I realize I’ve lost Cora and Sean, and I skip down the hall to catch up with them.
“If I went to school here, how I dress wouldn’t stick out,” Sean is saying. “Lots of differences here. Cool.”
The smell of fresh bread signals our arrival at the cafeteria. A tall man and an older woman wearing an apron are standing in the doorway, talking.
“Chief, Ms. Goodbar, meet my friends from Hilltop Academy, Chelsea and Sean, who are touring Stone Creek,” Cora says. She turns to us. “The first thing Chief did is partner with Ms. Goodbar so now she and other staff actually cook rather than just heat up frozen food.”
“Welcome, Cora and Sean!” Chief says. “Number one request of students when I came was better food. So we’re working on it.”
“I explained the meaning of fear-free zone to them, Chief,” Cora says. “What would you say has been your biggest mistake since being here?”
I can’t believe Cora is talking with him like they’re … equals. I’ve never even talked with Hilltop’s principal, much less like this.
“Well, the failure that bothered me the most was not knowing what to say to a student who told me he was a boy living in a girl’s body. What I learned was to treat him just like anyone else and ask him to let me know if he ever wanted my help.”
Cora gives me that lifting of her eyebrows like she had no idea he was going to say that.
It is all I can do to keep from laughing at Sean’s totally freaked expression.
Cora asks Chief how he would, in a word, describe the general changes at Stone Creek over the last year and a half.
“How about two words, Cora. You know how I like to go on and on. My two words would be: unleashing energy.”
“Good ones, Chief,” she says.
Cora explains to us that the cafeteria is where the junior class meets first period, and today they’re performing a scene from a play written by students that she wants to see. They based the play on a book from the 1950s called Black Like Me, a true story about a white man who darkened his skin to experience what life as a black man in the Deep South was like. Judging from the scene we see, his conclusion was that life was just as bad as black people had been saying for many years. Cora says that later today, the students will discuss changes from then until today in their English/social studies block classes.
“This place is amazing,” Sean says.
I’m still thinking about what Chief said earlier. “I love the expression ‘unleashing energy,’” I say. “It perfectly describes the opposite of how I feel at Hilltop: bottled up.”
A woman is coming down the hall toward us, and her face lights up when she sees Cora.
“That’s Ms. Jordan, who I wanted you guys to meet,” Cora says. “She led the school change process last year with planning teams made up of students, teachers, parents, and other community members. Chief decided no big-wigs with power in the schools could participate because change wouldn’t work if it came from the top down.”
I remember Cora telling me last school year that Ms. Jordan had helped her get past a deep crush on a senior who treated her more like a little sister. I’m glad to put a face to the name.
After a quick hug, Cora introduces us to Ms. Jordan.
“Welcome to Stone Creek,” Ms. Jordan says warmly. “Please tell my friends why you and other teachers wanted to make changes here,” Cora prompts her.
“We all had story after story of students who were not getting their needs met,” Ms. Jordan says. “One disturbing experience of mine was stumbling upon a girl in the restroom one day who was throwing up; she was pregnant and nobody else knew, including her family.” Ms. Jordan’s eyes lock onto mine. “I was shocked to think of how alone this young woman must feel. Her schoolwork had crashed, and she was desperately distraught. To this day, I worry what would have happened without that chance encounter.”
“Was change hard for you and the other teachers?” Sean asks.
“Change is always hard. But our great discovery was that we teachers agreed with the other people involved—the students, parents, and community—about what young people’s needs are. It was a great relief to know we were all on the same page and didn’t have to fight for what we believed. The experience fired us up to figure out how to change school to better meet the needs of our students—and we came to realize we would have to grow in some ways, too, which was scary, but also exciting. That’s life!”
“I recently moved from California and thought I was the only one going through coping with change,” Sean says. “But I’m starting to realize that, like you said, change is life.”
Ms. Jordan looks at Sean with kind intensity, nodding in agreement.
“If you’re interested to know more about changes here, Sean, I could recruit Daniel to help me explain what the planning groups did,” Cora says. “We were in different groups but the experience was pretty similar. You’ve met Daniel. His mom is the realtor who helped your family buy your house when you moved here.”
Even at this larger school of about a thousand, you see the small-town dynamics playing out. People are aware of who knows who.
I put a finger to my temple. “I’m beginning to realize why I’ve had such a hard time understanding what you tell me about Stone Creek, Cora,” I say. “I always think in terms of school schedule, rules, grades, tests, and things like that, but not people, relationships, and interests. That’s the key, isn’t it?”
Ms. Hoffmann, a school counselor, has arranged for Sean and me to interview three seniors in their different classrooms.
For the first interview, with a kid named Peter, we settle in at a small table removed from the action of a math/science classroom. Never before has action and math gone together in my head. I see an adjoining room that is a lab. I see students entering from another adjoining classroom and mixing with students from the classroom we’re in.
Sean and I have decided to let go of the original focus on bullying, backpack searches, and guns at school. Instead, we want to draw out what is important to each student we meet.
The math/science environment helps us get going with Peter, because his story is all about math. Specifically, he hated math for years. He is vague about why—something about how he was treated in eighth grade. After that, at Stone Creek, Peter would only do the bare minimum of work to pass his math classes, even though he was a whiz at all the tests.
“Then the middle of last year, eleventh grade, big changes started at school and the teachers were different,” Peter tells us. “This year, the classes are different; having the math and science block together means we can relax and dive into stuff for two hours. Kids in each class are all different, too—there’s no tracking so-called smart kids only and dumb kids only into classes. The main thing, though, is we decide what projects we want to work on, and we can do them either by ourselves or with other people interested in the same thing.”
“What project are you working on now?” I ask Peter.
“Let me show you,” he says.
Sean and I follow him to a computer and he brings up a design of a skateboard park he created.
“Our computer specialist on this teacher team helped me the most, showing me ways to use this cool software,” Peter says. “Last year the school stopped buying textbooks and in exchange we got more computer teachers. A community group got grants to buy more computers. If I get stuck on my design, I get help from the math or science teacher.
“Your design looks like a real challenge—and fun!” Sean says. “I can’t believe you figured out how to do all that. You still a skater, Peter?”
“No, and it’s mostly ’cause I got bored with the old skateboard park. I designed this for an upgrade. The city council approved paying for the upgrade, and they’re going to put up a plaque with my name on it at the park.”
A guy sitting at an adjacent computer slaps Peter on the back. “Some day I’ll say I knew you when …”
Heading to the next interview, we pass a classroom whe
re a girl is standing in front of classmates holding a basketball. Sean motions for me to stand next to the door, where we can hear but not be seen. The girl is presenting her research on the physics of the basketball free throw.
“No way,” Sean whispers. “This place can’t be for real.”
Our next interview takes place in an English/social studies block class. The whole class of about forty students is huddled together as the teachers introduce a writing activity: a letter to someone (real or imaginary) about something you are worried about. To demonstrate how letters are different from e-mails or tweets, a teacher reads an excerpt from a Flannery O’Connor letter sharing her feelings about her disease of lupus. “I’m sure your style of writing will be quite different, as it should be,” the teacher says.
On his way over to us, our interview subject—Dave, a hulk of a person—laughs with a short, skinny guy whose static hair stands on end. He’s wearing a T-shirt that proclaims, “Nerds of the World Rise Up.” What an unlikely pair.
I start by asking about the letters. “What do you think of this assignment?”
“This will be an easy one,” Dave says. “What I’m worried about is getting a football scholarship, so I’m going to write a letter to the coach at the college I’m going to.”
“What will happen if you don’t get the scholarship?” Sean asks.
“Ms. Hoffmann has me applying for other sources of money for college,” Dave says, “but I just want to play football, and them giving me a scholarship means I will get to play.” He looks at us as if waiting for a sign that we’re following what he’s saying.
I nod and ask, “You’re not interested in the college classes part?”
“Look at these brainiacs I’m in class with,” he says. “They’re college material. There are some average kids and other dummies like me here, but I miss the slower pace, when it was just my dummy friends.”
“Seems like you get along with the brainiacs,” Sean says.
“Oh, yeah, we’ve become good buddies,” Dave says. “They help me with my assignments and sometimes I give them ideas. So I been thinking better about myself … but it’s too late for me to become college material.” His bubbly energy seems to fade away after that statement.
Ms. Hoffmann escorts us to the third and final classroom—it’s apparently pretty hard to find—and on the walk there we ask her about Dave.
“I helped him find a small college with a good football team not far from here,” she says. “What Dave doesn’t talk about, even though everyone knows, is he’s worried sick about his mother who has cancer. He also doesn’t tell strangers what everyone else knows about him: He is great with kids and will be a great coach one day. That will get him through college.”
Ms. Hoffmann explains that the last stop is “lunch and club time,” so it will be noisy and less formal than the other two classes we visited. We meet Shauna in a classroom that’s been converted, for the next forty-five minutes, into a jazz club. Shauna looks for all the world like a beatnik you would see in old movies of 1960s New York City in her black turtleneck and beret. She removes her dark glasses as we approach.
“How do you eat your sandwich and play the saxophone at the same time?” I ask, laughing.
“That’s when being versatile and switching to a bass comes in handy,” she says.
Sean, still observing every aspect of her cool attire, asks, “So, we’ve been hearing all these great things about Stone Creek; what is something you don’t like?”
“Foreign languages,” Shauna says, practically screaming in order to be heard over the music. “We have to take a language class every year, every day for an hour, and my class takes place right when I’m all warmed up to play some jazz.”
“You don’t have a music class?” Sean asks, as if he’s finally found a flaw in Stone Creek.
“Oh, yeah, that’s last period,” Shauna says. “And most of us stay until late in the afternoon after school so we can play longer.”
“What class would I have if I didn’t take music last period?” Sean asks.
“Another arts class, like drama or painting; an intramural sport, like ultimate Frisbee; computer technology classes; or a vocational class taught by a community college teacher,” Shauna says. “One semester I took a vocational class, robotics, and then I would join my friends in music for the after-school jam sessions.”
“That’s a lot of choices,” Sean says, “but what if I wanted to take a photography class?”
It’s like Sean is deliberately trying to find something wrong with the school. Or maybe he’s just trying to prepare himself for any objection his parents might make to him transferring here.
“If there were enough people who wanted photography, a class would be formed, or maybe even a half class. If it was pretty much just you or a few students, then you could do independent study with a mentor from the community and get class credit. The computer people set up a whole database of experts in the community on various topics last year, and people add to it all the time, so it’s easy to find someone who can be a mentor.”
Sean has been outmaneuvered in his gotcha game.
“Are you going to college?” I ask Shauna.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, “my portfolio of work, teacher recommendations, and Ms. Hoffmann helping me choose which colleges to apply to helped me get in with a scholarship. Ms. Hoffmann also helped me stay motivated in all my classes by going over my work each quarter with my teachers. Counselors do that for all the students here.”
When the interview is over, I notice Sean checking out what other people in the club are wearing. He seems particularly taken with an Afghan pakol hat. Of course, hats of any kind are against the dress code at Hilltop.
Ms. Hoffmann returns to walk us out, and the first thing I ask her is, “How do you have enough time to help each individual student?”
“That was the miracle of Chief,” she says. “When he came, he initiated a collaborative effort to move athletics to a community organization. People in the community were dying to be coaches and in charge of sports, and Chief wanted to use the extra money from not paying athletic teachers and coaches to hire new counselors. We now have three counselors for each grade level, and I only have eighty students I’m responsible to.”
Interesting she said responsible “to” and not “for.” Again, the “students in charge” thing. I wish I’d known about this place sooner.
SEAN
I meet Cora at the city park in town across from Mountain Mama’s Ice Cream Shop. She tells me we’ll have to drag Daniel away from his element; he’s known as Mr. Mayor here, where Stone Creek students gather every day after school. At least, the ones who are not currently on a team run by the community sports organization or don’t have special activities like riding show horses or taking a college class or working.
“Daniel comes alive here,” Cora says. “He manages to find out things about every single person without sharing anything substantial about himself.”
Daniel responds to Cora’s gesture to head to Mountain Mama’s, which is quiet on this beautiful spring day. She invited both Chelsea and me to hear what happened in the meetings over a year ago to change Stone Creek, but Chelsea declined. Frankly, after today’s visit to Stone Creek she seems even more bummed about Hilltop and all the opportunities she has missed by going to school there.
Daniel walks up, flashes me a smile, and raises his hand for a fist bump. We know each other already. His mom brought him along when she was showing us our house so he could tell me about youth in the community here, and I see him around town once in a while.
“How’s the pistol named Sarah?” Daniel asks.
“Loving life and everything about her preschool,” I say.
First on the agenda, ice cream cones—my treat. While we’re gulping down homemade original flavors—I chose pineapple-coconut—Cora and Daniel tell me how the groups got formed, stories of some funny incidents within groups, and about the general excitement people
felt to be able to start from scratch with thinking about what schools should aim to do. Teachers facilitated the groups to make sure they didn’t end up like a reality TV show, with everybody at each other’s throats.
Cora brought a copy of the final report with input from all the planning groups, each of which was made up of students, teachers, parents, and other community members. The report is a list of needs of adolescents, grouped into categories, and then stories told by people in the groups related to each category. Students were in charge of compiling the report.
“Whoa, look at all the emojis in here,” I say.
“That’s me!” Daniel says.
“True,” Cora says. “It was Daniel’s solution to bring a boring list to life. And I think his idea worked. Like, look at the fear face emoji next to a discussion of anxiety in teenagers.”
Daniel looks uncomfortable and flips the page, pointing to another emoji. “My favorite is this one—the helicopter emoji, as in helicopter parenting. Lots of my friends complain about that.”
“Probably the most important emoji,” Cora says, “showing a central conclusion of the groups, is the clock.”
“What does the clock refer to?” I ask.
“Well, the big new idea is students need to be in charge of their own learning,” she says. “And if that is going to really happen, it means students have to be in charge of their time.”
“Like in the classroom?”
“Yes, in a big way,” she says. “Like, not everyone needs to do the same thing at the same time.”
“Or in the same way,” Daniel adds. “Like, get creative. Investigate what others have done and then go the next step—or in a whole different direction.”
School Tales Page 8