Dear Reader,
Thanks in advance for reading this post. Here’s some context for your consideration. In writing this piece, I’m not looking for answers or solutions from you. I’ve been a teacher or administrator in inner city schools for twenty plus years, and I often don’t know what to do. I’m not expecting you to have answers to my questions, my wondering or my musings. Although if you do, I’m happy to hear them-I could use all the help I can get. My purpose for writing this post, and all future posts is simply to bring awareness to the edu-blogosphere that schools like ours exist, and our students have names, and stories, and hopes, and dreams. I love reading about so many amazing educators, doing phenomenal work with outrageously creative and wonderful students, at tremendous schools. AND, I want you to know about our school too. Most principals and teachers in inner city schools aren’t on twitter, but there are so many schools like mine in cities across America, serving thousands of students in underrepresented communities. The purpose of this post is simply to say we are here, and we are dealing with tough problems, without any clear solutions. And if you think about these stories for even a minute beyond reading the post, or if you share it, or tell someone about it, then my students, my teachers, and our community isn’t invisible in that moment. And I can’t ask for more than that. Thank you for reading.
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Dear Team,
Welcome back! I hope you all had a relaxing, and well-deserved long weekend. February is always hard for me to maintain my focus on all the work that still needs to be done. But the reality is, there remains a tremendous amount of work to do, and not nearly enough time to get it all done. Usually I use this space to remind you about our countdown to the Ohio State Tests (32 days), and how our focus must be on teaching and learning and teaching bell to bell. This week, I’d like to draw your attention elsewhere.
For the most part, our school has returned to normal after the tragedy of losing someone many of us cared about. Or maybe that’s the wrong way to say it. Our school has returned to the predictability of our routine. I have not. I haven’t grieved; not really. I’ve cried a little, a couple of times-most recently when watching the heartbroken mother in Florida cry out in anguish and anger, about our leaders’ inability to take any steps forward around gun laws. But I haven’t really taken the time, or had the opportunity to just be sad. To be honest, I think the opportunity has passed me by. I think my sadness is slowly turning into anger-not unmanageable, crazy anger. But the slow burn kind of anger that if channeled correctly, turns into action.
The normalcy of our school is actually an implicit agreement that not-good-enough-school is in fact good enough. And it isn’t. It just isn’t. I was so pleased that students who no longer attend our school wanted to come back to us to grieve last week, because they know we are a place of care. And I was able to get them one counseling session. And while one is better than none, it’s not close to being enough. Some of our current students have had two counseling sessions. A handful have had three. And it’s still not enough. And yet we must move forward. The state tests are coming, and that’s where our focus has to be, instead of being on the reality of so many of our students dealing daily with trauma that has occurred in their lives. And I’m angry and more than a little sad that the expectation is that our focus ought to be on moving forward, instead of dealing with traumatized teens. But I also understand the reality-the tests are coming, and there isn't any such thing as passing or being excused from the exam due to trauma.
Some of you know, I attended a principal meeting last week. Some of the meetings I have to attend are terrible, but this one wasn’t. The focus: How do we know that students are actually learning what our teachers intend for them to learn? And it’s the right topic. Our students have incredible gaps in their knowledge. There’s so much they don’t know. They don’t read well. They don’t always think, and problem solve well. They write so poorly. And the first required graduation state test is 32 days away. As I’ve said to many of you, three weeks ago, I was working with our math department. And we were looking at a math standard about graphing functions that applied to both Algebra and Geometry. We used the Achieve The Core website to map the standard backwards, all the way to first grade. It wasn’t until we got to second grade that we were absolutely sure that 100% of our students could meet that standard. There are so many gaps, and misunderstandings and topics students simply haven’t learned along the way. And we have to address them all. So discussing how we know whether or not students are learning is a right topic for a meeting. One of my colleagues-a great principal-presented. She talked about the new system she and her teachers have begun to implement to check for student understanding. And it can work. And it might already be working at her school. I listened to the presentation, and while I understood the rightness of it, it also made me terribly sad.
Our students know so little, so we want to break everything down into the smallest possible parts to teach them. But in breaking it down, we take away what it actually is. When we learn to drive a car, we have to know all the different parts, or at least the parts we see and touch as the driver. But we would never, ever learn to drive a car by just practicing pressing the gas pedal. And then just practicing to use the brake. And never, ever getting to put it all together on the road. As a principal of a school full of students with low skills, I understand the power of breaking topics down into manageable parts. But as a dad, I would be so unhappy and angry if my child’s school said they were breaking everything down into small parts to assess to ensure students are learning for the test instead of doing cool projects to learn. We don’t talk about it much-but how come my own children get to plant gardens, and do service projects using pottery, and do so many other cool learning activities, while the black and brown kids in the inner city have to break down their learning into the smallest pieces to make sure they pass the state tests and many never get to do most of those cool projects?
We have to get our kids to pass the tests. And what’s the cost of only getting our kids to pass the tests? If they don’t pass, they are doomed to a life of poverty, without any chance of any job they would ever willingly choose to have. And if they do pass, and they haven’t learned about self-efficacy, and action, and power, and voice, and engagement and so much more, then what can they do with the high school diploma they have earned for passing the tests? It’s an impossible dilemma, without any easy solutions.
It's easy to get lost in the details of the tests. It’s easy to get lost in the standards and the verbs, and the tools and the strategies. But the world is moving rapidly around us, and the truth is-just passing the Ohio State Tests isn't enough to be ready for the world our students will enter. And wow, it sure is a tough world right now. #MeToo, #Blacklivesmatter, school shootings and so much more to wrap our minds around.
We are under such incredible pressure to get our kids to be proficient as measured by the state test. Value add, Performance Index, School Report Cards, and Graduation Rates all depend on our students' passing the test. And that's before we get to the reality that for our students', their diplomas, and for some, their lives are on the line.
But there has to be more to school in general, and our school specifically, than just preparing students for tests. I don't want to just say we want students to be thinkers, problem solvers, and makers. I believe in the power of actually teaching students to apply the skills of thinking, problem solving, and making-not in class, but in their community. I'm reading and watching teenagers with voice and agency speak truth to power from a Florida high school, aiming their anger and desire for action at Washington DC, and I want to discuss with all of you, how we teach our students to have their own voices be heard. How do we teach our students to use words as weapons instead of weapons as weapons? How do we teach them that words are power and action is strength? There won't be anything on the state exams about these topics, but aren't these topics at least equally important if not more so than what will actually be on the tests?
We sat together last week as a staff and talked about whether or not there is a specific policy governing what you should do with your students in your classroom if an active shooter tries to get into the room. I hate that we had to take time to hold that conversation. But we did. And we should have. But let's also take the time to discuss whatever the opposite of that conversation ought to be. If we, the voting populace, and our elected officials are unwilling to have meaningful conversations to ensure our safety in school, then how do we empower our students to make the changes we are unwilling to make? Wouldn't that be a worthwhile conversation? And if students can actually make meaningful changes, doesn't that mean they could also pass the state tests?
It's Black History Month and our students ought to know so much more about their own heritage. Here’s a link to young adult author, Jason Reynolds' twitter page. He has shared one black woman's story each day this month, using the hashtag #OfCourseABlackWomanDid. I'm embarrassed to say that each and every day this month, the woman and her accomplishments have been entirely new learning for me. And I think it's fair to say, that if it's new learning for me, it would be new learning for virtually all our students. None of these people will be covered on the state tests, and all are worth our students knowing and us knowing, and engaging in meaningful time in class around their accomplishments. The pressure of the tests get in the way of this incredibly important learning. Our students already cannot find themselves in the courses we teach. These short stories of women of courage, strength and achievement do more to grow our students’ capacities as empowered learners than anything we do to prepare them for the state exams.
We will talk this week about how we know if students have learned what we've intended them to learn. But we should also talk about how we teach students with huge gaps in their knowledge, and massive holes in their understanding where context ought to be, how to start with a problem and end with an audience. The tennis example I've been using for months has value. You know the one-the whole staff is playing in a tennis tournament at the end of the year. Some of us have played before, others haven’t at all, and we have every skill level in between. But we’re all playing in the tournament at the end of the year. And we’re all practicing together, on the same court, at the same time. And I have to teach all of you. There are obvious parallels to our classrooms with some students who are at or above grade level, but also students who are far, far below grade level, with another large group in between. And we have to get them all to proficiency, even though some students absolutely won’t get there this year. Just like some of you wouldn’t win the tennis tournament this year-but you could in the future. If we were actually playing tennis after school as a staff, and I only ever let you hit a forehand, or hold the ball, or only practice your serve, and we never, ever, get to actually play tennis-it means I'm doing it wrong. If we break things down into such small parts, that our students can never see the whole, and never understand how the part fits with their world, even though the whole won't be on the test, then it means we're doing it wrong.
Teaching and leading in the inner city is as close to impossible as there could possibly be. The world is changing and school is not. The world is happening, at a million miles per hour, and our kids don't know it. We have to figure out how to help our students have choices and opportunities in the world, AND we have to get them the skills and knowledge to pass the graduation tests. And it's so difficult.
I believe in this teams' ability to both get our students to proficient and connect our students with the world. We err on the side of focusing on tests because of the pressures we are under. We do need to get our students to pass seven state exams. And we need to get them ready for the world. These often feel like competing interests-at least to me. Are they always competing? Can we get students to proficiency and help them to formulate solid opinions as to whether or not they do or don’t want to be a part of a national student walk out around gun control? Or get them to proficiency and help our students to know if they want to take their own actions about their own set of experiences as youth in the inner city? I don't know. But I think if anyone can, it's you. And I sure would like to talk about it.
The state tests are coming. And the world is happening. And our students must be aware of both. I'm here to support you as best I can. Just ask. Let's talk about it together.
Monday, February 19, 2018
Saturday, February 10, 2018
No Words
Dear Reader,
Thanks in advance for reading this post. Here’s some context for your consideration. In writing this piece, I’m not looking for answers or solutions from you. I’ve been a teacher or administrator in inner city schools for twenty plus years, and I often don’t know what to do. I’m not expecting you to have answers to my questions, my wondering or my musings. Although if you do, I’m happy to hear them-I could use all the help I can get. My purpose for writing this post, and all future posts is simply to bring awareness to the edu-blogosphere that schools like ours exist, and our students have names, and stories, and hopes, and dreams. I love reading about so many amazing educators, doing phenomenal work with outrageously creative and wonderful students, at tremendous schools. AND, I want you to know about our school too. Most principals and teachers in inner city schools aren’t on twitter, but there are so many schools like mine in cities across America, serving thousands of students in underrepresented communities. The purpose of this post is simply to say we are here, and we are dealing with tough problems, without any clear solutions. And if you think about these stories for even a minute beyond reading the post, or if you share it, or tell someone about it, then my students, my teachers, and our community isn’t invisible in that moment. And I can’t ask for more than that. Thank you for reading.
I hope that A’s mom agrees to organ donation. I like the idea of someone in need getting his heart because his heart was his best part. It is strong, and amazing, and someone in need would be lucky to have it.
By any measurable indicator, I failed as a principal this week. But I tried to be whoever, and whatever each and every one of my students needed. I was a parent, an older brother, a caregiver, a truth bringer, an anchor, and the eye of the storm. I tried, I think successfully, to protect my teachers from most of the emotion, so they could continue to try and teach. It didn’t always work-but it did most of the time.
Two last terrible moments. The first-on Wednesday, amidst all the tears, a former student walked in. He withdrew last year, angry, after multiple fights and discipline incident after discipline incident. He is also in a gang, a different one than A. He walked in to get his transcript for the current school he is attending. But he arrived with a baby. I can’t find the words to write how I felt, but a teacher observed him entering the building with a baby, and said, “It feels suffocating and so Sisyphean.” We try so hard to help our students. We teach them to dream, to hope, and when we get it right, to turn their dreams into reality. And then another gang banger walks in, this time with a kid of his own. Another kid, having another kid. And the cycle continues. How can we win?
The second-I watched the news on Tuesday night, knowing there wouldn’t be a story. It’s just another violent death, of another African American teenage boy in the inner city. Not nearly as story worthy as whatever human interest piece they showed that night. I eventually found the article in the online version of the newspaper. It said a thirty year old John Doe male was found shot in the head on a street corner. He remains hospitalized. That was A. 17? 30? John Doe or A? What does it matter to the public? It matters to me though.
A couple last good moments. Students who no longer attend our school heard how we handled this tragedy. And some called to ask if they could come be with us, and others just showed up to be with us. I let them into the building, even though they aren’t our students any longer, under the condition that they speak with a counselor about their grief. And they all did. Two former students, both high school dropouts, re-enrolled at our school. They want to finish and they want to feel the care that we are offering. And lastly, my most difficult young man, arguably the most at risk student in our school right now, said to a staff member about me, “I hate that man. But he did give us a space to come to this week to be together, and be sad together. And it helped.” I’ll accept that compliment as a badge of honor.
There’s no question I failed as an instructional leader this week.But I think I helped kids; and this week, that mattered more. But their skills are still too low, their gaps in their knowledge too huge, and the graduation tests start in 36 days, so it’s also time to find my way back to instructional leadership. But I’m so full. And I’m so emotionally empty. And I’m so tired. A young man whom I care about deeply was murdered this week. May I never have to write those words again for anyone else ever.
Until next week and please may it be a better one...
Thanks in advance for reading this post. Here’s some context for your consideration. In writing this piece, I’m not looking for answers or solutions from you. I’ve been a teacher or administrator in inner city schools for twenty plus years, and I often don’t know what to do. I’m not expecting you to have answers to my questions, my wondering or my musings. Although if you do, I’m happy to hear them-I could use all the help I can get. My purpose for writing this post, and all future posts is simply to bring awareness to the edu-blogosphere that schools like ours exist, and our students have names, and stories, and hopes, and dreams. I love reading about so many amazing educators, doing phenomenal work with outrageously creative and wonderful students, at tremendous schools. AND, I want you to know about our school too. Most principals and teachers in inner city schools aren’t on twitter, but there are so many schools like mine in cities across America, serving thousands of students in underrepresented communities. The purpose of this post is simply to say we are here, and we are dealing with tough problems, without any clear solutions. And if you think about these stories for even a minute beyond reading the post, or if you share it, or tell someone about it, then my students, my teachers, and our community isn’t invisible in that moment. And I can’t ask for more than that. Thank you for reading.
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A great principal is an instructional leader first, second and third. We need to ensure that teaching and learning is the best it can possibly be for our students. We need to inspire innovation and creativity in our teachers. We need to know how to help struggling learning, and how to engage accelerated learners. We’re measured by our state report card grades, our graduation rates, the numbers of students who get into college, proficiency rates on state exams, and the number of students who earn college credit on Advanced Placement tests. There’s more of course; but you get the idea. Maintaining and growing excellent student learning is the mark of a good principal, and a good school.
By any measure that matters in schools, I failed in my role as a principal this week. While I certainly intended to be an instructional leader, my wants and plans fell by the wayside early in the week. I can’t possibly tell the whole story-first it’s too painful, and I can’t tell this story chronologically-there’s just too much. I also don’t know what words to use to describe the emotion of the week. This is my sixth week in a row of writing about our school. To be honest, had I any idea this week would occur, I never would have started writing again. This is one of those times I’m scared I can’t convey what really happens, and what really matters in this story. But I’ll give it my best shot. Deep breath and here we go...
My student was murdered on Tuesday. That’s officially the worst sentence I’ve ever written. But it doesn’t come close to telling the full story.
A young man was murdered on Tuesday. That’s not right either.
A child was murdered on Tuesday. No.
My child, my school-son, my student was murdered on Tuesday. Getting there.
My child, my school-son, my student was shot in the head on Tuesday. He is brain dead, and essentially dead, but his body doesn’t know it yet. Almost.
My child, my school-son, my student was shot in the head on Tuesday. He is brain dead, and essentially dead, but his body doesn’t know it yet. And neither does his family. They have not yet come to grips with the reality that their child, grandson, nephew, cousin is gone, and all that is left are machines breathing for him. There it is. That’s what I meant to say. But there’s so much more.
Students starting seeing Instagram posts soon after school ended. I had left school because I was supposed to be going to Dayton, Ohio for a day of learning with School Retool. When I heard that A (I’m not using his full name out of respect for his family as they come to grips with their new reality) had been shot, I headed for the hospital. I made calls the whole way. I called my boss, the district crisis management team to set up grief counselors for my school on Wednesday, one staff member who loves A as much as me, my Campus Coordinator to arrange meeting at the hospital and my wife. I started crying as soon as I called my wife. “I’m not going to be able to handle this one.” I said through the tears. “This one is too much.”
I arrived at the Trauma Intensive Care Unit at the hospital, where I was met by my police officer friend. We’ve both spent an inordinate amount of time, in our own ways, trying to keep A alive. We waited together for my Campus Coordinator, the most caring person at our school. She doesn’t have any children of her own, which means all of our students are her children. And she cares for each one in her own unique way. We went up together.
When the elevators opened to the waiting room, the smell hit me first. You know that hospital smell-clean and sterile, with the smell of medicine underneath it? It was that, combined with the very distinct odor of weed. The waiting room was filled with people, and my eyes searched first for A’s mother. When I found her, I moved to hug her, tears in both our eyes. During the hug, I whispered in her ear, “I’m so sorry” before remembering she couldn’t hear me. A’s mom is deaf. I looked at her, and said clearly, “I’m so sorry.” She’s an excellent lip reader. The room was shocked that we were there. Word spread quickly that we were the school principal and Campus Coordinator. They ushered us back to the intensive care unit so we could see A. I stood there, beside his bed, looking at all the machines attached to him. His face. His face was virtually unrecognizable. There were bloody bandages wrapped around his head and so much swelling. The nurse asked me if we were from the school. Apparently someone had said we were coming and the family had given permission for the medical personnel to speak with us. “Is there any brain activity?” I asked. Only reflexes was the answer. The bullet had entered his cheek, and passed through his brain, leaving behind a path of destruction. “How long?” I asked. “It’s up to him.”, was the answer. I stood there, and looked at this young man for what felt like a long time. I held his hand and tried to deal with the competing emotions of anger, loss, sadness, and failure. I quietly said goodbye to A.
Back in the waiting room, I had the opportunity to look around. There were two main groups in the room, with competing and very visible emotions. Family was there. A seemed to have a very large family. Sadness emanated from his family in waves. And then there were large groups of young men, ages fourteen into their early twenties. This was A’s gang. And the rage they brought to the room, along with the now prominent smell of marijuana, physically backed us into a corner. Their conversations were really only about one topic; violent revenge. I’ve never been in a room like that. I had to put aside my own sadness to manage the situation. Several of my teachers came to see A, and one student came too. In a room this filled with emotion, and so much of that emotion was rage; I needed to keep my team safe. I moved us, nearer to the exit, for safety. And we stayed close to our police officer friend; knowing full well, that his gun was unlikely to be the only one in the room. We stayed for awhile, and just before we left, the doctor came out to talk to the family. But the family wanted everyone to hear the same message. “There is no chance of recovery. He has a traumatic brain injury.”The family began crying, and the the gang’s rage increased. Several gang members punched walls. And then they got quiet; resolute even. And they filed out towards the streets, and their quest for revenge on whoever has perpetrated this act of violence.
So much more happened while we were there. But I can’t do the awfulness justice. So, we left soon after.
To the key fact that you as the reader must be wondering about. A was in a gang. It was a street gang, a neighborhood gang, and a dangerous gang. And that might be the end of the story. You the reader are certainly entitled to think, that a young man who chooses to be in a gang, runs the risk of dying a violent death. You can think that. I can’t stop you, or ask you not to think that way. But it doesn’t tell the full story. Not even close.
A was more than his gang affiliation. It was certainly a piece of who he was. He was in a gang as everyone in his neighborhood has to be in a gang. There isn’t really a choice. But he was also a son to a deaf mother, and a deaf and blind father. A was fluent in American Sign Language. He lived in a silent home, and he loved coming to school to be social and to engage out loud and engage he did; often extremely loudly. He was smart. He had huge gaps in his knowledge, as many of my students do, and he was way behind in his learning. But he was so intelligent. He had an amazing sense of humor. He made his friends and teachers both laugh out loud when they least expected it. He cared about people. He could have been an ambassador for our school. He greeted everyone, with a story, or a comment that always sucked them into conversation. He never lied. Ever. No matter what stupid thing he’d done, and there were plenty, he always told the truth. He was a peacemaker. He could resolve almost any conflict that occurred at school. He pulled people aside and mediated on his own, all the time. He was my early warning system. He came to me regularly to tell me what I needed to know to address a volatile or soon to be volatile situation. He was my biggest advocate at school. He single handedly built and cultivated my badass reputation over the last two years. Whenever students broke the rules, A pulled them aside. I could always count on him to tell new students, some version of, “Do not mess with Mr. Juli.” “You cannot out argue him.” “You cannot out wait him.” “If you are doing the wrong thing, you will not win.” I can think of at least a dozen times that a student was nose to nose with me, cursing at me, and ready to hit me. And A would inevitably appear, and say, “Bro, I know you think you right, but do not fuck with this man. Step back. You will not hit him. Not only will he lay you out in front of everyone here, but when you do try and hit him, you’ll have to deal with me bro, and then you’ll be in real trouble.” And the other student always backed down.
He drove my teachers crazy. He didn’t do any work. And he disrupted every class with his questions, his wondering, his flirting with girls, his goofiness, and his laughter. I’m sure he would have driven me crazy had I been his classroom teacher. But I had the opportunity to teach him when it was just the two of us. I helped him to learn to dream-a little. We talked about a life beyond the streets where he lived. We talked about using his skills with American Sign Language to build a career. We talked about having a job he wanted, instead of a job he had to have. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to imagine what it might be like to have a different life. But he still went home to his gang life, and to the dangerous streets where he lived. Every Friday, I said the same thing to him, “Stay alive this weekend A. I expect you to be back here at school on Monday.” And every Monday he came to me, and said, “I’m here Mr. Juli.”
One day last spring, some guys showed up after school to kill him. My police officer friend and I saved him that day. It was a Friday. On Monday, when I saw that he was alive, I sat him down, and told him that I dreaded the day I would have to speak at his funeral. I told him if he didn’t make significant changes in his life, I would be attending his funeral in the not so distant future. He cried, and said “You right Mr. Juli, you right.” He knew I was speaking the truth. And he had learned to dream of another life, but he didn’t know how to turn that dream into a reality.
And here we are. I can’t speak at his funeral yet, because even though he’s dead, machines are keeping his heart beating as his mother considers whether or not to donate his organs. I can’t speak at his funeral yet because there’s no money for a funeral. It turns out burying your child is a middle class activity. That’s not something I’ve ever considered before.
I can’t write too much about the rest of the week at school. I live tweeted grief at our school on Wednesday. You can read it if you want. But here’s a few parts. I had a wonderful group of grief counselors to support our students. Two of my principal colleagues sent over their guidance counselors to help also. My students needed to talk; and we had the people for them to talk privately and in groups and that saved us. My teachers were amazing. They were compassionate and caring, and they managed to strike the right balance between teaching, learning, caring, and listening. And that’s just not easy to do.
No one taught me in principal school how to deal with this level of grief. It’s particularly hard because so many of my students have experienced violent deaths of friends and loved ones over and over again. What words could I say?
I went to each of my at-risk boys and told them I had held A’s hand at the hospital and said goodbye. And that I’d thought of each of them in that moment. “I can’t do this again.” I said. “I can’t do this again and have it be you.” All but one of them cried at my words and that gave me a little bit of hope.
Fairly early in the day on Wednesday, I found a group of students in a back corner discussing revenge and payback. I told them we could all be sad today. We could all be angry today. But we will not answer yesterday’s violence with violence today. And I made everyone agree out loud that we could not and would not perpetuate this violence today or any other day at school. At school. I can draw that promise out of my students in our space. I can’t pretend their promise extends to their neighborhoods and the dangerous streets therein.
That line about sadness, and anger and non-violence became my go to line. I used it all day, and all week. It helped. I think. The rest of the time I told students the raw truth. A is brain dead. He’s dead, and his body just doesn’t know it yet. So many students cried. I held sobbing young men, and sobbing young women in my arms for the last three days. On Wednesday, I walked around with a wet patch on my shoulder from all the tears.
Wednesday morning was awful at school. But by Wednesday afternoon, students were craving normalcy. We had regular school on Thursday and Friday, with counselors on hand. I stayed on the move, making sure I had face-time with every student. I did my best to take their emotions from them, so each student could have the ability to do school. I described myself to my wife, as PacMan. I went from student to student taking their anger, sadness, rage, and hurt from them as best I could. I ate it. Or I took it inside myself somehow. I filled myself up with every emotion, from every student who would let me. And now I’m so full. I took so much in, and now I don’t know how to find my own emotions. I cried on the way to the hospital. And I cried a little on the way home on Wednesday. But not enough. This week also happened to be the 11th anniversary of my own father’s death, and I lost the ability to mourn him this week. I would really like to cry this weekend. Writing this post has helped a little, but I’m both filled up, and empty at the same time. I can’t figure out where I stashed my own emotions inside of me. I hope I can find them and release them this weekend.
A great principal is an instructional leader first, second and third. We need to ensure that teaching and learning is the best it can possibly be for our students. We need to inspire innovation and creativity in our teachers. We need to know how to help struggling learning, and how to engage accelerated learners. We’re measured by our state report card grades, our graduation rates, the numbers of students who get into college, proficiency rates on state exams, and the number of students who earn college credit on Advanced Placement tests. There’s more of course; but you get the idea. Maintaining and growing excellent student learning is the mark of a good principal, and a good school.
By any measure that matters in schools, I failed in my role as a principal this week. While I certainly intended to be an instructional leader, my wants and plans fell by the wayside early in the week. I can’t possibly tell the whole story-first it’s too painful, and I can’t tell this story chronologically-there’s just too much. I also don’t know what words to use to describe the emotion of the week. This is my sixth week in a row of writing about our school. To be honest, had I any idea this week would occur, I never would have started writing again. This is one of those times I’m scared I can’t convey what really happens, and what really matters in this story. But I’ll give it my best shot. Deep breath and here we go...
My student was murdered on Tuesday. That’s officially the worst sentence I’ve ever written. But it doesn’t come close to telling the full story.
A young man was murdered on Tuesday. That’s not right either.
A child was murdered on Tuesday. No.
My child, my school-son, my student was murdered on Tuesday. Getting there.
My child, my school-son, my student was shot in the head on Tuesday. He is brain dead, and essentially dead, but his body doesn’t know it yet. Almost.
My child, my school-son, my student was shot in the head on Tuesday. He is brain dead, and essentially dead, but his body doesn’t know it yet. And neither does his family. They have not yet come to grips with the reality that their child, grandson, nephew, cousin is gone, and all that is left are machines breathing for him. There it is. That’s what I meant to say. But there’s so much more.
Students starting seeing Instagram posts soon after school ended. I had left school because I was supposed to be going to Dayton, Ohio for a day of learning with School Retool. When I heard that A (I’m not using his full name out of respect for his family as they come to grips with their new reality) had been shot, I headed for the hospital. I made calls the whole way. I called my boss, the district crisis management team to set up grief counselors for my school on Wednesday, one staff member who loves A as much as me, my Campus Coordinator to arrange meeting at the hospital and my wife. I started crying as soon as I called my wife. “I’m not going to be able to handle this one.” I said through the tears. “This one is too much.”
I arrived at the Trauma Intensive Care Unit at the hospital, where I was met by my police officer friend. We’ve both spent an inordinate amount of time, in our own ways, trying to keep A alive. We waited together for my Campus Coordinator, the most caring person at our school. She doesn’t have any children of her own, which means all of our students are her children. And she cares for each one in her own unique way. We went up together.
When the elevators opened to the waiting room, the smell hit me first. You know that hospital smell-clean and sterile, with the smell of medicine underneath it? It was that, combined with the very distinct odor of weed. The waiting room was filled with people, and my eyes searched first for A’s mother. When I found her, I moved to hug her, tears in both our eyes. During the hug, I whispered in her ear, “I’m so sorry” before remembering she couldn’t hear me. A’s mom is deaf. I looked at her, and said clearly, “I’m so sorry.” She’s an excellent lip reader. The room was shocked that we were there. Word spread quickly that we were the school principal and Campus Coordinator. They ushered us back to the intensive care unit so we could see A. I stood there, beside his bed, looking at all the machines attached to him. His face. His face was virtually unrecognizable. There were bloody bandages wrapped around his head and so much swelling. The nurse asked me if we were from the school. Apparently someone had said we were coming and the family had given permission for the medical personnel to speak with us. “Is there any brain activity?” I asked. Only reflexes was the answer. The bullet had entered his cheek, and passed through his brain, leaving behind a path of destruction. “How long?” I asked. “It’s up to him.”, was the answer. I stood there, and looked at this young man for what felt like a long time. I held his hand and tried to deal with the competing emotions of anger, loss, sadness, and failure. I quietly said goodbye to A.
Back in the waiting room, I had the opportunity to look around. There were two main groups in the room, with competing and very visible emotions. Family was there. A seemed to have a very large family. Sadness emanated from his family in waves. And then there were large groups of young men, ages fourteen into their early twenties. This was A’s gang. And the rage they brought to the room, along with the now prominent smell of marijuana, physically backed us into a corner. Their conversations were really only about one topic; violent revenge. I’ve never been in a room like that. I had to put aside my own sadness to manage the situation. Several of my teachers came to see A, and one student came too. In a room this filled with emotion, and so much of that emotion was rage; I needed to keep my team safe. I moved us, nearer to the exit, for safety. And we stayed close to our police officer friend; knowing full well, that his gun was unlikely to be the only one in the room. We stayed for awhile, and just before we left, the doctor came out to talk to the family. But the family wanted everyone to hear the same message. “There is no chance of recovery. He has a traumatic brain injury.”The family began crying, and the the gang’s rage increased. Several gang members punched walls. And then they got quiet; resolute even. And they filed out towards the streets, and their quest for revenge on whoever has perpetrated this act of violence.
So much more happened while we were there. But I can’t do the awfulness justice. So, we left soon after.
To the key fact that you as the reader must be wondering about. A was in a gang. It was a street gang, a neighborhood gang, and a dangerous gang. And that might be the end of the story. You the reader are certainly entitled to think, that a young man who chooses to be in a gang, runs the risk of dying a violent death. You can think that. I can’t stop you, or ask you not to think that way. But it doesn’t tell the full story. Not even close.
A was more than his gang affiliation. It was certainly a piece of who he was. He was in a gang as everyone in his neighborhood has to be in a gang. There isn’t really a choice. But he was also a son to a deaf mother, and a deaf and blind father. A was fluent in American Sign Language. He lived in a silent home, and he loved coming to school to be social and to engage out loud and engage he did; often extremely loudly. He was smart. He had huge gaps in his knowledge, as many of my students do, and he was way behind in his learning. But he was so intelligent. He had an amazing sense of humor. He made his friends and teachers both laugh out loud when they least expected it. He cared about people. He could have been an ambassador for our school. He greeted everyone, with a story, or a comment that always sucked them into conversation. He never lied. Ever. No matter what stupid thing he’d done, and there were plenty, he always told the truth. He was a peacemaker. He could resolve almost any conflict that occurred at school. He pulled people aside and mediated on his own, all the time. He was my early warning system. He came to me regularly to tell me what I needed to know to address a volatile or soon to be volatile situation. He was my biggest advocate at school. He single handedly built and cultivated my badass reputation over the last two years. Whenever students broke the rules, A pulled them aside. I could always count on him to tell new students, some version of, “Do not mess with Mr. Juli.” “You cannot out argue him.” “You cannot out wait him.” “If you are doing the wrong thing, you will not win.” I can think of at least a dozen times that a student was nose to nose with me, cursing at me, and ready to hit me. And A would inevitably appear, and say, “Bro, I know you think you right, but do not fuck with this man. Step back. You will not hit him. Not only will he lay you out in front of everyone here, but when you do try and hit him, you’ll have to deal with me bro, and then you’ll be in real trouble.” And the other student always backed down.
He drove my teachers crazy. He didn’t do any work. And he disrupted every class with his questions, his wondering, his flirting with girls, his goofiness, and his laughter. I’m sure he would have driven me crazy had I been his classroom teacher. But I had the opportunity to teach him when it was just the two of us. I helped him to learn to dream-a little. We talked about a life beyond the streets where he lived. We talked about using his skills with American Sign Language to build a career. We talked about having a job he wanted, instead of a job he had to have. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to imagine what it might be like to have a different life. But he still went home to his gang life, and to the dangerous streets where he lived. Every Friday, I said the same thing to him, “Stay alive this weekend A. I expect you to be back here at school on Monday.” And every Monday he came to me, and said, “I’m here Mr. Juli.”
One day last spring, some guys showed up after school to kill him. My police officer friend and I saved him that day. It was a Friday. On Monday, when I saw that he was alive, I sat him down, and told him that I dreaded the day I would have to speak at his funeral. I told him if he didn’t make significant changes in his life, I would be attending his funeral in the not so distant future. He cried, and said “You right Mr. Juli, you right.” He knew I was speaking the truth. And he had learned to dream of another life, but he didn’t know how to turn that dream into a reality.
And here we are. I can’t speak at his funeral yet, because even though he’s dead, machines are keeping his heart beating as his mother considers whether or not to donate his organs. I can’t speak at his funeral yet because there’s no money for a funeral. It turns out burying your child is a middle class activity. That’s not something I’ve ever considered before.
I can’t write too much about the rest of the week at school. I live tweeted grief at our school on Wednesday. You can read it if you want. But here’s a few parts. I had a wonderful group of grief counselors to support our students. Two of my principal colleagues sent over their guidance counselors to help also. My students needed to talk; and we had the people for them to talk privately and in groups and that saved us. My teachers were amazing. They were compassionate and caring, and they managed to strike the right balance between teaching, learning, caring, and listening. And that’s just not easy to do.
No one taught me in principal school how to deal with this level of grief. It’s particularly hard because so many of my students have experienced violent deaths of friends and loved ones over and over again. What words could I say?
I went to each of my at-risk boys and told them I had held A’s hand at the hospital and said goodbye. And that I’d thought of each of them in that moment. “I can’t do this again.” I said. “I can’t do this again and have it be you.” All but one of them cried at my words and that gave me a little bit of hope.
Fairly early in the day on Wednesday, I found a group of students in a back corner discussing revenge and payback. I told them we could all be sad today. We could all be angry today. But we will not answer yesterday’s violence with violence today. And I made everyone agree out loud that we could not and would not perpetuate this violence today or any other day at school. At school. I can draw that promise out of my students in our space. I can’t pretend their promise extends to their neighborhoods and the dangerous streets therein.
That line about sadness, and anger and non-violence became my go to line. I used it all day, and all week. It helped. I think. The rest of the time I told students the raw truth. A is brain dead. He’s dead, and his body just doesn’t know it yet. So many students cried. I held sobbing young men, and sobbing young women in my arms for the last three days. On Wednesday, I walked around with a wet patch on my shoulder from all the tears.
Wednesday morning was awful at school. But by Wednesday afternoon, students were craving normalcy. We had regular school on Thursday and Friday, with counselors on hand. I stayed on the move, making sure I had face-time with every student. I did my best to take their emotions from them, so each student could have the ability to do school. I described myself to my wife, as PacMan. I went from student to student taking their anger, sadness, rage, and hurt from them as best I could. I ate it. Or I took it inside myself somehow. I filled myself up with every emotion, from every student who would let me. And now I’m so full. I took so much in, and now I don’t know how to find my own emotions. I cried on the way to the hospital. And I cried a little on the way home on Wednesday. But not enough. This week also happened to be the 11th anniversary of my own father’s death, and I lost the ability to mourn him this week. I would really like to cry this weekend. Writing this post has helped a little, but I’m both filled up, and empty at the same time. I can’t figure out where I stashed my own emotions inside of me. I hope I can find them and release them this weekend.
I did everything I could to keep A alive, and to help him find a better life. While I’m not sleeping very well, it isn’t because I think I could have done more or should have done more. I think I did more than everything I could have done. But I still feel his loss deeply. I went to synagogue last night to say Kaddish (the prayer for mourners remembering someone who has died.) I went for my father, but I also said the prayer for A. A was far from perfect, as a student, and a young man. And while many of his actions were wrong, dangerous, or illegal, he was at his core, a good person. I’ve interacted with thousands of students over my career. I know the difference between good and bad. And A was a fundamentally good person, even though he made bad choices. In my professional world, I’ve learned that good and bad, and right and wrong, are not as clear cut as they are in other worlds.
I hope that A’s mom agrees to organ donation. I like the idea of someone in need getting his heart because his heart was his best part. It is strong, and amazing, and someone in need would be lucky to have it.
By any measurable indicator, I failed as a principal this week. But I tried to be whoever, and whatever each and every one of my students needed. I was a parent, an older brother, a caregiver, a truth bringer, an anchor, and the eye of the storm. I tried, I think successfully, to protect my teachers from most of the emotion, so they could continue to try and teach. It didn’t always work-but it did most of the time.
Two last terrible moments. The first-on Wednesday, amidst all the tears, a former student walked in. He withdrew last year, angry, after multiple fights and discipline incident after discipline incident. He is also in a gang, a different one than A. He walked in to get his transcript for the current school he is attending. But he arrived with a baby. I can’t find the words to write how I felt, but a teacher observed him entering the building with a baby, and said, “It feels suffocating and so Sisyphean.” We try so hard to help our students. We teach them to dream, to hope, and when we get it right, to turn their dreams into reality. And then another gang banger walks in, this time with a kid of his own. Another kid, having another kid. And the cycle continues. How can we win?
The second-I watched the news on Tuesday night, knowing there wouldn’t be a story. It’s just another violent death, of another African American teenage boy in the inner city. Not nearly as story worthy as whatever human interest piece they showed that night. I eventually found the article in the online version of the newspaper. It said a thirty year old John Doe male was found shot in the head on a street corner. He remains hospitalized. That was A. 17? 30? John Doe or A? What does it matter to the public? It matters to me though.
A couple last good moments. Students who no longer attend our school heard how we handled this tragedy. And some called to ask if they could come be with us, and others just showed up to be with us. I let them into the building, even though they aren’t our students any longer, under the condition that they speak with a counselor about their grief. And they all did. Two former students, both high school dropouts, re-enrolled at our school. They want to finish and they want to feel the care that we are offering. And lastly, my most difficult young man, arguably the most at risk student in our school right now, said to a staff member about me, “I hate that man. But he did give us a space to come to this week to be together, and be sad together. And it helped.” I’ll accept that compliment as a badge of honor.
There’s no question I failed as an instructional leader this week.But I think I helped kids; and this week, that mattered more. But their skills are still too low, their gaps in their knowledge too huge, and the graduation tests start in 36 days, so it’s also time to find my way back to instructional leadership. But I’m so full. And I’m so emotionally empty. And I’m so tired. A young man whom I care about deeply was murdered this week. May I never have to write those words again for anyone else ever.
Until next week and please may it be a better one...
Saturday, February 3, 2018
The World Got Inside
Dear Reader,
Thanks in advance for reading this post. Here’s some context for your consideration. In writing this piece, I’m not looking for answers or solutions from you. I’ve been a teacher or administrator in inner city schools for twenty plus years, and I often don’t know what to do. I’m not expecting you to have answers to my questions, my wondering or my musings. Although if you do, I’m happy to hear them-I could use all the help I can get. My purpose for writing this post, and all future posts is simply to bring awareness to the edu-blogosphere that schools like ours exist, and our students have names, and stories, and hopes, and dreams. I love reading about so many amazing educators, doing phenomenal work with outrageously creative and wonderful students, at tremendous schools. AND, I want you to know about our school too. Most principals and teachers in inner city schools aren’t on twitter, but there are so many schools like mine in cities across America, serving thousands of students in underrepresented communities. The purpose of this post is simply to say we are here, and we are dealing with tough problems, without any clear solutions. And if you think about these stories for even a minute beyond reading the post, or if you share it, or tell someone about it, then my students, my teachers, and our community isn’t invisible in that moment. And I can’t ask for more than that.
Thanks in advance for reading this post. Here’s some context for your consideration. In writing this piece, I’m not looking for answers or solutions from you. I’ve been a teacher or administrator in inner city schools for twenty plus years, and I often don’t know what to do. I’m not expecting you to have answers to my questions, my wondering or my musings. Although if you do, I’m happy to hear them-I could use all the help I can get. My purpose for writing this post, and all future posts is simply to bring awareness to the edu-blogosphere that schools like ours exist, and our students have names, and stories, and hopes, and dreams. I love reading about so many amazing educators, doing phenomenal work with outrageously creative and wonderful students, at tremendous schools. AND, I want you to know about our school too. Most principals and teachers in inner city schools aren’t on twitter, but there are so many schools like mine in cities across America, serving thousands of students in underrepresented communities. The purpose of this post is simply to say we are here, and we are dealing with tough problems, without any clear solutions. And if you think about these stories for even a minute beyond reading the post, or if you share it, or tell someone about it, then my students, my teachers, and our community isn’t invisible in that moment. And I can’t ask for more than that.
Thank you for reading.
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There are two competing interests at our school.
First-many of our students will be the first person to graduate from high school in their family, and most will be the first to attend college. We need to find as many ways as possible to connect our students with interesting, and dynamic people outside of the school. The more we can connect out in the larger Cleveland community, the better it is for students. They need to see what Cleveland has to offer if you’re educated and have choices.
Second-Our students live in dangerous neighborhoods. They hear gunshots at night. They cannot travel alone. Most of my students know someone who has died as a result of violence. And the neighborhoods are more often than not, controlled by gangs. Plenty of students at our school aren’t in gangs. But there are also lots of students who have to be gang affiliated, whether they want to be or not. In some neighborhoods, if you aren’t affiliated, you aren’t safe. If you aren’t affiliated, you can’t go outside. If you aren’t affiliated, you aren’t protected. Students have codes, and rules, and expectations that are required in the neighborhood, and my students must abide by them.
I have to juggle these competing interests all the time; Connect our students with the larger Cleveland community and keep the communities our students come from, out of anything connected with our school. We don’t always talk about it, but I’m always aware of these two competing interests. To finish setting the stage, we haven’t had any gang-related issues inside our school, for years. Everyone coexists, regardless of what neighborhood they come from, inside our school walls. There’s lots of reasons for this, ranging from specific things we’ve done to create a safe school environment, to the reality that everyone just needs a break from the violence of their neighborhoods, and school is an agreed upon safe zone. Three or four years, ago, I don’t remember which, a dangerous gang member enrolled in our school after his release from jail. He made it until lunch time on his first day, before he tried to intimidate other students, and make it known that our school would be his territory. His actions led to a brawl in the cafeteria, which led to a whole lot of police racing into our school to help me break up the melee. That student ended up violating his parole shortly thereafter, and I’m pretty sure he’s still in jail. Although we continue to take a hit on our state school report card because even though he only attended our school for about a week, and he was suspended for most of it, ours is the last school he attended, so he counts against our graduation rate. But that’s another post entirely. All that is to say, I can’t think of another gang-related issue that occurred at school, in forever. Until last Thursday.
There was a fight at the bus stop at dismissal. I was working with my math department-we were talking about instructional practices-so I missed the fight. But six boys, and one girl fought. Believe it or not, boys never fight at our school. Girls fight more than I want-but it’s never an issue with boys. This time there was an issue, and after the police helped me to clear the area, I had to determine what happened and why. The short version is the following. Two boys, fought over a girl, two boys fought because they don’t like each other, and the other kids jumped in to support their friends. Unfortunately, all the kids are either in rival gangs, or affiliated with rival gangs. That night, one of the fighters posted a video on Instagram (the bane of my existence). In the video, which we now have, he clearly says a bunch of stuff that I can’t write in this blog post and feel comfortable with it existing on the internet. So I’ll take just a bit of creative license and say he said, “Fuck the dudes from (this neighborhood.)” This very brief video reached gang members with no connection to our school, from both neighborhoods. Then, a second fighter, from the other gang, posted a video naming people who were going to get hurt on the first gangs’ side. But by Friday morning, I was still putting together the reasons for the fight, and I didn’t know about the videos yet.
10:00 AM Friday
A student brought a third video to our attention. I knew about the other two at this point, but we hadn’t seen them yet. In this third video, a student I didn’t know, from another school, was saying he was coming to our school on Friday afternoon to fight. We made a police officer we know aware of this video, and together we figured out what school he attended. The police officer agreed to talk to the student at the other school.
10:45 AM Friday
The police officer reports that he’s handled the other student, and he won’t be coming to our school to fight. I think I have the situation under control.
11:00 AM Friday
My boss arrives at school for a scheduled data meeting. We’ll be going through our individual student data to discuss who’s on and off track to pass the required graduation exams.
11:30 AM Friday
Students start telling adults at school that a whole bunch of dangerous people are descending on our school that afternoon.
12:20 PM Friday
Students report, during our second of two lunches, that two guys were trying to sneak into our school building. We end the data meeting, so I can address safety issues.
12:30 PM Friday
We confirm that multiple students and teachers saw two people trying to sneak into our building. I put the school into a Code Blue Lockdown. Code Blue means that no one can enter or exit the building, all staff and students have to remain in place, but teaching and learning can still continue.
12:31 PM Friday
My security officer and I search the building from top to bottom to ensure no one got into the building and to make sure there’s no way into the building. As we finished our search, the School District Police arrive.
For the next thirty minutes or so, we tried to figure out what we know and what we don’t know. We’ve got great relationships with our students, so we called in students who we knew would talk with us, who were also gang affiliated. They confirmed for us that gang members from both gangs were descending on our school. A couple of words of explanation here-My team and I have great relationships with our students and I rely on those relationships everyday, all the time. But when gang members from the neighborhoods descend on our school, those relationships don’t matter, because I don’t know anyone that’s coming. These are guys who are loyal to their gang above anything and everything, and they don’t know me, and don’t care about our school. My best tool is rendered useless under these circumstances. We asked our students to try and call off the masses from showing up at school, and they tried for sure. But it didn’t work.
1:30 PM Friday
I took the school out of lockdown. We were safe inside the building, so no need to stay in a lockdown, but I know it’s going to be dangerous outside of the building, so I need a plan to dismiss teachers and students safely. I don’t have one yet.
1:50 PM Friday
My security officer recognizes the two guys who tried to get into the building. They are about a hundred yards away, at the bus stop outside of school. The police head out to talk to them, and they say they are just waiting for the bus. We know they are lying, so we watch. I’m still working out the plan to get everyone out safely.
2:15 PM Friday
The bus comes and goes and the guys don’t get on. A jeep that we hadn’t noticed pulls up outside the school, and a whole group of guys step out. Two more guys appear from beyond my line of site. They are all talking with the bus stop boys together. We don’t know which gang this is yet, but they are clearly there waiting for dismissal.
2:16 PM Friday
Our 9th grade team all has off last period, so they can plan together. I decide to use a trick I learned in New York City to take advantage of the idea of safety in numbers. I ask the 9th grade teachers to station themselves at all doors at dismissal to ensure that every student has to exit via the front doors. I have my Campus Coordinator and my Security Officer stationed at the front doors. The plan: Funnel all students to the front doors, but don’t let them out of the building. Keep the front doors closed until everyone is gathered at the doors, then open them, so the whole school walks out in one big mass at the same time. It’s harder to attack any individual when such a large group is on the move together. I decided to use the same plan for the teachers. I called on a teacher-leader to spread the word to all the teachers. They would meet in the underground garage at dismissal, and wait until everyone was ready to leave, and then leave as one group. The garage door would open and close just once.
2:18 PM Friday
My wife calls to ask me to pick up pull ups. I prefer to tell my wife about these incidents once they are over. No good can come from talking about it as it’s happening. Telling too soon will just cause unnecessary fear. So we discuss pull ups. And the weekend plans. Sometimes my suburban middle class life collides with my inner city experiences, and it’s either absurd, insane, or both. This is one of those times.
Dismissal is at 2:30. And between 2:16-2:30, more police arrived to help outside the school. I didn’t tell the students what we were doing and why, and I didn’t tell the parents who pick up each day outside the school. I didn’t want to cause a panic.
2:30 PM Friday
We gathered the students at the front doors and they left en-masse at about 2:34 PM. The teachers drove off a few minutes later, and the inside of the building was empty and secure. But the outside was another story.
I escorted students to cars and chatted with parents, while always keeping my eyes open for the danger that was around us. But I stayed close to the school doors. For years, I used to jump into these dangerous situations. I went into the fray, always, because I felt like I needed to be there to keep my students safe, to help keep the calm, and to be level-headed. But I have two young sons, and I’ve learned that I can keep everyone else self, and also keep myself safe. I didn’t always know that truth, but I do now.
The police handcuffed detained the two guys from the bus stop to be safe. Other officers found the other gang waiting a block away, at an alternate bus stop that my students use. In total, we had between 10-15 gang members outside our school. Some had guns. And those are just the guys I know about.
2:40 PM Friday
I headed to the bus stop near the school to ensure everyone gets on the bus safely. I’m there, but I’m also there with the police.
2:45 PM Friday
My wife is running an event that evening so I need to pick up my kids. I realize I’m not making it to my son’s elementary school for pick up, so I begin leaving messages with friends to help me out. “Hi, it’s Eric, I’m not going to make it to dismissal on time. I’m dealing with a police issue. Can you pick up my son, and I’ll get him at your house?” (See comments about worlds colliding above.)
3:00 PM Friday
Everyone is safe and I thank the police for their support. We discuss how we haven’t solved anything, only delayed it and we agree to meet again on Monday to figure out how to actually solve the problem. I race to my car to head to get my kids. There’s no traffic and I’m able to get to them fairly quickly. But the ride is too short. I need traffic to decompress, but there isn’t any.
I don’t know how to describe how hard it is to switch from inner city principal managing a dangerous situation to suburban dad in way too short a time. Maybe it’s like riding a race car at over 100 miles per hour and then switching to precision needlepoint without a break in between? I don’t know. I picked up my kids, they hugged me and asked me how my day was. I lied and told them it was good and switched the discussion to another topic.
I wish I could say the incident ended there. But it’s a week later, and I’ve spent virtually every minute of every day since then working on this issue. I’ve spent more time with the police this week, than I’ve spent with my wife. I haven’t been in classes, and I haven’t been much of an instructional leader. But I’ve learned the ins and outs of gang affiliations, addressed a dozen kids loosely, directly, and indirectly involved in this. I’ve yelled, been scary, been supportive, and been angry-sometimes all at the same time. I also made time to read with R from last weeks’ post. Fortunately for me, he was out with the flu on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. It’s fortunate because I couldn’t have made more time to help him, and that would have set back our very tenuous positive relationship.
Yesterday, the original fighters returned to school. I spent the day threatening, yelling, cajoling, and threatening some more. I ended the day with the police, clearing the neighborhood to make sure no one fought. To be clear, I’m not proud of myself when I have to yell and threaten teenagers. I see all these wonderful tweets about how we ought to talk to kids, and how to be inspirational in school to get the best out of students. It hurts me every time I have to talk to students this way-but no one can learn if they don’t feel safe. And both learning and safety were in short supply this week. And sadly, sometimes inspiration, goodness, and hope isn't enough. Needless to say, all the yelling meant it wasn’t my best day as a principal. These gang issues took up an entire week. And I mean almost every minute of an entire week. Letting the world sneak into our school, led to the dam breaking, and I couldn’t stop the world as it swept into our building. And now I need to rest, so I can get back here on Monday to keep the world out and get back to us having some semblance of a school with teaching and learning as the focus.
In order to help these students to grow and cultivate dreams that can be achieved, I have to connect them with great people and ideas in the larger community. To have the life they deserve, they must connect with the community. But to have the life they deserve, I also need to keep the community out of the school. It’s the community that creates danger, and teaches us that hopes and dreams can never become a reality. Connect with the community; and keep the community out. Both. Always. At the same time. Striking this balance is an unbelievable challenge. How do I do it better than this past week? Sometimes I think I know. And sometimes I’m positive I don’t.
Until next week...
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There are two competing interests at our school.
First-many of our students will be the first person to graduate from high school in their family, and most will be the first to attend college. We need to find as many ways as possible to connect our students with interesting, and dynamic people outside of the school. The more we can connect out in the larger Cleveland community, the better it is for students. They need to see what Cleveland has to offer if you’re educated and have choices.
Second-Our students live in dangerous neighborhoods. They hear gunshots at night. They cannot travel alone. Most of my students know someone who has died as a result of violence. And the neighborhoods are more often than not, controlled by gangs. Plenty of students at our school aren’t in gangs. But there are also lots of students who have to be gang affiliated, whether they want to be or not. In some neighborhoods, if you aren’t affiliated, you aren’t safe. If you aren’t affiliated, you can’t go outside. If you aren’t affiliated, you aren’t protected. Students have codes, and rules, and expectations that are required in the neighborhood, and my students must abide by them.
I have to juggle these competing interests all the time; Connect our students with the larger Cleveland community and keep the communities our students come from, out of anything connected with our school. We don’t always talk about it, but I’m always aware of these two competing interests. To finish setting the stage, we haven’t had any gang-related issues inside our school, for years. Everyone coexists, regardless of what neighborhood they come from, inside our school walls. There’s lots of reasons for this, ranging from specific things we’ve done to create a safe school environment, to the reality that everyone just needs a break from the violence of their neighborhoods, and school is an agreed upon safe zone. Three or four years, ago, I don’t remember which, a dangerous gang member enrolled in our school after his release from jail. He made it until lunch time on his first day, before he tried to intimidate other students, and make it known that our school would be his territory. His actions led to a brawl in the cafeteria, which led to a whole lot of police racing into our school to help me break up the melee. That student ended up violating his parole shortly thereafter, and I’m pretty sure he’s still in jail. Although we continue to take a hit on our state school report card because even though he only attended our school for about a week, and he was suspended for most of it, ours is the last school he attended, so he counts against our graduation rate. But that’s another post entirely. All that is to say, I can’t think of another gang-related issue that occurred at school, in forever. Until last Thursday.
There was a fight at the bus stop at dismissal. I was working with my math department-we were talking about instructional practices-so I missed the fight. But six boys, and one girl fought. Believe it or not, boys never fight at our school. Girls fight more than I want-but it’s never an issue with boys. This time there was an issue, and after the police helped me to clear the area, I had to determine what happened and why. The short version is the following. Two boys, fought over a girl, two boys fought because they don’t like each other, and the other kids jumped in to support their friends. Unfortunately, all the kids are either in rival gangs, or affiliated with rival gangs. That night, one of the fighters posted a video on Instagram (the bane of my existence). In the video, which we now have, he clearly says a bunch of stuff that I can’t write in this blog post and feel comfortable with it existing on the internet. So I’ll take just a bit of creative license and say he said, “Fuck the dudes from (this neighborhood.)” This very brief video reached gang members with no connection to our school, from both neighborhoods. Then, a second fighter, from the other gang, posted a video naming people who were going to get hurt on the first gangs’ side. But by Friday morning, I was still putting together the reasons for the fight, and I didn’t know about the videos yet.
10:00 AM Friday
A student brought a third video to our attention. I knew about the other two at this point, but we hadn’t seen them yet. In this third video, a student I didn’t know, from another school, was saying he was coming to our school on Friday afternoon to fight. We made a police officer we know aware of this video, and together we figured out what school he attended. The police officer agreed to talk to the student at the other school.
10:45 AM Friday
The police officer reports that he’s handled the other student, and he won’t be coming to our school to fight. I think I have the situation under control.
11:00 AM Friday
My boss arrives at school for a scheduled data meeting. We’ll be going through our individual student data to discuss who’s on and off track to pass the required graduation exams.
11:30 AM Friday
Students start telling adults at school that a whole bunch of dangerous people are descending on our school that afternoon.
12:20 PM Friday
Students report, during our second of two lunches, that two guys were trying to sneak into our school building. We end the data meeting, so I can address safety issues.
12:30 PM Friday
We confirm that multiple students and teachers saw two people trying to sneak into our building. I put the school into a Code Blue Lockdown. Code Blue means that no one can enter or exit the building, all staff and students have to remain in place, but teaching and learning can still continue.
12:31 PM Friday
My security officer and I search the building from top to bottom to ensure no one got into the building and to make sure there’s no way into the building. As we finished our search, the School District Police arrive.
For the next thirty minutes or so, we tried to figure out what we know and what we don’t know. We’ve got great relationships with our students, so we called in students who we knew would talk with us, who were also gang affiliated. They confirmed for us that gang members from both gangs were descending on our school. A couple of words of explanation here-My team and I have great relationships with our students and I rely on those relationships everyday, all the time. But when gang members from the neighborhoods descend on our school, those relationships don’t matter, because I don’t know anyone that’s coming. These are guys who are loyal to their gang above anything and everything, and they don’t know me, and don’t care about our school. My best tool is rendered useless under these circumstances. We asked our students to try and call off the masses from showing up at school, and they tried for sure. But it didn’t work.
1:30 PM Friday
I took the school out of lockdown. We were safe inside the building, so no need to stay in a lockdown, but I know it’s going to be dangerous outside of the building, so I need a plan to dismiss teachers and students safely. I don’t have one yet.
1:50 PM Friday
My security officer recognizes the two guys who tried to get into the building. They are about a hundred yards away, at the bus stop outside of school. The police head out to talk to them, and they say they are just waiting for the bus. We know they are lying, so we watch. I’m still working out the plan to get everyone out safely.
2:15 PM Friday
The bus comes and goes and the guys don’t get on. A jeep that we hadn’t noticed pulls up outside the school, and a whole group of guys step out. Two more guys appear from beyond my line of site. They are all talking with the bus stop boys together. We don’t know which gang this is yet, but they are clearly there waiting for dismissal.
2:16 PM Friday
Our 9th grade team all has off last period, so they can plan together. I decide to use a trick I learned in New York City to take advantage of the idea of safety in numbers. I ask the 9th grade teachers to station themselves at all doors at dismissal to ensure that every student has to exit via the front doors. I have my Campus Coordinator and my Security Officer stationed at the front doors. The plan: Funnel all students to the front doors, but don’t let them out of the building. Keep the front doors closed until everyone is gathered at the doors, then open them, so the whole school walks out in one big mass at the same time. It’s harder to attack any individual when such a large group is on the move together. I decided to use the same plan for the teachers. I called on a teacher-leader to spread the word to all the teachers. They would meet in the underground garage at dismissal, and wait until everyone was ready to leave, and then leave as one group. The garage door would open and close just once.
2:18 PM Friday
My wife calls to ask me to pick up pull ups. I prefer to tell my wife about these incidents once they are over. No good can come from talking about it as it’s happening. Telling too soon will just cause unnecessary fear. So we discuss pull ups. And the weekend plans. Sometimes my suburban middle class life collides with my inner city experiences, and it’s either absurd, insane, or both. This is one of those times.
Dismissal is at 2:30. And between 2:16-2:30, more police arrived to help outside the school. I didn’t tell the students what we were doing and why, and I didn’t tell the parents who pick up each day outside the school. I didn’t want to cause a panic.
2:30 PM Friday
We gathered the students at the front doors and they left en-masse at about 2:34 PM. The teachers drove off a few minutes later, and the inside of the building was empty and secure. But the outside was another story.
I escorted students to cars and chatted with parents, while always keeping my eyes open for the danger that was around us. But I stayed close to the school doors. For years, I used to jump into these dangerous situations. I went into the fray, always, because I felt like I needed to be there to keep my students safe, to help keep the calm, and to be level-headed. But I have two young sons, and I’ve learned that I can keep everyone else self, and also keep myself safe. I didn’t always know that truth, but I do now.
The police handcuffed detained the two guys from the bus stop to be safe. Other officers found the other gang waiting a block away, at an alternate bus stop that my students use. In total, we had between 10-15 gang members outside our school. Some had guns. And those are just the guys I know about.
2:40 PM Friday
I headed to the bus stop near the school to ensure everyone gets on the bus safely. I’m there, but I’m also there with the police.
2:45 PM Friday
My wife is running an event that evening so I need to pick up my kids. I realize I’m not making it to my son’s elementary school for pick up, so I begin leaving messages with friends to help me out. “Hi, it’s Eric, I’m not going to make it to dismissal on time. I’m dealing with a police issue. Can you pick up my son, and I’ll get him at your house?” (See comments about worlds colliding above.)
3:00 PM Friday
Everyone is safe and I thank the police for their support. We discuss how we haven’t solved anything, only delayed it and we agree to meet again on Monday to figure out how to actually solve the problem. I race to my car to head to get my kids. There’s no traffic and I’m able to get to them fairly quickly. But the ride is too short. I need traffic to decompress, but there isn’t any.
I don’t know how to describe how hard it is to switch from inner city principal managing a dangerous situation to suburban dad in way too short a time. Maybe it’s like riding a race car at over 100 miles per hour and then switching to precision needlepoint without a break in between? I don’t know. I picked up my kids, they hugged me and asked me how my day was. I lied and told them it was good and switched the discussion to another topic.
I wish I could say the incident ended there. But it’s a week later, and I’ve spent virtually every minute of every day since then working on this issue. I’ve spent more time with the police this week, than I’ve spent with my wife. I haven’t been in classes, and I haven’t been much of an instructional leader. But I’ve learned the ins and outs of gang affiliations, addressed a dozen kids loosely, directly, and indirectly involved in this. I’ve yelled, been scary, been supportive, and been angry-sometimes all at the same time. I also made time to read with R from last weeks’ post. Fortunately for me, he was out with the flu on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. It’s fortunate because I couldn’t have made more time to help him, and that would have set back our very tenuous positive relationship.
Yesterday, the original fighters returned to school. I spent the day threatening, yelling, cajoling, and threatening some more. I ended the day with the police, clearing the neighborhood to make sure no one fought. To be clear, I’m not proud of myself when I have to yell and threaten teenagers. I see all these wonderful tweets about how we ought to talk to kids, and how to be inspirational in school to get the best out of students. It hurts me every time I have to talk to students this way-but no one can learn if they don’t feel safe. And both learning and safety were in short supply this week. And sadly, sometimes inspiration, goodness, and hope isn't enough. Needless to say, all the yelling meant it wasn’t my best day as a principal. These gang issues took up an entire week. And I mean almost every minute of an entire week. Letting the world sneak into our school, led to the dam breaking, and I couldn’t stop the world as it swept into our building. And now I need to rest, so I can get back here on Monday to keep the world out and get back to us having some semblance of a school with teaching and learning as the focus.
In order to help these students to grow and cultivate dreams that can be achieved, I have to connect them with great people and ideas in the larger community. To have the life they deserve, they must connect with the community. But to have the life they deserve, I also need to keep the community out of the school. It’s the community that creates danger, and teaches us that hopes and dreams can never become a reality. Connect with the community; and keep the community out. Both. Always. At the same time. Striking this balance is an unbelievable challenge. How do I do it better than this past week? Sometimes I think I know. And sometimes I’m positive I don’t.
Until next week...
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