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Teachers that prefer to work in Title I schools

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Teachers that prefer to work in Title I schools

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An interesting Reddit thread where teachers who love working in Title I schools explain why they prefer them.

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I've been teaching in a rough school in the city for two years, and though there are many days I love my job, I can't help but ask "Am I making things unnecessarily hard for myself by working here instead of the suburbs?"

Do any of you actually prefer inner city Title I schools? If so, why? What are some benefits we have that suburban teachers don't?

EDIT: I see a lot of you guys prefer this environment because the lack of helicopter parents and the sense of accomplishment. So follow up question... Do any of you actually think teaching in a Title I school is EASIER?

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r/Teachers - Teachers who prefer urban Title I schools compared to nicer suburban schools - why?

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I've been teaching in a rough school in the city for two years, and though there are many days I love my job, I can't help but ask "Am I making things unnecessarily hard for myself by working here instead of the suburbs?" Do any of you actually prefer inner city Title I schools?

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An article explaining turnover in Title I schools & how/why less experienced teachers are found there.

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A blog written by a teacher who worked in a Title I school for 5 years and shares their experiences!

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I've lived in Houston for almost my whole life. I lived elsewhere for college, and there have been times I've wanted to live elsewhere again (usually during the dog days of summer when I have to drive places with Kleenex wadded under my armpits for several minutes before my A.C. kicks in), but I love this city fiercely, protectively.

I first heard rumors about the tropical storm forming over the Gulf last Wednesday evening. If you would like to know why the decision to mandate a city-wide evacuation is incredibly nuanced and could have been far more catastrophic in the case of Harvey, see my footnote for reading material.

By Thursday morning, my first period students were abuzz with news that the tropical storm was projected to hit Corpus Christi, over two hours away. By lunchtime that same day when I checked my phone, I had dozens of missed texts from friends and family about the storm, now a category one hurricane. My afternoon classes were somber.

"It's going to be okay, right?" one of my students asked, her eyes wide. "Like, it's not going to just, you know..." For summer reading, she and many of my students had read Isaac's Storm about the 1900 hurricane in Galveston, which left between 6,000- 10,000 dead.

"Oh, for sure," I told her. "Don't worry. We've got way better technology now, and ways to mass-communicate. Even if it hits us directly, we'll be okay."

I have thought about that conversation a hundred times since then.

By Thursday evening, my district cancelled school on Friday. I don't have cable, but the weather radar on my phone app showed a projected path for the hurricane to hit mid-coast Friday night, then travel upwards on to Houston. I packed a small bag and drove to my parents' house-also in Houston, but in a neighborhood higher than mine-and there we waited for Friday to come.

Imagine with me for a moment that your Facebook feed-usually full of grinning babies, squinting selfies, grills lined with slabs of brisket and ribs, dogs almost as cute as yours-is now a parade of the unimaginable.

Imagine that it started with a photo taken from the second story of a friend's house of dark flood waters sloshing over the wooden interior stairs. Then it was a picture from a neighborhood minutes from yours of a car completely underwater-still on, mercifully unoccupied-its tail lights glowing several feet below water like the huge, red eyes of a giant, mythical sea monster.

Then it was everyone.

Imagine post after post of rising waters, cries for help, frantic questions and pleas thrown into the Facebook void:

"Does anyone have access to blood thinner medication??"

"My cousin is in labor and is trapped in her house-we've called dozens of numbers but they're all busy and the roads are flooded, someone help us!!"

"I just talked to the fire department-- if you're escaping rising water, either go onto your rooftop or your attic but take an axe with you so you don't drown."

Imagine learning that a childhood friend had to be rescued from their roof in the middle of the night.

And then a former coworker had to be rescued in the same way.

And then your friend's parents.

And then a neighbor.

Imagine that it is no longer shocking to find out that people in your community are being rescued from their homes this way.

Imagine that for four days in a row, the text thread you wake up to is one in which you and your friends and family are checking on each other to see whose homes have water inside them, who needs help. And when someone doesn't respond on the text thread, it is no longer absurd to assume something terrible has happened, because something terrible is happening.

Imagine seeing videos posted by nationally syndicated news organizations featuring people from your hometown. These are people that you passed in the halls of your high school, being interviewed by camera crews as they drive their boats down the middle of streets where you grew up searching for those who need rescue, the wake of their boat lapping up onto rooftops.

Imagine people you love spending the night in lines of cots in middle school gyms and cafeterias, churches, the inside of a furniture store. Imagine not being able to get them.

Imagine that during all of this, it's still raining, and that it will be raining for another three days.

Imagine hearing that one in three homes in your city has water in them.

Imagine that, just when you think the worst is over, the dams in your city begin to release, and you see on the news a helicopter image of the neighborhoods surrounding your school underwater. In some places the only thing visible are the treetops.

Imagine for four days watching the news with the persistent, dark feeling that you're about to see faces of students you teach or have taught.

Imagine the impact all of this will have on your students-current and former, and their families, their schools.

Imagine, after five days, driving back into the city you love, seeing the devastation firsthand. From the elevated highway, you see what you've been seeing on the news, but there's something about seeing it through a window instead of a TV screen that breaks your heart wide open. You drive past the Target in your neighborhood, full of military vehicles, fire engines, huge search and rescue trucks from across the country-Oklahoma, Lousiana, Nebraska-and this is where you crumble. Your world is underwater and you were gone for most of it. You pull over into a parking lot of a business you used to frequent where there is debris in a neat line on the windows four feet high. You put your head in your hands and cry.

I am unbelievably lucky. It is not lost on me that everything I just described is nothing compared to the trauma of those who lived it. My house and car were left undamaged by Harvey, but it has nothing to do with me or my decision-making (I don't have flood insurance, for instance), or being "blessed" and has everything to do with chance. The god I believe in is a god that is unflinchingly good and is present in the love that we show each other, not one that handpicks certain special people to spare.

Many of my friends, neighbors, and community were not so lucky. As I write this, much of the damage is still unknown. Many people can't know status of their homes because roads leading to their neighborhoods are still blocked by five, ten feet of water. The dams protecting the city are still releasing water. I don't yet know when our schools will reopen.

Houston has been fantastic in setting up shelters for immediate relief of its citizens. Yesterday, I looked up a list of needs for the shelter nearest me, and by the time I checked the list again before heading to the store, it was at capacity for all donations. What I'm more worried about is the long haul, and the needs of people who will be piecing together their lives after total losses, particularly those communities who were struggling even before the storm hit, from Rockport all the way to Beaumont and beyond.

I write this for several reasons. I write it because, even as my city is still underwater, I hear about the conversations the rest of the country is having, judging my city and its people or politicizing the events of the last five days, and I think about how hard it will be when these people one day know a horrible sadness. People who have known horrible sadness know that you can never understand a situation-especially the ones that tempt you with the thought that you would have done it better or differently-until you are in it yourself.

I write this also because I consider so many of my readers family. If you are in Texas and are hurting, know that I stand with you, and if you are elsewhere, know that we desperately need you on our side right now. Many of our students are hurting, and will come to us when schools reopen with a range of emotions we can only begin to predict. Many students will not know how to articulate these emotions. For teachers in this area, who, even in a normal year go above and beyond to make their class a safe and welcoming space, we are stepping into uncharted territory.

And finally, I write because, as someone who sustained no property damage from the hurricane, I am now in a position to help. As I've said, much of the damage is yet to be assessed, but for now I think the best thing I can do as someone with a platform is to give a space and a bullhorn to those who need it.

Teachers, readers, whoever: if you or someone you know has funds set up for your students, your homes, your classrooms that were flooded or damaged by Harvey, please comment either on this actual post or on Facebook and I will create and continue to update a list below. There are so many people willing to help who just need to be pointed in the right direction.

Links on how to help/donate:

Adopt a Texas Classroom: info and link to a Google Doc to be directly matched with a teacher needing donations post-Harvey
Bear Creek Elementary Amazon Wish List: needs for students affected by Harvey at Bear Creek Elementary in Katy ISD
Cardiff Junior High Amazon Wish List: needs for students affected by Harvey at Cardiff Junior High in Katy ISD (Ship to: Cardiff Junior High, 3900 Dayflower Dr., Katy TX 77449)
Dickinson Education Foundation Needs: Dickinson ISD
The Galloway School: School in Friendswood, TX that flooded and has no insurance
Flood of Friendship: Gift cards for teachers in flooded areas
Houston ISD Supplies/Donation Fund: Houston ISD
How to Donate to Friendswood, TX: Facebook group with links to GoFundMe accounts, Amazon Wish Lists, local organizations, and and individuals coordinating with displaced families
Hurricane Harvey Teachers In Need: Facebook group for Houston teachers to post needs OR teachers who want to help to be matched with a teacher in need
LSA Hurricane Relief fund: fund to help restore school featured in the image at the top of this post
Mayde Creek High School Amazon Wish List: Katy ISD
Mayde Creek Junior High Amazon Wish List: Katy ISD
Pearland ISD: Beginning Tuesday, Sept. 5, you can drop off or mail gift card donations at the Virgil Gant Education Support Center (1928 N. Main, Pearland, TX, 77581). For more information, please contact Communications Coordinator Lexi Marshall.
South Houston Intermediate Amazon Wish List: Pasadena ISD
Spring Branch Pledgecents: supporting Spring Branch ISD families affected by Harvey
Teacher Harvey Relief: an individual I know personally who is coordinating with HISD and Cy-Fair teachers who are displaced or have damaged homes
Texans Helping Teachers: Facebook page where teachers can post needs to be met/matched by others

Links for teachers (or anyone) who might need help repairing/restocking homes or classrooms:

Adopt a Texas Classroom: info and link to fill out a form to receive help from those wanting to be matched with a teacher
Hurricane Harvey Teachers In Need: teachers can post needs to be matched with other classrooms across the country
Mormon Helpings Hands Hurricane Harvey Recovery: Call hotline to submit work order (800) 451-1954 or (844) 965-1386. These folks are amazing, y'all. You don't have to be Mormon! :)
Teacher Harvey Relief: an individual I know personally who is coordinating with HISD and Cy-Fair teachers who are displaced or have damaged homes
Texans Helping Teachers: Teachers can post needs to be filled by others

Footnote on evacuation reading:

Read here and here for starters, but also Google it or talk to any human who evacuated during Rita.

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I've lived in Houston for almost my whole life. I lived elsewhere for college, and there have been times I've wanted to live elsewhere again (usually during the dog days of summer when I have to drive places with Kleenex wadded under my armpits for several minutes before my A.C.

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This is an interesting thread on a Reddit forum, and has a variety of teachers giving explanations for why they do or don't enjoy teaching in Title I schools.

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We are a group of high school teachers that want to provide assistance to you outside of school. Whether you are high school students that are in need of some academic helps, middle school students that are trying to see what high school is like, or just need someone to talk to, we are here for you.

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r/AskHSteacher - What is it like teaching in a Title I school?

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r/AskHSteacher: We are a group of high school teachers that want to provide assistance to you outside of school. Whether you are high school students that are in need of some academic helps, middle school students that are trying to see what high school is like, or just need someone to talk to, we are here for you.

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This article explains some of the reasons why 1 teacher left a Title I school, including lack of support from administration & extra paperwork.

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The following post was written by a fifth-year English teacher in a Title 1 middle school who blogs anonymously at the loveteachblog. It captures both the joys and overwhelming burdens of working in an under-resourced school with a large population of high-risk students and in a system that makes it difficult for teachers and students to succeed. Though these are the experiences of one teacher, they reflect those of others (though certainly not all) across the country.

The author insists on anonymity out of concern of retaliation by administrators, and to protect the identities of students. I rarely publish anonymous pieces, but do so when I know who the author is, believe their reasons for choosing not to be identified are valid, and think that they are relating a truth about public education that will have resonance beyond a single classroom.
Here's the post by "Teach", the teacher who blogs anonymously:
I'm in my fifth year of teaching English at a Title I middle school. Title I schools are public schools that receive special grants because of their high number of students who have been identified as at-risk. I adore my students and my teaching team. I love teaching. I'm really good at it. I respect my administration and feel valued by them.

But at the end of this year, I'm leaving. I'm not sure if I'll continue teaching elsewhere or start a new career. If I do leave, I'll be one of the 40-50 percent of teachers who leave during their first five years. A drop in the bucket.

To other teachers, I'm sure this isn't surprising. Without knowing me or where I teach, they can probably easily guess why someone who loves her job and is good at it would be leaving.

But it's not teachers who need to know what it's like. It's everyone else. People who have no idea what it's like teaching in a Title I school. Some of these people are even making important decisions about education.

There are so many things I would tell them.

I would tell them about the bright bulletin boards, posters, and student work that are either taken down or covered with white butcher paper for most of the spring semester, because the state mandates that there can be no words of any kind on the walls during one of the 14 standardized tests.

I would tell them about the 35 desks I have in my classroom, and how in two of my classes, all the desks are filled.

I would tell them about the hours I've spent outside of class time writing grants to get novels because my school doesn't have the money for them.

I would tell them that I get to school about two hours before the first bell every day, but I still spend less time at school than most of my colleagues.

I would tell them about how I'm not allowed to fail a student without turning in a form to the front office that specifies all instances of parent contact, describing in detail the exact accommodations and extra instruction that the child was given. I would tell them about how impossible this form is to complete, when leaving a voicemail doesn't count as contact and many parents' numbers change or are disconnected during the school year. I would tell them how unrealistic it is to document every time you help a child when you have a hundred of them, and how this results in so many teachers passing students who should be failing.

I would tell them how systems that have been put in place to not leave children behind are allowing them to fall even further behind.

I would tell them that even though I love my job and work harder at it than I've ever worked for anything, the loudest voice in my head is the one that is constantly saying you're not doing enough. I hear it all the time.

I would tell them about the student in one of my classes who in August of last year, flat-out refused to do any work because of how much he hated reading. I would tell them that today, when he found out we weren't going to be doing book groups, I heard him mutter, "Oh, man. I wanted to keep reading," and I said, "WHAT DID YOU SAY?" really loud and shook his shoulders jokingly. We laughed together and I had to change the subject quickly because I choked up thinking of how much work it has taken both of us to get to this place, and of how badly I hope that his high school teachers don't give up on him.

I would tell them that if I could compartmentalize things so that teaching was simply instructing a reasonable number of students and grading and planning lessons and visiting students' families, I would be a teacher forever. No question.

I would tell them that I teach the honors section of my grade level, but only about 70 percent of my honors students had even passed the standardized test the year before they came to me. My colleagues who teach the non-honors classes inherit students with a passing rate of 30-40 percent.

I would tell them that almost all my students passed after being in my class, and that I've worked really, really hard to find a way of getting my kids to excel without "teaching to the test," but that instead of being proud of this, I think of the handful who didn't pass, and how I could have done more for them.

I would tell them about my pencil cup that I keep filled from donations and out of my own pocket. I don't ask for collateral or even for students to return them because it would take up too much instructional time. I once had a student refuse to do work because he didn't have a pencil, and I said, Don't you know that you'll have to do the work so that you can go on to the next grade with your friends? And he said, without skipping a beat, I've failed almost all my classes since third grade and I always promote. I don't even go to summer school. I stood there, dumbfounded, knowing he was right, but surprised he'd figured out the system so easily. The next day, I had the pencil cup.

I would tell them about how policies that have been designed to not leave children behind are also teaching them that hard work doesn't matter.

I would tell them about a severely dyslexic student my second year of teaching who made my teaching life miserable early on with his constant defiance and disrespect. I would tell them about the day he came in early before school and asked if I could type out a poem that he'd written and memorized in his head, and as he recited it I started crying, then he started crying too, and I would tell them how everything was different between us after that.

I would tell them about how I try to divide my time between everybody when my students are working in groups, but I almost always end up spending more time with my struggling students. I know that my students who are behind need me, but that doesn't mean that my advanced students don't need me just as much. I always feel torn. In an effort to not leave five students behind, I'm leaving behind 30 others.

I would tell them about my students' parents, and about the dreams they have for their children. I would tell them about the single mom whose husband died last year and left behind two children with learning disabilities, and how she's now working two jobs to make ends meet. I would tell them about how the dad of one of my students who took me aside at Parent Night and said to me, with tears in his eyes, "I didn't get past the fifth grade. But [my daughter], she's going places. I know it."

I would tell them that students who break rules at our school often don't receive consequences. Last year our school had a higher number of office referrals and in-school suspensions, so this year teachers have been "strongly encouraged" to deal with discipline problems themselves. That means that unless the offense is severe or dangerous, students remain in class, whether or not their behavior is blatantly defiant.

I would tell them what a difficult situation this creates for the brand-new teachers, who are learning for the first time how to manage a classroom in an environment with so little disciplinary support. I would tell them how many teachers-good teachers-I know who have walked away during or after their first year because of this.

I would tell them about how a few weeks ago, I told another teacher's student I would be escorting her to the office for her behavior, and she replied, "Why the f*** would that matter?" This student was back in that teacher's class five minutes later with candy she received in the office.

I would tell them how hard it is to not feel hopeless when you realize that systems are teaching students that not only does it not matter if you do work at school, but it also doesn't matter how you behave.

I would tell them about my quietest student, and how, on the day of our poetry slam, she stood up in front of the class and, in a voice that was loud and confident, recited every word of Amy Gerstler's "Touring the Doll Hospital" by memory, and how all of us gave her a standing ovation and ran to hug her afterwards, and how it made me think of the quote from a character in Wonder by R.J. Palacio, "Everyone deserves a standing ovation because we all overcometh the world." It was one of those weird moments where literature and life and beauty crash into you together at a thousand miles an hour and it knocks the wind out of you, but you look around and you're alive, more than ever.

I would tell them how my personality has changed under the stress of the past five years. I used to be fun. I used to be a bright and warm person who would go out of her way to help people or make them laugh. Now, if I can manage to act like myself during the school day, the second the bell rings I'm withdrawn, snappish, and moody.

I would tell them how this stress has started to overrun the part of teaching I love so fiercely.

I would tell them that it feels like I have three choices: 1) stay where I am, continue working hard and destroy myself, 2) stay and protect myself by putting in less effort, or 3) leave and abandon a profession and kids I care about.

I would tell them how much I hate all of those choices.

I would tell them that I'm not alone; that my story is all too common, and that I know far too many teachers who have it worse than I do.

I would tell them about when I interviewed recently at a private school on the other side of town, and how it went really well and they said they wanted to scoop me up right then and there, and how I got back in my car and put my head on the steering wheel and wept.

Why do I want them to know these things?

Certainly not for the glory. If I've learned anything in my time as a teacher, it's that the only heroes in this story are kids who go to school and do their best despite the systems that are keeping them down.

I'm also not writing this for proof or validation that I work hard. I don't have anything to prove about my work ethic or value as a teacher, to myself or anyone else, and this is not meant to initiate a game of "who has it worse."

I'm also not writing this to incriminate my school administrators or my district. If I thought the problem was confined to my school, I would not be writing. The problem is nationwide.

No. I'm writing this because I care about what happens to my students, and other children like them in Title I schools across this country whose needs are not being met, and who are learning harmful lessons from the larger systems in place that are supposed to help them. I am writing this to give others a picture of the type of learning and teaching environments that are being created by these systems. I'm writing because it's 2015, and far too many children in this country are still receiving a lower quality education because of the neighborhood into which they were born.

I don't know what to do about it. I have some ideas, but I don't have nearly enough knowledge of policy to even know where to begin. All I know is what I and others see at the front lines every day, and I just know that it's not working-for students or their teachers.

This is what I would tell them. I may have burned out in the process, but I will never stop fighting for these kids, their families, or the teachers who care about them.

Love,

Teach

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Teacher: What I wish everyone knew about working in some high-needs schools

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The following post was written by a fifth-year English teacher in a Title 1 middle school who blogs anonymously at the loveteachblog. It captures both the joys and overwhelming burdens of working in an under-resourced school with a large population of high-risk students and in a system that makes it difficult for teachers and students to succeed.