Life In the Time of Corona (Fifth in an unlimited series)

Chuck’s Note: My longtime friend Steve Slavsky wrote these comments after reading an article in The Intelligencer of New York Magazine entitled “Even Naked, America Cannot See Itself: In a time of plague, willful blindness is a coping mechanism” by Zak Cheney-Rice. Steve’s thoughts are reprinted here with his permission.

WHERE IS OUR DEMOCRACY HEADED?

By

Steve Slavsky

     I have been concerned for several years over the fast growing economic gap in the United States and what it may portend for the future.  Having studied revolutions that have occurred in many countries over the past 300 years, especially those since 1900, I believe we are reaching a very dangerous time in history for our democracy.  

     Things can go in many different directions, and no one knows the future, but I personally believe that we can't survive with our current state of affairs.  It is not just the leadership, which is skewed toward maintaining or increasing inequality. It is the failure of us, as Americans, to alleviate the problem.  

Photo by CDC on Unsplash

     Do I know what to do about it?  Not really.  What I do know is that everything about our freedoms and our rights can be lost if we, as a country, move too far to the right or the left.  What's kept us going all these years is the ability to listen to each other and to compromise. That ability seems to have almost disappeared.  

     As I get older, I realize more and more, that the opportunities I had as a lower 

middle-class kid just aren't there for the majority of American youth anymore.  Education has always been the way to move up the ladder of life and it's becoming less and less available for those who need it most.  
     I'm reminded a lot of the Roman Empire, and how its collapse led to a very dark time for the world.  Not that it was really that great before that time--there was essentially a dictator and a plutocracy.  Unfortunately, I see many parallels all over the world today.  The U.S. doesn't have a dictator, but it certainly has a plutocracy whose members are only interested in enriching themselves with no interest in the common good.

Note: Steve Slavsky grew up in the Bronx where he attended public schools before graduating from the City College of New York. He served six years active duty in the Army and then worked for the Department of Defense for 27 years in the acquisition field.  After retirement, he spent nine years consulting as a federal acquisitions expert.  

Copyright: Steve Slavsky, all rights reserved.

MAKING 9/11 A LASTING LESSON

by

Chuck Cascio

     That morning is etched forever in our memories. 

     The first report: A plane has crashed into a building at the World Trade Center. The immediate reaction: This sad, tragic accident will cost countless lives. 

     And then the second plane hits. Another realization: This is not an accident. This is an attack. This is terrorism inflicted upon innocent people in the airplanes and inside two beautiful buildings that highlight the New York Skyline. 

     And then the Pentagon and Shanksville, Pennsylvania. 

     How did you react when you heard? What did you say? What were you doing? 

     My sister and her husband, living in TriBeca just blocks away from the smoldering buildings, evacuated their residence and ran uptown amid the swarm of people, the screams, the ashes, the horrified confusion. 

     I was in the midst of opening a meeting of my new team in my Princeton, NJ, office, when the meeting was interrupted by an associate who called me aside and tearfully told me of the plane crashes, of the World Trade Center buildings aflame, of people jumping out of windows in desperate attempts to be "saved."     

     I stopped the meeting. My new team and I went to a room where we watched and gasped in disbelief at the horrors unfolding on television. 

     The unthinkable. The sense of helplessness. The fear I felt about being unable to reach my sister and her husband whose phones were not working, only to find out later that they were safe. I telephoned my wife and other family members just miles from the flaming Pentagon, and heard from others who were concerned about my own safety. 

     Six weeks after the attacks, my wife and I visited the smoldering space in New York where the Towers once stood. Vast emptiness. Soot still drifting. Ash still smothering the streets and shops, small and large alike. 

      Some things we just do not forget. We hope we learn from those things. 

     What did we learn from September 11, 2001? The instinctive search for the safety of family. The horrifying awareness of the innocent death of others. The sense that we must take steps to ensure our own safety, the safety of those we love, and the safety of strangers. We learned that heroism is real. And we know that deep pain still lingers for many people directly affected by that day. 

     So we should consider the lessons of 9/11 as more than memories. We should act upon those lessons whenever we see those memories emerging again in reality, albeit in different forms both large and small. By doing so, our memories emerge as active lessons...lessons that will help bring a positive meaning to that tragic day.

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(Feel free to email me with your thoughts: chuckwrites@yahoo.com. If you would like to submit a blog piece of your for possible publication on “Blog On!” please query me at the same email address. No work that you submit will be posted without your prior approval, and you will retain all copyright ownership. Submission of query and/or submission of a piece for consideration is NOT a guarantee of publication.)

Copyright: Chuck Cascio; all rights reserved.

By

Chuck Cascio

My father, Modesto “Morris” Cascio, was born on August 19, 1919 and passed away far too young.

This is my modest tribute to him in the month of his hundredth birthday.

     His house blossomed as he walked Brooklyn’s streets helping his father bring home meat, bread, and occasionally a small piece of cake from the Depression-induced lines filled with hungry people in a land that once held promise for them all. 

     Remarkably, the promise remained inside him in the form of the house taking shape slowly within his agile mind, a mind capable of seeing hope during the days and nights on those dark streets miles and years away from the home in the rolling hills of Virginia that gradually grew as real to him as the stench of beer billowing from the brewery near the tenement where he lived with his parents, a sister, and two brothers. 

     His house evolved out of the spirit of his mind and took shape through his own will and desire. But first, he fought in the Second World War and then, four years after it ended, he took his small, beautiful wife and me and moved us out of Brooklyn, leaving behind the tenements, the stale brewery odors, his siblings, and his parents as one life slipped forward and the other slipped into the past but both made up the man who left Brooklyn. 

     The move saddened his immigrant father whose greatest fear was to lose any of his four children. All three of his sons had returned safely to Brooklyn after the War, but their wartime departure and his fears for their safety had turned his hair gray and furrowed his brow. Now this son—the second eldest child, the son who loved jazz and opera and who could make his mother laugh by turning her through a new dance step and who read someone named Shakespeare and who showed kindness to his siblings through a tease, a taunt, or an embrace—this son said he would be leaving because he felt a new life and a house growing inside of him. 

     Before he left, he assured his father, “Papa, you will hear from me often and we will visit, and you and Mama will visit us too. You’ll see; it will be good—good for you and good for me and for my family.” 

     The house he built in that strange land called Virginia became him—solid brick, 

sturdy with quiet nuances of beauty, and a yard filled with trees and rolling emerald fields of grass. With dignity and simple elegance it faced the street—a street that began as dirt, eventually graduated to gravel and, then, finally to asphalt as the world around both him and his house began to change…a world that had graduated in stages inside him as he grew from a dreamer, to a man making dreams come true, and eventually to his fulfillment of a new life. 

My father’s house—our house—just outside of Vienna, VA.

     Every morning I watched as just prior to sitting at the kitchen table he would silently glance outside at the backyard, a view unimaginably different from the narrow streets and alleyways of his youth. Sometimes he nodded quickly and seemed to smile at the contrast. At other times, with his ever-present newspaper folded tightly under his arm, he would open the back door and stand there for several minutes, carefully surveying what was now his—and ours from him—before quietly sitting down. 

     How many days did I watch him sit at the breakfast table already in his suit and tie, reading his morning newspaper, ready for office work…another thing he had once only imagined but now lived?  He would sip coffee and occasionally give me and my younger brother and sister subtle reminders about how to behave, encouraging us to work our hardest, helping us understand that we must have a dream and we must be willing to pursue it. 

    And there were those times he would call us all together, excited about some small idea that had emerged: 

      “How about if we nail a backboard to that tree way in the backyard so you can practice shooting baskets anytime you want?” 

      “Let’s have a cement patio put in right at the bottom of the back steps connecting to the carport; then we can all eat outside!”

     “Gotta get together this weekend to start raking up the leaves. Fall is here!” 

     And in those brief, informal family meetings, he made his house and his dreams a part of his reality, a part of us, a part of all that we would be.

     His father visited the house only once. I still can see my grandfather, a Sicilian immigrant, sitting on the cement patio by the carport on a plastic and aluminum lawn chair, looking confused, as if he had once again migrated to a foreign country…this place with trees and space and fresh air. Over several days, he gradually sat smiling comfortably as he smoked a short, crooked, black cigar, sipped wine, and looked up occasionally from his Italian magazine to glance at the sky. On the day he left, a tear formed as he held his son, and the son, being the kind of man who could kiss his father, did just that. 

     His father returned to the solid streets of Brooklyn, his  place, the place he  had imagined as a boy who left Sicily with a dream, but he had briefly experienced the air and space of his son’s house and had seen the man his son had become. Neither man had regrets and both men knew they would always share certain realities—the family, the bread lines, the beer stench, the War, the fear of detaching from where you are and losing the essentials of who you are…but the absolute importance of taking that step. 

       After his father left, my father again quietly surveyed what was his and what he had become…the foundation of his being. Through his house he had proved that there is no detachment where there is real love; there is only an emergence of things that at first exist in the spaces of the mind, then take root in the soul, and eventually blossom from the heart.

     I have wanted so much of what he had, but nothing has consumed me more than his house—not the structure or the eclectic décor nor the lasting irrefutable loveliness of its grounds—no, it is not the house itself  that I have wanted. It is his quiet pride, his brilliant vision, his deep courage, his belief that this was it! He had achieved his sense of place and he had fulfilled the hope that had grown from the depths of his heart and his mind. He had absorbed the risks, built a new life, and shared it all with those he loved. 

     My father had taken his dream to reality and, in doing so, he had planted dreams inside us all.

THE END

Copyright: Chuck Cascio, all rights reserved.

      This is my father, Morris (Modesto) Cascio. He was born on August 19, 1919. He passed away far too young in 1994. I think about him every day, but recent events in our country have brought him more to mind than usual. Why? Well, I keep imagining how he would be reacting, what he would be saying, what his hopes and fears would be for the lovely great grandchildren that he never got to know.

     See, he was an Italian kid off the streets of New York whose name was changed from Modesto to Morris by the school system as a way of assimilating immigrants in those days. Along with his siblings, Dad stood in bread lines during the Great Depression to bring food back to the tenement in which his family lived. Once a week, the family shared a dessert--a tiny cake that my immigrant grandfather would cut into six equally small pieces so each member of the family could enjoy a bit of sweetness.

     World War II was swelling when Dad graduated from Grover Cleveland High School in Brooklyn. There was no money for college, so he did some work as a photographer, and then just before entering the Army, he married my mom, a woman he had know for several years, the younger sister of two guys who were friends of his. The story goes that he charmed her by approaching her when she was sixteen and asking her suavely, "Feel like a soda?" That was a line she never forgot, and in later years she admitted that her instinct was to provide a smart-aleck response, but she was enamored at the time and said, "Sure." The rest, for our family, is history.

     Dad entered the army, was trained in communications in various locations around the country, my mother traveling with him--two kids off the Brooklyn streets finding themselves in places like Kansas, Texas, and California. But then my father was sent overseas to the "Burma, China, India Theater," stationed in a remote outpost in the Himalayan Mountains, channeling secret communications with a small group of other soldiers. He sometimes flew with the Flying Tigers, delivering important documents to various outposts.

     Many years later, when talking with me or my brother or sister or anyone else about his army experiences, he never bragged, he never complained about the emotional pain of being removed from his young wife, he never spoke of the hardships of being as removed from the busy streets of his youth as he could have ever imagined.

     No. Dad, like thousands of others, did what he had to do. He fought for democracy. He fought against hatred. He fought the dictators who were trying to mold the world in their image when, he knew from personal experience, that the world is made of many images, many colors, many beliefs. Dad believed instinctively that all that matters in the end, whether in a Brooklyn tenement or the Himalayan Mountains, is how you carry out your beliefs, how you treat others, to what degree you value fairness, equality, opportunity.

     After the war, my dad, one of my uncles, and two of their Brooklyn pals all took jobs with the government in DC, careers they valued, work they saw as important, roles they took pride in. Dad was no fool--he was not afraid to question those in power, but he also knew that in that post-War era, many of the people in power were inclined--for whatever reason--to listen. Dad, and others who experienced life events similar to those he experienced, had an instinct about what was essential to maintain the joys of life for all--joys such as the opera music that floated through our home every Sunday as Mom prepared an Italian dinner, or the dancing that he would do with Mom complete with moves that made others on the dance floor stop and applaud, or the powerful affection he was not afraid to display openly for his family, friends, and anyone he felt was helping to move the world in a more understanding and equitable direction. He did not judge by political affiliation, race, creed, or any societal designation. He valued actions.

     Once, when a friend of his criticized the fact that an African American family had moved into an all-white neighborhood of Vienna, VA, my father calmly looked at his friend and said, "That man is moving into a bigger house than you or I have and in a better neighborhood. Instead of asking if his neighbors will associate with him, you should be wondering if he would want to associate with us."

     So these days, as I read the childish tweets of a vindictive, small-minded president whose actions fuel the hatred that lingers in our population, a president who denigrates the very people who work diligently day and night in the interest of all people in this country (as my father, uncle, and their Brooklyn pals did), a president who does not have the courage to acknowledge that he was born with a sliver spoon in his mouth but not everyone was, I think increasingly of my father and the men and women of his generation, the ones who helped save the world from the very dictatorial actions and societal hatred that we are now seeing arise in our own country.

     Dad was not one to make big pronouncements, so he would probably not have said, "This is no time for silence," but he was a man of action and belief and he would have helped figure out a way to promote equity, empathy, sympathy, and understanding, even if it was just on an individual, personal level. Even if it just meant saying, as he sat with friends listening to opera or jazz, or as he rested from a dance with Mom, or as he toiled into the wee hours of the morning in his CIA office, something along the lines of what he said to his friend that day about the African American family. Dad would have helped spread the word of fairness through modest, meaningful actions, actions learned from a life whose roots he never forgot, always valued, and used as a way to direct his own life.  

     Sitting in his backyard just a year or two before he was diagnosed with lung cancer, Dad was savoring the last bite of a steak he had expertly cooked on his grill. My mom, my wife, and I chuckled as he made a show of slowly savoring it, swallowing it, and sipping the last bit of his wine. When finished, he pushed gently away from the table, looked at his empty plate, and said, "That steak was so good, I hated to see it end." 

     I thought then, as I think now, "Yes, Dad, exactly...it was too good to end."

 Copyright Chuck Cascio. All rights reserved.

Note from Chuck Cascio: Given the difficult issues facing educators today in the USA, I am presenting a series in which I contact established educators and request their insights, in their own words, on a number of vitally important education issues. Readers who would like to comment on the views expressed may email me at chuckwrites@yahoo.com. My Twitter handle is @ChuckCascio. Not all comments will be responded to by me and/or the individuals interviewed, but all will be read and, if appropriate, forwarded to others engaged in meaningful education reform. I am pleased to present as the third interview in this series of the views of Dr. James Upperman, whose profile follows:

Dr. James “Jim” Upperman was a teacher, principal, superintendent of schools and university professor during his 33 years in public education in Virginia. He completed his undergraduate degree at Bridgewater, VA, College, where he was a Dean’s List student and All American basketball player. Jim earned his M.Ed. from the University of Virginia in 1973, and his Ed.D. at Virginia Tech in 1995. As an Associate Professor at George Mason University from 2001-2017, Jim taught licensure classes in leadership studies in the masters and doctoral programs. In 1976, he was honored by the Virginia Jaycees as the “Outstanding Young Man of Virginia” and in 1999 was selected as the Northern Virginia Region Superintendent of the Year.

 >>>Recalling your own life as a student, going back as far as you would like, what do you remember as the most positive and most negative educational influences for you personally?

 I’ll always remember the long and scary early AM jaunt from the high school bus drop off to the locker room during my freshman year, when the list was posted with names of those who had made the basketball team. Observing the disappointment on the faces of others was difficult as I silently celebrated my own authentic surprise: A teacher/coach had selected ME to be a part of the team! I played very few minutes that first year but it didn’t matter. From that point forward, goal-setting became the norm for me and remains a major part of who I am today.

>>>Can you identify an educator (or educators) who provided you with uniquely positive insights into subject matter as well as teaching style? If so, please explain what made them unique.

I had so many exceptional teachers…but three high school educators had an indelible impact on my life. Ms. Cacciapaglia, Spanish teacher, taught me that language learning was both challenging and exciting, and might someday open doors that could change my life. Her skills in teaching a new language were in evidence as she moved through the classroom, maintaining eye contact as she repeated the sounds and rhythms that she expected us to master. I’ll always remember Tom Christie, business teacher and head baseball coach, who demanded excellence, persistence and attention to detail from all of those with whom he worked. It’s quite revealing that the personal letter he wrote to my parents after my senior year is still today one of my prized possessions.  And Clint Hannah, business teacher and head basketball coach, became personally invested in my development as an athlete and an individual, nurturing my growth during four years under his leadership and influence. 

>>>What do you see as the major challenges in education today?

One of the greatest challenges moving forward will be the recruitment, development and retention of school leaders and classroom teachers.  Wish it weren’t so, but the culture wars being  fought in our communities are here to stay. School board members and superintendents are now publicly threatened in unprecedented frequency, and their hires are squarely in the cross hairs of the chaos dividing our country. In a recent National Association of Secondary School Principals study, four in ten school principals stated that they would leave their current posts within three years. Hiring personnel is difficult enough, but the focus moving forward must be on development and retention. Resources to support great teaching should be differentiated and focused. And successful teachers should be publicly embraced and celebrated. Those master teachers and leaders who are the backbone of public schooling must be emboldened and supported, lest they become an endangered species. 

>>>Are standardized testing and traditional roles to teaching and evaluating in need of transformation and, if so, what should they look like?

It’s astonishing that we devote so little discussion to the evaluation methodologies employed in schools today. The undeniable moments when schools reconnect with taxpaying parents most often occur when content area tests are graded, when statewide testing results are released, and when grade-point averages are calculated. Therefore, schools must devote additional resources to the design of clear, measurable rubrics that reflect the learning targets in each classroom. It is essential that locally designed and developed evaluation methods are connected to statewide learning benchmarks that encourage transparency and comparison. 

If we expect student achievement to improve across the country, national standards that are state-supported must become a reality. Just as engaged students learn from each other in dynamic classrooms, the best teachers and schools grow by understanding and replicating best practices. 

>>>Who should have the final say in what is taught in schools?

Love this question! This has recently re-emerged as a hot button, campaign issue in my state (Virginia) as well as others across the country. It is widely accepted that public schools must be responsive to the public, and should incorporate practices that involve parents in meaningful ways.WHAT is taught in the classroom should be driven by curricula that are jointly developed by learning specialists, administrators, teachers, and, yes, parents who serve on such committees in many districts.  Decisions regarding WHEN and HOW approved curriculum is taught should be the domain of teachers, who observe and understand the strengths and deficiencies of the students in their care.

I proudly remember the kindergarten teacher whose class I visited during the first year of my superintendency. Her learning environment was electric, with so many balls in the air that it was impossible to imagine that kids with such varied experiences and skills could thrive and grow. But learn and thrive they did, a fact I know because I observed this cohort of students throughout my twelve years as CEO. This group of students was doing much more than mastering tests. As they moved through the system, they were becoming student leaders in clubs and other organizations. 

It was clear to me that one exceptional, highly creative teacher had worked her magic to leave a mark on those that she touched. And she did it her way, involving parents and the community as a whole in the growth of her students. Parents became her cheerleaders, encouraging and enabling her as she continued to touch lives. This exceptional teacher is far from the only one. Many more teachers like her are out there stimulating learning every day, and they must be encouraged, recognized, and supported by school leaders and communities.

Copyright: Chuck Cascio and James Upperman; all rights reserved.

Send your thoughts to chuckwrites@yahoo.com

TRANSFORMING EDUCATION TODAY
(Sixth in a Series of Interviews with Education Leaders)

Featuring Lindsay Trout

 Note from Chuck Cascio: Given the difficult issues facing educators today in the USA, I have been running a series in which I contact established educators and request their insights, in their own words, on a number of vitally important education issues. Readers who would like to comment on the views expressed may email me at chuckwrites@yahoo.com. My Twitter handle is @ChuckCascio. Not all comments will be responded to by me and/or the individuals interviewed, but all will be read and, if appropriate, forwarded to others engaged in meaningful education reform. I am pleased to present as the sixth interview in this series of the views of elementary school principal Lindsay Trout, recipient of the 2021 Fairfax County (VA) Public Schools Principal of the Year Award as well as a Best of Reston (VA) honor. Lindsay’s profile appears below:

For the past 10 years, Lindsay Trout has served as the principal of Terraset Elementary School in Reston, VA, the school she attended as a child. Her passion as an educator started as an elementary school special education teacher in Fairfax County (VA) Public Schools. Lindsay coached high school basketball and soccer at South Lakes High School in Reston before becoming a special education and leadership teacher there, which is also her high school alma mater. After earning a Masters in Educational Leadership from George Mason University in Fairfax, VA, Lindsay became an assistant principal at South Lakes. When Lindsay became eligible to seek a principal position, she was selected to fill that opening at Terraset. Lindsay prides herself in a lifelong mission of giving back to the children and families of Reston, because she says the lessons she was “showered with there hugely impacted the servant leader” she strives to be every day. 

Help spread the word with:#Transform Education

>>>Can you identify an educator (or educators) who provided you with uniquely positive insights into subject matter as well as teaching style? If so, please explain what made them unique.

When I think of “those” two teachers whose way of teaching profoundly impacted me as a human being and future educator, I discover a common theme: authenticity. I was lucky enough to have the same teacher, Ms. Anne O’Hara, in third grade and part of fourth at Spring Hill Elementary in McLean, VA. She was a mom first and a teacher a close second. What made me want to be my best self was how she emulated being “real.” She often shared how her high school-aged daughter did in her track meets, and occasionally her son would run by the classroom window during the school day. She laughed at herself; she laughed with us; she cried and showed us how to always have space for emotions while we learned about the State of Virginia, played (competitive) kickball, or stuck up for each other in the cafeteria. Because of these lessons, we wanted to do our best and be our best…and for me, that meant wanting to be a teacher—just like her. 

Similarly, when I was a junior at South Lakes High School in Reston, VA, I had the great fortune of being chosen for the newly formed Leadership Class. The class was unique to South Lakes with no established countywide curriculum; therefore, the curriculum and focus was left to the teacher, Mrs. Faye Cascio. Our first assignment of the year set the tone that this was going to be a space of vulnerability as a way of learning authenticity. Like all exemplary educators, Mrs. Cascio modeled the “work” for this assignment. We were to bring in a song that revealed something about us/our lives/our paths as a way of introducing ourselves to each other…a way of creating a powerful classroom community. Mrs. Cascio was not above this work; rather, she courageously shared a song (a Kathy Mattea song, I still remember it!) that expressed the difficult, yet hopeful, time that was her current reality. We walked into that special classroom as strangers, and through her raw vulnerability we were instantly committed to each other, ourselves, and the work of servant leadership. (And that’s not easy to do with 22 self-absorbed teenagers!)

>>>What inspired your career as a leader in education?

When I was 13 my mom went back to school at George Mason University in Fairfax, VA to get her teaching degree in physical education. As a student in that program, she had the opportunity to volunteer at a huge Special Olympics Track and Field meet. I asked if I could go with her to volunteer. When we arrived and checked in, we were told that we were designated “huggers” and that I was assigned to any and all athletes in Lane 4 on the track. A few races in, an eight-year old named Chuckie came through the finish line in his wheelchair powered by a lever on the right side of his cheek because he was born without arms or legs. Chuckie’s affect was flat—no smile, no glimmer in his eyes and the second I lifted away from the hug I gave him, I decided I was going to stay with him through his events until he smiled. I abandoned Lane 4, checked Chuckie’s schedule of events and together we went from one event to the next. Finally we were at the softball throw station where he took his spot next to a catapult device that he could operate with his head and neck. He hoisted back the catapult, released it and that softball launched, and so did his smile for the first time all day.

After the event, Mom and I got back into her Oldsmobile Omega and I said, “Mom, I want to be a special education teacher.”

>>>Identify a couple of accomplishments that you and/or members of your school and/or organization achieved that you feel have had a lasting impact on education.

When I taught leadership in Mrs. Cascio’s footsteps at South Lakes High School, some of my students with special needs were part of the class. It was an ‘integration’ that most students had not been privy to before. Students with significant intellectual disabilities and students with severe physical impairments were integral members of our classroom community rooted in servant leadership. I created safe spaces and opportunities for students to tell their own stories about what it is like to have severe cerebral palsy or to have learning difficulties. We learned profound lessons like how to be comfortable in really long wait times so that students could attempt (and often fail) intelligible speech only to be relegated to an assistive communication device in order to participate in a classroom discussion. 

Students learned that sometimes it is blatantly obvious what someone has to offer to a situation or a cause and sometimes it takes locking arms, opening ears and being patient to learn what special contribution a person can make. As a result of living (not just learning) servant leadership, students learned to act when there was a need—a lesson I believe many of them took with them into their post-high school lives. They raised thousands of dollars for victims of Hurricane Katrina, as well as for a classmate going through cancer treatment, and also hosted a bone marrow drive (the biggest the area had ever seen) for someone they didn’t even know. These opportunities obviously impacted those in need at the time and put the students on a path of making a difference.

As principal at Terraset Elementary, through the course of the pandemic, we developed a mission called “Terraset Together.” The idea came during the aftermath of the George Floyd murder as the pandemic forced us all to be isolated in our homes. We badly needed connector pieces in a time where we felt unreachable to one another. These connector pieces especially had to reach those who felt disconnected BEFORE Covid and the George Floyd killing. We created forums where voices were not just heard but were invited to share. We didn’t just invite families who did not feel part of the conversation, we truly listened to and embraced what they had to say. We summarized our mission as a need to “do better and be better for all of our children and families” and to feel like we are making progress…in an area where there is lots of work to be done.

>>>What do you see as the major challenges in education today?

Public school systems’ way of educating children is antiquated and horrifically slow to change. Simply put, we still teach too much to one type of child/learner. We, as public school educators, do not have enough options/pathways/entry-points for students to learn their strengths in order to have something strong to build upon. Instead, we ask all students to enter a narrow pathway and hope that they have some success along the way. When they don’t (because of different learning styles and abilities, vastly different interests and needs), in essence they “fail” right to a dead end. The reality is that we, as educators, have failed to find them their path—the one that goes and goes and goes.

>>>Who should have the final say in what is taught in schools? 

In essence, students should have the final say about what is taught in schools. There is grave disproportionality between how times have changed and how public schools have not evolved since the creation of public schools in the early 1800’s. At that time, schools had a singular purpose of preparing people for democratic citizenship; we now need schools to have a space for every single child to discover their path to a productive, kind, contributing citizen. We, as a public school system, need to create more and different entry points that meet children and families where they are. We need to help children create their own paths instead of having all paths converge into one common walkway.

Copyright, Chuck Cascio and Lindsay Trout; all rights reserved.

Send comments tochuckwrites@yahoo.com