A School of Our Own

by Samuel Levin

  In the garden, Sam and his friends worked with little kids, with grown-ups, and with one another. All of them had something to contribute. Having to figure out who was doing what each day, how to play to one another’s strengths, when to back off and let another take charge—lessons in collaboration like these cannot be learned on an occasional Friday afternoon. You can’t simply tell kids that collaboration is valuable. Like any complex and important set of skills, the strands that go into cooperating must be learned through practice, and kids need lots of that practice. They need to collaborate day in and day out.

  But the kids who built the garden didn’t depend solely on one another. That wouldn’t have been enough. Few of them knew how to garden on that scale. None of them had turned up a field before, and they didn’t have the equipment they needed to do it. They knew nothing about planting complementary vegetables that helped fight bugs and disease. They had no idea how to grow for meals served in a cafeteria to twelve hundred kids. For this they needed something other than one another’s help and good energy. They needed other people, people beyond the school walls: cooks, farmers, ecologists, and, yes, bankers and businesspeople to help them get going. The garden built a bridge between the school and the community. And people in the community suddenly saw an authentic way to help the students in the local high school. They didn’t need to be volunteer teachers, and they didn’t for the most part need to reach into their wallets. They just had to offer their expertise and their willingness to be partners in a project that everyone cared about.

  Those intense social connections are exactly what Sam wanted to re-create by requiring a Collective Endeavor. But as he has said, the collective effort needs to be for something that has meaning beyond a good grade.

  Luckily, the social impulse that runs at such a fever pitch in adolescence is not only an impulse to be with one another. Teenagers also have a rumbling hunger to have an impact on the broader world. My student Manuel (the future immigration lawyer whose parents had emigrated from Mexico) told me that day over coffee that to get from a trailer park in Texas to Williams College, grit wouldn’t have gotten him far if he hadn’t also had “something in mind.” But he didn’t stop there. “Yeah, in high school I knew I would do whatever it took to get to law school. But that’s not really what propelled me forward, out of the trailer park onto the Williams campus. It’s not enough to have just anything in mind. Not all goals are equal. You need to have something in mind for others.”

  Manuel had “something in mind for others” because he was raised in a family that emphasized good deeds. But what about all the teens who don’t seem to have something in mind for others? Where do they get such a sense of social purpose? It can, and should, be in high school. It begins by allowing them to be useful.

  Ironically, our society has increasingly prevented kids from feeling useful by protecting them from work. This impulse is well intentioned and reasonable. In order to develop their fullest capacities, kids need time to develop, both intellectually and emotionally. By and large, researchers have found that longer adolescence is linked to a higher level of personal development. The stereotype of the admirable kid who not only goes to school but has a job delivering papers or working at the corner grocery store to help his family glosses over the truth—kids who work too much are less likely to thrive academically. The day has only so many hours in it, and even an energetic sixteen-year-old has limits to his energy. The more he works at the grocery store, or taking care of his little brother, the less time he has to read, study for class, practice the oboe, play in the chess club, or do martial arts. School is better for teens than working in a factory or taking care of siblings.

  However, that doesn’t mean it’s good for high schoolers to feel that their work has no value to others. There’s no inherent reason why becoming more knowledgeable, more cultivated, better at thinking requires teenagers to do work that has no meaning outside of providing them with a good grade. Students shouldn’t have to choose between being useful and opening their intellectual horizons. They can, instead, acquire skills and knowledge in the course of making their communities better. They need to feel that what they are learning not only will lead to good things for themselves, but also will lead to good things for others.

  Because it wasn’t only the sense of collaboration that thrilled the kids in Project Sprout. It was the daily gratification they got from doing something that made a difference—providing food for the cafeteria, the sense that they were reducing their carbon footprint, and the profound joy of bringing good produce to those on food stamps. The garden grew because it fed on one of the most powerful impulses of the teen years—the impulse to make a mark. Why shouldn’t school build on that impulse?

  Sam included the Collective Endeavor in his design because of the life-changing experience he had with Project Sprout. He had been blown away by how different his friends and classmates seemed when they were working on something that had significance beyond their school walls. He saw that the kid who dragged herself into English class, or skipped homeroom to have a smoke, or borrowed someone else’s homework to leave time for a party, instead showed up before school to harvest, after school to work with the first graders, and in a rainstorm to make sure the new greenhouse was set up. Their commitment, sense of responsibility, willingness to sacrifice time and effort to help out were all exponentially higher when they were making something for the larger world, the world beyond their own circle of friends.

  The garden he and the other kids created lies along the route I take from our home in southern Berkshire County to Williams College, where I teach. In March and April of that first year, I’d pass by and see him alone out there in the dirt, often in terrible weather, rototilling, putting up fences, trying to build an irrigation system. By late May, however, I’d drive by and see a few of the kids from his baseball team planting seeds, a handful of kids from the remedial classes out there hoeing, or the kids from AP biology tying up tomato plants. On Saturdays I’d see volunteers from the community. Not just farmers, but artists, carpenters, arborists, mechanics, doctors, and nurses.

  By mid-July, when school had been in recess for several weeks, the school building had the slightly stale and empty look of summer vacation. No buses in the parking lot, no kids bouncing or slinking their way into or out of the building, no teachers lingering to talk by the cars. But when I turned the corner onto the street where the garden lay, there were seven teenagers, kids who didn’t ordinarily hang out together, harvesting, eating cherry tomatoes, and packing up lettuce for the local food kitchen. It was sometimes hard for me to believe that these were the same sulky, listless boys and manic dolled-up girls I had passed so often in the hallways. And it wasn’t just one or two days that I saw kids out there. It was all summer long—day in and day out, two, three, or seven kids—and not just the smart kids or the ambitious kids or Sam’s friends. A wonderfully motley group of kids were out there in the dirt talking, working, snacking, building something bigger than themselves.

  Not one of those students including Sam, with all of his energy, could have grown those vegetables alone. The scope and ambition of the garden were essential to pulling them together. But the garden also pulled them outward toward the world.

  Many of the kids who worked in the garden encountered a brand-new experience. They discovered that boring and difficult tasks like weeding could be a pleasure if those tasks led to something big—something valuable to others. Yes, the kids learned how to plant, weed, prune, and harvest. But they also learned how to actively participate in their community. They found that people who lived nearby had something to offer them and that they had something to offer in return. A Collective Endeavor should do the opposite of segregating teenagers. It should weave them tightly into society.

  On a Monday morning in January, we sat down to discuss what our Collective Endeavor would be. I suspected that the conversation might take a few hours. Everyone would have a different idea of what they thought was the most i
mportant thing for us to do, and we’d have to argue it out for a while.

  I was wrong.

  “Well, we should do something related to education,” said Mirabelle.

  “Yeah, obviously,” said Dominic in his high-pitched voice.

  “Why obviously?” I said, surprised that two people were already in agreement about a topic, and even more surprised that it was education.

  “Because,” said Rix, his hat low, looking at the floor when he talked, “it’s what we all care about now.”

  “This has changed our lives, man,” said Tim. “We want other kids to be able to experience this. Hell, every kid should get to experience this.”

  “We should make a film,” said Dakota, crouched in the corner of the room. “A documentary. About the Independent Project.”

  “Yeah!” said John. “Tell them how much we learned by doing things differently. Explain how important this is.”

  I hesitated only because I was so surprised by their overwhelming support for the idea. It had happened so quickly. “Are we sure? Should we talk about other possibilities for the Collective Endeavor?”

  “Sam,” said John. “You said it was supposed to have a positive impact on the broader community. I’m pretty sure the most positive impact we can have is to tell our story.”

  So we did. For the next three weeks, we worked on it furiously. We interviewed one another, teachers, the superintendent, the principal, Mr. Huron, even my mom. We all huddled around Tim’s computer, editing it together.

  “Nah, nah, nah,” Dominic would say, “you should cut to Mr. Huron there.”

  “How about some Bob Dylan right after the blackout?”

  “I really think we need someone talking about the books we read.”

  “Can I do my interview again?”

  The best part of it all, for me, was hearing the other students give their interviews. It was like they had been storing up all this stuff to say during the semester, and with the camera on they just let it pour out. Some of them talked for more than hour. For the first time I heard Rix talk about how stupid he thought the Independent Project sounded when he first heard about it. He talked about what it was like to really learn something for the first time, to know that he knew it well, and to grapple with it on his own. Dominic, despite being camera shy, talked about the Independent Project being the only real school he had ever attended. Dakota talked about feeling challenged for the first time. I talked about coming home one day and complaining to my mom for the millionth time about how frustrated I was with school. And about how that had turned out to be the last time.

  As I watched them make their film, I saw unfolding before me the unequaled impact it has on kids to feel that their work matters to others—that they can, in fact, contribute to their society. The film was a concrete way for them to express their ideas, influence others, and feel connected to a broader community—in their case an international community of students. Working on the film and knowing it would be made public had given them a sense of urgency and high standards they might not otherwise have felt. Once the film was out in the world, they got the heady reward of knowing that others heard what they had to say, took them seriously, and valued their work. A sense of social responsibility was no longer just a phrase. It was a series of actions.

  We finished our fifteen-minute documentary on the last day of the semester. We celebrated as Tim uploaded it onto his YouTube account. We sent the link around to friends and family. I hoped that they would watch it and that it might change the way they thought.

  And, crucially, the others hoped so too. They had stumbled into caring about their broader community. Suddenly, they found that they had something to offer—a new way to experience education—and they were scrambling to offer it.

  Our friends and families did watch the film. So, it turned out, did lots of other people. E-mails starting coming in from all over the place. Hundreds of schools contacted us: a teacher in Kentucky who wanted to turn her class into an Independent Project, a principal in Australia who wanted to reshape his whole school, a fifteen-year-old in Spain who wanted to start one at his school, parents who wanted it for their kids, kids who wanted it for their friends, teachers who wanted to know how to convince principals. For the next few months, I Skyped dozens and dozens of people from all over the world. And every Skype request that came in, every e-mail that popped up in my in-box, had the same question: “How do we start our own schools?”

  This book is our answer.

  POSTSCRIPT

  We’ve been wondering, recently, what we would do if we had a magic wand. Would we make traditional high schools disappear in one fell swoop, replaced by large-scale student-run schools? Actually, we’re not saying that we should get rid of schools. If we had our way, IPs would not appear magically or be instituted uniformly in every school. They will be so much more powerful if they grow up organically because they’re what people (kids, teachers, parents) want. That said, we think it would be great if every school had something like this. But part of the beauty and power of this idea, we think, is that the “something” will look different in each state, each town, each school—molded by the needs, demands, visions of that particular place’s students. And it would be wonderful if it were more than ten kids in each school. The more high schoolers that get to experience this, the better.

  Imagine a student waits for you one day after class. It might be AP English, College Prep Math, or Auto Shop. You might be the chemistry teacher, the guidance counselor, or the gym teacher. She tells you she has an idea. She might even tell you she’s read this book. And she wants to start a new school. What should you do?

  Make time, right away, to sit down and hear what she has in mind. Ask her to flesh out her idea—who would the school be for, how big would it be, and what kinds of things does she imagine happening each day? Avoid identifying all the obstacles (“How would you get the principal on board?” “Where would it take place?” “What about course credits?”)—those obstacles are much easier to overcome once you have a clear and vivid image of the basic plan. Start by helping her think about what she wants it to be. Then you can help her figure out how to get what she wants.

  Her school might look a lot like the one you’ve read about here. But if it doesn’t, that’s fine too. Each school will be different—some will have eight students, and some twenty. Some will start right off as yearlong projects, and some will not. Some will abandon math altogether and others will include it as a centerpiece. It’s not important that it follows the plan of Sam and his friends. What is essential is that it is intellectually demanding of all its students, no matter what their academic history. It’s important that the school focuses on pushing students to think rigorously and to work hard at things they care about. It is crucial that the kids have a chance to master something. It’s essential that every student chooses projects, individually and collectively, that are ambitious. It’s essential that, at least some of the time, the students depend on one another to learn and to make things (films, gardens, books, dinners, ideas). But whether those projects happen one after another or sequenced through the day, whether they break up into the key disciplines of sciences and languages or mesh it all together—these are the kinds of things she needs to think through.

  If she hasn’t done so already, help her identify some other people who will support what she is doing—other teachers, students, administrators, community members.

  Most important, make time, whatever it takes, to meet with her each week, even if for only twenty minutes, so the idea doesn’t get lost in the traffic of school life. Creating time and space for her to design and build her school is crucial. This is one thing most kids cannot achieve on their own. Students will encounter many teachers and administrators who nod at a good idea but keep thinking there’s no time to do it right now—that other more urgent but less meaningful work must be attended to. Don’t let urgent but unimportant work get in her way. Help her do this right now.

  Once
her idea has some shape to it, help her plan her next steps: support from the administration, an application process, and what kinds of things she has to figure out in the coming months. Be bold. Encourage her to make it happen the very next year. Give her suggestions. But don’t take over.

  Imagine your child comes home in eleventh grade and says, “I want to start a new school.” First of all, jump for joy. Your daughter cares about her education and cares about other students. Best of all, she feels she can have an impact. Nurture that as if it were an orchid. You might worry about her chances of getting into college. But don’t. First of all, that worry has nearly ruined our educational system. High school has become boring, tedious, unpleasant, all in the service of getting students to the next step, sacrificing a formative and potentially wonderful time of their lives for some mistaken notion that it will “get them further.” It won’t. A kid who is the author of her own education is more likely to thrive in every way.

  Imagine a student doesn’t come up to you one day after class. Imagine your daughter doesn’t come home with an idea to start her own school. What do you do then?

  Start the conversation yourself. Bring it up in your period three chemistry class. Bring it up in homeroom. Raise it with a few of your counselees. Talk about it over dinner. Ask your students, or your children, what they would do if they were in charge of high school. Ask them to envision the perfect high school. Ask them what it would look like. Make sure they realize there are no restrictions, obstacles, or limits. It’s important to start there: limitless. Ask them how the periods would be broken down, what subjects they would cover, how they would learn. Maybe suggest some of the things you think are important, but make sure you’re saying it as an equal, on level footing, not as a command. Slowly, begin to help them flesh out their ideas. Guide them, subtly, gently, making sure to step away when they push back.