The DeVos Delusion
Essays about quitting Teach
For America have become as cliché as college applications about volunteering
abroad. The Internet is crawling with critiques and horror stories—there’s even
a collection of essays dedicated to TFA woes. Why
hasn’t such prolific forewarning done more to stop us quitters from signing on
in the first place? As someone who walked down the TFA plank only to rip off
the blindfold at the eleventh hour and fifty-ninth minute, I’ve learned that
you don’t know until you realize how much you truly don’t know.
*
When I watched Betsy DeVos’
legislative testimony in January 2017, I tried to focus on deep breathing. I
couldn’t swallow what was happening to our country, so reality sat in my mouth
until I had to spit, which was all too frequent. That January washed over me
like a manic-depressive dream, fluctuating between inspiration and Armageddon,
between the Women’s March and the reality of the Muslim Ban. It was back when
shock and awe hit with a force that flipped the stomach, and DeVos packed a
hard punch to the spleen.
Legislators, news
commentators and reporters felt her blow too. They repeated the same trite
lines about her ineptitude. She has never
set foot in a public school! She wants to dismantle public education! It
was true—her experience in education was on par with her political support, all
of it adding up to what seemed like next to none. How could someone so
blatantly incompetent possibly be confirmed to lead a federal department? That
question blared during her widely broadcast Senate testimony, and I squirmed in
my seat, cringing with each of her bumbling, obfuscating words.
“I would like your views on
the relative advantage in doing assessments to measure proficiency or to
measure growth,” posed Minnesota Senator Al Franken.
“If I’m understanding your
question correctly,” DeVos began, “around proficiency, I would also correlate
it to competency and mastery so that you… Each student is measured according to
the um… Advancement they’re making in each subject area.” Her confidence mixed
seamlessly with unawareness, her ignorance a proud lapel on her royal blue
blazer. It was a feat of baseless righteousness.
“Well that’s growth. That’s
not proficiency,” Franken curtly interjected.
DeVos continued her
distressed doggy paddle, straining to keep her head above water. “The
proficiency is if they’ve… reached a like third grade level for reading.. Etcetera.
Is that what you mean?”
It wasn’t what he meant. “I
was kind of surprised,” he said. “Well I’m not that surprised that you did not
know this issue.” The country cringed. I felt like we were watching a court
case upside-down, where the rules of the legal system are written backwards,
and defendants who are found guilty go without sentencing. As protests erupted
from Maryland to Colorado, I watched in horror from my Brooklyn apartment,
wondering, like many, how we had gotten here.
*
A few months later, I sat in
a principal’s office in East New York, across from a woman with deep wrinkles
around her mouth from a long career of raising her voice. Stapled to a board
behind her was a piece of printer paper with rainbow word art. It said “Dream
Big.” There were stacks of binders and filing cabinets three times the size of
an elementary student. She looked at me with tired eyes. “Can you please
elaborate on your relationship with the Danielson framework?” she asked.
“The Danielson Framework,” I said slowly. “I think it’s really important…”
“The Danielson Framework,” I said slowly. “I think it’s really important…”
“Okay… And what about it do
you think is important?” she asked, changing her tone as if she were talking to
a poorly behaved child who had no understanding of the severity of the act she
had committed.
I stuttered, “I… I…”
“You don’t know what the Danielson
Framework is, do you?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”
She raised her eyebrows and stared
down her nose at me as if to study, for the first time, the 22-year-old girl in
front of her. She lowered her eyebrows, swallowed, and nodded, concluding
something. “So Chancellor Fariña announced new Math and ELA standards last
year. How do you plan to incorporate them in your classroom?” she asked.
“I plan to use
differentiation to make sure each student, regardless of ability, can complete
the task at hand.” I obfuscated, but refused to profess ignorance. “Thus using
differentiation to achieve Chancellor Fariña’s math and ELA standards,” I said,
repeating the language from the question in the answer for the sole purpose of
having more to say.
“I’m doubtful a six-week
training institute would sufficiently prepare you to teach in the upcoming
school year,” she said decidedly.
I responded, a bit
indignantly, that they should contact the program about that. Don’t you know about Teach for America? Of
course I am untrained—most Corps Members begin their two-year commitment with
no classroom experience. These questions
don’t apply to me.
We stared at each other for a
belabored moment. Finally, she said, “I don’t know how to interview a candidate
with no experience or relevant education in the position she’s applying for. Where
do I even start?”
I’ll learn on the job. Don’t you know I’m supposed to get the position?
Teach. For. America. I bit my tongue.
I went through an exhaustive
process to be accepted into TFA. I wrote essays, passed multiple screening
interviews, and attended a full day session where I presented a lesson,
participated in observed group activities, and navigated a final, two-hour-long
interview. Admittedly, my degree in Global Studies was not a degree in
Education, but credentials around teaching were debatable. Unlike nurses,
counselors, and social workers, certifications and advanced degrees for
teachers were negligible. And beyond getting into TFA, I was following
directions and checking the boxes—teacher certification exams, grad school
applications, endless fingerprinting—that would qualify me to stand in front of
my very own class in a few short months. “We are confident that all Corps Members
will be hired by the start of the school year,” TFA administrators reassured
me. And while I had never considered teaching before being approached by the
program, Trump’s presidency and DeVos’ confirmation assured me, if there were
ever a time to waltz into education, it was now.
*
Nearly 30 years ago, in 1989,
an ambitious Princeton student was determined to turn her undergraduate thesis
into a nationwide program. Wendy Copp’s plan wasn’t to renovate the classroom,
but to “recruit high-performing college grads to teach in high-need urban and
rural schools.” Teach For America was an idea rooted in extremes. If the best
college students were exposed to the realities infecting the nation’s worst
schools, they would inevitably dedicate their lives to education and public
service (or at the very least, carry their students’ struggles into every
professional industry). Kopp began by enlisting 100 part-time student
recruiters from 100 universities. To this day, the program hinges on these
recruiters successfully selling a life-changing program with limitless professional
and personal benefits. 10 of Forbes’ 30 Under 30 list were former TFA Corps
Members. There are graduate school and employee partnerships. The website is
definitive: “Teach For America can connect you to high-impact opportunities to
continue your influence and accelerate your leadership trajectory.”
During a promotional dinner, I was presented with a brochure featuring a Goldman Sachs higher-up who, in a series of bullet points, delineated the ways leading a classroom of underprivileged students provided an invaluable foundation for his managerial expertise. His white headshot featured glistening white teeth, and I wondered if he got those from a lifetime of free and reduced lunches—beef patties, honeyed popcorn chicken, and mozzarella sticks—or if he brought his lunch during his low-income-adjacent jaunt.
Something about the program’s mission felt off to me. It didn’t seem likely that throwing idealistic and inexperienced college grads into the country’s neediest corners was going to solve the debate around education reform. Age-old questions weren’t going to be unfurled because people like me suddenly started asking them. But I was more or less educated and more or less aware. I “checked my privilege” so much it often paralyzed me, resigning me to a camp of cultural relativism so pervasive, I let the world’s injustices settle inside me because I didn’t believe I had the experience to intervene.
During a promotional dinner, I was presented with a brochure featuring a Goldman Sachs higher-up who, in a series of bullet points, delineated the ways leading a classroom of underprivileged students provided an invaluable foundation for his managerial expertise. His white headshot featured glistening white teeth, and I wondered if he got those from a lifetime of free and reduced lunches—beef patties, honeyed popcorn chicken, and mozzarella sticks—or if he brought his lunch during his low-income-adjacent jaunt.
Something about the program’s mission felt off to me. It didn’t seem likely that throwing idealistic and inexperienced college grads into the country’s neediest corners was going to solve the debate around education reform. Age-old questions weren’t going to be unfurled because people like me suddenly started asking them. But I was more or less educated and more or less aware. I “checked my privilege” so much it often paralyzed me, resigning me to a camp of cultural relativism so pervasive, I let the world’s injustices settle inside me because I didn’t believe I had the experience to intervene.
The TFA recruiters are
trained salespeople, implementing marketing tactics either distasteful or
compelling depending on the clientele. After I scoffed at a recruiter’s mention
of the paved trot between the classroom and Wall Street, her tone changed. Just
when I was about to dismiss her unwavering eye contact and peppy,
overly-personable demeanor, she shared a candid glimpse. “It was the hardest
thing I’ve ever done, but my students improved by over 120% during my time as
their teacher. You will make a
difference in these kids’ lives,” she guaranteed. While tempted to ask for a
warranty, I began to trust her experience. And somewhere between the bountiful
attention, the encouraging text messages, and the seemingly personal investment
she had in my future (“TFA aside, I think you
will be a great educator…”), I began to dismiss my initial reservations. I
began to say yes. Yes to a path—a path with a real salary in the city I knew
and loved, doing work that was important, engaged, and aligned enough with my
passions and values.
Aligned enough. I said these words over and over—to myself, to family, to friends
and friends of friends, to professors and other people’s professors. For a kid
fresh out of the four walls of the college classroom, aligned enough seemed
nearly as good as it gets. In New York, where jobs were scarce, where income
was deflated and cost of life inflated, where couples that broke up kept living
together because neither could afford to pay rent on their own, aligned at all was a privilege. With the end of
college in sight, a crippling uncertainty began sneaking into my bed at night.
I didn’t know what I wanted to do, and the Big Questions loomed large. Some
told me to just get that first entry-level position and figure out direction
from there, while others warned me to think long and hard about that first job
because, to an extent, it would define me. Still, others—my professors
particularly—encouraged me to take a step back, get a service industry
position, and dedicate myself to writing. Wasn’t TFA a sort of happy medium, a beautiful
middle ground? I could try on a career without fear of pigeonholing myself (I
was expected to leave after the completion of two years, after all), and maybe
even open up some doors along the way.
Additionally, being a TFA
Corps Member, well, that was something admirable and generous, something good
for the world. I would be lucky to have a job connecting with kids, promoting
education, and teaching elementary school through a social justice lens. It
would stretch me in all kinds of ways and I would come out the other side with
a mountain of experience and a changed perspective. I would change the life of
at least one child, I thought.
I didn’t love the program, but there was space between the work one did in the classroom, with students, and the institution through which one was placed there (I considered my NYU professors). Ultimately, I would just be a teacher in a New York City public school, one of the many employees of the state’s Department of Education. Plus, dire political times turned everything upside-down, my values included. I wasn’t so inclined to nit-pick TFA’s imperfections. Sure, it was a band-aid solution to a broken system, but it was the model that had been dreamt into being, and it was trying to prop up the public education system. Given the political climate—the Betsy DeVos Problem and the whole circus of inexperienced monsters at the top —the system needed advocates, and I was more compelled than ever to fight for it. We’d unleash good intentions and do something to stop the country from crumbling beneath our feet. We’d try, at least.
Maybe, somewhere in my deepest core, I knew my motivations were rooted in the comfort of having a path, a life to lead upon graduating from college. The moral and political justifications were just that—a superficial paint job on walls built of fear. Teach For America granted me two years of security, a whole 24 months before the return of the Big Questions.
Maybe, somewhere in my deepest core, I knew my motivations were rooted in the comfort of having a path, a life to lead upon graduating from college. The moral and political justifications were just that—a superficial paint job on walls built of fear. Teach For America granted me two years of security, a whole 24 months before the return of the Big Questions.
I continued interviewing.
On the first day of TFA’s
6-week-long summer boot camp, I sat with the newly initiated Corps Members in a
dingy middle school cafeteria. I had just learned that I had a pending offer
from one of the schools with whom I had interviewed. I wasn’t thrilled or
relieved as I had anticipated—I was numb.
“Fifth graders are my
favorite,” a girl next to me said.
“I looooove my school,” squealed another.
We were ushered into an auditorium, where we were to be wowed by a reception starring a series of student performances and a keynote speech from former Education Secretary John King. I noticed the reception program listed the names of the Corps Members who led the school activities, but excluded the names of the students performing. The Berry Gordy story flickered through my mind for a brief moment before a band of high schoolers took the stage, breaking out into an impressive rendition of “Uptown Funk.” A Corps Member then performed an education-inspired freestyle with his seventh-grade student. Both acts received whooping standing ovations. I imagined the whole scene in a movie. Then I thought I was probably better fit working in the movies.
I composed my formal resignation later that evening. “After undergoing the interview process, I have realized, in a way that I could not have foreseen, that I do not desire to become a teacher at the primary level,” I wrote, struggling to articulate my motivations at the time, but knowing that something about this path felt wrong. But isn’t it aligned enough? I asked myself again.
I composed my formal resignation later that evening. “After undergoing the interview process, I have realized, in a way that I could not have foreseen, that I do not desire to become a teacher at the primary level,” I wrote, struggling to articulate my motivations at the time, but knowing that something about this path felt wrong. But isn’t it aligned enough? I asked myself again.
DeVos was pushed through. She was that notoriously rich student who stole the answers to a test and faced no punishment. Instead, her parents funded the auditorium renovation, and her surname was engraved on an adorning plaque. DeVos failed the legislative hearing, yet was still approved to advise the president on all matters related to education in the United States. Her blatant incompetency in the required subject matter was an afterthought.
But isn’t it aligned enough?
Were we all really so confident in our commitment to goodness that we were willing to overlook our lack of experience? As politics rewrote our nightmares, the institutions that were our problems were masquerading as our solutions. The very value of experience had come into question, exhibited most prominently by the real estate reality star running the country.
Inexperience was the only cohesive thread running through his Cabinet picks. With a neurosurgeon in charge of Housing and Urban Development, an oil tycoon heading the State, and a socialite who had never worked in education as Secretary of Education, it was no wonder I hardly questioned my own inexperience before signing on to teach. I was fighting so hard against DeVos that I forgot to consider, even for a moment, that I might be her.
But isn’t it aligned enough?
I, too, could have been pushed through. I could have accepted the pending offer and rode atop a wave of goodwill, hoping the force of that current would fill in where skill was absent. But traveling down a road because it was recently repaved does not lead to a new destination. I thought need could be addressed by following the existing avenue, even when that avenue reflected the very problem we were facing. How much the road was aligned had never been the right question.
But isn’t it aligned enough?
I, too, could have been pushed through. I could have accepted the pending offer and rode atop a wave of goodwill, hoping the force of that current would fill in where skill was absent. But traveling down a road because it was recently repaved does not lead to a new destination. I thought need could be addressed by following the existing avenue, even when that avenue reflected the very problem we were facing. How much the road was aligned had never been the right question.