Existing research suggests that caring adults in schools provide a protective factor for vulnerable students—but how? How can care permeate a school so that all students feel supported, even as the school adjusts to meet the differing needs of a variety of populations? This is the question I, as part of a research team, was called to answer in a school struggling with violence between two student groups.
My team was sent to research the nature of violence between African American students who had lived in the community for generations and newcomer English language learners (ELLs) at a large urban high school. Fights were breaking out. Harsher disciplinary methods were not solving the problem. We were there to help understand what was going on and how to move forward in a positive way.
Student Perceptions of the Problem
During our time at the school, we observed classrooms and other student spaces like the cafeteria, the gym, and the student bathrooms. We also gathered focus groups and conducted individual interviews with students, teachers, and other school staff. The student interviews were particularly enlightening. ELL students spoke of their challenges coming to a new school and country and learning a new language. They had a hard time fitting in and felt lost in the many floors and long hallways of the large urban school. They praised their teachers for helping to keep them safe.
The African American students expressed that they were curious about the new students and wanted to know more about them, but they felt these new students were purposefully separated from the rest of the school population. This, they felt, implied that the ELL students needed to be protected from the African American students, and they rejected this fear. African American students said that the ELL students had better facilities and nicer teachers, and they wondered why they were not offered similar support. They pointed out how teachers went out of their way to protect the ELL students and how these students were absent from most common student spaces. From this data emerged a story of segregation within the school walls.
Conditional Care
Our research confirmed the students' observations. We noted that the school had indeed—despite its best intentions—set up a system of segregation. The ELL students, who needed supportive services, were sequestered to the second floor of the building. As this was a large urban high school and the number of ELL students was small compared to the larger student body, the difference between the second floor where ELLs received special services and the other floors in the building was observable. The second floor halls weren't as crowded and, as a result, the floors were cleaner. The girls' bathroom had stalls with doors and ample soap and paper towel—something notably lacking in other parts of the school. Because of the small population, teachers stood in the hall and greeted these students by name, welcoming them into classrooms and cultivating a sense of belonging on the second floor.
In contrast, the other floors of the school were crowded. Some teachers stood in the hallway between classes. Others did not. Reprimands were more widely dispensed than greetings. Students were told to take off their hats, put their cellphones away, and hurry, hurry, hurry. When students who were not ELLs happened to go to the second floor, I witnessed them being immediately stopped by school security and asked, "What are you doing here?" The politics of care on the second floor did not permeate the rest of the building.
This was the source of the tension. Care was being administered in such a direct way for ELLs, so other students wanted to know how they could be cared about, too. This finding of separate and unequal schools operating within the same building surprised school officials. As they reviewed the research report they began to see how the culture they had created for ELLs made the school seem imbalanced to other students. In its attempt to provide the ELL students the support they needed, the school was overlooking support for all the other students.
From Partitions to Pathways
This finding changed the mindset of the educators: they shifted from trying to create a buffer for new students to trying to create pathways of inclusion for all students to be part of a larger school community. In order to do this, the school had to examine how they were supporting students in general. What was the standard experience for all students throughout the school day? The school not only considered logistical strategies, like how to ensure that bathrooms were consistently clean and serviced, but also educational strategies, like how to provide culturally responsive training so that all school employees—including school police—could come together to create an environment that supported all students.
Students need to share the responsibility for creating a community of learners. But to share responsibility, they must be engaged in ongoing meaningful conversations. My research team initiated a space for students to voice their concerns—before emotions escalated—and for the school to listen and respond. In a school where everyone feels valued, students understand and support the application of services for those students who need extra support. But in a school where care is scarce, students fight—literally—to be seen and heard. Student resistance is often an informed action that is rooted in discontent.
Relationships matter. Shared ownership of community requires active engagement of all voices. When we create a reflective space to listen, learn, and change course—rather than meting out punishments and silencing voices—we can construct the types of caring environments in which educational excellence thrives.