Articles

A couple of years ago, I had a run-in with a parent. He had developed the habit of coming into school before the end of the day, standing outside the door of our classroom and motioning impatiently for his son, Victor, to hurry up. When I requested that he wait outside the building for his son to be dismissed, he became irate, yelled at me and angrily pulled his son out of class.

Through Big Brothers, Big Sisters, I’ve been working with a little girl from the neighborhood where I used to teach. I think very highly of this group and have only had good experiences with them. However, at a recent area-wide picnic, I noticed something disturbing. Most (not all, but the vast majority) of the children being mentored were African American or Latino. Most of the adult mentors were white or Asian. Again, this was not without exception, but was apparent.

“I'm just not good at math,” my daughter grumbled under her breath. I was surprised. Where did she get that idea, I wondered. As far as I can remember she has loved numbers and was quick to pick up math concepts. However, I began to see her confidence slowly wither and her frustration rise. It started in the 2nd grade. And, now, she sat at the kitchen table with pencil in hand, ready to give up, convinced she just couldn't do it anymore.

Last week’s Federal Partners in Bullying Prevention Summit in Washington, D.C., shone light on an often overlooked group—immigrant students.

This past spring, one of my friends at Hardin County High School in Savannah, Tenn. wore a T-shirt on the Day of Silence – a national observance to raise awareness of anti-gay bullying and harassment. Her shirt displayed the slogan, "Lesbian and Proud."

It’s undeniable. Technology is in the classroom in new and instructive ways. Flipped classrooms and interactive instruction videos created by teachers for use by students at home are becoming more popular. Teachers are emerging as bloggers, creating classroom websites and using other digital products. Technology offers the potential to level the playing field for students without direct access to resources available to other students in more affluent schools.

The day after Valentine’s Day 2008, I watched my 1st period students file into the room. They were uncharacteristically quiet. When the bell rang, they all looked at me, waiting to hear how I might make sense of the previous night’s tragedy when Steven Philip Kazmierczak opened fire in Cole Hall on Northern Illinois University’s campus, shooting 21 people and killing five.

Every time a new study is released showing black students are suspended at far higher rates than any of their peers, the public seems shocked. Words like “race” and “school to prison pipeline” and “discrimination” find their way into headlines—and then the issue fades away yet again.

We know little about the motives of the gunman who opened fire yesterday in a Sikh temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin. Many of us will monitor the news during the day, hoping to learn more about what the shooter thought he was doing, sure to hear more about the heroism and horror inside the building.

The e-mail message was direct and devastating. One of our fourth-graders had been killed in a gun accident. “Davius had gone to a friend's house to play and apparently a gun was discharged and the bullet struck him,” my principal wrote. “He died at the scene." I sat in stunned silence. A memory of a story Davius wrote for me in November flashed across my mind.