Relentless Pursuit (35 page)

Though meetings at Locke often went that way, no one wanted to miss the upcoming Socratic debate on the merits of the six-versus seven-period schedules. It promised to be a classic showdown between SE and the young reform-minded teachers on the one hand and the old guard on the other. Based on the campus buzz and the intense lobbying that had preceeded it, there were sure to be fireworks.

The battle of the bells had been raging all year. In September, two more schools had adopted SE's longer days–shorter periods model. But the schedule for the seven-period day kept changing—and the length of the extra guidance period kept shrinking—as the schools shaved time off the day to comply with union rules governing teacher work minutes. The result was that the bells at Locke rang seemingly at will. No one could keep track of which periods started when. It was especially hard in classrooms like Rachelle's, where the clock didn't work, or on “banked days,” when there was early release for staff development. Wells told a meeting of small-schools coordinators that the multiple schedules were “killing the school.” He was determined to get the school on one bell system, and he asked the school leaders to come up with proposals for a revised bell schedule.

They met at the end of March. Seated around a long table in the principal's conference room, the coordinators and department chairs thoughtfully debated the merits of a handful of options. The school's fault lines were exposed for all to see. SE's coordinator, Josh Hartford, refused to budge on the seven-period school day. Others argued that seven periods were too much to ask of students, teachers, and coaches.

“Nobody has gotten urban education right,” Hartford said, his voice rising. “If you look around and you're the only one doing it—you might be on to something. If you want lessons on how not to do it, go check out the last twenty years at Locke. I'm getting a little depressed about decisions based on what time teachers get to go home, how athletes feel, and whether there will be missed announcements. This is not about us.”

When somebody tried to interject a comment, he barked: “I'm not done yet!” Then he continued: “We're here because it's hard. The easy answer is to leave the hard answers to somebody else. What I want us to do is to think about what it is our kids need and make a school schedule around that!”

More thoughtful discussion followed before Chad stepped in. Noting that there were valid arguments on both sides, he suggested that the entire school staff attend a Socratic seminar in early April at which the merits of both schedules could be presented and debated. An informed faculty vote would follow.

Chad left the meeting on a high. Sitting around the table and hearing all the good ideas and reasoned debate had given him pause. Maybe next year he would be empowered to effect real change. After all, progress had already been made. For one thing, the standardized testing had gone well. The small schools had really had gotten their act together, and fully 95 percent of the students at Locke were in their seats for the exams, a requirement for receiving an API score.

The thing was, testing was the only time that Locke felt like a real school. There were no kids loitering in the halls or skulking about the outer buildings. Administrators were on top of attendance, calling parents, even hopping in their cars to pick up slackers. One VP, Mrs. Walton, actually tracked a missing student to a Bally's gym and had her paged. The student was a senior, and it was her last chance to pass the CAHSEE so she could graduate on time. On any other day, her absence—and that of countless others—would have gone unnoticed. But on testing days, everyone—teachers, administrators, coordinators, even the kids—was on a high-stakes mission, a mission that could be accomplished only through sheer force of will and unity of purpose. What was strange, Chad thought, what was really sad, what was actually
pathetic,
was that the school as a whole chose to accomplish 95 percent attendance only twice a year, during testing. Still, they had done what many thought was impossible. They had proven that if you made attendance a priority, kids would come. And that wasn't nothing.

There were other positive developments, too. There was the inspiring soccer game, the proud and orderly Latino walkout, the upcoming graduation of more seniors (possibly four hundred) than anyone could remember, and the slow but sure uptick in standardized test scores. Then there were all the great teachers Chad had come to know, and, of course, all the wonderful kids he would never forget.

Add to that this very productive coordinators' meeting, which made Chad think that he could help build a schedule of class offerings that actually made sense. Maybe, in line with WASC and SAIT recommendations, the school could offer literacy intervention to the six hundred kids who needed it instead of the eighty who got it now. And maybe he could get teacher buy-in to actually make the intervention courses succeed. It was shocking to look at the courses on offer. Locke had culinary arts and a zillion different music and arts classes, but the school wasn't giving students what they really needed to be successful. The fourteen-year-olds at Locke needed to learn how to read. Once they knew that, they needed to take the required courses to get into college. Here was an opportunity for him to guide the process along.

We could make this happen! There could be a master schedule built completely on student need. Maybe it would be a seven-period decision, or maybe it would be six periods, which would suck. But if the decision was based on stakeholder input, maybe we could all live with it. Maybe, just maybe, it could work!

His reverie didn't last long. He had to remind himself that this was the same old familiar feeling that came over him every spring, when he would get it into his head that maybe
this
would be the year when all the hard work would pay off, when things would kick in and Locke would magically morph from failing to functional.

The truth was, he had already made up his mind to leave. And he had pretty much lined up the team he wanted to go with him. Over the past few weeks he had approached each of his draft picks individually. Each one was a go. Green Dot paid 10 percent more than the LAUSD salary table, and Chad thought that the extra money would be a great selling point. In fact, the teachers he wanted couldn't have cared less. For them, it wasn't about the money. A much more important issue was who else was going to be on the team. When Chad ticked off the names, he could feel a sense of collective guilt settling in. He had recruited six core teachers from the School of Social Empowerment. It was impossible to ignore the fact that without them, there was a good chance SE would collapse. The kids would feel abandoned, betrayed. The teachers got wobbly. They couldn't give Chad a definitive answer.

That came after the April 4 Socratic seminar. There had been quite a buildup to the event. The six-period faction had lobbied heavily, dropping flyers in the mailboxes and handing out candy, too. One teacher showed up at the meeting with a homemade poster adorned with five-dollar and one-dollar bills. The title read battle for the 6's. The chairs in Hobbs Hall had been arranged in a semicircle to facilitate debate. The meeting opened with an impassioned plea by Wells. Sometimes when he spoke—not always, but sometimes—if you closed your eyes and listened to his cadence, you could picture yourself in a church in the Deep South, just waiting to chime in with “Amen!” This was one of those times. He addressed the whole staff, but he might as well have been speaking to Chad and his entourage.

“If you plan to leave, why don't you do something that I think is ethically sound?” he said. “Don't vote. And let me tell you why. Your vote will affect the people you leave behind, and that's not ethically sound. Some of you are already looking, I know, because I get the calls. That's fine. But my call to you is based on ethical behavior. Refrain from voting. Second, we spent a lot of money in training and professional development. We need stability. I am convinced that in two to three years, Locke will no longer be under the state [audit] and we could have a big sign in front of the school that reads ‘California Distinguished School.' It could be a reality. I'm only a small part of it. It can't be just me. It has to be me and you. The math department has improved; English is picking up on its rigor. The science department can't be matched. To drop the ball now is going to be really painful.”

The seminar began. Chad explained the rules. A certain number of school leaders were seated in the semicircle; empty chairs, which he called “hot seats,” were reserved for anyone else who wanted to contribute to the discussion. Each person in the semicircle had thirty seconds to give a summary of his or her position. After that, the floor would be open to thirty-second statements from other members of the staff. There would be no personal attacks, and everyone was to respect everyone else's time. “I have to say, I am really excited,” announced Chad. “Because, if it goes well, this is the kind of forum we can use to decide other issues in the future.”

The arguments followed a predictable pattern. Those in favor of seven periods argued that more instruction time was the best option for students. An extra guidance period would better prepare them for college; it would also make it easier for them to accumulate the requisite number of credits for graduation. Indeed, the seven-period schedule was one reason the graduation rate at Locke was on the rise. Kids had a way to make up credits they had previously lost through failures.

The six-period folks were having none of it. They argued that students tended to skip school after lunch; adding a period would mean another period ditched. Besides, why would anyone advocate a system in which it was okay to fail ten classes and still graduate on time? Ms. Wick-horst, the UTLA rep, said: “If you guys want to work twenty percent more, and not get paid twenty percent more, then vote for seven periods! I believe the faculty wants six periods. I understand the need to take care of students, but over the last five years we have lost two hundred teachers. How can we retain teachers if we don't respect their wishes for six periods?”

Mr. Twine, the teacher in charge of the tardy room, said: “Where does the responsibility of the student come in? Zero periods, summer school, tutoring—they don't come! How many more classes are you gonna give them that they don't go to? I say the seventh period should be offered after school for more pay!”

One SE teacher who had already been offered a job by Chad spoke about how hard the guidance class had been for her to teach—and how beneficial it had been to her students.

Another teacher, a six-period advocate, practically jumped out of his seat to respond: “I get tired of people saying we have to care for the students. My first year here I spent eight hundred dollars for the students! I don't think you need to bring up how hard you work and how much you care. Most of you aren't gonna be here. Some of the people talking are people I have heard are going to be leaving.”

Then the girls' varsity soccer coach weighed in. “The teachers talking within the circle all probably have honors students,” he opined. Chad warned him to refrain from personal attacks.

“In PE, we have three hundred forty students out there—per teacher. Do you see us complaining? No, we do our jobs. But by creating a seventh period, you will be creating more hassle within the school itself.”

Hartford had his say. Like Wells, he had a way with words. But there were no “Amen”s punctuating his speech. The only interjection was by a dissenting colleague who shouted “Bullshit!” to one of his points. Hartford kept talking.

“I agree with everything those in favor of six periods said, and that's exactly why we need to do seven periods,” he said. “You make it [the guidance period] in the middle of the day so they have to do it, and after a year you ask them what they want, and the kids vote one hundred ninety-nine to nine in favor of seven periods. It's hard. But every good thing that has happened at Locke came about because a group of teachers said crap to this. I love Locke students and I hate the way this school works. Let's not pretend that the staff stands for the students, because we all know exactly what's gonna happen. We're fostering a culture of failure. I want to see Locke change!”

The debate ended as it began, with words from Wells. He reminded the staff that regardless of which option they chose, Locke had to be a school that provided kids with academic rigor across the curriculum. “Hey, if you wanted to make a whole lot of money, you're in the wrong place,” he lectured. “If you think you can run out of here at 2:52, it ain't gonna happen. Period. Every real teacher worth any salt works before they enter the classroom. It really is hard work being a math or an English teacher. Collecting papers and giving feedback is when you see significant results.” Wells insisted that he was neutral on the issue. One teacher accused him of having already made up his mind to vote for seven. But those listening carefully insisted he was a six-periods guy, especially when he said he believed that “less is more.”

When Hartford walked out of Hobbs Hall, he knew the battle was lost.
It's not gonna happen. They will never go for seven periods.
He also knew that his time at Locke was over. He was going with Chad—and, he reckoned, after the votes were counted, so would all the others.

The polling took place that Friday. The results were 72–36 in favor of six periods.

Later that day, Chad told Wells that he had decided to leave. He said that he intended to work full-throttle until the end of the year, and if Wells wanted him to, he would work in the summer as well. After a perfunctory thank-you, Wells got right to the point. “Again, I just hope you're not taking the teachers with the most capacity for teaching and leading,” he said.

This time Chad was ready with an answer. “There will only be one hundred forty kids in my school. There aren't that many positions. I can hire only six teachers. The teachers who are gonna go are gonna go, and their résumés will go to Green Dot, and I will get them. I'm not going to give you names, but I have a feeling there are probably thirty teachers or more sitting on the fence right now at Locke.”