was the best move for my mental health and professional goals, I was not prepared for the grief I faced and continue to face when I think about my classroom, my Black students, and the joy of teaching. Giovanni’s most recent collection, “A Good Cry,” provided consolation. Reading it helped me process some of my emotions, anxiety, and fear.

I hope my current work will lead me to write more about the racial stress of teaching Black history. Kids are often told, “It’s OK to cry,” but for the Black community, this mantra could not be more complicated.

Giovanni reflected, “Like a lot of people in my generation, I wouldn’t cry. We had so much work to do, we had friends who died, we had friends who were hurt. I am a friend of John Lewis, John was beaten, you couldn’t stand there and cry, you had to see what you could do to help.” And like Giovanni, sometimes we have to re-learn how to show emotion because of the anti-Blackness we experience.

Nikki Giovanni, thank you for teaching me throughout my life. Thank you for encouraging me to have a good cry. I can’t wait to see what you get ready for all of us on Mars.

Abigail Henry is a Schomburg Fellow and doctoral student at the University at Buffalo. Prior to moving to Buffalo, Abigail taught ninth grade African American History at a charter school in West Philadelphia for 12 years. As a graduate fellow, she works at the university’s Center for K–12 Black History and Racial Literacy Education as an instructor for the Teaching Black History Micro-Credential program.

I let my students choose how they wanted to be evaluated. Engagement improved, and so did behavior.

2024-12-10T13:00:00+00:00

The only choices I was ever given as a student back in the 1960s were whether I wanted regular or chocolate milk in the snack line and whether I wanted a hamburger or hot dog for lunch. Everything else was decided for me.

Years later, when I began teaching, I understood that it was easier for everyone to have the same lesson with little or no deviation. Over the years, though, the approach to teaching became less rigid — and with good reason.

I remember when the learning resources teacher asked me if she could have a copy of the next biology test so that she could read aloud the questions to one of her students who had dyslexia. Sure, I said, happy to oblige. Anything I could do to help our students learn science was fine.

John Dorroh

That summer, I attended a National Writing Project training at Mississippi State University to learn how to incorporate reading and writing strategies into my biology, physics, and chemistry classrooms. I returned to Room 23 at West Point High School in West Point, Mississippi, that August with a list of strategies. I was 15 years into my teaching career, but I felt like a chemist with new materials for the lab — and I began to experiment.

For example, I used skit-writing to engage students in a botany lesson. With a cactus, a philodendron, and an ivy plant, I asked the teens what these plants would tell us if they could talk. They worked in pairs, and some of the resulting skits were downright funny.

These creative assignments yielded immediate improvements in my students’ understanding of the content, as well as their classroom behavior. I went on to identify seven modes of learning and assessing: journaling, artwork, lab work, written tests, oral reports, small group work, and a writing cluster I called DFPE, for Drama, Fiction, Poetry, and Essay. Starting the following school year, students in my class could choose how they wanted to show me their understanding of the science lesson at hand. They were required to select at least three modes but could choose more.

Since this was an unusual way for a teacher to assess student work, I made sure to acquaint parents with this new system before there were lots of questions. I held three different evening sessions at the beginning of the school year to model how I’d be evaluating students. I took the parents through each mode. They were my students for the night. Our local business partners were on-site to provide refreshments and door prizes.

On the first day of school, I began to orient my students, going over expectations and answering questions. I also told them that before they selected how they wanted to be assessed, I would guide them through each one so that they could have a better idea of what each mode was about.

Choose carefully, I warned. Once you make your selections, you’re locked in for nine weeks.

What if we mess up and choose the wrong things? one student asked.

You can change your choices at the beginning of the next grading period, I told them.

I staggered deadlines for projects in each category so that no student had more than one science project due on any day.

You mean we don’t have to take tests? one student asked.

That’s right, unless you have chosen written tests as one of your options, I clarified.

They seemed a bit confused at first.

We would all be studying the same topic, I explained to them. However, each person would be assessed with the modes of evaluation that they have selected.

The most popular choices included lab work, journaling, and small group work. This made sense since most science classes should include hands-on laboratory experiences, communicating results, and developing a collaborative spirit. However, there was plenty of variation. That made sense, too, since each student has individual learning styles and gifts.

After the first grading period, most of the students seemed fine and told me that they liked having choices. I observed engagement on a level I had never seen in my classroom. I had few class disruptions due to misbehavior.

I continued to use “menu selection” for another 15 years until I retired from teaching full-time. Giving students some choices and ownership made me a happy teacher and made them more productive, responsible learners. Identifying their strong suits and being able to use them to explain how well they understand the content is not rocket science.

It is, however, an effective approach to teaching and learning science.

John Dorroh taught high school science for about 30 years in Mississippi, Georgia, and the Lake District of England. He incorporated reading and writing strategies with the help of Bob Tierney and other science educators. After retiring from full-time teaching, he worked as an education consultant. He lives in southwest Illinois, near St. Louis.

As a recent immigrant, college was the furthest thing from my mind. This class changed that.

2024-12-06T13:00:00+00:00

For most students, the transition to high school is stressful and awkward. Now imagine doing it barely speaking a word of English. That was my experience as a shy 14-year-old, having just moved to New York City from Ecuador. As a freshman at Brooklyn’s Bushwick School for Social Justice, college was the furthest thing from my mind.

So when my 11th grade science teacher encouraged me to take a college course, I dismissed it as a bigger step than I was ready to take as I was still learning English.

Adrian Guin Rizzo

My teachers persisted, explaining that colleges had resources for students like me, a relatively recent immigrant and the first person in my family to take a college course in the United States. By my senior year of high school, they had convinced me to enroll in a college biology course through CUNY College Now, a dual-enrollment program that allows New York City public high school students to take courses on City University of New York campuses. (The program was started back in 1984 at Kingsborough Community College.)

I was a straight-A student in high school, but college was different.

On my first day at the New York City College of Technology, or CityTech, I was surprised at how big the Downtown Brooklyn campus was. After getting lost there, I questioned my decision to enroll. As the semester got underway, I had to adapt to the more rigorous college grading scale and learn about the different campus offices and club offerings.

Taking this biology class pushed me out of my comfort zone. I remember early exams and assignments feeling so challenging.

But instead of discouraging me, the class reminded me of the love of science I developed back in Ecuador, where Charles Darwin studied the species that inspired his theory of evolution. The next semester, I took another CityTech class, this one in American Sign Language. It sounded like an easy class but proved so difficult that I struggled to earn a C.

I was not sure what my life after high school would look like, but because I had this early experience on campus, I didn’t have to question whether I could make it in college. I knew I could and had the credits to prove it.

Some of my friends who were not in College Now, had a harder time figuring out the college application process and, later, adjusting to the workload, especially the reading. But when I started college full-time in the fall of 2018, I showed up to CityTech feeling like a veteran. I knew how to navigate the campus and already had friends I had met through my two courses the year before. More importantly, I came in with a sense of direction.

Having a head start meant I could focus on learning. I learned about the college’s biomedical informatics program, which combined my interests in science and technology. I graduated from that program in the spring of 2023 and am pursuing a master’s degree in Health Informatics at SUNY Downstate.

I’m hardly the only one to benefit from this dual-track program. More than 28,000 New York City public high school students took College Now courses last academic year, according to CUNY. Giving high schoolers a sneak peek of the college experience can be transformative, especially for first-generation college students.

The numbers back this up: Students who participate in dual-track programs start off with more credits, have higher college GPAs from the beginning, and are more likely to earn degrees and certificates. My only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.

That’s why, this past summer, I was able to follow in the footsteps of my own mentors and host and give advice to current College Now students in the research lab where I was working alongside a CityTech professor.

These high school students remind me of myself just a few years ago and about the benefits of starting my college career while I was still in high school.

Adrian Guin Rizzo is a recent graduate of CUNY’s New York City College of Technology.

Teaching these August Wilson plays transformed my classroom

2024-11-27T13:00:00+00:00

I’d only been a high school teacher for a couple of weeks when one of my ninth grade students approached me to apologize. He’d been loud and disruptive in class, sure, but no more than the other 25 or so Brooklyn teens I was trying — and failing — to educate. But, OK, apology accepted.

I turned my attention back to Walter Dean Myers’ “Monster,” the novel I had been teaching, rather unsuccessfully, when the apologetic student then proceeded to punch and kick a classmate. You see, the kid had been apologizing to me because of what he was about to do.

Tom Deignan

It’s been 20 years now since that awful classroom fight. It’s been 20 years since those ninth graders were assigned (and probably didn’t read) “Monster,” after which I crawled off to the school book room in search of another text for the students to pretend to read. For me to pretend to teach. There, amidst dozens of dusty copies of “David Copperfield” and “Jane Eyre,” I noticed a slim, elegant stack of August Wilson plays. I thumbed through “The Piano Lesson” and then “Fences,” to see if they might work in the classroom. They were, as it turns out, a lifesaver.

A new film version of “The Piano Lesson,” has just opened in theaters and is headed to Netflix. It’s produced by Denzel Washington, directed by his son Malcolm, and stars his other son, John David.

Wilson’s play is about a Great Depression-era family that moves from Mississippi to Pittsburgh during the Great Migration and battles over family ghosts and the value of a piano. “Ain’t no mystery to life,” the character Boy Willie declares in Act II. “You just got to go out and meet it square on.”

By 2004, I’d spent a decade trying to do that. Yet I was still overwhelmed by mysteries. I was working as a journalist, editor, and author, who’d also done some adjunct teaching and written two novels, both of which were represented by agents — both of which received glowing rejections.

But the biggest cosmic challenge of all turned out to be the astronomical cost of health insurance for my family. Then, even the glowing rejections stopped. And so, just months after being accepted into the New York City Teaching Fellows program, there I was every day in front of 100 “high needs” students — 95 percent of them male — at Automotive High School, now known as A-Tech, in Brooklyn.

And I was flailing. It was obvious. The students wouldn’t shut up long enough for me to tell them to shut up more loudly. I opted to teach “Fences” — which centers on Troy Maxson, a former Negro League baseball player living in Pittsburgh and struggling to provide for his family.

The school bells kept on ringing. The students kept on coming. I still couldn’t get them to shut up until …

“Wait! Wait! What’s that?” a student asked about the word “rubbish.”

“Garbage,” I yelled back. “Trash.”

“Troy tryna give his son a job?”

“Yeah. As a rubbish collector.” I paused. “Garbage man.” I told them that’s what my dad had done, too.

“Wait! Wait!” another student said. “So, Troy’s a good dad?”

Without really thinking about it, I just threw the question back at the student.

“Is he? Is Troy a good parent?” Twenty years later, it’s a question I’m still asking my students, and they still can’t stop talking about it.

The volume in the classroom back then didn’t go down much. But at least they were arguing about a play, about what a parent should and should not do. Little did the students know that Troy’s behavior would later raise even harder questions for his wife, Rose, and teenage son, Cory.

Should they forgive Troy – and, if so, why and how? What do we owe our parents? What do we owe our ancestors? How does one begin to confront generational — and national— trauma?

My students, they wanted to talk about it. They never shut up about it.

There would still be outbreaks of chaos in my classrooms, just fewer and fewer as the years went on and I learned how to talk and listen to my students. I heard about their lives, about Brooklyn, about sports and money, family, sins, forgiveness, and history.

I taught Wilson’s “The Piano Lesson” in later years but actually had more luck with “Everyday Use,” an Alice Walker story about similar ideas, about how, precisely, a family should define education and advancement.

I know Alice Walker and August Wilson didn’t write these classics to make a teacher’s life easier. But these astonishing writers helped a generation of Brooklyn students, and one of their teachers, wrestle with some of America’s most terrifying and formidable ghosts.

Tom Deignan has contributed to books such as “Nine Irish Lives” (Algonquin) and to publications, including the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the New York Daily News. He teaches high school and college students in Brooklyn, and he is working on a book about the 1920s.

I am my parents’ American Dream. That comes with opportunities and burdens.

2024-11-20T13:00:00+00:00

The night I returned to New York City at age 5, the city felt surreal — bustling, vibrant, and intimidating. As my parents, older sister, and I got into the taxi, the city lights appeared to converge and become one. Everything seemed larger here. As the cab slowly pulled away from the airport, so did my sense of reality. From the towering buildings to the flashing signs to the rushing cars, it was all so different from the villages of Fujian province, China.

The taxi took us to the Borough Park, Brooklyn, apartment where we would be staying. When we walked in, there were boxes, furniture, appliances, and bicycles crowded into a roughly 144-square-foot living room. How can anyone live like this? I thought.

Ocean Lin

My family of four slept in a room that was smaller still, crammed with a bunk bed, a square table, and two chairs. As the clock struck midnight on what would be my first full day back in New York, I sat on the bottom bunk and ate takeout. I was full of curiosity and excitement, yet there were certain nuances to my feelings. Who were my parents? Why had they come all this way to a foreign land? And most importantly, why had I lived so far from them?

I was 7,000 miles — and a virtual world away — from Fujian, where I had lived alongside a pond overgrown with lily pads, where the breeze would fly across my face, where the sound of crickets would penetrate the otherwise silent night, and where my grandma would pluck chickens for us to cook and eat. Everything was calmer and quieter there, on our block with only a couple of houses.

I soon learned that I hadn’t always lived so far from my mom and dad. My parents explained that I was born in Flushing, Queens, less than 20 miles from Borough Park. But like many immigrants, my parents worked grueling schedules at minimum-wage jobs — my mother in a nail salon with minimal training and my father as a chef at a Chinese buffet. Overextended and unable to support a family of four, they sent my sister and me to live with our grandparents in China.

For my parents, America — a nation that purports to value individual liberty, growth, and prosperity — became nothing more than the place where they resided as they saved money to bring us back to them.

All this makes me what some researchers call a ”satellite baby.” Lacking affordable child care, many Chinese immigrant families send their American-born babies to live with family members in China. When the kids are ready for school, at around age 4 or 5, many of those satellite babies return to the U.S.

Because of this arrangement, I had the joy of getting to know my grandparents. But it came at a cost: I didn’t really know the very people who created me. We were family, and we were strangers — so close, yet so far apart.

In the months after I returned to my parents, I was often nostalgic for my simpler life back in China. I would think about the small shop in town where my sister would buy the most pointless toys and about the local theater where performers dressed in elaborate costumes and painted their faces to tell the story of an emperor’s favorite concubine. This longing is what happens when you’re caught between two worlds — one that holds the joyful memories of childhood, and another of a new and confusing country.

People sometimes ask me if I could go back, would I do it all again. My answer will always be yes. These memories are reminders of a time when I was smaller, but when my heart felt a little fuller.

In Borough Park, my parents enrolled my sister and me in school. As a little Chinese “immigrant,” I spoke no English. Nor had I developed a sense of independence, and I would often cry when my mother left for work. In America, life felt like a rollercoaster, terrifying but also thrilling.

By fifth grade, though, I stood on the podium at Brooklyn’s P.S. 69 Vincent D. Grippo School and gave a valedictory speech. Somewhere along the way, the naive village boy had become an industrious student in the big city. I couldn’t grasp how rapidly my life had been transformed.

Now, about a decade after leaving China and returning to New York, I’m a student at Staten Island Tech, one of a handful of elite specialized high schools in New York City. Sometimes I wonder: Does my success mean that my parents’ hard work has finally paid off? Does it mean they are proud of me?

Ocean Lin, right, with his sister soon after they returned to the United States.

I feel constant pressure to succeed. Not for my peers, not for my teachers, and not even for myself, but for my parents, who still work humble, low-wage jobs. This pressure doesn’t come from them, who urge me to “do what makes you happy,” but rather from within. Sometimes, the very opportunities that are supposed to liberate me feel more like a burden.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Many children of immigrant parents experience this overwhelm. For us, the American Dream can feel like a debt we can never repay our parents.

We were family, and we were strangers.

When I first returned to America, I didn’t even know what the American Dream was. I soon came to understand it to be the idea that if you work hard, you can succeed. I know now that it’s not that simple, that factors such as personal and professional networks, perseverance, health, and luck also play a role. Still, I always tell myself that I could be working a little harder, like when I finish taking a test and feel pessimistic about the outcome, despite having studied so hard.

The pressure could be something I, along with millions of children of immigrants, navigate our whole lives. We learn to coexist with it. Success in high school and beyond feels like a given. And working in a field that doesn’t pay well or waiting for the perfect job isn’t really an option because we want to provide lives of comfort for our parents, who never lived such lives.

I feel the weight of it all because, deep down, I know that I am a big part of my parents’ American Dream.

Ocean Lin, a member of Chalkbeat’s 2024-25 Student Voices Fellowship class, is a high school junior who wants to pursue a career in chemistry. He hopes to make a difference and share authentic stories. Ocean started the Instagram poetry account Tide Tales to give marginalized groups a platform for creative self-expression.

I offer free online therapy to teens. Here’s what I’m seeing — and why it matters.

2024-11-14T20:00:00+00:00

Before the pandemic, the idea of communicating with a therapist via text seemed unthinkable. Then COVID closures and an unprecedented surge in teen mental health issues changed everything.

I know what a difference it makes for teens because I talk to them almost every day.

I am a therapist who works for NYC Teenspace, New York City’s free mental health service connecting young people with licensed multilingual therapists through the secure (and HIPAA-compliant) platform Talkspace. This effort is breaking down barriers to mental health care, especially for those who may struggle to find a therapist who meets their needs.

Erin Mack

The program, launched a year ago this month by Mayor Eric Adams and the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene, is available to anyone ages 13 to 17 living in New York City, regardless of their school, immigration status, income level, or insurance status. No payment or insurance information is required.

While we ask all teens to share a parent or guardian’s information so that they can provide consent, in special circumstances, state law permits waiving that requirement, for example when the young person is emancipated, incarcerated, or if notification is deemed detrimental to their well-being. That is something that the licensed therapist assesses.

For many teens, it’s the first time they’ve ever talked with a therapist. And my goal is to create a space where teens feel like they can be themselves. Asking questions, staying curious, and not making assumptions are key to helping young people feel supported.

While many of our interactions are asynchronous and over text, I always encourage a live face-to-face video session or offer to send asynchronous audio or video messages. I want them to know that it’s OK to ask questions that can help them better understand therapy, mental health, themselves, and how to advocate for their needs.

They’re often curious to learn about depression, ADHD, PTSD, and other diagnoses they may have heard about on social media or from their friends. Sometimes, they ask if I’m a real human or if I’m AI. They like hearing that I grew up in New York, in the Bronx and Yonkers, that I have a cat, and the types of music I enjoy.

Teens may be experiencing anxiety or depression, or they may be grieving. But they don’t need to be experiencing symptoms of mental illness or living with loss to participate. They may be navigating a new relationship or breakup, adjusting to changes in their family dynamics, or experiencing uncertainty about what they want to do after high school.

We talk about what’s causing them stress and what will improve their quality of life. It’s rewarding when I hear from a teen client who has tried a technique we’ve practiced, like deep breathing, progressive muscle relaxation, thought-stopping, or communication skills, and found that it works. From my experience, teens are more likely than adults to share their progress as it’s happening, rather than to reflect on it several months later.

How effective is NYC Teenspace? More than 16,000 teens have signed up for the service so far. Early data shows that 65 percent of users reported improvement in their mental health, and that number is growing. Underserved neighborhoods in Brooklyn and the Bronx lead the city in signups, and 60 percent of users identify as Black or Hispanic.

Going forward, I hope to see even more teens using it, especially boys. City data shows that teenage girls have been more than three times as likely to seek help on the platform. We have work to do to increase reach to teen boys, who may encounter more stigma around seeking help.

Still, I’m astonished by telehealth’s ability to promote strong connections with users, particularly Gen Z. These digital natives communicate effortlessly through text and other online media. They express themselves in ways an adult patient typically wouldn’t. They share photos of their pets, selfies, memes, audio clips — and, yes, lots of emojis — offering glimpses into their world that enrich the therapeutic process.

NYC Teenspace therapists can communicate in 13 different languages, and the platform uses translation support in 120 languages.

They share photos of their pets, selfies, memes, audio clips — and, yes, lots of emojis.

No matter what their language, teens tend to find on-demand messaging a more comfortable, accessible option in which to open up about their challenges in ways they might find difficult IRL. Between school, commuting, extracurriculars, and other responsibilities, some teens have avoided therapy because it has been challenging to get to an in-person appointment. Having a private space can often be a challenge for any New Yorker, and this is no different for teens. More than half of all users prefer exclusively engaging with their therapist via messaging.

The current ratio of NYC public school guidance counselors is 1 for every 272 students, and there are even fewer licensed mental health professionals. Last year, nearly half of teens surveyed in New York City reported experiencing mild to severe depressive symptoms. They worry about the future or something bad happening to them or to their families, which may be a sign of anxiety.

Skeptics of therapy in a digital space may say that the experience of in-person treatment can’t be replicated. In some instances, this is true. However, therapy that can happen via telehealth can connect with teens in a way that meets their needs. As any teen today can tell you, messaging is how they communicate with their closest friends. Online therapy is also much easier than in-person appointments to scale amid unprecedented teen mental health needs.

As with any treatment, it’s important to know the limitations. NYC Teenspace therapists are responsible for assessing clients for risks, including risks to themselves or others. If a teen presents with significant concerns like self-harm or suicidality, their therapist is expected to share resources, make appropriate referrals, and intervene as needed to ensure safety.

For the majority of teens who are not in crisis, NYC Teenspace offers a vital space where they can explore their emotions, develop coping strategies, and build resilience. These are skills they can bring with them as they grow into adulthood.

Erin Mack is a therapist and clinical quality risk manager with Talkspace, which operates NYC Teenspace.

I grew up visiting my mom in prison. Here’s what schools should know about students like me.

2024-11-11T21:56:36+00:00

One in 14 children and young teens in the United States have experienced the incarceration of a parent. I know firsthand the challenges that come with this painful situation.

While in middle school, I spent many weekends in the car, making the eight-hour journey from Maryland to rural upstate New York to visit my mom in prison. These visits always felt bittersweet: I looked forward to spending time with her, but I also felt nervous about seeing her in such an unwelcoming environment. I remember forcing myself to put on a brave face so as not to let my mom see me sad.

My mom was released when I was 15, and through my hard work and familial support, I graduated high school and enrolled in college. I’m studying psychology, criminology, and Spanish with the hopes of becoming a clinical psychologist. I want to use my life experience and research skills to help children who have experienced trauma, including parental incarceration. I’m proud of my success, but I know that schools can do more to help students like me.

Anna Tovchigrechko

When my mom was in prison, I was reluctant to talk about it with friends, let alone with teachers. Children of incarcerated parents often face judgment. In reality, we have no control over our situation. To combat this stigma, schools need to address this issue openly and create opportunities for sharing. Connecting with others who have been impacted by parental incarceration helps people feel less alone.

On my college campus, I founded the UnLocked Project, an organization to support high school and college students in and around D.C. with incarcerated or formerly incarcerated parents. We offer facilitated peer support groups and information about scholarships, visitation support, mentorship programs, and other local and national resources.

In the past year, we have created a community of students who have experienced the incarceration of a loved one and students who haven’t but are passionate about social justice. We’ve spoken about our experiences in front of hundreds of students, hosted peer support groups, and are planning an event with a researcher who studies incarceration and families.

The UnLocked Project is one of the things that I am most proud of in my college career. I’m also part of Osborne Association’s See Us, Support Us, or SUSU, a national effort to create a community for and raise awareness about children with incarcerated parents. The sooner that these children feel seen and heard on this issue, the better.

It is deeply traumatic to be separated from your parent and to worry about their well-being. It can also be very isolating. I remember feeling like I was the only one going through maternal incarceration, unaware that many thousands of kids around the country were experiencing the same thing. We need support and community, yet one of the biggest challenges is that students often don’t know what resources are available or how to access them.

For example, I didn’t find out about scholarships or mental health services for children of incarcerated parents until my senior year of high school, two years after my mom had been released from prison. And what I learned, I found out not from my school but by Googling.

School communities and districts should create a centralized place — maybe it’s a website, maybe it’s a resource center — where students and their caregivers can find the support and programs they need without having to ask for it directly, which can be intimidating.

I also recommend that teachers convey to students their support by posting the Children of Incarcerated Parents Bill of Rights, which includes statements such as “I have the right to be heard when decisions are made about me” and “I have the right to be well cared for in my parent’s absence.” Teachers and school libraries should also carry books about children of incarcerated parents. Just knowing that there’s an adult at school who understands can make a world of difference.

Professional development for educators and school staff about mass incarceration and its impact on children is also critical and must include opportunities to reflect on implicit biases they may hold about incarcerated people and their families. The SUSU Educator Toolkit is a great place to start.

Teachers and school leaders should understand that a student who is acting out in class or struggling academically might be dealing with challenges at home related to parental incarceration. After all, children with an incarcerated parent are exposed to five times as many adverse childhood experiences as their counterparts. These kinds of experiences can undermine our sense of safety and stability, which can impact how we are able to show up in school. It’s important that the adults we interact with are aware and able to respond to our needs.

By taking these steps, schools can create an environment where students with incarcerated parents feel seen, affirmed, and equipped to succeed. We are our own individuals with dreams and aspirations. We are not defined by our parents’ past. With less stigma and the right help, we can thrive.

Anna Tovchigrechko is a junior at the University of Maryland and the founder of the UnLocked Project.

What election issues matter most to young first-time voters? The economy, Gaza, book bans, and more

2024-11-05T19:41:34+00:00

This story was published in collaboration with Headway, a new initiative at The New York Times. Chalkbeat and Headway have been posing questions about the presidential election to educators and high school students since February. We have heard from nearly 1,000 students and 200 teachers across the nation.

When Chalkbeat teamed up with Headway at The New York Times to ask young people how they are thinking about the upcoming presidential election, we received hundreds of responses. First-time voters told us about the issues that will be top of mind when they cast their ballots. What we heard was all over the map, literally — gun violence and housing affordability in their communities, statewide restrictions on abortion access and what books they can read in school, and, at the national level, immigration policy and the future of democracy. Other respondents prioritized global issues, including climate change and the ongoing wars in Ukraine and Gaza.

In the historically close matchup between Vice President Kamala Harris and former President Donald J. Trump, the youth vote and the extent to which young people turn out on Nov. 5 could help determine the election’s outcome. When the Institute of Politics at the Harvard Kennedy School polled eligible voters ages 18 to 29, 56% said they “definitely” plan to cast their ballot. Four years ago, according to a Tufts University analysis, 50% of Americans in that age bracket voted, the third-highest turnout since the voting age was lowered to 18, in 1971.

Mock elections, debates, arguments: Here’s how educators are teaching the 2024 presidential election

We wanted to better understand the issues driving young people to the polls this year. So we asked six first-time voters to tell us what issues they’ll be thinking about as they fill out their ballots. Here’s what they told us, edited for length and clarity.

Will you be a first-time voter this year? We want to hear from you at community@chalkbeat.org and DearHeadway@nytimes.com. Tell us the issue most influencing your ballot.

The issue driving my vote: Gun violence

Anabelle Sanchez, 18, graduated from Jones College Prep in Chicago and now attends Michigan State University in East Lansing. She plans to study political theory, constitutional democracy, and economics and hopes to pursue a career in politics, spurred on by her experiences growing up as a Latina. “As a minority, I often felt I didn’t have leadership that looked like me. That’s why I want to go into politics,” Anabelle said. For now, though, she’s “ thankful to have the power to vote.”

Anabelle Sanchez graduated from Jones College Prep in Chicago and now attends Michigan State University in East Lansing. Gun violence is top of mind for her this election season.

My junior year of high school, I went to a mall. I was looking through the clothing racks, and all of a sudden, I saw a store manager quickly run to the front to shut the doors.

I had never experienced something like this, but I instantly knew what was happening. Because I live in America. People started yelling to just run to the back of the store. There were dozens of us packed in a back room, like sardines. It was the most horrific 30 minutes of my life because we knew someone out there had a gun.

Thankfully, no one was harmed. A SWAT team evacuated us, but just the idea of facing death was very frightening. It hit me even more because not long before, there was a [deadly] shooting at a mall in Allen, Texas.

Now, at Michigan State, I have two classes in the building where the campus shooting occurred last year, and three students lost their lives. In one of my classes, I have to walk right past the area of the shooting.

Whether you live in a neighborhood where hearing gunshots is common or, quite frankly, whether you leave your house and just go shopping or go to school, we’re forced to think about gun violence and how the issue impacts us and others.

The issue driving my vote: The economy

Owen Riesenberg, 18, is a recent graduate of Woods Cross High School near Salt Lake City and an automotive technician at a Ford dealership. Owen plans to vote in next month’s presidential election “even though there’s an almost guaranteed outcome here,” since Utah has thrown its support behind the Republican candidate for president in every election for more than 50 years. “I still want to make my voice heard,” he said.

Owen Riesenberg is a recent graduate of Woods Cross High School near Salt Lake City and an automotive technician. His No. 1 election issue is the economy.

If you watch Fox News or Newsmax, they’ll talk about how Kamala is going to destroy the economy. In left-wing media, they talk about how Trump is a monster going to destroy democracy. I think most of what has America polarized is just how fervently the media on both sides of the aisle are fighting each other.

I like to stick to podcasts and more long-form news. I usually have one earbud in and listen to the radio as I’m working on my vehicles for the day. My routine, every morning, is to listen to something like Joe Rogan’s podcast, and then, later in the day, to listen to Ben Shapiro on The Daily Wire.

The No. 1 issue for me is definitely the economy. I pay so much for gas. I pay so much for food. I can’t move out of my parents’ house because rent here is a minimum of $1,500, typically.

I’d like the tax on gas heavily reduced. I’d like regulations for small businesses just starting up to be less hefty. I think that interest rates should be brought down.

I want the government to be as uninvolved in my life as possible. I don’t want any handouts. I don’t want checks for disasters. I don’t want a widespread government health care plan. I want to be able to work for myself and not be taxed so much to pay for government programs that somehow benefit me. I’d rather just keep that money and decide where it goes.

The issue driving my vote: Book bans

Emily Muñoz, 18, graduated from Harry S. Truman High School in the Bronx and is a first-year student at Vanderbilt University in Nashville. She’s always loved to read and, growing up, enjoyed books in which she felt represented and those in which she got to learn about different cultures, backgrounds, and gender identities. “I genuinely believe that reading is how you discover more about the world and yourself,” she said.

Emily Muñoz graduated from Harry S. Truman High School in the Bronx and is now a student at Vanderbilt University in Nashville. This year's election has her thinking about book bans.

Something that’s really personal for me as a Black woman is book banning, the banning of African-American courses, and just this erasure of Black history. AP African-American Studies classes have already been banned in Florida, and that’s deeply concerning.

I have it a lot easier because, in New York City, banned books are celebrated. I’m grateful that I’ve been able to grow up like this. But then, I worked as a teen reading ambassador at the New York Public Library. We held a Freedom to Read contest, and as I was scoring the submissions, I heard from a lot of students in conservative states where they can’t read certain books in their classes. Most of the books were about race or LGBTQ issues. That’s when it really became clear to me.

One banned book that comes to mind is “All American Boys” by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely. It’s this story about a young Black boy who gets assaulted by the police. It’s told from the boy’s perspective and also from the perspective of a white boy who [witnesses the beating]. Reading it, I was wondering: Why would someone want to ban this book? It is a genuinely good book.

Honestly, teachers don’t get paid enough to deal with all of this. I think they should have the opportunity to teach freely and without as much restriction.

The issue driving my vote: the Israel-Hamas War

Samantha Sandhaus, 18, graduated from Central High School in Philadelphia and attends Lehigh University, where she is pursuing an integrated degree in engineering, arts, and sciences. In high school, she led a nonprofit called Feeding Philly that fights food insecurity, an experience that “was important in making malnutrition a vital issue to me.”

Samantha Sandhaus, third from left, graduated from Central High School in Philadelphia and attends Lehigh University. What is happening in Gaza is driving her vote this election.

In high school, I got to help with work addressing food insecurity in Philadelphia. I’ve seen the effect of malnutrition, especially on young children, and it made me want to do all I can to get involved civically and make sure we have policies that center on social justice.

This past year, I’ve seen a lot on social media on global health inequities, especially around nutrition, and the photos of children in Gaza who are hungry and hurting due to the Israel-Hamas war have really affected me. That’s motivating me to research the presidential candidates’ stances on the issues and whether or not they are putting forth ideas that could actually help bring the conflict to an end and provide for families in the horrors of war.

I know this is a very contentious issue for Americans to speak about, but I’ve been to a fair amount of different peaceful protests and marches, and a lot of young people I hear speak are saying that this is an issue that weighs heavily on their minds and will affect their votes.

In a swing state like the one I’m in, I know how much my vote matters. And I feel like America’s role in the Middle East is going to continue to be crucial. I really want to hear the candidates talk about this as something they will prioritize, that they have a path toward ending this conflict, saving lives, and aiding the humanitarian crisis that is happening right now.

The issue driving my vote: Abortion access

Torrance Johnson, 18, graduated from Clarenceville High School in Livonia, Michigan, and is a first-year student at Wayne State University in Detroit. As a child, he dreamed of growing up to become president of the United States. These days, he’s more interested in pursuing a career in music production. He’s casting his first vote in part to affirm his belief in abortion rights. “I always tell people: If that’s what you’re against, you don’t have to do it,” Torrance said. “The choice should be left up to the person it directly affects.”

Torrance Johnson graduated from Clarenceville High School in Livonia, Michigan, and is now a student at Wayne State University in Detroit. Abortion access is an important election issue to him.

When the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, it got me thinking: If this is what our government is doing, do I want new people in government or not?

I’m very pro-choice, but it’s not just about pro-life, pro-choice, or about abortion, no abortion. It’s about having options. I’m pro having options. It has to do directly with my disability and not always having options.

I’ve been using a wheelchair for 14 or 15 years. And throughout my life, I’ve found struggles getting into some places because they only have stairs. If it’s on the second floor, I can’t go. One time, my school had a field trip, and because I couldn’t participate in the activities they were doing, they excluded me — rather than saying, you can join, but since you can’t do this, maybe you can do that instead.

The thing about America that people try to copy or mimic is the idea that it’s the land of opportunity. Do we want more opportunities or less opportunities, more options or less options? It all starts with Roe v. Wade.

Let the people have their choices — it’s none of my business.

Ever since I was a child, I couldn’t wait to turn 18 so I could vote. My American government professor recently took a poll, and in a class of about 50 people, nearly everyone said they were voting in the upcoming election. If that’s any sign of what 18-24-year-olds will be doing, it will be a good turnout. We have to be the change we wish to see, and we do that by voting.

The issue driving my vote: U.S. foreign policy

Alexander Cisneros, 18, a Colorado native, graduated from Denver East High School and attends the University of Colorado Boulder, where he is studying history. His family would often spend time visiting relatives abroad when he was growing up, and he credits that travel with widening his view of the world and his place in it. Alexander said that people often assume that younger people like him “only care about the issues at home that clearly impact our daily lives,” but it’s foreign policy that “I’ll most have in mind in November.”

I have family all over the world — in Greece, Mexico, and Canada. I grew up experiencing those different cultures, and when I was at home a lot during COVID, I got really into watching history documentaries.

That led me to love learning about World War II and the Cold War. One of the big things with World War II was that the United States wasn’t involved in international affairs as much as it should have been. If it had been more involved, then perhaps we wouldn’t have had as devastating a conflict during that time. So, I think anything to try and prevent another conflict or end conflicts more quickly while making sure that autocratic countries don’t continue to expand is something pretty important to me.

I want to see the U.S. stay a part of the United Nations and NATO. I think it is really important that the United States continues to support Ukraine. If we were to abandon Ukraine, then that would send a signal to the world that, yes, autocratic powers can expand, which would be particularly worrying when it comes to China and Iran.

Caroline Bauman is the deputy managing editor for engagement at Chalkbeat. Reach her at cbauman@chalkbeat.org.

Gabrielle Birkner is Chalkbeat’s features editor and fellowship director. Reach her at gbirkner@chalkbeat.org.

NYC schools chancellor: My mom pulled me out of the school system I now lead

2024-10-29T19:13:28+00:00

Long before I was appointed by Mayor Eric Adams to be chancellor of New York City Public Schools, I was the third child of a single mother from Puerto Rico. Growing up in the Bronx in the 1980s, my family experienced what so many families in our city have gone through: unstable housing, lack of opportunity in our borough, and most distressingly for my mother, schools that were chronically failing their students.

At the time, my mother watched as her first two children attended public schools that seemed more like places to babysit young people than places that develop future leaders. So she worked tirelessly, taking on extra jobs and sacrificing in ways large and small, to be able to send me to a private Catholic school. She fought tenaciously for my future, and thanks to her love and support, I became the first in my family to graduate from both high school and college.

Leer en español (via Vamos Forward)

Not long after, as a new alumna of Fordham University, I was riding the subway one day when I saw an ad for the New York City Teaching Fellows program. At that moment, it all clicked. That subway ride marked the start of my teaching career and my life’s work – to ensure no parent has to make the impossible choices my mom did, to ensure that any mother can confidently enroll her daughter in the local public school, knowing she will be safe, she will receive an excellent education, and she will be prepared to take on the world.

Today, I am that mother; I’m the proud parent of a New York City public school student.

Over the last few decades, a lot has changed in our public schools, and I’ve witnessed and helped drive these changes firsthand — as a teacher, principal, deputy superintendent, and most recently, as a deputy chancellor.

Earlier this month, I became chancellor, and my work is focused on making sure every New York City parent’s first choice is a public school.

To do that, I will double down on the initiatives started under Mayor Adams and Chancellor David Banks. I believe deeply in the work we’ve begun — from NYC Reads and NYC Solves to our reimagined Student Pathways — and I plan to see these priorities through. Our schools must provide every student with a solid foundation in reading and math and prepare them for well-paying jobs.

The values my mother instilled in me — and her support and persistence — got me where I am today.

And while our schools’ focus will not change, I also want to uplift three more priority areas based on my lived experiences, as someone whose entire life and career has been shaped by this school system.

First, I plan to focus on physical safety and emotional wellness. This is a precursor for learning and non-negotiable for me as a mom. When I drop off my child at school each day, I need to know she is safe and cared for. Through community-based safety support through Project Pivot, our Safer Access Initiative to lock the front doors of schools, and our extensive mental health supports, we are off to the right start. I plan to extend and expand our work in this area so that every school is the safe and nurturing environment it must be for every child.

Second, I will strengthen our support for teachers. I’m a longtime educator, and I know that our teachers can only do their best work if they receive the resources and training they deserve. Already, under the Adams administration, we have cemented new labor contracts for teachers, principals, and administrators, and our literacy and math initiatives NYC Reads and NYC Solves are providing unprecedented levels of on-the-job coaching. But I think there is even more we can do to solicit teacher feedback and continuously push professional development providers to meet the unique needs of our schools. The training we provide today will benefit students for decades, as our educators embrace proven approaches to reading and math and grow in their skills.

Finally, I will prioritize genuine and impactful family and community partnerships. This is near and dear to my heart as the former deputy chancellor of our family and community engagement division. I was proud to oversee the launch of our NYC Reads Literacy Hubs and Family Literacy Ambassadors, and I am eager to continue connecting with our families and centering their voices in meaningful and innovative ways.

Sitting on that subway all those years ago, staring up at the ad for New York City Teaching Fellows, I could never have imagined that I’d one day be chancellor of the largest school district in the nation. But the values my mother instilled in me — and her support and persistence — got me where I am today.

As chancellor, I pledge to channel that same persistence to advocate not just for my own daughter, but for all New York City students. Our public schools are and must be places where every one of our children can reach their full potential.

Melissa Aviles-Ramos is chancellor of New York City Public Schools.

I’m a Detroit college student who uses a wheelchair. Here’s how I’m navigating campus life.

2024-10-22T18:58:11+00:00

Ever since I began going to school, there have always been challenges. I have spinal muscular atrophy, a progressive neuromuscular disorder. I use a wheelchair and have needed supports at school, such as individualized education programs, 504 plans, and accommodation letters.

College was a new chapter for me, though, and the accommodations that enabled me to graduate high school would not follow me. So five months before I was to start college in my hometown of Detroit, I met with the school’s disability service to speak about what I’d need to live and learn on campus: an accessible room, some special equipment, and ID cards that provided my caregivers easy campus access. I also shared with them the supports I had in high school that could be helpful going forward.

Torrance Johnson

I was determined to have as typical a college experience as possible since so much of my life up until now had been different from that of my peers. While they’d run, I’d roll. While they’d write, I’d type. During my K-12 years, I had multiple surgeries and was hospitalized more than 10 times. Having these big differences made me appreciate our similarities even more.

Getting to college, where I am now a first-year student, has taken a lot of work that probably doesn’t even cross the minds of people who are not disabled or even some who are. There were months of planning.

In April of 2024, I met with the doctor who follows my health and prescribes for me different medical devices. The first device I needed was a Hoyer Lift, which lifts me from one place to another, kind of like a battery-operated hammock on wheels. I use my Hoyer Lift every day, multiple times a day, as it helps me get in and out of bed, cars, and my wheelchair.

The second device I needed was a shower chair. Ever since I started elementary school, kids would ask how I take a shower. Prepare to have your answer. After getting pulled up by the Hoyer Lift, I’m placed on a shower chair and rolled into the shower. Ta-da!

When move-in day finally came in mid-August, my equipment was ready to be delivered, but my work was far from finished.

Many colleges have an office of disability services, where students can ask for what they need to thrive. The accommodations I secured through my school’s disability office back in April consist of extended time during tests, additional absences, access to a scribe to write out words I’ve said, and a dorm room with Americans with Disabilities Act accommodations: wider doors, a roll-in shower, and a door with a peek hole at wheelchair height.

I am a teen with muscular dystrophy. This camp changed my life.

It also involved reaching out to professors after my first time in their class to discuss my physical limitations. That’s how I found out that most of my work could be completed online, so my handwriting challenges didn’t really matter. All of my professors told me to talk to them as problems came up or whenever I needed help.

For a lot of people, deciding on a college major is a struggle. Not for me. Anyone who knows me knows that I love music production and learning about music theory. I aspire to create scores for films and beats for other artists. I applied to two metro Detroit colleges with majors in music technology or performance arts technology. During the application process months earlier, I was told that there was a certain amount of piano skills necessary for my major of choice, and my spinal muscular atrophy limits my ability to play piano.

My strength lies in a mixture of my digital audio workstation, which I use to make music, and my musical knowledge, talent, and passion. I have faith in my ability to create compelling musical stories that evoke emotion and provide comfort. However, I worried that my disability would prevent me from showing the instructors what I’m capable of. So I ended up declaring a political science major and a minor in music tech, for which no audition was required.

When my college dorm floor had its first meet-and-greet, I met another student who uses a wheelchair. Her name is Melodie, and after the meeting, we spoke about school, our plans, life on campus, and more. It was pretty awesome because rarely in my K-12 education experience did I get to interact with other wheelchair users. It was amazing to meet someone who understands the challenges of being a disabled college student. For example, she knows what it’s like to struggle to reach the handicapped door buttons around campus.

When I told Melodie about my passion for music, she burst with excitement. She offered to connect me to professors and department chairs whom she thought could help me switch majors. Melodie is also the vice president of our school’s disability coalition, which she invited me to join. When I met Melodie, it was as if a person fell from the sky to help with my goal.

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

When I arrived in the classroom of a music tech instructor to request changing majors, I was nervous. I was also intrigued by what was around me — synthesizer keyboards and a scale I didn’t know on the whiteboard: C D E F# G# A#. The professor explained the hexatonic scale, and that interaction helped show my passion for learning music theory. I then met with the music technology advisor and devised a plan to begin taking music courses during the winter semester with the goal of declaring a music tech major.

Then there was the experience in the college classroom. My wheelchair would make me anxious in new environments. I feared that people would focus on my wheelchair — its creaking wheels, the sound it makes when in motion.

Luckily, I know how to navigate this discomfort because, as a kid, I was a public speaker and a brand ambassador for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. It was my job to show people where their money went and, hopefully, to get them to give more. I was so good at connecting with people that I appeared on national television as part of the organization’s telethon.

Since then, whenever I get nervous, I make jokes or highlight my disability to break the ice that my chair can cause. During my first week of college, I made a lot of these jokes. In my communications class, for example, I introduced myself as “wheelchair boy,” which got a few laughs. My goal is to turn what I sometimes feel is a weakness into a strength.

Then came my first speech in communications class. Before I turned on my chair and headed to the front of the room to deliver the talk, I was semi-panicking until one of my classmates asked our teacher about attention grabbers — that is, catchy ways to start a speech.

That question was exactly what I needed, and when it was time for my speech — an analysis of a video about labor organizer Dolores Huerta — I turned the speed on my chair to the maximum, took a breath, and got ready for my moment to shine. Pushing as hard as I could into my joystick, I drove my wheelchair through two rolling chairs blocking my path. The chairs came with me to the front of the class.

As the class laughed, I said, “Now that’s an attention grabber.”

Torrance Johnson is a college freshman at Wayne State University. He hopes to pursue a career in music production and writing. Torrance aims to show others new perspectives and make the world feel a little more connected and understood.

Holocaust education is essential, but it’s not enough to curb antisemitism

2024-10-16T12:00:00+00:00

“There’s another swastika in the boy’s bathroom,” Gordon, a high school senior, said as he entered my classroom. “It’s carved into the toilet paper dispenser.”

This was just the latest in a rash of swastikas drawn in the bathrooms in the junior-senior high school in rural Wisconsin where I was teaching.

In my 19 years as an educator, I had never experienced anything like this. And though I taught about the Holocaust for my entire career, I felt ill-equipped to respond to and teach about contemporary antisemitism. As a school, we also struggled to respond to antisemitism in our midst.

George Dalbo

Antisemitism has increased in Wisconsin and the United States. An Anti-Defamation League report revealed that antisemitic incidents increased by 140 percent nationally in 2023 to their highest level since 1979. The Milwaukee Jewish Federation reported antisemitic incidents have risen in Wisconsin, marking a cumulative increase of 570 percent since 2015. This included a dramatic rise in antisemitism in schools, including mine.

A few years ago, when swastikas and other antisemitic hate speech began appearing in our school, administrators and colleagues suggested the need for more Holocaust education. They often came to me to address the issue in my social studies classes.

I know from conversations with fellow teachers across the state and country that this is not unique to my community. Antisemitism is increasingly prevalent in K-12 schools, and the Israel-Hamas War has only intensified antisemitic — and Islamophobic — hate speech.

In a reflection activity that I conducted in my classroom after one incident of swastika graffiti, many students suggested that the swastikas are being drawn by kids who, in their words, “are trying to be funny” or “don’t understand what swastikas mean.” Although most students seemed to want to minimize or dismiss this hate speech as juvenile pranks or misunderstandings, one senior reflected: “I think there are more Jewish students in the school than we know about, and they are the ones drawing them.”

This statement, suggesting Jewish students were drawing swastikas, was not simply an innocent misunderstanding; rather, it was part of a deeper, pervasive set of antisemitic myths that Jews are responsible for the hate directed their way. At their extreme is the claim that Jews caused the Holocaust. A 2020 Claims Conference survey found that belief in these types of myths is growing and that they are held by about one in 10 American adults under the age of 40.

Like my students, many colleagues also sought to minimize the antisemitic graffiti. Despite policies against hate speech, administrators routinely dismissed the idea of punishing the culprits of the swastika drawings if they were ever identified. Instead, they talked about the need for more Holocaust education. “This is a clear learning opportunity,” they insisted.

There was a time when I largely agreed with them.

Holocaust education is already a widely respected mainstay of the curriculum. Wisconsin recently became one of 29 states to mandate Holocaust and genocide education in all public middle and high schools. By the time they were seniors and took my Genocide and Human Rights course, students had studied the Holocaust multiple times across their mandatory middle and secondary social studies and English classes. And according to the Claims Conference study, Wisconsin Millenials and Gen Z scored highest in Holocaust awareness in the United States.

Yet, swastikas kept appearing in the bathrooms at our school.

While my students had studied the Holocaust in various classes over several years, I found they actually knew relatively little about the history of antisemitism, an ancient hatred and conspiracy theory that stretches back millennia. “Why did the Nazis hate the Jews?” was a common question. Students struggled even to recognize or define the term “antisemitism.” They knew even less about the history of antisemitism in the United States or its manifestations around the world today.

Even the most comprehensive Holocaust education may not adequately address how we are seeing antisemitism appear today. Students need to learn about antisemitism today, as either part of or in addition to their Holocaust education.

While Holocaust curricula abound, there is still a relative lack of resources for teachers on contemporary antisemitism. Echoes & Reflections — a Holocaust education partnership program of the Anti-Defamation League, USC Shoah Foundation, and Israel’s Holocaust Memorial, Yad Vashem — has a comprehensive set of lesson plans and resources on the topic called the Gringlas Unit on Contemporary Antisemitism.

Named for a family of Holocaust victims — some who perished and others who survived — the Gringlas Unit begins with the history of antisemitism before and during the Holocaust, before having students examine examples of antisemitic myths and memes on social media, as well as rhetoric and images from current events. The unit builds students’ awareness of antisemitism so they can recognize and challenge it in their daily lives, helping students untangle intersecting forms of hate speech and ideologies.

There is no shortage of examples from which to draw, from musicians threatening Jews on social media to politicians insinuating American Jews are disloyal to tired tropes about Jewish money or power. My students quickly became adept at recognizing antisemitism. They were able to share examples of hate speech they had seen just the night before on social media or, especially, on online gaming platforms. I encouraged students to speak out against antisemitism when they see it in our school and community.

George Dalbo's students designed bumper stickers promoting tolerance.

A 2024 study on the Gringlas Unit showed that learning about contemporary antisemitism increases students’ knowledge of the Holocaust, raises awareness about the ways antisemitism shows up today, fosters empathy towards victims of hateful attacks, and inspires students to combat antisemitism when they see it.

This has been my experience as well. After learning about contemporary antisemitism, my students were able not only to recognize but also to speak out against it. During the 2023-2024 school year, no swastikas appeared in the bathrooms, and we also saw a dramatic decrease in the other hate speech in the school. The story of our school community suggests that this sort of intentional intervention can make a difference.

While Holocaust education must remain an important part of American education, addressing contemporary antisemitism demands that we explicitly teach about it.

George Dalbo, Ph.D., is a visiting assistant professor at Beloit College and a research fellow at the Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies at the University of Minnesota. Previously, he was a high school social studies teacher in Wisconsin and Minnesota.

Growing up, I often heard gunfire. Why didn’t we talk about it?

2024-10-10T12:00:00+00:00

It was a blazing hot summer day, and I was playing freeze tag with my cousins in front of my house. I was 13. My mom was sitting on a stoop nearby, talking to a neighbor, but still maintaining a watchful eye on us.

Everything was fine until I heard three loud bangs. Instantly, my mother’s demeanor changed and she screamed, “Get inside, now!”

I was confused and annoyed that my game of freeze tag was cut short. But my mother’s authority made me hurry toward the house. As I stepped inside, I asked her what was the matter, but all she responded was, “Don’t worry about it, they’re just fireworks. How about we continue playing inside?”

Ethan Rodriguez

Looking back on it now, I know those weren’t fireworks. In our North Philadelphia neighborhood of Kensington, it was rarely just fireworks.

That day was the beginning of my realization there was something bigger going on, but I didn’t fully understand it. Gun violence wasn’t something the adults explained. I think the adults in my life wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. I want to believe they did what they thought was best.

But as I got older, I began to lose classmates to gun violence in my community. Often, they were either going to or coming from school when they were shot. It made me think twice. At a certain point, the world started to teach me things the adults couldn’t. Sometimes I would take a completely different route in an effort to avoid certain situations. A bus stop is just a bus stop until a classmate dies while standing there.

My neighborhood is nicknamed the “badlands” because of the prevalence of gun violence, drug-related violence, and other forms of violence. Still, I could tell you everything I love about Kensington: the food, the culture, the diversity, the hardworking people who live there and raise their families. I can’t imagine being born anywhere else.

A bus stop is just a bus stop until a classmate dies while standing there.

I moved to suburban Glenside, Pennsylvania, in 2021 to attend Arcadia University, where I’m studying media and communications. The campus is less than 10 miles from Kensington, but there’s a lot less poverty and violence. Despite the change of scenery, I just can’t forget where I grew up and the violence that punctuated my life there.

There are so many things happening in Philly that need to change: an opioid epidemic, high poverty rates, and community violence. No kid deserves to feel unsafe — not on their block, not in their school, and not in their neighborhood — but many kids are unsafe. Last year alone, gunfire killed 24 Philadelphia children and impacted many more.

If it weren’t for the things I experienced as a kid, I wouldn’t have my drive and my passion for change. Recently, I’ve become involved in gun violence prevention efforts.

This past year I worked as a student journalist and producer on a PBS News Student Reporting Labs documentary about the impacts of gun violence. I went out and documented my hometown, and I got to sit down and talk about real things I’ve seen growing up in Philadelphia. It has given me space to reflect on my experiences — experiences I know are common.

I’m extremely proud to share one story of an average city kid affected by gun violence. I hope other kids who experience these sorts of things know they have a voice. If I were to go back in time and tell my younger self that his voice mattered, it would’ve blown his mind.

As a student producer for this documentary, which premieres this week, I also interviewed Dr. Jessica Beard, a trauma surgeon at Temple University and the director of research at the The Philadelphia Center for Gun Violence Reporting. Dr. Beard told me that universal background checks and permitting help prevent gun homicides and that child access prevention laws and extreme risk protection orders can help curb unintentional firearm injury and suicides.

“I think one concern that people feel is that this is political,” she said. “But the truth is that we have evidence that these things can save lives.”

After the interview, I felt seen and heard. It was amazing talking to a researcher who studies a topic that’s so close to home for me. She reiterated how much gun violence is preventable and that we “don’t have to live like this.” I left feeling more hopeful than before.

Working on this student-produced documentary about how gun violence affects young people has allowed me to talk about a serious issue that affects communities like mine. Conversations about gun violence and how to reduce it aren’t something everyone wants to hear, but we can’t change anything about it if we ignore the problem. These conversations are important because people’s lives are important.

Ethan Rodriguez attends Arcadia University and is a student producer of ”Run, Hide, Fight: Growing up under the gun,” a PBS News Student Reporting Labs documentary that premieres Oct. 9 on the PBS News YouTube channel, PBS app, and PBS.org.

For many immigrant students, school is their one safe place

2024-10-09T20:38:08+00:00

Leer en español

When I hear about President Joe Biden’s recent action to halt asylum from the U.S. Southern border, when I hear about efforts to deny undocumented students a free public education, and when I hear former President Donald Trump using hyperbolic, criminalizing anti-immigrant rhetoric from the presidential debate stage, I am reminded of the faces and voices of young people I have encountered who are or were undocumented or from mixed immigration status families.

For the past 15 years, I have worked as a teacher, coach, and then ethnographer and education policy researcher to try to understand how newcomer immigrant students experience their schools and communities. In my research roles, I have interviewed hundreds of immigrant youth, and I have learned of their everyday realities, their enduring hope, and their struggle for belonging in the U.S.

Sophia Rodriguez

First, I taught English as a second language in New York City public schools and worked with language learners as well as foreign- and native-born students from immigrant families. I moved to Chicago in 2009 to teach multilingual learners and to start my Ph.D. in Educational Policy Studies.

My school in Chicago, like many U.S. public schools, was receiving dozens of newcomer students weekly. Many arrived with limited English or had experienced traumatic migration experiences, such as family separation or being held in detention centers for hundreds of days. One student that I interviewed for my research told me that her family had been caught as they crossed into the U.S. and sent to jail for three days. “My mom was starving,” she told me. “So was I, but I got used to eating apples they would give us.”

I focused on getting basic needs met, as many educators do. I brought food to school. I took kids to the grocery store and taught them introductory English phrases. I remember a student saying to me, “You hold the words for us in your hands,” referring to my efforts to translate for them. And yet, we built a home in our ESL classroom, and I witnessed how it was possible for my immigrant students to feel a sense of belonging despite having their worlds ripped apart due to violence, political strife, poverty, and oppressive governments.

Schools are often the major institutions with which immigrant youth and their families interact; it is, for many, their one safe place.

It’s unconstitutional, the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled, to deny children an education because of their immigration status. Yet over the years, that 1982 ruling, Plyler v. Doe, has been poked and prodded by states, politicians, and think tanks in attempts to undo the safety net that education provides. Threatening these protections puts millions of children at risk.

As I transitioned from teacher to researcher, and now with a decade of research behind me, I have different levels of understanding and proximity to the issue. Instead of focusing on the fabricated immigration “crisis” and the “drain” on resources, we must shift the discourse to center young people’s experiences.

In a study about undocumented youth experiences of racial discrimination and belonging, I observed young people deal with hostile 2016 campaign rhetoric, racial profiling, bodily threats, family separation, the deportation of friends and family members, legal violence, and inequities in educational access. Some shared with me how they live in fear of immigration officials “knocking at their door.” They told me how community members and politicians “do not know what to do with them” and “take away their rights” yet recruit undocumented labor for ”jobs that powerful white people do not want to do.”

While news outlets and presidential candidates painted a picture of “a crisis” at the border with many “bad hombres,” I listened to stories of migration from young people like Juan, a high school student I spoke to for my research. (The names of the students in this piece have been changed to protect their privacy.) He told me that he “felt the world on top of him” because the fear and uncertainty about his immigration status weighed heavily on him. Juan described his desire for “education and a better life” in the U.S. despite the difficulty he faced in crossing the border.

Then there was Pablo. During his four trips to the United States, three of them unsuccessful, Pablo, a high school student in my research, witnessed a man “falling into a hole” to escape border patrol, crossed the Rio Grande by foot, saw a man die, and was himself taken into ICE custody. He described a particularly chilling scene when he was discovered by authorities:

“I just looked and I didn’t move, it didn’t matter … I just stayed there sitting until immigration came and threw me on the ground and put the ties around my legs and hands and then I arrived at, we call them the ‘coolers,’ where immigration is, they have the rooms cold.”

Serena, another young person I spent time with during a research study that ran from 2016 to 2021, migrated from Brazil to the U.S. with her mother by bus and foot and was held in detention without food or water before being released. Many students told me that it was healing to share these experiences, and I share my research to educate policymakers and practitioners in order to better serve these young people.

Evidence from my field research shows that children as young as 11 or 12 are enduring harsh migration journeys. Upon crossing the border, they face abysmal conditions in detention facilities, long waits, miseducation, and uncertainty.

A 12-year-old student, Alejandro, shared with me that his family crossed the U.S. border multiple times and were unsuccessful, often going to sleep “somewhere” and “hungry.” Arriving in the U.S., he and his family live in constant fear of deportation. The precarity of the situation weighs on young people.

The political rhetoric and recent changes to asylum policies seem like attempts to appease voters. Meanwhile, our immigration system has long been broken — and there’s been little political will to fix it. Unraveling Plyler would make things even worse by undoing decades of precedent and threatening the safety of immigrant children and their families.

In my current research, I have surveyed over 1,300 Latino students in two public school districts in the Mid-Atlantic, many with a foreign-born parent and many who are newcomers themselves and speak languages other than English. I have examined differences across middle and high schoolers, and differences between white and nonwhite experiences of belonging. Latino/x and multiracial high school students reported a lack of connection to social activities and relationships outside of school. I have also found that high school students who spoke English as a second language struggled to belong in school and after-school settings.

Immigrant young people continue to feel unheard and disrespected in their local communities and grapple with the uncertainty of their or their parents’ immigration status. Educators, including teachers and social workers I studied, explained how important it is to ”hear their stories” and to understand the effects of immigration policies.

As I continue to highlight the factors that contribute to student belonging, I hope that policymakers and school districts will incorporate the voices of young people into their plans to create and maintain positive, safe school environments. It’s up to educators to develop inclusive school climates that affirm cultures, identities, and languages; to cultivate trusting and supportive relationships between teachers and students; to provide trauma-informed care training for all staff and educators; and to foster collective leadership so that everyone in the school is working together to serve students. It’s vital work because belonging is essential for immigrant youths’ well-being and their educational and social mobility.

Sophia Rodriguez, Ph.D. (@SoRoPhD), is an associate professor of educational policy studies at New York University’s Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development. She is also a first-generation college student and child of an immigrant from Latin America, which drives her advocacy work and quest for equitable policies for immigrant youth and their families. Her research investigates how community-school partnerships and educators promote racial equity for immigrant youth; her research has appeared in academic journals as well as in the Washington Post, Education Week, and the Conversation.

Muchos estudiantes inmigrantes encuentran en la escuela un refugio, su único lugar seguro

2024-10-09T20:26:22+00:00

Read in English.

Cuando escuché sobre la decisión del presidente Joe Biden de detener las solicitudes de asilo en la frontera sur, pensé en los jóvenes que he conocido a lo largo de mi carrera. Muchos de ellos son indocumentados o vienen de familias con estatus migratorio mixto. También me vino a la mente cuando se intenta negarles a los estudiantes indocumentados el derecho a una educación pública gratuita, así como los discursos negativos contra los inmigrantes, muy presentes en las campañas del expresidente Donald Trump.

En los últimos 15 años, he trabajado como profesora, entrenadora, y luego como etnógrafa e investigadora en políticas educativas. Mi objetivo ha sido comprender las experiencias de los estudiantes recién llegados en las escuelas y las comunidades. He hablado con cientos de jóvenes inmigrantes, aprendiendo sobre sus luchas diarias, su esperanza y sus intentos de encontrar un lugar donde pertenecer en los Estados Unidos.

Empecé mi carrera enseñando inglés como segundo idioma en escuelas públicas de Nueva York trabajando tanto con estudiantes inmigrantes como con hijos de inmigrantes. En 2009, me mudé a Chicago para enseñar a estudiantes multilingües y comenzar mis estudios de doctorado de Políticas Educativas.

En Chicago, como en muchas otras escuelas públicas, recibíamos docenas de nuevos estudiantes cada semana, muchos de ellos con un nivel limitado de inglés o que habían vivido experiencias traumáticas, como la separación familiar, o que habían pasado tiempo en centros de detención. Recuerdo que una estudiante me contó cómo su familia fue detenida al cruzar a EE. UU. y cómo vivió los tres días que pasaron en prisión. “Mi mamá pasó los días con mucha hambre “, me dijo. “Yo también, pero me acostumbré a comer las manzanas que nos daban.”

Sophia Rodriguez, profesora asociada en la Universidad de Nueva York

Como muchos educadores, me enfoqué en cubrir las necesidades básicas de mis estudiantes. Llevaba comida a la escuela, acompañaba a los niños al supermercado y les enseñaba frases introductorias para que practiquen su inglés. Recuerdo que un estudiante me dijo: “Tú nos das voz y nos sostienes con tus palabras”, en referencia a mis esfuerzos por traducir para ellos. A pesar de los desafíos, logramos crear un hogar en nuestra aula de ESL (el programa de enseñanza del inglés como segunda lengua para estudiantes inmigrantes). Fui testigo de cómo mis estudiantes adoptaron el sentido de pertenencia, incluso cuando sus vidas estaban llenas de violencia, pobreza y dificultades políticas.

Las escuelas son, para muchos estudiantes inmigrantes y sus familias, el único lugar seguro que tienen. Sin embargo, a lo largo de los años, se han hecho esfuerzos para debilitar el derecho a la educación de estos jóvenes.

La sentencia de 1982, Plyler v. Doe, establece que es inconstitucional negarles la educación debido a su estatus migratorio, según ha dictaminado la Corte Suprema de EE. UU. Sin embargo, a lo largo de los años, este fallo ha sido cuestionado y manipulado por estados, políticos y grupos de expertos en intentos de debilitar la red de seguridad que ofrece la educación. Amenazar estas protecciones pone en riesgo a millones de niños.

Con mi transición de profesora a investigadora y una década de investigación, logré distintos niveles de comprensión y una mayor cercanía al tema. A raíz de esto, considero que debemos redirigir el discurso para poner en el centro las experiencias de los jóvenes, en lugar de poner el foco en la supuesta “crisis” migratoria y la “fuga” de recursos.

En un estudio sobre la discriminación racial y el sentido de pertenencia de los jóvenes indocumentados, observé cómo enfrentaban el discurso hostil de la campaña de 2016. Estos jóvenes lidiaban con el racismo, las amenazas físicas, la separación familiar, la deportación de amigos y familiares, la violencia legal y las desigualdades en cuanto al acceso a la educación. Algunos me compartieron que vivían con miedo de que en cualquier momento los agentes de inmigración podrían “llamar a su puerta”. Me explicaron que sentían que la comunidad y los políticos “no saben qué hacer con ellos” y como “les quitan sus derechos”. Mientras reclutan mano de obra indocumentada para “trabajos que los blancos poderosos no quieren hacer”.

Mientras los medios de comunicación y los candidatos presidenciales hablaban de una “crisis” en la frontera que estaba llena de “hombres malos”, yo escuchaba las historias de migración de algunos jóvenes. Los nombres de los estudiantes en este texto han sido cambiados para proteger su privacidad.

Juan, un estudiante de secundaria, me contó que “sentía el peso del mundo sobre sus hombros por el miedo y la incertidumbre que le generaba su estatus migratorio. Aunque cruzar la frontera fue difícil, Juan soñaba con tener “una educación y una vida mejor” en EE.UU.

Otro caso es el de Pablo, quien intentó llegar a Estados Unidos en cuatro ocasiones, de las cuales tres fracasaron. Pablo, un estudiante de high school que formó parte de mi investigación, fue testigo de cómo un hombre “cayó en un agujero” para escapar de la patrulla fronteriza. Durante su travesía, cruzó el Río Grande a pie, presenció la muerte de un hombre y finalmente fue detenido por oficiales de ICE (Servicio de Inmigración y Control de Aduanas de Estados Unidos). Describió una escena particularmente traumática de cuando las autoridades lo encontraron: “Solo miré y no hice nada, no importaba... Permanecí sentado hasta que llegaron los agentes de inmigración. Me arrojaron al suelo y me ataron las piernas y las manos. Después llegué a lo que llamamos las ‘hieleras’, donde inmigración tiene celdas que mantienen frías”.

Serena, otra joven con quien interactué durante un estudio de investigación realizado de 2016 a 2021, migró de Brasil a EE. UU. con su madre, viajando en autobús y a pie. Antes de ser liberada, estuvo en un centro de detención sin comida ni agua. Muchos estudiantes me comentaron que compartir sus historias los hacía sentir mejor. Por eso, comparto los casos y conclusiones de mi investigación, de modo que sirvan de herramienta para educar a los responsables de políticas y a los profesionales, y que puedan brindar un mejor apoyo a estos jóvenes.

Los datos de mi investigación de campo indican que niños de tan solo 11 o 12 años están atravesando difíciles travesías migratorias. Al cruzar la frontera, se encuentran con condiciones extremas en los centros de detención, con largas esperas, mala educación y una gran incertidumbre.

Alejandro, un estudiante de 12 años, compartió conmigo que su familia intentó cruzar la frontera de EE. UU. en múltiples ocasiones sin lograrlo, a menudo yendo a dormir “en algún lugar” y “con hambre.” Ahora que están en los Estados Unidos, él y su familia viven bajo el temor constante de ser deportados. La precariedad de la situación afecta profundamente a estos jóvenes.

La retórica política y los cambios recientes en cuanto a las políticas de asilo parecen ser intentos a calmar a los votantes. Mientras tanto, nuestro sistema de inmigración ha estado roto durante mucho tiempo, y ha habido poca voluntad política para repararlo. Revocar Plyler agravaría la situación al deshacer décadas de jurisprudencia y amenazaría la seguridad de los niños inmigrantes y sus familias.

En mi investigación actual, he realizado encuestas a más de 1.300 estudiantes latinos en dos distritos escolares públicos del Atlántico Medio. Muchos de ellos tienen al menos un padre nacido en el extranjero y otros son recién llegados que hablan idiomas distintos al inglés. He estudiado las diferencias entre estudiantes de high school y middle school, así como las experiencias de pertenencia de aquellos que son blancos y no blancos. Los estudiantes latinos y multirraciales de high school manifestaron una falta de conexión con actividades sociales y relaciones fuera del entorno escolar. Además, descubrí que los estudiantes que hablaban inglés como segundo idioma enfrentaban dificultades para integrarse tanto en la escuela como en actividades extracurriculares.

Los jóvenes inmigrantes siguen sintiéndose ignorados y menospreciados en sus comunidades locales, y lidian con la incertidumbre sobre su estatus migratorio o el de sus padres. En mi investigación, los educadores, incluidos maestros y trabajadores sociales, explicaron que para comprender el impacto de las políticas migratorias es necesario “escuchar sus historias”.

A medida que continúo resaltando los factores que contribuyen al sentido de pertenencia de los estudiantes, me mantengo a la expectativa de que los legisladores, así como también, los distritos escolares incorporen las voces de los jóvenes en sus planes para crear y mantener entornos escolares positivos y seguros. Depende de los educadores desarrollar climas escolares inclusivos que validen culturas, identidades y lenguas; fomentar relaciones de confianza y apoyo entre maestros y estudiantes; proporcionar capacitaciones para todo el personal y educadores que informen acerca del trauma; y promover el liderazgo colectivo para que todos en la escuela colaboren para el beneficio de los estudiantes. Este trabajo es muy importante si se tiene en cuenta que el sentido de pertenencia es esencial para el bienestar de los jóvenes inmigrantes y su movilidad educativa y social.

Traducido por Flavia Melisa Franco

Sophia Rodriguez, Ph.D. (@SoRoPhD), es profesora asociada de estudios de políticas educativas en la Escuela Steinhardt de Cultura, Educación y Desarrollo Humano de la Universidad de Nueva York. Como estudiante universitaria de primera generación e hija de un inmigrante latinoamericano, su experiencia impulsa su trabajo de defensa y su búsqueda de políticas justas para la juventud inmigrante y sus familias. Su investigación explora cómo las asociaciones entre comunidades y escuelas, así como el papel de los educadores, promueven la equidad racial para los jóvenes inmigrantes. Su trabajo ha sido publicado en revistas académicas y en medios como el Washington Post, Education Week y The Conversation.

Student Voices 2024-25: Meet Chalkbeat’s teen fellows

2024-10-01T18:33:55+00:00

Chalkbeat is thrilled to announce our new Student Voices Fellowship class. During the 2024-25 academic year, we’re welcoming high school students from New York City and, for the first time, from Detroit. The fellows, whose impressive bios are below, will participate in journalism and writing workshops and share their original essays on Chalkbeat. Be sure to look out for their bylines in the coming months.

Fall Fellows

Bryan Campbell, Detroit

Bryan Campbell (he/him/his) is a junior at Cass Technical High School in Detroit. He is a founder and secretary of his school’s Black Student Union, a board member of Cass Tech’s Future Changemakers of America club, and a conservation intern with the Detroit Zoological Society. Over the summer, Bryan studied Blackness, oppression, and race at the Telluride Association Summer Seminar in Maryland. In his free time, Bryan enjoys playing guitar and writing about politics through an intersectional lens.

Ocean Lin, New York City

Ocean (he/him/his) is a junior at Staten Island Technical High School. He lived in Fujian, China, for five years before moving to Brooklyn. In school, he is the co-president of the handwriting club and an editor of the student newspaper, The Tech Times. Outside of school, he volunteers for RBH, a non-profit organization that supports immigrant students. Ocean also started the Instagram poetry account Tide Tales to give marginalized groups, such as LGBT Asian Americans, a platform for creative self-expression. He wants to pursue a career in chemistry and make a difference in the world. At Chalkbeat, he hopes to share authentic stories despite living in a society that expects conformity.

Awa Sangare, New York City

Awa (she/her) is a junior at Columbia Secondary School in Manhattan. She is passionate about writing and her school’s debate club. In her free time, she enjoys learning about other cultures and watching movies, her favorite being “The Princess Diaries.” In the future, Awa aspires to make a positive impact on the world through her work. At Chalkbeat, she hopes to improve her writing and wants others to learn from her experiences.

Spring Fellows

Charisma Holly, Detroit

Charisma is a senior at the Detroit Edison Public School Academy High School. She is a spoken word artist, public speaker, and advocate for after-school programs. Charisma was an opening speaker, alongside Detroit Mayor Mike Duggan, during the Uniroyal Promenade Grand Opening in 2023. In addition, she performed an original spoken word poem, entitled “Outreach,” at Michigan’s 2024 Afterschool Day at the state capitol. Charisma also spends her time working in theater design and tech, volunteering with academic and holistic enrichment programs for students, and advocating for funding for art programs. Charisma writes to inspire, share her voice, and make a difference in the world around her.

Anika Merkin, New York City

Anika (she/her/hers) is a junior at Brooklyn Prospect High School. She is passionate about issues that impact young women, such as mental health, reproductive rights, and menstrual equity. She is a founding member of a youth group that trained teens to advocate for menstrual equity. Anika participated in a leadership program at a sleepaway camp in the Adirondacks for two summers, and this past summer was selected to join The Moth Story Lab, a storytelling workshop for high school students. In her free time, she enjoys designing and creating pottery, watching and analyzing films, and spending time with friends and her cat, Lily. Inspired by her own experience with school refusal, Anika wants to shed light on the challenges teens struggling with anxiety and OCD face.

Ginger Roger Ceballos, New York City

Ginger (she/her) is a junior at Manhattan Early College for Advertising. During high school, she is eager to find her “spark” and explore different opportunities. She embraces the principle that “rejection is redirection,” which has helped her navigate the ups and downs of her teenage years. Growing up in New York City has fueled her desire to travel around the world and meet people from different cultures. She spent this past summer working at Clarify News, the youth journalism program of City Limits, where she wrote about some of the struggles that New Yorkers face. Ginger can’t wait to see what the future holds. Still, she loves to live in the moment — and hopes her writing and photography will motivate others to do the same.

More information on Chalkbeat’s Student Voices Fellowship program is available here. You can read the work of our past fellows here.

I’m a Gen Z teacher. Schools rely too much on Chromebooks.

2024-09-30T15:00:00+00:00

As the back-to-school season unfolded in New York, the city’s teachers set up their classrooms how they usually do: by putting up posters, reading through curriculums, sharpening pencils, and, for roughly a decade, charging Chromebooks.

These lightweight laptops have become a staple of the post-COVID classroom, and for good reason. They allow students to learn at their own pace, access materials, and create projects and presentations without expensive items. Some superintendents across the city even require dedicated time for math and reading practice on computers.

As a member of Gen Z and a Brooklyn-based teacher, though, I worry that relying on technology for instruction will only exacerbate the negative effects of excess screen time.

Skyler Graham is a teacher in Brooklyn.

I got my first iPhone on my 11th birthday. It was the beginning of sixth grade, braces, and the descent into the digital world. In these preteen years, I never understood why my parents questioned how much time I spent on my phone. I was just texting my friends, sending memes, sharing homework answers, and opening up about school crushes.

To me, it was the same as talking in person at each other’s houses, just without the hassle of deciding whose parent would drive us there. My parents, however, saw my phone use as a way of isolating myself from the family even when we were in the same room. The phone had become an adolescent addiction — and not just for me.

Recent research has shown how screen time, specifically time on smartphones, molds our brains well into adolescence and adulthood. In his widely discussed 2024 book “The Anxious Generation,” social psychologist Jonathan Haidt details how the cultural shift from a “play-based childhood” to a “phone-based childhood” corresponds to the spike in adolescent mental illness. Haidt cites data showing that since 2010, there has been a 139% increase in anxiety among 18- to 25-year-olds and a 145% and 161% increase in depression among teenage girls and boys, respectively.

Unfortunately, these numbers are not shocking. They mirror my experience and that of my friends as we rotated through antidepressants, sat in bed doom-scrolling, and resented peers with more likes and followers. We reminisced about our pre-iPhone days when we used to explore the neighborhood and were left to our own devices (no devices!) to navigate social, emotional, and physical challenges without adult intervention — a concept Haidt describes as “free play.”

The one place where I was free from the pressure to snap and scroll was school. I fell in love with English and U.S History and was embarrassingly eager to participate in class debates and discussions. These classes were opportunities for connection.

As the Chromecarts rolled in around eighth or ninth grade, however, the connection waned. Many STEM classes were tech-heavy, with pre-existing modules for students to follow independently with little interaction with peers and teachers. Remote learning at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic only made things worse.

When I started teaching middle school in Brooklyn last year, I realized that my students experienced this tech onslaught so much earlier than I did. I wondered how they managed to complete third and fourth grade virtually. How did they build foundational reading, math, social, emotional, and executive functioning skills while sitting behind a computer, tablet, or phone? How did they grow without the much-needed free play?

The reality is that many of them didn’t.

We need more Gen Z educators to be honest about their own relationship with technology.

Several of my students in this age group entered middle school with the same background knowledge they had before the year and a half of digital learning. In a U.S. history lesson, for example, my seventh graders were doing a round-robin reading of a passage about the Compromise of 1850. As different groups were reading, I was met with confusion over the pronunciation of the words “Kansas” and “Missouri.” It did not appear to be the typical mistakes that stem from skipping over words or mixing up letters, it was as if they had never seen the names of these states before. The same looks appeared when I asked what nouns and verbs are, or to count in groups of seven or eight. Didn’t you learn this in like, third grade, I thought to myself. Then I remembered what happened when they were in third grade.

Fortunately, this cohort of students has made tremendous academic and social-emotional strides since moving back into the physical classroom. As they’ve returned, though, they’ve brought with them habits that reinforce the need for instant gratification.

With a Chromebook by their side all day, they will often Google answers to any and all questions, including those that ask for their thoughts and analyses. These days, it’s common to forgo memorizing your friends’ phone numbers and street addresses and, by the same logic, times tables and rudimentary spelling. Why memorize the product of 6 and 8, or the difference between “there” and “their,” or learn to read an analog clock when you can just look it up? And how can we expect our students to learn these foundational pieces of background knowledge without giving them an opportunity to struggle through the challenge of learning?

When schoolwork and peers get boring or frustrating, they can fill their time (or avoid difficult conversations) by scrolling through Pinterest, Google Images, or surreptitiously perusing Snapchat. I don’t blame them — I’ve also developed the habit of filling unoccupied and stressful moments with aimless scrolling. But when we lose boredom, we lose space for creativity and reflection; when we escape our problems, we cannot learn to problem-solve.

As I plan for this school year, I meticulously walk the fine digital line: I want to encourage independent and flexible work habits, which can be done with online assignments. Yet, I also want to encourage interdependent thinking and discussion skills, which are harder to achieve on a screen.

I believe teaching digital literacy and screen hygiene is the most responsible approach to the issue, but to be effective, we need more Gen Z educators to be honest about their own relationship with technology. We didn’t know of its detrimental impacts or addictive nature back in the days of Kik and Omegle., c. 2013. Now that we do, we can equip our students with the tools to avoid this adolescent addiction.

Skyler Graham is a co-teacher apprentice at Ember Charter Schools. She currently teaches high school English and social studies. More of her work can be found here.

I oversaw education on Rikers Island. Early mistakes don’t have to define a young person’s life.

2024-09-27T12:00:00+00:00

For the tens of thousands of New York students who graduated from high school in June, the beginning of the school year also marks the end of their required education. Many of them are pursuing advanced two- and four-year degrees at colleges and universities, while others have enrolled in vocational training programs or are entering the workforce.

In some ways, the opportunities for these teenagers seem endless. But as the former superintendent of New York City’s District 79 — the city’s alternative schools district, which includes Rikers Island jail complex — I can assure you that this is certainly not the case for everyone.

Tim Lisante

My introduction to justice-impacted students came over 30 years ago when I became assistant principal of Island Academy (now called East River Academy), a school located on Rikers Island. During my first year on the job, I met a young student with the deck stacked against her. She had a learning disability, a substance use disorder, no permanent home in the city, and she was pregnant.

As I encountered more young people like her, I remember thinking to myself: “These are the most ‘egregious’ kids in New York City? They’re no different than my own sons.” Yet, there was one critical difference: Our city’s traditional education system and supportive services had failed them.

I spent 34 years in District 79, which includes early childhood education, career and technical education, adult education, and transfer high schools. I started as the special education assistant principal on Rikers and retired in 2022 as an executive superintendent. My students had every reason to give up. But they were determined to make the most of the education they were offered, and our dedicated faculty were committed to helping them do that.

Back when I worked at Island Academy, from 1988 to 1998, my students ranged in age from 16 and 17 to their early twenties. But today, thanks to the passage of the state’s Raise the Age law, those teenagers are no longer held on Rikers Island and other adult jails across New York. Now, 16- and 17-year-olds who are detained pretrial are held in juvenile detention centers, subject to rules guided by principles of youth development rather than confinement.

While Raise the Age was a momentous achievement that closed a shameful chapter in our state’s history, it’s not enough. As someone with decades of experience working with young adults, I know how critical the support they receive in their late teens and early twenties is to their future success. And when they’ve been dealt a difficult hand, it’s on our leaders in government to prioritize rehabilitation, not criminalization.

A proposed bill, the Youth Justice and Opportunities Act, would extend age-based protections to those ages 19 to 25 who are arrested in New York. By expanding access to diversion, record-sealing, and alternatives to incarceration, the legislation would help move young people out of the criminal legal system and into mental health and substance abuse treatment, intensive case management, educational interventions, and mentorship.

These young adults, whose brains are still developing until their mid-twenties, deserve the chance to learn and grow from their mistakes and move forward in their lives without the burden of an adult criminal conviction. This is especially true for the tens of thousands of youth, most of them Black and brown, who are arrested across the state each year and face adult prosecution, with no age-based protections.

It’s time that we acknowledge that young people don’t stop needing help, or being deserving of patience, forgiveness, and an education the moment that they turn 18. In fact, some of my most memorable experiences as an educator involved my older students. Unlike their 16- and 17-year-old peers, who were required to receive an education while on Rikers, they took it upon themselves to show up — and it was our job to give them a reason to show up.

We built relationships with CUNY so that city colleges would come to Rikers to recruit students to attend college upon release. We also had connections to career and technical schools in our own district, so that those who wanted to pursue vocational training could transfer directly. One former student traveled every single day from Far Rockaway to 96th Street in Manhattan to pursue a career in vision care technology.

The teachers, social workers, and guidance counselors at East River Academy work incredibly hard to meet their justice-impacted students where they are and to help them get to where they want to go. But these young people should not need to be detained to finally receive the support that they need and deserve — especially when there are countless community-based organizations throughout New York State that are ready to support these young adults.

At Rikers, we witnessed students gracefully turn their lives around. I’ll never forget one mother at our GED ceremony who told me, with tears in her eyes, “Six months ago my son went to jail. Now he’s going to college.”

When District 79 was founded in 1983, it was the first Alternative Schools District in the country. New York has long been ahead of the game, ensuring quality education and focusing on solutions — not simply punishing court-involved youth. The Youth Justice & Opportunities Act is another chance for New York to be a national leader in youth justice. Mistakes made at an early age do not define a young person’s life.

Tim Lisante is a former executive superintendent of New York City public schools.

With this treasure hunt, future educators get a lesson in teaching to their values

2024-09-14T00:14:05+00:00

The children called them “secret toys” — small items, treasures that they brought to pre-K, kept mostly hidden in backpacks and pockets, and occasionally shared. My son’s treasure-hunting drove me crazy as he took things I didn’t want to lose and grabbed finds from sidewalks: beads, acorns, bottle caps, you name it. They were easily misplaced (tears); shown to others (jealousy), and traded (mixed results).

The appeal of these tiny treasures baffled me, and as a teacher and teacher educator, I try to read a situation that baffles or even irritates me as a call for inquiry. I considered my core values, such as securing a child’s connection between home school, and possible courses of action, such as figuring out how small items could travel without significant disruption or drama.

Cara E. Furman, PhD, is an associate professor of early childhood at Hunter College and a former New York City Public Schools teacher.

It led me from a place of irritation to a tried-and-true lesson in the early childhood courses I teach to future educators. I’ve come to start each semester handing out a particular material, such as blocks or Legos, or foraging as a class in a park and having students each select an item that speaks to a core value they bring to class.

In the hands of my students, a tiny gray pebble becomes “noticing what others may not see.” An arch-shaped Lego becomes “creating communities where people feel connected.” There is power in choosing, holding, articulating, temporarily adding what you brought to a group’s collection, and finally retrieving it to hold near again.

Starting a new job this spring at Hunter College, I had to carry everything — from blocks to pencils — in my arms on public transit, and so I began with no Legos handy. And teaching deep in a skyscraper and many blocks from Central Park, we had no woods from which to gather.

So I leaned into my son’s collections and wrote my students, asking them to bring what early childhood educator Dana Frantz Bentley refers to as a “pocket treasure.” Maybe it’s a stick that represents a bridge because you want to be a bridge between families and schools, I explained. Maybe, it’s a dried leaf that speaks to your desire to protect others when they are feeling fragile. “Be creative,” I urged. “Once you find your treasure (and you may find a few), keep it in your coat pocket till class. Be prepared to share.”

For my part, I showed up with a small, smooth rock — half dark gray, half white — that I borrowed from my son. When he picked it up he said, “yin-yang,” and as it kept my hands happily occupied all week, I meditated on finding balance amid the chaos of a move, teaching, parenting, and meeting competing needs. I also showed up with worries.

What if my students thought this was silly?

What if the prompts were too esoteric?

What if they missed the email altogether?

Yet on the first day of class, each student pulled out a treasure, powerfully and clearly articulated a value they brought to teaching, and listened attentively. One student did forget an item (not her values), but another had brought two, so that true preschool style, a pocket treasure was loaned. By the end of the activity, we had a desk full of treasures arranged in what looked like a butterfly and a room soaring with these new teachers’ visions.

I see that when students take items from home to school and from school to home, they are linking worlds.

Thanks to pocket treasures, I lean into this new school year committed to the strength and comfort of holding something small, secret, and meaningful. I am reminded to welcome the treasures students carry, sometimes invited in the form of show-and-tell but more often showing up like secret toys, not necessarily welcome and even inconvenient. I see that when students take items from home to school and from school to home, they are linking worlds.

When I was a New York City Public elementary school teacher, my students began the year sharing their hopes and dreams. I now research how teachers’ values live in their daily practice and the power of articulating these values. In my classes, I have also witnessed the power of stating a value and holding that value in a small, easily transportable treasure.

And what were the values that these teachers in training stated on that first day? They spoke of countering inequity, valuing individuals, being trusted and trustworthy, building community with children and their families, and honoring play, among many other things. With them came a carefully chosen item, a personal commitment, placed with care together in the center of the room and then returned to pockets at the end of class. Our values, our treasures, buoy us, center us, and keep us afloat. So I encourage you to ask those who spend their days in schools: What do you seek to carry into this space? What would you like to take home? And what values do you express in these choices?

Cara E. Furman, PhD, is an associate professor of early childhood at Hunter College and a former New York City Public Schools teacher. She is the author of “Teaching from an Ethical Center: Practical Wisdom for Daily Instruction” and the co-author, with Cecelia Traugh, of “Descriptive Inquiry in Teacher Practice: Cultivating Practical Wisdom to Create Democratic Schools.” Committed to exploring and surfacing the intersections of ethics and action she hosts the podcast “Teaching from an Ethical Center: An Inquiry Among Friends” and co-hosts “Thinking in the Midst.”

At our phone-free school, my students are reaching for decades-old technology

2024-08-29T12:00:00+00:00

When I started teaching in 2003, the cell phone was an oddity in the classroom. At that time, trying to send a text, let alone access the internet, on your phone was clumsy at best. I remember when a student tried sneaking a phone into the Bronx high school where I was teaching, neatly tucking the device between two pieces of sandwich bread. The phone couldn’t get past the metal detectors at the door.

Of course, in the past two decades, our relationship to these devices has changed radically. Since returning to the classroom after the COVID school shutdowns, cell phones seem to function as almost an extra limb for my students, an ever-present extension of both their body and mind.

Joel Snyder

And they have become the biggest window into where American culture sits today. During lunch break, passing periods, and before and after school, we would find students sitting by themselves, watching a movie or playing a video game. Even more bizarrely, we’d see them sitting together, faces buried in their phone; they were isolated even in communal spaces. It’s clear that teens — and adults, too — are ceding real-life exploration, discovery, and connection to our devices.

In a change of practice — and one that more districts and schools are adopting — the South Los Angeles public charter high school where I’ve taught for the past 15 years decided last spring that for the 2024-2025 school year, we would be a phone-free school. The policy came with a recognition that our students deserve more: more space to be present in the classroom, more opportunity to engage with each other, and more time away from the screens that we’re all consumed with.

This year, our school has a new library of books, games, and athletic equipment to encourage students to engage without screens.

In my classroom, gone are the cubbies where students left their phones at the door. In the spirit of “out with the new, in with the old,” and looking for ways to bring novel experiences to my students, I brought in an old boombox and a hefty book of hundreds of CDs. The albums had been languishing in my garage, gathering dust, for a solid decade.

Joel Snyder's high school students check out his old-school CD collection.

My first flip through the CDs brought some nice surprises — some rare Wilco bootlegs from the early aughts, some mixes friends had made going back to the ’90s, and a smattering of ’90s hip-hop. I told my students that they should come in and pop in a CD in the morning before school or at lunch and expected … well, I’m not sure what I expected. At minimum, I thought they might discover some new old music or get a laugh at my decidedly middle-aged CD collection (see: The Roots, Ben Harper and the Grateful Dead).

Since school started a few weeks ago, students have started to file in, asking to play a CD. Some choices are more predictable — The Beatles and Bob Marley, always timeless — and others are less so. What I’ve been most stunned by, though, is that each choice is an entry point to an unexpected conversation — a reminder of how life was before the phone in our pocket answered every question and satiated every desire (and back when you had to actually read the CD liner notes to figure out the lyrics).

... our students deserve more: more space to be present in the classroom, more opportunity to engage with each other, and more time away from the screens that we’re all consumed with.

A Pearl Jam CD leads to a story of the magazine I created in seventh grade, called Dissident, all about the newly ascendant grunge band. A Counting Crows CD reminds me of the concert where the person next to me sang every sad, heavy lyric at the top of her lungs. My students and I are connecting over music, yes; more than that, though, we’re connecting in ways that felt all but lost these past few years when the default was the screen.

They are seeing more of me — not an online me, filtered through Google Classroom or Loom or some other ed tech app I could never figure out — but actually me. My students, born into the MP3 era, have started bringing CDs from home, along with stories of their parents and cousins and swap meets. And those stories beget stories about what they like to do and who they want to be.

As we embark on their college applications season — with its personal statements and teacher recommendations — I’m optimistic I’ll have some new windows into their inner selves.

I’m hoping the CDs continue to be a draw for my students, bringing more of them into the kind of analog dialogue that they — and I and all of us — need more of in the smartphone era. It’s likely to foster new ideas and take me to new places, maybe even a thrift store or two to find some more new old technology.

On a recent morning, I brought a copy of the New York Times, a real print paper straight from my front yard. I’m hopeful that the newspaper will be a conversation-starter of its own, filling my classroom with questions, connections, and laughter for good measure.

Joel Snyder is a government and economics teacher in the Florence-Firestone neighborhood of Los Angeles. In the 22 years since he started teaching and stopped listening to CDs, he has continued to listen to exactly the same music.

Being a sleepy Black student is not a crime

2024-08-16T19:05:23+00:00

Whenever you’re dealing with kids as an adult, it’s important to remember they are years away from being fully developed physically, mentally, or emotionally. Even during moments where children misbehave, it’s important to remember they are imperfect and thus deserve a reasonable amount of grace as they learn how to navigate a world that many of us adults still struggle to thrive in.

It seems that Judge Kenneth King of the 36th District Court could have used those reminders.

What started out as a field trip with the local nonprofit Greening of Detroit turned into a “scared straight” gimmick that reveals some serious lapses in judgment by the court, no pun intended.

Earlier this week, it was reported that the judge placed a teenage Black girl in jail clothes, had her handcuffed, and threatened to put her behind bars. The judge claims he didn’t appreciate the student’s attitude and that she fell asleep twice in his courtroom.

Reports of the incident caused widespread negative reactions from Detroiters on social media.

The Detroit Free Press reports that King has since been temporarily taken off the docket by the court and was ordered to undergo training, according to a statement from 36th District Court Chief Judge William McConico.

“We hope that these steps will help to reassure the public of the 36th District Court’s dedication to serving our community with integrity and fairness,” McConico said in the statement on Thursday.

As a lifelong Detroiter, a Black man, and someone who just spent the past school year teaching in the Detroit Public Schools Community District, I think the court’s punishment doesn’t go far enough for King.

The middle and high school years are vital for a student’s development — not only in the academic sense, but as far as self-esteem and self-image are concerned. I spoke to students on a near-daily basis about different issues they felt but couldn’t quite articulate. Many of my students regularly came to school with poor attitudes, fell asleep in class, got in fights with other students, and even openly disrespected me and other teachers.

Dealing with a disrespectful child is never fun, and it takes an incredible amount of patience to refrain from immediately kicking kids out of the classroom. But it’s that same patience my teachers showed me during days where I had a bad attitude or didn’t get enough sleep that I try to show to students anytime I can. Especially when dealing with young Black students.

When King decided that falling asleep in his courtroom was worthy of putting this young girl in handcuffs and jail clothes, he essentially criminalized being tired, which is something largely out of the teenager’s control.

Latoreya Till, the teen’s mother, told the Free Press that her daughter was likely tired because the family doesn’t have a permanent place to live. When I had students falling asleep in my classroom, housing insecurity was among the many reasons for it. Other reasons included trying to sleep in loud living environments, early school start times, poor sleep habits, and many other things that are completely normal for teenage students in Detroit.

Regardless of the reason, King’s idea of teaching her a lesson ventured into damaging and dehumanizing territory.

Once a young person feels handcuffs clink on their wrists, once they see themselves in a jail outfit, that memory will be there for decades. While it can certainly be annoying to see a young person you are trying to educate falling asleep, it’s not that serious. It’s not a crime that is worth placing the threat of incarceration on the mind of someone who is too young to vote. Especially when they committed no crime.

King told the Free Press during a phone conversation Wednesday afternoon that he believes his actions were justified.

“I wasn’t trying to punish the young lady. What I was trying to do was, I was trying to serve as a deterrence,” King said. “I wanted to instill in this kid that this is not a joke, this is a very serious situation.”

Given this lack of awareness and lack of remorse from the judge, the court’s punishment doesn’t go far enough. It seems that a more appropriate punishment would be one that sees him working with kids who are actually guilty of committing real crimes. His tough love response signals something out of the “tough on crime” era of the 1990s that saw many young Black people face punishments that went far beyond the actual damage they caused. Perhaps he can teach kids who have actually harmed something other than his ego a lesson in rehabilitating themselves rather than seeking to lock up a child for being sleepy.

But what do I know? I’m just the sleepy student-turned-annoyed adult in the room.

Bryce Huffman is a Detroiter, a former teacher with DPSCD and a journalist currently serving as the interim engagement editor at BridgeDetroit. You can reach him at bhuffman@bridgedetroit.com.

The Black community is incredibly diverse. Our lessons should reflect that.

2024-08-16T12:00:00+00:00

My Dad was born in Trinidad. My mother is Polish and British. I was born with this beautiful, complicated ancestry. I am an immigrant. I am Black. I am white. I am British. I am Trinidadian, and “I, Too” am American.

My story is common. As of 2020, mixed-race people increased to 10.2% of the U.S. population.

In recent weeks, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the phrase “turned Black.” Former President Donald Trump uttered those words, seeking to cast doubt on Vice President Kamala Harris’ racial identity. For Trump or anyone to suggest that the presumptive Democratic nominee, the daughter of an Indian mother and a Jamaican father, chose her Black identity over her Indian one — or vice versa — is beyond absurd. It’s an offensive concept, plantation-like even, “othering” nonwhite individuals and sowing division among people of color.

Abigail Henry

And yet, there was a moment in my high school education when I did “turn Black” in the eyes of my peers. I recently reflected on how I experienced my classmates’ purported colorblindness in high school. But senior year, the same students who had claimed not to notice my Blackness suggested that I was accepted to the University of Virginia only because I had written about biracial heritage in my college essay. At the time, I did not have one Black teacher to help me process my classmates’ racist claims.

When I first started teaching Black history 12 years ago, I did not talk about my own experiences in school. I was so focused on classroom management and objective mastery that I did not realize that my own racial identity and stories would help me build trust with students. They were more engaged after I honestly answered their questions about being a biracial teacher of Black history.

Intersectionality plays a significant role in many Black people’s lives.

One of the most common questions my students asked me was always in the middle of teaching a unit on the Atlantic Slave Trade. “Yo, Ms. Henry,” they would say, “What’s it like to know that people on your mom’s side did that to people on your dad’s side?”

I would answer this kind of question with something like, “Oh man, that’s something I think about all the time.” I would tell them that I often dream of my maternal and paternal ancestors sitting together at the dinner table and talking. “Wouldn’t that be a great movie?” I’d ask them and then pose a question back to them: “What do you think they would say to each other?”

Abigail Henry, pictured in an elementary school yearbook photo.

As I observe the discourse over Black identity playing out during an election year, it is evident why Black history is needed in our schools. It’s also clear that we must expand the narratives in which Black identities are taught to include the diversity of Black humanity that existed in classrooms like mine.

Black community is incredibly diverse and, as the education professor LaGarrett King put it, “Black histories consist of multiple identities that inform Blackness.”

This past year, my AP African American Studies students, social justice-minded seniors, advocated for a Black Lives Matter Week to close out Black History Month. On “Rep Your Roots Monday” we encouraged students to celebrate their ancestry. There were Caribbean and African T-shirts, flags, and swags. In our Black diversity, there was a beautiful solidarity, too. (One rising senior asked if he could have my Trinidadian classroom flag for his future college dorm room. The passing of this classroom artifact, and our shared heritage, is one of the many positive memories I will cherish.)

The West Philadelphia school where I taught is almost equivalent to an international school. Yet at first glance this would not be known. The school has students of color from all parts of the African diaspora. They come from Mali, Iraq, Jamaica, Nigeria, Saudi Arabia, Puerto Rico, and many other places. My students of color are also religiously diverse. Some students have both a Christian and Muslim parent.

Intersectionality plays a significant role in many Black people’s lives. So when leaders suggest that a multiracial person can have just one identity, they are telling children to deny something that may be as essential to their identity as their religious background.

I deserved better as a multiracial student, and our students deserve even better now.

Looking back at her work and writing, the Nobel Laureate Toni Morrison asserted, “Our lives have no meaning, no depth without the white gaze. And I have spent my entire writing life trying to make sure that the white gaze was not the dominant one in any of my books.” She goes on to say how other Black writers helped her center Black experiences in her novels.

As we see this white gaze playing out in the political sphere and on social media, Morrison’s message (and her books) are needed by Black teachers, Black students, and schools today. Our students of color are counting on us, to give them the history, words, and classrooms in which they can embrace their full ancestry and humanity.

Abigail Henry is an African American History teacher who is about to pursue her Ph.D. as a University at Buffalo Schomburg fellow. She has helped spearhead curriculum development at the School District of Philadelphia, won a Pulitzer Center Education Impact Grant to incorporate the 1619 Project into lessons, and recently founded an LLC called theBLKcabinet for African American History curriculum, resources, and consulting.

In Tim Walz, many teachers see themselves — and an opportunity

2024-08-10T00:59:13+00:00

Teachers see something in Tim Walz.

They notice how plainly he speaks so that everyone can follow along. They watch as he ad-libs to comedic effect on the stump. They say he exudes empathy, and not just in the “I feel your pain” way of many politicians.

In the newly minted vice presidential candidate — a former high school history teacher and varsity football coach — they see themselves. Many of them also see an opportunity.

Vice President Kamala Harris’ candidacy against former President Donald Trump is groundbreaking in many ways. But her selection of Walz as a running mate is momentous in its own, more nuanced way. It’s been more than 50 years since a K-12 teacher has appeared on a major party ticket (Former President Lyndon Johnson taught high school before entering politics.)

Chalkbeat asked teachers around the country what Walz’s candidacy means to them. Some said it is a chance to show that teachers are leaders with valuable skills, like being adaptable and able to multitask. Others said Walz could help people better understand what teachers do, in contrast to those who disparage public educators. Others still see his entrance into the race as a moment to get serious about education policy issues, such as teacher pay, class sizes, and curriculum.

Here is what they told us, in their own words, edited for length and clarity.

A teacher who ‘knows what needs to be said’

Ashley A. Kannan teaches history and coaches girls’ basketball at Percy Julian Middle School in Oak Park, Illinois. He is the faculty sponsor for Rainbow Tribe, the school’s LGBTQIA+ safe space.

Ashley A. Kannan

When Walz was introduced at the Philadelphia rally, a former student messaged me, “In the best way possible: Tim Walz reminds me a bit of you.”

I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, and then I just watched him, and she was right. It struck me to see a history teacher, a coach. In 1999, he founded his school’s first LGBTQ safe space. In 2016, I did that at our school. There are just these weird parallels.

One thing he’s representing quite well is the idea of teachers as leaders. We don’t see ourselves as leaders. We’ll lead children. We’ll lead content, but then we default back to “I’m just a teacher.” He doesn’t. He leans into it.

I heard that when he was vetted [by the Harris campaign], one of the questions they asked was how skilled is he at using a teleprompter, and he said: I don’t use a teleprompter. You’re going to have to teach me how to do that. This is a teacher who knows what needs to be said, whether it’s on the field or in the classroom. He doesn’t need it written out on cue cards or teleprompters because it’s coming from the heart, it’s coming from the mind, and it’s coming from the soul.

There’s ‘symbolism’ in choosing Walz

Dr. Geneva Mayne is a teacher and a speech and language pathologist who works with students in the special education program at New Rochelle High School in New Rochelle, New York.

Geneva Mayne

What’s happening in public education now, unfortunately, is that many people feel trapped in a profession that has gone through a lot of negative backlash. A lot of teachers feel the skills they have are non-transferable to another profession. And here’s a person who successfully took his skills to run for political office multiple times and is now being selected as a vice presidential nominee. That was really good for educators to see because our skills are valuable.

I think the one thing that stood out to me was when people were commenting on how plainly he spoke because politicians, who are typically lawyers, might speak in a way that’s more academic than the average person can consume. Tim Walz is like, These guys are just weird. It was so direct and to the point and clear. [As a teacher], you have to take concepts that are hard for students and transfer it to them in a way that they can understand.

I watched while Kamala Harris was introducing him, and she was speaking about how he was the faculty advisor of the gay-straight alliance at his school decades ago before gay marriage was even legalized, so it was still very stigmatized. That’s empathy. As a teacher you have to have empathy and social-emotional skills, to realize when students are struggling socially and to help them in their development.

For a lot of teachers, myself included, it’s the symbolism as well. Just like [First Lady] Jill Biden, who continues to teach, is showing that teachers are professionals who should be respected, Tim Walz can do the same. Teachers have valuable skill sets, they have a lot to offer, they’re civil servants, they’re national heroes. Those are all symbols that need to be reinforced instead of the nasty tone that has been directed toward teachers over the last several years.

Could this move the needle on teacher pay?

Kathryn Vaughn teaches art at Brighton Elementary School in Brighton, Tennessee.

Kathryn Vaughn

Walz wasn’t really on my radar until a few weeks ago, when he started kind of petitioning to be vice president. I was at home in between my two jobs, teaching summer school and managing my town’s pool. I was mopping the kitchen floor, and I just stopped dead and walked into the living room because there was this voice coming from my television talking about paid leave, about IVF, talking about vouchers and funding our public schools and raising teacher pay. I was like, “Oh my gosh, who is this person who is saying these things that are of utmost importance to the life I’m having here in Tennessee as a teacher?”

When he was explaining his hair and how he looks older, he says something like: Well, have you done cafeteria duty for 20 years? It definitely speaks to teachers. Any teacher, regardless of your political affiliation, knows and loathes cafeteria duty. It’s just such a visceral experience. You’re dealing with kids who have been cooped up all day and are coming into the cafeteria to socialize. You have kids who are fighting and messes and opening things and microwaving stuff.

All of my [teacher] friends are just really excited about the Walz pick. They’re like, maybe this could do something nationally about teacher pay. I’ve been involved in the Teacher Salary Project, advocating to raise the minimum federal teacher salary to $60,000. We need to make teaching a desirable, worthwhile field again. When I started teaching in 2006, almost no one had a second job. Now, 18 years later, I don’t know a single teacher in my district who doesn’t have a second job or three side hustles.

‘They are going to know what we go through’

Sonia White taught at public elementary schools in New York City for about 30 years. In retirement, she works as a substitute teacher in the Bronx.

Sonia White

There’s a lot that affects teacher burnout. People don’t respect teachers because we’re not out there earning giant paychecks. We’re not CEOs, but we taught CEOs. We taught the presidents. We taught the vice presidents. We taught Beyoncé. I think Tim Walz is going to let us be recognized more because he knows what it is to be a teacher.

You know what I said: ‘At last, they know what we’re going through. Someone went through it already, and they are going to know what we go through.’ The class sizes, the parents coming in — and the parents, they want help, too — and you have to know how to communicate with them, and, apparently, he did.

I think people don’t understand that we’re not in it for the money. We’re in it to help. I fell in love with teaching when I was in the third grade. I saw someone who looked like me, and she was teaching. I never forgot her name, Mrs. Van Dyke.

I’m happy that Tim Walz is there, and he’s still a teacher standing up there. He’s teaching people to inspire and to do something you believe in. And I believe in him. I hope I get to see him in person, and I will yell out, ‘I’m a teacher, too — I’m so happy.’

Now, let’s talk ‘specifics’

Sean Muggivan teaches math to high school seniors at New Harmony High School in New Orleans.

Sean Muggivan, left, with his wife and twins.

As a teacher, you get kind of tired of everyone feeling sorry for you. Just the way people always talk about teachers, ‘Oh you’re doing a thankless job, it’s so rough, you’re not appreciated, you’re underpaid.’ The best thing you can do is push that stuff out of your head, and just focus on doing your job, setting up your little world in your classroom, and finding your own sense of accomplishment in your career.

Over the past nine years, I’ve seen a lot of teachers tossing in the towel — saying I can’t do this job anymore. It’s too hard. I’m not sleeping. The classes are too big. It’s an exhausting job. But the idea that there could be someone possibly in the White House who did the job seriously for so long, who is not just sitting at the table, but holding a great deal of power at that table is just mind-boggling, to be honest.

I hope Tim Walz will talk specifics about what a class needs to be successful when you have diverse learning needs, exceptionalities, and language barriers. Can one adult professional in the classroom wear all those hats, or do there need to be other supports in there? What does a curriculum look like? What curriculum is going to move students who are many, many years behind? And to ask these questions in a way that starts to get solutions-focused — not just saying, oh, it’s hopeless.

Gabrielle Birkner is Chalkbeat’s features editor and fellowship director. Contact her at gbirkner@chalkbeat.org.

Chalkbeat’s 2024-25 Student Voices Fellowship applications are live. Apply here.

2024-08-02T18:46:13+00:00

Calling all public high school juniors and seniors in New York City and Detroit!

Chalkbeat is thrilled to launch applications for its 2024-25 Student Voices Fellowship. This school year, we will be running our teen essay-writing program in New York City and, for the first time, in Detroit.

We launched the paid fellowship three years ago to hear from teens, in their own words, about their lives and schools. Since then, fellows have explored the immigrant student experience from multiple angles, opened up about facing racism and Islamophobia, told us about the joys of embracing who they are, and described what it’s like to navigate grief and loss while still in high school.

You can read all of our past fellows’ essays here.

During the 2024-25 school year, Chalkbeat will select six Student Voices fellows. We will choose four fellows (two per semester) in New York City and two in Detroit (one per semester). 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 in our New York City and Detroit bureaus.

Fellows will receive a $1,000 stipend.

If you are interested in applying, meet the eligibility criteria, and can commit to the required work outlined in our FAQ section, please fill out the application below.

Applications are due Friday, August 30, 2024, at 11:59 p.m. ET.

FAQ

Am I eligible for the Student Voices Fellowship?

The 2024-25 fellowship is open to 11th and 12th graders attending public or charter high schools within the city limits of New York City or Detroit.

What do Student Voices fellows do?

Fellows will publish two personal essays on Chalkbeat, workshopping those pieces alongside Chalkbeat journalists and writing coaches. (We encourage applicants to read the work of our previous fellows, as that’s the best way to understand what Chalkbeat fellows do.) Program participants will also attend occasional Zoom workshops with Chalkbeat staff, journalism educators, and guest speakers.

How do I know if this opportunity is right for me?

We look for candidates who are interested in journalism and storytelling, who are collaborative, and who are eager for feedback on their writing. Applicants should have compelling personal stories to share and be willing and able to publish them under their byline. We do not run anonymous or pseudonymous pieces.

Do I need journalism experience to apply?

No previous experience is required.

Since this fellowship marks the first time many teens are publishing their work, Chalkbeat offers guidance and support throughout the writing and editing process.

What’s the time commitment?

Fellows are expected to commit 1-2 hours a week to this extracurricular fellowship during the fall or spring semester. Program participants should be able to manage their own time and meet writing deadlines.

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.

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I didn’t think I could succeed in school until I received accommodations for my disability

2024-07-31T21:04:10+00:00

I have always needed to work 10 times harder than my peers only to feel like I was hardly learning. Teachers commonly said I was not reaching my full potential.

The worst part was that I had no idea how to reach my “full potential.”

I seemed like a solid student on paper: good enough grades, ideal attendance rates, involved in extracurriculars, and college-bound. My only behavioral issue was talking too much. Educators did not seem to recognize I was dealing with a bigger issue.

Alex Klaus

At the time, I did not know that I had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, commonly known as ADHD, a disability that impacts daily functioning. Inattention, hyperactivity, auditory processing issues, impulsivity, impatience, and poor organizational skills all made school a daily challenge.

I would take pages of notes without any recollection of what I just learned. Lectures did not help me in classes like math or science. Instead, I needed one-on-one support to walk me through each step. Many of my teachers were unable or unwilling to do so. Sometimes they were overburdened, and other times, they reduced my challenges to not reading my notes well enough or not paying attention.

I even struggled in classes I had greater interest in, like English and history. I always enjoyed writing but found reading difficult. I would read entire chapters of books before realizing I did not retain any of the information, making reading too frustrating to enjoy. Lectures were especially challenging, as I struggled to focus and process everything my instructors said.

I did not think most of my teachers believed in me, and ultimately, I stopped believing in myself.

Test-taking was always a nightmare, mainly because my brain concentrated on the sounds of writing pencils and shuffling papers around the class rather than the test in front of me. I felt unequipped to succeed.

These experiences shaped the way I experienced education. I grew to feel resentful and angry at my school, and frustrated with myself. I did not think most of my teachers believed in me, and ultimately, I stopped believing in myself. I wanted to see a world where students did not have to struggle in the same ways I did.

I channeled these frustrations into writing and researching for better ways to support students like me. I was naturally attracted to journalism as a young teen because I wanted to identify injustices, provide a way for people to voice their experiences, and find sensible solutions.

And I am drawn to Chalkbeat’s mission — to report on the effort to improve schools for all children. I became a summer intern at Chalkbeat because I wanted to shed light on ways Michigan’s education system can help students succeed from the perspective of someone who felt her school failed her.

I always envied those around me who could take advantage of federal rules requiring schools to offer accommodations for students with diagnosed disabilities such as longer test-taking times, testing in a separate and quieter environment, using headphones, and even permission to use fidget toys. I knew these resources would help me, but I did not have a diagnosed disability at the time, despite showing clear symptoms of one.

Eventually, my inability to understand course material squashed my interest in learning. Working harder than my peers to get half as far became exhausting and unsustainable. By high school, I no longer saw a point in trying to succeed.

My goal by high school was to show up and get good enough grades to graduate, get into college, and never look back. Finding solace in electives like choir and creative writing or extracurricular activities like leading my school’s debate team motivated me to finish.

At the time I graduated high school in 2019, 13.24% of Michigan students had a disability. But this did not include students like me, whose disability was not diagnosed until after graduation.

Chalkbeat reporting revealed that my experience is similar to many other Michigan students who did not receive disability accommodations during the pandemic, and the many more whose disabilities are never identified due to the under-resourced and overwhelmed system. Others might struggle if the state does not provide funding for mental health support in schools.

When I received my ADHD diagnosis at age 18, I realized the behaviors educators wrote off as not trying hard enough or not reaching my full potential actually stemmed from living with an undiagnosed disability and no accommodations.

My diagnosis helped me better understand my brain and develop the necessary skills to manage my ADHD symptoms. I learned organizational skills that worked with my disability, not against it. Oftentimes, simple solutions like finding outlets for my hyperactivity and using headphones and low-distraction workplaces to complete my school work did the trick.

Most importantly, I sought out accommodations in college. Recording my lectures and requiring subtitles on videos help me follow the material when my auditory processing issues get in the way. Quiet and separate testing spaces have been critical.

I was always capable of succeeding in school; I just needed support. In fact, I largely attribute my passion and creativity, which plays a major role in my work, to my ADHD.

Since receiving accommodations, I have succeeded in ways I didn’t think were possible. My professors describe me as an active participant in class who turns in high-quality work. I am even considering graduate school, something that felt out of reach for most of my life despite always having an interest in research.

I hope my story reminds students with disabilities what they are capable of and that they are deserving of the support they need to thrive.

Alex Klaus is a summer intern at Chalkbeat Detroit. You can reach her at aklaus@chalkbeat.org.

Why it’s not enough to teach our students that America is ‘no place for political violence’

2024-07-31T14:00:00+00:00

For the past few years, I’ve watched the first episode of the HBO miniseries “John Adams” with my ninth grade U.S. History classes, as part of our unit on the American Revolution. The students enjoy it, but there’s one scene that always stands out.

In it, a tax collector in Boston Harbor is stripped, tarred, feathered, and paraded around by the Sons of Liberty, a paramilitary group. In the foreground, a gleeful mob cheers; in the background, a group of captive Africans stands by, in chains.

Watching on, a shocked John Adams demands answers from his more radical cousin Samuel Adams: “Do you approve of brutal and illegal acts to enforce a political principle, Sam?”

Michael Woodsworth

My students react viscerally to the scene, finding it sadistic and cruel. They also point out the irony: brutal acts being committed both in the name of liberty and in pursuit of slavery. This invariably leads to a rich discussion about political violence. Was the violence of the American Revolution justified by the ultimate result? Students tend to be split on this question.

So how do we answer John Adams’ question? How might it apply to other periods in American history, including our own?

In his Oval Office speech last week, President Joe Biden declared that “there is no place, no place in America for political violence or any violence ever, period.”

Those noble sentiments, which echoed comments he’d made following the attempted assassination of Donald Trump, are ahistorical. Just about any high school student could tell you that.

Violence, especially state-sanctioned violence, has driven much of the nation’s development, from the slave trade to Westward expansion to the 20th-century wars that made the U.S. a superpower. The presidents widely viewed as America’s greatest — Washington, Lincoln, FDR — are heralded for successfully wielding violence during the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and World War II, respectively.

In my classes, I encourage students to grapple with this legacy while critically assessing the uses of political violence in the American past. In my ninth grade classes, we follow up on our discussion of “John Adams” by reading the Declaration of Independence, which John Adams helped Thomas Jefferson draft. When the rights of the people are being systematically violated, Jefferson tells us, it is the right of the people to “abolish” or “throw off such Government.”

What, I ask my students, might this mean?

In 1776, Jefferson’s words were used to justify revolutionary violence. What about subsequent generations of Americans? Have they retained the right to overthrow their own government? If so, when is violence justified, and when is it not? This is one lens through which to discuss Jan. 6, for instance.

Similar questions emerge when we study the abolitionist movement. This past year, my ninth graders spent two weeks exploring various approaches to abolishing slavery in the mid-19th century, from moral suasion to petitioning to political organizing. Then we got to John Brown. Students were particularly interested to learn about Brown’s murderous attacks on pro-slavery men in Kansas, as well as his raid on Harper’s Ferry in 1859. (Notably, Brown justified his actions in a “Declaration of Liberty” that reprised portions of Jefferson’s declaration.)

At a time when the abolitionist movement had reached a dead end, Brown reignited the national debate about slavery and, through his martyrdom, helped to bring about the war that freed the slaves. Some of my students saw him standing on the right side of history but were repelled by his tactics. Others argued that his violence was justified, and should even be celebrated, given what it achieved.

At Bard High School Early College in Queens, N.Y, where I teach, students finish up their standard high school classes by the end of 10th grade, then take college-level classes as juniors and seniors.

This fall, I’ll be teaching a college-level elective titled “Winning the White House, Then and Now,” in which we’ll trace the history of presidential campaigns since 1788 while also digesting the news unfolding in real time. Political violence will be a recurring theme, as it’s important to understand the key role violence has played in elections throughout American history.

The presidents widely viewed as America’s greatest — Washington, Lincoln, FDR — are heralded for successfully wielding violence during the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and World War II, respectively.

Elections during the Reconstruction era, for instance, were rife with KKK antics, lynchings, riots, and murderous attacks on Black voters and their Republican allies. In Ellenton, South Carolina, in the run-up to the 1876 election, some 100 African Americans were massacred by a white mob. In the decades that followed, white supremacy would be reinforced with threats and acts of violence against African Americans who tried to assert their voting rights or build political power.

This brings up another theme I emphasize with my students: the constant interplay of government violence with efforts by ordinary people to resist, sometimes using violence of their own. In another college-level class I teach, “Cold War America,” we study 1960s radical self-defense groups, such as the Black Panthers, who despite initiating very little violence, were met with overwhelming police brutality and targeted assassinations by the FBI and local forces.

Another group that captured my students’ attention this past year was the Weather Underground, which became notorious in the late 1960s and ‘70s for setting off dozens of bombs. The organization, an offshoot of Students for a Democratic Society, were resisting both racism and the Vietnam War. Their goal was to “bring the war home” — to make white Americans feel some element of the terror being experienced by Black people and the Vietnamese people. And yet they very deliberately avoided inflicting physical harm on their fellow citizens. (The only victims of their bombs were three of their own members who accidentally blew themselves up.)

My students were fascinated by these tactics, especially as they compared them to the much milder forms of protest being wielded by young people protesting the war in Gaza this past spring.

A highlight of the semester was a visit to our classroom by a former SDS leader and member of the Weather Underground, Jeff Jones. My students pressed him, respectfully, on the methods he’d deployed a half-century earlier. Jones said he wouldn’t recommend violent tactics to young people today; mass protests, he felt, tended to be more effective. But he emphasized that the violence being wielded by the U.S. government in his youth had been so overwhelming that he, like John Brown, had felt a moral imperative to act. And he continued to believe that his cause had been just. With that, the class agreed.

Political violence has always been, to quote the Black Panther leader H. Rap Brown, “as American as cherry pie.” Our students must learn that history if they are to understand and engage with the present.

Michael Woodsworth is an Associate Professor of History at Bard High School Early College, Queens, where he’s taught for 12 years. He is the author of “Battle for Bed-Stuy: The Long War on Poverty in New York City.”

I skipped three grades. More gifted students need accelerated paths.

2024-07-19T12:00:00+00:00

I went to high school at age 11.

Within two years, I had run out of math and Spanish classes there, so I walked from my public school campus to nearby Lewis and Clark College to study differential equations, symbolic logic, and the plays of 1830s Spain.

People often ask me if it was strange to be a newly minted teenager in classrooms full of college upperclassmen. The truth is, no one knew my age unless I told them. I was just the overenthusiastic, kind of young-looking kid in the front row.

Ilana Walder-Biesanz

Without the chance to skip grades, I would have completely disengaged from school. Even three years accelerated in all subjects and five or six in some, I found the pace of many classes infuriatingly slow. Only the open-ended exploration of high school and college courses kept me from boredom.

My parents and school district eventually got my placement right, but landing there was not easy. Our family incurred huge costs in time and money to persuade my public school to allow me to accelerate, and then to ensure I could access appropriate content. At one point, we hired a school advocate to pressure the district to meet my needs. Then there were testing fees (for the SCAT at age 7, the SAT at ages 9 and 12) and course costs for my online and college classes. My parents missed days of work for countless meetings with administrators.

But acceleration shouldn’t depend on a family’s available time and income. That’s part of the impetus behind the new nonprofit I run, National Math Stars. We work to ensure that mathematically extraordinary students, regardless of resources, have the acceleration and enrichment they need. We help these students access paths to becoming inventors, researchers, and leaders.

During the 2023-24 school year, we supported a pilot cohort of 12 mathematically advanced students from across the country. Many are students of color; most come from low-income households. (We worked with Art of Problem Solving, a math enrichment provider, and the Partnership for LA Schools to identify extraordinary math students for this inaugural cohort.)

We’ve worked with families to advocate for whole-grade or subject-specific acceleration. We have made good progress, as districts have granted permission for students to skip grades and join math classes alongside older students. (Other organizations like the Davidson Institute provide similar advocacy support to families of profoundly gifted students.)

During these advocacy conversations, schools have requested a dizzying array of parent-provided evidence, such as IQ test scores and records of advanced coursework outside of school, to initiate a conversation about acceleration.

Many schools resist whole-grade acceleration due to social concerns.

Expensive data gathering and outside help need not be a prerequisite. In one extraordinary instance, it wasn’t. Our student David’s school proactively recognized his talents, coordinated IQ testing for him, and presented acceleration options to his family. He skipped fourth grade. Since even that didn’t meet his math needs, his school arranged and paid for an online math class, which it allowed him to take during regular math time.

I wish more schools would do the same.

Many schools resist whole-grade acceleration due to social concerns. Whether grade-skipping will be positive or negative for a student’s socio-emotional development is highly individual, but for me, it was hugely positive. Each time I skipped a grade, I built stronger friendships in my new class. Research has shown that, in aggregate, concerns about harm to students’ psychological well-being are misplaced. A 35-year longitudinal study, as well as shorter-term analyses, show neutral to positive effects. Tools like the Integrated Acceleration System can help districts determine if acceleration is the right choice for a particular student.

Schools I talk to tend to be more philosophically comfortable with subject-specific acceleration, but they raise practical concerns around scheduling and “capping out,” or exhausting all available classes. I frequently hear questions like:

If fourth and fifth grade math don’t meet at the same time, how can we let a fourth grader take fifth grade math?

What will that student do next year, if sixth grade is on a different campus?

And what will they do in high school if they finish calculus sophomore year but need three years of math credits to graduate?

These are tricky questions, but they’re solvable with a little flexibility and creativity.

My own educational journey involved a range of solutions: taking online courses in the school library during math time, working on self-designed or teacher-designed independent study materials during class in lieu of traditional coursework, and walking to a nearby campus for courses at my level.

Options have only expanded since my school years.

The breadth of engaging, challenging online courses has grown. (Art of Problem Solving is a favorite among our students, both for its advanced versions of the standard curriculum and for its more unusual offerings, such as number theory.) In addition, the rise of video conferencing means some students can Zoom into higher-level math courses, reducing transportation barriers.

There’s no one right way. My plea to schools and districts is this: Consider whole-grade and subject-specific acceleration as a tool for meeting your students’ needs. Look out for students for whom it might be the right choice, and initiate the conversation with their parents. Try to eliminate financial and logistical barriers to making the right placement decisions. Reducing the burden on parents can make access to acceleration more equitable.

I loved my high school years. Although I had the option to go to college full-time even earlier, I chose to spend four years in high school because it met my social needs and, with accommodations, my academic needs, too.

I want that joyful experience for all profoundly gifted students.

Ilana Walder-Biesanz is the founder and CEO of National Math Stars. Previously, she advised companies and nonprofits as a consultant with Bain and managed products at Yahoo!. She holds degrees in engineering, European literature, and business.

Talking to students about the Trump assassination attempt won’t be easy. We should do it anyway.

2024-07-18T16:33:20+00:00

In my ninth grade Global History class this past year, I connected the medieval Crusades with the current war in Gaza. I was nervous about teaching such a current and polarizing issue — one many students care deeply about — but I decided it was important to do it anyway.

When I asked in the end-of-unit survey of my Crusades/Gaza unit whether we should have learned about such a sensitive topic, one student wrote, “It is important to know about matters around the world.” Another explained that after our class discussions, “it doesn’t feel weird talking to people about it anymore.”

Jeremy Kaplan

Last weekend’s shocking events have me considering how I might teach about the attempted assassination of former President Donald Trump and about political violence generally. Although it’s tempting for teachers to leave it to news outlets and social media while we focus on the traditional curriculum, I think that this would be a mistake.

In addition to teaching high school history, I am an assistant principal who supervises social studies teachers. I will urge my teachers to talk about the attempted Trump assassination with their students, as I plan to do with mine.

Why teach such charged topics as political violence when we risk saying biased, even untrue, things in the process? When we risk voicing an opinion that is hurtful to others, or inciting an argument among peers?

Because engaging with current events, no matter how distressing or controversial, makes teaching and learning better. It connects the past to the present and helps us understand our world today.

The Southern Poverty Law Center asserts that schools should teach “hard history” topics, such as slavery. I agree and would add that schools must also teach the “hard present.”

The most powerful way to teach the “hard present” is to connect current events thematically with topics already being studied. After all, if we only teach history chronologically, students might never get to recent history, which is often the stuff they find most relevant and engaging.

The attempted assassination of Trump can be connected to U.S. and world history in many ways. One way is to see the event in the context of the election.

In June, at our last social studies department meeting of the school year, I encouraged all teachers to incorporate the election into their curriculum this fall. I reminded them that this would be the only presidential election of our students’ high school careers.

We already have an elections unit in our 12th grade Participation in Government class, so we may use the assassination attempt to explore this cultural moment. We could discuss the extreme partisan divide or how Trump has united Republicans despite his felony convictions and indictments. Meanwhile, in 11th grade U.S. History, teaching about our election process and the attempted assassination dovetails with lessons about the American Revolution and drafting the U.S. Constitution. “What are the strengths and limitations of our governmental structure?” teachers might ask.

Engaging with current events, no matter how distressing or controversial, makes teaching and learning better.

In Global History classes, the election can be integrated into a thematic unit about forms of government. Our election could be taught alongside ancient Greek and Roman democracy in ninth grade or the French Revolution in 10th grade. Teachers could ask: “What kind of government is best? What role does political violence play in establishing, maintaining, or threatening different forms of government?”

Of course, last weekend’s assassination attempt can be connected to historic political assassinations, such as that of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and the beginning of World War I, and that of President Abraham Lincoln at the close of the Civil War.

We may also consider the role that state actors have played in past political violence. The U.S., for example, participated in the Cold War-era assassination of heads of state such as Patrice Lumumba of the Congo and Jacobo Àrbenz of Guatemala, as well as in failed assassination attempts, as with Cuba’s Fidel Castro.

More recently, U.S. drones have been used in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq to target suspected terrorists. “Is it moral for the US government to assassinate its enemies in defiance of a U.N. resolution against doing so?” we might ask our students. “Where should we draw the line?”

It’s also worth noting how, in some other countries, such as Russia, Saudi Arabia, and recently Ecuador, violence against political rivals is more commonplace.

If the Regents exams do become an optional pathway to graduating high school in New York, as state education officials recently proposed, then educators will have more time and leeway to delve into current events. Without the pressure to cover such a wide range of exam content, they can go deeper and make more contemporary connections.

And as that opportunity grows, so too will student learning.

Jeremy Kaplan is Assistant Principal of Supervision for Social Studies and Physical Education at the High School for Health Professions and Human Services in Manhattan. He has been a teacher, instructional coach, and administrator in the New York City Public Schools since 1994.

School leaders of color face high levels of burnout. Here’s what they need to thrive.

2024-07-17T12:00:00+00:00

As a novice teacher in 1999, I was grateful to have a colleague across the hall who was also new to the profession. We swapped stories, shared strategies, and commiserated about our shared challenges around lesson planning and staying in touch with students’ families.

At some point, though, our experiences at the same Florida elementary school diverged. While my colleague was asked to lead a grade-level team, I was tapped to head up the school’s Black History Month programming. After school, she oversaw academic enrichment while I supervised detention. On the weekend, she led a scholars program while I coached the basketball team.

Harrison Peters

My colleague was a white woman. I am a Black man.

My early leadership opportunities reflected important school staffing needs and aligned with my skill set. And while these assignments were mostly enjoyable, they didn’t prepare me for the next steps on my leadership journey. Through dogged persistence, informal guidance from fellow leaders of color, and my fair share of luck, I became a principal and, later, a district superintendent. The system, however, was not set up to support my success.

That’s because male educators of color are often “tracked” into disciplinary roles, and men and women of color report being tapped to lead equity initiatives and perform other functions that do not necessarily capitalize on their instructional expertise. Principal and superintendent roles are increasingly focused on instructional leadership. That means many educators of color who step up to lead early in their careers find themselves lacking the types of experience hiring managers look for when recruiting for school and district leadership positions.

Many of the non-instructional efforts that educators of color find themselves tapped to lead involve extra time, added stress, and little or no compensation. It’s a perfect recipe for burnout. Is it any wonder why the turnover rate for educators of color is higher than the national average? If we don’t figure this out, the continued loss of talented educators of color from our schools will persist, further hindering recruiting efforts.

Today, just one in five teachers and principals and only about 10 percent of superintendents are people of color. Given what we know about how teachers and leaders of color benefit students, and the role that principals of color play in recruiting and retaining more diverse teachers, closing leadership representation gaps is among the most urgent challenges facing our education system.

While my colleague was asked to lead a grade-level team, I was tapped to head up the school’s Black History Month programming.

When I left the superintendency in 2021, I knew my work was not done. I co-founded the nonprofit Men of Color in Educational Leadership to tackle the many ways that race, gender, and implicit bias shape — and too often impede — educational leadership opportunities. While our mission is focused on men, much of our work addresses the overlapping needs and experiences of women of color in educational leadership, too.

In 2022, we held a series of focus groups with more than 300 principals, assistant principals, and superintendents of color. These men and women served cities, suburbs, and rural communities. We sought their insight into surviving and thriving in their careers. Participants also identified policies and practices hindering educators of color from advancing into leadership roles.

We turned what we learned into a framework and free, online toolkit we call Resilient, Representative Leadership. Educators of color can draw on these resources when planning their leadership trajectory or navigating around a career roadblock or unexpected development.

We also know that emboldening resilient leaders of color without creating systems that support their advancement is just another recipe for burnout. Over the past few months, we’ve had a chance to share our findings with school officials across the country, including at conferences for district administrators and state education leaders.

In these polarized times, I’m heartened that our framework is resonating with education officials across the political spectrum. Dozens of state and local leaders have reached out to me to share how they are embracing strategies we’ve identified, including :

Identity-conscious professional development

Our professional learning communities unite same-race, same-gender educators with support from an expert facilitator who shares their background. These groups foster safe, trusting spaces for leaders of color to be vulnerable and engage in self-reflection, learning, and planning around their leadership needs, strengths, and experiences. District officials have shared that combining traditional affinity spaces with professional learning has helped them develop and retain leaders of color.

Pairing leaders of color 1:1 with same-race, same-gender mentors

Each of us, no matter our racial/ethnic or gender identity, can take steps to support educators of color in their leadership journeys. We can be non-judgmental listeners, for example, and we make connections to help our colleagues expand their professional networks. Still, the superintendents we’ve connected with recognize the value of teaming up leaders of color with role models who’ve walked a similar path. One school leader of color told us that being paired with an educator who shared her background was the first time she had a mentor who really understood the unique challenges she faced on the job.

Identifying pain points, setting goals, and tracking progress

We can’t fix what we don’t know, so after collecting data on the experiences educators of color face, our organization works with district leaders to address issues and track progress against clear, measurable goals (e.g., hiring, retention, and promotion of educators of color). As one official shared with us, this work reaps benefits for teachers and leaders of color while improving working conditions and opportunities for all educators in her district.

As a former superintendent, I encourage school officials to take bold, unapologetic action when educators of color are faced with injustice. This type of leadership could have made a huge difference for me from my early days as a Florida elementary school teacher onward. Even in regions where typical DEI efforts are non-starters, we’re seeing leaders embrace evidence-backed strategies to strengthen and diversify leadership because they deliver real results where it matters most — in schools, for all students.

Harrison Peters is the CEO and co-founder of Men of Color in Educational Leadership. He is a former state turnaround superintendent, chief of schools, deputy superintendent, assistant superintendent, principal, assistant principal, dean of students, and elementary school teacher. Peters is a U.S. Navy veteran.

I’m a teen who has lived through two terrifying school lockdowns. Enough.

2024-07-16T12:00:00+00:00

“Teachers, the school is currently in lockdown,” our assistant principal said over the loud speaker. “Please lock your doors and close your windows. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.”

It was early in the day, first period. My AP Biology teacher turned off the lights and locked the classroom doors and windows. What I remember most about that day, back in 10th grade, was not the swift actions of the teachers, but the behavior of my fellow students. All of the roughly 1,400 students at Reseda High School in Los Angeles feared what this meant: a school shooter.

Neel J. Thakkar

We spent the first 10 minutes of lockdown in complete silence, stealing glances at the classmates who might have been the last people we would ever talk to. We spent the next two hours playing video games on our phones and computers and searching for updates on the situation with the gunman.

Turns out, the threat was in the neighborhood, not the school, but we were all terrified.

About a year later, we were in lockdown again. I was a junior now, sitting on the bleachers. I am on the varsity soccer team and was waiting for our game to start when people around me started screaming and running. As I rushed to alert some younger kids who were sitting near me, I heard the coach yelling — not with the tone of someone trying to make an athlete better. He sounded more like a parent, urging their child to run from danger.

Being outside, we all sprinted to the nearest building. Once inside, we spent the next two hours listening to the police radio, hoping for an update. I never found out the school was placed on lockdown that December day. But once more, we were forced to wonder if we were taking our last breaths.

We all were well within our right to assume the worst, having lived through mass shooting after mass shooting, including deadly school massacres like those in Parkland, Florida, and Uvalde, Texas. As of this past weekend, when we witnessed a horrific display of deadly political violence aimed at former President Trump, there had been nearly 300 mass shootings in America this year.

About seven children in the U.S. lose their lives at the end of a gun barrel per day, making guns the nation’s No. 1 cause of death for children and teens.

My two experiences with lockdown are memorable, but I’ve also had four or five other conversations with my best friend about whether we were going to school the next day because someone had threatened to bring a gun. In addition, there have been repeated school shooter threats written on the bathroom walls. That means there are often security guards in front of the bathrooms, and those same bathrooms are locked as soon as the school day ends.

American students live in constant fear of gun violence, in schools and neighborhoods. The threat affects everyone, but especially still-developing young people like my classmates and me.

So many people — from teens who have survived school shootings to parents who have lost children to gun violence — have advocated tirelessly for common-sense gun control, like stricter regulations on buying and storing weapons. But the politics of it all means that little ever seems to change.

Somehow, we’re just supposed to accept that getting to and from school means risking gun violence, that sitting in class or on the bleachers means that at any moment, we could be in lockdown, quietly wondering if we’ve spoken our last words. We shouldn’t have to live in fear like this.

Neel J. Thakkar is a rising senior at Reseda Charter High School in Los Angeles.

How can Chalkbeat best connect with its readers? I’m here to find out.

2024-07-01T18:50:47+00:00

I grew up in Oxford, Ohio, home of Miami University, where I had a front seat to the shrinking local news industry.

Our local paper, The Oxford Press, grew thinner each year before shutting down last winter. Miami’s on-campus NPR station stopped producing local programming in 2009. By the time I made it to the university in 2018, our student newspaper, The Miami Student, was the largest media organization in town.

I led The Student’s design team, creating illustrations and building layouts for our weekly print newspaper late into the night every Monday. I also wrote fashion columns and edited a small style section. Working at The Student taught me how to write, report, edit, design, and work on a team.

But I’ll admit: I thought very little about who was actually picking up the newspapers or clicking on our articles online. I should have paid more attention. I didn’t realize the responsibility I had to my community as a student journalist. As long as I got to write about whatever I wanted, I was happy. The impact that my work could have on Oxford’s community did not often cross my mind.

“By the time I made it to the university in 2018, our student newspaper, The Miami Student, was the largest media organization in town.” Writes Owen Berg.

I didn’t come to terms with this until I joined Studio 20, a journalism master’s program at New York University, where I took a class called Audience-Centric Journalism. This course opened up my mind to the idea of audience engagement as a guiding principle for journalism in the modern age.

In that class, I was presented with a question that shook my perspective on news writing: Who decides what news matters?

Historically, it has been journalists who decided which stories were the most deserving of reader’s attention. In the age of print, whatever went on the front page was the most important. If reporters were missing the mark, they wouldn’t know unless readers wrote letters or called the newsroom.

Now, half of Americans get news through social media. This has facilitated a boom in journalism from independent online creators, but it has also allowed misinformation to spread like never before.

When anyone can amplify their voice to billions of people, how do we effectively listen to our audience and respond to their needs?

When it seems like there are endless ways for journalists to connect with readers, how do we pick the right strategies? And when readers have thousands of options for where to get their information, how do we ensure people are seeing accurate and thoroughly reported stories?

Owen Berg presents his masters capstone project at New York University’s Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute. The project experimented with ways to deliver service journalism using postcards.

To me, audience engagement is about answering these questions. In practice, this might look like translating our work into different languages to make sure it reaches the communities that could use it. Or it might look like posting on social media and asking for reader questions or comments to better shape our coverage.

In other instances, audience engagement might mean taking our work offline and delivering articles in person. As a graduate student, I was lucky to work with The City, a publication in New York, on a postcard campaign that delivered impactful service journalism to new readers. Bringing digital news out into the “real world” isn’t always easy, but it’s our mission as journalists to reach the people affected by the topics we cover.

At Chalkbeat, I’ve already had fun posting on our Instagram and X accounts, but I’ll also be coming up with new ways to reach readers on platforms like Reddit and LinkedIn.

Most of all, I’m excited to hear from you. I know I have a lot to learn from our dedicated readers, so if you have a story or a suggestion for us, please reach out to me at oberg@civicnews.org.

Owen Berg is Chalkbeat’s audience engagement intern. He is a recent graduate of the Studio 20 program at New York University’s Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute. He was born in Oxford, Ohio, and attended Miami University.

Schools can’t wish away the need for DEI officers

2024-06-27T14:00:00+00:00

When my work began as the supervisor of Cultural Proficiency and Inclusiveness with Austin Independent School District in 2010, my role was to support staff members to create safe, welcoming, and inclusive schools for about 80,000 students.

By the 2017-18 school year, I was still the lone staff member providing antiracist professional learning, coaching, and capacity-building for some 11,000 district employees. I was responding to racist incidents and viral videos; some included hateful words and phrases like:

“It’s N-Word Day.”

“You have bombs in your purse.”

“If you can’t speak English, then you need to go back to Mexico!”

These incidents went viral on social media, and some made the news.

Even as I was writing this piece, I received a call asking me to help an Austin school navigate the fallout from a racist incident. Today, many schools deal with these situations with little to no professional support.

Angela Ward

That’s because some schools are eliminating top diversity and equity officer roles in response to political pressure and legislation aimed at silencing educators. Here in Texas, a ban on DEI initiatives addresses higher education, but its message seems to have trickled into K-12 school districts. Meanwhile, a committed opposition to DEI professionals argues that their work is bureaucratic and harms the students they intend to support.

In the Austin district, I was tasked with coaching campus and district leaders and their staff to address racist conflicts. Before providing recommendations or intervening, I had to understand the actions taken by leaders and staff and how students and families received those moves.

To that end, I would meet with school leaders and the staff most immediate to the students involved. Sometimes I met with students, too. These initial meetings would last three to six hours, helping me dig to the root cause of the issue, understand how leaders were supporting students, staff, and families, and determine where communication may have broken down.

My response prioritized the needs of those targeted by the racist incident. I met with staff to create space for staff grievances and solutions. I also met with parents, ministers, and community organizations. Parents needed to understand how their children were being supported and be invited to offer input. Clergy and community leaders often brought additional perspectives. Only then would we create an action plan for all the students involved.

In many cases, an immediate response was required. This meant engaging individuals while emotions were running high. Responding to the N-Word Day viral video incident, I walked into a high school cafeteria the size of a mall food court to face about 50 students. Moments before, they were outside prepared to walk to the district administrative offices. They were hurt and angry, and they wanted the adults to fix it all.

I recognized the hurt expressions on their faces, many of whose brown skin mirrored my own. Listening with me were Black staff whose emotions palpitated from every corner of the room. I, too, was emotionally on what a popular rap song labels X (10). But I could not scream or flip tables. I could not leave without hearing students’ needs, sharing my personal commitment to helping them navigate their current reality, and making a plan.

I introduced these students to the restorative circle process, a practice Indigenous communities around the world use to maintain harmony and address issues impacting the community. This process required participation by both faculty and students.

I could not leave without hearing students’ needs, sharing my personal commitment to helping them navigate their current reality, and making a plan.

Students volunteered to lead this campus-wide response and partnered up to facilitate small groups of students and adults. Administrators got parent approval, shifted the schedule one day the following week, and supported planning meetings for the circles.

In addition to addressing the underlying incident, the circle process elicited a list of things that are right in front of us but that we never really pay close attention to. The subsequent action plan highlighted the use of words that seemed commonplace in the community but held very different connotations in the school. Staff committed to addressing language and offering more opportunities for students to connect in class.

The school leadership began to engage in professional learning about better ways to handle racial conflict. To repair systemic issues, the school implemented advisory lessons focused on empathy and inclusiveness, and worked to address the lack of diversity in AP and pre-AP courses. I began working with the central office to respond to racial conflict and systemic disparities in our schools.

I know from years of experience that diversity and equity officers serve essential functions. They provide expertise, a listening ear, and a path through challenging situations. Laws to censor educators do not eliminate the conflict that can disrupt teaching and learning.

Angela M. Ward, PhD is a veteran antiracist educator with 13 years of leadership experience in district-level administration and a Public Voice Fellow at UT Austin with The OpEd Project. Follow her @2WardEquity on Instagram, Threads & X.

As a high school senior, I tried out teaching. It was much harder — and more rewarding — than I expected.

2024-06-26T12:00:00+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 almost 100-degree heat, the courtyard at the Sekolah Kebangsaan Pulau Tuba school in Malaysia was packed with children. Laughter and cheers filled the air.

My first hour as a teacher was spent playing patty cake and rock, paper, scissors with the students. Other students were playfully arm-wrestling with their new teachers. We didn’t speak the same language or share the same culture, but some games transcend those barriers.

To get here, I flew with a small group of my high school classmates and teachers for 13 hours from New York City to Dubai. Outside the airplane’s window, we could see the epic storm that turned our 12-hour layover into 24 hours. Once the airport was up and running again, we took another two flights to Penang and then a boat ride to the island of Pulau Tuba. That is where we would be for the next 18 days.

Miriam Galicia

I attend the Institute for Collaborative Education in Manhattan, and as part of its Youth Arts, Writing, and Photography Program, or YAWPP, I traveled more than 9,000 miles from home, to teach English and photography to fifth and sixth graders.

I first heard about the program during my junior year, and the opportunity to experience a culture different from my own intrigued me. This, along with the fact that no one in my family had traveled across the world before, convinced me to take advantage of this opportunity.

The first official day on the island was an adjustment period before we jumped into teaching mode the next day. The morning of our first day of teaching, everyone was full of nerves, despite having spent almost two hours the night before going over our lesson plans. I remember double- and triple-checking that everything was in my bag. I worried about whether my students were going to like the lessons and how the language barrier would impact things.

I had spent the past 13 years learning — mostly, sitting at a desk and taking notes. The shift to teaching was going to be interesting.

On the car ride to the school, we sat quietly taking in the scenery — small houses with clothes hanging in the breeze and dozens of cats wandering along the dirt road. Once at the school, I knew that other than the few translators provided, we would have to rely on body language and photography to communicate. I knew the task at hand would be difficult, but I didn’t think it would be that difficult.

It started off easy enough in that courtyard. After about an hour, we were split into our teaching groups. I was grouped with two other students from my high school, Addy and Theo, and we were assigned a total of six students, ages 10 and 11 — five boys and one girl.

We began by creating name tags and making folded paper “fortune tellers,” with “getting to know you” questions. I had anticipated an instant connection with my students, but it was harder than I expected to get each student comfortable with us. Each time one started to come out of their shell, another one would retreat.

A group of New York City students traveled Malaysia this spring to teach at the Sekolah Kebangsaan Pulau Tuba, seen above.

By snack time, I felt drained. For each student whose energy level was at 30%, we had to be at 170%. Once the kids left the very humid orange classroom, I sat in front of the fan, soaking in the air in my face for the 15-minute recess and prayer break.

Attempting to break the ice, we brought the students to a shady area outside and took turns screaming at the top of our lungs. The kids thought it was silly, but after a couple of tries, they finally found their voices. Later that day, sitting around a whiteboard, we decided we should all be louder and more confident in our voices. That was how our class name came to be: the Fearless Phoenixes.

The connection wasn’t instant like I thought it would be, but as the days flew by, students got more comfortable with us. Teaching was still exhausting, but the exhaustion started to feel worth it. We learned about the students as individuals, what’s important to them, and the hobbies they enjoy. And the best part about it was that most of this was done through photography.

Our first photo walk around the campus was a testament to this. I remember their giddy smiles and fidgety fingers when we handed them their cameras. The students began clicking away. Some saw the beauty in flowers and trees, while others trained their cameras on the people around them. I’d be surprised if there was a single thing at their school that went unphotographed by the end of our stay.

During one of the lessons, we had students make a collage out of magazine images, filled with things they loved. Looking at their colorful displays, their stories and quirks were revealed. Many of them loved sports. Through his collage, one little boy whom I’ll call W. showed us his love for rugby. R. really liked dinosaurs, filling both sides of his page with National Geographic pictures. In bits and pieces, we created connections with students that I will cherish.

The coastline of Pulau Tuba, Malaysia.

The 10 days we spent teaching weren’t easy. Each little photographer had different needs. Some learned better with visuals, some couldn’t stay still for more than 30 minutes at a time, and some knew a bit of English while others knew none at all. (None of us spoke Malay.)

There was not one day when we actually stuck to the plan we spent hours developing and debating. Two of the main things I learned while teaching were that it is essential to collaborate and adapt in real time. Our agenda for the day was likely to shift depending on factors such as the mood of our students and the health of teachers.

Midway through our trip, more than half of our group fell victim to food poisoning. As a result, I was assigned to teach a completely different group of students by myself while those who had fallen sick recovered. This was a pivotal point in my trip, when I saw first-hand the importance of being adaptable and being able to depend on your fellow teachers.

The students also showed themselves to be adaptable. They not only opened up their school to a group of strangers but also took in our lessons thoughtfully and with care. While the three of us teachers provided the lessons, it was the students, and their creativity that lived up to the “Fearless Phoenixes” name.

Our last day of teaching was a lot like the first. Emotions were running high, and everyone was silent on the car ride to campus. Only this time, we carried so many memories from our weeks together and with our students. When it was time to say goodbye, as we took even more photos and exchanged gifts, tears came easily to my eyes. It was a bittersweet moment. I looked around at the students’ work on display in the courtyard, knowing we would be leaving this place that had quickly become a home away from home.

Miriam Galicia is a senior at The Institute For Collaborative Education and is a 2023-24 Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow. In the fall she will attend Skidmore College. As a soon-to-be first-generation college student, she values the opportunity to pursue higher education not afforded to previous generations of her family.

NY is poised to phase out Regents exam requirements. For English learners, especially, it’s past time.

2024-06-14T15:00:00+00:00

I cheered when the news broke Monday morning that the New York State Education Department plans to make Regents exams optional — meaning that passing these tests, which have been administered for more than 150 years, will no longer be required to earn a standard high school diploma.

The Board of Regents still has to vote in November, and students will have to take these exams for at least another year. But the planned change can’t come soon enough, especially for our growing cohort of English Language Learners, or ELLs.

Sunisa Nuonsy

Just last month, Chalkbeat published a story about immigrant students who were pressured by their principals to transfer schools because they had failed the English Regents and likely would not graduate on time. If only these students had been evaluated through project-based work, they would not have posed a risk to the school’s graduation rates.

We already have a blueprint for evaluation in the post-Regents era — the kind of project-based learning that replaced state assessments during the pandemic. At the height of COVID, when graduation requirements were changed to make it easier to earn a diploma without passing the English Regents, my students of immigrant origin excelled.

Instead of taking year-end exams in our classroom, my 12th grade English Language Arts students were explaining their art projects to their teachers and friends. Some students acted out skits, others blasted soundtracks, and others still scanned QR codes tied to social media presentations.

Their term-long projects tackled a common theme, “Journey to Love,” and they compared texts in different languages and media. It was noisy, messy, and real.

At the International High School at Prospect Heights, where I taught for 10 years until June 2023, pandemic-era changes to Regents requirements allowed us to fully teach through project-based learning and show off our success with outcomes like this art exhibit.

It was more than a welcome respite from the drudgery of test prep; it was a lesson that we need to continue.

Since this topic is part of a roiling national debate about test-optional college admissions — with some elite universities bringing back the SAT requirements after going test-optional during the pandemic — I want to show an alternative perspective to reinforce New York’s recent news.

For marginalized students, especially recent immigrants doing the double duty of learning content and a new language, a standardized approach can be exclusive and an inaccurate assessment.

Many of my students had been in the United States for fewer than three years. Some had interruptions in their formal education or were rejected by other New York City schools unequipped to support their linguistic needs. With project-based learning, they gained confidence from learning the content in-depth without the pressure — and negative reinforcement — of multiple-choice assessments in English.

Too often, students whose first language is not English are viewed as deficient, contributing to policies and practices that segregate them into classes with rote and watered-down curriculum.

My students want to care about what they are learning, and I had to tell them that the Regents Exam didn’t care if they cared. Instead of curiosity, the Regents wanted correctness. Instead of depth, the Regents wanted breadth. Instead of teachers, the Regents wanted proctors.

As an educator and doctoral student in Urban Education at the City University of New York Graduate Center, I urge admissions departments to view the debate through a less-common lens: language equity. Too often, students whose first language is not English are viewed as deficient, contributing to policies and practices that segregate them into classes with rote and watered-down curriculum, or subject them to standardized assessments that punish them for their multilingualism.

During the lockdown and the two school years that followed, coinciding with the suspension of Regents requirements, more ELLs graduated from high school than before. The statewide graduation rate in 2020-2021 for ELLs was 60 percent, compared to 46 percent the year prior, an Education Trust-New York report shows.

And according to our guidance counselor, more of our students were admitted to four-year City University of New York schools than before. That was also the year that CUNY suspended its SAT requirements. It was not a coincidence.

During the pandemic, most colleges evaluated students on their GPA, their personal statements, and letters of recommendation. For many of my students, that was life-changing. By going on to four-year degree programs, they not only experienced a more competitive classroom environment, they also likely increased their earning capabilities post-graduation.

A student of mine I’ll call Lorena was a prime beneficiary of the pandemic exception to Regents exams. When I met her, she was an 11th grader who had moved from the Dominican Republic to the United States two years prior.

Her spoken English was still developing. Her writing showed promise with voice and insight, but it was obvious that Lorena relied heavily on Google Translate to make her writing comprehensible in English.

Her classmates and I appreciated her because she took her learning seriously and also willingly participated in her home language of Spanish. She collaborated with her peers and often took risks. During her portfolio presentations, she was prepared with crisp slides, and, having had the time to practice her fluency, she responded to questions insightfully.

Lorena may sound like an ideal student, but the Regents’ monolingual bias did not recognize that in her junior year of high school. It told her multiple times that she did not have enough English proficiency to be a successful student, and she got more frustrated with each result.

Yet, with the Regents waiver, Lorena was admitted to John Jay College in 2021. She is completing her degree in Criminal Justice and is relying on the experiences and skills she developed her senior year through project-based learning. She is also mentoring high school and college students now.

I often think back to her “Journey to Love” project. Lorena wrote a literary analysis essay and a bilingual poem about “el patriarcardo,” expressing her frustrations about balancing multiple responsibilities because of her gender and sharing about the sexual harassment she faced daily on the streets.

Lorena took an authentic path, one freed from an impersonal testing system that does not consider multilingual abilities or the worth of communicating through creativity.

It is time to make this permanent for all students in New York State.

Sunisa Nuonsy is a Lao-American educator and scholar based in Brooklyn. She is a doctoral student at the CUNY Graduate Center and a project researcher for the CUNY Initiative on Immigration and Education.

Representation is powerful. Without it, I doubted success was possible for me.

2024-06-12T11:31:47+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 younger, I’d walked past “expensive buildings” in Manhattan and couldn’t fathom being allowed inside. These lavish skyscrapers represented what felt out of reach for me — money, success, fitting in.

However, years later, there I was, heading to the Opportunity Network, or OppNet, a college and career readiness program on the sixth floor of a fancy building in Manhattan’s Financial District. It felt great to waltz in wearing jeans and a t-shirt and hand my ID to the security desk. Sometimes, I’d get a pass to scan — how cool is that?

But then I’d look around in the lobby. I didn’t see many faces like mine, and everyone was in business clothes. That’s when the imposter syndrome kicked in. Maybe I didn’t belong here. Nervousness built up in my body. Am I underdressed? Is everyone here rich? Questions ran through my head a mile per second.

Shamima Ahmed

Getting into OppNet and other prestigious programs took a lot of personal drive. I applied to OppNet during my sophomore year of high school, as I struggled with school and fell behind on assignments. I was mourning my father’s death, and grief was taking a toll on me.

My school counselor reached out to tell me OppNet had extended its application deadline. My motivation was low, but I knew that future-me needed this. I forced myself to apply. I was surprised — and then scared — when I found out I made it to the interview round.

I was nervous in the group interview setting. There were more than 10 of us from a mix of different backgrounds. One OppNet staffer asked me a question about something on my application. I told him I had two older siblings, both of whom I am funnier than. His laugh put me at ease and built up my confidence for the rest of the interview. I must have done something right because I was chosen from among nearly 400 applicants as one of 174 New York City students to receive OppNet mentorship through high school, college, and beyond.

From then on, my thirst for success only grew. I hungered for new challenges, and that led me to apply to and be accepted to many more great programs, including Design Hive, Project Glimmer Empowerment Academy, America on Tech, Permira Scholars, and, yes, Chalkbeat’s Student Voices Fellowship.

All these programs helped me build skills and knowledge, and they led to self-discovery. I learned how to code, what investment banking and private equity are, financial literacy skills, how to design my own logo and mood boards, journalism basics, and more.

While scheduling meetings amid schoolwork and family obligations took a lot of effort, the programs helped me pour back into myself. I spent hours learning what I like to do and don’t like to do. I learned that I loved creating but that coding didn’t resonate with me. I joined multiple networks and communities all catered to helping teens thrive. In addition to distracting me from my grief, these programs set me on the right track with mentorship and a supportive community of people I related to because we were all from underrepresented communities.

This last point is important. As a Bengali girl from a low-income household, I didn’t see myself represented anywhere growing up. None of the Disney princesses looked like me. My favorite childhood TV shows like “iCarly” and “Wizards of Waverly Place” lacked faces like mine. I always wondered when it would be my turn, when I would see a Bengali Disney princess or high-profile Bengali character on TV.

I remember being upset when people would say how small a country Bangladesh is on the map. It felt belittling.

Research has shown that representation plays a big part in how people perceive themselves. When young people from marginalized communities see themselves represented in school lessons and in the media, including social media, it can improve their self-esteem and may help them feel seen and validated. I don’t need studies to tell me this. Without seeing people who looked like me onscreen or in the books we read at school, I often felt like an outcast, like my dreams weren’t tangible.

Through my participation in college readiness and career development programs, I learned about myself and was encouraged to speak up. I was shown how valuable my perspective as a Bengali woman from a low-income family — an intersectional identity that has shaped me — was to various conversations and situations. That validation encouraged my self-advocacy. Whether it was at school, during group projects, or in interviews, I have found a way to advocate for myself.

That brings me back to the self-doubt I had at the fancy Manhattan building. After I scanned the temporary pass that had my name and a barcode giving me access to the elevators, I made my way to the OppNet offices. Once I saw the faces of those who shared or understood my story, I felt my body shift. Tension released, and my shoulders relaxed. Maybe I do belong here, I thought to myself.

Shamima Ahmed is a senior at Central Park East High School and a 2023-24 Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow. She will be attending Babson College in the fall, and hopes to earn a degree in business with concentrations in entrepreneurship and business analytics. She aspires to be a business owner and start a clothing brand that focuses on inclusivity and equity.

Most NYC high schools don’t have a student newspaper. Teachers can help change that.

2024-06-07T12:00:00+00:00

At the start of seventh period each day, student journalists noisily enter my classroom — many of them still finishing half-eaten lunches. They grab laptops and get to work trying to produce stories for our newspaper.

Some leave class to find people to interview for stories; some decide that the story they pitched isn’t going to work out after all; some ask me questions about our school for stories they’re writing; some read student journalism from elsewhere in the city or from around the country.

This is not my most organized or efficient class, but figuring out how to teach it for the past two years has been some of the most fun I’ve had in my 10 years working as a teacher here in New York City.

John Downes-Angus

I’m still not great at it, but I’m trying — and other teachers should try it, too. As of 2022, 73% of New York City high schools didn’t have a newspaper. This is a serious problem, and we can be part of the solution.

There are several reasons why so few schools have a paper. Teachers and kids are busy, developing new programming can be difficult, our schools are small, turnover is high, budgets are tight, and the state doesn’t incentivize this kind of learning by making journalism a required class. But cobbling together a journalism program has taught me that any high school teacher committed to trying this out can probably do it. Thankfully, support is popping up.

I was hired to teach AP English Language to juniors and English to seniors. About a month after I was offered this job, though, my principal asked me if I’d teach a year-long journalism class.

At the time, she was running our then-fledgling media team, which oversaw our school’s social media pages. The year before, that team managed to put together two print papers and start a website — resurrecting a school publication that had existed over a decade ago — but my principal wanted us to have “a more robust school newspaper.”

I said yes without knowing what a “nut graf” is or whether or not an Oxford comma is AP Style. (It isn’t.) But I’ve learned a glossary of journalistic practices and lingo over the past year and a half, and so have my students. The person who’s taught me most is the current editor-in-chief, who moved to New York from Georgia, where she attended a large high school with a journalism major and a teacher who’d worked as a journalist. That teacher sent me a folder of curricular materials, including slideshows about topics such as interviewing sources, AP Style, and journalistic ethics.

I’ve seen students go from feeling too shy to talk even to me to wandering the school, notebook in hand, ready to conduct interviews and take notes.

This changed our publication from a home for student essays about whatever interested them (“You have a Taylor Swift problem,” my student told me politely after reading an issue with several stories about the musician) into a news organization.

They can still write opinion pieces, but first, they need to write a news article. That means generating relevant story ideas, conducting interviews with people they don’t necessarily know or agree with, and writing in an unfamiliar style with the goal of reflecting and informing the school community.

There are clear and compelling reasons why knowledge of journalism is essential for high school students as they prepare to participate in a democracy. This is especially true at a time when social media is flooded with misinformation and disinformation.

Because of this work, students are writing in our paper about everything from student leadership to standardized testing to ear piercings. I’ve seen students go from feeling too shy to talk even to me to wandering the school, notebook in hand, ready to conduct interviews and take notes. I’ve seen kids who were uncertain how to write anything but a conventional academic essay morph into confident young journalists.

Getting this started at your school is not as hard as you might think, thanks to burgeoning support. Geanne Belton, a professor of journalism at Baruch College and the director of the High School Journalism Program there, organizes a yearly conference for high school journalism teachers and students.

At this year’s conference, young writers, including my students, learned from working journalists about writing ledes, conducting interviews, becoming better editors, and much more. One highlight of the gathering is The Newsies, an awards ceremony recognizing exceptional New York City high school journalism.

While at the conference, I met other journalism teachers whose programs and publications ranged from just starting out to long-established. All seemed to be driven by the belief that what they were doing was interesting and valuable, even if they all had different degrees of participation and success.

Organizations such as the NYC Youth Journalism Coalition and Press Pass NYC, are doing the important work of calling for more journalism programs in our city. CUNY’s Newmark Graduate School of Journalism, a coalition member, is developing a year-long course that will be available for free to New York public schools. Katina Paron, a journalism educator (and a writing coach for Chalkbeat’s Student Voices Fellowship program), is working to create the curriculum.

Not all teens exposed to journalism will be miraculously transformed into enthusiastic reporters. Your students will miss deadlines and some of them will take a month to finish a 500-word piece. Your principal might not approve a journalism elective, so you may need to make this a club. Students will skip meetings, and sometimes, you’ll need to cancel them because you’re too busy.

But it’s worth giving this a shot. New York City students deserve school newspapers — real ones that invite them to craft stories about their classroom and communities. Newspapers that show them how to think critically about the news they read and that give them the opportunity to become more effective and confident readers and writers.

Teachers who believe in student journalism — even those like me who don’t have a background in reporting — can help make that happen.

John Downes-Angus is an English teacher at Baruch College Campus High School in New York City. This is his 10th year teaching English and his second year teaching journalism.

My dad loved all living things. I hope he is watching Animal Planet in heaven.

2024-06-03T12:00:00+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.

On the morning of my dad’s funeral in 2021, we saw a mourning dove on our Queens fire escape. This was fitting, not only because the bird symbolizes hope and rebirth but because my dad loved birds and animals of all kinds. He even had a special connection to a mourning dove who, years earlier, made its home on that very fire escape.

My dad, Shamsuddin, loved watching Animal Planet. Every morning before work and on weekends when he was off, he would sit with steaming hot coffee, his eyes glued to the screen. He worked long hours and woke up early to catch a train to Brooklyn. It seemed like the only time he could relax was when he was watching Animal Planet.

Shamima Ahmed

He was a nature guy, always planting and learning about the earth. His love for nature started when he was growing up in Bangladesh. My dad was from a big family and spent a lot of time outside, gardening and taking care of his family’s chickens and cows. Years later, after he immigrated to the U.S, he turned our small fire escape into a garden where he grew habanero peppers and greens. He nurtured his plants much the same way nurtured the people he loved.

He had such a love of life that it’s still hard to believe he’s gone.

I am one of the roughly 8,600 New York City children who, as of 2022, had lost a parent or caregiver to COVID. Nationally, more than 200,000 kids experienced such a loss; worldwide, that number exceeds 10 million. Without even knowing the other kids, I know it affected their lives, their school work, and their relationships. We are all still grieving. The need for support is immense. Nearly 7,000 New York City teens signed up for free online therapy through the city since it opened in November. There are surely students grieving various losses among them.

What helps me grieve my dad is remembering his kindness.

My dad was a simple man. His small corner in our hallway closet held his slacks and his button-down shirts, which he would wear either to work or to relax. He didn’t buy much for himself so that my mother, my two older siblings, and I could enjoy the luxury of getting clothes we wanted or needed.

He only really needed his family and his coffee. Yet looking at him you would think he’s the richest guy in the world because there was always a smile on his face, no matter how he felt or what was on his mind. I miss my dad’s smile. It was welcoming and comforting.

A young Shamima Ahmed celebrates Eid with her father, c. 2009

My dad would make me coffee to have with the Parle G. sugar biscuits that he would buy in bulk just for me. Coffee and biscuits in hand, we would sit together and watch Animal Planet. Our favorite show was “River Monsters,” where a guy named Jeremy Wade makes underwater discoveries across the globe. Whenever it wasn’t on, my dad would make me put it on YouTube so he could rewatch old episodes.

He had an unquenchable thirst for learning. There would be times he would tap me while I was sitting near him and tell me about some fish on the screen because he found it so interesting. Other times, he’d make me call my mom in from the kitchen to see. He didn’t keep his passions to himself. He loved sharing knowledge and gifts.

Whether it was surprising my mom with new plates for the kitchen or cooking our family the biggest and most expensive fish he could find in the supermarket, my dad was always giving. If he knew that my siblings, my mom, or I liked something, he would buy that item in bulk the next day if he could. His presence was so admirable that it makes his absence absolutely soul-crushing.

Animals must have sensed his compassion. One day, around three or four years before my dad died, a mourning dove made a nest on our fire escape. My dad helped the bird make a better nest for the eggs inside and kept checking up on it. Then one day, the bird flew away, and we never saw it again. But on the morning of my dad’s funeral, a mourning dove — maybe even the same one — came back. It cooed on my fire escape while the sun shone through the window. Ever since then, when my family and I see a mourning dove, we think it’s my dad. It’s his way of keeping his love alive.

I hope my dad can get Animal Planet in heaven. I hope he is catching up on the episodes of “River Monsters” and thinking of his family.

Even as I directed my school’s production of ‘Fiddler on the Roof,’ I kept my Jewish faith a secret

2024-05-31T13:00:00+00:00

When my high school announced its upcoming theater production of “Fiddler on the Roof” back in April 2023, I was thrilled.

The musical, which tells the story of a poor, Eastern European Jewish family in the early 20th century, had always been my dream show. As a student theater director (and also a lighting and graphic designer), I never expected to be part of a “Fiddler” production so early in my career.

I am a sophomore at a public high school where I am one of a few Jewish students. Amid my excitement, one concern weighed heavily on me given the show’s explicitly Jewish subject matter: antisemitism. The thought made me sick to my stomach.

Samantha Alexander

This musical, based on short stories by the Yiddish-language writer Sholem Aleichem, was close to my heart. Seeing it on our school stage, produced by our theater department, was going to be extra special for me. Still, I considered resigning rather than revealing to the cast and crew that I am Jewish. I had kept that part of myself hidden ever since elementary school when I was bullied for my Jewish faith.

I shared my concerns with a trusted teacher and then reached out to my adult co-directors — one of whom, I was surprised to learn, is also Jewish. Having someone who understood the depth of my feelings about the show and the possible reactions to it meant the world to me. After some deep discussion, we felt that planning educational events about the show and its themes would benefit the cast and crew, most of whom are not Jewish.

Then came the news of the events of Oct. 7, 2023, when Hamas attacked Israel, beginning the ongoing Israel-Hamas war. It made me feel even more overwhelmed and terrified. I had new “what ifs” going through my head. Would there be protesters at the performances? How are the kids going to treat the show’s Jewish content now? Was it really the best time to put on this particular production?

My co-directors and I organized several educational events, including anti-bias peer training led by the Anti-Defamation League. Select 10th and 11th graders learned how to combat stereotypes about people and groups. We also hosted a traditional Shabbat celebration, like the “Sabbath Prayer” scene in “Fiddler,” and brought in authentic clothing and ritual items used on the Sabbath.

A scene from the school production of "Fiddler on the Roof" that Samantha Alexander co-directed in 2024.

I was moved and overjoyed to witness my peers’ enthusiasm for learning about the Jewish faith and its rituals. The celebration was evidence of the strong community within our theater department and a reminder of the power of tradition and togetherness.

Additionally, I created a Yiddish pronunciation guide and invited local Jewish leaders — a rabbi, cantor, and rebbitzin (rabbi’s wife) — to speak to the cast and crew. These visits gave students the opportunity to ask questions and engage with the culture they would be depicting. They wanted to know, for example, why many observant Jews cover their head, the significance of the Jewish prayer shawl, or tallit, and what “Fiddler on the Roof” meant to Jewish communal leaders.

By opening night, Feb. 29, 2024, I finally felt comfortable enough to wear my Star of David necklace out in the open. It was the first time I had worn a symbol of my religion outside of an all-Jewish environment and the first time I was fully candid about my faith with the cast and crew.

I had never considered wearing any type of Jewish jewelry in public. But after this experience, I felt a newfound pride and connection to my faith. Now, I always have some type of Star of David on me — a necklace, earrings, bracelet, or watch charm.

Before the premiere, the Jewish co-director and I also said the “Shehecheyanu,” a prayer expressing gratitude for a new or special occasion. The prayer made the moment even more meaningful.

Another scene from Samantha Alexander's school production of "Fiddler on the Roof."

Putting on this show was a significant challenge, but it showed me people’s capacity for learning about different faiths, backgrounds, and cultures. It also revealed how accepting the students in the theater department are.

Despite my initial fears, it turned out to be the perfect time to stage this production because it brought joy and understanding to those who saw it. It was a gift, infused with history and meaning, to the local Jewish community and to the community at large. Following the performances, I also heard from a few other Jewish students who hadn’t been open about their faith either.

Looking back on this school year, I cannot believe how far I have come and how much I have grown. I will always cherish the pride and joy I experienced while embracing a part of myself that had been hidden for too long.

Samantha Alexander is a student director with six years of experience. During the year, Samantha serves as a theater director, lighting designer, and graphic designer in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania. During the summer, she works as a specialist in Wayne County, Pennsylvania, where she continues to sharpen her skills and push the boundaries of what is possible in the world of theater. When she is not directing, she enjoys writing, creating handmade jewelry, and traveling.

Here’s how I talk to my students about pronouns, including my own

2024-05-22T19:16:10+00:00

“Hi everyone,” I say excitedly as I kneel to join my young students sitting in a circle. “I’m so excited to be here. My name is Teacher Ellie … and I wanted to tell you about my pronouns.”

As a nonbinary teaching artist in New York City public schools, I have begun every residency this way for going on five years. I teach theater, puppet-making, and poetry to students in all grades, but I mostly teach kindergarten to third grade.

When people talk about trans and nonbinary educators, they often assume that we’re getting in kids’ faces, correcting pronouns resentfully, talking about gender in a way inappropriate for their age, and forcing students to be who they’re not. The truth is it’s far more mundane.

Ellie Bell

“Does anyone know what pronouns are?” I continue. Sometimes, students raise their hands. Sometimes, they talk about the topic of our sessions or something they learned in class just before I arrived. Sometimes, they give an accurate explanation:

“It’s like how you let people know if you’re a boy or a girl or something else,” a first grader in Clinton Hill says.

“Yeah, it’s like the words you use, like, if you’re a boy, you’re he/him. If you’re a girl, you’re she/her,” a seventh grader on the Lower East Side says.

“It’s he/him, she/her, and they/them,” a confident student may say. “Yeah!” I say, “It’s how we talk about people when we don’t use their names.” I give examples, being sure to emphasize the pronoun: “Where did HE go? Where did SHE go? We should go find HIM. We should go find HER.”

“My pronouns,” I tell them, “are they and them.”

I go on to give examples of how you can talk about me and finish with “If you make a mistake and you call me he or she or Miss or Mister, just correct yourself, no big deal.” The two-minute speech isn’t usually for my students. It’s for the adults in the room; the teachers, paraprofessionals, and the occasional admin. I’ve been teaching long enough to know that students learn by example and practice. They can’t be told once; they need to see and hear others talk about me the way I want to be talked about and maybe be corrected themselves a few times.

Sometimes, kids never catch on. Sometimes, teachers refuse to catch on. I correct them gently almost every time, repeating the sentence casually with the correct pronouns as I continue my lesson, never stopping, rarely making eye contact; it’s not a callout, it’s a reminder. If they apologize, I say “no worries,” because if I don’t, they likely will worry.

Yes, some students will quietly try out new pronouns for themselves. I’ll never comment; I’ll just use the ones they ask me to use. Yes, I call students what they ask to be called. I have one first grader who I have called Cheese for an entire school year. Yes, some students insist, “But you’re a girl!” and I always respond, “You only know my gender by asking.”

Sometimes, kids never catch on. Sometimes, teachers refuse to catch on.

Most let it rest, but some don’t. I’m not there to fight students. I’m there to teach theater, puppet-making, or poetry. I’m there, ideally, to enrich kids’ lives and be a part of raising kind, critically conscious community members. I’d like to be respected while I do it and, if a student misgenders me with the best intentions, I still consider that respectful.

I know what you’re thinking, “It’s never that easy.” It usually is. But sometimes it’s not.

I once had a first grader I taught after school for two years tell me that her mom, whom I’d never met, doesn’t like me. “Why?” I asked. “She doesn’t like that you’re a they/them. She says it’s wrong.” “I hope she gets to know me better and can change her mind,” I replied.

I had a high school student respond to my introduction with, “Really? They/them?” “Is that a judgment or a question?” I ask. “A judgment,” he said. I was surprised by his honesty. “All I ask is you respect me, okay?” “Okay,” he said.

Some teachers can’t bring themselves to use my pronouns. The words seem to get stuck in their throat. What’s stuck in their throat isn’t mine. I leave them to wrestle with their discomfort on their own.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care if they used my pronouns or addressed me correctly. I desperately wish for it, for my pronouns not to be a blockage and my gender not to be a point of contention. But more than that, I wish for a world in which when people tell us who they are, we believe them, and where all people are seen as whole and infinitely, equally valuable.

Of course, my gender is always present, but so is that of my students and the classroom teachers. It follows us home and down into the subway and to the doctor’s office. It follows me; it doesn’t lead me. Between the short intros and the occasional corrections or questions, there are worlds built and brought to life.

I’ve seen that my modeling of self-creation is a part of that world-building. There are connections made with students grounded in trust, compassion, and joy. I walk into classrooms and am met with cheers of “Teacher Ellie!” and smiles and hugs that reach my soul and armor it for the outside world. There are moments that have rattled me, challenged me, and healed me, and very rarely are they just about me being nonbinary.

Ellie Bell (they/them) is a teaching artist and theater-maker in New York City. They hold an MA in Applied Theatre from CUNY School of Professional Studies and are working toward their Ph.D. in Urban Education at CUNY Graduate Center.

I go to a high school for pregnant and parenting students. It has put graduation within reach.

2024-05-22T12:00:00+00:00

About a year ago, I was 16, seven months pregnant, and living in my car with my boyfriend. We showered at gas stations and bought grilled cheese sandwiches at Walmart. I worried that we wouldn’t be able to provide for the daughter I would soon have. Some days, I felt utterly defeated.

Although I’ve always wanted to pursue an education, I felt that this was no longer possible for me.

A year on, my boyfriend is now my husband, and we live together with our thriving 7-month-old daughter, Harloow, in a house with a fully stocked fridge. And I’m on track to graduate high school and plan to pursue a career in nursing. My story is about persevering, but it’s also about getting the unique support I needed to turn my situation around — support that my mother, a teen parent herself, didn’t have a generation earlier.

Mahciah Campbell sits with her infant daughter, Harloow.

I started at an online high school when my daughter was two weeks old. But going to school while taking care of an infant often meant staying up past 3 a.m. I had to wait for her to go down for the night before I could do my schoolwork.

Exhausted, I began searching for alternatives. That’s how I found — and enrolled in — Lumen High School, a public charter in Spokane, Washington, that provides support to high school students who are pregnant or parenting.

There is a daycare downstairs that partners with my school. My daughter plays there while I take classes. When she is hungry, someone comes up to get me so I can breastfeed her.

A college degree starts with housing help at this program for single mothers

My school helped me with other needs too, including applying for government food benefits, such as SNAP and WIC. When I previously applied for those assistance programs, I was denied without explanation. They wanted me to come to the aid office in person, but relying on the bus for transportation, having my daughter, and attending school made that nearly impossible. At Lumen, though, a staff member arranged a phone interview for me.

My school also loaned me a stroller and gave me a free bus card so I could get to school every day on public transportation. Our Communities In Schools site coordinator even rode the bus with me a few times to help me navigate the route. Managing a baby and a stroller on public transportation is not easy, and her presence those first few days helped ease my mind.

Only about half of teen mothers earn a high school diploma by age 22, compared to 90 percent of female students who did not have a child as a teenager. There are many factors at play, but the most significant one is that traditional high schools don’t accommodate our needs.

Attending classes is next to impossible if you cannot find and afford daycare. Access to childcare is an issue that affects all kinds of families, but the struggle is amplified for teen parents who are likely to have fewer resources available to them.

These days, I feel excited about my future. I’m on track to graduate next school year, and I plan to attend a local college and pursue a degree in nursing. This profession is especially meaningful to me since nurses helped our entire family throughout my late brother’s battle with muscular dystrophy.

One day, I want to be a traveling nurse, which would give me the opportunity to see the country with my husband and daughter while also helping sick people and their families.

I feel excited and energized when I think about my future. At the same time, I can remember so clearly how different things felt last year, when I was living in my car and unsure of what my future would look like.

Mahciah Campbell is a high school junior who lives in Spokane, Washington, with her husband and daughter.

70 years after Brown, too many U.S. schools remain hypersegregated and unequal

2024-05-17T22:46:21+00:00

I was 21 when I started teaching at Hope-Hill Elementary School in Atlanta. I had big dreams and bold ideas — some held, others fettered as the toll of teaching in majority Black schools suffering from resource deprivation took hold.

My first year was complicated by the fact that C.W. Hill Elementary closed, or merged with John Hope Elementary, depending on whom you ask. And in an effort to make the devastating change more palatable, John Hope Elementary School became Hope-Hill Elementary School.

Shannon Paige Clark

This was my introduction to austerity measures, or the practices in school districts that justified slashing resources, slimming budgets, and closing schools, which are often in working-class Black communities.

Hope-Hill was led by Black women and almost all of my colleagues were Black, as am I. We did the best with what we had, and many of us used our own resources to make our classrooms special. At the end of that year, I felt grateful to be in a community that felt like home, and I was happy I survived the first year of teaching in a system that set me and my colleagues up to fail.

Midway through my summer break, I received a surprise phone call inviting me to interview for a new teaching position. A neighboring school principal informed me that my name was listed as eligible for hire, which meant I was surplused, unbeknownst to me. In other words, I was the last one hired and the first one fired because the enrollment numbers at Hope-Hill did not justify the existing number of teachers — another austerity measure.

Two years, two schools. New grade, new curriculum. I was already disillusioned and not sure I had the wherewithal to start over so soon. In fact, research shows that Black teachers leave the teaching profession more than educators in other racial groups, commonly citing burnout, disrespect, and racism.

I stuck it out. I was a brand new teacher for the second year in a row.

One day, I read a book about Ruby Bridges to my third grade students. I began to explain that schools were no longer segregated, in part because of the courage of children like Ruby, who in 1960 became the first Black student to attend a Louisiana school that had previously been all white.

“Did you say segregation ended, Ms. Paige?”

Tatianna’s question stopped me mid-sentence.

I thought to myself: I did, but if you look around this classroom and school, you would not know.

“Yes,” I told Tatianna.”There are no longer laws, or rules, that forbid Black people like you and I from going to schools with white children.”

Then Tyreik chimed in, “So where all the white people?”

I replied, “That’s a good question. It’s tricky. Many of the neighborhoods we live in are still segregated even though the law does not say they have to be that way. And since we live in segregated neighborhoods, many schools still look like they did when the law said schools must be segregated because most children go to school near their houses.”

... research shows that Black teachers leave the teaching profession more than any other racial group, commonly citing burnout, disrespect, and racism.

If they were older, I would have told them about anti-Blackness and redlining and the ways unjust policies have been used to maintain de facto segregation.

Today, schools remain largely segregated by race and class, and I often think back to my first two years in the classroom, starting in 2009. All but three of my students were Black, and most of my colleagues were Black, too. We lacked material resources, but we had a lot of heart.

My teaching and coaching experiences in schools that were highly segregated by race and class fuels my passion for researching hypersegregated schools, places that 70 years after the landmark Brown v. Board of Education ruling are still separate and unequal.

Read more of Chalkbeat's coverage of the 70th anniversary of Brown v. Board of Education.

According to the Center for American Progress, some 40% of America’s more than 1,700 school districts are hypersegregated, where at least three-quarters of students are from low-income households. Hypersegregated schools tend to get by on the bare minimum. Facilities may be inadequate, and the consequences of racial segregation and concentrated poverty make it harder to learn and even harder to thrive.

In my research, I focus on hypersegregated school communities where people lack the resources they need. I call this resource deprivation because those in power make decisions that deny necessary resources.

A CBS News investigation found that majority Black school districts have less money, and the students suffer as a result. School funding disparities exist across states, districts, and schools; high-poverty districts with the most students of color receive less funding per student, on average. EdBuild, which parsed school funding systems, determined that, nationwide, predominantly white school districts get $23 billion more than predominantly non-white districts, despite serving a similar number of children. This is resource deprivation.

Hypersegregation fuels inequity, and despite the landmark ruling in Brown v. Board of Education 70 years ago, the resource deprivation that existed in 1954 remains for far too many Black children who are relegated to underfunded schools.

There are miracle workers in many of these school communities. But the weight of fighting a separate and unequal system can diminish the hopes and dreams of even the most idealistic people — educators and students alike.

Shannon Paige Clark, Ph.D., is a postdoctoral fellow at Northwestern. She researches educational policies and family engagement in school.

What we leave out when we teach about Brown v. Board

2024-05-15T12:30:00+00:00

I came to the United States 35 years after the Supreme Court’s Brown vs. Board of Education of Topeka decision, ruling that racial segregation in public schools was unconstitutional.

As a mixed race student arriving from England with a strong accent and an Afro, I was not warmly received by my new suburban school community. I entered elementary school at age 7. The elementary school students immediately made fun of me for my British accent, and I was often called an immigrant and even a pilgrim.

Abigail Henry

By middle and high school, my peers made annoyingly frequent statements of their supposed colorblindness. “Abigail, I don’t see you as different from me,” they would say, “We are just the same.” Their statements, in which they claimed not to notice my Blackness, made me realize they were in denial about the racism that existed in our school community.

Now that I’m an educator, sometimes I look back at my experience and wonder, “What if I just had one Black teacher when I arrived?” I look back and know that pervasive racism in our school system is real and teacher repression — when educators are silenced and lessons challenged or banned — is real.

That is why Brown, which turns 70 this week, is often not taught to the fullness of its story and legacy. It is often taught as a celebration of American justice, equality, and exceptionalism. When I was in high school, the history teacher would smile at me during the lesson, proud of this history. I remember thinking, “Oh, so because of Brown, I should be grateful that I am the only Black student in the classroom right now? Because, mostly, I feel uncomfortable.”

To teach Brown fully, it needs to be done so through LaGarrett King’s principle of Black historical contention — the concept that not all Black people have the same ideas and approaches to Black liberation. But most of the time, we get one-dimensional lessons on the ruling because pan-African and Black nationalistic perspectives remain left out of corporate-produced textbooks and supplemental resources.

Despite the NAACP and its chief counsel Thurgood Marshall’s bold and unrelenting legal crusade against school segregation, and a victory in the nation’s highest court, not every Black person wanted their Black child to integrate into a white school.

Read more of Chalkbeat's coverage of the 70th anniversary of Brown v. Board of Education.

Many Black people had more than enough reason to not trust the public school system after Brown. As I have argued before, one of the strongest tools of white supremacy is denying Black people an education. Black families were rightly concerned about the racism their children would face post-Brown and the curriculums they would encounter. Rather than send their child to a white school, many just wanted their Black school to receive equal funding.

The No. 1 fault when teaching Brown is the assumption that society will make significant racial progress when Black students integrate into white schools. Historically, why has the starting point of the discourse been that Black academic success depends on a system that has racially targeted the Black community?

This is why the rise of Freedom Schools needs to be included in the conversation about Brown. Freedom Schools — free, alternative schools (mostly summer and after-school programs, but also day programs during school boycotts) — were created to prepare “disenfranchised African Americans to become active political actors.” Charles Cobb of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee was among those who helped spearhead the Freedom Schools movement.

Freedom Schools in the 1960s were inspired by the centuries-old pan-African approach to education, with its Afrocentric perspective and focus on self-determination. Lessons at these schools, located in the South and around the country, focused on literacy and activism. They were also infused with Black history and rituals such as “libations,” or offerings to ancestors. Some such rituals are still common practice at Freedom Schools that exist to this day.

Philadelphia Freedom Schools, built for Black children, tackle literacy and love.

It was not until I worked at the Center for Black Educator Development’s Freedom School Literacy Academy that I discovered, while teaching Russell Rickford’s “We Are an African People” that post-Brown there were three dueling types of Freedom Schools: those established by the Nation of Islam, the 1960′s Freedom Schools, and the Black Panther Party’s Freedom Schools. The Black historical contention and nuances between these schools and the Black nationalists who founded and fostered them are as important as the movement to overturn legal school segregation.

I just finished reading Dennis Lehane’s “Small Mercies,” and was unaware of the extent to which some white parents in South Boston did everything they could to avoid school integration. After reading more about integration efforts in South Boston this image of a Black student, Valerie Banks, resonated with me when I reflect back to my first days as a student in a suburban Pennsylvania school. Valerie Banks was the only student to show up to class at South Boston High School on the first day of court-ordered busing. I ask myself, “On the first day the white students return, to what extent would her experience be like mine?”

Sites in Philly continue the Freedom School legacy

When I teach Brown to my ninth grade African American History and my AP African American Studies classes, I go over the differences between de facto and de jure segregation — that is, the difference between segregation that occurs by choice/reality and legal segregation. I ask them which one has the bigger impact on society and then point out that for many in the pan-African movement, there is no actual distinction. The white flight that followed Brown offers further evidence of why this perspective needs to be included in classrooms.

Learning about Black nationalism provides students the opportunity to engage with alternative strategies aimed at achieving Black freedom and self-determination. For this reason, I include lessons from some of the first Black nationalists such as Paul Cuffee and Martin R. Delany. (Some more of my favorite resources for teaching about Brown and its aftermath can be found here and here.)

As the educator and writer Rann Miller argues, “For too long, Black students have had the burden of adjusting to a racist society.” To make amends, teaching the whole story of Brown is a step towards helping the Black community heal.

Abigail Henry is an African American History teacher and adjunct professor in West Philadelphia. She has helped spearhead curriculum development at the School District of Philadelphia, won a Pulitzer Grant to incorporate the 1619 Project, and recently found an LLC called theBLKcabinet for African American History curriculum, resources, and consulting.

Without housing, we were out of options. COVID quarantine offered my family a path forward.

2024-05-14T11:00:00+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.

Content warning: This essay contains references to thoughts of suicide.

As the winter breeze blew through my braids, I felt a surge of excitement. Back then, good news was hard to come by so I was eager to share some with my mom. A smile spread from ear to ear as I rushed toward a white Honda parked across the street from my school, imagining her reaction.

But the usual sensation of love and security that I felt in my mom’s presence seemed to diminish with each step that I took. My mom didn’t trust me crossing the street, so she would usually park closer. This time, she didn’t roll down her window and call out to me with familiar laughs and friendly jokes. Something was wrong. A brewing surprise awaited me in that car. I hate surprises.

Alexa Brown-Hill

I hesitated for a moment before opening the car door. When I did, my heart sank when I saw who was driving. As I settled into the back seat, I wasn’t met with the typical “How was your day?” but instead with a chilling silence. Every slight noise — the hum of the car engine, the shuffling of my burgundy coat, my heart pounding — seemed magnified.

I recall having to swallow what felt like a brick to playfully ask, “Can we go home?”

“You have no home,” my mom’s partner said, turning around from the driver’s seat to look at me. He taunted me. I begged and pleaded to go home as tears fell from my eyes. He laughed and repeatedly said, “You have no home.”

Months earlier, my mom’s day care business began to fail. Money wasn’t coming in, running hot water was a luxury, and choosing what to eat was no longer a privilege. Although she was in a “marriage,” my mom was always left to figure things out on her own. Only this time, she couldn’t find a solution.

Eventually, her partner decided it was best to sell our home, the same home where his presence contributed little but chaos and stress. My mornings were often filled with the discordant symphony of screaming and arguing — whether it was about his infidelities or his decision to take our front gates down, resulting in my mom having to close the day care.

At the time, school and God were my only escape. At school I kept up appearances, pretending everything was normal, even as my life was slowly falling apart. I reminded myself that school would be the way out for my mom, my sister, and me.

I remember walking home one day to an empty house. The tables, the daycare toys — everything was just gone. That’s when the reality of my situation hit me. I felt shock, sadness, and worry. In that moment all I could do was document my barren home on Snapchat memories. I guess some part of me knew that this would be important one day, even if I didn’t understand it at the time.

Life after that chaotic winter night in 2019 was “no crystal stair,” as the poet Langston Hughes put it:

It’s had tacks in it

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But when you saw me at school, you would’ve never known that the night before, I had slept in the car or that I had to get ready and freshen up in a gas station bathroom. I was always full of giggles. Growing up, I was taught that what happens in the house stays in the house, even if you no longer have one.

I remember the third night after losing my home — after spending two nights in a cold car — my mom’s partner, who had been sleeping at his sibling’s house, finally brought us to a Holiday Inn. He paid for us to spend the night there but initially didn’t give us any of the proceeds from the sale of our home. We arrived with nothing but the clothes on our back and whatever my mom managed to pack in a small brown bag.

At school I kept up appearances, pretending everything was normal even as my life was slowly falling apart.

That night, for the first time, I had thoughts of ending my life. I was only 12 years old.

I had made up my mind that life would be easier for my mom without me. As my thoughts spiraled downward, I received a text message from my sister. She sent me Romans 8:28: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” The scripture was a lifeline and managed to calm the storm in my mind.

After about three months in hotels and motels, we had run out of money. To make matters worse, my mom’s license plates got taken, so getting to school meant walking, often in the freezing cold, or taking a cab we couldn’t afford.

Bereaved students like me are more likely to struggle in school. Here’s what we need to thrive.

Life while being homeless was like a rabbit hole. Things were constantly changing. This instability caused me to be late to school almost every day of my seventh grade year, drawing the attention of my guidance counselor. It was hard for me to reach out for help, but when I finally got the courage to do so, my situation became gossip. I never spoke about it again.

Unfortunately, the school wanted to get the state involved. Just when I thought my world would get flipped upside down, and I would be separated from my mom and forced to repeat a grade, COVID and quarantine changed things.

During what was meant to be a two-week quarantine, our only options for housing was to go to a homeless shelter or upstate to my mom’s father’s place. Eventually, with hesitation, my mom decided to take my sister and me to her father’s home — a place I came to call “the hell house.”

The external appearance of this house was deceiving. The grass was freshly cut, and there was a pool in the backyard, but inside this beautiful home hid an ugly truth: the constant threat of violence.

Before COVID, life felt like it was moving too fast, and we couldn’t keep up. Quarantine was supposed to give us a break, a chance to figure out our next step. However, living in the hell house triggered my mom, plunging her into a deep depression. Nothing could snap her out of it. When we were kicked out into the snow eight months later, we had nowhere to go. No car, no money, nothing.

The rule “what happens in the house stays in the house” no longer applied. My sister reached out to our godmother in Newark who welcomed us with open arms. Her family provided the steady, loving environment that I so desperately needed. My mom was always doing for others, so it was hard for her to acknowledge that she and we needed help. If it wasn’t for quarantine, I would not be where I am today: safe, stable, and surrounded by love.

Alexa Brown-Hill, a junior at Bard High School Early College in Newark, is a multifaceted individual who is deeply passionate about literature and aspires to become a published author and a makeup artist. She is a 2023-24 Chalkbeat Student Voices fellow.

Why did so many Black teachers lose their jobs after the Brown v. Board ruling?

2024-05-10T13:00:00+00:00

I have no vivid recollections of attending a segregated school, but I am aware that my educational journey commenced in Head Start at what was then Lincoln Consolidated School for Black students.

I was born in 1964 — my middle daughter playfully labels me a “Baby Boomer” — and my life aligns with my county’s momentous period of school desegregation.

Valencia Ann Abbott, right, with one of her first grade teachers, Cornelia Price, in 2019.

My earliest educational memory is going to first grade at Happy Home School, a couple of miles from my home on the outskirts of Rockingham County, North Carolina. There, I was under the tutelage of Mrs. Neal and Mrs. Price, two impeccably dressed Black women. They were the only women I saw outside of church who dressed so elegantly. My journey continued with Mrs. Jones as my fourth grade teacher and Mrs. Townes as my fifth grade teacher.

Read more of Chalkbeat's coverage of the 70th anniversary of Brown v. Board of Education.

Happy Home School only went through seventh grade. By that time, the county school system was in transition as new schools were being built. I had two Black teachers in eighth grade: sisters, Mrs. Jefferies, the English teacher — to this day, I think about her whenever I see a diagrammed sentence — and Mrs. Blackwell, the math teacher. At the new county high school I attended, I had a couple of Black teachers, too: Ms. Lindsey for English and Mrs. Keesee for business.

Recent scholarship tells us that Black students with one Black teacher by third grade are 7% more likely to graduate high school and 13% more likely to enroll in college. After having two Black teachers, Black students’ likelihood of enrolling in college increased by 32%. Growing up, I knew nothing of this. I was a student whose parents never graduated from high school in rural North Carolina, who loved to read, and who decided in seventh grade that I would be a lawyer.

May 17 marks 70 years since the landmark Supreme Court decision Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, which found racial segregation in schools to be unconstitutional. I cannot personally speak to what it’s like to attend a segregated school. I can, however, speak to the power of Black teachers, many of whom were forced out of the classroom following the decision.

Valencia Ann Abbott as a first grader at Happy Home School in Rockingham County, North Carolina.

Speaking over the years to those who did go through a segregated school system, not once did I ever hear sorrow, neglect, or regret. I have heard stories of pride, responsibility, and community and what was lost when Black educators were pushed out when Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka decision dismantled the Black educational community.

I would come to understand that Black educators, even those who were more highly qualified and degreed than their counterparts, lost their teaching positions. The roles they had long filled went to white teachers amid school desegregation efforts. Some 38,000 Black teachers were displaced in the South alone in the decade following the Brown decision, research has shown.

In some cases, racist educators refused to hire Black teachers. In others, they were demoted for no good reason, or forced to sit for new licensing exams that, according to Leslie T. Fenwick, the author of “Jim Crow’s Pink Slip,” served a “racist agenda.”

The loss of Black teachers, especially Black males — I would not have a Black male instructor until my senior year of college — has been chronicled in books such as Fenwick’s and “Greater than Equal” by Sarah Caroline Thuesen. This mass displacement had profound effects on communities and the teaching profession, ravaging the Black teacher pipeline for decades to come. The fallout explains why Black teachers are so often underrepresented to this day, Fenwick has said.

Knowing what I know now, I wonder if the outcome would have been different for me if I had not had those Black teachers sprinkled among the exceptional educators who taught me through high school. I know that my opportunity to graduate from college plotted the course for my daughters to do so, which they did.

More than four decades after I graduated high school, I think about how many students in the district I attended — the same district where I now work — may go through the whole K-12 system without ever having a Black teacher. I teach at a high school, and for most of my students, I am the first teacher of color they have ever had, and I don’t get them until their sophomore year.

So 70 years after the Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, the words of the legendary Harlem Renaissance poet Langston Hughes resonate still:

The past has been a mint

Of Blood and sorrow

That must not be

True of Tomorrow

Valencia Ann Abbott is a social studies and history teacher at Rockingham Early College High School in Wentworth, North Carolina, where she was named the school’s 2024-2025 Teacher of the Year. Abbott received the 2024 Civil Rights/Civil Liberties Excellence in Teaching Award from the North Carolina Council for the Social Studies in partnership with the Social Studies School Service.

Want to show teachers you appreciate them? Become a guest educator.

2024-05-09T09:00:00+00:00

I heard an odd sound walking into the school building one day: coo-coo, coo-coo.

Unmistakably, it was a pigeon, but it didn’t sound like it was outside. I walked down the hall to see our dean and a math teacher corralling not one, but two pigeons flying around the hallway. We cooed and cawed ourselves, flapping our arms wildly like predators, and swinging brooms at the light fixtures they perched on for 20 minutes. Finally, both birds made their way out of the open window.

Ronak Shah

Why were there pigeons in the building, you ask? Well, a window had been left open, and the window had no screen. The window was open because our school HVAC system — like many in the district — are too old to keep us cool in our ever-warming summers. Our old buildings have so much deferred maintenance because the property tax revenue that funded it was capped long ago. And even as schools are maintained like castles in some Indianapolis suburbs, the revenue in the city stretches ever thinner across increased transportation costs, inflation, and school safety needs that eclipse the routine maintenance costs anticipated decades ago.

Complexities like this govern our experience as public educators, and the pigeon story is not the wildest tale I could tell. The stakes could never be higher.

How do we help others understand what the day-to-day is like?

For most of us, Teacher Appreciation Week is a bittersweet time. Families, administrators, businesses, and organizations earnestly want to shower love and support on the educators in their community. But few people know what the modern teacher’s experience is really like or even hear stories like the one I just shared. So, every year, this becomes the week where teachers end up swimming in more discounts and donuts than we can stomach.

That’s why a note from someone who notices my impact resonates most. It’s not that I’m fishing for compliments. I love what I do each day as a middle school teacher, and I know that I make a difference, whether or not someone tells me. What’s validating is to hear that someone outside of my classroom has a sense of what’s going on inside of it.

So this year, I’d ask you to go one step further: Be a guest teacher in your local school.

Part of the problem is that what happens in our schools is either invisible or misconstrued to most of the public.

Education is one of the most important pillars of our democracy, and one of the biggest expenses we pay for with our public funds. Yet teachers across the country are constantly subjected to poorly conceived policy decisions that make our jobs harder. These decisions tend to be made by people who haven’t spent more than a few minutes in a classroom since they were a student themselves. I run out of fingers and toes when I count the times an outsider thought that attending high school made them an expert on what’s wrong in education.

Part of the problem is that what happens in our schools is either invisible or misconstrued to most of the public. That then extends to the people that they elect, who typically see schools outside of highly manicured walkthroughs. Understanding the experience of teaching and learning today is a civic responsibility on the same level as voting, jury duty, and filling out a census form.

So this year, I’d love to see people reach out to their local school to see how they can share what they know, or at least to observe what it’s like. This could be as simple as shadowing a teacher or being a guest speaker for a class. But the best way to get the full picture is to spend the full day as a substitute teacher, start to finish, to see what the day holds. (Of course, you’ll need to get a substitute teaching permit, but the requirements are simple.) Even better, try this out in different schools in your area of different types — high schools and elementaries, public and private schools.

I’d love to see local businesses incentivize their employees to teach in a local school for a day. Schools already pay substitute teachers a fixed rate. If the employer fills the gap between the substitute teacher wage and the employee’s salary, the employee can make the same amount that day while taking in a critically important experience. I recognize that it takes courage from the employee and commitment from both the school and the employer. But I can’t think of a better way to show appreciation than to see all sides of a teacher’s daily experience.

And finally, I’d love to see the state think big about how to reconfigure its Teacher Appreciation Grant. This fund currently sends a stipend to teachers around the state rated effective or highly-effective, but only 1% of educators were rated below this, so the amount teachers receive tends to be small and split among so many educators. Moreover, many teachers do not find the evaluation process to be fair. Instead of being tied to effectiveness ratings, why not allocate these funds for teachers who choose to work in schools that are hard to staff? We have so many shortages across the state in specific cities and neighborhoods. The vast majority of states offer this incentive, but Indiana does not.

Happy Teacher Appreciation Week to my fellow teachers. And to those that aren’t, I now think of you as future guest teachers. I can’t wait to see you down the hall, supporting students, sharing what you know, and learning about what’s going on in our schools. So happy Teacher Appreciation Week to you, too.

Ronak Shah is a seventh grade science teacher in Indianapolis and a member of Chalkbeat’s Reader Advisory Board.