I spent the better part of my career in education checking my humanity at the schoolhouse gate

at the beginning of the day, to be picked up at the end of the day on my way home. Outside of
school, I was a vivacious, thrill-seeking, often hilarious young lady. I was also a yogi and a
Unitarian, steered by a pull towards social justice and a sensitive heart which loved big. Once I
entered school, I was all business. We aim for what the experts recommend, we fall into rank,
and we protest contrary attitudes. If I am honest, I applied this creed to both colleagues and
students. We are here to do school. This was my professional garb, the suit and tie I donned to
conceal the sundress and flip flops of my other self. It was a bit exhausting, the double life.
After some years, I began to regret that what nourished me most had to be left idle for the better
part of most days.
Compassion, joy, love, connectedness. These essential human capacities never made the
annual school vision amidst all the data and professional development requirements. I was led
by mandate, and in turn, this is how I led others for a few years. A handful of high flying
teachers took the bait and executed on initiatives. Others performed some version of just
enough, barely enough, rebellion, or flight. Our adult culture was frantic, marked by angst,
exhaustion, gossip, miscommunication, mistrust, depersonalization and devaluing. My outsideof-school ethos of love, generosity, and passion was pitted against an inside-of-school culture of
toxicity. Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love (Rumi). It
was time to search for an alternative.
Much like that first class of students who love you unconditionally even though it all went
sideways, the first cadre of teachers I led was a gracious group. They described me as having
high expectations and being goal-oriented while also honoring a range of needs and talents
across teachers. They noted that I was organized, well-planned, and delivered on promises.
This is what I was going for, I thought, glad they noticed! But one comment surprised and
stayed with me. You always take the time to know whats going on in our lives and you always
ask about it. All the workshops, modeling, curriculum writing, data analysis and what mattered
most to her was our small talk. Hmm. It was as if heart had found a way to break down the
gate and enter the building.
The leaders I admire most are friends. Our relationships are
both personal and professional, characterized by honest
disclosures, humor, shared purpose, curiosity, mutual
admiration, and a dose of self-deprecation. We are quick to
affirm and celebrate each others talents and achievements.
These leaders have strong instincts regarding the big picture,
and their conviction grounds our work in valuable goals. They
genuinely trust the power of a group to collaborate, create,
stumble, and grow. They are reflective and resilient in the
face of their own missteps. They are both driven educators
and caring comrades. I also want to lead by allowing both
hearts and minds into the room. Teachers plan for both the
academic and the social emotional development of their class.
I hope to bring the same intentionality to communities of adults. Feedback I have received
recently tells me, thankfully, I am on the right path!

She is
solutionsand
relationshiporiented.

Not only is Jamie extremely

knowledgeable and
passionate about how literacy
develops and how to scaffold
reading instruction for a
range of learners--she also
cares deeply that teachers
feel a sense of ownership and
confidence in how they teach
reading.

Jamie led teachers

with clarity, humility,
and grace. She
offered keen insights
that stretched
practice while
partnering
respectfully and
responsively with
teachers.

Jamie works to
develop literacy
instruction from the
ground up through
fostering deep
relationships and
understanding the
real needs of
teachers and
students.

Lets talk about kids. When asked the question -- When did you decide to be a teacher? I react
with a bit of haziness. My response is often some version of -- Im not quite sure. Its always
been kids. But upon recently revisiting my college essay, the pivotal moment and trajectory
actually become pretty clear.
While working as a camp counselor, I found myself in a stand-off with nine-year-old Monique.
She had declared via chalkboard YOURE NOT MY FREND. FRENDS DONT YELL. IM

MAD AT YOU. She glared at me until I understood that if we were going to talk, it was
going to be by chalk.
As we delivered our messages back and forth, the dark space filled
with the words of a powerful connection. I began to realize how much
this child was depending on me for support and understanding. She
received affection greedily, and I resolved that if all she asked for was
a little companionship and love, then I could most certainly supply it.
IM READY TO TALK, she finally indicated. After several minutes of
stalling, she allowed me to sit, and one of the most emotional
conversations of my life began. The girl mentioned several aspects of
her personal story, and I learned of an existence that I could hardly
fathom. This exceptionally intelligent child had been invited to attend
a private school in order to escape the poor conditions of her
neighborhood school, but was rejected because of her temper.
Working as a tutor, she was attempting to earn money in order to help
her mother buy a car in which she could drive to work. In a family of
eight siblings, she and her ten-year-old sister spent much time caring
for their baby brother. And finally, Monique mentioned that her fifteenyear-old sister was pregnant. I could find no words of response. The
conflicts of her life were those of someone four times her age, not a
child of nine. My childhood of ponies, Disney World, and mountains of
gifts suddenly seemed very superficial. She could never understand
my compassion, so I simply held her. Tears blurred my vision and my
heart felt as if it had swallowed an ocean. How difficult it must have
been to live a life deserving so much more. I adored her with every

part of my being. And I knew that this was what I would do with my
life.

I believe authentic projects rooted in the adult-world are the

levers needed to break down barriers of racial oppression. In
order to be ready for a marketplace of innovation, kids must
do more than comply with teachers as they assign a series of
academic tasks. Adults cannot leave their humanity at the
schoolhouse gate. Likewise, children should not feel as if
they must suspend what interests them most for seven hours
a day until they can get back to it. As progressive educators,
we have the privilege of helping children discover where their
unique genius intersects with a problem to be solved in our
world.

But the conversation must extend beyond project design. I want to engage in a steady flow of
conversation regarding all the small ways inequities arise each day. I am determined to keep
working at these difficult conversations, even if I get it wrong sometimes. I want to tell stories
like Moniques and dialogue about how we (I!) can do better. I want to put the uncomfortable
ideas and realities on the table so people get used to hearing it, then talking about it, then doing
something about it. I want to ask lots of questions and get lots of advice about how I show up
as a privileged white woman in this work as an equity warrior. I want to talk about radical
welcome and how we work actively to help families of color feel a strong sense of belonging. I
want to help teachers see unbalanced suspension rates and discipline logs and challenging
behaviors as issues of equity. And I want to figure out how we assume responsibility for the tiny
tales of inequity that we have the power to address every day. If we are not fighting the War of
Standards and Scores, I want to create a space where you can find equity warriors are at work.