“There is a cost to silence, and a cost to using your voice, and every day I wake up and decide which bill I’m going to pay.”

I read this quote one day as I scrolled through Twitter. The person who tweeted it could not remember who said it as she live-tweeted from a leadership conference somewhere. But she said it stopped her in her tracks, and it did the same for me.

Silence about injustice is not a good option. However, I have been at something of a loss for the right words since I attended the Joint Education Committee meeting Oct. 3. Arkansas Strong organized a sit-in for the few of us who could be there to represent Arkansas public educators, who were of course working their full-time jobs teaching 92 percent of the state’s school children.

Afterward I vented some of my biggest feelings with fellow sit-inners, who shared their own. “You should write about this,” one said. “You have such a beautiful way with words.” But they weren’t beautiful words I was thinking. They were angry ones. And I don’t ever want to write–or otherwise operate–from a place of anger. Not if I can help it.

One of my life policies is to try to approach people and situations by giving them the benefit of the doubt. I do this because it’s the golden rule, and it’s how I would have others do unto me. It is also insurance against becoming hardened and cynical. So even though I have been sorely disappointed by lawmakers these past years, I tried to set grace before me when I made the two-hour trip to the Capitol.

After all, this was the meeting in which they had the chance to keep their word–all of those who voted against staying in special session to discuss teacher raises. Back in August, they told us it wasn’t because they were against us. When we questioned where they stood, most of their correspondence contained a form of this answer: I am for teacher raises. Just not in special session. I want to do it the right way, you see. This is not the time. There is a proper procedure we must follow. After the adequacy study, we will make recommendations. That is the correct order of things. That is how it needs to be done.

I was not inclined to believe this based on past experience. Nor did I appreciate the implication that concerned citizens were stupid enough to believe a tax cut for wealthy Arkansans is more of an “emergency” than the education crisis–and therefore special session material–while teacher pay is not, or that in some other way the tax cuts are good stewardship of the surplus $1.6 billion, but using it for teacher raises is bad. Still, I hoped the desire to do right eventually, and perhaps more thoroughly based on the study, might possibly be true. At least for some.

But evidence from the recent meeting proves otherwise.

I had a sinking feeling when Rep. Bruce Cozart, the House Ed Committee chair, came down to greet the row of ladies in red who were with me in the audience. One asked, “Do you have a proposal for teacher raises?” He answered that they did, and it was great. “You are going to love it.” She pressed, “Will you tell us about it?” He smirked.

“Oh no, I can’t do that now.” He tamped down the air with his hands. “It has to go through the process. You’ll have to wait. But I think teachers are going to be really happy.”

Cozart went on to say how he had gotten a “bad rap,” and claimed, again, that he was truly a big supporter of public schools. That was strange since the only bad rap I know of was one he gave teachers at a Garland County Tea Party meeting where he said, “The reason people are losing their faith in the schools is because of teachers who do not want to do what they need to do for the betterment of the kids. That’s not their priority. Their priority is just themselves.” Perhaps he thought we wouldn’t know that is a quote directly from his mouth?

I mention this interaction because it so perfectly captures the pervasive attitude a supermajority of legislators has toward teachers: my experience since the first time I tried to engage at a House Ed Committee meeting years ago, the atmosphere of the ALC meeting this summer, the tone of the not-so-special session, and the result of this latest meeting in which it was proposed that Arkansas raise the state minimum teacher salary to $40,000. This travesty of justice was the proposal Cozart believed we educators would love.

What mental gymnastics does a lawmaker–or body of lawmakers–have to perform in order to presume this? Is the disrespect intentional, or blindness brought on by power’s corruption? Maybe it does not matter, since the consequences are the same either way: The 30,000 highly trained, professionally certified teachers of Arkansas–and those great young minds who consider going into the profession–are increasingly demoralized, denigrated, and disappearing.

Consider the hubris of this scenario: In 2022, the minimum salary for part-time legislators in Arkansas is $44,357. In addition, if they live within 50 miles of the Capitol, they get $59 per diem; the price increases to $155 per day if they live further away. On top of that they are paid 58.5 cents per mile they travel. No college degree is required, no professional certifications; they need not even have knowledge of the law. (I would add they need not have knowledge or experience in any of the areas for which they make rules and spend millions, like education, medicine, agriculture, small business, transportation, public safety, etc.)

A starting full-time teacher’s minimum salary in the state of Arkansas is $36,000. There is no per diem, nor is there any mileage provided. At least a bachelor’s degree is required, plus official certification and licensure, which includes passing the Praxis Principles of Learning and Teaching exam, and further Praxis exams in one’s specialty area.

Ours is the lowest starting salary in our region, which is the lowest paid region in the country. Because neighboring states pay better, they recruit our teachers fresh out of college. Many also recruit our veteran teachers because of better pay and benefits all the way up the scale.

Yet, even after the fiscally conservative governor and ADE proposed raising the base teacher salary by $10,000, backed up by a solid plan for how it could be funded in a financially responsible way, our Legislature balked. Then they refused the compromise offered by the governor, and another proposed by the Democratic caucus.

Elected leaders–who have no qualifications other than citizenship, residency in their districts, and being at least 21 years of age, who are paid $44,347, plus per diem and mileage, plus benefits for a part-time job–denied the professional educators expected to be responsible for the mental, emotional, and physical health of 473,861 school children in Arkansas.

The offer from the House Education Committee, pushed by Representatives Cozart, Evans, and Vaught, is $40,000. Which keeps us behind not only them, as our part-time lawmakers, but educators in the rest of the region. This is more than $5,000 less than the part-time salaries of every legislator who supports it, if you factor in even a few days of their per diem and mileage expenses. For our full-time jobs. And they expect us to be happy–to “love it.”

Much of the discussion in the meeting compared schools to businesses. There’s a call popular with the supermajority for them to be run more efficiently as such. But a wise business person knows that to attract and keep the most talented people in key positions, they must be paid well.

Unfortunately, many large corporations exploit their least skilled workers by paying them poorly because they regard them as easy to replace. This corporate greed and arrogance manifests in the disdain of lawmakers toward educators. Rather than recognizing we are the keys to our children’s–and therefore our state’s–future, they have no appreciation for our hard-earned skills. They think we are easy to replace.

They are wrong.

The post Our Legislators’ Injustice Toward Teachers appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

I’m a spiritual refugee too; I’m a Christian. To some this makes me an object of suspicion, for good reason I suppose. To some I’m a heretic because I inhabit the realm of uncertainty. Each side wants everything black or white but it’s not always that simple. To be a mom who follows Jesus means I can’t hoard peace and freedom, but try to treat others the way I want to be treated. What I want for my own children I want for all the little children of the world.

For that reason I’m an advocate for public schools. I want my kids to have access to a great education so I want that for all kids. Same goes for health care. Same goes for being able to find good jobs and raise their families at home in Arkansas. Wanting what’s good for all kids comes naturally in my job; I’m a teacher. I’ve practiced this mentality enough that there’s a rule I keep close to me when weighing hard decisions: there is no such thing as other people’s children. If I look at an issue using this lens, I nearly always find clarity.

I went to the legislature earlier this session to speak on behalf of rural public school kids. Other than that I’ve watched from afar as something like 600 bills have gone through the process. When all of the transgender bills were being discussed alongside March Madness, I combed twitter, trying to wrap my head around it all. This tweet caught my attention: “Arkansan with serious mixed emotions tonight. Wanting the Hogs to win so bad. But also feeling gutted that #arleg voted to impede my ability to make healthcare decisions for my child.”

The writer sounded so normal. So Razorback-ish. So mom-ish. 

And so hurt.

I contacted her and she was willing to meet with me. We agreed on a coffee shop between our two towns. When she walked in I immediately recognized her—I’d seen her picture—but more than that I recognized myself in her. A busy mom on her phone, dashing into a meeting she probably didn’t have time for but made anyway because it was important. She was blonde, definitely more hip than me, a little younger. Her oldest child is a tween while my oldest two are out of high school. But we have kids near the same age, as well. Mine is 9, hers 8-years-old.

I’m not going to tell her whole story here. Hopefully she will be able to do that herself soon. What I want to say is, as we visited it became more and more apparent that this woman could have been me. She grew up in Arkansas, sang on the praise team in her Southern Baptist church, went to the U of A, and taught Children’s Church with her husband who was a process engineer. From the time her child was a toddler she could tell there was something different about them—choices in toys, clothes, other interests, the way they carried themself in the world. It wasn’t until recently that her child could articulate—and she understand–her child is a girl trapped in a boy’s body.

I’ve listened to many conversations about transgender people. A professor at my university 30 years ago presented as a man one year and a woman the next. I didn’t know the professor at all and so it was easy to think they were strange, and maybe mentally ill, which were the two options most insinuated around campus. Besides her, I’ve known one person who transitioned, a friend who had been abused as a child. The nature of the abuse, and horrific resulting trauma, made it easy to comprehend why this person would want to transition away from a forced role and toward who she had always been inside. I could imagine this even if I still didn’t understand.

It was easy to remain ignorant. To not understand, until it wasn’t.

Staring into the unflinching eyes of this mother forced me to see myself in her situation. What if this was my own child, and I knew, like a good mother does, that she was suffering? Would I believe my child if she told me that her insides didn’t match her outside? Would I admit what I could see was true in my heart of hearts? What would I do if I was in this situation?

Considering these questions through her eyes gave me a new perspective. I can’t say I know for sure exactly what I would do. But looking at the anti-transgender laws being passed in Arkansas through this lens—that there is no such thing as other people’s children—I can say without a doubt I would not want the government to tell me what to do. I would want and need the freedom to pray, study science, talk to my family, talk to our doctor, and take whatever steps, one day at a time, that I felt were right for my child.

The truth is, any mother or father in the Arkansas Legislature would also want and need that freedom if they were being honest. And so would you.

The post Through a Mother’s Eyes appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Teacher Gwen Faulkenberry spoke to the House Education Committee on behalf of rural children, who make up the vast majority of school kids in Arkansas. She hoped to educate lawmakers on what education means to regular folks, but instead they taught her a painful lesson.

I’m nobody, really. I had a brief moment in the sun over a year ago when I was plucked from obscurity and recruited to run for State Representative in District 82. Faithful readers of the Democrat-Gazette might remember from John Brummett’s column. He wrote a story about a little dust-up I had when I made friends with Madison County Republicans. Being an Independent at heart, I didn’t know that was against the rules. I’ve learned quite a bit since then.

You might think getting slaughtered 70-30 in my own hometown by folks who branded me a far left-wing radical who wanted to kill babies and confiscate guns (even though I’m a Southern Baptist school teacher and mother of four with a concealed carry license) would have taught me all I needed to know about politics. But apparently there are endless epiphanies that await an outsider who chooses to engage with the Arkansas legislature.

“Like all of the rural voters who elected these people and trust them, it’s not what I say or what our community needs that matters. They work for someone else.“

A Teacher Driven to Speak for Rural Children

Last Tuesday I got up at 5 AM and drove to Little Rock for a meeting of the House Education Committee. I sat in a room with others waiting to speak. We members of the public were informed our time was limited to 2 minutes each, which I found a little odd. Especially since by my turn I’d been listening for 2½ hours as elected officials spoke amongst themselves. But I was still hopeful. After all, went my logic, these surely were good people doing their best to help Arkansans. With all of the things that demand their attention this 29-page bill could have slipped through the cracks. They couldn’t possibly know the kind of damage a private school voucher bill would wreak on public schools, how big corporations are promoting these things all over the country so they can make money from education, and how every state that implements vouchers excludes and alienates children. Especially rural children. They could not know that, otherwise they’d never consider HB 1371. 

I’m a teacher. It’s my job to know how to research a complicated topic and explain it so people can understand. That’s why I was there—to help the committee understand the real consequences for real people. The real people of rural Arkansas, who make up the vast majority of folks they were elected to serve.

To Fund or Not to Fund: These are the Questions

I’d been told by a legislator that others were allowed to pass out printed material. So I planned to begin with a quiz compiled with my brother, a school superintendent. The “quiz” was really just a condensed list of things to consider before voting on any bill that diverts public tax money away from public schools and sends it to charters and private schools. It included 20 questions like this: Does the school have to accept any student who shows up at the door at any time? Are they audited by the state? Do their teachers have to be certified? Are they governed by a locally elected board? Do they provide transportation? Do they serve free and reduced meals to needy students? Are they required to take the ASPIRE and show progress? Are their schools assigned letter grades? All of these things—and about a thousand more—are how public schools in Arkansas are held accountable for the tax dollars they receive. The answer to all of those, by the way, for private schools and charters, is “no.”

When it was my turn to speak, the chair told me I was not allowed to pass out anything, and to state my name and who I was with. I was taken aback. But I did as I was told.

A Teacher Vouching for Rural Schools

I could feel splotches of embarrassment coupled with red hot fury popping out all over my neck. Only a couple committee members made eye contact with me. Charlene Fite, the representative from a district right next to mine, turned away from me to look at her phone.  I felt like I was in a parody of a meeting, a sketch to demonstrate how to not listen, how to make a speaker feel ignored. Yet I persisted. I said my name was Gwen Faulkenberry and I was a teacher, the daughter and sister of public educators, wife of a coach, and mother of four public school children, as well as a product of public school myself. I had a story to tell them—a tale of two students—but had to ditch it because of time. Instead I said I believe everyone here wants to do what’s right for children, and I am sympathetic to problems with urban school districts. “But I am here to speak for rural children, who make up the majority of children in public schools all over this state.” 

I tried to reason with them about how we are not even funding one school system adequately, so why this attempt to fund two? I asked them to pour all they could into fixing our public schools. Maybe even reduce regulations on them. That’s when I was cut off. 

“Time’s up.” 

All of my research, preparation, good faith effort to get there and go through the proper channels to lend my voice as a citizen, professional, mother, and rural constituent—for two minutes. No questions. I was directed out the door and the next person was called.

I hurried as fast as I could to my car in a metered spot near the capitol. There was a $15 parking ticket on my windshield. I got into my car, put my head onto the steering wheel, and cried. Eventually I went home.

A Lousy Lesson Learned

The thing I learned when it was my turn to speak is that—with the exception of a few good men and women—our legislators aren’t listening. The problem was not that they didn’t understand how vouchers hurt public schools. It was that a majority of the committee didn’t care. Their minds were already made up long before it was my turn to speak. I was not seen; I was not heard. Like all of the rural voters who elected these people and trust them, it’s not what I say or what our community needs that matters. They work for someone else.

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Gwen Ford Faulkenberry is a teacher, farmer, writer, and mother of four nearly perfect children. She lives in the mountains near her home town of Ozark, Arkansas. She loves the natural beauty of Arkansas and its people, and believes the best in them always. Her vision is to see Arkansas #1 in education, health care, jobs, and quality of life. Her mission is to help make that happen through Arkansas Strong.

 

The post My Turn to Speak: A Rural Teacher Lends Her Voice to the School Voucher Debate appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Legislation that Protects Arkansans

Hate crimes have affected and stolen the lives of Arkansans for decades, even children in some cases. These new proposed laws are born from a desire to protect people like Brayla Stone, a black, transgender teenager who was killed earlier this summer in Sherwood. Her tragic death followed closely on the heels of George Floyd’s death and the national outcry against identity-based violence. Arkansans have many views on the best way to live life, but no one thinks the murder of someone’s child is acceptable. The drafting of this bill, and the support from Republican and Democrat leadership alike, shows that Arkansas is ready to set the record straight on how we feel life and liberty should be honored and protected. 

Arkansas is one of the only states in the US that lacks hate crime laws, keeping company with Wyoming and South Carolina. According to the Arkansas Democrat Gazette, Attorney General Leslie Rutledge called the legislation “much needed and long overdue.” State Senator Jim Hendren,who drafted the bill, said, “Failure to pass hate-crimes legislation and being one of the only three…without these basic protections that the majority of Arkansans support sends a horrible message about who Arkansas is.” 

Arkansans across the board denounce hate crime, and community members from business owners to Christian pastors are looking to state lawmakers to do what’s right. Our lawmakers are reflecting that determined spirit in this case. Senator Joyce Elliot, who has been working on hate crime legislation for almost 20 years, said in June of the proposed bill, “I won’t let this bipartisan moment pass.”

The post Arkansas Lawmakers Come Together on Bipartisan Hate Crime Bill appeared first on Arkansas Strong.