by Lisa Henry

In November 2016, I was in Atlanta presenting at the NCTE conference. Between sessions, my phone rang.  A colleague from school called to tell me that one of my students, David, died from a gunshot wound to the head.  I wandered to an empty corner of the exhibition hall and crumpled to the floor.  In one calendar year, I had lost seven current and former students to gun violence.  Cradling my head in my hands, I thought, what are we doing wrong?

As a high school English and special education teacher, I spent fourteen of my twenty-four years in the classroom at an alternative program in Lexington, Kentucky.  The environment at Martin Luther King, Jr. Academy was the most challenging of my career.  Although my prior teaching experiences in Bullitt County, Kentucky and Cleveland, Ohio helped hone my instructional design and classroom management skills, I was unprepared for the crime and violence that permeated the culture of students who attended MLK Academy.  

For the first five years that I taught at MLK, any time a student was killed, I cried.  Any time I saw a mugshot of a former student on the news for robbery, drug trafficking or homicide, I cried.  I was depressed, distressed, and angered that their lives were cut short either by death or by incarceration.  When David’s death happened, I couldn’t process any more pain.  The secondary trauma destroyed my mental and physical health, and in order to protect myself, I took a cue from the Vampire Diaries and turned off my humanity switch.  During the subsequent years, if I learned that a student died or was imprisoned, I compartmentalized my emotions and said, “Well, that was their path.”  I gave up on believing that what we did within the walls of the school or my classroom made any kind of impact on our students’ futures.

One of my colleagues also felt frustrated, and she decided to see if there was a correlation between students who attended MLK and incarceration rates in Fayette County’s detention center.  One night, we poured through the jail database.  On that specific evening, 80% of the inmates from ages 18-22 were former MLK Academy students.  Some of them had earned their diplomas, but the diploma didn’t translate into success. 

That evening made me wonder not only what are we doing wrong collectively as a school, but what could we be doing better?  The next day, I put the curriculum on hold, and I sat down with my upperclassmen for a heart-to-heart.  I told them that I was sick of seeing graduates in the news, and I begged students to tell me what they needed in order to be successful.  Their answers ranged from learning how to fill out job applications and find money for community college, to knowing how to access public transportation or locate section eight housing.  One student asked me to show him how to set an alarm clock, because his mother never used one.  Another student in independent living was struggling with how to build a grocery list that didn’t exceed his monthly budget.

We wrote down their needs on the board.  I took a photo, and I shared it with my administrators.  I told them that we needed a class – a class that intentionally guided students with career and college planning, financial literacy, and learning how to access community resources.  I followed up my conversation with my administrators by surveying my colleagues as well as other alternative education colleagues from around the district.  I factored their suggestions into my course design, and a senior advisory class at MLK Academy was born.  

The main component of the course was that each student would complete an individualized post-secondary graduation plan, but the course also gave students knowledge and exposure to certain topics.  First, students would explore careers through inventories, guest speakers, experiential field trips, and job shadowing.  Then, students would work on creating their resumes and participate in mock interviews.  Second, students would explore collegiate options through visiting campuses and meeting with admission counselors.  Those who wanted to pursue college would write entrance essays, complete applications, and apply for FAFSA as well as scholarships.  Third, students would acquire basic financial literacy skills through targeted lessons that will help them create a personal budget.  Finally, they would be exposed to essential community resources and social services through guest speakers and an open-house event.

Although the rollout of the initial advisory course wasn’t perfect, each student completed an individualized post-secondary plan.  Now, the students are not only earning a diploma, but they leave MLK Academy with goals in mind and a plan of how to accomplish the goals.  For example, one student knew he wanted a job in which he worked with his hands, but he hated automotive mechanics and housing construction.  In the fall, he will start at BCTC in their advanced manufacturing program.  He also needed help with transportation since his mother isn’t allowed to drive.  Our staff taught him how to use LexTran, and when he turned 18, we helped him get his driver’s permit and coordinated driving lessons for him.

I’m not naive to think that the advisory course will solve every problem that these students face, but for the first time in a long time, the course makes me hopeful that as educators, we are at least making a difference.  Since the course started at MLK Academy, I accepted a position at the Kentucky Department of Education with its Persistence to Graduation team.  My work now is solely focused on helping schools and districts improve dropout prevention practices.  When I present, I can share my experiences from the classroom and specifically this project.  Although I miss the face-to-face interaction with students, I left the advisory course in great hands with another teacher, who is passionate about supporting youth and helping them plan for the future.  

To the students that I lost previously to violence and incarceration, I only wish that I had found a positive solution sooner.  Please know that the memory of each of you continues to drive my work in education.