Oxygen

A co-worker and I were discussing today the oft-repeated education reformer line that schools should be for students and not for adults. See Joel Klein use a version here and Michelle Rhee's iterations here, here, here, or here. It's a good line, if for nothing else than it puts traditional powers in education policy (read: teachers unions) on the defensive as if they do not consider student concerns, and it does it without even naming them.

My co-worker and I are talking about this trend, and she suggested a metaphor that might contrast the line. Whenever you board a plane, she points out, they go through a long safety ritual. "Please note your nearest exit rows" and "fasten your belt by inserting the buckle and pulling tight on the remaining cord." They also insist that, in the case of an emergency, adults secure their own oxygen masks before attending to their children. Despite the best instincts of parents, this policy actually makes some sense. There's no point in having a bunch of adults trying to help out their children first and fainting in the process. Better to secure their own safety in order to be in a position to help those who need it.

It's an extreme metaphor to be sure, but it actually makes some sense in the context to long-struggling urban education systems. They're bad, they've been bad, and they're crashing for whole segments of the population. But it isn't just the students that need help--district finance, curricula, infrastructure, technology, etc. are all suffering--and adults who try to rush in without fixing some of these problems first will just faint and flounder. They'll have no air.

I'm generally sympathetic to what Rhee is trying to do: she's going after the adults in the system who have long settled for complacency and demographics to explain why DC's public schools have been so bad. But in an effort to test the all-publicity-is-good-publicity theory, she's lobbing fireballs like this one, from last week's Time piece:

Rhee is, as a rule, far nicer to students than to most adults. In many private encounters with officials, bureaucrats and even fundraisers--who have committed millions of dollars to help her reform the schools--she doesn't smile or nod or do any of the things most people do to put others at ease. She reads her BlackBerry when people talk to her. I have seen her walk out of small meetings held for her benefit without a word of explanation. She says things most superintendents would not. "The thing that kills me about education is that it's so touchy-feely," she tells me one afternoon in her office. Then she raises her chin and does what I come to recognize as her standard imitation of people she doesn't respect. Sometimes she uses this voice to imitate teachers; other times, politicians or parents. Never students. "People say, 'Well, you know, test scores don't take into account creativity and the love of learning,'" she says with a drippy, grating voice, lowering her eyelids halfway. Then she snaps back to herself. "I'm like, 'You know what? I don't give a crap.' Don't get me wrong. Creativity is good and whatever. But if the children don't know how to read, I don't care how creative you are. You're not doing your job."

Kevin doesn't like the magazine cover's title ("How to Fix America's Schools"). But it's not just the title. The cover itself is Rhee looking stern in a classroom, dressed in black, holding a broom, suggesting she'll sweep away problems. Quotes like the one above and the cover photo--two things Rhee had complete control over--are the things that test the publicity theory. Like the plane crash metaphor,"interests of children" advocates need to be careful how much they say and do, or else they may find they're lacking air.