Category: English Language Learners

I have a dream

“It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment.” MLK, 1963 speech

I have a dream that from my perch just 12 miles from the National Mall where Martin Luther King delivered his famous speech, my voice will make a difference. When I speak out, there’s always the possibility that I will be reprimanded or silenced like the four teachers in my school district placed on Administrative Leave for their social media posts this semester. I’m putting my dreams to the test this year.

While I am not vocal about my concerns for Palestinians, I speak up for English Language Learner students and for fellow teachers who support them. Sixty years since MLK urged fellow citizens to work together, we are still urging our leaders to work with us to preserve the dignity of our students. While Republicans in Iowa caucus for their party leader, they are vilifying immigrants who flee violence and persecution, hoping for a chance at the American Dream.

Fortunately, I work in a state that welcomes newcomers. I work in a district that supports English Language Learners. Yet, I speak out for conditions that need to be improved: curriculum that matches student needs, small-enough classes to support language learning, teacher workload that’s manageable, and more collaboration between administrators and teachers.

With the Blueprint for Maryland’s Future beginning to shape instruction across the state, now is the time to speak with school leaders and administrators. I am honored to be meeting with Interim State Superintendent, Dr. Carey M. Wright, as a member of Community WELL, a grassroots advocacy organization. We hope to open a dialogue that can help shape teaching and learning in the state of Maryland for years to come.

In addition, I am delighted to work with MCPS Curriculum and Instruction team to help provide differentiation options for EMLs in the Grade 10 English Language Arts curriculum material.

In the pit of my stomach, I’m nervous about speaking up. I’ve been invited into conversations at a higher level; I hope I represent my students and fellow teachers well. What if I say the wrong thing? What if they actually listen to me?

“We cannot walk alone.” (MLK, 1963)

Advocating for EML students

I just submitted my final Quarter 3 grades, and now Spring Break begins. What a relief to have no specific travel plans. I can finally recover from an ear infection and a bad case of bronchitis that I caught at school. Never in my 23 years of public school career have I missed so many days of instruction! It was quite a scramble to get caught up after seven days with different substitutes covering my classes. Now I can breathe free before carefully planning the home stretch.

This week I testified before the MCPS Board of Education, driving home the need for increased funding to support our English Multilingual Learners (EMLs), formerly known as ESOL students. The staffing allocations are frozen on January 1st, even though newcomers continue to arrive throughout the year. Teachers serving EML students are constantly working at a deficit.

At my school – which, by most standards, is a very good school – newcomers might be placed in a resource class, art, music, or double PE class because the mainstream classes have reached capacity. This may slow down or change their graduation trajectory. Students learning English need enough trained teachers who can meet their unique language needs.

While the English Language Development (ELD) teacher is not the only friendly face for our students, we are sometimes a lifeline for newcomer families who do not know how to navigate the American school system. The ELD teacher is often the only trusted adult they know.

When our class sizes increase, students do not get the individualized attention they need. Teachers of EMLs routinely take on extra duties well after the last bell rings for dismissal. We act as counselor, spokesperson, interpreter, and advocate. But when we are stretched too thin, students suffer the consequences.

When teachers are too burned out to go the extra mile, students become disengaged in school. When the demands on ELD teachers are too great, the school system fails the neediest students in our county. Simply put: we need increased funding to pay for vital programs. ELD departments around MCPS need a reduced student-to-teacher staffing ratio.

The Board of Education will soon be voting on how MCPS programs will be funded. EMLs are the fastest-growing population in the district. They deserve teachers and programs that meet their needs.

I will keep using my teacher voice to speak out for them.

Excuse me, now, I’m going to enjoy some cherry blossoms 🌸🌸🌸

ELL Testing Madness

Friday, Feb. 24, 2023

Every January-February, teachers of English Language Learners (ELLs) give up six weeks of normalcy to conduct mandated WiDA Access testing for all K-12 students. The Maryland State Department of Education requires all ELLS to be tested in four domains every year: Listening, Reading, Writing, and Speaking. This single test determines student proficiency level, a measurement used to allocate state funding for staff, materials, and resources – and not much else.

The problem is that one, single, deeply-flawed test determines a child’s status as an English Language Learner at school. This needs to change. 

First, the results of the WiDA Access test don’t arrive until late in the school year (late May),
when master schedules and staffing allocations have already been determined. While it’s always interesting to see how my students performed on the different components, the test scores arrive too late to inform my classroom instruction.

Second, the Speaking component of the test does not really measure a child’s ability to speak English. If they have not practiced speaking into a microphone, or if they don’t know they will get cut off (with no time to go back and re-record), their speaking score is low. Sometimes this is also reflected in the classroom. But when a test measures the ability to use technology rather than what it’s designed to measure, the results are invalid. 

Before the Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA) brought the WiDA test to our doorstep, my district used a variety of criteria to determine a child’s proficiency in English: grades, performance on non-WiDA tests (including grade-level assessments in English, Biology, Algebra, and Government), reading tests like MAP-R, and – most importantly – teacher judgment. We still use these measures to place actual children in actual classes – not their WiDA scores. 

Teachers of English Language Learners (ELD teachers) often know their students more intimately than other education professionals because we work with the same students year after year. When newcomers arrive with limited English, their ELD teachers greet them with warm smiles. Their ELD teachers become their culture brokers, advocates, counselors, and in loco parentis trusted adults. We watch them grow and gain confidence as they adapt and make friends. As soon as they achieve proficiency, we say good-bye and send them into the mainstream. 

Once they pass the WiDA Access test and are out of our domain, these ELL success stories no longer count in state data. That’s a good thing! We’ve done our jobs! But the students who do not pass the WiDA Access test will be listed as English Language Learners until they pass the test, die trying, or graduate. 

I teach in a Montgomery County High School, where seniors who have been in the English Language Development (ELD) program since elementary school cannot exit the program. Many of these are receiving special education services or have significant learning challenges. Some have documents signed by their parents refusing ELD services. They will never pass the WiDA test. In spite of the fact they have refused ELD services, we still have to give them the WiDA Access test every year. All four domains. 

We have to pull students from their regular classes – often at the beginning of a new semester, when teachers are introducing new content or the class is conducting valuable get-to-know-you activities – to make them sit for a test that has absolutely zero relevance to their educational journey, their future, or their eligibility for graduation.

Yet, Maryland State Department of Education insists that we disrupt actual student learning so that they can sit for a meaningless test. To make matters worse, teachers and school administrators must track down often-reluctant students and give up hours of their planning time in order to proctor the WiDA Access test, each component taking about an hour. 

In 2019, I charted my own missed planning periods over the course of six weeks: 18 hours. In addition to my regular duty day, I gave up 18 hours of contractual planning time to administer the WiDA test. I never got recognized or compensated or for those hours. I was expected to donate my time. Many of my elementary school colleagues basically stop instruction for the entire six weeks of the testing window! Critical services for the most-needy students basically come to a halt during the WiDA testing window in many schools. 

This has got to change. Our students deserve better. 

Note/ Addendum:

Maryland is one of 41 states that adopted the ACCESS for ELLs Test (WIDA) assessment and their aligned standards. To meet federal standards, it is a “valid and reliable source” for determining English language proficiency levels for funding purposes. Administrators say that the psychometrics of the ACCESS for ELLs test are extremely strong and yield valid and reliable English language proficiency levels that can be used to support tiered funding.

However, my point is threefold: A) that some students will never exit the program because this single test determines their “proficiency level,” B) the speaking test is problematic, and C) the disruptions to teaching and learning are extreme.

I recommend that we bring back a dashboard of criteria for students to exit the ELD program: teacher judgment, attendance, grades, performance on other tests, and the WiDA test. In addition, schools should get district help administering the WiDA test so that teachers can continue teaching during the six-week testing window. 

Back to normal?

For the first time in seven years, I’ve got my own classroom. I’m teaching all the classes I requested. I don’t have a homeroom. Like a miracle, I have both my planning periods in my own classroom! When my crazy colleague starts the unhinged fuming, I don’t have to sit in the cramped department office and listen – I can just walk away and close my door! This must be how it feels to win the lottery!

My students seem engaged and polite. The new cell phone policy (no cell phones out during class) shows that administrators listened to teachers and support us. During the union-negotiated early-release day, our leadership team hosted a staff barbecue out by the football stadium — while other schools forced teachers to sit through three tedious hours of professional development. A focus on mental health seems to be more than a box to check.

We opened a brand-new Wellness Room next to the counseling office, staffed by a full-time social worker. The district hired two therapists to meet with students during the school day. My school is focusing on trauma-informed practices and approaches to teaching holistically. Laughter fills the halls, kids are pumped for the Friday night football games, and student clubs are thriving. I want so desperately to say that we’re back to normal, but the new normal is not as rosy as some would like to believe.

Last week I received the worst possible news that a teacher could receive. One of my students died. I don’t have any details about their death, but my gut tells me it was a direct result of the isolation and angst caused by two years of pandemic. Even though I only knew this child for four weeks, I’d already claimed them as my own. This death affected me profoundly. I had to deliver the news to my second period Honors English 12 and then go on with the lesson. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my teaching career.

Pomp and Circumstance

Pomp and Circumstance brings my allergies out. Every year when they play that graduation song, my eyes water. Sniffles take over my nose. In 2021 when the commencement ceremony moved from an indoor arena to our football stadium as a covid precaution, pre-recorded music filled the air and very few students walked across the stage in person. In 2022, moving outdoors seems to be a wonderful new tradition of finishing high school on the home turf. This year I’m just happy it’s over.

In spite of the bittersweet farewells in front of the school banner, the most prevalent feeling among my teacher colleagues is exhaustion. Unlike last year’s unprecedented pandemic anxiety, where everyone acknowledged the severity of the crisis, this year we all moved back into our classrooms and pretended it was a normal school year. 

I wore a fake smile under my mask from September to June. High school seniors went through the motions of reading and writing. We faked the status quo as fights broke out in the hallways, as Omicron spread through the community, then state-mandated testing took over. We stumbled through a workload crisis as teachers dropped like flies and no substitutes showed up. We finished the school year mourning the 19 students and 2 teachers murdered in their Texas classroom on a day that should have been the best end-of-year celebration. 

We. Are. Tired.

Despite moments of true pride and joy, every teacher I know has said that this school year has been the single most difficult of their careers. Far more than 2020 or 2021. The disconnect between our deeply-held values and the toxic testing culture that education bureaucrats force on us creates a kind of cognitive dissonance. Yet we wear a happy face. We try to protect our students from the worst policies and expectations. 

The inspiration for the song title Pomp and Circumstance comes from Shakespeare’s Othello, which we teach in Honors English 12. In the play, Othello’s identity as a soldier gives him self-confidence and social standing. When he marries Desdemona, his military role diminishes. He is lost without the ability to prove himself in war and becomes isolated and unhinged – enough to kill his wife in a fit of unfounded jealousy.

As I struggle to make sense of the world, Othello’s loss of identity brings to mind the young man who bought guns on a whim then shot up Uvalde children. Like my students, most mass shooters are recent high school graduates. Suddenly and terrifyingly, they are without the safety and routine of high school. They have no way to prove their manhood; their isolation makes them fall prey to their own obsessions. Just like Othello. We have to suffer the consequences over and over again because our leaders won’t pass common-sense gun laws. Teachers now have to plan for these once unimaginable circumstances. 

Composer Sir Edward Elgar chose the title Pomp and Circumstance in 1901 to illustrate the disconnect between military pageantry and the terror of war. After two years of pandemic disruption, we need that pageantry. It feels like we have lived through a war. 

The effects of 18 months in isolation played out in our school hallways, bathrooms, and classrooms. In the wake of the BLM movement, police officers were removed from schools. Security was understaffed. Record levels of violence marked the first semester. Drug abuse became so prevalent that administrators had to close off certain bathrooms. And I work in a “good school.”

How many times did an ambulance show up quietly to rush a child to the emergency room because of an overdose? Mental health meltdowns caused some students to become loud and defiant; some refused to work. Others simply disappeared. Phone calls to different homes would reveal that student after student was “dealing with some mental health issues.” Yet mandatory testing continued and Central Office pretended that everything was okay.

So when seniors promenaded into the stadium this year, I stood and clapped while Board of Education officials, the guest speaker, the Superintendent of Schools, and the principal led the procession wearing robes with colorful hoods and arm stripes indicating academic achievement. I snapped pictures of students wearing tassels, cords, and stoles signifying affiliations and accomplishments: National Honor Society, the Maryland Seal of Biliteracy, Eagle Scout, 240+ hours of volunteer community service. My smile was real.

Then I saw M, whose entire apartment building flooded in September and who became homeless. This student endured a 25-mile bus journey to get to school every day – and had to work every afternoon. When I saw M. in a cap and gown, my allergies really started acting up.  

The orchestra played ceremonial fanfare as graduates tossed their hats in the air and hugged each other. I grinned at the happy normalcy of it all. 

We honor our graduates with Pomp and Circumstance to acknowledge the end of their K-12 journey. This year, we are honoring so much more. We are all survivors. 

When it was over, I went home and curled into a ball.

Measuring the “good” schools

It’s like we never had a pandemic. U.S. News & World Report came out with its rankings of “best” high schools in the U.S. and media outlets jumped at the “news.” In Montgomery County, Maryland – surprise – the wealthiest schools are considered the “best.” Walt Whitman has a 2% poverty rate (the lowest in the district), Wootton has a 7% poverty rate, and Poolesville has an 8% poverty rate (it’s also the smallest high school in the district, all-magnet). Why are we still pretending that high test scores equal “good” teaching and learning?

We should be talking about teachers like my colleague Claudia who teaches math to immigrant teens with interrupted formal education. They arrive at our school reading at a kindergarten level, barely able to add and subtract whole numbers. She gets them ready for Algebra I in a year. Why aren’t we measuring that success? Like most teachers of Multilingual students, she advocates fiercely for them, going well above and beyond the job description. I’ve learned so much from her.

If Claudia notices newcomer English learners sitting in Resource class because there’s no room in ESOL 1, she writes to our supervisors. If a student is capable, she insists that they change the placement to a higher-level class, no matter what the transcript or placement test says. I always thought it was just a scheduling problem. She showed me that it is inequity. Can you imagine if that happened to wealthy white newcomer American students?

People misjudge Claudia. At first, I did too. She’s from South America and learned English in school, just like many of our students. She’s outspoken and self-deprecating. If you didn’t know her, you might take her complaints seriously. The students flock to her. They tell her things. She stands up for them, even when it earns her a reprimand. When I stand up for students, I do not get called into the principal’s office. Claudia made me acknowledge my own white privilege.

Now more than ever, schools need to pay attention to the soft skills that teachers bring to a classroom — not test data with a predictable outcome or how many are enrolled in AP classes. Even though the execution was problematic, Josh Starr (our previous superintendent) had the right idea when he awarded “the most hopeful” teacher and school. We should measure emotional intelligence and connectedness. After two years of pandemic learning, we should focus on building relationships and reward schools for student and staff engagement.

As a side note, I used to work for U.S.News & World Report, and we used to call it Snooze, a play on words. When I hear once again that Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology in Alexandria, VA has won “best school” in America, I hit the snooze button. I’d like to invite those editors to watch my colleague Claudia at work for a day. I think they might learn something.

High Anxiety

The trees out back are bare and cold rain is drizzling down on the deck. I’m watching a squirrel climb up the railing and attempt to reach the bird feeder. First it shimmies up the narrow metal pole and steps tentatively onto the squirrel-proof “hat” that tilts and swerves under the weight. It tries to lock its feet on the pole and slide belly first down to a perch where seed spills out just two inches from its mouth. The squirrel loses its balance, hangs upside down for a moment, then scrambles back up the pole. It hops gracelessly back to the railing, avoiding a 10-foot drop to the ground. A sparrow flits to the feeder, pecks at the food and flies away. The squirrel tries again and again. 

Teachers in Maryland have been ordered back to school starting on Monday, March 1st. The Governor, the Central Office, and the Board of Education expect that teachers can just fly in like birds to a feeder. But what they’re asking us to do is perform more like the squirrels. Coronavirus has killed more than 8,000 people in Maryland and has infected hundreds of thousands. Teachers have been left completely on their own to find vaccines, competing with each other and those over age 75 for the few scarce resources. 

While other states have rolled out the vaccines effectively, Maryland’s has been confusing and chaotic. Starting on January 18th, when they announced people in the 1B priority group were eligible, I logged in every day, sometimes multiple times per day, trying to register for a vaccine. By the time I finished typing in my contact information, appointments would disappear. Twice I had legitimate appointments confirmed, then cancelled. Colleagues were texting about new doses available – hurry! Teachers were getting turned away from scheduled appointments after waiting in long lines. Teachers were driving three hours to other counties to get vaccinated. I waited in line for two hours at a super center, expecting until the last minute to get turned away. I cried with relief when I finally got that first shot in my arm. 

I want to go back to school desperately. Online teaching is a poor substitute for in-person learning. Like everyone else, I am concerned about the mental health of students. Since I work with English Language Learners, I am concerned that their language and academic skills have suffered. I am worried that students whose best community is inside a school building are not getting the support they need. I miss my students, the ones I have now and do not really know, and the ones I had last year and don’t see passing in the hallways any more. Teachers long to get “back to normal,” but we won’t do it with wishful thinking.


Getting vaccines for teachers is just the first step in a safe return to school. Adequate CDC measures like PPE and physical distancing, cohorts of no more than 60, and sanitizing shared surfaces is manageable. But coronavirus has airborne transmission. Ventilation is a major concern, especially in older buildings. For many teachers the dread of contracting the virus and bringing it home to vulnerable family members is all-consuming. We don’t even know if those who are vaccinated can spread the disease to others. Why are we rushing back to school buildings before these safety measures are in place? 

About 60 percent of students in my district have opted to remain at home and continue virtual instruction. Teachers are not being given this option. In fact, many have been denied their legitimate ADA requests, giving the school system power over their medical health. The focus has been so strongly on a return to the physical building, but what about the majority of students remaining virtual? How will teachers instruct both virtually and in-person at the same time? Will they be getting less of an education because they remain virtual? 

The Superintendent of Schools was “perplexed” by the union’s No Confidence resolution. Then the principals union sent a letter blasting the reopening plan, and the SEIU paraeducators union joined in. Educators understand how teaching and learning operates, and have thought of every possible scenario. We are not to blame for the pandemic. The Board of Education has succumbed to outside pressure and made decisions without the input of key educators. If we are going back into school buildings, then we need a districtwide plan that allows for common sense, compassion, and competence. 

It’s as if climbing up a metal pole, hanging on with our back feet, and stretching to reach a nearly-impossible target were normal. Teachers are planners, not squirrels.

This is what teachers are being asked to do

Rhythms of virtual teaching

For nineteen of the past twenty years, I have woken up at 5:00 am every school day. By 7:00 am I was in my classroom welcoming early students who needed a place to put their heads down or eat breakfast until the bell for first period rang. High schools in MCPS usually start at 7:45. Not any more, not with Covid-19 keeping us all connected by computer. Most of my professional life has been measured by bells ringing, 10-week marking periods, testing schedules, holiday breaks, and seasons. This year has disrupted the usual rhythm and made me much more aware of what I have lost, and what I have gained. 

My schedule is still segmented into hour-long periods and 10-week quarters, but there are no bells ringing. Just my alarm, which now goes off at a reasonable 6:30 am. This is how I begin my day: yoga stretches, shower, walk in the neighborhood, coffee and breakfast, read emails & news, and talk to my husband. My duty day starts at 8:15, but virtual classes don’t start until 9:00. I begin by checking online work platforms, chatting with co-teachers, checking which students handed in assignments the night before, and planning for the day’s instruction. 

A lot of people don’t understand that teachers working remotely are still teaching. Here’s my weekly schedule:

I teach four hours a day, four days a week, live on Zoom. On Wednesdays, we have meetings from 9:00-10:30, then meet with small groups of students – if they show up – for check ins. My camera is on, the lesson uploaded, and we deliver instruction to groups of 28 at a time. I say we because high school ESOL teachers have moved to a co-teaching model this year, so I support 6-10 English Language Learners in Honors English 10 and Honors English 12. There are no regular English classes (we’re all above average in MCPS).

In our district, we have to record every lesson, which is posted to Canvas (our platform), and self-destructs in 72 hours. Students are not required to turn on their cameras so we teach to a screen of black tiles with the student’s name written across it in bold, white Arial. With so many students and two teachers, everyone has to keep their microphones muted, or the feedback noise distorts our voices. Fortunately, we have the chat feature, and high schoolers know how to use it. Some days we’re lucky if we get even that much participation. We put students in breakout rooms with instructions to discuss a reading, and when we pop in on them, black-tiles and silence. I really miss seeing their faces and hearing their voices.

Co-teaching has been a huge adjustment for me, since every lesson takes twice as much planning and I work with four different teachers across two grade levels. The curriculum is new and has to be pared down to the bare minimum. We are getting the revised curriculum materials just a week before delivering instruction, and there isn’t sufficient time to prepare alternate readings or provide appropriate grammar and language support for English Language Learners during the whole-group meeting. With some of my co-teachers, I play an active role in class. With others, I am a silent observer delivering ESOL support through Zoom chat. Focused Intervention groups are put in place to help the at-risk students, but the neediest ones never show up at that designated time. 

And yet, we have made it through the end of November somehow. What seemed unsustainable in early September has become routine. I’ve learned how to engage in careful dialogue with my peers about instructional materials and methods of delivery. They have learned how to simplify their assignments and the importance of using visuals when speaking. I’ve reached out to struggling students – not just those learning English – and gotten to hear the voices of parents, guardians and the students themselves. Most are really appreciative to have a phone call and a compassionate listener. 

My duty day ends officially at 3:30 pm but I am never off-duty in a virtual world. I constantly check email, Synergy mail, Canvas mail and platforms where students might have questions or submit late work. Every two weeks, I follow up with students who have zeros – sending explicit instructions with live links of how to complete the assignments. Where co-teachers are comfortable with shared responsibility, I grade papers and make comments. I create rubrics and slides to share with colleagues. It’s nonstop, but it’s rewarding. Most students are showing up. Most students seem to be okay.

This year, I have gained a huge appreciation of the natural world around me. I am so lucky to have rowing (even though the season is officially over), and I’m lucky to have the woods near my house. Every morning, I walk through the neighborhood or hike down the path. I listen to the birds, I breathe in smells of damp leaves on the forest floor, I focus on the seasonal changes around me, and enjoy this rare moment to walk in the early-morning sunlight before school starts. 

Little Black Boxes

Each black square represents a student who has logged in to our ESOL 5 Zoom class. Their video is turned off and the microphone is muted. I stare at my face in its own little box as I pose the circle question to get started. “If you could create the ideal society, what would you be sure to include?” One at a time they unmute their microphones and speak. “Free health care for everyone, equal opportunity, no race discrimination, free university, and free food.” We were reading a short dystopian fiction piece, and I was pleased with their thoughtful responses. It was before George Floyd and the marches for racial justice. It was in late April, a long time ago, and students were worried about COVID-19 and getting their next meal. They were still engaged in online learning. I was still wearing lipstick and earrings to class.

Now school is finished and I’m heartbroken that it was so anti-climactic. I didn’t get to return their Reflection writing from the first week of school and have them comment on their goals. We didn’t have a party. I didn’t get to send the seniors off with a final celebration or watch them march across the stage to Pomp and Circumstance. I didn’t get to remind the ESOL 1 students how much their English has improved. We didn’t talk about summer plans. I’ve been so focused on getting to the finish line, that I didn’t expect the rush of emotion that came with the slow fade out.

As frustrating as it was to conduct classes with my computer screen, I relished every single contact I had with students. Breaking with my 15-year policy of not sharing my personal cell phone, this spring I routinely gave my number to every student. I cringed in anticipation of abuse, but it never came. Students were super respectful of this new relationship and never contacted me too early or too late. On Sunday I got a message in Spanish from a newcomer: Are we finished with school? I think you said yes. Another student asked for a second supermarket gift card for her family. A third student wanted to confirm his new address so that he could get his diploma mailed there. These are not normally things I would have to address.

Some students fell off a cliff after March 13th and I never really heard from them again. I spent hours trying to reach them, documenting every call, every email, every U.S. Mail letter that I sent. Bilingual counselors got involved. Administrators followed up. Three students moved back to their countries. I logged every contact in the system. I excused missing assignments and graded with compassion, assuming hardship. When students turned in work, I found something positive to say. When students showed up for Zoom, I talked about my cat, my neighbor, my son, or what I was reading before I reviewed the week’s work. I never “wasted time” like that before, and it felt like a much-needed mindshift.

If there’s anything good that came out of this COVID-19 crisis teaching, it’s that I’ve built new relationships with students. I feel much closer to the ones who stayed active. We know each other better in a different way than we would in a classroom. I know who has noisy little siblings and who has tension with her parents. In spite of this, the ESOL students have given thoughtful, mature, philosophical answers to questions that I posed for discussion. In part, it’s because they’re well-rested and there’s little else for them to focus on. Another part is that they actually crave a connection to school and learning.

School’s out for summer, but I’m not naïve enough to think that we won’t be using some form of online instruction in the fall. I know now that I will have to work hard at building real relationships with students from the very beginning – that means learning about their families, their culture, their thoughts and feelings, their music, hobbies, and interests. It means sharing more of myself with them, creating a safe environment where they can open up, and encouraging genuine reflection.

If I could create the ideal classroom, every student would have equal opportunity, free food, and universal health care. There would be no discrimination by race, gender, or other indicator. I’m optimistic that the dystopian nightmare we are living through will one day end, and my students will show up ready and eager to learn. I will have engaging, meaningful lessons matched perfectly to their interests and abilities. In the meantime, I’ll be reading, reflecting, and reaching out to colleagues this summer, hoping to rebuild a routine in the fall. I will have a new haircut and nobody will notice because we’ll all just be so happy to see each other in person.

Am I less valued because I teach low-income students?

I’m re-posting this piece I wrote 3 years ago.

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Time to make noise (again.

Here’s another great voice for the need to support teachers of low socio-economic-status students in this EdWeek article. Bruce Hansen mentions that when he received the “golden apple award” his colleagues assumed that he would pursue an easier job at a school in a high-income district. He may feel guilty, but that’s exactly what he did. “There’s a perception that really good teachers work in schools that cater to students from wealthy families,” he writes. He recommends that teachers get special training “from university educators,” who develop specialized techniques and curricula. But the reason Mr. Hansen left his job has nothing to do with curriculum or training. He left because he did not receive enough support.

I’ve been teaching high-poverty English Language Learners for 15 years and it’s both rewarding and exhausting. When students are so needy every day, it can be emotionally and physically draining. We don’t need more university educators telling us what to do.  We need compassionate administrators who understand what it’s like to “work in the trenches.” We need a network of like-minded teachers and student counselors who can prevent us from being traumatized by the traumas of our students. At the end of the day, I can get in my car and drive back to my leafy suburb. It’s important for teachers of high poverty students to be mentally healthy.

Unfortunately many low-income schools are where new principals get placed to learn the ropes before moving on, where teachers involuntarily transferred land, and where there’s high teacher turnover and little administrative support. I’m proud to say that this practice is not prevalent in my mixed-income school. However, I definitely get a feeling that I count less than teachers of AP and IB students heading to Harvard. My administrator has never set foot in my classroom to give his famous Timeline speech, in spite of my annual plea to come for a visit. However, he is very supportive in other ways. And that makes all the difference.

I also have a union that backs me up at the district level, full access to excellent training resources, and local leadership that listens to teachers and gives priority to education. Now if they could just add back that hour of time that Daylight Savings took away, I could get a lot more done in 24 hours.