Ruth Zweifler, executive director of Michigan's Student Advocacy Center (SAC), doesn't mince words. "Zero tolerance," she says, "has become a full-blown war on children. Instead of being targeted for reform, students are being targeted for expulsion. School districts have a duty to find children who have special problems and address their needs before it's too late. Instead, they're engaged in a 'child hunt.'"
SAC campaigns for equity and inclusion in Michigan's schools, a mission that has been challenged by the state legislature's severe zero tolerance policy. In 1995, a new law mandating permanent expulsion for various school violations went into effect, undermining the state's commitment to preventive, rehabilitative school discipline. Before the law's enactment, schools in Michigan reached out to troubled, "at-risk" youth, scheduling conferences with them and their family members to address the best interests of the child -- while still upholding the safety of the school.
In 1999, SAC issued a report, Access Denied, that detailed how zero tolerance in Michigan has created what Zweifler calls an "outlaw class" of young people. Students in the state have been expelled at an alarming rate, abandoned by the public education system, left on the street unsupervised. The Center also reported that low-income students and students of color are receiving a disproportionate share of these stiff sentences, a trend that is not exclusive to Michigan.
A large body of research nationwide has found, almost without exception, that African American students are suspended at a rate of two to three times that of other students. For many, this racial disparity presents one of the more troubling outcomes of zero tolerance. While many parents, educators and lawmakers hail zero tolerance as a remedy to violence in schools, others denounce it as a poison that has debilitated students' constitutional rights, the autonomy of school officials, and standards of fairness.
The problem of teen violence had already pierced the national consciousness when a string of school shootings in the 1990s accelerated the implementation of "zero tolerance" measures. Parents and lawmakers turned to the schools to come up with answers. Panic and shortsightedness, many believe, dominated the dialogue that followed.
"Much of the rhetoric after Columbine was humane and thoughtful," says Zweifler, "but the resulting actions -- we're seeing them everywhere -- have been rigid, self-righteous, sanctimonious and destructive."
This tide of severe disciplinary policies continues despite recent U. S. Justice Department statistics showing that the violent crime rate among juveniles has steadily declined since 1993.
"Control and Exclusion"
The catchphrase "zero tolerance" had become a staple of public school jargon before Congress passed the Gun-Free Schools Act in 1994, mandating that students be expelled for one calendar year for possession of a weapon and/or illegal drugs and that those who violate the law be referred to the juvenile justice system. Many schools had implemented similar codes prior to this federal mandate; Washington was simply jumping on a bandwagon that was rolling across the country.
In the wake of the law, more schools set up codes of conduct that acceded to zero tolerance, at least in spirit. While some states narrowly interpreted the mandate according to the particular needs of their districts and communities, others -- Michigan included -- opted for a sweeping implementation, even broadening the coverage to behaviors such as fist-fighting, cursing and smoking.
By the late 1990s, many states reported a dramatic increase in the number of expulsions, which prompted some observers to question the value and intent of excluding children from school. Local and national news media jumped into the fray as extreme disciplinary actions handed down for questionable offenses, such as sharing Midol (a "controlled substance") with a classmate, bringing a toy gun (a "weapon") to school, and expressing empathy for the students responsible for the massacre at Columbine (a "threat"). These and countless other so-called violations became targets of outrage and ridicule in many communities.
Proponents of "zero tolerance" concede that the resulting discipline codes are far from perfect but defend the severity of the measures as necessary to protect student safety.
"Too much is at stake," says Gary Marx, spokesman for the American Association of School Administrators. "If the rules appear strict, well, that's just the price we pay for maintaining the sanctity of the learning environment."
Russ Skiba, director of the Institute for Child Study and professor of psychology at Indiana University, responds:"Expulsion is a hammer. We need hammers to build safe schools, but we also need other tools. Schools have students on an extremely short leash, and if they slip up, chances are, in many states, that student is going to find him- or herself out on the street. What it boils down to is control and exclusion."
Furthermore, exclusionary disciplinary policies, according to many experts, are generally ineffective in identifying certain students who may pose the most serious threats to the school community.
"Zero tolerance doesn't pick up the 'internalizers,'" says Pam Carter, a counselor in Louisville, Kentucky. "These are the kids that may be in a world of hurt, often suicidal. They don't call attention to themselves, and yet they could be a ticking time bomb."
Carter is the coordinator of the Assessment Center for Jefferson County in Louisville, a district that has bucked the national trend toward exclusionary disciplinary policies. Jefferson County's network of preventive and support services reflects the community's inclusiveness -- a philosophy bolstered by planning and foresight rather than punitive, politically expedient actions such as permanent expulsion. School officials here believe that excluding children from educational services, while providing short-term relief for some schools, actually creates long-lasting, adverse consequences for at-risk youth and the community. Accordingly, the district hasn't permanently expelled a student in more than 30 years.
"We Want You Here"
The wall of Maurice Risner's office is decorated with mementos, awards and framed newspaper articles commemorating his 30-year career working with at-risk students in Jefferson County. Risner is executive director of the Department of Student Relations and Safety, which is charged with coordinating many of the district's newer components in its network of programs. More than three decades on the front lines, however, hasn't blunted Risner's assessment of the serious challenges facing many young people in the community and the responsibility schools have in addressing their needs.
"Many of these kids' nervous systems are shot by the time they get to their teens," he says frankly. "They've seen things in their homes and neighborhoods that you and I can't possibly imagine."
Risner is one of many longtime Jefferson County veterans who have played a significant role in the formation of the district's wide "safety net," a continuum of services that range from "inclusive models" -- interventions and counseling, for example -- to last-resort "exclusive models"-- usually suspension to an alternative school for up to one year. In between lie intensive community and educationally based prevention and treatment programs and short-term in-school suspensions. The wide network of services reflects not only the county's commitment to helping at-risk students, but also its creativity -- enhanced by an aggressive and successful pursuit of state and federal grants.
Educators here emphasize that their commitment to keeping all students in school does not come at the expense of safety. "We will not tolerate drugs and weapons," Risner says. "Our message to kids is: We want you here, but you have to do the right thing. We'll help show you the way. But we're not going to permanently exclude a child from school, banish them from the community."
The first layer of the net, Risner says, is early intervention. A student doesn't necessarily have to be suspended for disruptive or violent behavior to be referred to the Assessment Center; a teacher may simply detect signs of behavioral or emotional difficulties in a student. Counselors at the Assessment Center encourage parents or guardians to come in with their child for an evaluation. In exchange for this willingness to address potential problems, the district will reduce the suspension for a first offense. The center coordinates guidance and support services through Youth and Family Resource Centers, which are housed in every elementary, middle and high school in the district.
During the early stages of the intervention, clinicians, with the help of the parents, work on finding alternatives -- anything from after-school activities to structured peer groups -- to fill a student's time more constructively.
To that end, the district, aided by a federal grant, offers the Jefferson County Athletic Program/Project (j-capp) -- an intramural basketball league for learning disabled, emotionally/behaviorally disabled and adjudicated youth. Organizers encourage participants to establish relationships with other students who may have similar problems and with the teacher/coaches who can serve as mentors.
"It has to do with affiliation," explains Greg Abati, child discipline specialist for Jefferson County. "Instead of gang colors, they're wearing their school's colors. Instead of being surrounded by a group of negative peers, they're with a group of kids who have a common vision about themselves and common goals."
Students who do commit violations of the conduct code have the option of attending the Suspension Truancy Off-Site Program (stop), which emerged from a partnership between the community and the school board. Local activists, concerned about the burden out-of-school suspensions were having on families and neighborhoods, asked the school board to consider an alternative, preferably a workshop setting in which students could work on behavioral issues, conflict resolution and personal behavior management while continuing with academic instruction. Within four months of being approved by the school board, the first stop site was up and running.
At the stop site in downtown Louisville, four teachers and instructors supervise an average of 8 to 10 students in two adjoining classrooms. The low student-teacher ratio permits constructive, one-on-one counseling between the trained staff and the students, some of whom will be there a few days, some longer, depending on the offense. (All suspended students, except those who commit weapon and drug violations, are eligible.)
Steve Craig has been with the stop program for four years. Previously, Craig was an attorney who worked with adjudicated youth, but he discovered that the red tape and bustle of family and juvenile court didn't afford him the time to sit down and help young people avoid trouble. Counseling in the classroom, he decided, was more effective than counseling in the courtroom.
"The kids feel more at home here than they do at school and can talk openly about their problems," explains Craig. "We encourage students to back up and pinpoint the incident or situation at school or at home which led them to trouble. The challenge is to help them deal with that situation in a more constructive, peaceful manner."
Jamie, an 8th grader, recently spent time at the stop site in downtown Louisville. "I think I learned my lesson, but in a way I haven't because I like it here. The stop program is better than my regular school. I wish there was a way my mom could work out something to let me make stop my home school."
The program's coordinators acknowledge that stop is a protected surrounding, sealed from the peer pressure, social difficulties and temptations that can be roadblocks to progress in regular school. A reaction like Jamie's, not atypical, presents a recurring challenge.
"The purpose is not to replace school," explains Greg Abati. "stop is intended to help them deal with the pressures that can make school difficult. We don't want them to rely on the program because it offers an artificial environment. Long, repeated stays here don't help the social development of these kids."
Ahead of the Curve
Like every other urban school district, Jefferson County sees its share of weapons and drug violations. Students who commit these offenses could be suspended to an alternative school for up to one year, depending on the specific case. For many, just hearing the words "alternative school" conjures up images of shoddy facilities, inadequate resources and undertrained staff -- deficiencies that educators here insist do not apply to the district's largest alternative school, Buechel Metropolitan.
"Our alternative schools aren't dumping grounds," says Maurice Risner, who, before being selected to direct the department of Student Relations and Safety, was principal of Buechel for 13 years. Indeed, Buechel, with its well-kept grounds, large, expansive brick exterior, and slogans affirming school spirit decorating its entryway, resembles many other public high schools across the country.
The staff at Buechel makes an effort to instill in these students the sense that they are not being excluded from activities or special events just because they have been placed in this alternative setting. Most importantly, says Risner, "our teachers have experience with behaviorally challenged children. They know that these kids are in intensive care; they're essentially charged with helping save these young people's lives."
Jefferson County's newest alternative school, Franklin Transitional, is specifically designed to ease the transition for adjudicated youth returning to school. Addressing the alarming dropout rate of adjudicated youth, officials decided that a "gateway" school was necessary to keep these students in school. In 1999, the Franklin Transitional High School was created to provide such a gateway.
"We prepare these students to re-enter the mainstream," explains Dr. Rick Tatum, principal of Franklin. "We keep them for at least one semester. If they meet the criteria -- good attendance, improving academics, social adjustment -- the student can return to his or her home high school." To maximize the success of the program, Franklin developed an information-sharing network with local law enforcement, social workers, counselors and parents.
Coordinating and tracking the progress of such a wide array of programs is a challenge in itself. Officials acknowledge that there are holes left to fill, but they are encouraged by the 25 percent drop in suspensions since 1994. The overriding sense here is that the district's safety net places it ahead of the curve of many other districts across the country.
"I talk with counselors and school administrators everywhere," says Pam Carter. "We're doing things that other districts only dream of doing down the road." Educators here are always trying to stay one step ahead of possible new federal or state mandates that could compel them to redesign the support and intervention programs they believe are necessary and successful.
"The mission of teachers and schools must be to teach students the skills they need to solve their problems and get along with others without resorting to violence," says Russ Skiba. "Destructive behavior needs to be prevented not minutes before it happens, but days, weeks, months, even years. We need early response, not zero tolerance. Planning is always better than panic."
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