Back to School: Before and After

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I write a post like this almost every year — scroll back, you’ll see! Each fall, I can’t stop myself! I’m still filled with the child-like wonder and excitement of going back to school. I mean, yeah, I had outfits picked out, bought a new pair of school shoes (okay, two pair!) and kept them fresh for day one (and two!). I had my classic teacher terror nightmare — only this year it wasn’t me showing up naked, late, and unprepared, it was my teaching cohort! And I’m here to tell you that the stress was not less!

I get so excited about the return to school because it holds so much possibility — imagine the potential for transformation!! And in any story of transformation you need the “before” pic. Let me see if I can paint it for you.

The students first showed up on the Thursday before Labor Day. I can spot the freshman from a mile away. They shyly and awkwardly accompany their parents and older or younger siblings. They stand quietly as their people sign them in, looking around to see who else is there, who is looking at them, who is judging them, who can see their insecurity.

Sophomores roll up with slightly more confidence, sometimes with a parent tagging along ten paces behind. These students steal glances, seeing what looks familiar — teachers, friends, anything.

Juniors have just a hint of swagger — they know the drill — they know who’s who, what’s what, and where’s where. They quickly run through the requisite stops — schedule pick-up, bus sign up, sports physical — then find their friends to take laps inside the building, check out new students, get into a little harmless mischief, or do a little peacocking.

Seniors? You can’t tell them nothin’. They have their hair done, are wearing a dope ‘fit, and have texted their friends to arrive at the same time. They run this place — they are beaming and bouncing. This is their year and they know it.

And that’s all on the Thursday before school even starts — before the three-day weekend, before reality hits, before they have to arrive on time, sit in an assigned seat, do the coursework, take notes, stand in lines, or listen intently.

But all that has begun now, too. We have finished a week of students being in the building, running to get to class before the bell, asking permission to use the bathroom, looking for a snack, trying to hide their phones, getting caught with their phones, turning over their phones, and waiting to get their phones back at the end of the day.

They came in on Tuesday, and we were ready for them.

Our teachers had on shirts emblazoned with our Activate Excellence motto, arriving early to put finishing touches on their rooms and man their stations in the gym for arrival. We had some teachers collecting phones, some handing out schedules, and some stationed as greeters. There were hugs and fist bumps and hand shakes with our returning students, so it wasn’t difficult to pick out those who are new to our building — freshmen, of course, but also quite a few transfers.

In Detroit, a district with over 50,000 students, most high schools have enrollments of over 700, and some have over 1000. Our charter high school is small — under 300 students — so we often get students who found those larger contexts to be untenable. Maybe they were overwhelmed. Maybe they didn’t find a connection or friend group. Maybe they got into a fight and are now dealing with the aftermath. Whatever the reason, we often end up with a unique collection of students who for whatever reason couldn’t or didn’t want to make it happen somewhere else.

We’re a charter school — so students choose to come to us. Granted, sometimes that choice is because they have run out of other options, but I like to think they choose us because we are a small community. Everyone knows everyone else — no one goes unseen. If you came to school without a jacket, someone saw that. If you look particularly down or quiet on a given day, a person noticed. You’re hungry? You know who to ask for a snack. You don’t have a ride home? Chances are you have a connection with a staff member who will help you figure it out.

Changed your hair? We saw it.

Grew up over the summer? We know.

Your ability to manage conflict is improving? We give you kudos.

Let me give you a glimpse at an “after” pic.

For the past four years, we have had a student in the building who was classified as “homeless” and qualified for resources under the federal McKinney-Vento Act. Last June, this student graduated despite having transportation challenges, learning difficulties, and very little family support. Staff at the school made it possible for him to attend prom and participate in all senior activities, and the young man was repeatedly overwhelmed with gratitude. When he walked into our decision day celebration in early May, he hugged several of us and wiped away tears. When he arrived at prom, he approached staff members, tearfully repeating, “I can’t believe this is actually happening!” and when he showed up for graduation, he could barely find words. He savored every moment, and his classmates and teachers saw it for what it was — the realization of a dream.

On that day, he didn’t know what his summer or future would look like. Because of his situation, he was having difficulty getting access to the documents that would make him work eligible, but late in summer we received word that he had what he needed and had found employment in a hospital. This past week, he reached out to one of our staff members and said he was working a lot of overtime and was looking for an affordable apartment.

The staff member reported this in our group chat, and I must say that in the middle of a school day at the end of the first week of school, when everyone is getting tired and ready to go home for the weekend, that little notification reminded us all what a special place we work in.

Just four years ago, this young man was one of our awkward freshmen — he missed a lot of school days, and we noticed. He often came unprepared to learn, and we said something. He had the support of a friend who got him to the building every day, but he came late and left early. It was frustrating, to be sure, but we found ways to work with him. He had the support of the social worker, the principal, the resource room teacher, and literally every single adult in the building. It was not uncommon to see him checking in with one of our custodians who might as well be everyone’s momma.

And now he’s a high school graduate, he’s got a job, and he’s looking for an apartment. If that’s not a transformation, I don’t know what one is.

I guess that’s why I get excited every September — that’s why I can’t stop writing about it. Every day is a miracle waiting to happen. I can’t believe I get to do this. Just like my student, “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

[We] will see the goodness of God in the land of the living. Psalm 27:13

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Finding a Footing

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

At the end of the last school year, as I waved goodbye to students and wished my colleagues a safe and restful summer, I was envisioning long days of reading broken up by an hour here or there with my hands in the dirt — weeding our garden, tending to our plants, and bringing in the fruits of our labor. I saw days on the beach of a great lake and others poolside with our granddaughters.

While I did manage to experience all of that, much of my summer was not what I was expecting. At all. Particularly not when, just a month ago, I was searching for an assisted living facility for my stepfather, helping my brothers move him in, being present for his rapid decline, then processing with my mom and siblings through his passing.

The flurry of activity was unanticipated and un-mooring. I’ve felt a little tossed about for several weeks, so the return to the rhythms of back-to-school prep of the past many days has been a welcome and anchoring exercise.

As I’ve been walking the hallways of our school buildings, I’ve been wondering if our students, too, have felt a little at sea. What has their summer been like — have they been working? helping out at home? have they had plenty to eat? time and space to rest? have they experienced loss? or trauma? joy? or celebration? Has their summer been what they were expecting? Are they, too, in need of the rhythms that will bring stability?

Because I’m not teaching this year, but rather supporting our teachers and students from a more global perspective, I’ve been managing tasks all summer like updating scope and sequence documents for various courses, familiarizing myself with the curricula taught in our building, creating Google classrooms for all of our teachers, updating our school’s testing plan, organizing and auditing the curriculum I created, and managing several other tasks. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve also been preparing presentations and materials for the teacher orientation that begins this week.

As I’ve been checking all these boxes, I’ve needed some support (and grace) from my supervisors to reconnect with the world of school, to remind me what each of the pieces are exactly, to steady me as I find my way back to the vernacular of academics — to norms and standards, to unit plans and instructional strategies, to engagement and discourse.

I’m guessing that our teachers and students are going to need support (and grace), too. Certainly their summers have been far from the academic realm — less structured or predictable. Sure, some of them have punched a clock or had regular eating and sleeping habits, but many will have had no routine at all. Surely few, if any of them, will have sat in a desk, attended to a slide deck, navigated to a Google classroom, or submitted a document for review.

Transitioning away from my erratic summer to more routine work has not been easy nor has my body been quick to adapt. While I’m being quite diligent in getting back to eating three meals a day at the designated times and observing my normal bedtime, my body is still on high alert after weeks of urgent phone calls, last minute trips, and unexpected decisions. My digestive tract is suffering from role confusion, and my sleep patterns remain inconsistent.

Perhaps the bodies of my students and teachers, too, will be a bit out-of-kilter. Perhaps they will find it difficult to endure a seven hour school day, to sit upright for long stretches, to use the restroom at designated passing times, to make it from breakfast to lunch without a snack, to remember to get a drink between classes, or to stay awake for the entire day.

I’m finding a few things helpful in my regulation. First is seeing my people. As I’ve gone into our buildings over the last few weeks, I’ve reconnected with my colleagues, many of whom have offered hugs both of “I’ve missed you” and “I’m sorry for your loss.” We’ve shared stories and laughter as we’ve navigated our tasks.

I’ve found stability in the familiar — the drive, the building, and the faces.

I’ve found comfort in the physical — walking into my office, arranging my supplies, moving books, and touring classrooms.

I’ve found security in doing what I know how to do — creating a document, sending an email, meeting a deadline, planning a presentation.

I’m thinking about how I can use my experience of re-entry, my realization of what I’ve needed to re-acclimate, to support my teachers and students as they move from what also may have been erratic to what is more routine.

We already engineer the first week to be less about curriculum and more about connection. We are a trauma-informed organization, after all, and we know that Maslow comes before Bloom. We have a system of delivering school-wide norms and expectations, and we support teachers in integrating warm-ups, games, and getting-to-know-you activities. The first week is all about learning names and building community. It’s an opportunity for our students to get a literal or metaphorical hug– to reconnect with their teachers and classmates.It’s a time to situate themselves inside of the familiar — not only the building and its classrooms but the bell schedule, the movement patterns, the physicality of being in the space, and the kind of routine assignments that warm up muscles and build confidence.

How can I normalize the weirdness of it all — how our bodies and minds take time to adapt, how we may feel irritated, foggy-headed, tired, and out-of-sorts? The best way I know is to name it — call it out — talk about it.

Our teachers and our students may need the leaders in the building to acknowledge the heavy lift of transition — of moving from the summer-realm to the world of school. These worlds are not the same, and the move can be jarring. For me, back to school has always been a comfort — school is a place where I know how to be, what to do, and how to succeed — but it’s not like that for everyone. For some, school is an increase in stress, a place of conflict, a world of insecurity.

So, in my new role, I think one thing I can be is present — observing what is happening for teachers and for students, being willing to acknowledge that what they are experiencing is real. Of course you’re tired! Coming back to school takes a lot of effort! Yes, this is a lot of information to take it all at once, and our summer brains are not used to it.

I can also offer compassion. I get it! My body is still adjusting to the school day, too! I can cover your class while you run to the restroom. How can I support you in getting your documents completed on time? Would you like to tell me about what you are experiencing?

That’s the benefit of my role — I’ve got a head start on my teachers and my students. I have had a preview of what they might experience in the coming weeks. Now that I am feeling a little more stable, I can lend some of that to them as they transition. I can be a reminder that they will soon be settled in as well.

That, and I can make sure that my snack drawer is full, because I can bet that soon I will be hearing both teachers and students say, “Mrs. Rathje, you got anything to eat?”

I’ll be ready for them; I’m getting closer each day.

put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Colossians 3:12

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It’s complicated

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

The seemingly unintelligle words of hospice — one month, a few days, 48 hours, probably today — all started making sense and then were undeniable. My stepfather took his last breath in the early morning hours last Saturday. In the days that followed, we gathered, made arrangements, gathered again, handled details, cared for our mom, and came to terms with the fact that my stepfather, Roger, is no longer here.

We’re still working on that last part, of course, and for me, the essence of our relationship makes it little complex.

While many found him charming, Roger and I had what was often a prickly relationship. We didn’t agree on hardly anything — politics, the setting on the thermostat, the way to wash dishes, vacuum a floor, wipe off a table, or do just about anything. I found him to be demanding, opinionated, and critical. I often felt great irritation toward him over our 50-year relationship, probably because I always felt that he usurped the position that should’ve been held by my father who I have long-adored and often idolized, likely because he and I haven’t had many opportunities to interact on politics, the thermostat, or dishwashing.

Because of this complicated relationship with Roger, it came as a great surprise to me when I found myself feeling tenderness, compassion, and love for this man as he declined, as he lost his agency, as he forgot where he was, as he was unable to breathe, as he was confined to bed — a man who rarely sat still, who worked and golfed and bowled and rode a motorcycle halfway across the country. I was stunned to watch my heart shift from irritation to caring, advocating for, and comforting this man who has been an annoyance in my life for most of my life.

When my mom married Roger, she had four kids aged 8-14. He had two kids aged 8 and 10. Together there were three boys and three girls — just like the Brady Bunch, which was in vogue at the time. For a few years, the eight of us took vacations together and hung out together, but as we turned into teens and then adults, we were rarely together. In fact, my three birth siblings and I have only managed to all be together on a dozen or so occcasions in the last 30 years, and the six of us “kids” hand’t been together in the same room for close to 40 years before we all gathered on a Monday night for pizza a year ago.

Who knows how this happens — people are busy with their own lives, and if one person doesn’t act with intention, folks never come together. But last year we did, and then, miraculously, Roger took his turn for the worst just as we were scheduled to all be in the same state again this past month.

We all worked together — getting him moved in to assisted living, taking phone calls, running errands, and sitting by his bedside. We took shifts. His daughter, who claimed the overnights, fell asleep holdng his hand that last night, saying, “Good night, Dad. I love you” and reading him the 23rd Psalm.

We crammed in a small room at the funeral home — writing an obituary, picking out flowers, deciding on printed materials, then shared a meal with our mom, who kept saying, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

And then, on Wednesday, we all rolled in — the six kids, and our kids, and even some of their kids. Because of the nature of this complex family, some cousins met each other for the first time. Some nieces and nephews met their aunts and uncles for the first time.

Families can be like this, can’t they? Frustrations can lead to fractures and before you know it, you’re meeting your brother’s kids for the first time, marveling at their kids, and watching your own kids (and nieces) interact with their new-found family with curiosity and grace.

I probably won’t ever understand the complexity of Roger — why he was the way he was — but I can celebrate the fact that despite my irritation with him, he remained invested. He cared for my mom to the end (even if that in itself was complicated) and he cared for all of us in his own way, too.

Mom and Roger married when I was 10, and maybe because of “ew — cooties” or that previously mentioned loyalty to my dad, I rarely let Roger touch me — not a hug or a pat on the back, let alone a kiss on the cheek. So imagine my surprise when near the end, I found my hands on his waist steadying him, or when I agreed to scrub his back when he couldn’t shower himself, or when he grasped my hand to say goodbye, or when I kissed his head to reassure him when he was afraid.

We don’t know the love we have inside of us that is sometimes buried under hurt or anger or a little girl’s longing for her actual dad, but it is there, and it surfaces when it matters — when you need to sit beside a hospital bed, empty a urostomy bag, or say “I’m sorry this is what’s happening right now. I know you want it to be different.”

It doesn’t mean I don’t love my dad or that you could ever take his place. It means that I saw you show up and hang in there, even when I found you to be annoying, critical, demanding, and cootie-infested.

It’s complicated, that’s true. Much of life is.

Rest well, Roger, I’m pretty sure it was complicated for you, too.

Love one another. John 13:34

Rapidly-shifting Reality

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Three weeks ago, I made a phone call. Just a simple call.

My stepfather had just returned home from the hospital again — I’ve lost track of how many times he’s been in and out in the past year or so — and this time he was prescribed 2L of oxygen to be worn 24 hours a day. He has COPD, among other health issues, and he’s been on a slow decline for a few years. When he came home with the portable oxygen tank, the nurse from the home health agency who had been doing weekly visits on my parents for the past many months, just happened to be at the house accompanied by her clinical director who planned to evaluate the need for more services. She saw my stepfather enter the house, assisted by my brother, and rewrote the script in her head.

She’d been planning to offer palliative care services to support him through this ongoing and prolonged illness, but when she saw how difficult it was for him to just enter the house, she suggested to my mother that perhaps it would be wise to enlist the help of Hospice. “It’s different now,” she said. “Hospice isn’t just for end of life; it can provide prolonged in-home care so that your husband doesn’t have to travel to the doctor or hospital any more. We can manage his care right here.”

My mom called me, told me what was going on, and I asked, “what do you think?” She admitted she could no longer do it alone, which my siblings and I had been suggesting for months. “Well,” I said, “it might be nice to have someone coming to the house regularly that can help us make decisions when it’s time to make other changes. Would you like me to call them?”

“I think so. She said so much. Maybe you can hear the details yourself.”

So, I made the call.

Hospice would be covered 100% by medicare. They would adjust their visits as needed. They would handle all medications and would assist us in the transition if the time came for my stepfather to move to a facility.

I called my brother, who has been the point man through our whole journey, and he agreed that I should set up an appointment.

Hospice came to the house the next day. We signed my stepfather up, and the visits began — a nurse, an aide, a social worker. The door on the house was continually opening, and my mother was overwhelmed.

The following Monday, I sat down at my desk to complete some tasks for work and texted my siblings. “Hey guys, hospice is up and running. I won’t be able to come this week or next to help out, but I will be available by phone.”

I opened some documents, started working, and then spoke to my husband, “I think I’ve gotta go up there.” No one had called. Nothing had changed, I just felt myself pulled to my suitcase and mentally moving toward my vehicle. I called my mom, “How about I bring you guys dinner and stay til tomorrow afternoon? I can just provide you with a little support.”

“I hate to have you drive all the way up here, but that would be great.”

By early afternoon I was on my way.

I brought dinner. We ate. I got them both their meds, did the dishes, and made sure they were all set for the night before heading to the guest room.

Around 4am I heard yelling. I ran to my stepfather. He’d had trouble standing to go to the bathroom and was having some respiratory distress. I administered his new emergency med regimen, then helped him stand. He stood right there by his chair for several minutes so he could catch his breath, and then slowly, so slowly, used his walker to get to the bathroom. It took us 20 minutes to travel 20 feet. Once there, he was unsteady — teetering. I had to use my body weight to brace him so he wouldn’t topple into the bathtub. He did what he came to do, then we stood there for a moment, so he could steady his breathing before the trip back to his recliner.

It had been an emotional event for both of us, and neither of us got any more sleep.

The hospice nurse came that morning. My brother, mother, stepfather, and I spoke with her about what options we had. If I hadn’t been there for the incident the night before, what would our 100 pound mother have done? The nurse suggested she send over the social worker that afternoon to walk us through some options. Also, since my stepfather was having difficulty standing up from his chair, she recommended we purchase a lift chair.

That afternoon, the social worker came and talked my brother, my mother, my stepfather, and I through our options. We could keep him at home and hire additional home health aides (we were already paying for eight hours of assistance a week), or we could move him to adult foster care, a nursing home, or an assisted living facility. But before we made any decisions, we needed, she said, to meet with a lawyer who specializes in elder law. Any of these options would be quite expensive and we should have guidance on how to protect our parents’ assets before we acted.

We had a plan of action, so my brother ran a mile down the road to our small hometown’s furniture store to purchase a lift chair. While he and my other brother arranged to bring it home, I ran to the pharmacy to pick up some prescriptions. We met back at the house, brought in the chair, and while all of us were rearranging furniture and tidying up the space, my stepfather attempted to move from his walker to sit into his new chair. Up until recently he had been independently getting in and out of his chair without difficulty, so none of us thought to stand near him, and down he went. We all rushed to see that he was ok, my brothers lifted him back to his feet and got him in the chair, and we all looked our new reality right in the face.

That reality would start changing day by day.

The next morning, the hospice nurse stopped by the house to assess any damage from my stepfather’s fall. We’d been up again in the night — for breathing issues, for trips to the the bathroom, for confusion. She examined him, found the cut on his arm from where he’d hit the coffee table and a large bruise on his backside from the point of impact. She assessed his breathing and other vitals then met my mother, sister-in-law and I in the kitchen.

She used words we hadn’t heard before rapid decline…24-hour assistance… and about one month. We tried to comprehend this adjustment to our new reality.

And the scramble began — some siblings investigating elder lawyers, the social worker and I investigating facilities. Phone call after phone call, text message after text message. Eventually a couple tours. Finally an open bed. Then digesting the cost, then agreeing to the terms. All the while, on-going conversations with my mother and stepfather about what is happening and why…over and over and over.

Four days after I had decided that I was too busy to go up to my parents and then pivoted on that decision and went anyway, we were loading my stepfather, his clothes, his walker, and his newly acquired lift chair into our vehicles and transporting him to his new residence.

He didn’t love it, but we couldn’t see another way.

That was two weeks ago.

Hospice has continued to use incomprehensible words…rapid decline, days, family should come.

Family has come. Someone is beside him now.

It won’t be long.

That’s a reality.

From his fullness, we have all received grace upon grace. John 1:16

It all adds up

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

In my many years of teaching, I have been “in charge” of delivering all kinds of content, mostly English Language Arts — everything from vocabulary to grammar to composition to poetry, drama, short stories, and novels. I’ve led lessons on irony, literary analysis, metaphor, meter, MLA documentation, and countless other ELA topics.

In some of my positions, particularly during the early years, I also led lessons on science, social studies, religion, sex education, PE, and yes, even math. I wouldn’t say I was amazing in these other content areas (if you are reading this and I was your teacher, please be kind!) but I muddled through. I understand the principles of teaching — the concept that first “I do,” then “we do,” then “you do,” so if I can figure something out, chances are, I can show you how to do it.

And, once upon a time, I could figure out math, but can I still?

In my new role, the plan is that I’ll be coaching eight teachers — two ELA, two social studies, two science, and two math. With each of these teachers, we will begin by looking at the curriculum — what are the broad goals for this year, how are those goals broken into units, how will each unit be assessed, what skills will students need to be successful, and what misconceptions might we be on the lookout for?

As I’m preparing for these discussions with my team, I’m diving into the curricula — this past week I dove into math.

At first glance I was like, how hard can it be — I can probably still do most of Algebra I, I mean 2x +5 = 25? No problem. But then I opened the first geometry lesson and thought, Oh, my, this is a whole different language, isn’t it? The first unit was all about triangles and parallel lines — Cool, cool, I remember this — the three angles of a triangle add up to 180 degrees, and if parallel lines bisect a transverse line, corresponding angles are equivalent – – yup, yup. But then I got to the part where you have to write the “proof” and I was immediately transported back to 1982 and Mr. Cronkright’s room. I was pretty sure my deodorant failed and a zit popped out on my nose. I shook myself — how hard can this be? You’ve got the teacher’s edition and supplemental videos! Walk through it! Figure it out.

And you know what? I did! I remembered all the things — with a little help from Great Minds Digital Learning — and was able to complete the unit assessment with flying colors! Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

I was feeling pretty good about myself until the next day when I opened the first unit of Algebra II — Probability — this is an entirely different language, once again. I mean, suppose that a book store sells a book in both electronic and print format, and that customers can pay with either a gift card or a credit card. What is the likelihood that a random customer walks in the store and buys an electronic copy with a gift card.

I’m looking at the screen of my computer, scratching my head saying, Who in the world wants to know how to calculate this ? when the power in my house went out. What are the odds?

LOL. See what I did there? I’m telling math jokes.

The power literally did go out, but my computer had plenty of battery and I had plenty of daylight, so I pressed on. Certainly if I trudged through the lessons, even I could learn how to use a two-way frequency table. So trudge I did, and while the literal lights came back on while I was still hunched over my desk, the metaphorical light of understanading didn’t reach full strength. I’m not sure I comprehend enough about probability to pass the assessment — yet! — but I am confident that I can have a conversation about the unit with the instructor, and I am quite sure I will be able to identify some of the struggle areas that might take students [ahem, me] more time to digest.

Did I mention in last week’s post that I would be learning this year, too? I am certain of it.

That’s a large part of what teaching is, friends — it’s admitting that you might not know everything, but committing to getting on the bus anyway, deciding to show up, leaning over content that might be challenging, and using any means necessary to figure it out so that you can model it for your students, do it with your students, then release them to do it on their own.

This past year I had the privilege of watching someone do just that. Last August, when we realized that we would not be able to find an ELA teacher to fill the position I was vacating, I agreed to continue teaching two sections of seniors and to share the classroom with one of our paraprofessionals who would teach three sections of freshmen. Although this individual has been in our building for as long as I have, she is not a certified teacher and has no formal training in English Language Arts. Did that stop her? Not at all. She received coaching, read books, leaned into curricula, and announced to her students, “We’re going to figure this out together.” Day after day she showed up, implemented strategies, and learned lessons so that she could bring her students along with her. She knew she was responsible for what they were learning, and she took her role seriously.

And truly, that is what I plan to do with my team this year. I want to “figure it out together,” leaning over their content with them, modeling for them how to determine the best way to deliver a concept or a skill, partnering with them to try a new instructional strategy, then watching them take it from there.

The money in teaching is when the students [or this year, my teachers] take what we have learned together, personalize it, and go way beyond what the teacher could even conceive of. The student exceeds the teacher. That’s the goal.

What is the probability that it will happen this year? I’d say the odds are good.

“[He}is able to do more than we can ask or imagine.” Ephesians 3:20

P.S. We are still hiring for some of the positions on my team. If you or someone you know is interested, check out the postings here.

Rested and Ready for a new Rhythm

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

I wrapped up school year 2024-2025 –watched another group of seniors cross the stage into adulthood, entered final grades, and cleaned up my classroom.

Next, I joined my husband in clearing the clutter in our home.

Then we left town for two short treks — one to play with our granddaughters in Ohio and another to lie on the beach of Lake Huron. We crossed the miles listening to podcasts and chatting about everything from family to politics to music to our future. With our grand girls we lazed in the pool, played Uno and Skip-Bo, and were entertained by intricately choreographed dances. Near the beach, we ate well, slept long, took leisurely walks, and lost track of time.

They were luxurious and welcome — these two little trips back to back — and now we are re-entering real life. Since we’ve returned home we’ve been in the business of unpacking, doing laundry, tending to yard work, and taking stock of the new rhythms we are noticing since a) my husband transitioned from an almost four-decade-long career in church work to a private counseling practice and as b) I am making the shift from classroom teacher to full-time instructional coordinator. Some of the work each of us does in our new roles is similar to what we have done in the past, however, the routines and workloads are quite different. While he has been adapting to his new rhythm for over eighteen months, my real shift begins this week as I embrace the responsibilities of my new role.

How will it be the same? How will it be different?

What won’t change is my morning commute — I will still drive 30 minutes east from Ypsilanti to the edge of Detroit. I will park my car in the same spot, work with many of the same colleagues and students, and follow the same daily bell schedule and school year calendar. I will also continue to serve on our school’s leadership team, meeting at least weekly to plan initiatives and events, troubleshoot current issues, and collaborate toward best practices for our building.

However, many things will change — I will no longer have my own classroom. I will no longer have my own students or a grade book or lesson plans or the responsibility for all that happens inside a teacher’s classroom through the course of the day — behavior management, attendance, organizing materials, and managing the constant flow of information.

I will have plenty of new responsibilities on my plate. In addition to coaching the instructional moves of a handful of teachers like I did last year, I will also be partnering with those teachers to unpack curriculum, analyze assessments, and plan instruction. Further, I will be our building’s testing coordinator, responsible for all things PSAT/SAT, ACT Workkeys, and MSTEP.

All of this, of course, is in the interest of our students. I came to this position because I recognize the systemic inequities in American education that have benefitted some students (mostly white and affluent) and have disadvantaged others (mostly low-income and/or students of color). I wanted to lend my years of experience and expertise in service of closing the gap that continues to widen; I wanted to provide a high level of instruction and rigor for students who have, through no fault of their own, fallen multiple grade levels behind their peers who live sometimes just a few miles away.Over the past five years, I feel I have had limited success. I have, within my classroom, provided glimpses of rigor, moments of engagement, and small gains for individual students.

However, individual teachers in isolation cannot overcome centuries — literal centuries! — of harm. They do make a difference, of course, but for the sweeping change that is needed, we need a broader — a more systemic — solution.

I joined the team at my school in August of 2020. Covid had sent all of our students home the previous March, and because of the disproportionate impact on low income communities of color, particularly Detroit, our district provided instruction virtually for the entire 2020-2021 school year. The administrative team was making it up as they went along, and I — a teacher returning to the high school classroom after a six year hiatus — was enthusiastic about giving it my best. I popped into Zoom rooms, chatting with any students who would talk to me, leading lessons, and providing office hours every afternoon. We didn’t close any systemic gaps that year; we merely did what we could to slow the ever-widening distance between our students’ academic progress and that of those in neighboring districts.

The following year (2021-2022) , fully masked, we returned to in-person learning, bouncing back to virtual instruction several times throughout the year. It actually took us that year and the next (2022-2023) to re-establish routines within the building. We were on pretty solid footing as we started school year 2023-2024, but some mid-year leadership changes kept us from moving too far forward.

The standardized test scores told the story — about a tenth of our students were proficient in English Language Arts and none — 0% — were proficient in math. Our staff took in those realities as our newly appointed principal delivered them before the return of students in the fall of 2024. She gave us the hard truth and then cast a vision for us — we, the staff and our students, would activate excellence. We could no longer allow this to be the reality for the students in our building — things were going to change.

And, over the year I did see evidence of shift — in attitude, in practice, in thinking. However in order to overcome systemic inequities of the proportions that I have witnessed, we need a reimagining of what school likes like in our context. The principal sets the tone, and she has. The leadership team has come alongside our principal, supporting her vision, agreeing with the need, and implementing strategies. Staff members have also caught the vision, to a degree, but the kind of transformation that is needed is going to take the whole team — every teacher, every paraprofessional, every custodian, every social worker — to activate excellence, consistently and continuously, day in and day out.

Certainly in my own classroom, I have strived to provide excellent instruction, to have high expectations, and to inspire my students toward greatness, but I will admit that my efforts have sometimes been inconsistent. I have grown tired, and I have from time to time been merely mediocre. However, as I step into this role, I have been given an opportunity to activate excellence beyond my classroom — taking care to do my very best with the responsibilities I have been given, and to bring other staff members along with me.

I will push my team of teachers — some of whom are experienced, some who are brand new — toward excellence. Together, we will grow this year, beginning by building relationships, but then quickly moving into strategies, into accountability, into doing whatever it takes to activate excellence for our students — to give them the tools they need to move forward into their futures.

It’s a big job, but I’m rested, I have the vision, and I’ve been equipped. May God grant me the strength to persevere, the compassion to both see and inspire my team, and the heart to sustain my insufferable belief in restoration.

He is faithful, and He will do it. I Thessalonians 5:24

Clearing the Clutter

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment
Click to listen. Sources and resources linked in text.

My husband and I just completed the minimalist challenge. For the month of June, each of us found items around the house that we were willing to toss, donate, or sell — one item on the first, two items on the second, three items on the third, and so on. (The last time I did this — in 2014 — is chronicled here in my blog, starting with this post.) As we’ve been purging — through our clothes, our kitchen, our books, our garage, and our storage — our kids, our friends, and our siblings have said, “How? You guys are already minimalists!”

And it’s true! We moved halfway across the country twice — paring our possessions each time — and we are pretty committed to hanging on to only what we use, but still we were able to find [over] 465 items each. No, we didn’t count sheets of paper or even individual pens and pencils, but we did count individual books, unused kitchen utensils, extra T-shirts, pairs of shoes, decades old journals, dusty trophies, and extra picture frames. The first 10 days we hardly had to move beyond our bedroom closets to find items we were no longer using!

So what inspired us to do this now? It’s a good question that could probably be answered by looking back at our experiences over the last year or so.

Maybe it began when we started spending more time with our aging parents. As their health declines, we’ve heard them say over and over, “What is going to happen to all this stuff?” We look around the room, around the house, around the garage, and we wonder the same thing — what indeed will happen to it? Last summer, I was staying with my mother while my stepfather was in the hospital, and I posted two treadmills that hadn’t been used in decades on a Facebook free group . Within a day someone had come to get them, and I registered the relief on my mother’s face — she was so glad to be rid of them! A few months ago, as we made room for a hospital bed, we found a new home for a large desk. Again, my mother said, “I’m so glad someone else could use it!”

While I have been with my mother seeing all her “stuff”, my husband, in the aftermath of his mother’s passing, has been sorting through all of her stuff. He’s touched countless items that had accumulated in 88 years of life and has often come back to our place with treasure or two but also with an intent desire to eliminate excess — to rid ourselves of anything that we do not need.

After all, extraneous stuff leads to clutter that can prevent us from seeing the things that are important to us.

This “stuff processing” has been happening against a political backdrop that is itself cluttered with a different shocking headline seemingly every day. It can be hard to sift through all the noise to find the issues — particularly the ones that seem meaningful to us. From the recent bombing of Iran and the role of the US in Gaza and the Ukraine, to the pending legislation that threatens to cut Medicaid, raise the debt limit by $5 Trillion, and increase the budget deficit by 2.4 trillion all while providing tax cuts to the wealthy (5 Calls), we find ourselves wanting to register our protest, and one way that we are able to do that is by considering where we want to spend our money and what we want to spend it on. What do we need? What companies do we want to use to meet those needs? What do we want our money to support?

We have been re-evaluating almost every expenditure, and it turns out that when you take a step back and look carefully at your life, you truly don’t need much.

Living in America has taught us otherwise, hasn’t it? We are barraged with ads from morning to night showing us “stuff” that we “need” that we can purchase with a single click. We don’t even have to leave our homes — a package will arrive sometimes the very same day! Wouldn’t our lives be just a little bit better with that new outfit, better shoes, handy tool, or sweet technology?

Purchasing is so easy that we don’t often consider the cost — to our bank accounts (a mere $20 once a day adds up to $600 a month) or to the environment (A report by Oceana estimates that Amazon alone created 208 million pounds of packaging waste in 2022.) Further, we don’t often look at who is profiting — is the handy new travel bag I’m considering made in the US? in China? What are the workers being paid? Who is getting the majority of the money I am spending? What are the other impacts of this purchase? What materials were used? Do the materials hurt me or the environment?

Each purchase, though easy to make, can have complex meaning, if we are willing to take the time to consider it. And I guess that is what we have been doing — considering each possession, each purchase. We want to be careful that our lives don’t become so cluttered that we fail to see what is important.

Each of us, in sorting through our stuff will deem different items to be of value.

What does it say about me that I still (after eliminating over 900 items from our house) have a few dozen writing implements on my desk, a stack of empty notebooks waiting to be written in, and more greeting cards than I could ever possibly send?

Why did I choose to hold on to those things and not the journals I have written in for more than thirty years? Why did I feel ok about letting go of crystal that we got for our wedding but not a jar of paper clips? Why did I keep baby blankets that haven’t been used over 25 years but toss plastic mixing bowls that I used last month?

It’s interesting to see what matters when you start combing through the stuff.

This latest round has trimmed away some excess, but I feel there is more that needs to go — but what leaves next likely won’t be possessions, those are fairly easy to eliminate. No, next might be attitudes and judgments, habits and pastimes.

It’ll be easier to see what needs to go next now that we have cleared some of the clutter.

Let us lay aside every encumbrance…and run with perseverance the race that is set before us. Hebrews 12:1-2

“Money” Moments

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Eight days. That’s it. Eight more days with this group of seniors, and then, I might possibly be done with my years as a classroom teacher.

I’ve known this was coming. Last summer I took the role of Instructional Coach at the same school where I’ve been teaching since 2020. I interviewed, accepted the position, and came to terms with the fact that I would not be in the ELA classroom even for school year 2024-2025. But, things being as they are in the world of education where teachers are hard to come by, my replacement was not found. So, a long-term substitute took three sections from my previous load, and we crammed all the seniors into the two classes that I would cover.

It was my idea. I’ve been teaching senior English on and off since the fall of 2005, and angsty as they are, these are my people. They are wrestling to find their path from childhood to the world of adults, and that path (let me assure you) is quite circuitous. One day they are presenting their goals for their future via slideshow from the front of the room, the next day I stop them from throwing paper wads at each other. One day they applaud a peer who got accepted into college, the next day I’m having a conversation with them about how we don’t always have to announce when we smell someone’s body odor or flatulence. One might stop by to explain that they’ve been absent because they’ve been “going through it” and another might blurt out “you got any snacks?” in the middle of a lesson.

Yes, they get under my skin. Yes, they do indeed at times offend my sense of smell. Yes, they do give me a challenge every day of my working life, but these students, year after year after year, these seniors, have helped me to learn, to grow, to evolve.

One of this year’s seniors interviewed me this week for an article he’s writing for another class. His questions showed me that he sees me: “Mrs. Rathje, why do you take so many steps each day?” They showed me that he wants to make a connection: “What made you want to be a teacher?” And they showed me that he wants to gauge my commitment to him and our community: “Do you like teaching here?” That conversation gave us an opportunity — to sit one-on-one, knee-to-knee — to see each other not as teacher and student, but as two humans who are sharing the same space for a small season of time.

That is the money of teaching, friends — those intermittent interchanges that happen when you least expect them. These moments are what I treasure most from all my years in the classroom.

All year, I have navigated two roles — instructional coach in the AM, ELA teacher in the PM — and since I’ve known it was a transition year, I have tried to see ways that I can experience these same kinds of moments with the teachers that I coach. Most of the time our relationship looks like me observing a class then meeting with the teacher afterward to provide feedback — data and my observation of moves that were impactful and less impactful. Many of the teachers in our building lack experience, training, or certification, and my role is to facilitate their transition to being more experienced, more skilled, more effective. This path, too, can be circuitous. Teaching is hard work — all day long our teachers lead classrooms full of students at various levels of skill and engagement with the task of capturing the attention of 100% and providing them with high-level instruction, all while following our school’s instructional model and managing multiple interruptions.

One day I observe a teacher greeting his students at the door, providing them directions as they enter, and ensuring that all students are engaged in the day’s learning. Three days later, I notice that same teacher hasn’t replied to my email, is late to a meeting, or didn’t notice the student sitting in his room who was supposed to be in a different class.

Just like with my seniors, I am not looking for perfection; I am looking for growth.

I must confess this is hard for me. Any student I’ve ever had will tell you that my expectations are high, and if they are high for students, they are exponentially more so for the teachers of those students. I didn’t come out of a medically imposed leave from teaching to do a substandard job for students. No. I returned to the classroom in the middle of Covid because of the vast inequities in America’s school system. I came back to push the bar higher for students who have been historically underserved, under-challenged, and undereducated. I am not trying to enable low expectations for either my students or their teachers.

Yet…

Yet, I have learned from a couple decades worth of students (not to mention my own children), that folks don’t want to meet your expectations unless they know that you love and accept them for who they are. If I don’t love and accept you when you are late to class, smell of weed, and don’t know what unit we are on, what are the chances that you’ll be able to hear my expectations let alone take a swing at them. If I don’t hug you in the hallway, why should you listen to me when I approach you at your desk. If I can’t hear your request to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, how will you hear me give you feedback on a paper.

Over the years, it’s gotten easier for me to love a kid, even when they are disruptive, even when they are failing, even when they skip my class. I used to be very judgmental, but I’ve learned that judgment pushes kids away; love draws them closer.

I was tempted to judge one of my teachers recently. I was walking to my classroom one morning when I noticed a group of students standing outside a classroom instead of going in. “What’s going on here?” I asked, “why aren’t you all going in?” The students replied that the principal was inside speaking with the teacher. They intimated that the teacher was “getting in trouble” for something. I was curious, but instead of getting more information, I moved the students to my classroom to give the teacher and the principal room to speak. For all I knew, the conversation was of a personal and unrelated nature, and it was none of my or the students’ business.

However, later, when the teacher wanted to speak with me, I found out that they had been reprimanded. They had made a poor choice in the heat of the moment and things had escalated into the realm of unprofessionalism. We were sitting one-on-one, knee to knee, and this teacher was expressing regret and shame and the desire to undo what had been done. And in that moment I knew what to do. Years of parenting and teaching missteps had taught me that what this teacher needed was not judgment, but love. So I gave it. I heard the confession and acknowledged the regret, “Oh, wow. Yeah. That’s unfortunate.” I affirmed the teacher’s record, “This is not your typical m.o. I’ve seen you many times manage similar situations with finesse.” I heard their concern about the impact of this action on their relationship with the principal, “I see what you mean, yet I believe our principal to be fair, and I know she values opportunities to restore.” I encouraged the teacher to give the situation some space and then to circle back to the principal for a follow-up conversation. I finished with, “This moment does not define you; it’s unfortunate, but it’s over. You’ll get past it.”

In that moment, I saw it. I was going to miss my classroom for sure, but I wasn’t going to miss the money moments. They might be fewer and further in between, but I would still get opportunities to experience rich human to human interactions with the teachers I would be coaching. Even better, I might be showing them the impact of such conversations in a way that could inspire them to seek opportunities to engage similarly with their own students.

I am certainly going to miss my classroom, but here’s to loving my new students.

For of his fullness, we have all received grace upon grace. John 1: 16

Here’s the thing(s)…

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*A quick note, sources and resources are linked in the text.

I’ve been kind of quiet in this space lately. It’s May, and I’ve only posted six times so far this year. For a girl who posted almost daily when this blog began, six times in four months is virtually silent.

But here’s the thing….

Just kidding…there isn’t one thing that is keeping me from putting words on the page (or rather the screen)…it’s more like a steady stream of things that seem to keep coming at me (at you?) in such a way that I can’t really focus. I can’t keep my eyes on one thing for long enough to form a thought, let alone an opinion.

At work, I’m down to just a few weeks with my seniors, and their excitement/ambivalence/annoyance would be a lot to process and respond to on its own, but we’ve also had Family Conferences and Decision Day. Each of these events takes a team effort to prepare for and execute. (You know the drill — communications, set up, station assignments, and the running of the actual event, and although neither is my responsibility, I am a member of the team.) I also have had the responsibility this year to recognize students of the month (one for each teacher in the building) and honor roll recipients. This entails identifying honorees, pulling them from class for a photo, and sending those photos to someone — preferably not myself — to have them loaded into a Canva document before they are printed out and posted in the hallways. In addition to all of this “normal” school activity, the authorizer of our school charter is visiting us this week for an educational program review that we learned about just several weeks ago. Such a visit, like school accreditation, requires the submission of countless artifacts such as lesson plans, IEPs, coaching trackers, professional development documents, etc. I was part of a team that pulled all those together and submitted them electronically. This past week leadership and staff met to prepare for the visit that will be spread over three days — all while school is in session, you know, the actual teaching and learning part. Spring is always busy at school, but this year is exceptionally so.

At home, things are a bit more relaxed –we have no major repairs pending, and we’re happily in the midst of installing our garden — but if home life includes extended family, then I have to disclose that my mother and stepfather have had some pretty difficult challenges for all of 2025 that just right now seem to be stabilizing if you don’t mention the fact that at least one of them is recently ready to start exploring assisted living facilities, which takes the coordination of six adult children to do lots of fact finding. I would also be remiss if I did not mention that my dear Aunt Margaret, after many years of relative health, has taken a sudden and recent decline.

All of this is, of course within the realm of “normal” adult life. You have also had busy seasons at work and at home — they come and they go — and although they are at times taxing to navigate, we somehow make it through to the other side in time for the next wave of whatever it is that is coming.

But these are not the things that are blurring my focus. No, they take time, of course, and energy, but they are manageable. I think what has me off balance may have many of us off balance — the continuous stream of government actions that may or may not impact us directly, but nevertheless are jarring to the brain and that lead us, at least me, to at times retreat, to dissociate, to not want to process or deal with any of it.

In 2018, presidential strategist Stephen K. Bannon bragged about that administration’s strategy to “flood the zone” with initiatives. The idea was to roll out a constant flow of orders and directives to throw “the opposition” (you know, other Americans) off balance so that they could not respond (Source). Since that administration regained the presidential office this past January, this strategy is being used again, only to the nth degree.

In the first 100 days of this administration (in just under four months) we have been overwhelmed by actions such as: the pardoning of those who invaded the US capitol on January 6, 2020; the freezing of funds for cancer research, Meals on Wheels, and disaster relief; the implementation of tariffs on every country in the world, the pause in tariffs, the subsequent roll-back of said tariffs, and currently, the exponentially high tariffs on China (which will certainly impact most of us); the firing of countless federal employees followed by the attempt to rehire some of them; the withholding of funds to public universities who refuse to comply with the administration’s agenda; the deportation of countless immigrants, some whom are legal residents, with some being sent to foreign prisons; the continuing and hard to follow involvement in the ongoing conflicts in Israel/Gaza and Russia/Ukraine; the president’s attendance at the funeral of the Pope followed by his posting of an image of himself dressed as the pope on social media; and this is just scratching the surface (Source). You might be shouting at me right now, “what about the…[fill in the blank].”

Frankly, I’ve got to look at what is happening on the national scene through a peep hole with one eye covered. I can’t look at it in full — and that’s exactly the idea. This administration is using the everything, everywhere, all at once strategy to keep us all in this state of slack-jawed disbelief.

And that is where I find myself, only I’ve moved from stunned to numb. I feel detached from reality, not wanting to engage because I can’t keep up. But that is what this administration has said it wants — to “flood the zone” so that we become overwhelmed.

But here’s the thing — the actual thing — we can’t do that.

We can walk away. We can take breaks. We can sit for two hours after a long day and work on a 1000-piece puzzle depicting van Gogh’s “Irises”, or take a walk through the park plucking lilac sprigs, inhaling their beauty on a glorious spring day, or lose track of time choosing the latest fiction from the library shelves, or binge-watch “The Four Seasons” on Netflix, but then we’ve got to re-engage.

We’ve got to notice the actions that are being proposed — such as cuts to education, to PBS, to NPR!! — we’ve got to let our voices be heard — through letter writing, phone calling, boycotting or participating in peaceful protests. What we tolerate, what we look away from, what we allow — these are the things we accept.

And, overwhelmed though I might be, I cannot accept funding cuts to public education — not when I see the inequities that already exist. I cannot accept the devaluing of other humans — not immigrants, not members of the LGBTQ+ community, not minorities, not women, not anyone. I cannot accept that as the profits of billionaires increase their taxes are not commensurate, especially not at the expense of the poor. I cannot accept a disregard for the fragility of the environment — when we know better we have to do better.

We are indeed looking at a flood of issues, and each of us also has our own life to manage. None of us can stop a flood alone, but we can each do our part — we can warn the others, we can grab a bucket and start bailing, we can plug a hole, we can help those who are drowning.

Together we can weather a flood.

Beloved, let us love one another. 1 John 4:7

Educational Break

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

On Thursday afternoon, I tidied my classroom, finalized some grades, and walked away from school and toward my Spring Break. The mere thought of not having to set an alarm for 10 days would’ve put a pep in my step if I’d had any pep left at all, but I did not.

All teachers are exhausted by this time in the year. Even though we had Christmas break, even though we might’ve had a long weekend or even a full week off in February, we’ve been, since September, coordinating learning for our students, planning multiple presentations each day, keeping records, reporting to our supervisors, and (and this is the most draining part) making countless in-the-moment decisions:

What is the first thing I need to do when I walk in the door?

Do I have an extra stapler, know where more chart paper is, and can I laminate another hall pass for Room 117?

No, you can’t go to my classroom unattended; yes, I can get you a bandaid; no I don’t know where Mr. Smith is,

You can’t go to the bathroom right now, but ask me again in 10 minutes.

Yes, you can take that pencil, borrow that book, eat that snack.

You sit over here; you stay there.

Yes, your topic sentence is solid, but no, that is not an adequate example.

You’ve used AI here, and you must re-do the assignment.

You’ve used AI here, and you cannot re-do the assignment.

Yes, you can turn it in late. No, the deadline has passed.

Yes, you can work with a partner. No, you can’t get the answers from a peer.

This is non-stop all day long, but teachers, while keeping this decision-making machine running, must also, intervene in interpersonal conflicts, address misbehavior, meet demands for mandatory documentation, and, oh yeah, provide high quality instruction.

And most of us are happy to do all of this. We see each piece as necessary for supporting human development, for preparing the next generation of humans for meaningful life in our society. We’re teaching our students to co-exist with one another, to manage themselves, to hold themselves accountable, to read, to write, to identify a career, and to begin to take steps toward attaining that career. We’re in this work because we like kids but also because we believe in the power of education to create possibility for students of all backgrounds and abilities and to create a better future for all of us.

In the school where I work — a small charter school on the edge of Detroit, where 99% of my students are Black, where 100% of the students qualify for free breakfast and lunch, where almost all of the students are below the national average in reading and math scores by no fault of their own but because of centuries-long inequity in education–the teachers, like me, believe in the transformative power of education. We see it as an opportunity to not only change lives but to save lives.

In addition to the exhausting work that teaching is in any context, teachers in buildings like mine have the added weight of wondering if our kids have enough to eat, if they have a home to sleep in, if their home is safe, if they will have what they need for the next 10 days, or if they will be alone, hungry, cold, or in danger. Our students have the same needs as any students in the country, but they have additional needs as a result of poverty that stems from systemic inequities that go back through the history of our nation — school segregation, red-lining in real estate, unconscious bias in hiring practices, and other elements of historical and current systemic racism.

So, you might imagine how I am feeling, heading into a much-needed break while simultaneously worrying about my students’ welfare, to learn that the president of this country has ordered the Director of the Department of Education to dismantle it.

You may say, “Settle down, Kristin, most funding for education comes from the state.”

That is true, most money for education comes from the state — but do you know what does come from the federal government? Funds that make a difference for students like mine. For example, Title I, which provides $18 million to low-income districts. It’s not enough to make up for the economic disparity between neighboring districts, but it’s a start. The Department of Education also provides IDEA (Individuals with Disabilities Education Act) funds to the tune of $15 billion to help districts provide additional resources to students with learning disabilities, cognitive impairments, and other diagnoses such as autism. Source.

Furthermore, the US Department of Education manages Federal Student Aid for post-secondary education, providing over $120 billion annually in grants, loans, and work study that allows students like mine to dream of a career. And not just students like mine — I myself relied on federal money to get my degrees, didn’t you? Source

Can you imagine what might happen in communities across the country if high school seniors no longer have access to the FAFSA? if they can no longer apply for federal dollars to fund their education through grants and/or loans? Tuition alone for Michigan State University is over $16,000 a year. Add in room and board and your talking about $35,000+. Most students need at least four years to get a basic degree. Who among us can fund $140k without the aid of at least a student loan?

Now, the State of Michigan is prepared to fund up to two years of community college and up to $5,500 per year at state universities, but states rely on the federal mechanism of the FAFSA to distribute those funds. If the DOE is dismantled, how long will it take for states to pivot to their own systems to ensure that students who need these funds get them? And, where will students borrow the balance that is not covered by state funds if they don’t have access to federal student loans?

How many students will take post-secondary education right off the table — including trade school programs that prepare our electricians, plumbers, welders, builders, and the like?

As I consider the potential outcomes of such action, the faces of my seniors are appearing in my mind — J. who wants to be a programmer, who has already completed several summers developing coding skills, L. who plans to be a nurse, K. who wants to be a truck driver, and S. who plans to become a police officer. None of these students can take one more step without the FAFSA and right this minute the Secretary of Education (who has zero experience with issues that impact schools) is busy laying off DOE employees under a directive from the president.

I am exhausted, and it’s my Spring Break, but I can’t just sit by and watch this happen.

So, I’m doing two things: First, I’m writing this post, and second I’m committing to use the app “Five Calls” to involve myself in the American process.

Here is how it works. Download the app, select the issue you are concerned about, and enter your zipcode. You will see a timeline of updates on that issue and a list of representatives from your district. One click later, you will see a page like this:

You click on the number, wait for an answer, read the script, and and click a blue button to register whether you left a voicemail or made contact, and the app sends you to the next number.

In just a few moments this morning I made three calls.

This may seem like something small — just like my boycotting may seem small and ineffectual to some –but if we truly believe that our government is of, by, and for the people, then we, the people, need to get involved. We need to do something when we see that our government is not representing all of the people — particularly when they are taking steps to further disenfranchise the most marginalized among us.

Look, you’re probably exhausted and overworked, too. You might feel like this is not worth your time, but perhaps you can take a journey back to your high school self, remember what it feels like to have a dream in front of you — of a career, a family, a whole adult life. Remember what that feels like? Don’t we want to make sure that every kid in America has an opportunity to pursue their dreams?

If you believe in the transformative power of education like I do, I urge you to make 5 calls — today, tomorrow, and until our voices are heard.

It’s a small decision you and I can make that could make a monumental difference for our kids, our country, our future.

Speak up … defend the rights of the poor and the needy. Proverbs 31:9