In New Brief, Teach Plus Arkansas Policy Fellows Address Mental Health Needs of Students

Teachers’ recommendations focus on providing mental health services for students and relevant professional development for educators

The need to support students socially and emotionally, as well as cognitively, has become evident as the result of the COVID pandemic. Lack of such support leaves students unprepared for school and life and contributes to the higher burnout rates of teachers. In their new brief, Strategically Addressing Student Mental Health in Our Schools: Recommendations from Teach Plus Arkansas Policy Fellows, Teach Plus teacher leaders set forth a series of recommendations for state leaders on closing the gaps of social, emotional, and mental health education and support in the state.

“Investing in mental health services for students and ensuring that teachers have the training and the time to thoughtfully implement SEL is good for teachers, directly benefits students, and can help alleviate Arkansas’s critical teacher shortage by ensuring that more teachers remain in our classrooms,” said Teach Plus Arkansas Executive Director Stacey McAdoo. “With these solutions from Teach Plus teacher leaders, we can improve conditions in our public schools to make certain that we are educating the whole child and alleviating barriers so that more teachers want and can remain in our classrooms.”

“Our students cannot learn if they are in fight or flight mode. If we expect teachers to help students learn, we must give educators the tools to help students be in the right mindset in the first place,” said Perla Andrade, a teacher in Little Rock and one of the authors of the brief.

To better understand Arkansas teachers’ experience with SEL, Teach Plus teacher leaders surveyed 247 Arkansas teachers about how their schools are supporting students’ social and emotional needs. They found that schools and educators are committed to their students’ social-emotional learning. Educators try their best to embed some form of SEL strategies into the daily academic day, but they need support in the form of professional development focused on mental health, trauma-informed instruction and the social-emotional learning of students. They also need to have protected time in their day to implement SEL.

Teach Plus teacher leaders’ recommendations are:

1. Create school-specific mental health services, such as a coordinator/student success coach, in order to provide in-school support for students and professional development for teachers.
2. Protect teacher time to have SEL lessons and conversations with students and participate in relevant training.
3. Engage teachers in relevant training, such as Mental Health First Aid training, on how to authentically serve the SEL needs of students.

“The only way we can truly provide an equitable educational experience to our students is to understand the whole child and provide resources to take care of their social, emotional, and mental health needs,” said Christhian Saavedra, Student Success Coach in Rogers and one of the authors of the brief.

About Teach Plus

The mission of Teach Plus is to empower excellent, experienced, and diverse teachers to take leadership over key policy and practice issues that affect their students’ success. Since 2009, Teach Plus has developed thousands of teacher leaders across the country to exercise their leadership in shaping education policy and improving teaching and learning, to create an education system driven by access and excellence for all. Teachplus.org

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Though constant hermiting is no longer mandatory, and I teach five classes in person, my dogs remain in favor of this other arrangement. And I find myself so spoiled by a husband who brings me coffee, layers of covers so warm and cozy, and the ambience of snoring dogs so conducive to writing, that on days I am off I may never return to my desk, even if in some future scenario I happen to find it under the piles of miscellany it has accumulated.

In addition to the Boston terriers, I have a golden retriever spread out like a rug beside my besk. They growl at him if he tries to get on the bed and sometimes he lets them be the bosses; not always. When he gets enough he goes savage like in “Zootopia” when an otherwise well-behaved animal loses its mind and turns violent. We try to avoid those times.

I also have a black Lab who John Whiteside says is the only dog I have that’s worth a dime. You can find her curled on the couch at any time of day. If she sees a human she wags her tail and it thumps loudly against the cushions. Like many Labs, the only thing that awakens passion in her is food. Even this most docile, sanguine creature has been known to fight for her right to leftover sausage gravy.

One fateful day this summer I attended a sit-in with other teachers in Little Rock at the Arkansas Legislative Council meeting in which members of the Legislature voted to answer our request for raises by punishing our local school districts. They did this by snatching covid relief money already allocated and approved for covid-related projects in those districts and re-assigning it for one-time teacher bonuses.

They did this to spite school boards and administrators, local control they claim to champion but really despise, and of course to try to squelch a movement of teachers who have finally decided to keep them accountable for their actions when it comes to the degradation of public schools–actions like the one the ALC chose that particular day: using none of the $1.6-billion surplus to raise teacher pay, instead awarding it to the wealthiest Arkansans through tax cuts. In the middle of a statewide teacher shortage.

Just typing that makes my heart beat fast. So you can imagine the state I was in when I left the ALC meeting. I did my breathing thing to tamp down the bubbles of rage fizzing fast to the surface, and drove to Brummett’s. Yes, that Brummett. I am allowed to call him Brummett or even Johnny Ray because I am his favorite if only self-appointed apprentice. He is my favorite crochety columnist.

I had braved Clarksville’s Peach Picking Paradise in the rain the day before to obtain some of his and my favorite white peaches and a few other varieties for his saintly wife Shalah. I thought they weren’t home so I left the peaches on the porch and scrambled halfway to my car before I heard him bellowing, “Hey! Come back here!”

I sat down in their exquisite living room and drank water Shalah gave me in a vintage glass. Their regal beagle Sophie sauntered over to lick my legs. Roscoe, the other beagle, jumped into my lap for a cuddle. Brummett was horrified, which I found hilarious. “Roscoe! Get down!” He looked at me hopelessly. “He’s going to ruin your dress!”

I did have on a nice dress but in that moment I could not have cared less if it survived Roscoe. Because in the way of all good dogs, Roscoe is a rescue dog. And he was doing his best to rescue me. As I petted him I could literally feel my heart rate slow, my shoulders relax, my spirit beginning to rest.

Brummett finally gave up fussing, and while we sat and talked about peaches and furniture and neighbors, goodness returned to the world. Hope floated back into the air. Friendship, joy, laughter, love–all that matters most–superseded the ugly of the morning. And by the time the beagles and Brummetts were through with me, I was fortified to go back out into the world. Restored.

If you are like most humans, you have moments of anxiety and sadness. If you are a person who belongs to a dog, being comforted in those times is likely a familiar experience. Even the Bible records how dogs helped people in ancient times, keeping them company and soothing their sores.

If you don’t have this kind of help on a rough day, well, bless your heart. Maybe it is time to find a rescue dog–or two–and let them rescue you.

Column originally published in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette

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I did not expect to grieve so much. The year ended not with a bang but a whimper. There was no closure. It just suddenly stopped. There were many tears during that first year. I missed my students; still do. I missed my school colleagues; still do. 

I did not expect to have insomnia. My body apparently forgot how to sleep when it wasn’t “teacher tired.” It has taken a lot of time and effort to re-wire myself. 

I did not know that my knees and ankles would not improve much once I was no longer on my feet all day, but here we are. 

I still worry about those kids who needed me, especially the ones whose lifestyles or identities were judged harshly by most. I especially worry about the gay students who may not have someone to support them. It’s a very lonely, scary existence to be different in any way in high school. If your sexual identity does not match the prevailing community standards, the consequences can be brutal. I never overtly singled them out or tried to make them talk about it, but always hung close, kept an eye on them, and made sure they knew I accepted them. Numerous times over the years I’ve stepped in when they were being bullied. Who will be there for them? 

I profoundly miss those days in the classroom when a student had an “aha” moment. As an art teacher my importance in the school was usually related to how good Homecoming and prom looked, but the core of my purpose was crystal clear to me when a kid realized they had created something meaningful that they did not know they could do. Art is not just a class in which you learn to master certain skills and materials. It is a process that, when taught appropriately, reaches into the deepest levels of consciousness. I considered my career to be a journey of self-discovery and spiritual growth for myself as well as my students. It is part art therapy, part imagination journey, part relaxation, part skill mastery, part whimsy, part problem solving, and a lot of perseverance.

All art is self-portrait. To think of it only as decorating for events, although those are also important, is to completely miss the true value of arts education and those who teach these classes. People have been creating and imagining for thousands of years. Long before they developed language and numerical skills humans were painting on cave walls and making utilitarian or aesthetically pleasing objects that expressed their values. They give us an understanding of ancestors and culture. Creativity is at the core of what makes us human. A good art teacher needs this sense of history in order to fully appreciate how fundamental it is to our existence.

Yes. I really am that passionate about it. You may see a childish rendering of a daisy, but I see a small glimpse into something that intrigues that child. They may have spent hours thinking about daisies and how perfectly God created flowers. Art matters. Teaching is not just a job.

Retirement is not without its special charm however. I had always looked forward to the lack of morning chaos. Getting up and ready for school was a challenge my whole life. Arriving anywhere on time–major challenge. Now my mornings are usually quite enjoyable. I can sip coffee for as long as I want. Having that gentle buffer into the day is one of life’s simple pleasures. 

I had also looked forward to not having to rush around all day, then go back later for ball games, conferences, school programs, special events, etc. These days it’s hard to pry me out of the house after 5 o’clock in the evening and I’m ok with that. 

As a retired teacher I reflect on all those years, starting as a naïve twenty-something who had actually hated high school. I saw myself in the kids who felt the same. They sat at the back of the room, sleeping or watching suspiciously, guarding themselves by acting out or withdrawing. I felt my sense of purpose and commitment grow quickly when I realized that they were a big part of the reason I was there. I hope that my presence in their lives made a difference. I believe it did.

Most teachers I have known in my career have so much grit, dedication, and love for their students that they would walk through fire for them. Teaching has always been a demanding profession because in order to do it well you must be all in, heart and soul. Teachers work from instinct as much as lesson plans. Maybe more. They constantly monitor and adapt what they are doing and how they interact with children. They know when to throw out the lesson plan and take an interesting detour. Teaching absolutely cannot be quantified or judged based on data alone. Children deserve to be evaluated as whole people, not by test scores. The obsession with constantly changing technology is gutting education by not allowing the time needed for teachers to do what they know is best for their students. Endless data evaluation, strict pacing guides, test prepping, and micro-managing of content do not improve education. Educators improve education. 

Growing pressure from radical groups demanding to know every single detail in a year of lesson plans, months in advance, are making a challenging career almost impossible. The narrative has become increasingly negative, and paints an unrealistic picture of what is happening in Arkansas public schools. A small but vocal minority of people would have us believe that schools are a hotbed of subversive troublemakers. Nothing could be further from the truth. In recent years teachers have had to grow a thicker skin than ever before. The barrage of criticism has become a very heavy burden. Young teachers are leaving the profession in disillusioned droves. Veteran teachers like myself are retiring heartbroken because we do not know who will be there for our children in the future. 

Too many people in decision-making positions do not understand any of this. They continue to beat the same drums, demanding more from educators while offering no additional compensation or respect. Any governor or commissioner of education should be in constant contact with those in the classrooms who work with the students every day. They should come out from behind their office doors and go into communities to listen and learn. There should be a seamless two-way system of communication with school employees so that ideas can flow freely. State governments spend millions of taxpayer dollars on companies and consultants peddling “the next best greatest thing.” These programs claim to solve problems perceived to be present in public schools. These companies and consultants exist to make a profit. I propose that we change course entirely. We should convene groups of highly trained professionals with advanced degrees and many years of experience who know exactly what education should look like. If the pandemic experience has taught us anything, it is that teachers have proven that they possess the organizational skills and the vision to make education happen under the most impossible circumstances. Imagine what they could do under optimal circumstances, provided with adequate time, space, and compensation. That is how you improve education. 

There is no more valuable resource than our future adults. They deserve the best education that we can give them…one that does not come from outside companies. It comes from teachers. History will judge the decisions we make today. Isn’t it time that we made the right one?

The post The Art of Teaching appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

She was tiny. The same age as my 15-year-old Adelaide, but several inches shorter. Eyes the color of whisky; hair the color of wheat. Dressed in sweats and a t-shirt like any other teenager. Alabaster skin, little pearls for teeth. The only thing severe at all about her, the only thing not childlike, was her eyebrows. They swept across the top of her face like two long, elegant brushstrokes, high and arched.

I wanted to hug her because that’s what I do. And her mother is an ocean away. But she regarded me a little bit like a scared rabbit, so I refrained.

We talked about nothing at first. She likes it here; loves the people. The people are very friendly. Her host family is good to her. She likes the school. “I feel big support here.” She smiles. The high school made a poster for me.”

“What was it like,” I asked her, “when you heard the news of the Russian invasion?”

She nodded, anticipating the question. “I was very surprised. What I mean is, there has been war in my country since 2014. So there are always threats, and sometimes soldiers and sounds of fighting. We kinda got used to it, and you might have to be careful a few days, and then everything would be normal again. But everybody didn’t expect this to happen.”

Olena Havrylova lives with her parents, Sergei and Yulia, in a town of 90,000 called Lisichansk in the Donbas region of Ukraine. Her brother, Daniil, 19, is a student at the University in Kyiv. Because of Covid, he’s been home for three months, scheduled to go back to Kyiv in February. But Covid numbers started climbing again so the university extended quarantine. Olena is grateful he was home with the family instead of in Kyiv when the bombing began.

The Donbas region is in the far east of Ukraine, bordering Russia. She said for now the fighting has died down in her town, but her family still keeps their windows boarded. They live on the first floor of a nine-floor building. There’s a basement in the building the residents use as a bomb shelter. Her school is across the street, and also has a basement in which neighborhood folks can hide. She showed me a picture of her school, and the street in front of it, where a rocket sticks up out of the blast it made in the pavement. It looks like some weird sculpture, a macabre artistic statement. Her grandparents live five minutes away.

She showed me another picture. “This is a free train. It is taking women and children to L’viv.” The hoards of people lined up on either side of the tracks reminded me, eerily, of old photos from World War Two. “From L’viv they must get a car to take them to the Polish border. It’s a dangerous journey.”

Olena explained that her mother could leave if she wanted to, but the men—her son and husband—must stay. So she is staying. “The men have to stay and fight,” Olena said. “If they try to leave, they will be caught and immediately drafted.”

I asked Olena what she thinks about the Russian people. Does she see them as her enemies? “I feel sorry for them,” she said. “All they have is fake news. Putin tells them their army is going to my country to help us, because we are fighting each other. Even the soldiers didn’t know the truth until they crossed the border. That’s when they were given the order to shoot us.” She told me her best friend’s brother studies in Russia and he believes the fake news. “It is crazy. So sad.”

Leary of fake news myself, I asked her if our impression of Zelensky—as the brave, beloved, heroic leader—is accurate. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “We love him. The whole country is behind him.” She shows me a video of Putin surrounded by fake people, in front of a background she says is fake, then one of Zelensky. “See how he moves the microphone? That is to let us know it is real, he is right there in his office. He will not leave us. He fights with our army, while Putin stays hidden.”

Olena, who shares a first name with Ukraine’s first lady, swells with pride as she continues. And I understand that the image of fierce, patriotic Ukranians I’m seeing on Twitter and CBS is not fake news either. “What do you think will happen?” I asked her.

“I think we will win.” She looks into my eyes. Hers are suddenly very serious. “Putin didn’t know how strong we are. He thought he could just come in and take our land, that Ukraine would allow it. But that will never happen.”

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I dream of the days before my mom’s health completely deteriorated; before my grandmother’s partner of thirty-plus years lost her battle with lung cancer; before my beautiful grandmother herself passed away unexpectedly; before my papa withered after years of fighting cancer, too. 

Before my parent’s house literally started falling apart at the seams. 

With insulation exposed, drywall falling and floor sagging, the twenty-some-year-old trailer that we built our lives in is now decaying. And there’s nothing I can do to fix it. I used to think the trailer was a metaphor for my mom’s mental and physical state, as twisted as that seems. Lupus. Fibromyalgia. Depression. Anxiety. Agoraphobia for most of my teen life, rotting away in her room and relying on her child for any and all sustenance. In fact, most of my life my mom communicated via whistling for me, as if I were an animal she wanted to train. This was especially a point of contention with my father, although he never said anything to her directly. I guess it worked, because I knew exactly what to do when her shrill pitch made its way down the nicotine-stained walls and in through the crack of my bedroom door.

I think I hated my mom until Covid happened. And I know how that sounds, but I need to be one hundred percent honest with myself here. As a teenager I didn’t understand the complexities of the human mind, much less something as damaging as Agoraphobia. To be fair, neither did my mom. In her mind she was okay, and our lives were “normal,” but the few friends I trusted enough to come over would tell me that her behavior was anything but. So I was forced to take on the role of my mother’s caretaker—long before she was wheelchair bound and on oxygen.

Now that I’m older I understand that she was afraid. In high school I often wondered what happened. She wasn’t always like this. We weren’t always like this. 

I grew up in Greenwood, in the same decaying trailer that now rests in Sheridan. My parents both worked in Fort Smith, and despite our financial troubles and Southern Baptist ties, they decided to send me to a small private school called First Lutheran. My mom told me she was bullied, and she blamed it on the “ungodliness” of public schools. 

One of my earliest memories is my mom crying on my dad’s shoulder in a lawyer’s office while filing for bankruptcy. That’s the first time I felt this overwhelming feeling of grief just for being born. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I was somewhat responsible. Those feelings of guilt grew with every screaming match and fist-sized hole in the wall. I used to pray every night for my parent’s divorce. I thought they would be happier. I would often catch myself fantasizing about their lives without me. Would my dad be less angry? Would my mom feel heard? I didn’t think it could get worse, but it did, and it continued to spiral downward, where I’ve been until present day. 

Mom put herself on the back burner for many years because I was born with Cerebral Palsy, a fact I would be oblivious to for years. Physical therapy, muscle relaxers, leg braces, and botox injections all ate away at most of our funds, not to mention that expensive private school tuition my mom insisted on paying. This left her to suffer with undiagnosed Lupus for more than five years. I watched as my family accused my mom of being lazy, of lying. I think this is what led to her negligence of her mental health, and to mine. 

Following her diagnosis, things were better. I was happy to see my family smiling, but it didn’t last. Pretty soon after her diagnosis, we found out that my dad’s company was shutting down. They had already started laying people off. It was like a switch flipped, and we were back to where we started, except this time we were losing our main source of income as well as health benefits. Perhaps the worst part, at least to my mother, was the reality that she would be returning to a town she hated. The town of Sheridan had never accepted her, and now she was being forced to move back. 

My dad and I weren’t happy about the move, either. We were a family of introverts, and we had built new friendships that none of us wanted to leave. I felt especially devastated knowing I’d be leaving my best friend Maddie. But there was no other option for my family.

When we settled in Sheridan, a tidal wave of depression and anger tore through our aging trailer. I was sad all the time. I was mad. I felt the heat of hatred bubble up inside me. Guilt quickly turned to rage, and my mother would usually bear the brunt of it. Looking back, this is my biggest regret: directing all of my anger and frustration towards her, a woman who had already felt the blow of loved ones doubting her. And now, her only child had joined the bandwagon. 

I know she would tell me none of this was my fault, but I can’t help but feel responsible for her falling into herself the way she did. It started slowly: not going to ball games, getting visibly angry when asked to leave the house, etc. When I got my driver’s permit, she would sit in the safety of her tinted windows while I bought groceries for the family. This was my least favorite errand of all, due to the number of times I had to leave a cart full of food at the checkout line because our bank card was declined. By the time I had my full license, she stopped leaving her room altogether. I can’t explain how this made me feel. Somedays the guilt would come back, and I was left in my room to ponder all the reasons my mom could have for hating me. And she was asking herself the same questions about me. 

Fast forward to 2019: I’ve been on my own for five years, and my mom and I are finally able to have a conversation that lasts longer than two minutes. A miracle. She had started taking antidepressants, and for the first time in my life, I was able to see past the walls and into her true self. But her years of being docile were unkind. We took a trip to see my Oma’s grave in Texas, but my mom couldn’t walk longer than a minute at a time. The most heartbroken I’ve ever felt was seeing her cry as I proudly pushed her around Texas. She called herself a burden, and in that moment, everything clicked. My mom had spent all of her adult life feeling like she didn’t deserve anything. Love, compassion, trust…just like me. 

When I got home from the trip, I spent a week in my room sobbing over the revelation. Who was I to have been so quick to judge? After all, in the five years I spent away from home, I’m pretty sure I spent a quarter or more of that time cooped up in my room surrounded by half-empty soda cans, chip bags and dirty dishes—a scene I grew accustomed to when taking care of my agoraphobic mom.

In that moment, everything clicked. My mom had spent all of her adult life feeling like she didn’t deserve anything. Love, compassion, trust… just like me. 
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Shortly after the trip, the world was brought to its knees by a deadly pandemic. The day the first case was reported in Arkansas, I called my mom. My heart dropped. She had been in the hospital with pneumonia. She said she didn’t want to worry me, but in that moment I felt the weight of my culpability. I could hear the absolute pain in her voice and the soft hum of the oxygen machine keeping her alive in the background. I made it my personal mission to ensure her safety. 

At that moment I wanted nothing more than to be in that broken home, taking care of my mom like I’ve done my whole life. 

The post Like Mom, Like Daughter appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

A few years ago, I gradually transitioned from a full-time stay-at-home, homeschooling mom to a part time job to a divorced mom working full time as a public school Speech Language Pathologist.  When COVID hit, I considered becoming a full-time district employee, but even factoring in the benefits, it would have been a decrease in pay.  I love what I do, and I love the community and district in which I work, but I could not afford that.

For me, like most of us, the spring of 2020 hit hard.  I managed to cobble together enough parents who were willing to do teletherapy that I survived.  Like much of Arkansas, not every kid has access to the same resources in our rural district.  Many of my parents were working essential jobs at the poultry processing plant while arranging care for their children and supervising their children’s education.  It was hard, but that was true for most of us.  There was a feeling of just trying to survive these unprecedented times. 

Last year, like many educators, I started school with a feeling of apprehension but also optimism.  I was anxious to see my kids in person again.  Honestly, it was a lot of extra work.  I had kids on site, virtual kids, and even virtual kids who came on site just for therapy.  However, there was a feeling of camaraderie in the schools and with families.  It felt like staff was doing what we could to put our students first and keep everyone safe.  Families seemed to appreciate what educators were doing.  Rules were clear and seemed to work, and the kids were rock stars. 

This year is different.  Before we started the year (the 3^rd school year impacted by COVID), I had been told to consider it a “normal” year.  There was no mask mandate.  Because of poor state leadership, the quarantine protocols for individual schools are complex and seem somewhat arbitrary.  It just feels very chaotic and disorganized on the state level, which has contributed to a much less cohesive unit within my district.  From school staff to families, we are all just tired.

There was a feeling of just trying to survive these unprecedented times
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Then, on the 2^nd week of school, my kids were exposed on the way to their dad’s house.  We found out the day my youngest transitions to my house for the week.  (My oldest lives with her dad full-time.)  I left school early that day to pick her up and was greeted by several parents there to pick up their own children.  Assuming they had the same quarantine procedures, those parents also had to arrange for their child to be in quarantine for 9 days. 

District employees are allowed to take a set amount of COVID leave when a dependent is in quarantine.  After that, they must use sick days.  After that, they are actually charged for the substitute the district provides.  My best friend’s daughter actually ended up in quarantine at the same time as my kids.  She fielded questions and problem solved from home while keeping an active grade schooler entertained and using her COVID leave.

As a private contractor, I did not have COVID leave or any paid leave.  I am not eligible for unemployment or short term disability.  I do not have things set up to work from home in this situation.  I do not have an emergency sitter for this.  (My mom is a cancer survivor awaiting cardiac surgery.)  In no way is my situation unique.  In fact, I feel blessed to have the options I have had.  My rent is paid.  My family has food.  None of us actually contracted COVID.  My child returns to school tomorrow.  My district has since implemented a mask mandate.  However, it feels like we have become conditioned or immune to the hardships we are facing from COVID.  While I am ready for a return to normal, I am hoping that until that happens, we return to that feeling of community spirit and caring for our neighbor that was felt last year. 

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I knew in 8^th grade that I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up. My US History teacher, Marie McNeal, was a tiny, delightful, powerhouse of a woman with a New York accent who exuded kindness. She radiated compassion and accepted nothing less than your 100% best effort, even on your lowest day when teenage angst was coursing through your veins. She validated the angst, gave you a giant hug, and said, “Now, let’s get to work!”

My teachers at Hall High sealed the deal. They showed me what absolute perfection in educating students looked like. They were all masters of their craft. They were experts in their content area. There were many times I cried in their offices or on their living room couches. They handed me tissue and listened. Didn’t judge. Didn’t lecture. They waited for me to arrive at the solution. Whether I was vexed by a physics problem or was processing other personal trauma, they stayed by my side. 

They did this for years. Quite often, the cars in the student parking lot were far newer and more expensive than the ones driven by the teachers. They endured the insult of going on a Saturday to take a test to prove they were capable teachers. They kept right on teaching. 

My entry into the profession was a little rocky. But when I finally got my own classroom I was in heaven. 

My first year, there were 7 periods in the school day. I taught 5 different subjects in grades 7-12. I took Friday nights off and spent the weekends lesson planning. 

There were no frameworks then and we didn’t even have to turn in lesson plans. I definitely loved my students. My students loved me. I can say that with assurance because I still hear that from them today, more than 20 years later. I can also say with assurance that I was a good teacher, having earned a spot as a finalist for Arkansas Teacher of the Year. 

During my career, I taught various subjects and every grade K-12. I lost sleep over students, spent thousands of dollars on school supplies, food, even Christmas gifts for students and their families who would otherwise have had very sparse holidays. I broke up fights. I got hit in the head with a cafeteria tray. I held a 1^st grader while he trembled and sobbed through an active shooter drill. I sheltered students who ran into the building during recess to escape gunfire in the neighborhood. Luckily, I avoided having to participate in the Stop The Bleed training sessions. Current teachers report extreme anxiety and even trauma resulting from those PDs.

 I’ve been to a few class reunions, college graduations, even some weddings. From time to time, I still offer advice when former students reach out through social media. Some I haven’t heard from in years. When they reach out, I’m transported back to our time in the classroom together. I can remember their young face, sometimes even their handwriting. Just this week, I’ve received Snapchats, Facebook messages, texts, and phone calls from kids I taught more than 18 years ago.  I’m so lucky I got to be their teacher. That they still look to me for occasional support or advice helps me cope with the serious guilt and disappointment I face as an early retiree. 

I taught without the internet or email or smart boards in my first years as a teacher. The influx of technology certainly made some parts of the job vastly easier, faster, more entertaining and exciting, and more challenging.

I taught through the advent of high stakes standardized testing. I administered the ACTAAP, then the PARCC. A few other iterations have rolled in and now students must sacrifice their daily routine and instruction several times a year to wade through the ACT Aspire, used only by Arkansas. No other state in the Union uses it. Entire school days and school schedules are re-arranged so that certified staff can assist with proctoring the exams. Almost all decisions are based on how the testing schedule or test scores will be impacted. 

Critics claim teachers are afraid of accountability so the teachers soldier on, administering more standardized tests, more frequently. They even tolerate an absurd new assessment model for themselves. TESS. Short for Teacher Excellence and Support System. Designed by Charlotte Danielson, it’s a labor-intensive, near constant process of teacher evaluation. Even Danielson herself has issues with the way the system is implemented. 

I sheltered students who ran into the building during recess to escape gunfire in the neighborhood.
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Rigor, grit, fidelity. Say those words around a teacher and watch their eyes. Every 2-3 years, new curriculum will be rolled out with promises to raise achievement, to save our failing schools. The programs will require grit from students. The lessons will include rigor and schools must implement them with complete fidelity. 

But, there’s a pandemic, you say. 

No matter. 

Students will be held accountable for attendance, for completing all lessons, for demonstrating grit. 

Because the school report cards are what matter now. If people can see how low the test scores are, they will be convinced our schools are failing our children. If parents lose faith in public education, then they will support charters and vouchers. This is all part of the design to privatize education.

Teachers were heroes long before the pandemic. They go to work everyday knowing their heart will be broken. They get up and they go anyway. They are certainly carrying more than fair share of the pandemic load now. More than 40 Arkansas teachers have died from Covid over the last year. 

[Teachers] go to work everyday knowing their heart will be broken. They get up and they go anyway.
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Many, like me, have resigned or retired early. We were willing to risk our own safety when the threat came from active shooters, but we were unwilling to endanger the lives of our families when the threat came from Covid. Many may be lured back, but only if there are some serious changes. 

So, if you’re one of those people who think public schools are full of bloat, that the practically non-existent teachers’ union is up to no good, and parents should have vouchers to choose where their education tax dollars are spent, congratulations. The plan to destroy public education is gaining steam at an alarming rate.

On the other hand, if you believe in the power of a free and public education for ALL students, I will invite you to study candidates in upcoming elections–for every position from school board on up through state and federal offices. 

The future for lots of amazing kids depends on it. 

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Arkansas Strong in the making

When I was floating my plans for Arkansas Strong, a friend told me, “You need to meet Rex Nelson.” Astonished that I didn’t recognize the name, my friend went on: “Rex is famous in the state of Arkansas. He writes for the Democrat-Gazette and does about a hundred other things. He’s only the nicest guy you will ever meet. You guys have so much in common…Rex loves Arkansas. He goes all over the state writing about the good things that are happening, especially in small towns.” This friend had a vision Rex and I might end up on the road together and do a show called “On the Road with Rex and Gwen.” He introduced us in an email, certain we would be peas in a pod.

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What he wants from state leaders now is not allegiance to a party, but a return to serving people. Meeting practical needs. He wants Arkansas to be kind, prosperous, and safe, guided by common sense.
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He was right. I met Rex one morning in Little Rock at the Capitol Hotel for breakfast. By this time I had done my own research and understood that Rex was a big deal—Washington Bureau Chief for the paper during the time of Senator Dale Bumpers; Director of Communications for Governor Mike Huckabee, and appointed to the Delta Regional Authority by President George Bush. Also a husband, father, sports radio commentator, and author. I felt like a moron for not knowing who he was before; it was a huge honor he agreed to meet with me.

 

Listen, learn, and leave with a changed perspective

 

I sat waiting for our meeting, sipping coffee all nervous and fidgety. That lasted till the moment Rex walked through the doors of the Capitol lobby, instantly spotted me, and smiled like a long-lost friend. As we walked together into the restaurant Rex greeted everyone he knew, which was everyone. When we finally made it to our table and ordered, Rex pulled out a yellow tablet. “Just thought I would ask you a few questions.”

I had planned to interview him, but ended up telling him my life’s story. It was a lesson in journalism  watching him work. He took complete charge of the conversation, asked brilliant, probing questions, listened with rapt attention, led me from one subject to the next. In other words, all of the things I usually try to do when I interview people—and had planned to do with him. But there’s no managing Rex Nelson. I usually think I’m not the easiest person to lead or guide, but Rex puts you under a spell. He’s like the favorite uncle you wish you had, the one you can trust with anything.

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What Rex does is remind us of the best that is in us—the good we have been, and can be again.
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Our hope for Arkansas

 

Since that day Rex has been a mentor. Someone I want to emulate. He’s a lifelong Republican with many friends on both sides of the aisle. He’s sad about the meanness he sees coming from Christian people and feels somewhat disoriented, as I do, in places that used to feel like a spiritual home. What he wants from state leaders now is not allegiance to a party, but a return to serving people. Meeting practical needs. He wants Arkansas to be kind, prosperous, and safe, guided by common sense. And while his work occasionally finds him bravely touching on the subject of politics, mostly what Rex does is remind us of the best that is in us—the good we have been, and can be again.

He does this by seeing us and celebrating our successes. One day he’s in the Delta, writing about how well we grow rice. The next week he may be in Northwest Arkansas, pointing out our business acumen, philanthropy, and artistic success. He’s especially fond of restaurants that serve world-class food in rural areas. The places in Dumas and Lonoke and Hazen where people know your name when you come through the door.

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There may be anger and unrest and fear on Facebook and stormy weather on the nightly news. But Rex, without sugar-coating, gently lifts our eyes to the good. The true.
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He likes to find us doing new things in creative ways, making a difference in the world whether it’s a museum in McGehee or casino in Pine Bluff. Rex is there whether it’s a ballgame or a ballet. He is there for all things Arkansas.Like the Southern food he samples around the state, Rex comforts us. Things may look bad in our legislature. Covid may ravage those we love.

There may be anger and unrest and fear on Facebook and stormy weather on the nightly news. But Rex, without sugar-coating, gently lifts our eyes to the good. The true. He shifts our focus to the excellent things that are worthy of praise. Week after week he amplifies voices of everyday Arkansans who are out there in every region, doing good work. And in sharing their stories, he brings light and hope to the state we’re in.

 

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That was almost 15 years ago.  Social media has gotten all-pervasive and more insidious in many ways.  At the same time, we seem to have become more indiscriminate about our informational intake.  These two lessons should still apply:  Who’s sending you this information?  and What is their intent?  I think a lesson that needs to be stressed far more to our elementary students is the difference between Fact and Opinion.  Many adults can’t distinguish between the two.  A class that needs to be taught in high school much more pervasively is journalism.  Most people who today don’t trust the “mainstream media” don’t realize that journalists can’t print anything that hasn’t been confirmed by at least two independent sources.  Watch a good news movie like All the President’s Men, and you’ll see news reporters tracking down great leads to get people to tell them things on- or off-record or on background.  They must have corroborating material like contemporaneous notes, newsreels, correspondence, diaries and calendars, film.  Their writing generally contains footnotes with contributing sources. 

The internet is not an edited source of information.  It is not copyrighted; it has no fact-checkers; it doesn’t rely on sources or data.  Wikipedia is not an encyclopedia.  It can be edited by anyone, with truthful, fanciful, or vindictive material, depending on the source of the writing and the intent of the writer.  All of the current disinformation about the supposed lack of safety of the Covid vaccine and the touting of wonder drugs like ivermectin (a cattle wormer) or hydroxychloroquine come from only 12 different people.  These 12 people’s intent is not to relay reliable information but rather to get their readers/listeners to buy their products.  They are making millions off their disinformation.  Cognitive dissonance is causing members of our society to believe the unbelievable because it fits into their perceived belief system.  When I was young, I would look at the headlines from the National Enquirer – things like “Alien Lands in Cemetery” and “Baby Cow with Three Heads Born on Farm”—and think, “How can anyone actually believe that?”  Even I, born in Pine Bush, NY, the “UFO Capitol of the World,” didn’t buy that.  Yet today, our friends and neighbors are buying into child-eating microchip-injecting one-world-order overlords trying to brainwash us all.

We need to get back to being more critical consumers of information.  We need to judge whatever bombards us by the two go-to questions of  Who’s telling me this? (We can add Are they reputable?) and What are they trying to make me think or do?  A democracy only survives with an informed citizenry.  In order to be informed, we need an adversarial press.   Let’s all use our news filter a little more wisely.

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