Public Charter Schools vs. Traditional Public Schools. This argument has raged for the last three decades. There is much to debate about the merits of each opinion, but for me, at least at that time, I’d grown to believe that charter schools provided an opportunity to build something better. Out of my disillusionment grew a desire to create systems and institutions that worked for all and not just some. This led me to join the launch team of a charter school opening in a community where I’d invested significant time and energy.
Being a founding member of this team re-energized me. We set up shop in a small, open office environment and went to work to create a space for students to explore their curiosity about the world. A place of belonging and innovation. I loved every exhausting moment of it. We aimed to open Alabama’s largest charter school with 420 students from Kindergarten to 5th grade. We planned and debated how to create a culture filled with high expectations, love and support, and family engagement. Should we have uniforms, or should we not have uniforms? What kind of teachers are we looking for? Will we have an extended school day for every student, or will we provide an option for after-school enrichment for those who would like to take advantage, or do we do both? And how much will this all cost? What should our code of conduct entail, and what disciplinary actions will we take for what tier of infraction? It was all heady stuff. But it didn’t just stay in the head. It forced us to engage our hearts and hands as we set about this transformative work.
I led the team responsible for recruiting students and their families to take a chance on an unknown entity with high hopes. We knew that if we were going to succeed in enrolling 420 students, we would need to recruit three times that many due to the attrition that was bound to occur.
There Are No Children Here
One evening, I was attending a community event to share the vision of the school and my philosophy on family engagement and education in the Woodlawn Community on Birmingham’s eastside. I was going through my usual spiel when I was challenged by a longstanding community champion. Her name was Ms. King. I was in the middle of saying, “I believe that every parent wants what’s best for their child…” She stood up and asked, “Why do you believe that?” I began to tell her my thoughts on a parent’s love for their child and how parents, even if they don’t know how to offer what’s best, still desire what’s best for the children…
I waxed eloquently…
She saw right through it.
A long conversation (read: argument) ensued: what can I say? I was still a bit preoccupied with my thoughts of what it took to transform communities. As our conversation went on, I began listening to what she had to say, and by the end of the night, I was more aware than ever before of just how much I had to learn. She said that if I am serious about learning, I should read the book There Are No Children Here by Alex Kotlowitz. I was familiar with this book because a friend read it for a project he was working on in preparation to take students on a trip to Chicago, but I had never read it myself. She told me to get the book, read it, and then come find her. Her exact words were, “I’ll see how serious you are if you read the book. Come talk to me once you do. I’m not hard to find.”
When I finally got back to my house, exhausted after a long night of being challenged to think deeper about the complexities of transforming and engaging communities, I sat down on my couch, took out my phone, and ordered the book she recommended.
A few days later, I found myself immersed in the lives of the Rivers family as they navigated life in the Henery Honer Home Housing Community in Chicago, IL. I tore through the book, making notes and asking questions about the people it described. I pondered on its main characters' plight and sought meaning amid such abject poverty. I looked at this book, published only four years after my birth, and wondered how it was still possible that we were still struggling with many of the same challenges. I felt that old, familiar feeling of grief, despair, and hopelessness begin to creep in.
What was happening to me? These were not unfamiliar themes or concepts. In my previous studies and experience, I wrestled with poverty, drug abuse, violence, and the hopelessness that is all too common in the settings of the book. I had led a church plant in the middle of Birmingham's most impoverished, violent, and largest housing community. But something felt different this time. Maybe it was the conversation that I had with Ms. King. Perhaps it was the work I was doing daily on the ground in the community. Whatever it was, I needed someone to help me navigate all of the feelings I was experiencing.
A couple of weeks after my conversation with Ms. King, I looked for her and found her at the Harris Homes Community Center, a public housing community where I once ran a mentoring program. She smiled when she saw me enter the door and asked how I’d been doing. I told her that I was good, but I needed serious help. She stared at me briefly with a sly smile and finally asked, “Did you get that book?” Relieved that she asked, I told her I had, and it brought up so many questions.
I shared with her how, while reading the book, I couldn’t help but judge the people and situations they faced and their decisions. I shared my thoughts on the Rivers family and their struggles and how I was tempted to condemn Lajoe (the mother) for her choices and for having so many children. Something that we are either consciously or subconsciously conditioned to do because of how our society treats women of color who have multiple children. We assume, just like I did about Lajoe, that they are unmarried, but I was wrong. Lajoe was married to a man whom she loved and was the father of all her children, but he struggled with drug abuse and addiction. While speaking to Ms. King, I expressed my shame in the judgments that came up in my heart as I read about her.
Lajoe was far from perfect, and the book is filled with real-life stories of people who are struggling to survive.
As we spoke, she shared her life story with me. She spoke about being a single mom and raising three boys. She told me how she went back to college as a single mother to obtain her teaching degree and how she labored to give her sons the opportunities so many of the people around her couldn’t afford. She became a mentor to me. When she saw my sincerity and my seriousness she committed herself to being a champion on my behalf. We would sit and talk for hours at that community center or at community events.
She would acknowledge that all my thoughts about the work we were doing weren’t wrong, but she had seen many young and eager individuals come and speak about things they didn’t fully understand. This was her way of testing me, you know, community gatekeepers. She shared with me that she had issued the same challenge and invitation to others, and I was the first to take her up on this offer.
Building A Village is a series of posts about the challenges and rewards of pursuing a better today and a brighter tomorrow. Each post will be filled with stories of my experience and my thoughts on how we can see transformation in life and community. To become a paid subscriber, please click the link above.
You can access the other posts in this series below: