Announcing The Teacher Project

At the Institute for Educational and Social Justice, we know that stories matter.

Stories told honestly and effectively have the potential to change lives, strengthen communities and, ultimately, transform society.

But we know (and research confirms) that when it comes to telling teachers’ life stories, a void exists.

And because of this void, we don’t know how teachers construct meaning or fully understand how teachers’ core beliefs shape their work with students and families.

In November, we will be working to fill that silence by hosting The Teacher Project, a two-day retreat in Southern California dedicated to the exploration of teachers’ core beliefs and how those beliefs shape the work they do in classrooms, schools and communities.

Our hope is that the stories we hear will not only be personal and unique, but also universal in some ways.

We believe that in current discussions of equity and justice in educational reform, the voices of teachers must be heard and recognized. To ignore teachers’ voices is to silence and de-legitimize not only the teachers’ lives and experiences, but also the lives of the students they serve.

We hope the stories we hear and share remind us all why we entered the teaching or other helping professions, and why, no matter where our professions might take us, teaching and helping others must remain central to our lives and work.

Above all else, we hope the stories we uncover will be real and filled with hope. And it is this hope – and the possibility for change it carries with it -- that provides the foundation for the work we all are doing during undeniably challenging times.

Want to learn more about The Teacher Project or hope to see a similar retreat held in your area? Email us at instituteforedandsocialjustice@gmail.com and include The Teacher Project in your subject line.

Together, we can build a sense of hope and understanding through the power of story.

The I.D. Card

Most days, the green and blue laminated student I.D. from Chattahoochee Valley Community College remains tucked in my purse, almost forgotten.

But then there are those days when I need to be reminded that the work I do as a community college professor matters – that each of the students I work with during the course of the semester has a story, just like the ever-smiling woman on the student I.D. card.

That is when I pull out the I.D. card of my mother-in-law, look at her smiling, unchanged photo, her perfectly applied lipstick and her carefully shaped hair, and I remember all that her journey at a Phenix City, Ala. community college meant to her.

I remind myself of the stories she has told me about returning to school back in the late 1980s. She was in her late 40s at that point, divorced with three children and eager to make a new start for herself.

She learned not just how to turn on a computer, but how to use is. She struggled through classes in technology and algebra and along the way discovered she loved sketching and found the music of some of the great composers to be both soothing and inspiring.

Not long after the fall of 1990, despite all her hard work and academic success, my mother-in-law allowed a less than noble man to sidetrack her and she stopped short of receiving her degree.

Two decades later, believed to be in remission after spending a year in a grueling, ugly battle with esophagus cancer, her days at Chattahoochee Valley were still on her mind. She ordered the college catalog and copies of her transcript, and had selected the first courses she would take.

She called me, excited by her plans: “They told me I can still do this. I am going to get that degree. Some people may say that I am too old but I don’t care. I think it’s important.”

Before she could enroll, she discovered the cancer that had already battered her body had not only returned, but spread.

She was never able to finish her degree. But until her dying day, that shortcoming was one of her biggest regrets.

Every now and then, I see older students in my class. Early on, they often laugh nervously, as though they need to apologize for even being on the rolls.

“I’m older than the professor!” they sometimes announce, not so much meaning to question my authority or expertise, but just speaking out of their own discomfort.

They make jokes about how electricity wasn’t around when they were in high school. Or how the dinosaur they rode in on is standing at the ready in the parking lot.

But most of the time, after this initial discomfort, these same students excel. They ask questions that make me and their classmates think. They tell stories that make us all laugh – or cry. And they remind us all that learning is not something we do just to earn a piece of paper, but to build a better, more meaningful life.

And on those days when they do seem to be dragging – forgetting why they are there or not seeing all that they offer to their classmates, I quietly pull out Shirley’s I.D. card. And I tell them the story of her deepest regret.

And so, even two months after the end of her battle with cancer, Shirley is teaching people – helping to educate them.

I think she would like that …..

For more information on the work of community colleges to educate the nation’s over-50 learners, click here.

Spotlight on Public Education

The nation’s attention continues to be tugged toward matters of public education, thanks in part to the documentary Waiting for Superman and the appearance of a number of educators on Oprah this week.

Monday, President Barack Obama will follow suit, sitting down with NBC’s Matt Lauer for a half-hour interview exclusively on education issues.

The decision of the president to grant an interview on a single issue is an unusual one, and shows that he is eager to discuss his education policy and to continue considering how policymakers and others might work together to improve education for all students.

Will a 30-minute TV interview transform public education in America? No.

But we believe it’s still a potentially important step in the process.

What do you hope that Matt Lauer asks the President? What do you hope to hear the President say?

Forgotten Stories

There’s a story we’ve forgotten about, I think. It’s easy to forget stories that are silenced by circumstance and hidden by shame. Just like it’s easy to remember stories that make us happy.

No one wants to talk about kids who kill themselves (or each other). It’s uncomfortable stuff – not the kind of conversation that flows easily around most dinner tables. Do you have a dinner table? Many people – tonight – will have neither a dinner nor a table. I told you it was uncomfortable stuff.

No one wants to talk about the children who get lost in the system. It’s hard not to cry when you are sitting next to three teenage boys, on a water break during a basketball game, and the conversation turns from who has the best jump shot to when they think their parents are going to get out of jail. They don’t cry. At least not on the basketball court.

Unless they are five-years-old, not able to decipher the difference between their friends running to the other side of the court with the basketball and their mothers running away from them. You could tell them that, most likely, their mothers are running away from themselves, not their children. But they are five-years-old. And they might not understand. Or they might. But what you come to understand in that moment is that five-year-olds can cry on basketball courts for reasons that have nothing to do with skinning their knees.

So often we do not want to think about the forgotten stories – but when these stories are our children, I think the urgency to act should fill some sort of need in us. To be human. To be connected to each other. To be compassionate.

Thank you for stopping by. If this is your first visit to our blog, please read this to find out a little bit more about who we are and what we do. If you find the conversations on this blog relevant to your life and the work that you do, please subscribe to our feed, follow us on Facebook, and/or join in the conversation via the comments section.

“This Is Not My Home.”

The van pulls into the parking lot of the group home and the cries from the three-year-old in the back seat drown out the voices of the other children. As she kicks her legs and pounds her fists, her incessant cries of “this is NOT my home” silence everyone around her.

In the way only a young child sometimes can, she has put into words what all the other kids in the van are feeling, but rarely express in words themselves.

This is not their home.

This is only the place they have ended up, through no fault of their own.

This is the place they have ended up because their brother is in jail, or their father sexually abused them, or their mother died in a car accident yesterday, their grandfather abused them, and there is nowhere else for them to go.

When it comes to issues of educational and social justice, sometimes all the rhetoric, research, public policy, and history fall short in the face of the stark reality and the pain of a three-year-old who knows that she is not going home.

Most of us will never know what it is like to be three years old, wanting our mother and knowing that although we don’t know where she is, she won’t be there to answer our cries.

Most of us will never know her pain.

And this is why I believe we cannot talk about educational and social justice without listening to the voices and telling the stories of the most marginalized in our society – the ones who, most of the time, do not have a say in issues that affect their lives deeply.

We need to listen to their cries, honor their stories, protect their lives.

And we need to create avenues of hope.

Everyone deserves a chance to dream.

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The Summer Slide

Summer camps.

Swimming.

Lazy afternoons spent playing Legos, reading or drawing.

This is how many of our middle class students will recall the summer break that is now drawing to a close nationwide.

But the reality is that summer didn’t look like this for many of America’s children.

Instead, many children and teens spent the summer languishing on the couch, eating whatever happened to be in the refrigerator and watching whatever happened to be on TV.

In some cases, children were trapped behind closed doors because their neighborhoods are unsafe. In other instances, students simply were uninspired to get off the couch and did not have an adult around to encourage that movement.

The academic implications of such mind-numbing, wasted summers are serious. And this is particularly true for low-income children

According to information compiled by the Johns Hopkins University’s Center for Summer Learning, middle-income students typically experience slight gains in reading performance during the summer, while low-income students generally experience a summer learning loss of about two months in reading.

Many students also lose ground in math, dropping more than 2.5 months of grade level equivalency during the summer.

These summer losses are believed to contribute to the achievement gap that exists between low-income students and their more affluent peers. This is because research shows both low-income and middle-income students seem to gain ground at similar rates during the school year, but then low income students post summer learning losses during the elementary years, while middle class children often make moderate gains.

Now that this summer has drawn to a close, what might we, as educational and social justice advocates, do to begin preparing for next summer, so the so-called summer slide is not repeated?

There is some recent evidence that providing books and other educational materials to low-income students might be helpful. How can we work to provide these materials to students? What can you begin planning now, so that next summer will be different?

Would donating to a reputable summer camp that serves low-income students be helpful? What about taking children you know who spend too much time in front of the TV to the zoo, a museum, science center or other brain-boosting place? What role might technology play in actually battling the summer slide? How might local libraries, community centers, churches and others in the community help address the problem?

Who needs to come together to make some of these improvement possible? What is your part? Where do you, as an advocate for educational and social justice, go from here?

Thank you for stopping by. If this is your first visit to our blog, please read this to find out a little bit more about who we are and what we do. If you find the conversations on this blog relevant to your life and the work that you do, please subscribe to our feed, follow us on Facebook, and/or join in the conversation via the comments section.

"Ladies Can Be Governors."

My six-year-old daughter scanned the black-and-white photographs of the governors of Texas displayed inside the historic Capitol building, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Why are all these pictures men? Can ladies be governors, too?” the questions were followed by a pause, as she searched my eyes for an answer. Then, the more central question: “Can I be governor?”

I quickly assured her she could, indeed, be the leader of Texas – or any other state. But my assurances on their own were apparently not enough -- my Hannah, ever the practical one, wanted hard proof.

So we went off in search of evidence, winding through the capitol rotunda. I showed her a photograph of Miriam “Ma” Ferguson, the second woman ever to be elected governor in the U.S. After that, we made our way to a photograph of former governor Ann W. Richards.

Hannah quietly took out her purple and orange kiddie camera and took several pictures of both Richards and Ferguson. “I’ll look at these and know that ladies can be governors. I like that.”

And I liked it, too, although I was disconcerted that at six, my daughter already is questioning whether she can truly do the same things that men do.

Hannah’s reaction to all those black-and-white photographs of stern-looking white men got me thinking about the need that children have to see themselves represented in the world around them.

This is a need that many of us recognize intuitively, or from our own experience as children and young adults trying to make sense of life. In other cases, we recognize the need because we are familiar with the research.

So, what do we do with this awareness?

How do we ensure that children see people who look like them represented favorably in books, in the media, in school and community leadership? What about in the stories that are told and the jokes that they hear?

What do we do in cases where we know that positive representation is not happening? How do we advocate for groups that are underrepresented? And what is our own responsibility to serve in leadership when leadership voids exist?

Some Links to Explore:

Texas women in history

List of all female governors

Thank you for stopping by. If this is your first visit to our blog, please read this to find out a little bit more about who we are and what we do. If you find the conversations on this blog relevant to your life and the work that you do, please subscribe to our feed, follow us on Facebook, and/or join in the conversation via the comments section.

Student Leadership Institute

Back in July we were co-consultants at the Student Leadership Institute in Guthersville, Alabama, where we had the opportunity to work with the always-incredible Keith L. Brown and his I'm Possible team. Although words cannot possibly express the energy of the three-day experience, here's a reflection I wrote back in July that begins to put some of my thoughts onto the page.

This I believe. That everyone has a story to tell. This I know. That sometimes the need for change is so strong and so compelling that you cannot help but act. And act now. And act with a forcefulness and a purpose that says – we cannot wait. We must act. We must act with intention and with love. Always with love. And always with an understanding of the awesomeness of our responsibility and our charge.

Reflecting on the past few days, my heart and mind are so full – with possibility, with excitement, with thankfulness. I am reminded that sometimes I leave home with the intention of doing my part to change the world. And sometimes I return home knowing that the world has changed me, inspired me, rejuvenated me.

All people deserve to know their “why” – why they wake up in the morning, why they live. Empowerment is a powerful, transformative thing. Thinking of all the lives we, as a team, helped transform this past week, I am also humbled by the way my “why” was transformed in the process.

Thank you for stopping by. If this is your first visit to our blog, please read this to find out a little bit more about who we are and what we do. If you find the conversations on this blog relevant to your life and the work that you do, please subscribe to our feed, follow us on Facebook, and/or join in the conversation via the comments section.

Reflections on Katrina

This past weekend, the nation took time to remember a particularly dark chapter in our recent history: Hurricane Katrina.

The news coverage, generally, focused on the ongoing recovery that is underway not only in New Orleans, but all along the Gulf Coast – a Gulf Coast that also was hit hard, both ecologically and economically, by this year’s oil spill.

In the Houston Chronicle’s Sunday coverage of the five-year anniversary of the day the levees broke in New Orleans, one sentence stood out to me:

“There also was a curious breed of newcomer, people who saw the catastrophe on TV and came not to capitalize on misfortune and to make a buck, but with a sense of mission.”

In the aftermath of Katrina, thousands of people left their own homes and familiar lives behind, and settled into life in a new, often unfamiliar place, where basic resources were sometimes hard to come by and the work that needed to be done was – and continues to be, in some cases – beyond overwhelming.

Sometimes, stories and images grip our very core, forcing us to step out of our comfort zones and to take action.

Maybe it means we do something as dramatic as quit our jobs and relocate to an area because we know we simply cannot ignore a gaping need.

In other cases, we choose to make a financial sacrifice and donate to an organization that we know is meeting an urgent need or solving a problem. Other times, we devote ourselves to a cause for a week, a weekend, or a few hours a week or month over the long-term.

How we choose to reach out varies, depending on circumstances including where we are in our own life and how we are able and equipped to give.

But the important thing – and the thing that gives so many hope in the midst of overwhelming tragedy – is that we are capable of continuing to be touched and changed by those stories and images.

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This Work Matters

This work matters. It ebbs and it flows and it matters always.

This work flows in on the tears of a frustrated fifteen-year-old who is in a foster home unable to be with her nine-month-old son, who is in a different foster home, in a different county, wondering where his mommy is.

This work lingers in the hearts of everyone who believes that care is not a four-letter word, and hope cannot be packaged and delivered with scantrons and some sharpened number 2 pencils.

And it flows out on the silenced cries of so many teachers who know, in their hearts, that to secure a more hopeful future for the young people we serve we need to listen to what they have to say and advocate for them when they lack the voice.

This work matters.

This work matters because we cannot expect those who have the most power to lead, and we cannot expect those who are the most marginalized to blindly follow.

Thank you for stopping by. If this is your first visit to our blog, please read this to find out a little bit more about who we are and what we do. If you find the conversations on this blog relevant to your life and the work that you do, please subscribe to our feed, follow us on Facebook, and/or join in the conversation via the comments section.