Friday, October 25, 2013

This is what leveling feels like.

Today is my last day as a teacher at my current school.  Strange, because my first day was less than 2 months ago...

In the latest moment of instability and money-saving by the School District of Philadelphia, schools went through the leveling process.  On paper, I guess it makes some sort of numbers-sense.  You have a teacher in a school where there are fewer students than the maximum class size specified under the contract.  You have another school where there are not enough teachers to make class size fall under the maximum level.  So, why not just swap them? 

There are a lot of reasons why this isn't just an easy fix type of procedure.  In my life, I can name 80 of them: my students. 

The truth is: Schools don't just work because of a computer program, or another mandated reading program, or a changeover in how teachers write objectives.  Schools work because of the strength of the relationships built up among staff, between staff and students and their parents. And when you destabilize and throw schools into the "churn" (as the Broad Foundation sketches out), is it really any wonder why students are not reaching their potential in the classroom? 

When a principal has to make tough choices to break up classes, consolidate groups of students, and move teachers out of the building, it is incredibly disruptive. But when she has to do it because a Governor is playing politics to break a union and not meet his constitutional duty to provide for a properly funded school system, it is the fallout from something criminal.

This week, I witnessed the fallout (again) of the Budget Crisis as it spread across my students' consciousness.    

They were bewildered: "Why would they take away a teacher who helps me?"
They were confused: "How am I going to get ready for high school without my reading teacher?"
They were angry: "Why do we have to sit in a class with double the students?  It'll be so distracting, and I won't be able to learn."
They were critical: "Isn't there anything we can do to keep you?  We'll write a petition.  We'll write to the governor.  We'll fundraise to keep you."
They were heartbroken: "Please don't leave us. Please!!!!!!"

And they got to work, writing the petition, making signs all over the school, trying to make their case to the principal -- not knowing that it really isn't her fault.  Parents called me and sent notes up to school.  My 7th grade students threw me a surprise going-away party, including buying pizza out of their own 12-year old finances.  I've been pummeled with more hugs than I know what to do with.  (I am literally hiding out right now during my prep period so that I don't run into any more sad children.  I don't know what to do with all of their emotional outpouring.)

My colleagues are amazing, and they'll figure out how to attempt to meet students' needs in a now-even-more-difficult scenario: fewer teachers, larger classsize, still no counselor, not enough special education teachers to fully support students. But it's not going to be easy -- and, trust me, it wasn't easy before, when I was still teaching here. 

But what stands out to me is that yet again, the students in Philadelphia are not getting what they need.  Class size matters, and we should be trying to figure out how to make class size as low as possible, not trying to shave off dollars by cramming as many students together as is contractually allowable. 

Further, the emotional fallout is real.  On my students, who lose teachers every year, and, in truth, are beginning to lose schools every year too.  On parents, who can't build deep relationships to help them feel anchored to a school community.  And to me, and all other teachers being bounced around year-to-year, who have to face sad children who are endlessly getting public goods that they deserve taken away from them at every turn. 

In the end, my students will be fine, just like every other batch of students I've had to leave in all the other schools I've been transferred out of.  And I'll be fine, as I've learned how to always land on my feet.  It is just another moment, on top of all the other moments this school system offer us, of grief for all of us to withstand, survive, and learn from about resilience. 

It's a shame that I have to be the one teaching that lesson. 

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