Guest Blogger Pérsida Himmele

I remember a conversation that I had with my dad. It was short, mostly one-sided, and incredibly memorable. With a thick Spanish accent, and a somewhat intimidating look, my dad asked, "Pérsida, to what college you go?"

Even though he had only graduated from eighth grade, he had figured something out: You don't get very far in life without a college education.

Because of that, he asked the same question to all seven of his children. Though we lived in the poorest neighborhood, surrounded by rampant drug use, teen pregnancy, and violence, we all followed through on his expectations for us. Our highest earned degrees consist of two PhDs, two master's degrees, one theology degree, one bachelor's degree, and one high school diploma (earned by my sister, who has special needs). Our success was no accident.

I am currently an associate professor in a teacher-preparation program, and one of the things that my students will hear from me is that "parents are the silver bullet." I encourage them to do whatever they need to do to help parents see the importance of their role in their children's education. We need to help parents in high-poverty areas understand that their expectations with regard to their kids' schooling will likely determine their children's future.

(On a side note, I know of teachers who have stepped in to be the "silver bullet" in the individual lives of kids. In most cases it took moving beyond the boundaries of the traditional classroom and winning over the hearts of students and helping them believe that they were, in fact, capable of more.)

There is a growing body of literature that puts all of the blame on poverty. When it comes to those with whom I have had contact (mostly Black and Latino urban poor), I think that the blame is misplaced. It's very easy to say, "Poverty is the problem." The danger is that schools will see it as something that they can't control. Even well-meaning teachers can only do so much about such a complex societal problem.

What I believe is the bigger issue is the lack of parental access to information regarding their children's future. Many parents are unaware of the statistics that show that a child's chance for success is greatly diminished without immediate parental intervention and academic pressures at home. While lack of access to this information is indeed linked to poverty, it's controllable.

Do the parents in high-poverty areas know that the schools can't educate their children alone? Do parents of children at-risk know that the odds are against their children, unless they start pressuring their children to do well in school, and pressuring the school to do well by their child? Do Latino and Black families know that in some urban programs, their children's chances for completing high school are less than 50 percent? Do they realize that if their child drops out he or she will be working twice as hard for less than half the pay as compared to their college-bound friends? Do they know that a dropout is eight times more likely to end up in prison than a high school graduate?

Parents need to realize the key lesson that organizations like the Parent Institute for Quality Education (PIQE) teach us: A parent does not need to have experienced academic success to ensure it for their own children.

So when I get the golden opportunity to talk to parents in high-poverty areas, I don't hold back. I tell them, "Here are your choices. Your kids can work twice as hard for a little while, or they will work twice as hard for the rest of their lives."

I also tell them, "For a limited time, the decision of whether or not your child will graduate high school and go on to college is almost entirely yours. But the time is coming when steering your children's future will become a whole lot more complicated."

That is what is often not being said at Back to School Night, and that is what needs to be said at Back to School Night—from the time the child is in kindergarten through his high school years. And it helps if it's coming from a voice that represents parents' race and language, and who can relate to their neighborhood experiences. But if you can't manage that, just copy and paste some of these words onto a slide and tell them I said it—a Puerto Rican raised in poverty, who, along with six siblings, beat the odds. Our dad left us no choice.

Pérsida Himmele is an associate professor in the education department at Millersville University in southeastern Pennsylvania. She is a former K-8 teacher in bilingual and multilingual classrooms in New York and southern California. She and her husband coauthored the ASCD bestselling book, Total Participation Techniques: Making Every Student an Active Learner, and the book The Language-Rich Classroom: A Research-based Framework for Teaching English Language Learners.

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 5:26 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

There are some careers I know I could never do—and being a police officer is one of them. Pulling over total strangers in cars with tinted windows in the middle of nowhere, in the blackness of night ... just the thought of it makes me wince in fear. The sight of blue lights twirling in my rear view mirror sends me into a silent panic and I don't exhale until the cop car whizzes by me. Let's not talk about the guns.

So when I thanked a random cop the other day for his service, I was a bit surprised at what he said. He asked me if I was flirting with him! I said no, and I pointed to my husband who was only a few feet from ear shot. The cop was in uniform—and yes he was quite handsome—so I didn't know whether to laugh, be offended, or ashamed.

We were both waiting for our orders in a crowded burger joint, and I decided to strike up a conversation—something I did regularly in my old reporting days. The police officer, who looked in his late 30s, early 40s, told me that no one ever thanks him for what he does so he assumed that I had an ulterior motive. (Ladies, he apparently has serious trust issues.)

He said he felt like he had one of the most under-appreciated jobs in the city of Chicago. He said police are often blamed for the city's crime problem, though they put their lives on the lines to stop it.

Then he asked me what I did for a living, and that's when our 10-minute conversation got even more interesting.

This macho-man police officer immediately said that he could never be a teacher. He explained that he is often called to schools because of student fights and other altercations, and he has no tolerance for disrespectful kids. He said that as a police officer he can get in the kids' faces and tell them the hard things they need to hear, and he can even rough them up when they need it, but as a teacher his hands would be tied.

Teachers have to speak softly to unruly children, he said. Teachers have to resist the urge to grab a kid by the collar and hem them up to the wall. Teachers have to try to teach the students who really want to learn alongside those who don't, and that would drive him crazy. And all those papers teachers have to grade after work ...

He went on and on. Teachers have it hard, way harder than cops, he concluded.

Wow. I really couldn't do much but listen. I suppose if I was called to a school only during times of crisis I might share his impression of what it's like to be a teacher. Likewise, considering the extreme nature of a policeman's job, I think I would be the most cowardly cop in the department. I'd ask to see a staff shrink every other day.

Still, Officer Friendly didn't convince me: Working with victims, criminals, and the accused every day has to be much more stressful than teaching children—even wayward children—in a school.

Teaching is hard, but it can also be great fun. Each day, teachers dare to take our students to worlds of knowledge unknown. Teachers are innovative; we use our intellectual and emotional powers to build strong connections with students so we don't feel the need to throw them up against a wall, even when they act out. But teachers also have to know our limits; there may be times when we need to call the police on a student and not feel bad about it.

By the end of the conversation, the cop who I had thanked was now profusely thanking me. And no, he wasn't flirting. At that point, he had already seen my tall, dark, strong, and sexy husband.

Happy Teacher Appreciation Week!

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 1:38 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

When my younger sister took a job at a prominent suburban high school, one of the most affluent schools in Illinois, she couldn't believe her eyes. Students received Porsches and Mercedes Benzes for their 16th birthdays and parked them in the school's parking lot. They had house parties at their mansions that rivaled an inaugural ball. In fact, the school built a million dollar digital music studio and radio station on its sprawling campus because the students wanted one.

One time, the students asked my sister to teach a dance class after school to prepare them for prom. After some back and forth with the administration about pay, my sister told the students that she wouldn't be able to teach the class. They were livid.

The kids complained to the school administration, who in turn chastised my sister. "Don't ever tell our students what they can't have," they told her. "They can have whatever they want. We just have to figure out how to give it to them."

That's the definition of privilege. While many of these "privileged" kids suffered from depression, suicidal thoughts, and drug addiction, the message they consistently received at home and school was that they deserved the very best.

Most of my students, and other students in poor communities across America, get told the exact opposite—though words are rarely used. They live in food deserts, where the only place they can buy their milk and eggs is at the local gas station or the corner candy store. Their school's playground equipment is 30 years old, rusty and unsafe. Even the special education services they are mandated to receive by federal law come intermittently because there are too many kids on one teacher's caseload.

That was my life when I was coming up. And because of it, I still find myself asking, "Am I good enough?"

I suppose rich white kids from the suburbs and poor black kids from the ghetto may both ask that question, but for different reasons. Even today, I have to actively defy my internal default response that's set to "No!"

When a leadership position at my school opens up, I battle within myself as to whether I have the skills to do the job. But then I watch a 25 year old with only three years of teaching experience waltz in and confidently own the position. That's what privilege will do for you.

And privilege exalts privilege. Before you know it, everybody who has grown up in privilege is your boss and those who haven't are your co-workers. And if those who aren't privileged do finally become your boss, they have battle scars and harrowing stories about their rise to the top.

Hiring qualified people from low economic, minority backgrounds may seem riskier for employers. While anyone hired to a new position will need a measure of mentoring, I imagine that people from my side of the tracks might appear to be a bigger investment; after all, we often require more time and effort to norm ourselves to the dominate, privileged culture.

The intangible qualities like our life experiences, diversity of thought, or ability to relate to other disadvantaged people are too often dimmed by the color of our skin, the ethnic pronunciation of our names, and all the negative stereotypes that go along with it.

I watched in amazement as the students at Lane Tech High School in Chicago staged a heated protest over a book the district abruptly pulled from the suggested reading list. The protest was covered by both metropolitan newspapers and the evening news. The students were outraged that their right to be taught from a particular book in school was retracted; after all there is such a thing as freedom of the press.

Lane Tech is a selective enrollment school, which means that only top-scoring teenagers in the city can earn the right to attend there. These students, like the ones at my sister's former school, take great pride in their privilege.

When the hoopla was over, the school district put the book back on the list.

All this was occurring at the same time CPS had 149 schools on the list of potential closures. The district finally announced its decision to shutter 54 neighborhood schools because they are "underutilized" and underperforming. This move will affect more than 30,000 students in the city, causing many of the kids to walk twice as far to school, through rival gang territory.

Parents, students and teachers shouted, cried, and pleaded at hearings upon hearings, and protest upon protest, asking the district not to close the schools. Almost all of these schools are located in poor, minority neighborhoods. No privilege. No voice.

Mayor Rahm Emanuel says he is doing it to help the community and the schools—communities he'll never live in and schools his children will never attend. The new CEO Barbara Byrd-Bennett asked, "Where were the parent protests when the schools were underperforming?" How condescending.

I have done Christian missionary work on and off for years, and rule number one is to never think that you are better than the people you are trying to help. The advancements you bring to the community must be in collaboration with the community, not forced onto them; otherwise, your good intentions will inevitably fail.

I grew up on welfare checks and food stamps. In fact, I still live in the 'hood! Several of my brothers and sisters were laid off during the recession, and they are still unemployed. I am not ashamed of who I am. I am not ashamed of my family. So why do I sometimes still ask, "Am I good enough?"

Last year I was nominated for a Bammy Award for excellence in teaching in the category of "Education Commentator/Blogger." I was too embarrassed to ask anyone to go online to vote for me. I told myself, You don't deserve it. You'll never win. It was a self-fulling prophesy.

I attended the black-tie ceremony in Washington, D.C. It was distinguished and elegant. But it wasn't very diverse; only one or two people of color graced the stage to receive an award out of about two dozen. I accepted partial blame because I didn't advocate for myself.

I was honored with another nomination this year, and things have changed. I'm no longer ashamed to ask you to please vote for me!

The best way for me to answer the question, "Am I good enough?" is to consider my daughters, my husband, my mom, my friends, my church—my God—and I have no other choice but to answer "Of course!" If I don't believe in myself, how then can I truly love and respect the people in my life? They are my joy and reason for living.

I suppose for many people, they never reach that conclusion. Perhaps that's why there is so much killing on the impoverished side of town.

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 1:55 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

"There was blood and feces everywhere," my niece said, explaining the strange turn of events in her 6th period art class. She had a substitute teacher that day so she knew her class would be off task, but she was not prepared for what actually happened.

Her 15-year-old classmate felt her water break 15 minutes into the class. The female sub called for the principal, who quickly took off her blazer and rolled up her sleeves. Another classmate ran to get the girl's boyfriend, a senior. He held his screaming girlfriend's hand. The paramedics arrived, lifting the girl from the floor to the gurney. By then, most of the students were put out of the room. My niece stayed. She saw the anguish. She smelled the stench. She heard the baby girl's first cry.

My niece went to her 6th period art and witnessed the act of childbirth. It happened to them.

This story is real. It occurred in a Chicago high school earlier this month. The pregnant girl came to school despite feeling contractions on the bus that morning. She attended class, despite being a week past her due date. To add to her misery, my niece told me, the teen mom was on Twitter from her hospital bed, trying to fend off nasty jokes and comments about her.

I'm just one person, but I have a large family. Many of my relatives are school-aged children being educated in Chicago Public Schools and districts in the surrounding suburbs. In fact, this year alone, four of my relatives will graduate from 8th grade. When I talk to my nieces, nephews, cousins and adopted younger brothers, I get an ear-full about the trauma and drama occurring in their schools. To quote Marvin Gaye, it's enough to "make me want to holler and throw up both my hands."

Just last month, my two nephews' and two younger brothers' elementary school was placed on soft lock-down. The police were called, and the media reported on it. The black principal had fired her white male science teacher for an undisclosed reason, and on his way out he called the students the n-word and said he wanted to shoot them all. Bomb threat.

My sister ran up to the school in a panic, hoping our four little ones were safe. They were safe physically, but not psychologically. They couldn't understand why their teacher hated them and wished they were dead. It happened to them.

I have a handsome young cousin who is as upstanding as they come. He's a junior at a high school in the near-western suburbs of Chicago. As a community service project, the school organized a blood drive for the teachers, staff and seniors who were at least 18 years old. The event was a huge success, but it was a devastating blow to others. After the donated blood was tested, 20 seniors learned that they were HIV positive. It happened to them.

My first and most-read blog post called "Haunting Words to Inspire Every Teacher," was all about these four words: It. Happened. To. Them. Despite our frustrations and disappointments as educators—and there are many—it's the students who suffer the most when the educational system breaks down. Thirty years from now, we will be immortal characters in our students' personal essays: Will we be the heroes, the villains, or the bystanders?

Schools are microcosms of society. Despite our best efforts, the problems of this world seep in through the very mortar of the school's brick walls. We may not be able to "fix" students or their problems, but our job is to at least keep hope on the table.

Teenage pregnancy, cyberbullying, racism, violence, and HIV infection became very real to the kids in my family this year. And as big as my family is, it pales in comparison to the millions of public school children in America. Many of these kids can also tell similar painful life lessons learned while at school, and that's one of the reasons why one-third of American teenagers drop out.

We try so hard to teach academic content that we often miss the opportunities to actually listen to and validate our students. I am guilty at times.

This blog post is intended to encourage all school professionals to take moments in the day, every day, to recall the phrase that centers our perspective on the humanity of our students: "It happened to them."

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 12:14 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

Seven = The number of years I have been a Chicago Public School teacher.

Three = The number of years I predicted I would be a CPS teacher.

One = The number of principals it took to convince me that a career within CPS was sustainable and rewarding.

I spent a year of my post-college life working in a stuffy Chicago high rise, analyzing demographics and creating spreadsheets for an advertising agency. I quickly realized that spending a lifetime in front of a computer screen was not for me. In revamping my career, I harnessed my life-long passion for children and learning and decided to pursue teaching. Through an alternative certification program, I received my M.Ed. and began teaching at Hitch Elementary School on Chicago's northwest side.

My certification program required that I serve in Chicago Public Schools for three years, after which I assumed I'd move to the suburbs. I grew up in a suburban community outside of Detroit where the schools enjoyed outstanding resources and were some of the best in the country. Spoiled by this educational utopia of my childhood, I cringed when I first set foot in a CPS school. Large class sizes. Limited resources. Run-down facilities. Family and friends shared my expectation of a short stay within the system.

But it didn't turn out that way, and my principal, Deborah Reese, is the reason I am still a CPS teacher. We've all heard stories of lackluster supervisors—the one who makes you panic as her heels clink in the hallway because your classroom is disheveled or your data charts aren't updated. Or there's the detached principal who avoids entering your classroom and steers clear of any interaction with her staff. For me, this was never the case.

In fact, in the seven years I have been teaching at my school only two teachers have chosen to leave.

It appears that some CPS schools—and indeed, many urban schools nationwide—have become "revolving doors." Teachers frequently grow unhappy and leave the school, the system, or even the career altogether. About half of urban teachers leave the classroom within three years.

But I walk through the halls and see the same faces I saw 7 years ago. Why? Because my principal treats us with respect and values our contributions.

Through the recent recession there were several years in which teaching positions, including my own, were in danger of being cut at my school. However, year after year, my principal reallocated funds to ensure no positions were lost. In fighting for our jobs, my principal created an incomparable sense of loyalty, community, and unity at my school. When you find that in a job, you stay committed to that job.

In addition to ensuring she has the funds to pay us, my principal also retains teachers by recognizing our talents and challenging us with new opportunities. During my third year, I was confronted with a 3rd/4th grade split. To learn the scaffolding knowledge this position demanded, I attended a workshop on differentiation. Differentiation techniques soon became my passion. Rather than overlook my newfound passion and knowledge, my principal offered me a position on my school's RTI (Response to Intervention) team, where I could use these skills to benefit even more students.

During my fifth year, I found that I had a knack for analyzing progress-monitoring data. I loved researching ways to help our school make gains in weak areas. To reward my investigations, my principal invited me to join my school's ILT (Instructional Leadership Team). These positions, among others, have given me the sense of pride I needed to feel valued at my school.

According to the 2009 CALDER Urban Institute report called "The Influence of School Administrators on Teacher Retention Decisions," satisfaction with school leadership is the most important school-based factor affecting teachers' overall satisfaction with teaching, as well as their decision to stay or leave.

Unfortunately, not all of my colleagues across the district have experienced the support of an effective leader. One friend who teaches on the west side of Chicago claims that before the new Framework for Teaching evaluation system, her principal entered her classroom a total of one time in the span of a year. The motive behind the unexpected visit was to interrogate the teacher on claims of harassment from a student's parent. The teacher was never given an opportunity to present her side to the story.

Another teacher attributes her lack of leadership opportunities to her principal's strong friendships with other teachers in the school. Year after year, the same teachers are offered opportunities for leadership when my friend, a skilled educator continuously proving her expertise in collaborative learning, is overlooked. I fear that similar stories of shortcomings in the areas of ongoing feedback and leadership opportunities run rampant through our district.

Unfortunately, my seventh year will be my last at Hitch. This summer I will relocate to Charlotte, NC, where my boyfriend has accepted a new job. Had we remained in Chicago, I believe I would've lived out my teaching career as a Hitch Husky thanks to my principal.

Teachers want to feel valued, empowered, and surrounded by an amazing community of educators. A strong principal is critical in achieving this success, which I believe every teacher deserves. I feel lucky to have had the fortune of working with a remarkable principal who advanced my career and nurtured my passion for teaching. I hope every teacher has the same opportunity at some point in his or her career.

Years ago, I expected to leave CPS after a few short years with a skip in my step. Instead, I will leave with a tear in my eye.

Photo provided by Whitney Bubenzer

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 6:39 AM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

Numbers don't lie, people do. Mayor Rahm Emanuel and schools CEO Barbara Byrd-Bennett have been promising enormous savings to Chicago Public Schools if they are allowed to close 54 schools.

I'm not a statistician, but I do basic math just fine. My calculations show that it would take two and a half years before the school closures saved CPS just 1.8 percent of its operating budget.

A recent press release from the CPS sought to refute my doubts: CPS will save $560 million in capital funds over the next decade. It will also save $43 million annually in operations costs, for a total of $430 million over 10 years.

Let's do the math:

• $560 million + $430 million = $990 million over 10 years

• This equates to a savings of about $90 million per year, which is 1.8 percent of the district's $4.87 billion operating budget.

• CPS will add $240 million in costs THIS year for school consolidation services, air conditioning, etc.

Now take into account the following:

• CPS closed $1.4 billion in shortfall last two fiscal years by slashing central office staff and programming, raising property taxes, draining its reserves fund, etc.

• The school system faces $1 billion in shortfall come July 1, 2013 for fiscal year 2014.

• The new teacher contract will cost $295 million over four years—$103 million in first year.

• CPS must also make a $330 million overdue pension payment in 2014.

In all, CPS needs to find $1.43 billion by THIS coming July.

The Illinois Board of Education requires CPS to submit a balanced budget or attach a three-year deficit reduction plan that is monitored closely by the state agency.

CPS can also borrow money and refinance debt to meet its obligation.

Humm ... CPS needs $1.43 billion by July so it decides to close 54 schools in June—disorienting 30,000 low-income, minority children and enraging city residents—so that in two to three years (when the initial invest of $240 million breaks even) the district can save $90 million a year for ten years?

That logic is tantamount to me having a $1,430 bill due, charging $240 on a credit card to hire a consultant to tell me how to save $90 a year towards my debt for the next ten years.

Neither of these scenarios makes sound economic sense!

So I'm left to wonder, What does CPS really have up its sleeve? The district is obviously not being transparent about how it plans to attack its deep debt problem. We know what its five-month plan is—closing 54 schools, co-locating 11 others, turning around six. But we also know that the closures would do nothing to fix the district's immediate money mess.

What is the district's one-year strategic plan? Its three-year, five-year, and 10-year plan?

Here's what I think (and I hope I am wrong): Educators need to brace for massive teacher layoffs.

CPS has already warned its charter schools to prepare for a 15 percent cut in funding in the fall. In May, the mayor-appointed school board will to take a final vote on the closure of about 15 percent of the district's schools.

In the past two fiscal years, the system has managed to close deficits totaling $1.4 billion while leaving the classroom mostly untouched. The district turned its central office staff into a skeleton crew, slashing a significant amount of programming, as well. The city also raised property taxes to the legal maximum and pulled millions of tax revenue from the Tax Increment Financing (TIF) fund. Some teachers were laid-off, but the pain was more of a district-wide pinch than a T.K.O.

Today, the areas for large painless cuts are few. And since neither Emanuel nor Byrd-Bennett have offered concrete sources for new revenue, there aren't many options left for filling the district's billion dollar budget hole.

Alas, the teachers!

It won't feel any better to blame the budget crisis for hundreds of teacher pink slips rather than the school closings. In fact, it would only serve to reveal the lie that the schools closing—the largest ever to be performed in any American district—was designed to save the budget.

Never mind the school closures' steep racial implications:

• About 88 percent the children who must move schools are black and nine percent are Hispanic.

• A large number of the schools that are set to close are named after prominent African American historical figures including Crispus Attucks, Jesse Owens, Marcus Garvey, Benjamin Banneker, Mahalia Jackson, Garrett Morgan, and Mary McLeod Bethune.

• White students make up only eight percent of the district's student population, but 34 percent of the city's top five selective-enrollment high schools.

Closing 54 schools may make CPS more manageable by having fewer buildings to govern, but it won't help the district reduce a dime of its immediate debt. In fact, based on the numbers, the resources CPS provides to schools may have to decrease in the coming years.

In fairness to the Emanuel, he recently said he didn't decide to close schools based on "numbers on a spreadsheet." He said the school closings are intended to increase the quality of education across the city more than to save a buck. While his sentiments are laudable, large savings were indeed touted to justify the urgent need to close dozens of schools. Downplaying the fiscal impact now only raises the suspicion and distrust.

Forcing kids to across into a rival gang territory to get to school could be extremely dangerous. With students' safety at stake, the discourse surrounding these closures needed to be honest, transparent, and beyond reproach. It wasn't. The numbers are in, and the cost-saving argument simply doesn't add up.

The Chicago Teachers Union, education advocacy groups, and upset parents are preparing to file lawsuits and engage in acts of civil disobedience. Tensions are high, and I suspect some protests could get ugly.

**Art by Lindsay Johnson added 4/28/13. She pictures Mayor Rahm Emanuel and CPS CEO Barbara Byrd-Bennett trying to fix their rickety raft while unknowingly heading toward an iceberg.

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 10:59 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

UPDATE 3/21/13 8:43pm: Chicago Public Schools announced this evening that it will close a total of 61 elementary schools. "Fifty-four Chicago public schools are slated to close. Eleven will be co-locations and 6 schools are turnarounds-making for a total of 71 school actions (abcnews.com). I am in disbelief!

UPDATE 3/21/13 2:36pm: Shortly after publishing this post, news reports said that Chicago Public Schools had decided it would close 50 schools. An official announcement has not yet been made. Stay tuned...

This school year could be the last for about 14 percent of traditional pubic schools in Chicago. Below is a list of statistics that are associated with this impending decision:

* More than 100,000 vacant student seats exist in the school system.

* About 20 percent of the 535 district schools are half empty, and another 25 percent are considered "under-utilized."

* CPS faces a $1 billion budget deficit, plus its $340 million pension payment is almost due.

* Illinois Gov. Pat Quinn proposed a state budget that cuts $278 million from elementary and high schools to pay into the public pension system that's $97 billion underfunded.

* Up to 80 schools in the city could be forced to close.

* As many as 43,000 students may have to find a new school.

* March 31st is the deadline for announcing the final list.

Meanwhile, charter schools, like mine, will be virtually unaffected.

* There are 110 charter schools in Chicago.

* Every charter school is full, with a collective 10,000 students on the waiting list at any given time.

* Last year, the district announced plans to open 60 charter schools in the city over the next five years.

* Since 2001, the parental demand for charter schools has risen substantially every year.

Considering the statistics above, it makes sense that people are asking, "Is Chicago Public Schools closing traditional schools to make room for more charters?"

CPS chief Barbara Byrd-Bennett insists that the answer is no. She says the district is in a dire financial condition and needs to be right-sized to ensure that educational resources are distributed wisely and more efficiently. Her response makes good sense.

The root of this controversy is trust. Byrd-Bennett is the fifth CEO of Chicago Public Schools in four years. She was a key negotiator in the teachers' union contract, which was settled only after a seven-day teacher walkout in the fall. The metrics that determine what constitutes an "under-utilized" school building and an "empty" seat has been scrutinized by the Chicago Teachers Union and several other school advocacy groups.

And with the preoccupation on closing schools, daily operations in the central office are reportedly abysmal. My sources report that the command center is more chaotic than it's ever been—and that's quite a feat!

To her credit, Byrd-Bennett has fulfilled her promise to hold multiple community meetings before making any final decisions about which schools to close. First she had to petition state legislators to lift their December deadline for announcing the list of schools to close and reschedule it for the end of March. Then she hand-picked a panel of eight commissioners to hold town hall meetings in every community that would potentially be affected. As expected, residents resoundingly said no to closing schools.

But what else would you expect? A school is often the community vault, containing priceless intangibles like people's personal identities, family histories, and even one's sense of security.

After the first round of public meetings, Byrd-Bennett agreed to take high schools off the table for safety reasons. Then she took under-utilized but high-performing elementary schools off the list. She took the list from 330 schools down to 129 schools, of which no more than 80 would be allowed to close. That's proof that she is listening, she said.

Still, 90 percent of the schools that remain in jeopardy of closing are in African-American communities on Chicago's south and west sides. Distrust abounds.

I'm not the kind of blogger who pontificates as if I have all the answers. I don't know how Chicago should fix its complex education problems that have been festering for at least 30 years.

But what I do know is that 80 schools are just too many schools to close at one time. The neighborhoods that would be affected are already on fire, burning with the same rage of violence that sent 6-month-old Jonylah Watkins to the cemetery yesterday.

I believe in education reform, but I also think that closing a massive number of schools will play psychological warfare on thousands of children who already pass dozens of abandoned buildings on their way to school. How depressing would it be to see their school boarded up, too? How devastating would it be if their school re-opened as charter but they did not win the lottery to be able to attend?

In addition, the receiving schools will also face incredible change. Will they still be able to perform well after accepting hundreds of new and likely disgruntled students from a rival block?

That is not to say that CPS should not close schools. It probably makes sense to close one or two dozen of them. But as many as 80 schools? All at once? With only five months to implement a transition plan? No way!

I wish I could be optimistic. I hope my fears are proven wasteful. I live on a cash budget, so I appreciate the district's hard line on getting its financial house in order. But quality planning is the key to success, and it has been impossible for CPS to work a solid plan with CEOs coming and going every year.

I'm told that a transition plan is in the works, but it is not yet complete. I'm rooting for Barbara Byrd-Bennett and the success of CPS; but I admit, she's got me worried.

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 1:06 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

Unfortunately in our current public school system, the quality of education a child receives is largely based on the income level and race of his parents. This is evident in the long-standing achievement gap that exists between white and Asian on the upper tier and blacks and Hispanics on the lower tier. There are multiple external contributors to this sad reality: Lack of parental engagement, joblessness, crime, and poverty.

Educators who hold low expectations for their students, under-resourced schools, and the fact that low-income students are far more likely to have novice teachers are also to blame.

Teachers in high-crime, low-income areas, however, must never throw up our hands in defeat; we must do our jobs to the very best of our ability. Once we have satisfied that expectation, we should insist on more support from the community, particularly from faith-based organizations that have established roots in the neighborhood but have gotten a pass on their role in fixing the problem.

We must investigate policies aimed at breaking the learned helplessness of students and the pessimism that often plagues our administrators and teachers in low-performing schools. The educators in these schools have a difficult but extremely important job to do. For most poor minority students, attaining a quality education is the only path out of poverty.

Policymakers do poor black students a disservice when they pretend that the conditions under which these students learn (and teachers teach) are the same as students in affluent white communities. An influx of resources, human capital, and ingenuity is required to educate students who experience hunger, family trauma, and disenfranchisement on a regular basis.

Teachers alone cannot compensate for the students' challenging lives. The African proverb states, "It takes a village to raise a child," but the message seems to have shifted to "It takes a school."

Many urban black students look outside their living room windows and see a dangerous world that is waiting to eat them alive. When they are sitting at their desks struggling to understand an abstract academic concept, it is very easy for them to give up—just as some adults around them have done. Many of the children have also experienced traumatic life events and need tangible reasons to hope. Their teachers also need innovative support systems to keep them encouraged that their efforts are truly making a difference. Creating a culture of hope is the fundamental first step in narrowing the achievement gap.

How can one create an education policy of hope? What role does a culture of hope play in the fight for better education? Black Americans have lived through slavery, sharecropping during Reconstruction, Jim Crow laws, the Civil Rights Movement, and the election of the nation's first African-American president. Through it all, the black church has consistently been the respected anchor of the community. While far from perfect, the church has historically served as the mouthpiece for the needs of black people, as well as their beacon of hope.

Today, there seems to be a church on every corner in the black community—sometimes two or three. Very few of these churches, however, have "adopted" a nearby public school and provided support services to the principal, teachers, students and families. This support comes in the form of free after-school tutoring, one-on-one mentoring; and sports team coaching, among other things. Upstanding men and women from houses of worship need to play a bigger role in the lives of the community's children.

For example, at one Chicago high school when a student gets into a fight or misbehaves in a way that is worthy of out-of-school suspension, the parents have a choice: The student can either hang out at home all day or he can volunteer at a local church or food pantry under the supervision of a trusted pastor or community leader.

Such programs need to be legitimized as the rule, not the exception.

With the high school dropout rate and murder rate in Chicago reaching record numbers, Mayor Rahm Emanuel has implored the faith community in impoverished sections of the city to increase its engagement with the schools and police. Emanuel apparently understands that the government's reach is too short to single-handedly turn around neighborhoods that have suffered from racial isolation and physical and psychological poverty for generations.

In addition, political efforts to help are often hindered by the people's wholesale distrust of the police and government.

Black clergymen, who have a measure of street credibility, have themselves gotten slack in fulfilling their spiritual and historic legacy of reaching beyond the church walls to engage in the public square, particularly in the realm of education. Slaves secretly learned to read from the pages of the Bible. Historically black universities were the mind child of the Negro church. Even today, conflicting black neighbors might decide to bypass the courts and take their interpersonal grievances to the pastor.

I know all too well the influence of the black church. When my truck-driving father was on the road, leaving my mother to raise eight children alone, it was the church that kept us encouraged that things would one day get better. When I began to succumb to negative peer pressures in high school, it was the church that gently counseled me back on track. When my family fell on hard financial times and our food stamps ran low, the church distributed the government cheese, powdered milk, and other non-perishable items to us so that we could have something to eat.

Moreover, I believed the preacher when he told me that the world would be mine if I got an education. And it was the church I turned to for an emergency $300 to pay for a political science class at a junior college. I simply did not have the money, and without that class I would not have been able to graduated on time with my bachelors degree in English.

I understand and respect the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment which limits the role religion can play in public education. Churches and schools would have to be educated on the freedoms and restraints of the law.

I also realize that schools in low-income communities need help. If schools are going to get better, local organizations like churches need to come along side schools to help address the social, emotional, and spiritual triggers in a kid that can one day escalate to murder.

Amid the bleak governmental fiscal projections, the church remains an under-utilized yet valuable asset to public education. And when the church reaches out to the widows (single mothers included) and the fatherless, it can proudly say it is living out its own mission.

I know there is a place, a tender place, where the cultural influences of the black church and the educational policies of City Hall can intersect. At this momentous place, hope will once again take root, and the violent, blood-stained streets I pass on my way home will slowly experience a resurrection.

*Minor updates added on 3/7/13

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 2:24 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

My dad died last month. I grieved hard for two weeks, too distraught to teach most days. The first day I returned, I told my six classes what had happened. I broke down each time I said it.

After one of my writing classes, a student who had abruptly lost her beloved grandmother last year slipped me a note she had penned on lined paper. She wrote on both sides, but the part that really spoke to me was, "I know it's hard, but it will get easier in time. It'll seem like your father is on a trip far away and the phone service is bad."

I pictured my dad wearing his countrified wide-brimmed hat, proudly telling angels how he was from Mississippi. I told myself, There are no cell phones in Heaven. My eyes watered, but only happy tears escaped. The burning pain in my heart was gone.

At the end of her hastily written letter, my student told me she loved me; that she understood what I am going through; that she would be here for me if I ever needed her. That's when I realized how much I needed her to care. Her. The most volatile student in the middle school. The one who cursed me out when I declined her request to leave class to get something from her locker. The girl who is so hurt she often pretends not to care about anything except her cats. If no one in the entire school understood my pain, she did.

I have suffered so much loss in my nine years of teaching. This year it was my dad. One year it was the job I lost when the principal just stopped liking me. Another year I had a miscarriage—and the year before that, and the year before that. I have endured the sorrow of losing four unborn children, in fact. Fortunately, my students never knew I was pregnant. I told them I missed those days of school because I was sick.

After my third miscarriage—the one that nearly broke me—I didn't know if I could ever teach again. The first day I came back to school, one sixth grade student had presented me with a "Get Well Soon" card that had an origami rose taped to the cover. It was the most beautiful student-made card I had ever seen; I could tell the boy had put a great deal of time and effort into it. In it, he wrote, "I really hope you can have a great day today and everyday."

I still have that card on the wall near my desk, though it is now worn and faded. The student transferred out two years ago; he still calls me every now and then. His card gave me the courage to dry my tears and get back to work. My life was not over.

I started my career teaching third grade, and it felt like I got a love note from a student every single day. I would politely thank the giver and tape it to the side of my tall metal file cabinet. I quickly ran out of room there, and so I posted them on the sides of my desk, too. After a while, I had to cycle them into a big brown envelop.

One of those little guys had written me an apology for being bad. At the end of the note, he wrote, "I wish you were my mother." Tears. That note changed my perspective on him and all the little challenging kiddos in my class.

I used to tell my colleagues all the time, "At least I don't have to take them home." But after reading his I'm-so-sorry letter, I would have adopted the little boy if I could have. Even at nine, he knew that his behavioral problems stemmed from his dysfunctional home life.

Now that I teach middle schoolers, student love notes are rare. (On Valentine's Day, I did get a "peace rocks" holographic card from a girl and a beautiful brown-stone bracelet from a boy.) My advice to any teacher is to save all the notes—even if the pictures look like crap and you can't read the kid's handwriting. Save them even if you're a macho man teacher, not a sentimental, sappy, girly girl like me.

On those lonely days, those extra sad I-don't-know-if-I can-do-this-job-anymore stressful moments, pull out those letters and let them speak to you. They do speak, loudly.

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 1:14 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend

I'm two weeks away from the ISAT—the Illinois Standard Achievement Test. The very mention of standardized testing can raise a teacher's blood pressure and make her break pencils in two.

I'm not going on a tirade about the ISAT. How it doesn't accurately measure the myriad of quality lessons I have taught my students. How it could pressure me into dumbing down my curriculum and force me to "teach to the test." How it is a gross waste of instructional time, showing students how to bubble in circles and write boring, highly formulized extended response essays for the reading assessment. How it's making the test publishers filthy rich.

As annoying as it is to cut into my curriculum for two weeks of test prep and another week or two to administer this test, I realize that standardized testing does have a single valid purpose, which could lead to other noble things. My high performing kids usually perform high, my low performing kids usually perform low, and my average performing kids are usually somewhere in between. The test is not really designed to inform me-the-teacher, but the taxpayers.

Even though I work at a charter school which fundraises roughly 20 percent of the school's budget, the other 80 percent comes from public dollars. Traditional public schools receive nearly all of their funds from taxes. So it's logical that the state board of education would want to objectively assess students for basic skills they should have acquired in school. How else can the public know how well students are performing academically?

This year, 20 percent of Illinois' test is written to the Common Core Standards and the Chicago Public Schools district has already told its educators to brace for a 17-20 percent drop in scores over last year because of it. If this correlation proves true, it might also serve to prove a long debated, contentious argument: The quality of our academic instruction can directly impact students' standardized test scores. (The only educational position more controversial than this is linking teacher salaries to the test scores. That's for another blog.)

As more of the Common Core standards get expressed on each year's test—reaching 100 percent of the test by 2014-15 in Illinois—educators will be challenged to implement the new standards in their everyday teaching. The theory is that elevating the rigor of the standards will improve teaching instruction in the classroom, thus improving student learning, thus raising test scores. The students who were already struggling to meet the old state standards will not stand a chance on the new standardized test if schools do not quickly adjust their instructional approach at every grade level, starting with kindergarten.

Looking back on the old Illinois state standards, I realize how embarrassingly simple-minded they were compared to the Common Core Standards. When I started in teaching in 2004, I had to look up the Illinois standards for every lesson and mark them on my lesson plans every week. It pointed me to the concepts I was supposed to teach but put no emphasis on pushing student's higher order thinking skills. When those standards were first adopted in 1985, the goal was getting kids to graduate from high school, not college.

I've found the Common Core, however, to be much more malleable and open-ended. The critical thought process behind what I am teaching is just as important as the content. Therefore, I often allow my students to self-select their topics based on interest, though the depth of thinking required to achieve the objective is the same. My teacher-made assessments under the Common Core philosophy requires a detailed rubric, whereas many of my old assessments were formulaic, judged simply as right or wrong.

Truth be told, I had shifted to a more inquiry-based, process-oriented teaching style long before the Common Core standards were introduced. In fact, teachers everywhere have always elevated their rigor, regardless of what their state standards dictated. And I suppose the opposite is also true: Some teachers teach only to the traditional state standards, and some even below the standard.

Perhaps the Common Core standards will encourage the low-performing teachers to improve. After all, if these teachers do not embrace the new standards—or exceed them—their inaction will haunt them once their standardized test results come back. The taxpayers who fund their salaries certainly won't be happy. And, if nothing else, their students will suffer.

Posted by Marilyn Rhames at 12:53 PM | Permalink | Leave a comment | Recommend