The Prize (21 page)

McPherson said Da'Veer never could have attended
SPARK
without busing, but she had trouble getting him to the stop on time, often because of family crises. The family was forced out of its high-rise apartment building when the federal government canceled its contract with the landlord because of the property's severe health and safety hazards. Later, McPherson developed a seizure disorder and was homebound on heavy medication, unable to walk Da'Veer to the bus stop. Adams arranged a car pool, drafting the
SPARK
office manager, Belcher, and the school's operations director. But at one point Da'Veer was absent for a week, and calls and texts to his mother went unanswered. McPherson later explained that she had canceled her cell phone service to save money, because the family had to move yet again—this time, they would share an apartment in a high-crime corridor of the South Ward with McPherson's sister and a lifelong friend, who had two children.

Chronic absenteeism tends to be a leading indicator of a family that doesn't value education. But teachers at
SPARK
were struck that when Da'Veer came to school, he consistently had done his homework.
“Despite everything on her plate, his mother made sure Da'Veer's education was never going to get lost in the shuffle,” said one of his teachers, Garrett Raczek.

But because of his absences, Da'Veer was not on track to be promoted to first grade.
SPARK
stepped up the support—daily, small-group instruction with one of his two kindergarten teachers, and daily tutoring and extra homework from learning interventionist Karen Chen. Because of continuing absences, though, he fell behind even in the intervention class.

Belcher and his teachers summoned McPherson to warn that Da'Veer could be retained. The year was almost half over, and he knew only seven letters. “He could be one of the top kids in kindergarten,” Belcher said. “He's not behind because he can't, but because he's missing instructional time. What can we do to support you?”

The conference produced an action plan: McPherson or her sister would text Belcher every morning just after 6:30 to report whether Da'Veer caught or missed the bus; if he missed it, Belcher would pick him up on her way to school. Far from turning defensive, McPherson was effusive about the school and its effect on Da'Veer.

“My sister says, ‘Whoever heard of a teacher who texts you? A principal who texts you?'” she said. “Da'Veer did something that amazed me the other day,” she went on. “He got on the floor and started doing pushups and counting.” She told them he often played school with his younger siblings, instructing them to count their toys, identify colors, or draw an animal. With the right answer came
SPARK
-style praise. “Thumbs-up, Daquan. Thumbs-up, Kaya,” he would say.

The action plan succeeded, and Da'Veer's attendance improved. For much of the spring, he worked daily with Chen and in small groups with his teachers, reaching
STEP
's end-of-kindergarten literacy benchmark and being promoted to first grade. The next year his brother, Daquan, would come to
SPARK
, and the year after that, his sister, Kayasia.

Back at
BRICK
Avon, even without the resources at
SPARK
, about half of Princess Williams's students thrived in spite of starting out behind the national curve. These were invariably the students whose parents took an active role in their schooling and helped them with homework. In preparation for parent conferences, Williams wrote letters to every family, emphasizing the importance of a partnership with the school. So did principal Charity Haygood. The teachers prepared what they called a “
BRICK
plan,” documenting each student's level of achievement versus where he or she needed to be to reach grade level, detailing how both the school and the family would help. The plan was simple—no more than three tasks for families to perform with the child every night, and three interventions the teacher would carry out.

Turnout for conferences was better in
BRICK
Avon's second year than in recent memory. Avon's longtime crossing guard, her bright yellow jacket glowing against the dusk, watched in wonder as scores of parents converged on the big, red brick schoolhouse. “Look at 'em! Look at 'em!” she exclaimed, with a smile almost as bright as her jacket. “They're coming out. This is the first time I've ever seen them support their children like they're doing today. I'm proud of them.”

Parents or grandparents of sixteen of Williams's twenty-three students attended, a flood by Avon's old standards, but the young teacher was disappointed. As she feared, the children who needed the most support were the ones for whom no one showed up. And Avon had no systems queen whose job it was to recruit adults to guide them.

Williams's dedication combined with support at home made a critical difference for some children. Tariq Anderson was a slight and wiry boy with a head full of braids and boundless energy. In the early weeks, when Williams asked the class to walk quietly and sit on the learning rug, Tariq would get a running start and slide into the rug as if stealing home. “Tariq is making a bad choice,” Williams would say, without a hint of impatience. Each time, she took his hand and escorted him to a red, tomato-shaped table where he was to work alone
and reflect on how “scholars” carry themselves. This consumed considerable lesson time, but Williams said she had no choice, lest others follow his lead. At
SPARK
, the kindergarten class arrived two weeks before the older grades, and extra teachers were on hand in the early weeks to intercept and correct misbehavior, avoiding any break in instruction.

Williams noticed that Tariq knew much more than he let on. He'd ask for help spelling an easy word, then she'd hear him tell friends how to spell much harder ones. She took every opportunity to bolster his confidence, and by the end of the first month, he seemed to want nothing more than to cooperate with her. His mother and father took an interest in his education. “He's always been a smart boy,” said his mother, a home health aide. At his report card conference, she told Williams that Tariq talked constantly about her at home. “I think he's got a crush on her for real!” said Keisha Robinson, the classroom aide. As time went on, Williams became more and more aware of Tariq's potential—the depth of his questions, his curiosity about how everything worked. He often asked her for help writing a sentence, but she pressed him to try it on his own. Once she returned to discover he had written a whole story, with a beginning, middle, and end. “You are brilliant,” she whispered.

But when it came to children who needed intensive, specialized intervention, Williams had none of the extra resources that would have been available at
SPARK
. In the case of a boy who was struggling to learn letter sounds, while most students were writing elementary sentences, Williams made time to tutor him twice a week with other students at his level. At
SPARK
he would have had daily small-group instruction with a teacher, plus classes with an academic interventionist. In a conference with the boy's mother, Williams explained that he was in danger of failing kindergarten. In order to be promoted, she said, children had to write a story of four to five sentences with a beginning, middle, and end, although “creative” spelling was fine. “For kindergarten, don't you think it's a little bit much?” the boy's mother asked.

Williams responded that that was the national benchmark, and Newark children must reach it. The mother did not protest. Rather, she turned to her son and said, “I want you to grow up and be the scholar Miss Williams and I want you to be.” Williams asked the mother to help her complement his learning by having him write two complete sentences every night and practice addition and subtraction with flash cards. She also asked her to come to class periodically to check on him, as encouragement. But the support at home was spotty, and there was no Diane Adams at Avon to shore it up. The boy did not pass and had to repeat kindergarten.

The children in Da'Veer Snell's kindergarten class at
SPARK
started out with literacy assessment scores comparable to those of Williams's class; of twenty-five who took the test, only four met the readiness standard for kindergarten. (In Williams's class, one of twenty-three passed.) But by year's end, twenty-four out of twenty-five at
SPARK
reached the national benchmark for first grade; sixteen of those surpassed it. Only eleven of Williams's students cleared the bar, with another seven missing it by one question. There were as many factors at play in the different results as there were children in each class, but given the excellence of the teaching in both, the resources available to support children and families appeared to play a large role.

Still, the teachers and leaders at Avon were bringing new hope and purpose to the school, and parents as well as children seemed well aware of that at the kindergarten graduation ceremony on June 22, 2012. Nineteen of Williams's twenty-three students were marching; four were being held back. The graduates arrived early in their Sunday best. Girls wore flower-print dresses, white dress socks with ribbons threaded through them, and braids adorned with multicolored barrettes and beads that matched their dresses. Boys wore dress pants and dress shirts. Williams wore a tailored black and white dress and heels.

The students were eager to share what they would remember about their teacher. Jonathan: “I'll remember how nice she is to us and how she always wears a nice dress.” Faith: “Miss Williams is special to us
because she's a great teacher and she always has a smile on her face.” Larry: “She taught things we didn't know. She taught us to read a book and to write.” Jonathan asked to add one more thought: “My favorite memory is I learned how to read.”

The temperature outside was in the nineties, and Room 112 was so hot that Williams turned off the lights. Wiping moisture from her forehead and cheeks, she walked among her excited students, urging everyone to be still. “When it's hot,” she said, “friends get aggravated faster. Please, please, please be nice to friends.” Soon it was time for her scholars to line up and walk out for the last time. “We're going to walk like first graders!” she said with pride and a smile. As if on cue, everyone stood up a bit taller.

BRICK
Avon's three kindergarten classes entered the cafeteria to a recording of “Pomp and Circumstance,” passing a banner that proclaimed, “Your Choices. Your Actions. Your Life.” More than a hundred family members awaited, holding bouquets of Mylar balloons. Many raised smartphones, tablets, and camcorders to capture the moment. The children saluted the flag and sang “America” and “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” also known as the black national anthem, a favorite at
BRICK
Avon. Swaying from side to side, the graduates belted out the chorus, which seemed to speak directly to the mission of their teachers and leaders: “Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us, / Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us.”

Teachers called their students' names one by one, and the small graduates walked across the stage to receive scrolls as each of their pictures appeared on a projection screen. Williams's students got something extra. For weeks, she had thought about the message she wanted to leave with them, one that would endure long past kindergarten. One night it came to her. She would tell them, in public, what she envisioned them becoming in the future. She hoped to plant an aspiration, so that perhaps one day, as adults, they would say to themselves, “I remember Miss Williams saying I'm going to be this, and I desired this, and now I am this.”

First she called Jessica, “our future politician, because she's always questioning and speaking up on behalf of friends.” Then Zyashah, “our future meteorologist, because she loves to be our weather girl and give us the weather report.” Zahmya, “our future author—this girl is into books.” Keona, “our future secretary of state. She loves keeping the peace.” Jonathan, “our future mathematician. He does miracles with numbers.” Tavon, “our future lawyer. He loves to challenge me.”

Last in line was Tariq, the gifted boy who always underestimated himself. She had thought hard about what to say to Tariq to bolster his confidence for the long haul. “This scholar says he wants to be a policeman, but the truth is that Tariq is a future genius. He's so brilliant and he tries to hide it,” Williams said as the small boy crossed the stage, eyes fixed on his teacher. Extending his diploma with a flourish, she said with all her heart: “Show your brilliance, Tariq Anderson!”

9

December 2011–November 2012

N
EWARK HAD THE
attention of the national reform movement. Cami Anderson and Chris Cerf were featured panelists at its conferences. Anderson was named one of
Time
's one hundred most influential people in the world, with her entry written by Booker, who made the previous year's list. In late 2011, Wendy Kopp, the founder of Teach for America, and her husband, Richard Barth, president of the
KIPP
Foundation, came to Newark to speak at a dinner for donors about the promise they saw in the rare alignment of a governor, a mayor, a superintendent, and bounteous philanthropy.

“Just to be real,” Barth warned, “it's going to be a tragedy for the city and the country if you don't succeed. If you can't do it here, with all those things in place, we do not have a shot
anywhere
in the country.”

“Doing it” in education reform inevitably involved a prizefight between two powerful forces in America politics: muscular and monied teachers' unions with old-guard political patrons on one side and,
on the other, an ascendant alliance of recently elected officials backed by education reform financiers. This conflict had fueled all the public skirmishes in Newark so far—over the leaked consultants' report, the school closings that would lead to layoffs, the expansion of charter schools into district buildings.