A PARENT'S 30-YEAR ODYSSEY IN AMERICAN PUBLIC EDUCATION
It all began nearly 30 years ago, when my partner and I decided to embark on the grand adventure of parenting. After a decade of marriage, we figured it was time to add a few tiny humans to our lives. So, we did what any responsible adults would do: we bought a house near a public school and dove headfirst into the world of American education with the enthusiasm of people who hadn’t yet realized what they were signing up for.
We chose public schools for their diversity, believing our children would benefit from a rich tapestry of experiences. Private schools seemed too exclusive, like gated communities of education where students were taught how to pronounce “concierge” before learning their times tables. Charter schools? They felt like trendy pop-up shops—here today, gone tomorrow. Public schools, we thought, were the real deal, the authentic American experience.
But let’s rewind for a moment. For me, this was a second chance at parenting. My first attempt had been a disaster—think Titanic meets parenting. My workaholic tendencies had ensured I was more familiar with my office coffee machine than my child’s homework folder. Determined not to repeat history, I switched careers to human resources, a field where evenings and weekends were sacred. I was ready to be the parent who showed up, who cared, who didn’t confuse “parent-teacher conference” with “boardroom meeting.”
My own childhood had included a brief stint in California public schools, which I remembered fondly. Those schools seemed magical, like Disneyland but with algebra and dodgeball. There were electives! Afterschool programs! Clubs! It was a veritable buffet of educational opportunities. Surely, my child’s experience would be just as enchanting.
Enter No Child Left Behind (NCLB), the policy that promised data-driven education and accountability for all. As someone with a corporate background, I was thrilled. Data! Metrics! Goals! It sounded like an Excel spreadsheet come to life. But as my child entered kindergarten and I began to experience the system firsthand, my optimism began to unravel faster than a cheap sweater in the wash.
At first, I threw myself into traditional “good parent” activities: attending plays, driving on field trips, volunteering at carnivals. I was the parent you’d see smiling through gritted teeth while handing out cupcakes at school events. But by second grade, Common Core standards had arrived, and with them came homework that looked less like math and more like abstract art. Box-and-line methods? Number bonds? I could get the right answers but not in the “right way.” Cue my partner stepping in as the family math savior while I handled everything else.
Curious—and desperate—I turned to Irene Eister, our school principal and my eventual mentor. “What’s going on with this ‘new math’?” I asked her one day, clutching a worksheet that resembled hieroglyphics more than arithmetic. Her answer? NCLB. And then she invited me to join the site council—a group composed of parents, teachers, and the principal tasked with reviewing budgets and policies.
Joining the site council was like stepping into an entirely new dimension of education—a dimension filled with rage, despair, and budget cuts so deep they made paper cuts look trivial. The library was part-time. Class sizes were enormous. And those wonderful electives I’d loved as a child? Gone. California public schools—the ones I’d once thought rivaled Disneyland—were now more akin to a sad carnival with broken rides and overpriced popcorn.
Through the site council, I learned about NCLB Section 1118’s mandate for parent involvement (later rebranded as “parent engagement,” because apparently everything sounds better with marketing spin). My eyes were opened to the grim reality behind the glossy promises of data-driven education: it wasn’t about improving schools; it was about dismantling them.
The budget discussions were a revelation—or perhaps more accurately, a horror show. Cuts were everywhere, and the things that made education joyful—arts programs, sports teams, extracurricular activities—were disappearing faster than free samples at Costco. Parents and teachers were furious, but their anger was met with indifference or outright hostility from school boards that seemed more interested in promoting charter schools than listening to their constituents.
Charter schools were flourishing, fueled by billionaire donors who poured money into campaigns to privatize public education. By 2010, these billionaires had perfected their strategy: fund politicians who supported their agenda, cut funding to public schools, and vilify teachers’ unions as obstacles to progress. It was a masterclass in corporate takeover disguised as educational reform.
Programs like Race to the Top and Every Student Succeeds Act became Trojan horses for vouchers and charter schools—vehicles for siphoning resources away from public education under the guise of innovation. Meanwhile, urban schools serving low-income communities were labeled “failing” and subjected to endless rounds of testing that proved nothing except that poverty makes learning harder.
The racial disparities were glaringly obvious: Black and Brown students bore the brunt of these policies, their schools starved of resources while wealthier districts thrived. Racism wasn’t just alive; it was thriving in many parts of California’s education system—a bitter pill to swallow in a state that prides itself on progressivism.
As my involvement deepened—site council meetings led to district advisory council meetings—I realized I wasn’t just fighting for my child’s education; I was fighting for the soul of public education itself. The battle wasn’t just about math homework or library hours; it was about preserving a system that promised opportunity for all, not just those who could afford private tutors or exclusive academies.
Looking back on three decades of navigating this labyrinthine system, I’ve learned a few things:
1. Public education is messy but vital—it’s where democracy learns to walk before it runs.
2. Billionaires may have money and influence, but parents have passion (and occasionally very loud voices).
3. Common Core math is still confusing, but at least it gave me an excuse to bond with my partner over homework crises.
As my child grew older and eventually graduated from high school, I couldn’t help but feel both pride and exhaustion. We had survived standardized tests, budget cuts, and countless battles over policies that seemed designed more for spreadsheets than students.
Public education isn’t perfect—it’s far from it—but it remains one of the few places where kids from all walks of life can come together to learn not just algebra or history but empathy and resilience. And for all its flaws, I’ll keep fighting for it because every child deserves a chance at something better than just “good enough.”
So here’s to the parents who show up at school board meetings armed with facts and fury; to the teachers who pour their hearts into classrooms despite impossible odds; and to the students who remind us why this fight matters: you are worth every sleepless night and every impassioned speech. You are worth it all.
Big Education Ape: BACK TO SCHOOL: A parent’s guide to K-12 school success https://bigeducationape.blogspot.com/2019/08/back-to-school-parents-guide-to-k-12.html
SCUSD District Advisory Committee Report to Board by Wanda Yanez, DAC Ch... https://youtu.be/BIIS3RNBgQY?si=vpvA5-02pm9aRhIr via @YouTube
L'eo Sunshine https://youtu.be/5ePUinRgpj0?si=lX7nBPto-VJFDq9Z via @YouTube
SCUSD Teacher Lori Jablonski Arne Duncan governance.mpg https://youtu.be/aZ7dR7Uidxw?si=kE57li6p6SGixvKS via @YouTube
Wanda Yanez DAC Report SCUSD Board meeting 5 7 09 https://youtu.be/by32mS0SRHw?si=BaPx4CEvjrZ2y_Tw via @YouTube
SCUSD Parent Heidi McLean RTTT Outrage.mpg https://youtu.be/5bHrs9c1pUA?si=1l3D6Xyc3TFl8Thu via @YouTube
